The Bane of My Existence

Considering the eight quarts of sweat that drench my clothing every day, wearing clothes a second time around is simply not an option in this country; consequently a massive pile of dirty clothes accumulates rapidly in my living space, which means that it's always time to do the laundry.

A curse upon me and all Americans for ever taking the washing machine for granted. Reminder to self upon arrival back home: never again complain of having to “do the laundry,” which merely involves pushing buttons, turning knob thingies, and watching Spaceballs for a few good hours.

But here, doing the laundry brings new meaning to the term “chore”. The whole process is begun by proper motivation, namely the realization that if I don't wash TODAY, I won't have any underpants two days from now. Get a move on.

Step two, thou shalt separate! Clothes that cost 50 cents tend to lack, how do I say, quality, and are notorious for being bleeding messes. After a two-month scientific study on the art of washing clothes, I discovered that, when washed with colored clothes, the rate of change from white to tie-dye occurs in 1.2 minutes exactly; in the same study, it was discovered that my recognition of a mistake takes .001 minutes exactly after the mistake has been made.

Next, get yourself to a water pump and start pumping (do this for a long time). Add powdered soap to the water, and soak the clothes. Get a bar of soap. Do that thing that you watched on National Geographic documentaries where people hand wash for, like, six hours while squatting. For whites, add so much bleach that holes are burned into the clothes and open sores form on the hands. This is a necessary step for all Americans who lack a lifetime mastery of clothes washing. Note: do not add bleach to the non-white clothes. Put that one on the list of “Some of The Dumber Things Katrina Has Done.”

Intermittently during the process until this point, passers by or mocking neighbors must stop to watch and say one or all of the following remarks:

1. Ah, you already know how to wash clothes!

2. You are not finished yet? Kadugay! (So long!)

3. In America you do not wash your clothes. You have maids and machines. Americans are very rich.

4. It is very hot in the Philippines, no?

5. You should really pay someone to do that.

After many a smarmy reply and washing until the clothes smell “clean enough”, next wring out soapy clothes. Fill a basin with water. Rinse clothes. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Hang. Wait for clothes to dry while your underpants supply becomes dangerously low.

Total time: forever.

Depending on how long I wait between washings, my laundry can take anywhere from three hours to five. Really, that's because I'm slow and I take frequent breaks, but it's also because things like jeans and towels and sheets and all the things that are so easy to wash in the machine are so very, very difficult here.

And, as a reminder, this is only the laundry for one person.

While some of my fellow volunteers here claim that washing clothes by hand “brings them closer to their communities” and “gives them an understanding of the local life,” I choke on myself to think that I have to do this at least ten more times before going home.

Elections 2007

My host father, Guilly The Awesome, is running for Mayor.

Considering Mayor Roy was murdered three years ago, I was a little concerned at first when Papa Guilly announced his candidacy. Politics in the Philippines are serious business, and the amount of political killings in this country are under criticism by international aid organizations and governments alike. Even at the lowest government levels there is corruption and murder; I think it's fair to characterize this place as, at times, a lawless society, with the military occasionally under fire for alledgedly perpetuating political murders through corruption. Some here might say that, considering this, it is hopeless to hope for change. Some might go further to say that running for mayor is potentially putting your life on the line.

In response to this political climate, Papa Guilly waltzed in to the house the other day and declared with confidence, "Lay your fears to rest! The opponents and I have signed an Agreement to Peace!"

While I'm not convinced that evildoers follow the covenant of peace agreements, Papa Guilly insists that hired goons will be foiled by this agreement and the protection of our trusty dog Pogie (see picture and note the scabies and starved rib cages). Just the same, Mama Nora is making him get security today in the form of four bodyguards and twelve drunken farmers. The drunken farmers, in fact, were the original security, and have been regulars at the house since my early days in country. I call them the Decoys. So, really, he just got four bodyguards, and now Mama feels at ease, regardless of the fact that the bodyguards are not allowed to carry guns because of the national gun ban currently in effect. Literally, all they are good for is taking bullets and for eating more of our food.

That's the thing about election season: it's a time when everyone who has any association with the Mayoral candidates – i.e. a classmate, or a neighbor's cousin's aunt's neighbor – can get anything they want. Including all of the food in our house.

