During the week, there are six of us at the house. On the weekends, 8, with the addition of Frederick and Gabriel. But the additional two kids more than doubles the noise, commotion and confusion. I have often told Emelie that I would like to change that, but I haven't made a move in that direction because I just don't know what to do. I don't have the heart to tell Frederick and Gabriel that they can't come to our house on the weekends. They really look forward to it, and it is an opportunity for them to eat almost as much as they want, perhaps making up, to some degree, for the deficit in their daily diet, Monday through Friday.
Those two youngest boys were spending weekends with us long before the other kids came to live with us. A couple of years ago, they stayed in a house we rented right on the water. It was a big house, where the kids could play in the upstairs common room. They slept on mattresses there during the night, and slid on them, across the polished wood floor, during the day. They wrestled, did yoga with me and engaged in the kinds of things boys love to do, which almost always ended in tickling and fits of laughter.
But now they don't get near the attention that they did then. Besides sharing our attention with their two older brothers, their sister and her baby, we have immersed ourselves in a lifestyle that squeezes activity into the hours until they bulge, what with preparing to build a house, moving our internet business to a new location, and starting a business of selling used bicycles.
What a stupid American I am! I came to paradise to become part of a laid-back culture, so I could truly enjoy my time here. What happened? Old habits and new situations, that's what. The worst of the habits is a result of the American way of thinking that creates a direct relationship between doing and self-worth. That thinking persists despite the idyllic vision I had of relaxing peacefully on my front porch, watching the ocean waves lap the shore and tumble the grains of sand.
New situations? Well, taking on a family of kids would qualify.The added financial responsibility tugs at our income, in all directions, making it thinner than a gnat's ass stretched across a barrel head. So, we eat at home, ration food, and shop for clothes where the second-hand attire is in wrinkled heaps on the bamboo tables, on market day.
It's not fair, but Emelie and I often buy one food for the kids and after they go to school, we get something better at a carenderia for her and me and Shane. We can't afford to feed them the more expensive foods but I am not willing to live on sardines, noodles, eggs and dried fish, which is what they often eat, along with their rice. I admit to being a spoiled American. But the kids are still far better off with us than they were at home. Many times there was only corn grits for them to eat, and sometimes they had to go hungry because there was absolutely no food at all. It is a common occurrence here in the Philippines, especially among the mountain people who rely on farming for their existence. Many of the farmers cannot afford a carabaw, a water buffalo, to plow their fields. So, the size of their farms is limited by what they can till by hand. And their small farms do not always grow enough food to feed them from one harvest to the next.
This life is so much different than what I am used to. In the U.S.A., it is a certainty that I would never be raising a family of four kids - an instantaneous family with 3 teens and a baby. Back home, if I came across destitute or abused children, I would simply report it to the proper authorities whose job it is to see that they are taken care of. I would easily avoid any involvement which would require a personal commitment to their welfare.
Pleasant Government Employees
Yesterday, Emelie, Clyde and I took a boat to Sibulan, Negros Island, then a jeepney to Dumaguete City. I needed to get an extension on my visa and Dumaguete has the closest Immigration Office. It's a necessary process every two months and costs about 3500 pisos ($80 U.S. currency, at the current exchange rate). While there, I found out that I can avoid the hassle and expense by getting a "balik bayan" visa. If Emelie and I travel out of the country, we can get the balik bayan upon request. That particular visa is free for a year and can be renewed yearly. That is almost unbelievable here, where the foreigner is charged heavily for the privilege of being where the water, weather and women are beautiful beyond compare and the cost of daily living turns a U.S. pauper into a Philippine prince.
Then I asked the lady who works for Immigration - who is so pleasant, accommodating and informative, by the way, that it seems impossible she is a government employee - about a Permanent Residency. She referred me to the head honcho who was sitting in the office behind her. She told me to just walk in, which I did, with a little trepidation - a carry-over from my years of dealing with officious and important-in-their-own-eyes government employees of Uncle Sam.
