A Small Bakery, Philippine Style

I mentioned, in a previous post, about a delicious bread they call coco bread. It is made in small, mom-and- pop bakeries just about everywhere in the area. The coco bread has a fresh, coconut filling in the middle of a delicious roll.

Kneeding the dough between rollers

Well, here are some pictures of a bakery just about a kilometer from our house. The bakery takes up most of the small home of the couple who own it. The two are hard working: they both bake and take turns driving their tricycle-taxi, like the one Emelie and I use to transport ourselves and family around town, only they use theirs, picking up passengers for 7 peso a ride, to add income to the small profit they make from the bakery.*

Their cocobread is the best I've eaten from the several bakeries in the area that make the same bread.

Baking pans with rolls waiting to go into the oven

From Scratch:
The bread dough is mixed then put through rollers to kneed, then laid on a large table where the baker pulls off just the right size chunks of dough and places them on baking pans. His practiced hands move very quickly. No measuring is done but all his rolls are exactly the same size and shaped perfectly into the several kinds of rolls he is making.

Two oil drums made into an oven

When the oven is hot and the rolls are ready, the pans are put into the oven, which is made of two, fifty-five gallon drums laid down,placed side by side and surrounded by concrete blocks cemented together for support and insulation.Dried sticks of wood are fed into the cavity under the ovens, on ther right-hand side. After 30 years of baking bread, the baker knows just how much wood to use to get the oven to operating temperature. No thermometer is used, either. The temperature is adjusted only by how much wood he feeds into the oven's bottom. And he pulls the bread from the oven whenever he thinks it is time, without using a  timer.

Halfway through the baking process, the rolls are removed and the pans are turned around 180 degrees, for even baking, because the ovens do not heat evenly throughout. The red dot in the center of each roll distinguishes the coco bread from other filled rolls of the same shape. These are starting to look pretty darn good!

The finished product : Coco bread!

Well, here is the fresh-baked coco bread, hot and delicious. Just wonderful with a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. Three is my minimum and maximum. Never less, never more.

Hats off to the Filipinos who are small business owners, like the man and woman who own this bakery. Their profit margin is slim, yet they work all day long, seven days a week to support their families.

*At the request of the owners, I have not mentioned their names.

Shall We Meet at, Say, Tomorrowish?

August 13, 2012

It's just another evening. We came to the internet cafe somewhere between 7 and 7:30PM, not really caring exactly where the minute hand fell within that window of time.  That's a reflection of our lifestyle; of the Philippine lifestyle, actually. In this age of precision and exactitude, with atomic clocks that err no more than a second a year, a sundial would be too much accuracy - a show of obsession about time - for most Filipinos. In fact, meetings are made for morning, afternoon or evening, or after one of the three major meals, with no mention of time.

We have attended PTA meetings for Clyde, Jan Mark, Frederick and Gabriel, and grade report meetings for those same boys, as well. On one of our first such attendances, the meeting was scheduled for 1PM at Kabatuan School. At 2PM, Emelie was still relaxing on the porch with a cup of coffee, while listening to the drama that drones on for hours from morning till late afternoon, 6 days a week. I asked her if we were still going to the school for the meeting. She said that, indeed, we were. Then she was silent, as if the subject was given all the attention it needed. 

"Well," I said, "Shouldn't we be going then? It's two PM now!"

She looked at her watch and yawned. "No hurry." She said. "It won't get started till at least three."

At 3PM, Emelie again looked at her watch. She got up slowly, walked to the bedroom and began to undress. I watched with interest, not knowing if she was planning a nap or a change of clothes. Half dressed, she stood still as a statue for a minute and half, and looked as if she was dreaming of far away places and times.

When I asked if we shouldn't be hurrying just a little, her reply was, "I don't want to be one of the first ones there!"

As it turned out, we weren't the first. We were numbers 5 and  6. When we walked into the classroom where the meeting was to be held, the principle was adjusting the microphone volume on his PA system while chatting leisurely with several of his teachers. The others, parents and guardians who were brash enough to show up earlier than we did, were slumped at child-size desks and fanning themselves to blow around the hot air.

Forty five minutes later, the meeting started. Sort of. The exact beginning could not be pinned down, as it began with a discussion of motherhood, tree planting and the nutritional value of certain foods. Given enough latitude, all of these subjects could be said to occupy a place on the periphery of school-related topics.

