Hiatus

To all: my blog is on hiatus until the next time I leave you all for two years. Or at least until the next time I have something of interest (to me) to report.

Until then,
Katrina

World Domination...Almost

When I was a child, my neighbor Adam and I were fond of board games, almost obsessively so. We spent summer days playing game after game, which taught us valuable life lessons:

Pay Day, a salary budgeting game, with true-to-life financial setbacks such as losing money at the tracks and having to pay taxes on monthly purchases of diamonds. Lesson learned: never declare.

Operation, which teaches children how to get little tiny organs out of an electrically charged man, or, as I like to think of it, early training for getting short pieces of toast out of the toaster. Lesson learned: your hip bone is connected to your leg bone.

Chicken Out, the objective of which is to try to get your chickens across the road without getting creamed by oncoming traffic. Lesson learned: always look both ways and don't draw the wrong card.

Monopoly, which taught me that I never, ever wanted to go to jail in real life because I would lose three turns. Lesson learned: capitalism is great when you’re winning.

I haven't been a game player for quite a few years, in part because you don't get summer vacations when you're 25 years old, and also because when a person my age says "let's play a game," it is often assumed that the game should revolve around beer, and those kinds of games are really no fun at all.

No, I have been mostly board-game-free, until this past week when I found out that game lovers still exist and they exist here, at 9 pm, three nights a week when the island toxic waste cleanup team is in town.

Carcassonne is always our game of choice. This could be because not all of us players are adept at learning the rules to a new game, but it's more likely that we always play Carcassonne because it is The Best Game Ever. It was even Spiel des Jahres in Germany. You can bet your American dollar that Monopoly was never the Spiel des Jahres in Germany, no sir.

It is a tile board game, with the objective of building a city, one tile at a time. Each tile may have a road, a farm, a walled city, or a combination of the above. On each turn, each player draws a tile and lays it down adjacent to another tile already in play. As you build and claim cities, farms, and monasteries, you simultaneously collect points. Am I starting to sound like the type of person who dresses up for medieval fairs and comic book conventions? But wait, wait, the best part of all: the players are called Meeples.

Trust me, Carcassone is great. I never achieved my dreams of being a great conqueror, the leader of an authoritarian regime, or even a decent playground bully. This game makes up for these failures. This game is my chance to achieve supreme domination at least once out of every four games. And with each game I'm learning the valuable lesson that dominating over everyone feels really good.

Simply Poop

I've used all of my powers of restraint; I've fought my strongest inclinations to do otherwise; I've exhibited extreme and total control; I have been holding back, really I have: I have stopped talking about poop.

The topic pervaded every conversation during my time with other volunteers in the Philippines, because if it wasn't the source of all of our problems it was at least a contributing factor. But I knew that American society wouldn't accept me or my casual references to fecal matter, and so, for the past ten weeks, I have painfully kept my talk of worms, parasites, and LBM to a minimum.

After scrutinous research, I've concluded that no day will occur when poop is in vogue as a topic of conversation. This upsets me. I'm like a nicotine addict. Kind of. How can I just quit offensive conversation? I can't, not cold turkey, so I've compromised to drop references to it sporadically and at my own good judgement, and lessening over time.

Good judgement has never really been my strength (think: stayed two years in The Hottest Country On The Planet, then relocated immediately to A Rock Colder Than The Dark Side Of Mercury, which is –346° F for those not in the know), and so I want to make it well known that I spent minutes, minutes, weighing whether or not I would write the following:

Today I collected reindeer poop.

During several debates with myself, I simultaneously won and lost by defending the aforementioned as an appropriate conversation topic because:

a. It is work related
b. It is about reindeer poop, not human poop
c. It is scientific and therefore educational

In any case, I did collect reindeer poop with Karin. She needed to collect fresh samples which will later be analyzed to determine food content of the reindeer herd. I obviously went along so that I could write about it in my blog after weeks of avoiding the "p" and "o" keys.

Like two female Jeremiah Johnsons, Karin and I scouted out the herd by following tracks, guaging the wind, and, finally, aimlessly tramping across the tundra and hoping for good luck, which was ultimately the best tactic.

