This is the beach in front of my house. The sand bar shifts depending on the time of the year, and now the entire area you can see is filled with sand 3 meters high. That boat really is called Mr. Suave.
Friday, October 27, 2006
The View
This is the beach in front of my house. The sand bar shifts depending on the time of the year, and now the entire area you can see is filled with sand 3 meters high. That boat really is called Mr. Suave.
Why I Might Become an Ex-Pat
From my house I'm listening in on a local prayer meeting at the neighboring chapel, although a casual passerby might mistakingly assume the attendees are filming “Star Wars: Episode 17”. The church microphone is on echo and colorful lights are emanating from the building. I think I just heard someone is either screaming or else cackling, but I'm not quite yet certain. The speaker keeps repeating the Cebuano words for “sinners” and “fire”. They must be planning the bake sale.
Sadly, this odd display of Catholicism will end precisely at 8:00 p.m. and all nannies in their whitest of white clothes will hurry home; no more children will be heard playing in the streets; dogs will stop barking; and no one will be taking any more calls for the next half hour. Life, it may seem, will have stopped in order to observe a new sort of holy hour for Filipinos the country throughout. Make way for what I consider to be the single greatest evil to come from America: Deal or No Deal.
Ridiculous game shows have never been my fancy since The Weakest Link invaded perfectly good prime time television way back in the year of our lord 2001. (Pause briefly while I explain the joke: Filipino English is a bit unusual to the American ear, and often you can read newspaper articles or hear interviews where people say, “way back in the year....” regardless of whether or not it was way back or just a year ago. So there you have it.) In fact, I consider my disinterest in television over the past five years to be directly linked to the Stupid Game Show/Stupid and Mean Reality Show plague as of late. Foolishly, I thought that I could escape such things by running off to an impoverished and developing country, but I underestimated the 10 million Filipinos overseas who send money back home so that even the poorest of the poor can buy a television. This is development.
While I haven't borne witness to the American or British versions of Deal or No Deal, I am assuming they are just as stupid as the local one. A hostess in a fancy dress calls out the sexy dancer girls who, as it turns out, are neither that sexy nor can dance well, and they hold briefcases for the next half hour while contestants try to win 2 million pesos by hearty guessing. I repeat, guessing. Is winning money in a guessing game the only hope 80 million people in this country have of every overcoming poverty? I suppose so, judging by the extreme and disgusting popularity of this show. I pray nightly that sensible Americans hate it and the show will be forced off the air before my swift return so that I never have to suffer from it again.
When the number in the briefcase is high, the music annoyingly goes DUN DUN DUNNNN and when the number is low, the music annoyingly goes WOO LOO LOO LOO LOOOOOOO, and the audience gasps accordingly. The most irritating of all, though, is how the hostess – the very famous and beloved daughter of a former president – tries to make a show interesting that, let's face it, is exactly the same every night. She always berates a contestant for “choosing high” and insists he should pick “lower numbers”. The contestant's facial expressions seem to agree, and I can just imagine him thinking, “why didn't I think of that?? Lower numbers!”
While the hostess is waiting for the banker's offer, she asks invasive personal questions similar to those I have heard every day since coming here – How old are you? Why aren't you married? Have you ever had a boy/girlfriend? Oh, that's too bad.... Just when I think it can get no worse, she makes a horrid hand gesture when she asks “Deal, or No Deal?” and the audience, now completely reeled in, screams NO DEAL! NO DEAL!, even though the odds are one million billion trillion to one against the contestant and he should just take the 80,000 pesos. Adding to my extreme displeasure is the fact that my host family watches it religiously. What the hell was Edison thinking, inventing electricity?
Sadly, this odd display of Catholicism will end precisely at 8:00 p.m. and all nannies in their whitest of white clothes will hurry home; no more children will be heard playing in the streets; dogs will stop barking; and no one will be taking any more calls for the next half hour. Life, it may seem, will have stopped in order to observe a new sort of holy hour for Filipinos the country throughout. Make way for what I consider to be the single greatest evil to come from America: Deal or No Deal.
Ridiculous game shows have never been my fancy since The Weakest Link invaded perfectly good prime time television way back in the year of our lord 2001. (Pause briefly while I explain the joke: Filipino English is a bit unusual to the American ear, and often you can read newspaper articles or hear interviews where people say, “way back in the year....” regardless of whether or not it was way back or just a year ago. So there you have it.) In fact, I consider my disinterest in television over the past five years to be directly linked to the Stupid Game Show/Stupid and Mean Reality Show plague as of late. Foolishly, I thought that I could escape such things by running off to an impoverished and developing country, but I underestimated the 10 million Filipinos overseas who send money back home so that even the poorest of the poor can buy a television. This is development.
While I haven't borne witness to the American or British versions of Deal or No Deal, I am assuming they are just as stupid as the local one. A hostess in a fancy dress calls out the sexy dancer girls who, as it turns out, are neither that sexy nor can dance well, and they hold briefcases for the next half hour while contestants try to win 2 million pesos by hearty guessing. I repeat, guessing. Is winning money in a guessing game the only hope 80 million people in this country have of every overcoming poverty? I suppose so, judging by the extreme and disgusting popularity of this show. I pray nightly that sensible Americans hate it and the show will be forced off the air before my swift return so that I never have to suffer from it again.
When the number in the briefcase is high, the music annoyingly goes DUN DUN DUNNNN and when the number is low, the music annoyingly goes WOO LOO LOO LOO LOOOOOOO, and the audience gasps accordingly. The most irritating of all, though, is how the hostess – the very famous and beloved daughter of a former president – tries to make a show interesting that, let's face it, is exactly the same every night. She always berates a contestant for “choosing high” and insists he should pick “lower numbers”. The contestant's facial expressions seem to agree, and I can just imagine him thinking, “why didn't I think of that?? Lower numbers!”
While the hostess is waiting for the banker's offer, she asks invasive personal questions similar to those I have heard every day since coming here – How old are you? Why aren't you married? Have you ever had a boy/girlfriend? Oh, that's too bad.... Just when I think it can get no worse, she makes a horrid hand gesture when she asks “Deal, or No Deal?” and the audience, now completely reeled in, screams NO DEAL! NO DEAL!, even though the odds are one million billion trillion to one against the contestant and he should just take the 80,000 pesos. Adding to my extreme displeasure is the fact that my host family watches it religiously. What the hell was Edison thinking, inventing electricity?
Common Sense
Untold joy abounds when one witnesses a baby taking its very fist drink of tuba and its first puff of a cigarette. Like the first few steps, the first indulgence in a vice is a symbol of the youth that will one day grow to maturity and individuality.
Little Jerome had his first puff yesterday when his grandma Rita stumbled drunk and smoking into my house, where Jerome and his mommy were visiting. In accordance with good and proper judgment, Rita put the cigarette in Baby Jerome's mouth and had a good laugh in the process. Later, as she was finishing her bottle of Black Wings – a vile alcohol that reeks of licorice and ethanol – she had the courtesy of leaving the last shot for Baby Jerome. Watching a child wince in disgust really is quite sweet. Surely his early exposure to alcohol is merely preparing him for four years of high school football games and four subsequent years of frat parties and initiation ceremonies...such a lucky child.
The first time I saw a baby drink was on my birthday, and since then, much like eating dog, the activity is commonplace. The educated American in me knows that alcohol and fags might not be entirely healthy for a young baby, but the burgeoning Filipina in me wonders what the real hurt is, if limited in quantity and frequency? No, no, I'm being serious now.