At any given time, there are twenty-seven people milling around, waiting to see what we are having for snack or if we are having meat for dinner (big score). Mama and Papa don't seem to mind too much, and they even seem to actually know everyone who is milling around. Me, I don't know them all, and it is very easy for me to become cranky and upset at all of the freeloaders invading our home and drinking my powdered milk.

Even with the constant presence of the Decoys and extra moochers serving as bodyguards, my level of concern for Papa Guilly's safety still fluctuates somewhere between level "green" and level "orange" according to the US Terrorism Advisory Scale. Some days, when someone shows up late at night looking for Guilly, or when I hear about the recent movements of the NPA (the Philippine Communist insurgency) in the mountains of my town, I worry. Sometimes I just cannot understand why someone would involve himself in politics under these circumstances. Of course this town is peaceful and friendly, but one person can change all of that, and indeed did in the past.

Then again, when I see campaign signs that look like criminal wanted posters and hear cheesy jingles played from car radios hooked up to loudspeakers, I remind myself that politics here are also fun, exciting, and simply different than they are at home, if not also perfect material for constant mocking. I should write John Stewart.

Example: as it turns out, all four of the candidates for Mayor in this election are of the same political party. Is that even legal? Apparently so. But how, how can a voter distinguish one candidate from another? How does he chose? I asked Reno, the running mate of Papa Guilly, what their party stands for, and what sets him and Guilly apart from their opponents; you know, what are their issues?

The answer: We stand for The People of Hindang!

Profound indeed. It's no wonder that people vote for the person who pays them the most.

To his credit, my Papa Guilly is an honest man and cares passionately about his town and his constituents. It is rare to meet a politician who truly carries his word to the people and represents the political system as it was designed. I truly wish him the best in the elections, because to elect a man like Guilly would be to set an example to the people of this small town and to myself that change, however small, will come.

But you know what that means. It means I'll be sharing (read: fighting for) food with 27 moochers until May 15 when this ridiculous joke known as Election 2007 ends. Vote for Guilly!

Update and No Dates

Two years is almost over, and my host families, friends, neighbors, coworkers, acquaintances, and bus drivers are all expressing great disappointment in the fact that I have not yet taken a husband. Why else would I, a single twenty-something, come here for two years? What possible motivation is there for an Americana to come to the hottest country on earth and acquire seventeen rashes and three horrible infections if not to at least get married?

The truth is, after two years many of us volunteers begin to reflect upon why we came here and evaluate our experience in this country. Aside from reflections on marriage or lack thereof, we wonder: was our work worth it to ourselves and the people we served? What did we accomplish? What is left to accomplish? Would we do it again?

Overwhelmingly and unquestioningly, I believe that my work here (and that of my fellow volunteers) is a needed and valuable service. The work that is done overseas by international volunteers may not solve poverty, it may not prevent illness, it may not educate the masses, but it serves - at the bare minimum - to bring a diverse, global community together through friendship.

Often times I have been asked what my mission is here. When I say that I am a volunteer, a question that often follows is "how much is your salary?" To my response of "nothing," I see many faces register that I am here because I want to be, because I believe in the work that I'm doing, and because I care about the people I'm working for. The greatest reward, indeed the only reward, is that they care about me in return. There has been something shared between our cultures that brings us closer to an understanding of each other, and before I continue to babble like a hallmark card, just know that I have never felt anything more rewarding in life. Ever.

My experience here has taught me that not everyone can afford this opportunity that I have had - the opportunity to dream and to wish and to hope, and to try to change the world. I didn't do it - change the world, I mean - but I see myself and my fellow volunteers as having achieved something yet: building friendships with members of our global community, and sharing our ideals and values with them (and them us).

Too often does conflict arise because of miscommunication or lack of understanding. I've found that a person in the Philippines, in his heart, is not so different from one at home. The difference lies in culture or, perhaps, circumstance. It is my sincere hope that by learning more about each other and our differences we can learn more about those things that are the same; maybe then we can start solving the greater problems that we collectively face. I really, really do believe that simply caring about each other is the beginning of the solution to so many problems.

I really do sound like a Hallmark card, don't I?

It is too soon for me to reflect on my experience so thoroughly, so I'll stop myself now. I still have two months left. But for the record, I'm proud of my fellow volunteers and I'm thankful to all of the Filipinos who have welcomed and supported us (there are many). A part of me never wants to leave.