Cutting Classes and a Finger

November 20, 2010

  

Gab and I went swimming for about an hour yesterday, while Frederick walked the beach. We wouldn’t allow Derick to swim.  He cut half a day of classes…again. He didn’t return to the classroom after lunch. When I asked each of the boys if they did well in school that week, they each, in turn, shook their heads yes and smiled. Then Emelie filled in the difference between Fredick’s version and the truth. So, Derick kept up a good front of pretending not to care about swimming while Gab and I enjoyed the refreshing water.

Gabriel, 5, kept smiling and telling me “Derick no swimming”, his crude but effective version of English for “Frederick screwed up again and now he can’t go swimming and I’m glad!” Then Gab would call to his brother, 50 yards down the beach, “Me swimming, Derick!” Frederick pretended not to hear, so Gab kept it up until his interest in teasing waned and he shifted his attention to crabs on the rocks. He and Frederick spend many hours throwing rocks at crabs in the fish sanctuary, which is highly illegal but its okay with me if they spend a night in jail.

When it was time to go home, the two boys raced across the road and to the house, picking up their ongoing and never-ending feud about who will unlock the front door. When they got inside, the battle turned to giggles and racing around the house. By the time I got there, Gab was crying and holding his little finger. He’d caught it in the fan that was sitting on the floor. He had used the fan as a pivot point for a fast turn, placing his hand on the screen, and his pinky slipped through and touched the metal blade. The tiny little slice was a near-death experience for him.

He cried for a few minutes then squatted down in front of the fan and commenced studying it with all the seriousness of a man of science. He poked his finger through the grates at various places, then went back to studying. After a minute or two, Gab got up and walked to where the cord was laying on the ground. He plugged in the fan for only a second, pulled it out of the socket, and raced back to watch it spin and wind down, taking mental notes the whole time. He repeated this procedure over and over. Between spins, he studied and poked and studied and poked, trying to determine just where the blade can touch a finger.

It truly was like watching a scientist at work. His patience alone amazed me. He’s only five. Five year-olds don’t have the patience to study a thing for five minutes at a time. They just don’t have the attention span. I didn’t have the heart to tell him.

That was yesterday. A day has passed but the incident is still fresh in my mind.  I wonder about his future. His parents are poorer than the dirt they till for the day-to-day existence that never quite meets their needs. The only things they have enough of are air and water and a place to shit…and the compassion of their relatives and neighbors. It’s the life of the mountain people: a meager freedom where hunger, nutritional deficiency and a lack of medical care are so commonplace as to be accepted without comment; without expectation.

Thoughts from the Porch

November 18, 2010

There’s a cool breeze out here on the front porch. The wind makes a relaxing sound as it passes through the fronds of the coconut palms and banana trees. The sea has a slight chop. Emelie is sitting on the sea wall combing her long, dark hair. I like to watch. There is a grace to the way she moves her head and arm in unison while the comb slides smoothly from scalp to the tips of her hair, like a ritual dance performed thousands of times since she was a little girl. It’s revealing in some way. There is self-contentment in it. I feel like I am watching a private moment, being performed right there on the sea wall, for all passersby to see.

Emelie is gone now. A man and his wife walk past, holding the ropes that restrain their 3 cows: a momma Brahma and her two calves. Every morning the three bovines chew their way along the grass strip between the road and the seawall. Eat and walk. Eat and walk. It’s a pastoral scene with a watery background. In the evening they go the other way, homeward bound. They walk slow and eat slow, as if time is of no concern and the grass will always be there. I am envious of such certainty; such trust in the nature of things. We might think of it as naiveté, but I prefer to think of it as wisdom beyond naiveté. Isn’t it a wiser choice to relax and let the future unfold than to worry over what we cannot control?

A Fondness for Forgetting

November 17, 2010  

I don’t remember anything about yesterday. Could be forgetfulness. Could be wisdom. I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t remember. It wasn’t the drinking. At the most, I had one beer or one shot of Tanduay rum in a full glass of water. That’s my usual, if you can call it that, since I have one or the other only a couple of times a week.

Nope, wasn’t the drinking. Most likely, it was a day without incident. I’m sure I slept well the previous night – almost always do – then kissed my wife and made a b-line for the bathroom, first thing upon waking. That’s my morning habit: kiss, pee, then open the front door, still half-somnambulistic, and look toward the sea.

I’m not sure why I do that. The sea is always in its place, just there, across the road. (I appreciate its constancy.) The surface is pretty benign, hiding the goings-on beneath. If the sound of water bathing the shoreline reaches my ears, it massages my nerves, soothing, quieting, in a way that reaches out to my conscious mind and exacts a small price, in the form of gratefulness. No better way to set the attitude for a course of contentment. 

