Wednesday, June 30, 2010
White Skin - Video Blog
Click here for my thoughts on Filipinos' obsession with light skin and my efforts to become white.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Third World Friendship Hustle
Or, How I Struggle With Being In A Poor Country While Taking Care of Myself and Not Coming Across Like a Classist A-hole.
Baybay was supposed to be a one day stop for me. A quick breather to visit Sarah and break-up my trip to St. Bernard where I would attend the victory celebration of my friend Rachel who was elected vice-mayor. I never make it to St. Bernard. I'm having too much fun in Baybay. One activity leads into another and I realize I'd rather stay here and continue the fun. I'm making more and more friends, eating delicious food and attending fiesta after fiesta.
At a disco one night- yes I love saying disco - I meet a group of kids attending Visaya State University. They're young, fun, witty and enjoy dancing. Like college kids everywhere, they're broke. I buy rounds of Red Horse - the stronger version of Filipino beer - built specifically to get one effed-up at clubs and parties. A 40oz bottle costs me under $2 - that's small coin I'm happy to throw down to keep the kids having a great time. What I fail to consider is that with each bottle, a dollar bill sign gets stamped on my forehead.
Filipinos assume I'm rich. They're right in a way. Even though I'm a budget traveler, I can afford a lot of things. I get two or three massages a week (for $4-$7 a pop). When I'm in Manila and Cebu, I go to a swanky fitness club that not even middle class Filipinos can afford. I drink only bottled water. When I pull out my Kindle, heads crane just to watch me read.
The next day at lunch, one of the college kids, Mark, tells me that he has no money to get through the day. I give him 150 pesos (3 bucks-ish). Stamp another dollar on my head. That night we attend a concert of live acoustic versions of current pop hits. Filipinos love going acoustic. Unfortunately, I find it dreary. Imagine a singer crooning a slow ballad version of "my my my my my my my po poker faaaaaaaaaace." We get bored. I realize that I'm the only one buying alcohol now. An idea springs forth - let's go to the disco in Ormoc! We jump on motorcycles - three to a seat, and drive half an hour north to the bigger city. The club entrance fee is 75 pesos. I walk up and pay for Sarah and myself. We should have immediately gone inside. We don't. I wait outside for the kids to go in but they all hang back.
- Why aren't you going in? I ask. A venomous tone slithers at the edge of my voice. I'm biting the corner of my lower lip.
- We don't have any money.
A couple of bottles of beer has segued into my becoming the bankroller of their partying. I should frown and say "bummer!" and walk in. But I don't. The trap works and I bitterly pay for six entries, go inside, sit in a corner and sulk for half an hour.
I keep myself away from the kids for the rest of my time in Leyte. Two days later, Mark texts me from his friend's phone saying all his life he's dreamed of having a cell phone, will I help him make this dream come true? I ignore the text. Two weeks later he texts me saying he doesn't have money for school tuition. Can I loan him some? I ignore the text. He texts me saying I'm rude.
The third world friendship hustle; anyone who has traveled in developing nations knows what I'm talking about. It sounds conniving. It is. It's also more complicated than that. I suffered through reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love, but she had one passage that rubbed familiarly against my experience. She was raising money to buy an Indonesian woman a house- a house! The beneficiary, while grateful, was pushing for more money.
- She's fucking with me! Gilbert realizes.
- Of course she's fucking with you, her lover responds.
Gilbert describes the weird twist well. The fact that someone is hustling you doesn't mean that he's not your friend. It doesn't mean there isn't legitimate affection and care there. In a land of limited opportunity, people must seize opportunity. In a place of ossified class stratification, people try to find small chinks in the glass ceiling. Care, fun, friendship and exploitation can co-exist.
But not for me. I've talked about this with my friend Melanie, a fellow writer, wanderer and observer. We've discussed the nuance and the difficulty. She articulates the conclusion we both come to, "It's just wrong!"
A week after I left Olongapo, my friend there texted me.
- Can I ask you a favor?
- Of course! Jes pls dont ask for $. I dnt have mch.
- Thats what I was gng to ask. Nvr mnd. But thx enewayz!
Three years ago I made a friend in Burma. He's an underground revolutionary. I was delighted that when the crackdowns happened two years ago, he was able to get to France. Recently he sent me a message on Facebook. He had gotten married in France and it had gone bad. He was broke and in trouble. Could I please send him money? I ignored the message. I don't want to be a sucker. I still feel guilty.
A Cambodian monk asked me to be his boyfriend. I told his that, as a rule, I don't date priests. A week later he emailed me asking for money to start a business.
Jose - my American ex-pat friend in Manila - and I have discussed this at length. Friends ask him for money all the time. He's been hustled. Now he loans 500 pesos as a tester loan. If they pay back, he may trust them with more. The 3WFH affects me in the worst way. I do something that I've never done before. I analyze potential friends based on class lines. If someone has money, I can trust they aren't interested in mine. This doesn't mean that I don't befriend middle class* Filipinos, most of my friends here don't come from means. It does mean that I find myself trying to determine one's wealth status. If you have money - my guard goes down quicker. Letting down my guard is a critical ingredient for real friendship.
There are many difficult things about the Philippines: broken infrastructure, pollution, diarrhea. Keeping my guard up is the worst.
Baybay is an amazing place with amazing people. Sarah's family is humble and they are interested in only my friendship. I've made amazing friends and had incredible experiences. It's been the best part of my trip. With immense gratitude, and with a slight bitter aftertaste, I bid bye bye to Baybay.
I am unaware that in a few weeks, the hustle will get much darker, with no friendship thrown in as a chaser.
*In Filipino terms - middle class means poor but living in decent shelter with enough food. Poor means destitute.
Baybay was supposed to be a one day stop for me. A quick breather to visit Sarah and break-up my trip to St. Bernard where I would attend the victory celebration of my friend Rachel who was elected vice-mayor. I never make it to St. Bernard. I'm having too much fun in Baybay. One activity leads into another and I realize I'd rather stay here and continue the fun. I'm making more and more friends, eating delicious food and attending fiesta after fiesta.
At a disco one night- yes I love saying disco - I meet a group of kids attending Visaya State University. They're young, fun, witty and enjoy dancing. Like college kids everywhere, they're broke. I buy rounds of Red Horse - the stronger version of Filipino beer - built specifically to get one effed-up at clubs and parties. A 40oz bottle costs me under $2 - that's small coin I'm happy to throw down to keep the kids having a great time. What I fail to consider is that with each bottle, a dollar bill sign gets stamped on my forehead.
Filipinos assume I'm rich. They're right in a way. Even though I'm a budget traveler, I can afford a lot of things. I get two or three massages a week (for $4-$7 a pop). When I'm in Manila and Cebu, I go to a swanky fitness club that not even middle class Filipinos can afford. I drink only bottled water. When I pull out my Kindle, heads crane just to watch me read.
The next day at lunch, one of the college kids, Mark, tells me that he has no money to get through the day. I give him 150 pesos (3 bucks-ish). Stamp another dollar on my head. That night we attend a concert of live acoustic versions of current pop hits. Filipinos love going acoustic. Unfortunately, I find it dreary. Imagine a singer crooning a slow ballad version of "my my my my my my my po poker faaaaaaaaaace." We get bored. I realize that I'm the only one buying alcohol now. An idea springs forth - let's go to the disco in Ormoc! We jump on motorcycles - three to a seat, and drive half an hour north to the bigger city. The club entrance fee is 75 pesos. I walk up and pay for Sarah and myself. We should have immediately gone inside. We don't. I wait outside for the kids to go in but they all hang back.
- Why aren't you going in? I ask. A venomous tone slithers at the edge of my voice. I'm biting the corner of my lower lip.
- We don't have any money.
A couple of bottles of beer has segued into my becoming the bankroller of their partying. I should frown and say "bummer!" and walk in. But I don't. The trap works and I bitterly pay for six entries, go inside, sit in a corner and sulk for half an hour.
