Smells Like Life

December 09, 2010

It rained most of the day today. Some of the laundry we did yesterday is still wet. My towel, for instance. It hung on the line that we have strung between the post and the window bars, on the front the porch, since yesterday morning and it’s still about half way between sopping and damp. So am I.

Cecilia

This morning, we left our rental house by the sea and headed 2 kilometers up the mountain road to Emelie's house. The sky was gray, turning to black, when we started out on our scooter. We were at the house about 45 minutes when the rain started. It began just when we finished feeding Cecelia, our pig. The pig’s food dish is a half tire, cut the way you would cut a bagel for toasting. As I was cleaning it out, the raindrops wet the back of my shirt. My crocs and feet were wet and muddy for the rest of the day.

Cooking Grits (maize)

While the grits were cooking, I washed some dishes and went to her uncle’s house to buy two cans of sardines. Her aunt and uncle, Placido and Chris, have a small bamboo hut Placido built to use as a store. Placido, or Tiocidi as Emelie affectionately calls him, is a few years younger than me. He’s short and on the chubby side. Like many of the mountain farmers in the Philippines, he tills the soil with a pick and a knife, by hand. He gets up very early each morning and starts working, and he continues throughout the day. In addition to his farm work, he always has projects. He built a small house along the road near his corn so he could watch it and protect it from thieves. His little bamboo house was erected in days, with only a few tools. (Tiocidi can do amazing things with a bolo, a short, thick machete, and a sickle.) Then he put a bamboo fence around it in short order. Everything was made from the bamboo and trees that grow right there near his hut. He works constantly, never complains, and always has a smile and pleasant word. He and Chris have 10 children, some married and some still in grade school.

 I bought my sardines and walked back to the house. Emelie has never owned a can opener. She is proficient at opening cans with a knife. I am not. I had my Swiss army knife with the handy-dandy can opener on it. It worked great.

The grits were made from the corn that Jane, Emelie’s sister, and her husband Floriano grew. They took sacks of the shelled corn to the mill and had it ground. Two years ago, I watched Jane grind the corn herself, between two large wheels of stone made for the purpose. They were the stones that Emelie’s grandparents used many years ago. The top stone has a hole in it, near the center, and a handle for turning. The bottom stone is immobile. Corn kernels are dropped in the hole; the top stone is turned and ground corn grits spill out from between the stones, in all directions. The floor under the stones, and around it, is covered with feed sacks to catch the corn grits. Maize is the staple of Jane’s family and many times the only food they have to eat, along with the vegetables they grow.

When the grits were ready, we each ate a bowl of them, topped with the sardines in tomato sauce. After doing the dishes, I went to visit Emelie’s aunt, Hemen, at her house next to Emelie’s. Hemen’s house is built up high, on stilts. It was originally the family home of Emelie’s grandparents. It’s a large bamboo house with a wood frame. The framework of the bamboo houses is made from coconut wood, Philippine mahogany, or germolina. Coconut wood is soft and is a favorite food of termites. Mahogany and Germolina are hardwoods and fairly resistant to termites. But most of the mountain farmers can’t afford the expensive, termite-resistant woods. And coconut wood is free, as everyone has trees on their property.

Jane Grinding Corn

As I am writing this, I smelled something that is not quite right. I put my nose closer to my watch. The band smells like a mixture of sour sweat and pig poop. I took a bath just before coming here to the internet café, but I didn’t think about my watch band. Need to wash it, soon.

Since I swerved into the topic of stinky stuff, I’ll just expand on that a little. It’s a thing worth mentioning. Mountain people live with stink all around, every day, all day and night. It’s an integral part of living. With goats, pigs, chickens, cows and carabaw all living within close proximity to the house, sounds and smell abound. In the rainy season, the droppings are mixed in with the mud, which is everywhere. You walk on mud; you walk on shit. Doesn’t matter. They’re the same color and texture.

What I noticed, since my first visit to the area, is that my nose adjusted to the stink. I love the mountain areas and especially the area around Emelie’s house. The people and places are familiar to me. So is the stink. Now, it’s a special stink and when I smell it: I think of happy homes, wonderful family, funny pigs, romping kid goats and the experiences I’ve had with them all.