When we saw the herd of about 350 animals, Karin said we would just walk toward them and after a short while they would run away, spooked by our approach or perhaps our bed hair. We kept walking, walking, walking. Suddenly we were there, within 100 yards of these reindeer, and they just didn't run away. They didn't give us a second thought. My immediate thoughts were: either reindeer have remarkably poor survival instinct or that maybe, just maybe, animals can sense that I wish them no harm. Unlikely the latter, considering the fate of my gerbils way back when.

But there we were, within spitting distance (or, if you will, prime shooting distance) of this huge herd of animals. It was spectacular. I could hear them, I could smell them. I couldn't touch them, but I could touch their poop and I'd say that is pretty darn close.

The thought now occurs to me that I'm above picking up the poop of my fellow man, but there I was playing janitor to a bunch of ruminants. This is the power of nature, people.

Further Proof That I Have More To Learn In Life

Sometimes I can hear it. It's this little bell sound in my head, tling tling tling, which starts to ring every time I am near kids who are about 6 to 12 years old. The bell is always accompanied by this singular thought: I want one of these. Or four.

Is this a maternal clock? Maybe? Am I old enough to have one of those?

I was first stricken with symptoms of child-wanting on the day I moved in with my first host family in Naungan when, after leaving my room unattended for three whole minutes, my 11 and 12 year-old host sisters, their three cousins, and two neighbor children raided my room and found the standard-government-issued condoms in my medical kit. "What are theeeeeeese??" As I was thinking of ways to explain why Americans carried greasy balloons in their luggage, I was simultaneously planning what color I would paint their bedrooms when I took them home with me two years hence.

I used to think that I had a weakness for only Filipino children, because who wouldn't enjoy a fan club of 12 beautiful, doll-eyed followers who laugh at all of her jokes and wash the dishes? But as it turns out, I was wrong; I like all children, not just Filipino ones. All of them. Even naughty ones and bratty ones and ones who cry - though certainly less so. I like them for their humor, for their innocence, for their carefree look at the world, and also for the same reason that I like good apple pie: because they taste good. Har har, that was a joke.

But the part about me liking children, that is not a joke, and that is why the faculty of St. George must have thought I would make a good substitute teacher. Also not a joke. That's right, not only am I seal counter by day, but also Educator of America's Youth.

Okay class, how many syllables are in 'WorstJobEver?"

After playing gym teacher for the middle school students, science teacher/babysitter for the high schoolers, and a mere teacher's aid to the elementary school teacher, it is now obvious to me that the tling tling tling bell in my head was improperly wired. The correct sound should have been more like this: AH-WOOO-GA! AH-WOOOO-GA! Something akin to fire alarms, panic buttons, self-destruct warnings.

In the wake of this substitute teaching experiment – complete with missing children, constant tears, "so-and-so pushed me!", tattle tales, attention deficit disorder, angsty tweens, apathy, resentment toward structure, and, perhaps worst of all, Dora backpacks – I have come to one single conclusion:

Substitute teaching: the best birth control there is.

People Lister

There is an entire subculture of bird enthusiasts who visit birding hot spots of Alaska, including St. Paul and St. George, and with them they bring their birding checklists. With sometimes disturbingly giddy excitement, they check off the birds that they see on their travels one by one. I call it Nature Bingo. Just like Ordinary Bingo, I don’t really get the point.

But a surprising number of people do this, and be ye not fooled: listing is no ordinary scavenger hunt. These Listers are out for a challenge and also bragging rights, and consequently their lists are elaborate creations with columns and categories that make inventorying our old kayak shop seem like child’s play. The bird lists may include common, rare, casual, accidental, and vagrant birds – the latter few being the more exciting find because of their rarity. They may be further complicated by seasons – breeding, wintering, migratory, blah, blah. The listers then walk around, from cliff to cliff or island to island, and check off with enthusiasm when they spot a ne’er before seen on their list. Northern Fulmar, check…Brant, check…Northern Pintail, check…Rock Sandpiper, check…The most dedicated of the bunch might do this several times throughout the year in order to see as much as possible, especially the most rare and obscure birds of all.