I keep myself away from the kids for the rest of my time in Leyte. Two days later, Mark texts me from his friend's phone saying all his life he's dreamed of having a cell phone, will I help him make this dream come true? I ignore the text. Two weeks later he texts me saying he doesn't have money for school tuition. Can I loan him some? I ignore the text. He texts me saying I'm rude.
The third world friendship hustle; anyone who has traveled in developing nations knows what I'm talking about. It sounds conniving. It is. It's also more complicated than that. I suffered through reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love, but she had one passage that rubbed familiarly against my experience. She was raising money to buy an Indonesian woman a house- a house! The beneficiary, while grateful, was pushing for more money.
- She's fucking with me! Gilbert realizes.
- Of course she's fucking with you, her lover responds.
Gilbert describes the weird twist well. The fact that someone is hustling you doesn't mean that he's not your friend. It doesn't mean there isn't legitimate affection and care there. In a land of limited opportunity, people must seize opportunity. In a place of ossified class stratification, people try to find small chinks in the glass ceiling. Care, fun, friendship and exploitation can co-exist.
But not for me. I've talked about this with my friend Melanie, a fellow writer, wanderer and observer. We've discussed the nuance and the difficulty. She articulates the conclusion we both come to, "It's just wrong!"
A week after I left Olongapo, my friend there texted me.
- Can I ask you a favor?
- Of course! Jes pls dont ask for $. I dnt have mch.
- Thats what I was gng to ask. Nvr mnd. But thx enewayz!
Three years ago I made a friend in Burma. He's an underground revolutionary. I was delighted that when the crackdowns happened two years ago, he was able to get to France. Recently he sent me a message on Facebook. He had gotten married in France and it had gone bad. He was broke and in trouble. Could I please send him money? I ignored the message. I don't want to be a sucker. I still feel guilty.
A Cambodian monk asked me to be his boyfriend. I told his that, as a rule, I don't date priests. A week later he emailed me asking for money to start a business.
Jose - my American ex-pat friend in Manila - and I have discussed this at length. Friends ask him for money all the time. He's been hustled. Now he loans 500 pesos as a tester loan. If they pay back, he may trust them with more. The 3WFH affects me in the worst way. I do something that I've never done before. I analyze potential friends based on class lines. If someone has money, I can trust they aren't interested in mine. This doesn't mean that I don't befriend middle class* Filipinos, most of my friends here don't come from means. It does mean that I find myself trying to determine one's wealth status. If you have money - my guard goes down quicker. Letting down my guard is a critical ingredient for real friendship.
There are many difficult things about the Philippines: broken infrastructure, pollution, diarrhea. Keeping my guard up is the worst.
Baybay is an amazing place with amazing people. Sarah's family is humble and they are interested in only my friendship. I've made amazing friends and had incredible experiences. It's been the best part of my trip. With immense gratitude, and with a slight bitter aftertaste, I bid bye bye to Baybay.
I am unaware that in a few weeks, the hustle will get much darker, with no friendship thrown in as a chaser.
*In Filipino terms - middle class means poor but living in decent shelter with enough food. Poor means destitute.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Fiesta Season
Filipinos are wired to party. Somewhere encoded in the double helixes of our archipelagic DNA is a gene or two that makes us, young and old, want to rock it 'til the break o' dawn. This genetic predisposition blossoms into full behavioral fruition in May and June, when every town and every barangay throws a big ass party. This phenomenon is country wide- amazing considering the cultural and linguistic diversity of the Philippines. At fiesta time, the squat Igorots in the northern mountains raise the roof, Visayans skip to the beat across their scattered islands, and southern muslims in Mindanao throw down a party like a prayer rug. Town fiestas are a big deal. Preparation takes weeks and folks will boat or bus back to their hometowns for the festivities.
I arrive in Baybay on a weekend of five barangay fiestas - all within a couple of motorcycle puts of each other. Festivities last about three days and contain most of the following: religious ceremonies, basketball, boxing and cockfight tournaments, parades and beauty pageants.
- Miss Northwestern Magsaysay Road, Please tell me, what is your edge over the other contestants?
- My edge is 22 years old, thank you very much!
The whole thing concludes with a disco where bright lights and booming beats from the 80s inspire 5 year olds and 75 year olds to set their flip-flops afire until the wee hours.
If the fiesta is your home neighborhood, you cook heaping platters of food because your friends will be stopping by throughout the day. Sarah and I hop from house to house visiting people. "Aiyoooooh!" we call out as we open doors and walk in like family. Chicken, fish, stews, and my favorite, Lechon ar piled on our plates at each stop bringing me to artery-clogged ecstacy.
Fortunately, there is exercise in the dancing. As the American guest, I seem to bring additional cache and novelty to the fun. Unless I'm eating, I can never sit down. A ten year old, a grandma, teenage boys will pull me onto the dance floor to shake my groove thang. At one fiesta for a small neighborhood (watch video)- literally three blocks across - a 65 year old woman, the mother of Sarah's friend, claims me as her beau for the evening. And she can go all night long! She's drunk, loud and shakes her ample figure in pure poetry with an innovative movement vocabulary. She's my hero.
This is SinangCora - one of the dishes I eat during Fiesta time. It's the invention of Manang Cora, a friend of Sarah. This soup contains chicken, tomatoes, tomato sauce, pickles, cheese and other ingredients. Sounds nasty, huh? It's DELICIOUS! Unfortunately Manang Cora will not share the recipe.
I arrive in Baybay on a weekend of five barangay fiestas - all within a couple of motorcycle puts of each other. Festivities last about three days and contain most of the following: religious ceremonies, basketball, boxing and cockfight tournaments, parades and beauty pageants.
- Miss Northwestern Magsaysay Road, Please tell me, what is your edge over the other contestants?
- My edge is 22 years old, thank you very much!
The whole thing concludes with a disco where bright lights and booming beats from the 80s inspire 5 year olds and 75 year olds to set their flip-flops afire until the wee hours.
If the fiesta is your home neighborhood, you cook heaping platters of food because your friends will be stopping by throughout the day. Sarah and I hop from house to house visiting people. "Aiyoooooh!" we call out as we open doors and walk in like family. Chicken, fish, stews, and my favorite, Lechon ar piled on our plates at each stop bringing me to artery-clogged ecstacy.
Fortunately, there is exercise in the dancing. As the American guest, I seem to bring additional cache and novelty to the fun. Unless I'm eating, I can never sit down. A ten year old, a grandma, teenage boys will pull me onto the dance floor to shake my groove thang. At one fiesta for a small neighborhood (watch video)- literally three blocks across - a 65 year old woman, the mother of Sarah's friend, claims me as her beau for the evening. And she can go all night long! She's drunk, loud and shakes her ample figure in pure poetry with an innovative movement vocabulary. She's my hero.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Video Blog - Eating Ilocano Longanisa
Watch my video blog - featuring Jose eating Ilocano longanisa - pinoy style.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Baybay Heaven
My Rough Guide calls the city of Baybay (pronounced "Bye Bye"), "a frenetic little port town". The author must've been on a valium and vicodin cocktail to find this place frenetic. As far as I can tell, there are two lazy boats that wade in and out of town each day. Recently Baybay was awarded status as a city, a moniker that brings great pride to the locals as it affords them capital improvements like better roads and bridges. I hope they get the structural changes they want without compromising the character of this 'city'. For now, it's fetchingly sleepy, accessible and friendly. There are few cars or motor-tricycles here. People get around via the ubiquitous pot-pot (pronounced 'pood pood'), a sheltered pedicab that costs about a dime per person per trip, whether you are going one block or across the city. There are no traffic lights and occasionally an amusing traffic jam occurs when several pot-pot drivers refuse to yield resulting in near collisions, quick stops and sharp words. Life here is uncluttered, but holds some amenities that are nice for a western traveler. The power grid is consistent which means hotels have air conditioning, the beer is served cold and internet is readily available. There is a Dunkin' Doughnuts (read fresh brewed coffee!) but none of the other chain restaurants that riddle bigger cities like pimples on a McDonald's fry cook.
