Random Ramblings

Not much going on here at the internet café. Six of us are using the computers but not one is a paying customer. The internet is down in all the cafés in town. It happens. There is only one internet provider in this area of the province. In fact, it is the only provider in most of the province, with the exception of “the city” (Cebu City).

I just took a walk with my grand niece, Shane. We walked to the convenience store for a pack of medium diapers. She was wet, so I didn’t carry her until we were on our way back to the shop: when she grew tired of walking and slowed down, I picked her up. Then we talked to the moon for a minute. She stares at the moon for a long time, as if it is something fascinating to see. I agree with that assessment.

One evening, about two months ago, she was out in the front yard with her mom, watching the moon. Shane extended her arm and opened and closed her hand, making a “come here” gesture to the moon, saying “Peso, moon. Peso, moon!” as if requesting the moon for money. I would never have thought of such a thing, myself. I like her ingenuity and it’s a no-lose situation. If a peso falls out of the sky, so be it; if not, nothing lost.

It’s times like this that make me wonder what she thinks. Does she really think the moon can give her a peso? And what ever inspired her, a 1 and one half year-old, to put peso and moon together in a request?

The same six of us, Jan Mark, Clyde, Stefhanie, Frederick and Gabriel, went for a late-afternoon swim. The water was clear and smooth and a perfect sea-green. Jumps and dives off the jetty filled the air with children’s laughter. Splashing, swimming, diving down for rocks and coral, and chasing fish and each other were all on the full agenda for fun.

Jan Mark and Clyde made a game out of picking up a huge chunk of dead coral from the bottom of the ocean, taking it to another location, dropping it, and swimming down to pick it up again. They are both very good swimmers and can stay under water much longer than I can.

All the kids, including Shane, just love the sea – the “dagat” in Cebuano. Each visit to the ocean is as fresh and new as the first; never taken for granted. My greatest joy is watching their never-ending pleasure. I am grateful for the opportunity to witness it, and be a part of it.

A Virus, an Emancipation, Some Pigs

It's Philippine cold season, the kind of cold that starts with a virus and ends a month or two later when the fever, chills, cough, and runny nose have run their course. Luckily, it can only happen in any month that starts  with a letter between A and S. That's how I remember it. I figured that out during the peak of one of my feverish periods two years ago.

I caught my present cold yesterday. A half hour after I felt the scratchiness in my throat, my wife complained of a soreness in hers. I've heard that women who have lived together for a while, have their periodic cycles in sync with one another. (Is there something that links the last two sentences together? I'm not sure.)

Here is a true story about the island of Negros, just a stone's throw and about 10 miles across Tanon Straight, from where we are on Cebu Island. The Spanish invaded the Philippines in the 1500's and possessed it for about 450 years.

The inhabitants of Negros Island had a unique and ingenious way of ousting their captors. Since they had no money for weapons, they made fake ones carved from wood - rifles, canons, etc. They painted their wooden weapons and marched on the capital. When the Spanish saw them marching their way, from a distance, they immediately laid down their arms and surrendered.

How about that? I wish I could get rid of my cold that easily. I would take a placebo, label it "virus killer", swallow it with a glass of water and then wait in front of the toilet with the expectation of hearing the screams and yells of the viruses as they fled my body in a stream of pee.

Never mind.

A ritual started about two weeks ago, at our house. I'm sure it's one of those family-bonding things that the two teenage boys will remember when they are old. One evening I told them the story of the three little pigs.

The wolf, whose name was Justice, was bigger and meaner than the original, and had an awful breath from former pig-eating forays. Because of my growing, age-related confusion, other characters entered the story. Little Red Riding Hood was there, sliding in on her silver skates. The White Rabbit, dressed for tea, booked wagers at 2-to-1 odds, against the wolf, and Johnny Carson, as Carnak the Magnificent, prophesied the fate of the pigs.

B.S. flowed. The lie got bigger.

Stopping just long enough to lubricate the parch in my throat with rum and water, we finally got to the end, the part where Bilbo Baggins carved up a ham sandwich for himself in the house made of bamboo, old Chevy parts, and carabaw dung. But I had forgotten, until the boys reminded me, that the wolf was still hanging around the front door, dreaming and drooling over the possibility of a share in the ham booty. So, the wizard sent in the witch and her flying monkeys, who skewered the wolf and cooked him, live, over an open pit of charcoal designed for roasting pigs. Justice was served.

Every day since the first, the boys ask for stories. Their engrossed faces tell of the magical fascination that is a gift reserved for the young.

It makes me very happy to cater to that fascination.

Newly-Discovered Sexual Position: A Promise of Heavenly Delight!