Okay, so, I do know why I gaze across the road in the morning. There's also this: the smell of brine, rich and fetid with the constant dying and renewal of life that takes place in the world’s largest flora and fauna habitat. Smells damn good in the morning, especially just before a breakfast of fish soup or grilled squid at Besa’s Carenderia, which sits right at the edge of the clear blue water, in Suba.

Now I remember something about yesterday: going to the Mercado in the morning. It was Tuesday, market day, when vendors from all over the province come and set up bamboo tables to display their wares under makeshift canopies.

I was looking for the lady who sells herbal oils and concoctions, age-old native Filipino remedies used by traditional healers and sold to the public. I wanted to ask her how Hemag oil is made. I know the main ingredient is something from the Hemag  tree. I think it is the wood itself. And I know that coconut oil is used, also, to make an elixir that heals. (It works! Hemag helped heal a sore I had on my leg, that had been hanging around for a month or so. And it healed a surgical wound that Emelie’s sister, Diores, had on her arm. It refused to heal for months after her operation. But the Hemag did the job in short order.)

The lady who sells the remedies wasn’t there. Emelie said that maybe the woman is from Negros Island or Siquijor Island, and didn’t take the boat to Cebu because the sea was too rough. Siquijor is the country’s seat of witchcraft, curses and their cures, native medicines and healers. I have been wanting to go there - curiosity mostly – for some time now. Emelie says I will go alone, if I do. She won’t set foot on that island.

Okay! Whew! The memory's workin' like a well-oiled rust-bucket of dismembered parts spitting out cob-webbed notions of yesterday. Thank the Lord for near-perfection!

Yesterday worked itself out best it could and gathered enough strength to carry on over to...

Today. I just stayed home. Woke up feeling kind of crappy from a cold that’s been hitching a ride in my sinuses for a couple of days. It felt great to do the better part of nothing: lazing around; getting some extra sleep. I did help Emelie with the wash just prior to a 2-hour nap. I used the bucket - filled it up in the bathroom with soap and water then took it out to the porch so I could watch the morning traffic and gaze at the sea while tussling with the clothes.

T’was a good day, overall!

Kites and Crap on a Windy Day

November 14, 2010

Today the wind blew strong, and the waves in Tanon Straight were restless and powerful. We watched from the shore. Frederick wanted to swim. “No way” I told him, borrowing one of his favorite expressions in English.

Picking up a discarded plastic bag on the beach, I noticed that it filled instantly with air and wanted to fly from my hand, begging to be a kite. There was no string so I tied the end of a discarded VCR tape to the bag. The other end was still on the reel, buried at the end of the movie, lying at the bottom of the shallows in the fish sanctuary. The sea is a trash depository and the beach is always full of junk. Negros Island, 10 miles east of us, and our island of Cebu, trade the trash that travels back and forth on the tides and storms. Each day, the waves carry a fresh supply of it to shore. The neighbors add to it, throwing bucketsful of their pig shit over the sea wall in the early morning hours.

I tied the flying plastic bag to a corner post of a small shelter on the nearby jetty. It twirled in circles like a playful windsock, standing out away from the post about 20 feet, rigid and full of air. Several of my fishermen neighbors were standing around watching and laughing heartily. They made some joke about my American invention, comparing its manufacture to any number of Filipino inventions which use whatever is on hand. Usually, it’s discarded scraps of steel, an old inner tube, a handful of mud, some chicken feathers and bamboo.

I laughed with them. Filipinos are well aware of America’s abundance vs. their own poverty. It felt good to joke about a thing that, at times, is somewhat uncomfortable to me: my relative wealth in this land of poverty.

Later, I tried to make a kite of bamboo sticks, a bigger plastic bag, tape and some pieces of the VCR tape to tie the sticks together. A piece of dirty cloth found on the beach was cut into strips and attached as a tail. The boys were interested when I started the project and helped me put it together. But they grew bored before it was complete and when it came time to fly, the two of them were already playing in the sea once again.

The kite went about 20 feet higher than the plastic bag, did a few loops and dove into the sea. After retrieving it, and making some adjustments, I tried again... and again, and again, each time dragging it out of the water and tweaking, with hope. When the VCR tape became entangled in itself and the kite, I gave up and watched the boys play. I gave a few seconds thought to trying one more time, but something in the back of my mind said “Give it up, man.” Knowing when to quit has never been a strong point of mine.

While I was fooling with that silly kite, Emelie was making lunch. She bought some fresh fish from Istan as he was pulling into shore with his catch. Lunch was fish soup, rice and bananas. To the soup, she added leaves of the malonggay tree that grows in the yard. The leaves are deep green and very nutritious, with a mild flavor that accents any kind of soup.

After dragging our wet and worn bodies back from the beach and having lunch, the boys took a two-hour nap and all four of us were refreshed by it. When I tried waking them up, Frederick kicked with both feet and pulled the sheet over his head. Gab lay there, unresponsive as a dead fish. I walked away. About 5 minutes later Gab came out of his room and immediately walked outside to watch the sea from the front porch. It’s his way of waking up. He leans over the rail and watches, mesmerized, soundless, staring out across the watery brine – a boy after my own heart. When he’s ready, he starts playing and laughing again.