I've been lured here by friendship and food. Sarah and I became fast friends on the ferry ride to Cebu. She tried to convince me to visit, and ended my capitulation with the magic words, "we're known for our barbeque."
Barbeque! Blessed barbeque! I'm an aficionado of open flame; a lover of all things charred. I play with marinades, rubs and mops with the enthusiasm of young boys discovering their nether regions. I arrive at 10am. Sarah whisks me away - "pot-pot!" - to breakfast on grilled chicken wings, pork, fish, squid and prawns. A thick slab of blue marlin costs a dollar-fifty.
Barbeque vendors in Baybay
Clockwise from upper left - Bbq seafood and chicken, sauteed ampalaya (bitter gourd), fish sinagang, kinilaw - my new favorite: it's Filipino ceviche with coconut milk. What a breakfast!
The food is perfectly flavored and cooked, then we dip it in the sauce of sauces - calamansi - a small citrus that tastes like lime and tangerine had an affair, squeezed with soy sauce and chili pepper vinegar. It's my favorite flavor of the Philippines. I would slop french fries with this. I would dunk cheesecake or styrofoam in this sauce and call it a feast. We eat the food with hanging rice; a brilliant Visayan invention wherein rice grains are woven into small, enclosed palm frond baskets, then cooked in boiling water. The sealed leaves keep the rice fresh for several days and make easy transport. It's the perfect way to take your lunch out into the fields or on your fishing boat. The restaurant itself competes with the down home brilliance of the food. It 'floats' on stilts over the water, crafted completely from bamboo, palm and nipa. We throw our bones into the ocean and watch little fish cannibalize the carcasses of their cousins.
The trannies always find me. In every rural stop in the Philippines there seem to be gaggles of glittering, giggling pixies in tube tops, flocking to me like vampiresses to a virgin with a paper cut. I have a trantourage within minutes of my arrival.
The homosexual dynamic works differently here than in the west. Bakla, a linguistic merging of babae, girl, and lalake, boy, tend to be very, even flamboyantly feminine. They sashay, squeal and dress somewhere on a continuum from androgynous to Charo. They date straight men, usually becoming a hidden or open mistress. Its a hard life, full of heartache. The rural bakla find me fascinating. The bubbling babes in Baybay have never met an American gay before. They are fascinated by my comfortable maleness - (I pause here for your snickering, you predictable a-hole) - by the fact that I'm attracted to other gay men, and that I've been in a relationship with another gay for eight years. Only in big cities like Manila or Cebu does one find the more westernized notion of a gay man who dates other men.
In the evening, Sarah, my triad of trannies, and I go swimming. They strip down to their panties; small hormone pill induced breasts kiss softly back to the full moon. Incandescent shrimp streak in green lights across the calm water's surface. Silent lightning illuminates Cebu in the distance as we splash, we float, we squeal. We redefine "frolicking". I'm cavorting with mermaids.
Later, showered and gussied, they in short dresses, I in bermuda shorts, are quadruple seated on a motorcycle with a one-eyed driver. The mermaids, Cyclops and I speed to a fiesta at a town close by. The road is dirt and rocks and we shriek in fear and fun over each dip and bump. We take a sharp right - into a parade of children. Screams fly on both sides as the kids break processional decorum and dive out of our path. We dance the night away at a disco in a bamboo structure on stilts over the water. It's almost too hot for dancing, but the beer is cold and an ocean breeze blows through this wall-less building. One of my new friends is paying a lot of attention to me, dancing closer and closer with each song, each glass.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, "but I'm not available."
"You can be single here," she smiles.
"You're the most spectacular woman here. I'm with a man."
She's slightly miffed, but keeps a more decorous distance. We all dance until the morning, when, tipsy and tired, we devour grilled chicken and soup before I head back to my hotel.
Town market in Baybay
I've been lured here by friendship and food. Sarah and I became fast friends on the ferry ride to Cebu. She tried to convince me to visit, and ended my capitulation with the magic words, "we're known for our barbeque."
Barbeque! Blessed barbeque! I'm an aficionado of open flame; a lover of all things charred. I play with marinades, rubs and mops with the enthusiasm of young boys discovering their nether regions. I arrive at 10am. Sarah whisks me away - "pot-pot!" - to breakfast on grilled chicken wings, pork, fish, squid and prawns. A thick slab of blue marlin costs a dollar-fifty.
The food is perfectly flavored and cooked, then we dip it in the sauce of sauces - calamansi - a small citrus that tastes like lime and tangerine had an affair, squeezed with soy sauce and chili pepper vinegar. It's my favorite flavor of the Philippines. I would slop french fries with this. I would dunk cheesecake or styrofoam in this sauce and call it a feast. We eat the food with hanging rice; a brilliant Visayan invention wherein rice grains are woven into small, enclosed palm frond baskets, then cooked in boiling water. The sealed leaves keep the rice fresh for several days and make easy transport. It's the perfect way to take your lunch out into the fields or on your fishing boat. The restaurant itself competes with the down home brilliance of the food. It 'floats' on stilts over the water, crafted completely from bamboo, palm and nipa. We throw our bones into the ocean and watch little fish cannibalize the carcasses of their cousins.
The trannies always find me. In every rural stop in the Philippines there seem to be gaggles of glittering, giggling pixies in tube tops, flocking to me like vampiresses to a virgin with a paper cut. I have a trantourage within minutes of my arrival.
The homosexual dynamic works differently here than in the west. Bakla, a linguistic merging of babae, girl, and lalake, boy, tend to be very, even flamboyantly feminine. They sashay, squeal and dress somewhere on a continuum from androgynous to Charo. They date straight men, usually becoming a hidden or open mistress. Its a hard life, full of heartache. The rural bakla find me fascinating. The bubbling babes in Baybay have never met an American gay before. They are fascinated by my comfortable maleness - (I pause here for your snickering, you predictable a-hole) - by the fact that I'm attracted to other gay men, and that I've been in a relationship with another gay for eight years. Only in big cities like Manila or Cebu does one find the more westernized notion of a gay man who dates other men.
In the evening, Sarah, my triad of trannies, and I go swimming. They strip down to their panties; small hormone pill induced breasts kiss softly back to the full moon. Incandescent shrimp streak in green lights across the calm water's surface. Silent lightning illuminates Cebu in the distance as we splash, we float, we squeal. We redefine "frolicking". I'm cavorting with mermaids.
Later, showered and gussied, they in short dresses, I in bermuda shorts, are quadruple seated on a motorcycle with a one-eyed driver. The mermaids, Cyclops and I speed to a fiesta at a town close by. The road is dirt and rocks and we shriek in fear and fun over each dip and bump. We take a sharp right - into a parade of children. Screams fly on both sides as the kids break processional decorum and dive out of our path. We dance the night away at a disco in a bamboo structure on stilts over the water. It's almost too hot for dancing, but the beer is cold and an ocean breeze blows through this wall-less building. One of my new friends is paying a lot of attention to me, dancing closer and closer with each song, each glass.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, "but I'm not available."
"You can be single here," she smiles.
"You're the most spectacular woman here. I'm with a man."
She's slightly miffed, but keeps a more decorous distance. We all dance until the morning, when, tipsy and tired, we devour grilled chicken and soup before I head back to my hotel.
Town market in Baybay
Overnight Ferry to Cebu
[Note: I went to Cebu and Leyte in late May. I'm catching up here transferring journal entries into my blog.]
I head south to the Visayas for an important occasion. On my last trip here I befriended the Avendula family, a prominent clan in the small village of St. Bernard, Leyte. Rachel Avendula, an outgoing, sharp-witted force of a woman, small but terrible, won election as vice-mayor of St. Bernard in the recent May elections. The victory fiesta will be held in a few days.
I take the 24 hour ferry to Cebu. I love traveling by boat. Planes are for speed and efficiency, boats are for poetry and adventure. Planes are designed to suck the the journeying out of travel. You are literally boxed up in an antiseptic tube from the rest of the world. Boats amble along, in touch with the elements. On boats you experience rocking, the best sleep narcotic in the world! on planes, you share an armrest with someone but don't even learn his name. On boats, you share cabins, decks, stories, beer and songs. Plane disasters involve hijacking and crashes. Nautical scares involve icebergs and pirates! A plane is an MRI scan. A boat is the womb of the world.