Gradually, the real meat of school issues began to trickle into the conversation and by 6PM, we were right in the thick of it. Facts and figures flew up on the chalk board. Money, times, dates, grades, attrition rates, etc. It was all there! Elsie was in the top ten but not in the top five. Johnny moved up three positions since last grading period but had not met his goal of surpassing Edna by two positions because Edna had moved up herself. Jan Mark had a perfect attendance record, even though the only class he attended was lunch, The rest of the time, he could be found sitting under the cigarillo tree, doodling in one of his notebooks while resting his head on the pile of school books that he was assigned. Six students departed - though no one died - and one student came back, in his thirties, to finish second grade. A round of applause for all of them.

The end of the meeting was as ambiguous as the beginning. I suppose it was marked by the moment when the first group of late arrivals suddenly rose and walked out, after which, others seemed to spontaneously arise and walk out the door, as well. It was like being at a revival meeting, where the spirit moved a person, but the movement was always in the direction of the exit. Shortly after, the principle himself laid down his microphone and walked out. That was my cue. I rose to leave, intending to follow on his heels, but my wife grabbed my arm and said, "Sit down. It's not over yet."

When I looked at her quizzically, she added, "He just went to pee."

Sure enough, he came back, looking relieved and refreshed; ready for a new onslaught, I'm sorry to say. That man must have read every book on winning friends and influencing people, against their will, but with their full cooperation and a smile to boot.

It ended, eventually. We left.
 

Buy an Old House for a New House? I Wood.

August 9, 2012

Emelie and I bought a piece of property over a year ago, with intentions of building a house on it. We have been saving and spending and saving and spending: ten steps forward and nine steps back. So, we've saved a little but not enough to build a whole house. We could afford about a third of a house right now. I would start with the bathroom, then add a bedroom and then, maybe, if there is still a little money left over, put at least enough of the roof on to shelter what we've made.

Sometimes it seems that my life is nothing more than a cycle of eating, pooping and sleeping. I've always wanted a refrigerator in the bathroom so I wouldn't have to get off the toilet to eat. And with a bed close by, I could just roll over, from the toilet, and fall into bed. It would sure save time and energy, and since we probably wouldn't put a wall between the two rooms right away, for lack of funds, my sicko idea would seem justified. I'm not even going to mention it to my wife, though. (But I don't mind mentioning it to the rest of the world.)

Today I bought a house. It's not anywhere close to our property, and there is nothing left of it but a floor, floor beams, some upright beams and 10 sections of trees used as poles for supporting the entire structure, holding it several feet off the ground. The house is probably around 100 years old. It's way up in the mountains. The road leading to it is rough. It's more like a treacherous path than a real road.

Our plan is to disassemble the house and truck the wood down to our property by the sea. It will take two days to do so - one trip each day. The wood from that old house is a type that is strong, durable, and too hard for termites to eat. It's the best there is here, but no longer available because it is now scarce. And it's illegal to sell or buy new wood or cut the trees. Buying the house was cheaper than buying the same amount of new mahogany or gemelina, the other two hardwoods used for building in this part of the Philippines.

So, part of our new house will be one hundred years old and the house will have a history before we even live in it.

No News on the Home Front

After I wrote the title, I looked at it and thought: Is this really my home? The answer is a big "yes". And that kind of answers another question that might, and probably is, a on a person's mind if they are thinking of moving here. Can I ever feel at home in a foreign country, where I know no one and no one also knows me; where the customs are different, the first language is different, and the people even look different.

Maybe there are places in the world, and even in the Philippines - like the Muslim-dominant parts of Mindanao - that wouldn't be quite so hospitable to a white foreigner who doesn't know the language or the customs. But here in Ginatilan, Cebu, life is easy and pleasant and the locals love foreigners. I honestly feel safer here than in any place I've lived in the U.S. And it is my guess, with input from many friends here, that life anywhere in the Province, outside of the city, is just as friendly and welcoming.

Cities are cities, anywhere. There is always the danger of being accosted by someone whose intentions are not favorable to your welfare. Cebu City is dirty and crowded with smog where the traffic is heaviest. Crime is standard fare.

I really enjoy shopping in Cebu City. The streets are filled with a clutter of small shops, crammed together and harboring just about anything you could want. The malls are modern and a joy to peruse. SM mall is where we always go to buy computers for our internet cafe, or stock up on supplies. The grocery store there has just about everything a modern grocery in the U.S. would offer.

But there are seedy and dirty and smelly parts of the city I would really not want to frequent, let alone live anywhere near. Shanty towns known for drug involvement are visible from the main roads. Poverty sucks but it is particularly nasty in the city where the environment induces children of the poor to become panhandlers, prostitutes and drug addicts.

Travel Calculations

August 1, 2012

My life has been packed to the gills with activity. Time to post and catch up.