The Listers have inspired me to make a list of my own: people I hope to meet. On the list could be ordinary or seasonal type folks, like orchard pickers, groupies, and watch salesmen. Others on the list could be the rarer, or perhaps obscure people I might meet. Think and antique wrench collectors, astronauts, or deep-sea treasure seekers.

I’ve met a fair number of these workers extraordinaire during my month out here, like Doug. Doug’s job is to shoo birds off the St. George runway. He has other work, too, which includes collecting swabs and samples from various bird species for avian flu testing. But never mind all that. In bold letters and all caps at the top of his work description it reads SHOOS BIRDS OFF RUNWAY. If you were a pilot flying on to a small island with about 3 million birds on it, you’d know this profession makes perfect sense.

Doug’s job is just one of many that I never realized existed, or at least never thought much about. Aside from people who are hired to clear runways of birds, there are also people who count seals, who work as “living historians” and pretend to be colonial Americans in North Dakota, who repair escalators, who trap foxes, who design toys for Natural Wonders, who plan corporate parties, and who make neon signs. In my month on this tiny island in the middle of the Bering Sea, I’ve met all of these people, and I can’t help but wonder who else I may meet and what interesting things they have done.

Living on an island throws everything and everyone under a sharp eyeglass. It is so easy in the streets of Seattle or the slums of Manila look right through people, to pass them over, to not give them a second thought. But when you live in a place where you see a third of the town on your way to work, where newcomer to the island is known by day’s end, where your neighbor asks you the next day why you shut your lights off so early the night before, you learn a lot more about people as individuals, and the term community takes on a whole new meaning – for better or for worse.

I won’t live on an island forever, I’m sure, and I worry that one day, when I return to city streets, I’ll carry on with my day and forget about the other people around me. But maybe if I were a lister of people I would be more inclined to take chances and talk to individuals that I ordinarily pass by. The stubbornly naïve part of me that remains after my Peace Corps service thinks that if we all looked at the world as though it were an island, if we all took a moment to find out just a bit about our neighbors, then maybe we would all come that much closer to understanding and respecting each other.

Girl who started a silly trend of talking to strangers and subsequently caused restless nights for thousands of mothers, including her own…check.

Some Wildlife Pics

I find myself thinking, "wow, arctic foxes are so cute," right until I sit in their droppings.

There are millions of birds on the cliffs of St. George. That's right, I said millions. I don't know how many people can say they've seen a million living things all at once. Microscopic things don't count. I'll have to add "see a million living things in the same place at the same time" to my list of Things to See Before Dying and then check it off right away. That's what I call an instant sense of accomplishment.

Steller sea lions, for those unaware, are massive. They are the Hummer of cars, the Big Slurp of 7-11 drinks, the Costco-size of pizza. H-U-G-E. The male on the left is what a 1,500 pound animal looks like on camera. In real life, it's so big that you hope you aren't a zookeeper who has to clean up after an animal that size.

There was a customer who used to come into my family's kayak store who had eyebrows kind of like this tufted puffin. I read this fact about them: "when taking food to their young, they usually hold about 10 fish in their mouths while returning to the nest, but they have been observed carrying up to 6o fish in their bills at one time." I wonder if our customer could do that.

Sights on St. George

The Airport: a glorified parking lot.

The St. George shoreline

A day's work: Rachel peeks at Murres to see if they have eggs or chicks.

Alaskatrina Part 1

In months and years past I have become, how do I say? accustomed to - nay, established in a certain lifestyle, namely one where time is of no consequence, my attire is more important than my job skills, and any and all work commitments can be broken like that! (snap fingers here) to attend birthday parties/weddings/fiestas/other excuses for party-goers to get drunk rather than work that day.

These days are over. I have returned to America. And let me be the first to say that America disappoints.

Wait, wait, that's not entirely true. I like my home, and I like my family - well, love actually. And I've missed my friends and I've missed good drivers on the roads and yes, I've even missed good work ethic. But I did not miss work being the priority in peoples lives over family, and I did not miss the media's obsession with celebrity missteps instead of real news, and I certainly did not miss how people spend money on things like Button Tufted Chaise Settees rather than whole roasted pigs at fiesta.