24 hours is a lot of time to kill. Fortunately, I make new friends right away. Ohlyn is in her mid 20s, attractive and knows it. She works in Kuwait but is coming home to Cebu to be with her sister who will give birth soon. She helps me figure out how to get the linens for my bunk, and we spend most of the boat ride laughing in each other's company. Through Ohlyn, I meet Sarah, a woman who will become a dear friend and a major player in my experience in the Philippines.
Okay, let's take a break from this saccharin romanticism of sea travel. What the hell is it with Filipinos and karaoke?! There are only two things one can do on a long ferry ride. One can stand on the deck which affords beautiful islandscapes but is insufferable hot. Or one can hang out in the main restaurant/bar area where everyone clusters around a videoke machine to belt out classic American ballads. Its been said that 50% of Filipinos can sing; the other 50% think they can sing. Apparently the SuperFerry passengers hail from the later half. My new friends all take turns on the mic and pressure me to do so. I joke that I only sing after five San Miguels, but unfortunately I fall asleep after four. I spend hours and hours and hours tortured by screeching tributes to Journey, Faith Hill and Queen. I consider it colonial payback. The chow at meal time is public school cafeteria lousy. The bland beef stew seems to sigh wearily as I nudge it around with my fork. Finally, we reach Cebu harbor. After 24 hours of travel, it seems to take another full day to dock and disembark.
Sarah invites me to come visit her in Leyte. Two days later, I take a blessedly short boat ride and bus trip to Baybay, Leyte.
Me, Sarah, Ohlyn
I head south to the Visayas for an important occasion. On my last trip here I befriended the Avendula family, a prominent clan in the small village of St. Bernard, Leyte. Rachel Avendula, an outgoing, sharp-witted force of a woman, small but terrible, won election as vice-mayor of St. Bernard in the recent May elections. The victory fiesta will be held in a few days.
I take the 24 hour ferry to Cebu. I love traveling by boat. Planes are for speed and efficiency, boats are for poetry and adventure. Planes are designed to suck the the journeying out of travel. You are literally boxed up in an antiseptic tube from the rest of the world. Boats amble along, in touch with the elements. On boats you experience rocking, the best sleep narcotic in the world! on planes, you share an armrest with someone but don't even learn his name. On boats, you share cabins, decks, stories, beer and songs. Plane disasters involve hijacking and crashes. Nautical scares involve icebergs and pirates! A plane is an MRI scan. A boat is the womb of the world.
24 hours is a lot of time to kill. Fortunately, I make new friends right away. Ohlyn is in her mid 20s, attractive and knows it. She works in Kuwait but is coming home to Cebu to be with her sister who will give birth soon. She helps me figure out how to get the linens for my bunk, and we spend most of the boat ride laughing in each other's company. Through Ohlyn, I meet Sarah, a woman who will become a dear friend and a major player in my experience in the Philippines.
Okay, let's take a break from this saccharin romanticism of sea travel. What the hell is it with Filipinos and karaoke?! There are only two things one can do on a long ferry ride. One can stand on the deck which affords beautiful islandscapes but is insufferable hot. Or one can hang out in the main restaurant/bar area where everyone clusters around a videoke machine to belt out classic American ballads. Its been said that 50% of Filipinos can sing; the other 50% think they can sing. Apparently the SuperFerry passengers hail from the later half. My new friends all take turns on the mic and pressure me to do so. I joke that I only sing after five San Miguels, but unfortunately I fall asleep after four. I spend hours and hours and hours tortured by screeching tributes to Journey, Faith Hill and Queen. I consider it colonial payback. The chow at meal time is public school cafeteria lousy. The bland beef stew seems to sigh wearily as I nudge it around with my fork. Finally, we reach Cebu harbor. After 24 hours of travel, it seems to take another full day to dock and disembark.
Sarah invites me to come visit her in Leyte. Two days later, I take a blessedly short boat ride and bus trip to Baybay, Leyte.
Me, Sarah, Ohlyn
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Gross
Last night I was walking along Manila bay and got caught in a monsoon downpour. I hustled into - where else?- a bar to wait out the storm. I bummed a cigarette from some near 50 white guy, who, it turns out, is an expat from San Francisco. We spend the storm discussing the nuances of life in San Francisco (mission burritos - yay! arctic summers - boo!) as well as the joys and challenges of being an American in Manila (prices - yay! getting hustled - boo!).
I enjoyed speaking with him for about an hour. Then he said, "I think the best thing about the Philippines is the sex. That's really why I'm here."
-Alright dude, thanks for the cigarettes. It's time for me to go.
I braved the monsoon.
I enjoyed speaking with him for about an hour. Then he said, "I think the best thing about the Philippines is the sex. That's really why I'm here."
-Alright dude, thanks for the cigarettes. It's time for me to go.
I braved the monsoon.
God DAMN!
In a week, I will look back at this and snicker. In a week, I will look back at this and it will not be a big deal. It will all be okay. I will look back at this and it will not be a big deal. In a week.
Antos.
I'm back in Manila, supposedly for three days to kiss this country goodbye before heading off to Cambodia. I take a taxi to Mall of Asia to re-stock some clothes. I forgot to pick up my laundry in Palawan. No biggie - it's a couple of shirts and a pair of underwear. After five weeks in the same three shirts, I'm grateful at the prospect of new attire (alas, that Punahou sleeveless that I seem to be wearing in every photo is still with me). In the taxi, I lightly chastise myself on principle for forgetting the laundry - Come on, Ed. Pull it together. You know that transition moments are when costly mistakes are made. Keep your wits about you. Check and double check!
It was meant as a reminder, not as foreshadow.
At the mall, I get out of the taxi and pay the cabbie. My wallet is in my right hand. The taxi drives off as I realize that my mobile phone is sitting on the back seat. I yell and sprint after the driver. Its confusing; there are about 20 taxis ahead of me. I'm not sure which overturned cup holds the magician's coin. I'm hauling ass - my sprinting form is strong, my manpurse trails behind me like a cape, people stare as I fly by. I'm shouting to security guards ahead to stop the taxi but they are painfully inept.
My wallet is clenched in my right hand.
I catch the taxi and jump in. "I left my phone in here!" I wheeze. The driver turns. He's not my driver. I jump out and look around, desperately now. He's gone. I walk into the mall, paying for my track meet with sheets of sweat running down my face, chest and back. I walk through the make-up counters and a sales girl tries to tout Shisedo foundation. Are you kidding me?! I'm drenched like a sea monster seconds emerged from the primordial ooze.
At this moment, I realize my wallet is not in my right hand.
I must've set it on the seat of the second taxi. I really don't know what happened. I was that colossally stupid. The phone was a piece of shit, half-broken vintage Blackberry. I was going to throw it out after this trip. I managed to lose the gold while trying to save some cubic zirconium.
You've had this moment. You're in a public space and something goes so unexpectedly, sourly wrong. You want to throw yourself on the floor, open up the gates and let tears and screams issue forth like the devil's own stallions. You want to beat the ground and sob and sob; hard, open. You want to let all the frustration and sadness and anger and fear- so much fear- come rolling through you for a few precious, painful, beautifully releasing seconds, until Mommy comes and picks you up in her arms and makes everything better with the tap tap tap between your shoulders, and the soft ch ch ch sound halfway between a cluck and a kiss.
But you don't let go.
Because you're fucking 38 years old, Mommy ain't coming and you need to clean up your own God damn messes. Antos. Pull it together.
Thank God for Jose. If I was in a city without a friend, I don't know what I would've done. I catch a taxi - fucking taxis! - back to Jose's apartment and borrow 100 pesos for the ride. I have US dollars in my money belt, so I'm okay for cash. I call the banks at home. Bank of America, blessed BofA! I'm sorry for all the abuse I've hurled at you over the years! They are processing my debit card and sending it to Jose's apartment in three days total time, no extra charge. HSBC, why did I ever sing your praises? I chose you because of your huge international presence, because I figured you could help out in situations exactly like this. But they will take 6 days, and that's the rush order, to mail my credit card to my San Francisco address. And a lot of good that will do me!