Americans have a, sometimes, too-great sense of danger and litigation. I have had a lot of time to reflect on the American's concern with child endangerment, among other things, and I am truly convinced that such a concern stems from bad parenting. Bad bad bad. We Americans are content to put our children under someone else's watch or in a crib or in the company of distracting toys and films. In essence, “distraction” is the key word – we do things to distract our kids from having family far away. Then, if something goes wrong, we can always blame the thing that went wrong, but not the ultimate caregiver – the parent.
I see kids here climbing trees and playing with knives and swimming unattended, and surprisingly accidents are less common here than at home. It seems that kids and parents of the Philippines know the consequences, but have no one to blame except themselves. Perhaps parents here wouldn't let their kids participate in certain activities if they didn't have faith in their child's own sense of judgment; furthermore, by allowing their children to have exposure to mild risks and dangers, kids are more apt to make good judgments and understand the risks. Ultimately, kids are trained to blame no one but themselves and have good judgment; likewise, the parents are too. It's okay to make a mistake, as long as you learn from it and fault no one but the one to blame, likely yourself. Difference between Americans and Filipinos: Americans can buy someone else's common sense (aka the Warning Label on the toy). Filipinos can't afford anyone's common sense but their own.
I'm not advocating children start practicing juggling chainsaws and eating dirty food from the garbage to toughen them up. I'm merely suggesting that paying attention and relaxing a bit might not be so bad. So baby Jerome smoked a cigarette and it was weird and shocking but strangely not disturbing. I laughed, albeit the kind of laugh that comes out when the dude walking in front of you makes a face plant on the curb. Mother, does this provide further evidence that I shouldn't have children?
Little Jerome had his first puff yesterday when his grandma Rita stumbled drunk and smoking into my house, where Jerome and his mommy were visiting. In accordance with good and proper judgment, Rita put the cigarette in Baby Jerome's mouth and had a good laugh in the process. Later, as she was finishing her bottle of Black Wings – a vile alcohol that reeks of licorice and ethanol – she had the courtesy of leaving the last shot for Baby Jerome. Watching a child wince in disgust really is quite sweet. Surely his early exposure to alcohol is merely preparing him for four years of high school football games and four subsequent years of frat parties and initiation ceremonies...such a lucky child.
The first time I saw a baby drink was on my birthday, and since then, much like eating dog, the activity is commonplace. The educated American in me knows that alcohol and fags might not be entirely healthy for a young baby, but the burgeoning Filipina in me wonders what the real hurt is, if limited in quantity and frequency? No, no, I'm being serious now.
Americans have a, sometimes, too-great sense of danger and litigation. I have had a lot of time to reflect on the American's concern with child endangerment, among other things, and I am truly convinced that such a concern stems from bad parenting. Bad bad bad. We Americans are content to put our children under someone else's watch or in a crib or in the company of distracting toys and films. In essence, “distraction” is the key word – we do things to distract our kids from having family far away. Then, if something goes wrong, we can always blame the thing that went wrong, but not the ultimate caregiver – the parent.
I see kids here climbing trees and playing with knives and swimming unattended, and surprisingly accidents are less common here than at home. It seems that kids and parents of the Philippines know the consequences, but have no one to blame except themselves. Perhaps parents here wouldn't let their kids participate in certain activities if they didn't have faith in their child's own sense of judgment; furthermore, by allowing their children to have exposure to mild risks and dangers, kids are more apt to make good judgments and understand the risks. Ultimately, kids are trained to blame no one but themselves and have good judgment; likewise, the parents are too. It's okay to make a mistake, as long as you learn from it and fault no one but the one to blame, likely yourself. Difference between Americans and Filipinos: Americans can buy someone else's common sense (aka the Warning Label on the toy). Filipinos can't afford anyone's common sense but their own.
I'm not advocating children start practicing juggling chainsaws and eating dirty food from the garbage to toughen them up. I'm merely suggesting that paying attention and relaxing a bit might not be so bad. So baby Jerome smoked a cigarette and it was weird and shocking but strangely not disturbing. I laughed, albeit the kind of laugh that comes out when the dude walking in front of you makes a face plant on the curb. Mother, does this provide further evidence that I shouldn't have children?
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Material Girl
Category A: Joys in life derived from interpersonal relationships. Example: Children and parents reading stories together at nighttime before bed.
Category B: Joys in life derived from experiences. Example: Peace Corps, surely, in many cases.
Category C: Joys in life derived from material posessions. Examples: Laptops; bicycles; Jif Peanut Butter; Eva Cassidy CDs; books and magazines; the mat that my neighbor gave me; electric fans; my huge wok; back scratchers; digital cameras; etc. and so forth.
I only packed 40 pounds of goodies to begin my life here, and six of those pounds were my shoes that I needed to last for two years because nothing fits my gigantic body in this place. I wanted to be a good Peace Corps volunteer, and so I left the camping gear and the telescopes and the grappling hooks at home; instead, in pure Princess Vespa fashion, I brought only what I needed to survive: clothes.
Slowly I have accumulated posessions here, and because of the frequency of typhoons, thefts, freak accidents, and the sheer clumsiness of one Katrina, I made a pact with myself that anything here is fair game for destruction. Anything that I own I should be prepared to lose. I have held strongly to that philosophy, and since my Possessions Pact of 2005, several mechanical and technological things have been stolen or ruined. No big deal. Those things can be fixed, those things can be bought again. There is no heart in them.
But I have found that there is value in other things, things that are not so easily replaced. I don't need things a whole lot, I truly don't, but some of the things that I have or, moreover, I've chosen to have here, have begun to take on importance in my life. For example, letters from my friends and family, drawings from little Pinoy children, and jeans in size 6 long are simply irreplacable. I have grown attached to these things, because they are truly all that I have to remind me of people I love and experiences I've had.
I have never before spoken about the day that a rat ate a native necklace that was given to me for my birthday in 2005. I cried. I cried like a child who was just stung by 8,000 bees. To have a beast of nature come in and take one of 100 articles and items that I possessed at the time in the Philippines was tantamount to losing a limb, or a finger, at least. The necklace was just a thing, but it represented a very special birthday with very special people, and by losing it I felt that I had lost a memory, and lost a piece of the person who gave it to me.
Every now and then the deepest parts of me battle with each other. On my left side in the back near my kidney, there is Kat who believes that things are only things; your attachment to them holds no value in life because they have no bearing on the things that really matter, like personal relationships or bettering mankind and the like. Then, waaaay up high near my collar bone and close to my esophogus, there is Rina. She thinks that it's okay to have things and to need them at times, because if none of us needed anything then we would live outside and get bitten by insects a lot and obviously we would never kayak, ever.
There is an interesting essay that is given to Peace Corps Volunteers to help us gain perspective on cultural differences between Americans and the rest of the world. Entitled “The Values Americans Live By,” it is just that: a discussion of 13 values we not only collectively share, but also that differentiate us from much of the rest of the world. In his discussion, the author notes that we would consider ourselves a lot less materialistic than we actually are. It's a fair point. We Americans often claim that we don't need things, and yet we don't necessarily live by the words we speak. We own televisions, carpet in the home, cars, computers, toys...dare I go on? But we allow ourselves to have these things because, one, they are the rewards of hard work and success, which all Americans, theoretically, can achieve (another of the values detailed); and, two, material posessions really can serve as a solid, physical representation of memories and people.
I guess in the end, I listen to the part of my brain that is inherently American, the part that knows that it's okay to have things as long as we don't need them too much. It's that part of me that is aware of the fact that I needlessly have more here than all of my neighbors here combined, and yet I can forgive myself for growing up in a different place with entirely different circumstances. And anyway, didn't I sign up for this life in the first place in order to see what other people possess and grow up with in the very country I was packing for? Yep.