A new post is an imposing obstacle when all I have in mind is a "sense" of what I want to write. That "sense" contains a lot of sentiment and, as such, is as far away from the construction of words as the brain will allow. But,  that's where the gift of writing comes into play. Somewhere there is an intersection between thought and feeling. For me, it is not direct observation that puts thought and feeling together, at that intersection. What works for me is diving in, swimming around the arena of feelings, then surfacing into thought, looking around for landmarks, and going back under, then, repeating this process until the light comes on in my head that is attached to my typing fingers. Voila! Thoughts come, "stuff" happens and words are formed.

But tonight is different. I don't have a "sense" about anything. I am sitting in front of this computer at our internet cafe, because I feel like writing, but the desire alone doesn't carry much punch. My fingers are ready. The blank screen is waiting for the little black symbols to fill the page. Nothing comes to mind. Kind of like going out for target practice without ammunition. At least there are no bears to contend with. Not that life lacks anything noteworthy: Jane, Emelie's sister and the mother of the kids we take care of, just had another baby. Look. Don't spread it around, but I hope she quits having kids.

It is ant season here. You won't hear about ant season on the weather channel. Sure, there is rainy season and dry season and hot and "cold" season (when the temp drops to a shivering 75 degrees), but it is all a tactic of the Department of Tourism, in cooperation with the media, to avoid talking about ant season, the meanest season of the year.

Fifteen minutes after rainy season, when the earth is dry and hot, the ants surface en-mass, in search of food. Grain, meat, sweets, oil - depending on the kind of ant - are all on the list but your foot is a more-than-adequate substitute for any of these.

 I found out, recently, that ants don't bite, they sting. Well, actually, they drill. That's right. They drill a hole into you and then squirt a bunch of chemicals in that are manufactured in the meanest part of the ant, probably very close to the asshole (excuse my French), since the whole business stinks.

Okay. This isn't science, but you can throw science out the window when you have just been stung on your big toe by an ant. Feels like a nail has been driven through your foot. I got stung three times this past friday, which just happened to have been Good Friday. It was a near-religious experience. Probably would have been the real thing if I hadn't said "Holy Shit!" In this case, "holy" modifies the word the shit, as any English major would tell you, but it don't modify it enough to render it pure and clear. At least, not pure and clear enough to open the gates of heavenly bliss and allow for even a fraction of a second of religious experience. Damn! I screwed up!

Most of the ants that sting are red, but there are exceptions to the rule: notably, a very large black ant, about a half inch long, called the nigerus antus maximus mf. I named it myself. All is in latin except for the "mf", which are the first letters of the two words that I yell out whenever I get pierced by one of these babies!

Okay, that's all I have to say about that.

Well, were you expecting something else? 

From Skepticism to Appreciation

The chosen coconuts must be hanging alone, not in a bunch, and they must come from the east side of the tree and be harvested on Good Friday, only. This is part of the recipe for concocting the special oil that heals many ills and also protects from bad spirits, witches and those with evil intent. If someone touches you and you are not carrying a small bottle of the oil on your person, you must touch them back to keep any evil from settling on you and causing you harm or even death.

A woman should never let her panties hang on the line to dry overnight, outdoors. If she does, she risks becoming impregnated by a non-human being of the night. And if that happens, she will conceive a white child with white hair, not a typical Filipino child. And the child will not be wholly human.

                                                                                                             

A certain movement of the fingers, pointed at oncoming rain, can prevent the rain from coming further.

Evil beings can inhabit trees and take on human form and if angered can cause a person’s life to become a nightmare for them and their generations to follow.

The Philippine culture is rich with beliefs in magic, other-worldly beings, witches, the power of concoctions, healers and more. A woman in northern Cebu comes from a long line of healers. Eating her deceased brother’s teeth and using his skull in rituals helped enable her healing powers.

Uncle Placido has the third eye. He has the ability to see spirit beings. So did his mother before him – Emelie’s grandmother.  

These are just a few of things I’ve heard since living here the past 10 months. There are some things I just plain don’t believe, like the woman’s underwear on the clothesline being responsible for pregnancy. No way. Some woman must have invented that one when she became pregnant as the result of an affair. And the excuse was kept alive through the generations by other women caught in the same predicament. “Oh my gosh honey! Must have been those panties I left on the line overnight!”

I can attest to the healing power of the special coconut oil: two drops of it cured, almost instantly, nausea I had had for several hours. Emelie borrowed a bottle of the oil from her cousin, Nilo, who got it from Placido. Emelie didn’t tell me much about the oil. She just said, “Take this. You won’t believe in it, but take it anyhow.” I did. It worked.