At some point, maybe in a week, this will become my crazy "Lost My Wallet in a Manila Taxi" story. It will make me sound adventuresome and worldly. I'll dress it up with tranny hookers, baskets of dried fish and an old woman with two teeth. But for now, its just bloody hard and I want to call the trip off and go home to my country and my ATMs and my bed and my boyfriend.
Antos. It's a Visayan word that means something like suck it up, bite the bullet, hang on baby 'coz the sun will rise at dawn.
I"m grounded in the Philippines for a while more. I don't wan't to spend my time in Manila. The winds shift. Jose and I set our sails northward to Ilocos.
Antos.
I'm back in Manila, supposedly for three days to kiss this country goodbye before heading off to Cambodia. I take a taxi to Mall of Asia to re-stock some clothes. I forgot to pick up my laundry in Palawan. No biggie - it's a couple of shirts and a pair of underwear. After five weeks in the same three shirts, I'm grateful at the prospect of new attire (alas, that Punahou sleeveless that I seem to be wearing in every photo is still with me). In the taxi, I lightly chastise myself on principle for forgetting the laundry - Come on, Ed. Pull it together. You know that transition moments are when costly mistakes are made. Keep your wits about you. Check and double check!
It was meant as a reminder, not as foreshadow.
At the mall, I get out of the taxi and pay the cabbie. My wallet is in my right hand. The taxi drives off as I realize that my mobile phone is sitting on the back seat. I yell and sprint after the driver. Its confusing; there are about 20 taxis ahead of me. I'm not sure which overturned cup holds the magician's coin. I'm hauling ass - my sprinting form is strong, my manpurse trails behind me like a cape, people stare as I fly by. I'm shouting to security guards ahead to stop the taxi but they are painfully inept.
My wallet is clenched in my right hand.
I catch the taxi and jump in. "I left my phone in here!" I wheeze. The driver turns. He's not my driver. I jump out and look around, desperately now. He's gone. I walk into the mall, paying for my track meet with sheets of sweat running down my face, chest and back. I walk through the make-up counters and a sales girl tries to tout Shisedo foundation. Are you kidding me?! I'm drenched like a sea monster seconds emerged from the primordial ooze.
At this moment, I realize my wallet is not in my right hand.
I must've set it on the seat of the second taxi. I really don't know what happened. I was that colossally stupid. The phone was a piece of shit, half-broken vintage Blackberry. I was going to throw it out after this trip. I managed to lose the gold while trying to save some cubic zirconium.
You've had this moment. You're in a public space and something goes so unexpectedly, sourly wrong. You want to throw yourself on the floor, open up the gates and let tears and screams issue forth like the devil's own stallions. You want to beat the ground and sob and sob; hard, open. You want to let all the frustration and sadness and anger and fear- so much fear- come rolling through you for a few precious, painful, beautifully releasing seconds, until Mommy comes and picks you up in her arms and makes everything better with the tap tap tap between your shoulders, and the soft ch ch ch sound halfway between a cluck and a kiss.
But you don't let go.
Because you're fucking 38 years old, Mommy ain't coming and you need to clean up your own God damn messes. Antos. Pull it together.
Thank God for Jose. If I was in a city without a friend, I don't know what I would've done. I catch a taxi - fucking taxis! - back to Jose's apartment and borrow 100 pesos for the ride. I have US dollars in my money belt, so I'm okay for cash. I call the banks at home. Bank of America, blessed BofA! I'm sorry for all the abuse I've hurled at you over the years! They are processing my debit card and sending it to Jose's apartment in three days total time, no extra charge. HSBC, why did I ever sing your praises? I chose you because of your huge international presence, because I figured you could help out in situations exactly like this. But they will take 6 days, and that's the rush order, to mail my credit card to my San Francisco address. And a lot of good that will do me!
At some point, maybe in a week, this will become my crazy "Lost My Wallet in a Manila Taxi" story. It will make me sound adventuresome and worldly. I'll dress it up with tranny hookers, baskets of dried fish and an old woman with two teeth. But for now, its just bloody hard and I want to call the trip off and go home to my country and my ATMs and my bed and my boyfriend.
Antos. It's a Visayan word that means something like suck it up, bite the bullet, hang on baby 'coz the sun will rise at dawn.
I"m grounded in the Philippines for a while more. I don't wan't to spend my time in Manila. The winds shift. Jose and I set our sails northward to Ilocos.
What Should I Do With My Life? part II
"All who wander are not lost." - The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R Tolkein
"What is the 'direction' of the earth in its journey; where are the atoms 'going' when they spin?" - Hitchhiker Extraordinaire Sissy Hankshaw in Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Tom Robbins.
I imagine the great Tahitian sailors who discovered, then populated Hawaii. They launched out in small voyaging canoes filled with fruit, chickens, maybe a pig or two, setting out over the Pacific for weeks at a time. Searching for what? Were they trying to flee or trying find? Or both? We know that they found the Hawaiian Islands and then created an oceanic highway of navigating canoes, bring people and things back and forth for generations. But those initial discoverers on the sea - did they have a sense of purpose? Did they know what they were looking for? Perhaps even without destination, they had intent.
Last night I sat over a wonderful Italian dinner with two friends. We were taking a break from Filipino food, and found a place with a surprisingly good wine list and great classic pastas. We are all wandering in our own way. Jose is my dear friend and current traveling companion [remember in the 80s when sports announcers didn't know what to do with Martina Navratalova's lovers in the friends and families box, and Dick Endberg would refer to them as her "traveling companions."? Jose is not that kind of traveling companion. But I digress-].
Jose, like me, is an American-born half-Filipino. He's lived in Southeast Asia for five years. Originally he had direction. He came here to open up a clothing store in Bangkok. He did so and did it successfully, until, as is often the case in Bangkok, things went very, very bad. There was corruption, theft and treachery. He quietly closed the store and fled to Manila. Now he works from his computer in his studio in Makati. He's able to support himself this way, but I can tell he's not thriving. He's not passionate. I recognize the vacancy in his eyes. Jose also lost both of his parents within the last four years. Losing both parents does more than just hurt. It can make one feel unmoored. Really alone. More grown-up than we want to be. It forces us to question where we are going. So now Jose is trying to figure out what will give him meaning in the next phase of his life.
He wants to try something different now. He has a vague sense about impacting change in the Philippines. He has both the talent and the connections to do so. But how? What's the plan? Where to start?
Carlos sits across from me. He was born in Manila but raised in Negros Occidental. He has a vision, but seems reluctant to follow the path. He was in the seminary for four years, but realized that he has an artists spirit and the high structure of abby life wasn't for him. So he left and pursued his passion for visual arts. He's been reasonably successful - given commissions and teaching gigs. He loves both. He's also been offered a full scholarship in fine arts at a university in Manila, as well as the backing of a highly important patron in the Manila arts scene. I ask him whether school is important for his career and he responds - yes, it's very important. Yet he's hesitating and pushing it off for another year.
In my experience, "one year" is a placeholder that really means, "I can't deal with this right now." I told my best friend back home, "a year is for pussies." If you have a plan, then figure out how to put that plan in action next week, in three months or in six months. A year means you are scared or frozen.
I push Carlos about his reluctance. We talk about it all day and night. I'm that annoying aunty that doesn't know when to stop. He has dozens of excuses; none of them very good.
- The scholarship pays for school and rent, but not for food and living.
- I need to save money for a year to afford this.
- I'll have to take remedial courses that I've already taken.
- Manila is a big city. I get lost a lot.
No one said change is easy. Why is he so reluctant?
But the better question, for me, is - Why am I so obsessive about his decision? Why am I pushing him so hard?