Category B: Joys in life derived from experiences. Example: Peace Corps, surely, in many cases.
Category C: Joys in life derived from material posessions. Examples: Laptops; bicycles; Jif Peanut Butter; Eva Cassidy CDs; books and magazines; the mat that my neighbor gave me; electric fans; my huge wok; back scratchers; digital cameras; etc. and so forth.
I only packed 40 pounds of goodies to begin my life here, and six of those pounds were my shoes that I needed to last for two years because nothing fits my gigantic body in this place. I wanted to be a good Peace Corps volunteer, and so I left the camping gear and the telescopes and the grappling hooks at home; instead, in pure Princess Vespa fashion, I brought only what I needed to survive: clothes.
Slowly I have accumulated posessions here, and because of the frequency of typhoons, thefts, freak accidents, and the sheer clumsiness of one Katrina, I made a pact with myself that anything here is fair game for destruction. Anything that I own I should be prepared to lose. I have held strongly to that philosophy, and since my Possessions Pact of 2005, several mechanical and technological things have been stolen or ruined. No big deal. Those things can be fixed, those things can be bought again. There is no heart in them.
But I have found that there is value in other things, things that are not so easily replaced. I don't need things a whole lot, I truly don't, but some of the things that I have or, moreover, I've chosen to have here, have begun to take on importance in my life. For example, letters from my friends and family, drawings from little Pinoy children, and jeans in size 6 long are simply irreplacable. I have grown attached to these things, because they are truly all that I have to remind me of people I love and experiences I've had.
I have never before spoken about the day that a rat ate a native necklace that was given to me for my birthday in 2005. I cried. I cried like a child who was just stung by 8,000 bees. To have a beast of nature come in and take one of 100 articles and items that I possessed at the time in the Philippines was tantamount to losing a limb, or a finger, at least. The necklace was just a thing, but it represented a very special birthday with very special people, and by losing it I felt that I had lost a memory, and lost a piece of the person who gave it to me.
Every now and then the deepest parts of me battle with each other. On my left side in the back near my kidney, there is Kat who believes that things are only things; your attachment to them holds no value in life because they have no bearing on the things that really matter, like personal relationships or bettering mankind and the like. Then, waaaay up high near my collar bone and close to my esophogus, there is Rina. She thinks that it's okay to have things and to need them at times, because if none of us needed anything then we would live outside and get bitten by insects a lot and obviously we would never kayak, ever.
There is an interesting essay that is given to Peace Corps Volunteers to help us gain perspective on cultural differences between Americans and the rest of the world. Entitled “The Values Americans Live By,” it is just that: a discussion of 13 values we not only collectively share, but also that differentiate us from much of the rest of the world. In his discussion, the author notes that we would consider ourselves a lot less materialistic than we actually are. It's a fair point. We Americans often claim that we don't need things, and yet we don't necessarily live by the words we speak. We own televisions, carpet in the home, cars, computers, toys...dare I go on? But we allow ourselves to have these things because, one, they are the rewards of hard work and success, which all Americans, theoretically, can achieve (another of the values detailed); and, two, material posessions really can serve as a solid, physical representation of memories and people.
I guess in the end, I listen to the part of my brain that is inherently American, the part that knows that it's okay to have things as long as we don't need them too much. It's that part of me that is aware of the fact that I needlessly have more here than all of my neighbors here combined, and yet I can forgive myself for growing up in a different place with entirely different circumstances. And anyway, didn't I sign up for this life in the first place in order to see what other people possess and grow up with in the very country I was packing for? Yep.
Dramatics
You know how in overly-dramatic movies with court scenes in them, there is always a guy who makes overly-dramatic speeches in the manner of an overly-dramatic actor who clearly did no prep work at all to represent reality?
You know what I'm talking about. And you know that nobody really talks like that, because when people actually speak like bad dramatic actors, listeners tend to laugh, saying “wow, is he imitating Jack Nicholson in that movie where he says that line that comes off as really cheesy?”
My point: we watch actors make dramatic speeches because we can suspend reality just long enough to be entertained; we don't watch speakers make dramatic speeches, because it just sounds dumb.
But wait! Enter my general region of the world. I am convinced that here, any and all debate technique was garnered from movies. Bad ones. If I turn on the evening news, there is bound to be an arrogant-sounding man who watched one too many B movies, speaking in a crescendoing voice and shaking his fist in action.
Furthermore, the words used are of pure literary variety. English is a studied language here, but taught only in school and rarely perfected from practice in the home. Go into an office, even in the smallest of small towns, and you will hear someone speaking as if he's trying out for Broadway. An excerpt from my solid waste management workshop the other day (note, all capitalized words should be read with EMPHASIS, VOLUME, AND POWER!):
“WE must unite and BEHOLD the power of many persons STANDING as one! We SHALL NOT let die our RIGHT as citizens to ORGANIZE ourselves and FIGHT for what we believe!”
After all of that, the crux of his speech was that we need signs on our garbage cans so people know where to throw biodegradable and nonbiodegradable trash.
You know what I'm talking about. And you know that nobody really talks like that, because when people actually speak like bad dramatic actors, listeners tend to laugh, saying “wow, is he imitating Jack Nicholson in that movie where he says that line that comes off as really cheesy?”
My point: we watch actors make dramatic speeches because we can suspend reality just long enough to be entertained; we don't watch speakers make dramatic speeches, because it just sounds dumb.
But wait! Enter my general region of the world. I am convinced that here, any and all debate technique was garnered from movies. Bad ones. If I turn on the evening news, there is bound to be an arrogant-sounding man who watched one too many B movies, speaking in a crescendoing voice and shaking his fist in action.
Furthermore, the words used are of pure literary variety. English is a studied language here, but taught only in school and rarely perfected from practice in the home. Go into an office, even in the smallest of small towns, and you will hear someone speaking as if he's trying out for Broadway. An excerpt from my solid waste management workshop the other day (note, all capitalized words should be read with EMPHASIS, VOLUME, AND POWER!):
“WE must unite and BEHOLD the power of many persons STANDING as one! We SHALL NOT let die our RIGHT as citizens to ORGANIZE ourselves and FIGHT for what we believe!”
After all of that, the crux of his speech was that we need signs on our garbage cans so people know where to throw biodegradable and nonbiodegradable trash.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Things That Make Me Smile, Part 1
This is Kidlat standing at the fence in front of my house on Himokilan. Can you tell how naughty she is? Answer: VERY.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Series of Random Texts Part I
These texts to various friends nearby chronicle the past 48 hours of Katrina's life. Note, Hurricane Drunken Stupor, locally known as the Himokilan Island Fiesta of 2006, just ended.
1: Today it is culturally acceptable for me to drink beer. It's fiesta yayayayayaaaaay! Which means I, in fact, MUST drink beer to help me digest the nine pounds of pig fat I will consume. I often wonder why people here are confused when their friends and loved ones develop diabetes, high blood pressure, and irritable bowel syndrome in their late twenties. In my mind, the words "you eat now, then drink this" don't have positive implications for a healthy diet.
2: The disco is starting. I am wearing pretty high-heeled shoes, which is good because for the first time my host family won't ask me, "is that what you are wearing?", but it's BAD because I might fall down. Lots.
3: I seem to be missing my shoes. That song came on, that reggae one that everyone likes, you know the one. And shoes started flying and my shoes started flying and next thing I know I have no shoes and I'm break dancing on the floor and it's great but now I have no shoes.
4: We're all good. I found them. P.S. I got a puppy!