But yesterday I made my exodus from the suburbs of Washington to Anchorage, and tomorrow I'm off to tiny St. George in the Pribilof Islands.

Aside from the lack of exhaustive heat, white sands, abundant refuse thrown about the streets, and dried fish in the markets, it feels a lot like the Philippines that I love and miss. It's sleepy, quiet, and beautiful, and life seems to move at a more tolerable pace than it does along the I-5 corridor. Granted, I've only been here a day, but like my favorite Homeland Security Secretary, I have a 'gut feeling' about this place. I think I'm going to like it here.

And so today I continue my blog, and I dub myself Island Girl, because if there is anything I aspire to be in life it is that. A girl who lives and works on small islands. People who are island people will know what I'm talking about, and people who aren't, well, I implore you to try it sometime, if only just once.

I considered jobs or places where other pseudonyms would apply and came up with a list:

Water Tester Girl
Scat Girl
Boring City Girl
Moocher of Parents Girl
Likes to Stay at Home Girl

But clearly none of these would do.

And although a part of me wishes I were "Tropical Island Girl," I will do my best to deal with this sudden and, let's be honest, disappointing weather change. Wish me luck!

Things I Remember About Americaland

1. “Public” transportation is meant for people only, not livestock
2. Mommies and daddies buy meals for their kids in boxes instead of killing it the hour before the meal
3. Employees don't take naps at work with reckless abandon
4. Roads are meant strictly for driving, not drying food or playing children's games
5. People point with their fingers, not their lips
6. Rice doesn't have rocks in it
7. It is rude to hock loogies in public
8. Restrooms generally have tissue in them
9. It's rude to stare, ask personal questions, or point out that someone's baby is fat and white with a long nose
10. People don't talk about their bodily functions or recent illnesses
11. When they don't know the answer, people honestly reply “I don't know”
12. When food at a restaurant is served to you cold, that is unacceptable
13. Ketchup isn't made from bananas
14. Men get arrested for public urination
15. I can't buy or flirt my way out of any problem
16. Gas is sold via pump, not coke bottle
17. I don't need to lock my toothbrush in tupperware at night for fear that cockroaches will get to it
18. Not everyone and their mother's neighbor's chicken's breeder knows me
19. When I raise my eyebrows as a means of saying hello, people think I'm coming on to them
20. I don't need to plan my outfits based on how much I think I'll sweat on that day

On Top of the World

This is what it looks like to stand on the top of the world. Mt. Kinabalu is just under 14,000 feet, and the last 2 or so kilometers of hiking is on granite just like this. It was cold at the top, but because it is near the equator it is not nearly as cold as other mountains of the same height. The good weather conditions make it an "easy" mountain to climb compared with others of a similar height. When I typed easy just now I laughed out loud, because it was exactly the opposite of that.

This is a view of Low's Gully, which is on the other side of the mountain. It doesn't look much like a gully to me, more like a vast canyon of death and despair, which is pretty much what Low and his crew found out when they had an expedition there to "see what it was like." During rains the gully fills like a tub, and this happened during Low's expedition, resulting in the deaths of many men. To ensure that the same wouldn't happen to foolish tourists, the park put up a 12,000 volt electric fence, which you can see rather close behind me in the next picture. On one side is the gully, and on the other are endless flat slabs of granite rock that, frankly, after having climbed them in the dark, seem no less dangerous. Just kidding about the fence being electric.

Incidentally, although I am accused of saying this every time I step into less-than-90-degree climes, these pictures capture the coldest day of my life after having left America.

Side effects of altitude include: dizziness, drowsiness, nausea, confusion, and sausage fingers.

The Keys are in Thai

Considering that the Germans and Filipinos have no street cred in Thailand, my language skills are rendered useless here. Thai computers apparently like to speak in Thai, which makes my internet experience tantamount to me, in monkey form, trying to play the piano with mittens on. I'm just pushing a lot of pushie button thingies and trying to not ruin the box.