About ten minutes after Gab got up, Frederick snuck up on me while I sat at the table. He poked my ribs and let out a yell. We both laughed at his joke. Derick loves to tease and joke. His little brother is the butt of most of it, and his taunts sometimes venture into malicious territory where Gab is involved. The poor kid can’t get any rest. And they fight constantly. Drives Emelie crazy. She cut a switch yesterday, from a bush in the front yard. She has it hanging on the wall, in a conspicuous place, where the boys are not apt to forget about. I threatened them with it this afternoon, during kite building, when they both kept playing with my pocket knife after I told them 12 times to leave it alone. The threat came while they both had a hand on it and they were arguing about who should have it. The blade was open and I envisioned a sliced-open hand from thumb to little finger.

I looked at Frederick with the meanest look I could muster. It was a stare-down contest, boring holes in each other with our eyes. When he looked away, I knew he had gotten the message. Derick will test every request, demand or warning. He’s a smart kid. If it comes to a threat of punishment, he knows if there is intent to deliver or if the threat is just hot air. You can’t bluff with Derick, or you’ve got a problem on your hands. 

It always amazes me how kids can be such little devils and then flip a switch in their heads and be sweet enough to warm your heart, a moment later. I wish I could reach that switch, but I guess the best any of us can do is to provide lots of love and attention and a firm, guiding hand. And hope for the best!

Returning to a Questionable Future

November 11, 2010

The young woman with the baby went home. Her husband showed up in a rented tricycle. He’d been looking for her since she left, two days prior. He never explained why and she was just as mute about her decision to return to him. The baby just cried, a sure indication of its wisdom.

Singing to Her Umbrella

November 10, 2010

This morning Emelie and I were doing laundry. It had been nearly a week since the last time, and our clothes, including the ones from Gab and Derick, were piling up. I was using the bucket, filling it in the bathroom and carrying it out to the porch so I could watch the passersby while I pumped my arms up and down in my version of a washing machine agitator. Emelie used the plastic pan at the kitchen sink, rubbing the clothes together in typical Filipino style, which involves grabbing two fists full of cloth and giving them a Dutch rub; stopping just before the cloth wears through.

A young woman approached our gate, with a baby cradled in her left arm. Her right hand held an umbrella to keep out the sun. I was the only one on the porch when she entered the yard. Fortunately, Emelie came out just as she got to the gate. She and the woman exchanged some words in Cebuano. Emelie smiled and went back into the house without saying anything to me. The young woman tilted the umbrella so it hid her face, then she began what sounded like a recitation. I could tell by the intonation and beat that she was not just talking to me, which would be a waste of time anyhow, since I understand very little Cebuano. I wondered what was going on. After about thirty seconds of this, I began to detect something almost melodic about her voice. Hell, she was singing, to her umbrella, in fact! The first thirty seconds were a warm-up, apparently. It never occurred to me that a person would need to warm up to sing that horribly. I can sing off-key right from the starting gate, no warm-up needed. A natural talent, I suppose.

I don’t scare easily, but her noise gave me a fright. It put me in mind of a childhood experience, watching a woman sing to the moon, in her front yard, after midnight, rocking back and forth in her tennis shoes and Sunday dress.

I was still out there on the porch all by myself, since Emelie went back inside. The woman kept on; wasn’t about to let it go, neither. The small lizards that hang out on the porch, chewing up the bugs, had all scurried to their hidy-holes. Sometimes her voice would tremble and crack like she was on the verge of tears. I was wishing she would just go ahead and cry, or scream or something and stop that damn caterwauling. Where was Emelie? And why didn’t she warn me?

I crept into the house, not wanting to disturb the performance, there being such a fine line between artistic genius and insanity and all. Emelie was in the bedroom, digging a twenty-piso note out of her purse. She handed it to me, smiling, and said “Give it to her, will you?” She went on to tell me that the young woman was singing a Christmas carol. (That was caroling?!) According to the woman, her alcoholic, abusive husband had kicked her and the baby out of the house (Maybe she sang to him.) and he took up with a new, ignorant victim.

I gave the girl the money and she went away. Good investment. I smelled drama in this one, the sticky kind that makes you wish, in retrospect, you would have kept your helping hands free of entanglement.

The young woman left our yard and headed toward town but came back later. She and her baby slept the night on the porch of the new fish sanctuary guard house, across the street from us. It wasn’t in use yet so she had the place to herself.

Note: This account seems to lack sensitivity to the woman’s plight. I decided to recreate this event from a humorous perspective. The perspective taken is after-the-fact, and doesn’t affect what really happened. Nor does it reflect my true attitude toward those events and the woman’s predicament. In reality, I was concerned about her welfare and that of her baby.