I try to keep an open mind about things that are beyond my experience and knowledge. Emelie was right, I didn’t believe in the curative powers of the oil. But neither did I disbelieve. Why form an opinion at all if there isn’t enough information on which to base it?

The Philippine people have been here long enough to have a rich cultural history. This is foreign to our American experience, since our ancestors came from many different countries and have only been in America for a few centuries at most.

I thought about what it must be like to grow up in this area of the world, where traditions and beliefs have been passed down through the centuries, by word of mouth, from one generation to the next. The Spanish oppressed the Philippines for almost 500 years, but failed to erase the beliefs and traditions of the people, even when those beliefs ran counter to Catholicism, the religion forced upon the Filipinos. What a testament to the lasting-power of their traditional culture.  

Both the differences and the similarities between Filipinos and Americans are a source of fascination for me. The differences point out the diversity which adds color and variety to our lives, and enables us, of a different culture, to look at life from another point of view. 

For me, this creates an opportunity to not only  consider different beliefs but to reconsider my own, in light of the new perspective. In doing so, something happens which I never expected: I begin to see that what I assumed to be a fact - to be reality - is often just a belief; just another point of view. This is a humbling awareness and it leads me to a greater respect for the culture and its people, in which I am immersed.

Ahhhhhh!!!!!

Today flowed along like warm honey in the sunshine: sparkling gold, smooth and sweet. Before the gang got here, I decided to make an effort to pay more attention to the boys. The last time they were here, Gab about drove me nuts trying to get my attention. So, when Emelie announced that they were walking on the road, just about to the house, I put on a happy face and prepared myself to speak in joyous tones.

It wasn't necessary. When I saw Frederick, then Gab, come through the door, a genuine happiness rode roughshod over my fake one. I was glad to see them. We played, went swimming, studied, sang, ate, swam again, played some more and just generally enjoyed each other's company immensely. Stephanie was singing up a storm while dividing her time between cooking, cleaning and watching the kid. Shane peed twice on the floor and made us all laugh with her baby antics. Once, when I was singing, she sang out in accompaniment with all the strength her little lungs could muster.

The day was filled with happy noises, laughter and music. Plumb wore me out, so I took a long nap in the middle of it all. When I awoke, I found the two boys sacked out, unconscious to the world, in the other bedroom. Emelie had threatened them: no nap, no coming with us to the shop - our internet cafe - to play games on the computers. A punishment to rival the medieval rack.

Boyish delights. Young woman's dreams. A baby's innocent explorations. And behind it all, my wife's quiet and strong presence, watching her flock like a seasoned shepherdess while taking care of household business.

So it went.And here I am,basking in the satisfied feeling that comes when a near-perfect day announces itself, in retrospect, during a quiet evening's reflection.

I think. I thank. I thunk.

I can still conjugate!

Breakfast was oatmeal. Chocolate oatmeal. That's how we like it. Nice and dark. When Emelie was half finished, she remembered that there was still some rice in the pot from last night. She piled a huge scoop of it on top of her remaining oatmeal. With my glasses off and through a hard squint, it looked pretty good; like a mound of marshmallow fluff on top of double chocolate-fudge ice cream. Sometimes its better to distort reality just a little. It's not like a lie. It's more like the use of creative license.

Don't tell a Filipino that rice is a side dish. Every meal starts and ends with rice. Pork, beef, fish, goat, and dog (just kidding, for the most part) all come on a small plate to accompany a large serving of rice. If my wife runs out of rice part way through a meal, she has to stop eating until another plate of it comes to the table. This is no exaggeration, and Emelie is not unique in this. Rice is the fuel of the Asian world.

The kids are coming this weekend: Emelie's sister's kids. We haven't had them with us for almost three weeks. It has been a quiet and uneventful three weeks. Salamat sa Dios! Stephanie and her 16 month-old daughter, Shane, will be moving back in with us. Frederick and Gabriel will be here until we drop them off at school on Monday morning, with their backpacks of untouched paper and pencils and a lunch purchased that morning at Rose's Carenderia.

Life seems to always put me in situations which point out my errors in thinking. For example: I thought I had boundless love for children and that any obstacle or challenge in caring for them would easily be overcome by that boundless love. I was wrong. I'm more selfish than that. Without going into details about the particulars of my brand of selfishness, or how it clashes with the needs and desires of the kids, I can tell you that I am okay with my limitations, in that regard. And it would be only truth to tell you that investing myself in being who I really am is much more important to the well-being of all of us - including the kids - than trying to live up to who I thought I was. So be it.

When the kids come tomorrow, I won't suggest any changes to our routine or our living and visiting arrangements. I will just see what transpires as each situation is approached from the perspective of my new awareness and resulting priorities.