When  my friends here in Ginatilan would ask me when I planned to return to the U.S., I would shrug and say "I don't have any plans to return." Shit happens. Plans change. In the middle of June, I was notified that I needed to go back to Ohio to take care of some business, and get it done before July 1st. So, I got a last-minute ticket, hopped the plane and was in Ohio lickety split, compared to any other method of travel.

$2000 is a lot of money to pay for some thirty hours of travel torture. It's not worth putting myself through it all for a just a week in the U.S. and then return home immediately. I decided a month would be about right. I could more-easily justify that 2 grand spent, if I divided it by 30 and thought of it as a daily expense.

So, the sojourn began: Emelie, Shane and I left our house on the first air-conditioned bus heading for Cebu City. Four hours later we were at the south bus terminal, hailing a taxi to take us to Cherry's Pension House in Mandaue, just outside of "the City". After making arrangements for Emelie and Shane for the night, we headed for the airport. My flight to Manila would leave at 10PM.

They dropped me off and went back to the hotel. My God, I felt lonely as I walked through the security check point. I missed my wife and little girl already.

When I got to Manila, I spent the rest of the night laying on a bench outside the International Terminal, waiting for the check-in early the next morning. The plane left at six and headed for Narita, Japan. For some reason beyond my comprehension, we had to deplane in Narita, go through the security check again, then wait at a gate to get back on the same plane we took out of Manila. It's all very official and very senseless. And it takes an additional hour and half or so. Oh well.

From Narita, we headed northwest (or maybe it was northeast, not sure. It doesn't matter much, since the world is mostly round, anyway. You always get to where you're going no matter which direction you start out. If time is a consideration, though, it's best to take the shortest route). Geography was never a subject that caught my interest, but I think we flew over Korea, and Russia and jumped into Canadian airspace on the way to Detroit airport.

Aside:
You know, it's a funny thing, we always think of the world as being divided into countries. It isn't. When you fly over Russia, you see mountains and rivers and lakes; dry areas, wet areas and such. Some snow here; some dessert there. The rest of the world is about the same, with the addition of oceans. Narry an intracontinental boundary, anywhere. Our artificial, political divisions don't really exist.

Someday we may come together as a world team, our political and religious boundaries dissolved, and we will have peace on earth, which means we will be free...free to focus our violence on alien lifeforms and planets everywhere, killing and annihilating all the new "thems" that we've decided are a threat to "us". We'll have an opportunity to create a fresh, new set of differences. "We can drag in our old fears and prejudices and justifications and rocket them to new heights, for the exploitation of our galaxy and beyond. Can't wait. Makes me want to sing the national anthem and vote republican.

Back to Center:
Okay, so, 12 hours of sitting on my ass from Narita to Detroit, with a few meals, a movie or two, a couple of chapters in a novel, one time through the "old geezer" songs of my MP3 player, a few winks - a very few winks, an inordinately inadequate few winks - and we're there. Voila! Back to earth and the U.S.A.! An hour or so more, laying over in Detroit, then a short jaunt to Cleveland. And then a one-hour drive to the old homestead in Massillon, Ohio. Home. Plop! I did it!

From the Philippines to Ohio, I traveled 12 time zones in reverse, at a speed of about 500mph, while the earth rotated in the opposite direction at about 1,000 miles per hour, at the equator, which means that I was going forward, into the future, at the rate of only 500mph. At that rate, it would take me 48 hours to travel for one day.

The plane left, for the direct flight from Japan to Detroit, at about 1PM on Tuesday afternoon, and arrived in Detroit at 3PM on Thursday. I took this into consideration, beginning immediately after reboarding the plane in Narita, Japan, and tried to develop an equation that would take into account all the variables and constants and spit out a meaningful number on the right side of the equal sign.

I ordered a beer and contemplated. When the numbers were all there, in my mind, I started calculating. I began with addition, my favorite and an easy warmup for subtraction, division and multiplication. The numbers were flying around in my head. Another beer slowed them down just a little. When I exhausted my supply of known calculations, I brought in tangent, sine and cosine, since we were traveling on an arc, anyway. I got stuck somewhere between the equator and the cosine of an arc produced by the minute hand on a clock, which has passed from 12 to 4:30. I went back and rounded off all numbers to two decimal places and drank a third beer. The combination produced a number: 2.4. I was satisfied.

Just a NOTE!

I recently received a comment from someone who wanted me to reply. I can't find a way to do that through Blogger.com and I don't have your email address to send a response. So, for you or anyone else who wants to contact me, I have created an email account just for this blog. Please address your emails to Living.Paradise@aol.com.

There is a period between the two words. I put it there, but on this screen I can't see the damn thing. Not that my eyes are getting old or that I need new glasses or anything like that. Ha! (The kids call me 'Old carabaw'. That's okay. It's a majestic animal, in my opinion.)

Mark