5: The drunken madness that ensued last night at my island's fiesta should shame me. Oh wait, IT DID. I ruled the dance floor and will forever be known as Katrina Saucy Pants Who Does the Worm and Other Stuff Too. My house is crawling with beasts because apparently during the debauchery I accepted a puppy to go along with my new kitten that I hate. They are not friends but I love my new little iro. I feed her so much that I feel like my host mother.
6: There are hubogs (drunks) outside my house. I ate three eggs today, but not the yolks. I gave those to my dog. This perhaps explains our collective horrible gas. Did I tell you that I got a dog? I did and she is fantastic. I also found a NEW new kitten on my doorstep, which, as it turns out, is the twin sister of my other new kitten that is unlovable. The strange thing is that the twin sister was thrown away in the ocean and left to die over a week ago by the neighborhood children...do you think this new kitten is like that cat in Mad House that just won't die? Anyway, I have now saved two kittens from despair and I regret it every day. The drunks want me to play. How do I say "THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN" in the dialect?
1: Today it is culturally acceptable for me to drink beer. It's fiesta yayayayayaaaaay! Which means I, in fact, MUST drink beer to help me digest the nine pounds of pig fat I will consume. I often wonder why people here are confused when their friends and loved ones develop diabetes, high blood pressure, and irritable bowel syndrome in their late twenties. In my mind, the words "you eat now, then drink this" don't have positive implications for a healthy diet.
2: The disco is starting. I am wearing pretty high-heeled shoes, which is good because for the first time my host family won't ask me, "is that what you are wearing?", but it's BAD because I might fall down. Lots.
3: I seem to be missing my shoes. That song came on, that reggae one that everyone likes, you know the one. And shoes started flying and my shoes started flying and next thing I know I have no shoes and I'm break dancing on the floor and it's great but now I have no shoes.
4: We're all good. I found them. P.S. I got a puppy!
5: The drunken madness that ensued last night at my island's fiesta should shame me. Oh wait, IT DID. I ruled the dance floor and will forever be known as Katrina Saucy Pants Who Does the Worm and Other Stuff Too. My house is crawling with beasts because apparently during the debauchery I accepted a puppy to go along with my new kitten that I hate. They are not friends but I love my new little iro. I feed her so much that I feel like my host mother.
6: There are hubogs (drunks) outside my house. I ate three eggs today, but not the yolks. I gave those to my dog. This perhaps explains our collective horrible gas. Did I tell you that I got a dog? I did and she is fantastic. I also found a NEW new kitten on my doorstep, which, as it turns out, is the twin sister of my other new kitten that is unlovable. The strange thing is that the twin sister was thrown away in the ocean and left to die over a week ago by the neighborhood children...do you think this new kitten is like that cat in Mad House that just won't die? Anyway, I have now saved two kittens from despair and I regret it every day. The drunks want me to play. How do I say "THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN" in the dialect?
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Recycling 101
I applaud people of the Philippines for their amazing creativity when it comes to recycling trash for everyday use.
From the poorest barangays to the wealthier cities, I have seen plastic bottles used as flower holders, as rain catchment systems, and as toys for childrens games; old plastic banners are used as tarps or tents for boats; damaged flip-flops are used and reused until three holes have worn into the soles, the remnants of which are then used as floats for fishing nets or washers for rooftops; and when clothes are worn to tatters, they find new use as pot holders or floor mats.
The Filipino's concept of form and function should put first-world materialism to shame. To see a flower pot made of an old, damaged basketball is far more appealing to my eye because of its sheer creativity than, say, a porcelain flower pot that will just be thrown away if broken or faded.
We should all train our eyes to look at old garbage made new again as something beautiful, unique, and, yes, functional. In spite of the fact that people here still throw trash in the oceans and burn plastics (among other environmental atrocities), they still do something far better than the first-worlders: they don't waste. And while, oftentimes, their actions are consequences of poverty and necessity – a person on Himokilan can't afford a porcelain pot, nor does he have the space to throw empty plastic bottles away – I have still seen the rich reuse and recycle in the same fashion. The mentality of a culture that traditionally has existed on a subsistence level remains the same: why waste when you simply don't have to?
From the poorest barangays to the wealthier cities, I have seen plastic bottles used as flower holders, as rain catchment systems, and as toys for childrens games; old plastic banners are used as tarps or tents for boats; damaged flip-flops are used and reused until three holes have worn into the soles, the remnants of which are then used as floats for fishing nets or washers for rooftops; and when clothes are worn to tatters, they find new use as pot holders or floor mats.
The Filipino's concept of form and function should put first-world materialism to shame. To see a flower pot made of an old, damaged basketball is far more appealing to my eye because of its sheer creativity than, say, a porcelain flower pot that will just be thrown away if broken or faded.
We should all train our eyes to look at old garbage made new again as something beautiful, unique, and, yes, functional. In spite of the fact that people here still throw trash in the oceans and burn plastics (among other environmental atrocities), they still do something far better than the first-worlders: they don't waste. And while, oftentimes, their actions are consequences of poverty and necessity – a person on Himokilan can't afford a porcelain pot, nor does he have the space to throw empty plastic bottles away – I have still seen the rich reuse and recycle in the same fashion. The mentality of a culture that traditionally has existed on a subsistence level remains the same: why waste when you simply don't have to?
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Katrina plus unwanted kitten equals super volunteer
This is how I know I am a decent human being: Yesterday I got my very first kitten, and I hate cats. By accepting this enlarged rat, I saved it from being thrown into the ocean as trash, which is basically what cats, dogs, and other pets are considered on my island when a family already has more of them than they can eat.
I affectionately named my kitten the cebuano word for Mango – Mangga – and, because he is a Filipino, he must have a nickname: Ming Ming. He is utterly hideous, he has bugs, and he is not cute. Not even loving. I think we pet owners (which is what I now am) decide to raise animals because we see ourselves raising the perfect pet. Of course, when I saw Ming Ming staring up at me from a plastic sac, his eyes screaming PLEASE DON'T LET THEM THROW ME IN THE OCEAN, I assumed I could raise him to be a good kitty, the kind that liked to be held, wanted to roam everywhere with me (tucked gently away in my pocket), and of course would dance on command and lead the blind to market. And thus I took him in, in spite of his apparent flaws.
As it turns out, some beasts are predisposed to being pests. Ming Ming is one of them. He doesn't like being held, not at all. He is loud. He can't dance. He can't even walk. He. Is. Useless.
As I paraded around with him the other day (not in my pocket, I might add, but in a dirty old box big enough so that he couldn't escape), many people asked me if I would ihaw him for my birthday, a.k.a. kill him for food. Repeatedly I said no, no, no, because everyone gets a good laugh when I pretend to be shocked by such things here, but I really was thinking "it's very possible."
And with that, we can nix the title.
I affectionately named my kitten the cebuano word for Mango – Mangga – and, because he is a Filipino, he must have a nickname: Ming Ming. He is utterly hideous, he has bugs, and he is not cute. Not even loving. I think we pet owners (which is what I now am) decide to raise animals because we see ourselves raising the perfect pet. Of course, when I saw Ming Ming staring up at me from a plastic sac, his eyes screaming PLEASE DON'T LET THEM THROW ME IN THE OCEAN, I assumed I could raise him to be a good kitty, the kind that liked to be held, wanted to roam everywhere with me (tucked gently away in my pocket), and of course would dance on command and lead the blind to market. And thus I took him in, in spite of his apparent flaws.
As it turns out, some beasts are predisposed to being pests. Ming Ming is one of them. He doesn't like being held, not at all. He is loud. He can't dance. He can't even walk. He. Is. Useless.