He was just as pleasant and helpful. The listed rules concerning PR of foreigners state that the person must have the equivalent of $10,000 U.S.D. in the bank in order to be considered for permanent residency. He asked me if I had that much. I said no. He told me that if I had property or a business or regular government checks coming in, those could be used as part of the requirement for proof of financial support. I had all three. I was relieved to know it. After getting a copy of the application for permanent residency, we left and went shopping.
Then I asked the lady who works for Immigration - who is so pleasant, accommodating and informative, by the way, that it seems impossible she is a government employee - about a Permanent Residency. She referred me to the head honcho who was sitting in the office behind her. She told me to just walk in, which I did, with a little trepidation - a carry-over from my years of dealing with officious and important-in-their-own-eyes government employees of Uncle Sam.
He was just as pleasant and helpful. The listed rules concerning PR of foreigners state that the person must have the equivalent of $10,000 U.S.D. in the bank in order to be considered for permanent residency. He asked me if I had that much. I said no. He told me that if I had property or a business or regular government checks coming in, those could be used as part of the requirement for proof of financial support. I had all three. I was relieved to know it. After getting a copy of the application for permanent residency, we left and went shopping.
M R Pigs. (O S A R!)
There were two or three, fat-and-skin-encased pigs feet in a bowl on the table, the entire morning. I went to do some errands: getting food for En En at the carenderia; buying some ice for our cooler. When I returned home, the same bowl with the same contents was sitting on the same kitchen table. Emelie was sweeping up the bamboo leaves in the yard and asked me if I would start preparations for lunch by cutting up some garlic, onions and the meat. "Meat" was obviously a catch-all phrase, a euphemism for that combination of gristle, fat, hide and bone resting itself on the table.
Emelie knows I don't eat that kind of stuff and I haven't a clue about how to slice it or get it ready for anything other than the garbage, which is what I had in mind, sans garlic and onions. For a moment, I pictured myself hovering over the bowl of pork by-products, knife in hand, wondering what to cut away and what to save: The table stays. Maybe the bowl.
Wouldn't it be be better to lay it in the road and run over it with a truck until it has the consistency of something that would digest in the stomach of the neighbor's dog?
Pig fat probably has some use, maybe in protecting the pig from the severe cold of equatorial winters, or maybe as a lubricant. I watched Bobby Cinco use it for bearing grease on his tricycle recently. The wheel developed a squeal after that, hinting of the pig's bellowing in it's final moments, just before being hacked into ham, chops, and - oh, yes - pig's feet.
No, I wasn't going to prepare lunch and I answered my wife's question with silence. "You should know better than to ask." was the unspoken meaning, underscored by the vacuum of quiet. Later, I was to find out that she was talking about a bag of real pork meat and the feet were for her sister, Jane, who was there at the house with us. Never mind.
Emelie knows I don't eat that kind of stuff and I haven't a clue about how to slice it or get it ready for anything other than the garbage, which is what I had in mind, sans garlic and onions. For a moment, I pictured myself hovering over the bowl of pork by-products, knife in hand, wondering what to cut away and what to save: The table stays. Maybe the bowl.
Wouldn't it be be better to lay it in the road and run over it with a truck until it has the consistency of something that would digest in the stomach of the neighbor's dog?
Pig fat probably has some use, maybe in protecting the pig from the severe cold of equatorial winters, or maybe as a lubricant. I watched Bobby Cinco use it for bearing grease on his tricycle recently. The wheel developed a squeal after that, hinting of the pig's bellowing in it's final moments, just before being hacked into ham, chops, and - oh, yes - pig's feet.
No, I wasn't going to prepare lunch and I answered my wife's question with silence. "You should know better than to ask." was the unspoken meaning, underscored by the vacuum of quiet. Later, I was to find out that she was talking about a bag of real pork meat and the feet were for her sister, Jane, who was there at the house with us. Never mind.
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