This is trip number two to Thailand, which was preceded by a trip to Malaysia and will follow with a trip to Cambodia, and before you start thinking that I'm such a world traveler, I'd like to defend my vicious travel habit by saying this: blame the airlines for making flights cost only $30. It is amazing how cheap it is to travel for days and days and days. It is so cheap that a $3, hour-long massage on a beach starts looking quite expensive.

This vacation was a precursor to the giant vacation to come, which I like to call "joblessness in America." It began in Borneo where I hiked a mountain and thought the pain afterward would never, ever go away. Of course I read up on this hike before the trip, of course I did. I'm not so stupid as to just climb mountains the world throughout before reading about them and finding out if the climb will most certainly or only probably kill me.

The literature swore it was an "easy mountain to climb," which meant only that it was easier compared to other mountains. Like Everest.

Mt. Kinabalu was certainly more than a jaunt. It was a tall, difficult, rocky, mountainous mountain that left me and my seven companions wheezing and panting and crying for mommy. What made it bearable was that the seven who went with me are some of the most wonderful people on this planet, and surely ranked as the seven best people on that mountain. They outranked all of the Korean package tourists, the western Malaysian girls school students, and even our guide who had hiked Kinabalu 500 times but still succumbed to amoebas on our summit to the top.

Dan, Shauna, Kevin, Rudy, Heather, Andy, Nicole and I conquered the mountain, and we remembered this for eight days thereafter when, with each step, at least one or all of us was guaranteed to moan and wince in deep regret. We could only descend slopes and stairs, however slight, by sidestepping and holding on to guard rails. The pain was so bad that I'll describe it like this: I wanted to cut my legs off and replace them with wooden pegs so that I would never feel pain like that again. That's about how it felt.

But the pain subsided, and we spent the next few days walking in the jungle and seeing snakes and orangutans and thieving monkeys and birds and bugs and trees that can kill you. It was spectacular.

Because we are now island people, all of us volunteers, we decided that we needed more islands instead of jungles and mountains, and that's how I found myself on a white sandy beach in Thailand over the past few days. It was everything I expected: hot, sandy, white, boring, and without a lot to do. Such is the nature of islands, and I don't want anyone telling me I take hot, tropical, beautiful beaches for granted. I do not. They are hot, yes, and beautiful, yes, but based on my experience they don't do a whole lot to inspire productivity. And with all of the chickens and dogs and whining babies, they don't do much for relaxation either. It's true.

But we were there just long enough to remember why we left our respective islands in the Philippines in the first place, and now we are safe and sound back in the noisy, dirty, tourist-infested city of Bangkok. Ah what relief.

If this trip proved anything, it is that beer in the Philippines really is that cheap, and despite my complaining, the English there really is that good...and as far as beautiful, hot, tropical islands go, well, maybe I shouldn't complain too much. I'm told that they might be hard to come by in Washington State.

She Looks Cute BUT....

....my host sister Jansheen only plays nice for the camera.

Normally she cries and whines says things like "Kat Kat, you smell like water buffalo." On occasion she catches me unawares and pulls my pants down.

In spite of it all, she is adorable, and I think about taking her home daily. Should I put her in my suitcase or carry-on?

Dinner

These were just legs and a tail. In final form, they became a soup more appetizing than the picture might suggest.

The Worm 2007

Warning: the following post is not for children, or anyone who doesn't want to hear this ONE STORY about my bowel movements, or my father.

Apparently there are several classes of worms. Last year, when I got them for the first time, they were microscopic and under the category of "Tiny Guys Who Don't Really Lend Themselves To Interesting Conversation."

Teeny tiny invisible worms are, as far as I'm concerned, much like the geologic scale of the island I live on relative to the rest of the world: miniscule, unimportant, small, not visible, unnoticeable, hardly of concern to anyone or anything. A pill will cure (in the case of my island, the pill is called Ambien, which helps one sleep amidst the constant crowing of roosters, squealing of pigs, and questions of neighbor children about why my drying underpants are so darn big)

But this time, this time was a doosey. What happened before was, essentially, like nothing happened at all. What happened this time, on May 30, 2007, was that AN ANIMAL CAME OUT. A worm, a big big big worm that was as long as my forearm and as thick as you would expect a forearm-long worm to be came out and wiggled in the bowl and said "whoa, this doesn't look like Katrina's colon at all."