As I paraded around with him the other day (not in my pocket, I might add, but in a dirty old box big enough so that he couldn't escape), many people asked me if I would ihaw him for my birthday, a.k.a. kill him for food. Repeatedly I said no, no, no, because everyone gets a good laugh when I pretend to be shocked by such things here, but I really was thinking "it's very possible."
And with that, we can nix the title.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
My Daily Commute...
How many people can you fit on a pumpboat in the Philippines??
One more! Hahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!
One more! Hahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!
Typhoons in Small Places
I live on a very, very small island. This is what I tell people when they ask where I am assigned, and I feel that the the words "very," "very" again, "small," and "island" in combo indicate that this place is, essentially, the size of an anthill on steroids. I can sneeze in my hut and my furthest neighbor will say "god pardens you" in Cebuano, which is what they say -- don't ask me why. I hear the generator at night as it's powering 60 of the island homes with electricity; for the remaining 60 homes, I can hear matches strike boxes as darkness settles in. Himokilan Island isnt like one of the San Juan's; it's not Sanibel; it's not flippin Cuba. It's small. FRIGGIN DARN SMALL.
Imagine what a friggin darn small island with limited electricity has to offer in terms of current national and international news updates. I award five points to the individual who has surmised that "news" is generally slow to reach this and other similarly isolated rocks on earth. When there are coups attempts or natural disasters or emergencies from home that I should probably know about, well, I have no way of knowing when I'm out there. Granted, sometimes news can wait, but sometimes it can't. Take, for instance, news of the typhoon that struck Leyte two days ago. Seven foot waves and hurricane force winds don't make for a good combination when you live on an island as wide as two American Arses. Fortunately for me, I was on the mainland boozing it up at a wedding; but regardless, what if I went home as I originally planned? What if it were a signal five typhoon, the most powerful storm?
I worry sometimes about the things that I can't plan for. I do all that I can to be safe -- I take medicine when I'm sick, I don't ride on buses with toothless, drunk-looking drivers, I don't eat foods that double as pets, and I certainly don't ride a boat in crappy conditions when I could just wait another day and take the same boat in calm seas. The trouble is, when I'm out on that island, that island is where I am. Is that very Tao of Poo to say? Well it's true. And that island is very, very small. There is no escaping a strong wind or rough seas; waiting and hoping are the best defenses out there.
The sad truth is that a lot of news doesn't reach a lot of the Philippines. Technology is booming in this place, but only to those who are fortunate enough to be near it or rich enough to afford it, and as such a lot of people don't have access to information, including daily news. Even with my government issued allowance, I am out of the range of proximity to news. And while indigenous knowledge of weather, water, and land continues to serve FIlipinos well (for example, the worst of the storm is over when the frogs begin to croak in volumes), that same knowledge isn't a doppler radar that shows how bad the storm is going to be in the first place.
In the end I am okay, and in the end I will only live in this tiny place for two years. Still, I can't help but be sympathetic for most of the population in this country - and, indeed, much of the population of the deveoloping world - who are at nature's mercy. After witnessing the horrible devastation from the landslide in St. Bernard, Southern Leyte, I hope other people are too....
Imagine what a friggin darn small island with limited electricity has to offer in terms of current national and international news updates. I award five points to the individual who has surmised that "news" is generally slow to reach this and other similarly isolated rocks on earth. When there are coups attempts or natural disasters or emergencies from home that I should probably know about, well, I have no way of knowing when I'm out there. Granted, sometimes news can wait, but sometimes it can't. Take, for instance, news of the typhoon that struck Leyte two days ago. Seven foot waves and hurricane force winds don't make for a good combination when you live on an island as wide as two American Arses. Fortunately for me, I was on the mainland boozing it up at a wedding; but regardless, what if I went home as I originally planned? What if it were a signal five typhoon, the most powerful storm?
I worry sometimes about the things that I can't plan for. I do all that I can to be safe -- I take medicine when I'm sick, I don't ride on buses with toothless, drunk-looking drivers, I don't eat foods that double as pets, and I certainly don't ride a boat in crappy conditions when I could just wait another day and take the same boat in calm seas. The trouble is, when I'm out on that island, that island is where I am. Is that very Tao of Poo to say? Well it's true. And that island is very, very small. There is no escaping a strong wind or rough seas; waiting and hoping are the best defenses out there.
The sad truth is that a lot of news doesn't reach a lot of the Philippines. Technology is booming in this place, but only to those who are fortunate enough to be near it or rich enough to afford it, and as such a lot of people don't have access to information, including daily news. Even with my government issued allowance, I am out of the range of proximity to news. And while indigenous knowledge of weather, water, and land continues to serve FIlipinos well (for example, the worst of the storm is over when the frogs begin to croak in volumes), that same knowledge isn't a doppler radar that shows how bad the storm is going to be in the first place.
In the end I am okay, and in the end I will only live in this tiny place for two years. Still, I can't help but be sympathetic for most of the population in this country - and, indeed, much of the population of the deveoloping world - who are at nature's mercy. After witnessing the horrible devastation from the landslide in St. Bernard, Southern Leyte, I hope other people are too....
Multiple Choice
When it is hot like this, it is hard to:
a) Protect your skin from sun damage so severe that you look like you just played in chocolate pudding
b) Wear culturally appropriate clothes, i.e. clothes that cover more than 13% of your body
c) Prevent embarrassing sweat marks on your bottom after sitting for lengths of time longer than six minutes
d) Do anything
e) All of the above
In a word, it's hot. In more than one word, it's so flippin' hot that I feel like someone roasted me lechon style and served me up for dinner at fiesta.
With that, the correct answer is obviously e. Duh.
The hot season began about a month ago, sometime around April 10. I arrived in this country April 1 of last year, and I remember a heat so hellish that it nearly inspired me to seek skin-thinning techniques at questionable wokwok doctors. This year, though, April 1 came and went and I was feeling just fine. The 2nd, 3rd, 4th came and passed with me at my normal rate of sweat and stink. Clearly I was now just "used" to the heat, I had acclimated. I didn't hesitate to brag about this fact to all of my family in sub-arctic Washington, and I reiterated that I was just super because heat didn't phase me anymore, no sir. Yay me.
Wrong, Wrong, Wrong. It. Is. Hot.
So hot that I hate eating fresh-cooked food because it causes excess sweating, whereas room temp food only causes the normal amount of sweat. The air is full of hotness, hot hotness. It makes a person lathargic and lazy. And yes, it's true, hot air makes a person clammy and sweaty, to such an extreme that she can get any number of sicknesses/ailments. My list of past heat-induced sicknesses includes: walking pneumonia, fungus, heat rashes, and dehydration. This year I anticipate Denghe, more rashes, and perhaps even a sudden onset of bloating as all the juices in my body start to boil from the insane-o heat.
Aside from the physical discomfort, the hot season means that I can't wear anything more than once, which means laundry. Lots.
And of course there's the way the heat makes Katrina's hair curl. There is a huge value placed on appearance in this place, and though I try to fit the part of a professional by dressing appropriately, I struggle to keep my combo of sweat and curly locks in check. People who I don't even know will stop me on the street for a chat and then ask oh-so-casually if I own a hairbrush. Other classic comments:
"Hm. That's funny, did you just wake up? Because your hair looks like you just woke up."
"Well, I thought Americans were a clean people."
"Why do Americans look like their hair is always wet?"
"It looks bad. Bad."