Maybe I long for his sense of vision and opportunity and can't stand to see him cast it aside. Jose and I are both drooling over Carlos's sense of direction. You have a map! Move in the right direction!
Is it about school? My dirty little secret is that I didn't graduate from college. I thrived at U.C. Davis. I was a scholar-athlete and active in many clubs and had a vibrant social life while maintaining a 3.9 gpa. I got my Phi Beta Kappa key and received a few awards for minority scholars. In my senior year my whole extended family came out to watch me walk in two graduation ceremonies. I walked; I was six units shy of a degree, and I was supposed to complete them during the summer. I never completed the work, which was really the equivalent of three final papers. I have no idea why I didn't follow through.
Let me repeat: THREEPOINTFRICKIN'NINE! I'm smart but I'm no super brain. I earned my grades through effort and consistency. I pulled all nighters just to stay caught up in my reading. I went to the library to read literary criticism so that I'd have multiple perspectives for class discussions. My hand was constantly in the air and my papers were in early. I was Hermione.
Until I dropped it all at the end.
At the end of the evening, tipsy from a great bottle of Italian primitivo, I tell Carlos that I believe in his ability to make the right decisions. "You'll figure it all out in the right way for you," I say. Even through the red tannic haze, it smells like bullshit.
"I was intimidated of you at first," he tells me, "but I had a good time talking to you."
I feel that the three of us have unshakeable confidence in each other's potential, but no idea what to do with our own.
"What is the 'direction' of the earth in its journey; where are the atoms 'going' when they spin?" - Hitchhiker Extraordinaire Sissy Hankshaw in Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Tom Robbins.
I imagine the great Tahitian sailors who discovered, then populated Hawaii. They launched out in small voyaging canoes filled with fruit, chickens, maybe a pig or two, setting out over the Pacific for weeks at a time. Searching for what? Were they trying to flee or trying find? Or both? We know that they found the Hawaiian Islands and then created an oceanic highway of navigating canoes, bring people and things back and forth for generations. But those initial discoverers on the sea - did they have a sense of purpose? Did they know what they were looking for? Perhaps even without destination, they had intent.
Last night I sat over a wonderful Italian dinner with two friends. We were taking a break from Filipino food, and found a place with a surprisingly good wine list and great classic pastas. We are all wandering in our own way. Jose is my dear friend and current traveling companion [remember in the 80s when sports announcers didn't know what to do with Martina Navratalova's lovers in the friends and families box, and Dick Endberg would refer to them as her "traveling companions."? Jose is not that kind of traveling companion. But I digress-].
Jose, like me, is an American-born half-Filipino. He's lived in Southeast Asia for five years. Originally he had direction. He came here to open up a clothing store in Bangkok. He did so and did it successfully, until, as is often the case in Bangkok, things went very, very bad. There was corruption, theft and treachery. He quietly closed the store and fled to Manila. Now he works from his computer in his studio in Makati. He's able to support himself this way, but I can tell he's not thriving. He's not passionate. I recognize the vacancy in his eyes. Jose also lost both of his parents within the last four years. Losing both parents does more than just hurt. It can make one feel unmoored. Really alone. More grown-up than we want to be. It forces us to question where we are going. So now Jose is trying to figure out what will give him meaning in the next phase of his life.
He wants to try something different now. He has a vague sense about impacting change in the Philippines. He has both the talent and the connections to do so. But how? What's the plan? Where to start?
Carlos sits across from me. He was born in Manila but raised in Negros Occidental. He has a vision, but seems reluctant to follow the path. He was in the seminary for four years, but realized that he has an artists spirit and the high structure of abby life wasn't for him. So he left and pursued his passion for visual arts. He's been reasonably successful - given commissions and teaching gigs. He loves both. He's also been offered a full scholarship in fine arts at a university in Manila, as well as the backing of a highly important patron in the Manila arts scene. I ask him whether school is important for his career and he responds - yes, it's very important. Yet he's hesitating and pushing it off for another year.
In my experience, "one year" is a placeholder that really means, "I can't deal with this right now." I told my best friend back home, "a year is for pussies." If you have a plan, then figure out how to put that plan in action next week, in three months or in six months. A year means you are scared or frozen.
I push Carlos about his reluctance. We talk about it all day and night. I'm that annoying aunty that doesn't know when to stop. He has dozens of excuses; none of them very good.
- The scholarship pays for school and rent, but not for food and living.
- I need to save money for a year to afford this.
- I'll have to take remedial courses that I've already taken.
- Manila is a big city. I get lost a lot.
No one said change is easy. Why is he so reluctant?
But the better question, for me, is - Why am I so obsessive about his decision? Why am I pushing him so hard?
Maybe I long for his sense of vision and opportunity and can't stand to see him cast it aside. Jose and I are both drooling over Carlos's sense of direction. You have a map! Move in the right direction!
Is it about school? My dirty little secret is that I didn't graduate from college. I thrived at U.C. Davis. I was a scholar-athlete and active in many clubs and had a vibrant social life while maintaining a 3.9 gpa. I got my Phi Beta Kappa key and received a few awards for minority scholars. In my senior year my whole extended family came out to watch me walk in two graduation ceremonies. I walked; I was six units shy of a degree, and I was supposed to complete them during the summer. I never completed the work, which was really the equivalent of three final papers. I have no idea why I didn't follow through.
Let me repeat: THREEPOINTFRICKIN'NINE! I'm smart but I'm no super brain. I earned my grades through effort and consistency. I pulled all nighters just to stay caught up in my reading. I went to the library to read literary criticism so that I'd have multiple perspectives for class discussions. My hand was constantly in the air and my papers were in early. I was Hermione.
Until I dropped it all at the end.
At the end of the evening, tipsy from a great bottle of Italian primitivo, I tell Carlos that I believe in his ability to make the right decisions. "You'll figure it all out in the right way for you," I say. Even through the red tannic haze, it smells like bullshit.
"I was intimidated of you at first," he tells me, "but I had a good time talking to you."
I feel that the three of us have unshakeable confidence in each other's potential, but no idea what to do with our own.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Why Do We Abuse Our Children With These Names?
My friends Bob and Matt teased me constantly about the unusual names of the guys I once dated. These interesting names all belong to Filipinos. Okay, Perfecto was a doozy, particularly because his father and two brothers are also named Perfecto. The smirk factor was exacerbated because, at least at the time, he was far from...
Demetrius and Peterson are pretty good names of guys I've dated too.
There were other names that they found interesting, but that seemed ordinary to me. Paulino, Joel (which Filipinos pronounce like Noel), Gerald, Arthur. I guess these are names that have lost currency in White America. Bob and Matt are white. Very, very white. White like clouds, ivory and crack cocaine. Bob knows the lyrics to every Indigo Girls song ever recorded. Matt wears wide-brimmed hats and shades to protect himself from the glaring rays of London in February. Matt used to sell corn-dogs n' Country Time Lemonade at the Alameda County Fair. Bob is from Texas. If you look up 'cracker' in a children's dictionary, there is a picture of Bob, Matt and a Saltine. I settled down with a Christopher just to shut them up.
But perhaps I need to tune in with my white side and listen again with caucasized ears to the names of some of the people I've met in the Philippines. Filipinos are prone to the creative, the antiquated and the unusual. Someone had to give blacks a run for their money.
- My friend in Olongapo is Aris. Short for, yes, Aristotle.
- In Siquijor, one of my hosts is Fortunado. He's the municipal treasurer. Seems like destiny. His nickname is Boboy.
- Combination names are common and fun. My masseur one day was Jomar; a combination of Jose and Maria. Both of Jesus's parents in one name! I decline the extra service. In Manila I met Anjo - I think it's a combination of Andrew and Joseph. In Leyte I befriended Marjun - a blend of Maria and Junior. Jun or Junjun competes with Boy as the most common nickname in the archipelago.