It was disgusting, and the only value of having such an experience is that I can write about it on my blog and disgust all those who are dumb enough to read it. Just this once.

Reason #267 Why I Don't Want To Go Home

There's this joke: How many Filipinos can you get into a bus? ONE MORE!

It's a funny joke to us volunteers because it's true. When I say funny, I mean funny in the totally obnoxious and annoying and completely inconvenient sort of way. So really, not funny. The joke can be mixed up to fit your specific situation: how many fighting cocks, brooms, televisions, drunken fools, old nuns, school children.....

But as un-funny as it is when a fish seller with 3 stinky buckets in tow gets on your side car after you swear, swear not one more person can fit (not to mention 7 kilos of fish), I know this is another one of those things I will dearly miss about the Philippines when I leave come July.

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.

Katrina vs. The Volcano

There are days when you think to yourself, I will remember this day forever.

As I was standing on top of The Mountain in 60 degree wind and rain, wearing only my REI light-weather shorts and a thin cotton T-shirt bought in a three-pack at K-Mart for $5.99, I repeated those words as a mantra over and over and over: this is worth the misery, because I will remember this day forever.

The Mountain is a something of a mysterious and mythic place to nearby residents, namely because its ruggedness and remoteness keeps all but the most adventuresome hikers (of which there are few) at a distance. It is unarguably beautiful and dramatic in appearance, though, and admired by many. About half the year it is covered by clouds, but on a clear day it stands alone against a backdrop of deep blue sky with the ocean at its base. The Mountain rises from the edge of the sea to over 6,000 feet within the span of just a few kilometers, and it ranks as the second-tallest mountain in the entire region in which I live.

Bordering it are rivers on both sides, with cascading waterfalls and swimming pools flowing between moss-covered trees and sleeping monkeys. When you see the terrain and the accompanying natural beauty, you feel that you are truly in one of the last untouched places on earth.

Dan, Kyla, Dave, and I had to climb it.

Joined by five Filipinos comprising the local climing club and five kilos of rice, the nine of us climbed The Mountain. The uphill trail nestled in and out of intact rainforest stands, with evidence of tropical climes all around: native tropical birds, flying lemurs, honey bees, bats, hanging vines, wild orchids, colorful insects, and not a coconut tree to be found (they aren't native here). We quickly learned the relative climate change at 6,000 feet and immediately regretted our decision to “minimalize” and “pack light.” I regretted my decision to forgo pants for light shorts, and I especially hate myself for bringing NO CHANGE OF CLOTHES. Life's lessons are never ending.

But in spite of the rain – which poured in pure tropical rainforest fashion – and in spite of the chill – which was chilly – we summited and celebrated with a big bowl of rice after. The night was spent with us curled up together sharing, among other things, the onset of hypothermia; after what seemed an insufferable amount of time freezing through the night, we froze yet again through the morning as the Filipinos cooked their rice for breakfast. Just repeat: “I will remember this for the rest of my life.”

Our downhill climb was swift and warming, mostly because of our constant stumbling and sliding on the slick trail. By the half-way point I had nearly forgotten the most intense cold I have experienced in the past two years. Nearly. We trekked the last half of our journey along a river that flows to the distant rice terraces in the town below, stopping at a waterfall to bathe and clean our mud-stained clothes.

Today it's back to reality, but if I ever feel discouraged at the astonishing human development and loss of natural beauty around me, I'll think of that Mountain and I'll remember that there are beautiful places left in the world. Either for their remoteness or for their sheer amazing beauty, they are left the way they were meant to be: as natural and as wild as the world comes.

More Thailand Pics

Pictures in the previous post include: Bells at Doi Suthep, Chiang Mai; Shadow of me, my elephant, and my Mahout, or elephant trainer.


Pictures in this post include: Guard statue at Wat Pra Kaew, Bangkok; flower offering and Buddha at temple; the Giant Buddha in Hong Kong; dragon mosaic at temple; and Thai driving, much like Filipino driving (i.e. anywhere the driver feels like it).