I wouldn't write it if it weren't true.
a) Protect your skin from sun damage so severe that you look like you just played in chocolate pudding
b) Wear culturally appropriate clothes, i.e. clothes that cover more than 13% of your body
c) Prevent embarrassing sweat marks on your bottom after sitting for lengths of time longer than six minutes
d) Do anything
e) All of the above
In a word, it's hot. In more than one word, it's so flippin' hot that I feel like someone roasted me lechon style and served me up for dinner at fiesta.
With that, the correct answer is obviously e. Duh.
The hot season began about a month ago, sometime around April 10. I arrived in this country April 1 of last year, and I remember a heat so hellish that it nearly inspired me to seek skin-thinning techniques at questionable wokwok doctors. This year, though, April 1 came and went and I was feeling just fine. The 2nd, 3rd, 4th came and passed with me at my normal rate of sweat and stink. Clearly I was now just "used" to the heat, I had acclimated. I didn't hesitate to brag about this fact to all of my family in sub-arctic Washington, and I reiterated that I was just super because heat didn't phase me anymore, no sir. Yay me.
Wrong, Wrong, Wrong. It. Is. Hot.
So hot that I hate eating fresh-cooked food because it causes excess sweating, whereas room temp food only causes the normal amount of sweat. The air is full of hotness, hot hotness. It makes a person lathargic and lazy. And yes, it's true, hot air makes a person clammy and sweaty, to such an extreme that she can get any number of sicknesses/ailments. My list of past heat-induced sicknesses includes: walking pneumonia, fungus, heat rashes, and dehydration. This year I anticipate Denghe, more rashes, and perhaps even a sudden onset of bloating as all the juices in my body start to boil from the insane-o heat.
Aside from the physical discomfort, the hot season means that I can't wear anything more than once, which means laundry. Lots.
And of course there's the way the heat makes Katrina's hair curl. There is a huge value placed on appearance in this place, and though I try to fit the part of a professional by dressing appropriately, I struggle to keep my combo of sweat and curly locks in check. People who I don't even know will stop me on the street for a chat and then ask oh-so-casually if I own a hairbrush. Other classic comments:
"Hm. That's funny, did you just wake up? Because your hair looks like you just woke up."
"Well, I thought Americans were a clean people."
"Why do Americans look like their hair is always wet?"
"It looks bad. Bad."
I wouldn't write it if it weren't true.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Freaks with Phones
Alvin is the freak of the day today. He is this guy, this strange version of a Filipino man, who will be sitting three feet away from me as he sends me a series of texts. “Hi Katrina, this is Alvin. I want us to be friends.” “Hi again. Do you want to be friends?” “Why are you not responding to me?”
My mainland host mother (affectionately dubbed here as Alpha Mom) introduced him to me because he is single, I am single, and hey, why not be NOT single together? A brilliant plan, as long as you disregard all things such as personality, attraction, and general likability. Alvin, in a word, is weird, and now he is another person to add to the list of “Weird Filipinos Who are Socially Awkward and Obnoxious and Who Fantasize About the Bride Katrina,” or WFWSAOWFABK for short.
These people are surely not unique to the Philippines, but something about the texting nature of this culture breeds a disproportionate amount of WFWSAOWFABKs. Truly, how lucky for the insecure Filipino male (or any male, for that matter) that the cell phone was invented. It allows him to perpetuate an awkward, shy, gutless culture of un-masculinity. In the past, men must have suffered by having to ask women on dates (or even just make chit-chat) face-to-face; today, texting has revolutionized their love lives. All they have to do is text. And hide like cowards.
And Alvin, oh Alvin, he is so typical of WFWSAOWFABKs. He now visits the house to “visit” my host family, at which times they call me into the room to help “entertain” him, but he talks only to them, not to me. Apparently it's just proximity he craves. At times, I will occupy myself with games on my cell phone or reading while he is in the room, and then suddenly, with me in the room and with him in the room, I will get a text from, dun dun dunnnn, Weird Socially Awkward Dude Named Alvin. Ah, I just got a text from him now! Just now! "Cat, miss ko nimo. Alot (author's insert: I know how to spell "a lot" as two words. I was merely quoting). Why r you not texting?"
Alvin. AAALLLLVIIIINNNNN!!!
I have been asked many times, by both Filipinos and Americans, if I find Filipinos attractive; likewise, many times I've been asked if I could ever see myself marrying a Filipino. In my very best Cebuano, I tell them that Love is Blind (if you are a Filipino, insert laughter here). Aside from that phrase being a big party hit, it's also true - I believe in the merits of good personality, a good sense of humor, and a general kindness of the heart. A Filipino, just like an American, isn't necessarily attractive in my eyes because he is Filipino; it is because he is a good person.
Sadly, though, this country is poor as crap, it is, and so so so many people value money and social status above love and lifelong companionship. Alvin is educated, he is relatively well off, and he has a connected family - all winning characteristics acording to Alpha Mom. Contrast this with a young man on Himokilan who has a not-so-secret crush on me: he attended school only until grade six; he "works" as a fisherman a few days a week; and he lives with his extended family on the island without a penny to his name. Three strikes in the eyes of Alpha Mom. But in my eyes, he is so fun to talk with and has a shining personality. While I totally, surely, positively, absolutely will not date him or any other person here, many people have felt compelled to warn me not to date him because he can't offer me anything. Funny. If there is anything I have learned here in the Philippines, it's that the greatest "things" I need are friends and family. The other things don't make me less lonely, they don't make me laugh, they don't give me anything to look forward to in my day-to-day.
Try explaining that in the dialect.
Meanwhile, a tiny girl with beautiful hair and stunning eyes is sitting to my left here in the computer lab and is chatting with a 63 year-old man who hails from Toronto and wants to lend her his parka. When she comes to the continent to marry him. It's hard to change values. It's hard to be a volunteer here for that very reason. It's hard...to...GET ALVIN TO STOP TEXTING ME. That's three times in fifteen minutes. Come on!
My mainland host mother (affectionately dubbed here as Alpha Mom) introduced him to me because he is single, I am single, and hey, why not be NOT single together? A brilliant plan, as long as you disregard all things such as personality, attraction, and general likability. Alvin, in a word, is weird, and now he is another person to add to the list of “Weird Filipinos Who are Socially Awkward and Obnoxious and Who Fantasize About the Bride Katrina,” or WFWSAOWFABK for short.
These people are surely not unique to the Philippines, but something about the texting nature of this culture breeds a disproportionate amount of WFWSAOWFABKs. Truly, how lucky for the insecure Filipino male (or any male, for that matter) that the cell phone was invented. It allows him to perpetuate an awkward, shy, gutless culture of un-masculinity. In the past, men must have suffered by having to ask women on dates (or even just make chit-chat) face-to-face; today, texting has revolutionized their love lives. All they have to do is text. And hide like cowards.
And Alvin, oh Alvin, he is so typical of WFWSAOWFABKs. He now visits the house to “visit” my host family, at which times they call me into the room to help “entertain” him, but he talks only to them, not to me. Apparently it's just proximity he craves. At times, I will occupy myself with games on my cell phone or reading while he is in the room, and then suddenly, with me in the room and with him in the room, I will get a text from, dun dun dunnnn, Weird Socially Awkward Dude Named Alvin. Ah, I just got a text from him now! Just now! "Cat, miss ko nimo. Alot (author's insert: I know how to spell "a lot" as two words. I was merely quoting). Why r you not texting?"
Alvin. AAALLLLVIIIINNNNN!!!