Filipinos often hold childhood nicknames for life. There are many elderly statesmen named Jun. The proprietess of our resort in Guimaras is Honey. Migz (Miguel) is my friend in Manila. The newly elected president goes by Nonoy. The Vice-president's name is Jejomar. The president's chief scheduler is nicknamed Sexy. The house speaker goes by Boy. Can you imagine a health care bill being rammed through congress by Girlie Peloisi and Pingpong "P"einstein? The president's private secretary is a woman who goes by by Ballsy. I want that for my nickname.
Then there are the nicknames that sound like bells. Bong or Bongbong is pretty common. I saw a t-shirt for a political candidate named Dingdong. My college friend is Ging-ging. I've also met two Jings - one male and one female. I have a friend in California named Albert Macadangdang Cadondon. I'd love to nickname him Bongbong; but hundreds of Filipinos would head to church every time I called his name.
Demetrius and Peterson are pretty good names of guys I've dated too.
There were other names that they found interesting, but that seemed ordinary to me. Paulino, Joel (which Filipinos pronounce like Noel), Gerald, Arthur. I guess these are names that have lost currency in White America. Bob and Matt are white. Very, very white. White like clouds, ivory and crack cocaine. Bob knows the lyrics to every Indigo Girls song ever recorded. Matt wears wide-brimmed hats and shades to protect himself from the glaring rays of London in February. Matt used to sell corn-dogs n' Country Time Lemonade at the Alameda County Fair. Bob is from Texas. If you look up 'cracker' in a children's dictionary, there is a picture of Bob, Matt and a Saltine. I settled down with a Christopher just to shut them up.
But perhaps I need to tune in with my white side and listen again with caucasized ears to the names of some of the people I've met in the Philippines. Filipinos are prone to the creative, the antiquated and the unusual. Someone had to give blacks a run for their money.
- My friend in Olongapo is Aris. Short for, yes, Aristotle.
- In Siquijor, one of my hosts is Fortunado. He's the municipal treasurer. Seems like destiny. His nickname is Boboy.
- Combination names are common and fun. My masseur one day was Jomar; a combination of Jose and Maria. Both of Jesus's parents in one name! I decline the extra service. In Manila I met Anjo - I think it's a combination of Andrew and Joseph. In Leyte I befriended Marjun - a blend of Maria and Junior. Jun or Junjun competes with Boy as the most common nickname in the archipelago.
Filipinos often hold childhood nicknames for life. There are many elderly statesmen named Jun. The proprietess of our resort in Guimaras is Honey. Migz (Miguel) is my friend in Manila. The newly elected president goes by Nonoy. The Vice-president's name is Jejomar. The president's chief scheduler is nicknamed Sexy. The house speaker goes by Boy. Can you imagine a health care bill being rammed through congress by Girlie Peloisi and Pingpong "P"einstein? The president's private secretary is a woman who goes by by Ballsy. I want that for my nickname.
Then there are the nicknames that sound like bells. Bong or Bongbong is pretty common. I saw a t-shirt for a political candidate named Dingdong. My college friend is Ging-ging. I've also met two Jings - one male and one female. I have a friend in California named Albert Macadangdang Cadondon. I'd love to nickname him Bongbong; but hundreds of Filipinos would head to church every time I called his name.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Serene Days in Siquijor - a letter to Ann
I'm sitting at the dining table at your mother's house in Siquijor. It's mid-afternoon, that Visayan time of forceful heat and thickening quiet. Even the chickens save their clucking and scratching for milder hours. There is no merciful breeze. The only sounds are of Tita Aide humming from her perch on the lanai, harmonized by the faint slurp and swish of the water edge at low tide. Its hard to write because the sweat of my forearm dampens the page. Excuse me, I need to grab another cold San Miguel - okay, back!
What do you call those little shack shelters on the beach? The ones with nipa thatched roofs and no walls? For an hour and a half, I sat there today. Someone's cow was tied up next to me for companionship. We watched the ocean ebb in perfect, hypnotic ease. Its so peaceful here. So beautifully calm. So - enchanting! Bewitching!
Mornings are when I am most active. The roosters sound off right outside our window (see my video). The first morning, I thought the brash cock was in bed beside me. This morning there was the usual crowing but also a different fowl sound; louder, harried and disturbing. The chicken calamungay we had for lunch was excellent. The meat was tender, free-range and definitely fresh.
Each morning, Jose and I go swimming and we are joined by a few kids. Somehow they are related to you. Their family name is Maglinte. One of the girls, aged 12, is very communicative. She practices English phrases as if out of her textbook.
- Whacha doin?
- Are you okay?
- Are you American?
Her knowledge of English words is limited, but for some reason 'anus' is one of them. She describes me as 'macho' which makes Jose laugh until he submerges in the shallow sea edge. I stay five feet away from her at all times. This morning she brought her older sister to meet us. Jose and I quickly corroborated stories: Yes, I'm married with one son. Yes, he has a girlfriend in Manila. My brothers are all married or gay. We try to quell any takemebacktoUSA dreams. The marriage question comes up everywhere in the Philippines. Al Gore spoke in Manila last week. After hearing him announce his divorce, the media immediately tried to pair him up with some older Filipino senator who is still single. Here one is expected to be settled at 30. People ask me if I'm married, and when I respond negatively, I draw surprise, pity and opportunistic inquiry. The worst, and most common follow-up question is, "Why are you not married?" What should I say?
- Because I'm gay?
- Because no one loves me?
- Because I'm in love with a wealthy Chinese girl and I'm too poor, too dark and too un-Chinese for her parents? (that's the movie I watched on the Supercat Ferry. Even though it was in Tagalog, I was able to understand it all... gotta love Filipino melodramas).
I settle on the easiest answer. I'm 27.
I've noticed that none of your family members has asked me or Jose this most common of questions. Perhaps someone sent an advance missive?
I prefer the uncomplicated and maritally uninterested company of the younger kids. Jessa Kay and Renin John are 7 and 9. I take them for swim rides on my back to deeper waters. This morning I breaststroked out with one clinging on each shoulder. "More far! More far!" they called. Suddenly they panicked. "Lalom! Lalom!" they yelled.
- What do you see? I ask.
- Go back!
I swim as fast as I can with my child-shaped luggage. Is it a seasnake? An eel? A jellyfish? In about 10 meters they let go of me and splash about. I pick up Renin John over my head.
- What does 'lalom' mean? I ask.
- It mean DEEP.
Jose and kids
San Juan Springs
Finally, we stopped at Tito Boboy's house and saw the house where you grew up. Everywhere we went, we were introduced as Ging Ging's friends from America. I met first cousins, second cousins, aunts and friends. I'm sorry I don't remember all of their names. In the evening, we sat in the backyard of your lola's house. Titas Aide and Chita cut open young coconut so we could drink the water and eat the buko flesh. Tito Boboy scaled a tampis tree like he was 16 years old and collected the fruit for us. In Hawaii, we call tampis, 'mountain apple'. It's a watery thirst quencher. It tastes a little like Japanese pear and a lot like childhood. I told Jose, don't worry about the ants, we won't be charged extra. All of your family have been so fun, open and caring. They are wonderful people and I feel like family here.
Its monsoon season. I've seen lighting every night but little rain. Then, this morning, suddenly the skies opened and it poured down hard and steady -
- an avalanche
- a metal rock drum solo
- the rude fists of hungry children on the dinner table
I felt compelled to swim in the ocean (see video), and when I did, I was surprised to find fifty people flocking from out of nowhere into the sea. I asked the kids, "Why are you swimming now?"
- Because it's raining.
- Is it so you can swim and avoid the hot sun?
- Yes.
- Are you making that up just for me?
- Yes.
All over the Philippines, when I mention Siquijor, people light up - Ah! You know that Siquijor is known for the witches! Across the channel in Dumaguette, there are some people who refuse to even look at Siquijor island out of superstition. I've interrogated all your family for stories, but they deny everything. I think they are all witches. Tita Chita tells me that she doesn't know how to swim. I tell her that anyone who lives on a small island and doesn't know how to swim must be a witch. She laughs terrifically at this. Maybe she even cackles. Perhaps its not the people but the place itself that casts spells. I've been completely seduced by Siquijor's charms. I'm compelled by the quiet, incessant call of her rhythms. At night I watch the moon, the stars and the lighting show over Cebu. I sleep on a bed of wooden planks with no mattress - more soundly than I have in years. I've stopped shaving and wearing underwear. Maybe this is the magic of your birthplace.
