Tuko and Me

Saturday, October 12, 2013

It is 9:45 PM and I am sitting in the kitchen with a tuko lizard on the ceiling above my head. He’s about 8 inches long: shorter than my foot. We’re not much afraid of each other. Just enough to induce a mutual respect, I would say. I could stomp him to death; he could give me a bite to remember. But hey, we’re not in competition here. I don’t eat bugs and mice and he won’t eat anything which refuses to crawl, fly, slither or hop.

It’s a kind of unspoken agreement. I give him a place to hang out - with family if he so desires - and he helps keep the population down to 5 people, one dog, an occasional unwary pest, and a horde of transient ants (not his cup of tea).

Emelie had a family of tukos living in the tiny bedroom of her mountain home and she never had a run-in with one of them. But she did get bit by one when she was young, while climbing to the top of a coconut tree. He was on the other side of the tree when she reached around to get a hand-hold.

The lizards, and any other animal life that live at the top of the coconut tree (including rats and bats) can bask in the relief of knowing that I will never be climbing a tree to greet them.

Mr. Tuko here is just a young one. He will grow a couple more inches and fatten up considerably. In the house we rented before building this one, we had one living behind our dresser, where he rested up during the day for his nighttime foraging. He lived there a year and then disappeared for another year and finally came back to stay.

I like lizards and snakes, which is, I suppose, on the outer fringe of the American-standard-attitude toward such beasts.

Hopeful

I didn’t feel so good this morning. I woke up wishing I hadn’t. My wife wrapped her body around me and held me until …until Shane pried her way between us and nested there like a worm in wet spaghetti. We laid motionless and all-huggy as if we were holding out for something spectacular enough to give us a reason to disengage and start the day.

For me, it didn’t happen. My lungs were dragging along in ‘sorry ass’ mode most of the day. My recollection of the rest of the day resides in that part of my brain where memories are wrapped in a self-protective haze and labeled “Do Not Open sans ‘Fresh Perspective’!” 

I think the fresh perspective might just be getting a foot-hold. Tonight I feel much better, and tomorrow holds the possibility that there could be another jewel-of-a-moment for me when my wife, the sun and daughter arise. 

A Settled Routine of Enjoyment

Since I got back from Ohio, more than two months ago now, my days have been running consistently along the lines of  the daily family life we've formed into a tradition: Up about 5:30. A quick snack. (Maybe a banana or two.) Fill the water bottle and we're off.

With Shane in the basket behind me, sitting on a folded towel for comfort, I hop on my bike and we ride north for 5 miles, through the small settlements that run along the road, close to the sea. Most of this part of the world is awake and getting ready for school or work or cleaning their yards and burning leaves. Almost everyone smiles and says "Maayong buntag!" Good morning!

There is something very satisfying about this regular and predictable lifestyle, like listening to my heartbeat.

Shane chatters excitedly the whole way, in English, and about everything she sees: the ocean (her ocean), the cows, pigs, goats, carabaw, birds, snakes, banana trees, coconut trees, people she sees and on and on. All belong to her.

"Where's my snake, hon hon?"
The snake has been dead and gone for weeks but she stills asks about it.

"Look hon, a cat! I want to pet the cat! That's my momma cat."
"Where's the kitten, hon?"
Every cat is either "momma", "poppa" or "kitten", and every adult has a baby.

"I want bread, hon hon."

This morning, as we approach the town of Malabuyoc,  I see my friend Alejandro, who owns a herd of goats and takes them to feed where the grass is green and long, a short ways from his house and along the coastal road. We stop and chat for a while. I speak to Alejandro in a combination of Cebuano and English. He is patient with me as he listens and corrects when necessary, without condescension.

His largest goat is a young billy, and very friendly. Shane sits on his back while I hold her. Alejandro is 88. Shane calls him lolo: grandfather. When I am chatting comfortably with Alejandro, I always feel like I'm talking with someone I've known longer than I've been alive.

After saying goodbye, we ride back home but make several stops along the way so Shane can get a closer look  at whatever grabs her attention. For me, bike riding with her is a great way to relax and connect with my little girl, giving her the attention she wants, and sharing in her delight as she moves from one small-but-enormous adventure to another.

A final stop at the mom-and-pop bakery for coconut bread, then home: about 6:45AM. There is still time for Shane to bathe, eat and get ready for her two hours of daycare at the barangay hall, just down the street.

I take her to school in the tricycle or the bike, or we walk. If walking, we stop for a few minutes in the cemetery.  Shane has been talking - a lot lately - about death and the cemetery, and especially about her grandmother (lola), who died many years ago and who she has never known.

The residents are quiet. They listen respectfully to a little girl trying to work out a concept of life and death. I do the same kind of listening, keeping my ears tuned to a child whose questions may just be more enlightening than the stock answers I've been taught and have repeated as truth since I was a child.

These moments are precious, as I watch the blooming of this little flower and experience the irony of this moment, in this place of death.

It's just another day, filled with the golden nuggets of time that children catch and make meaningful, with their magic.

Don't Forget the Legs. Mmmmmm...!

I was watching our teenage boys play, while toying lazily with my food.

"So, the winner eats the loser?” I asked.

“Yes” replied Clyde.

“Sounds delicious!” I exclaimed.

Clyde chuckled. 

It was after dark, on another peaceful evening, following a relaxing day without event. I could hear the playful splashing of the ocean against the seawall, across the street. 

We were sitting around the kitchen table. Clyde and Joseph were teasing their fighting spiders into a frenzy; readying them for battle. One dropped from the broom-straw Clyde held in his hand. It hit the table and sprinted in front of my plate of sardines and rice. I blocked it with my hand and Clyde reclaimed it.

Each boy had a straw with two live spiders on it and one dead spider dangling from the straw and ensconced in a cocoon of spider silk. These dead ones were the losers from the previous fights. The victors will eat them at their leisure. The live spiders were bungee-jumping on their silk, to get away from each other on the straws. The boys caught them before they hit the table (most of the time), wrapped their silk around the straw and encouraged the spiders to fight.

I finished my food, had a few sips of coconut wine, and fell into a reverie about my life here in the Philippines. It really isn't much different than life in the United States, I thought. I eat, I sleep; do a little work now and then. We go for rides in the tricycle, take trips to the island across from us and trips to Cebu City sometimes. 

Yup! Just an ordinary life... once you get used to it.