I have been asked many times, by both Filipinos and Americans, if I find Filipinos attractive; likewise, many times I've been asked if I could ever see myself marrying a Filipino. In my very best Cebuano, I tell them that Love is Blind (if you are a Filipino, insert laughter here). Aside from that phrase being a big party hit, it's also true - I believe in the merits of good personality, a good sense of humor, and a general kindness of the heart. A Filipino, just like an American, isn't necessarily attractive in my eyes because he is Filipino; it is because he is a good person.
Sadly, though, this country is poor as crap, it is, and so so so many people value money and social status above love and lifelong companionship. Alvin is educated, he is relatively well off, and he has a connected family - all winning characteristics acording to Alpha Mom. Contrast this with a young man on Himokilan who has a not-so-secret crush on me: he attended school only until grade six; he "works" as a fisherman a few days a week; and he lives with his extended family on the island without a penny to his name. Three strikes in the eyes of Alpha Mom. But in my eyes, he is so fun to talk with and has a shining personality. While I totally, surely, positively, absolutely will not date him or any other person here, many people have felt compelled to warn me not to date him because he can't offer me anything. Funny. If there is anything I have learned here in the Philippines, it's that the greatest "things" I need are friends and family. The other things don't make me less lonely, they don't make me laugh, they don't give me anything to look forward to in my day-to-day.
Try explaining that in the dialect.
Meanwhile, a tiny girl with beautiful hair and stunning eyes is sitting to my left here in the computer lab and is chatting with a 63 year-old man who hails from Toronto and wants to lend her his parka. When she comes to the continent to marry him. It's hard to change values. It's hard to be a volunteer here for that very reason. It's hard...to...GET ALVIN TO STOP TEXTING ME. That's three times in fifteen minutes. Come on!
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Ducks PLUS Tequila equals Americans in Paradise
Also on Thursday the 24th, a very special bottle of Tequila will be opened and used to make margaritas - the one thing I actually know how to cook. Please refrain from judgement. I brought one bottle of the precious liquid to the island to introduce my host family to my talents, and the reception was so good that I splurged and bought another bottle for the coming festivities.
After bringing the precious bottle to my mainland home, drama ensued as a rat entered stage left. Did you know that, after eating several pairs of decent underpants, one roll of toilet paper that I really needed, and countless other objects that are only precious because I have no salary and no belongings, that freaking rat thought he could go after my Tequila? Will that rat stop at nothing?? But alas, I am saved. In all of my literature, I've read only of them eating through steel, and nothing has been mentioned of glass, THANK GOD.
After bringing the precious bottle to my mainland home, drama ensued as a rat entered stage left. Did you know that, after eating several pairs of decent underpants, one roll of toilet paper that I really needed, and countless other objects that are only precious because I have no salary and no belongings, that freaking rat thought he could go after my Tequila? Will that rat stop at nothing?? But alas, I am saved. In all of my literature, I've read only of them eating through steel, and nothing has been mentioned of glass, THANK GOD.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Ethan the Duck
Do you want to see my duck?
The picture doesn't do little Ethan justice. He is hideous. My mastery of photography has somehow concealed the roughly 4 x 4 inch patch of skin on his back which is completely exposed and has no feathers whatsoever. While I also tried to get the "scratch and sniff" button on this blasted computer in working order, it fails me at the moment and you are not able to whiff the rancid odor that is his essence. He smells like meat, like raw, butcher-block meat. Having spent more time in wet meat markets over the past seven months than I care to recall, the scent of li'l Ethan, quite frankly, makes me want to hurl the eight cups of rice I ate today, because it reminds me of that time when a WHOLE PIG SKIN slammed against my left side as a meat-market-pig-skin-carrier was taking it to his booth. I still won't wear the shorts I had on that day.
So my duck is smelly, mange-y (you didn't think ducks could even have mange, but they can, and I have the proof), and furthermore, his heart beats at nine thousand beats per minute because he spent every waking moment of his 26-day life in a quiet rice field until today. Today he is in a basket and constantly eyed by Pogie, the dog at my house who is starved and kicked daily. Side story: Pogie remains suspicously alive in spite of the fact that my host family claims he had rabies once and that he used to have positively male identifying characteristics which have since disappeared, who really knows how. Anyway, continuing: Pogie loves Ethan in the way that I love a good piece of deep-fried Key Lime pie. Meanwhile, Ethan loves Pogie in the way that I love a good heaping plate of Crisco with crawling scorpions on top, and naturally Ethan freaks out and tries to rattle his cage, thinking that all 1.2 pounds of him can snap the bamboo container in half. Poor Ethan hasn't figured out that his 1.2 pounds of effort have no effect other than to make his heart nearly explode.
He is a fighter, though, and come Sunday (Philippine time), he will be safe on Himokilan with only no food and water to contend with.
That being said, he's only a fighter until Thanksgiving, when I've decided to sacrifice him for the sake of my American friends who want a good killin' come Thursday the 24th. His fate is sealed, you can't talk me out of it.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Introducing Mila Cavite
When she was eighteen years old, Mila Cavite had her first kiss. She was working in Manila at the time as a house maid, while another young man worked as a cook in the same house. He walked her to her quarters one night after work, and just before leaving he kissed her on the cheek. Shocked with complete embarassment and fear, she hit him on the face and he ran away. The young man courted Mila for four months after that, slowly winning her affections and stripping away her shyness, but she never was kissed by him again because she moved back to Himokilan before it was the appropriate time in their relationship. Yet still, nearly forty years later, Mila fondly remembers him as her very first love.
Having just eaten breakfast, Mila tells me this at the kitchen table during our morning ritual of talking over cups of warm brews – hers coffee, mine tea – as we wait for the sun to bring light into the house and to the island so we can start the day.
I am constantly curious about details of Mila's life, and I can tell she likes to share them with me. Its not often that someone finds her life anything but ordinary, because she is surrounded by the ordinary and always has been. But understand that Mila is not ordinary herself, at least not in my eyes considering her counterparts on Himokilan. To me, she is the sort of woman who doesn't seem to quite fit into the life she owns. In school, Mila never made it past grade four, but she speaks English more fluently than anyone on the island; while she never lived outside of Himokilan for more than five years total, three of them consecutive, she has an understanding of American and foreign culture that catches me with my jaw open at times in complete astonishment of her knowledge; and while she has never had real work, except for those few years outside of Himokilan as a house maid, she has always somehow supported her brothers and sisters, as well as her own children, during their times of financial hardship.
To meet her on the street in some mainland town, never would you place Mila as a woman leading a rural island life. Her personality is far too witty, far to modern, and far too strong to be anything resembling many of the other small-town folk I know here. She is an enigma, to put it simply. More eloquent descriptors fail me at the moment, but it is worth noting that she is, by far, the strongest and most admirable woman I have met in the Philippines, and I truly respect her. It bears repeating that I have no idea, no idea, how she is the woman she is considering the circumstances of her life.
She takes a slow, labored sip of coffee. Her eyes point toward the undadorned wall across from her and she looks right through it. Sitting across from her, my back to the same wall, I try to catch her stare, but its obvious that other memories from her time spent in Manila are returning to her, illuminated by those thoughts of her first love. When she speaks again, I'm not quite sure if she is knowingly telling me a story, or if she is unknowingly just thinking out loud.
“You know, Katarin, when I work for my German employer, he want me to go with him back to Germany. His children love me, his family love me, and I love them. I want to go, but I can't go because of my responsibility to my brother.”
I press Mila, I ask her what responsibility she owed her brother. Her eyes leave the wall and meet mine, as if she forgot, for a moment, I am there. “My brother is sick, Katarin.” She always calls me Katarin. She emphasizes the word 'sick,' as if she can't understand why I don't understand.