We used to talk in college about how you and I are kindred spirits even though we never hang out. Thank you for your friendship and love that extends not just across time but across miles. I'm here without you, but I feel like I understand you more than ever.
You must come home and visit soon.
muchlove,
Edward
Friday, June 11, 2010
What Should I Do With My Life? (part I)
Edward Center: I think I'm having my first mid-life crisis.
Woodie Milks: I've had three. 'Sbout time you got your ass in the game.
What should I do with my life? Answering that question is one of my core motivations for this journey. I'm a person of big passion, energy and intensity. But over the past year my footing became less sure. I lost trust in my internal compass. I thought about a job change and I looked at jobs online. Nothing seemed interesting. Ed without passion and curiosity? I don't even know who that is. My instincts were still right on, though, and they began crying out for change. There was some drama at work, of course. But instead of using that drama as a catalyst to nudge me out of my current situation, I saw my confidence started to erode.
Why is confidence so damn fragile? I've been through many changes in my life - each time I use the same process to get moving again. And I always do start moving again. So why do I go through this process of questioning my worth and abilities? It's such wasted time and energy, but it happens every few years or so. This particular cycle was a bitch. I was angry and hurt. I cried a lot. For the first time in my life, I lost my ability to sleep regularly. I would lay there for hours with my mind whirring- it was like my brain had no 'off' switch. Because of the fatigue, I stopped working out. I was eating poorly and drinking too much. I was short-tempered and no fun to be around.
Gradually I found my footing. Not a direction, mind you, but I regained the ability to stand on my own feet. I remembered how to take care of myself in the present. I started running and going to the gym, I cooked healthily, I talked with Chris, I spent time with close friends. I still couldn't sleep. And knowing that it took all my energy to care for myself in the present, and trusting that the future would be there when I arrived there, I was able to listen to my instincts. I quit my job. I let go and got out. I ran away.
Years ago my best friend was going through one of the numerous periods of his life where he feels off track and desperate. He doodled on a Post-It note - numerous small trees that he labeled "forest" and then a stick figure that he captioned, "me. I'm lost." It was a highly melodramatic moment that earned our mockery and abuse for years. But I get the sentiment. We feel most confident, assured and productive when we have a direction - when our day to day actions are aligned with some sense of greater vision. I'm so far away from that, but I don't feel lost. If I don't know the destination, can I really be lost? I'm moving now and I'm still directionless, but I'm at ease with that, and my steps are sure.
I've been doing some reading to help spark my thinking. I've been journaling. My cousin June has pushed me to read The Unmistakable Touch of Grace by Oprah's life coach Cheryl Richardson. I can't get through it. It's just too precious by half. Although I believe in greater purpose and maybe destiny, I've never been an EverythingHappensForAReason type of guy.
I've found more satisfaction from reading What Should I Do With My Life? by Po Bronson. It's a collection of stories about people who have been pursued major career and life changes. I appreciate the semi-journalistic point of view (he gets way too involved for a true journalist), and the stories reveal patterns. For example, very few people who make major life changes have a clear compelling vision of what to do. Usually it's a vague, tentative voice with a bit of blurry idea - like the outline of a hazy island across the channel. I appreciate this, because I have some ideas, but no clear vision yet.
I don't have illusions that the answers are lying here in the jungles and beaches of Southeast Asia. But I have time to think, time to read, time to reflect and be alone and be open to new possibilities.
In Hong Kong, I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote down the words, "walking prayer." I don't know what that means.
At night, I sleep soundly.
Woodie Milks: I've had three. 'Sbout time you got your ass in the game.
What should I do with my life? Answering that question is one of my core motivations for this journey. I'm a person of big passion, energy and intensity. But over the past year my footing became less sure. I lost trust in my internal compass. I thought about a job change and I looked at jobs online. Nothing seemed interesting. Ed without passion and curiosity? I don't even know who that is. My instincts were still right on, though, and they began crying out for change. There was some drama at work, of course. But instead of using that drama as a catalyst to nudge me out of my current situation, I saw my confidence started to erode.
Why is confidence so damn fragile? I've been through many changes in my life - each time I use the same process to get moving again. And I always do start moving again. So why do I go through this process of questioning my worth and abilities? It's such wasted time and energy, but it happens every few years or so. This particular cycle was a bitch. I was angry and hurt. I cried a lot. For the first time in my life, I lost my ability to sleep regularly. I would lay there for hours with my mind whirring- it was like my brain had no 'off' switch. Because of the fatigue, I stopped working out. I was eating poorly and drinking too much. I was short-tempered and no fun to be around.
Gradually I found my footing. Not a direction, mind you, but I regained the ability to stand on my own feet. I remembered how to take care of myself in the present. I started running and going to the gym, I cooked healthily, I talked with Chris, I spent time with close friends. I still couldn't sleep. And knowing that it took all my energy to care for myself in the present, and trusting that the future would be there when I arrived there, I was able to listen to my instincts. I quit my job. I let go and got out. I ran away.
Years ago my best friend was going through one of the numerous periods of his life where he feels off track and desperate. He doodled on a Post-It note - numerous small trees that he labeled "forest" and then a stick figure that he captioned, "me. I'm lost." It was a highly melodramatic moment that earned our mockery and abuse for years. But I get the sentiment. We feel most confident, assured and productive when we have a direction - when our day to day actions are aligned with some sense of greater vision. I'm so far away from that, but I don't feel lost. If I don't know the destination, can I really be lost? I'm moving now and I'm still directionless, but I'm at ease with that, and my steps are sure.
I've been doing some reading to help spark my thinking. I've been journaling. My cousin June has pushed me to read The Unmistakable Touch of Grace by Oprah's life coach Cheryl Richardson. I can't get through it. It's just too precious by half. Although I believe in greater purpose and maybe destiny, I've never been an EverythingHappensForAReason type of guy.
I've found more satisfaction from reading What Should I Do With My Life? by Po Bronson. It's a collection of stories about people who have been pursued major career and life changes. I appreciate the semi-journalistic point of view (he gets way too involved for a true journalist), and the stories reveal patterns. For example, very few people who make major life changes have a clear compelling vision of what to do. Usually it's a vague, tentative voice with a bit of blurry idea - like the outline of a hazy island across the channel. I appreciate this, because I have some ideas, but no clear vision yet.
I don't have illusions that the answers are lying here in the jungles and beaches of Southeast Asia. But I have time to think, time to read, time to reflect and be alone and be open to new possibilities.
In Hong Kong, I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote down the words, "walking prayer." I don't know what that means.
At night, I sleep soundly.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Pink Chaos in Iloilo
One night at a bar-
Yes, about 75% of my stories start that way-
My friend Jose met an older gentleman - a very wealthy older gentleman - who extended an open invitation to stay at his house in Iloilo, the capital city of Panay in the Visayas. I time my trip to meet Jose there.
After a week in Cebu and Leyte (I'll post on those later), I meet up with Jose again. I take two planes at an exorbitant rate from Tacloban in Leyte to Manila and on to Iloilo. This is the equivalent of flying from New York to D.C. with a layover in Chicago.
I can't say I'm that fond of Iloilo. It's like most significant Filipino cities - smaller versions of the Manila congestion. But we are in the Visayas now and have quick access via car or boat to beautiful beaches, jungles and towns.
We stay at the most curious house I've ever seen. The fact that it's a pink mansion is just the start. Remember when as a child you dreamed of finding secret doors revealing hidden chambers stocked with statues, old maps, animal skins and religious artifacts? We sleep in that day-dream. It's an inverted reality where at night I dream of California and in the morning I awaken to Alice in Wonderland - a Wonderland that houses a wall of vintage handbags (1950s Luis Vuittons!) and five decades worth of Vogue magazines.
This entry isn't about the story. It's about the pictures. Enjoy.
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