Sick how? I ask. “It is because he is stabbed. He is riding the Jeepney in Manila, and, what do you call that bu-ang? Ah, a crazy man stab him. He stab my brother in his stomach, and my brother is in hospital for five months. You know what Katarin? It is my responsibility to help my brother.”
In some random turn of events that ordinarily only happens in a ridiculous action/mystery/romance movie, my host mother was forced to decide between moving to Germany, a sure promise of prosperity for herself and her family, or staying behind to tend to her brother in the hospital.
I don't even need to bother explaining the rest. Knowing where Mila is now, the story writes itself: she stayed in Manila because of her responsibility to her family.
Seven months ago when I arrived in the Philippines, I wouldn't understand her logic. If I were in the same situation, my own upbringing and culture would tell me to leave, to follow a dream and pursue a career that would leave me and, possibly, my whole family in greater financial standing. Of the 80-some-odd million Filipinos, I would guess that nearly all of them would sacrifice anything – I mean anything – to have the opportunity to work abroad. But now, knowing the fraction of culture here that I do, I understand as best I can that sense of responsibility that Mila felt for her family. As the oldest child, the first born, her unwritten duty since birth has been to care for all of her family members. In her youth, her duty was toward her brother when he was stabbed, or any of her other younger siblings. Now, as an adult, it is to her aging mother, as well as her own children who fall on hard times.
But Mila doesn't need to tell me this right now at the table, because I have here lived long enough to now understand. She doesn't pity herself, either, but I know she will always wonder what life would have been had she left to Germany. She says with a poetic eloquence, “You know, Katarin, I am so lucky that God gave me this fighting spirit, because if he does not give it to me, I will have died of a broken heart.”
She smiles and takes another drink of her coffee. She then asks me, probably for the ninth time, why it is that so many older American men often marry Filipina women, but why very few American women marry Filipino men. And so I explain to her my interpretation of this twisted reality, and she listens to me with her lips curled in a gentle smile, as if I have the intersting things to say.
Having just eaten breakfast, Mila tells me this at the kitchen table during our morning ritual of talking over cups of warm brews – hers coffee, mine tea – as we wait for the sun to bring light into the house and to the island so we can start the day.
I am constantly curious about details of Mila's life, and I can tell she likes to share them with me. Its not often that someone finds her life anything but ordinary, because she is surrounded by the ordinary and always has been. But understand that Mila is not ordinary herself, at least not in my eyes considering her counterparts on Himokilan. To me, she is the sort of woman who doesn't seem to quite fit into the life she owns. In school, Mila never made it past grade four, but she speaks English more fluently than anyone on the island; while she never lived outside of Himokilan for more than five years total, three of them consecutive, she has an understanding of American and foreign culture that catches me with my jaw open at times in complete astonishment of her knowledge; and while she has never had real work, except for those few years outside of Himokilan as a house maid, she has always somehow supported her brothers and sisters, as well as her own children, during their times of financial hardship.
To meet her on the street in some mainland town, never would you place Mila as a woman leading a rural island life. Her personality is far too witty, far to modern, and far too strong to be anything resembling many of the other small-town folk I know here. She is an enigma, to put it simply. More eloquent descriptors fail me at the moment, but it is worth noting that she is, by far, the strongest and most admirable woman I have met in the Philippines, and I truly respect her. It bears repeating that I have no idea, no idea, how she is the woman she is considering the circumstances of her life.
She takes a slow, labored sip of coffee. Her eyes point toward the undadorned wall across from her and she looks right through it. Sitting across from her, my back to the same wall, I try to catch her stare, but its obvious that other memories from her time spent in Manila are returning to her, illuminated by those thoughts of her first love. When she speaks again, I'm not quite sure if she is knowingly telling me a story, or if she is unknowingly just thinking out loud.
“You know, Katarin, when I work for my German employer, he want me to go with him back to Germany. His children love me, his family love me, and I love them. I want to go, but I can't go because of my responsibility to my brother.”
I press Mila, I ask her what responsibility she owed her brother. Her eyes leave the wall and meet mine, as if she forgot, for a moment, I am there. “My brother is sick, Katarin.” She always calls me Katarin. She emphasizes the word 'sick,' as if she can't understand why I don't understand.
Sick how? I ask. “It is because he is stabbed. He is riding the Jeepney in Manila, and, what do you call that bu-ang? Ah, a crazy man stab him. He stab my brother in his stomach, and my brother is in hospital for five months. You know what Katarin? It is my responsibility to help my brother.”
In some random turn of events that ordinarily only happens in a ridiculous action/mystery/romance movie, my host mother was forced to decide between moving to Germany, a sure promise of prosperity for herself and her family, or staying behind to tend to her brother in the hospital.
I don't even need to bother explaining the rest. Knowing where Mila is now, the story writes itself: she stayed in Manila because of her responsibility to her family.
Seven months ago when I arrived in the Philippines, I wouldn't understand her logic. If I were in the same situation, my own upbringing and culture would tell me to leave, to follow a dream and pursue a career that would leave me and, possibly, my whole family in greater financial standing. Of the 80-some-odd million Filipinos, I would guess that nearly all of them would sacrifice anything – I mean anything – to have the opportunity to work abroad. But now, knowing the fraction of culture here that I do, I understand as best I can that sense of responsibility that Mila felt for her family. As the oldest child, the first born, her unwritten duty since birth has been to care for all of her family members. In her youth, her duty was toward her brother when he was stabbed, or any of her other younger siblings. Now, as an adult, it is to her aging mother, as well as her own children who fall on hard times.
But Mila doesn't need to tell me this right now at the table, because I have here lived long enough to now understand. She doesn't pity herself, either, but I know she will always wonder what life would have been had she left to Germany. She says with a poetic eloquence, “You know, Katarin, I am so lucky that God gave me this fighting spirit, because if he does not give it to me, I will have died of a broken heart.”
She smiles and takes another drink of her coffee. She then asks me, probably for the ninth time, why it is that so many older American men often marry Filipina women, but why very few American women marry Filipino men. And so I explain to her my interpretation of this twisted reality, and she listens to me with her lips curled in a gentle smile, as if I have the intersting things to say.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
From diets to carnage...
A continuation of the death theme from below: I witnessed the slaying of three pigs last week. Three. This is how it's done:
Step 1: Get two Americans who have never seen pigs killed brutally before.
Step 2: Send three Pinoys into the pig pen, one with an axe that is much larger in the story-teller's memory than it was in reality.
Step 3: Slam the selected pig victim on the noggin with the blunt end of the axe.
Step 4: Laugh at Katrina the American who is gasping in shock at the brutality and suddenness of it all.
Step 5: Remove the stunned and unknowing pig from the pen (with the help of the three Pinoys inside).
Step 6: Slit throat of pig. Just like that.
Step 7: Say "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew" in a very shrill, girlish scream if you are named Katrina.
Step 8: Laugh at the American saying "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew" in a very shrill, girlish manner if you are one of nine Filipino onlookers.
Step 9: Cut up pig and eat for fiesta.
Step 10: Repeat.
Step 1: Get two Americans who have never seen pigs killed brutally before.
Step 2: Send three Pinoys into the pig pen, one with an axe that is much larger in the story-teller's memory than it was in reality.
Step 3: Slam the selected pig victim on the noggin with the blunt end of the axe.
Step 4: Laugh at Katrina the American who is gasping in shock at the brutality and suddenness of it all.
Step 5: Remove the stunned and unknowing pig from the pen (with the help of the three Pinoys inside).
Step 6: Slit throat of pig. Just like that.
Step 7: Say "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew" in a very shrill, girlish scream if you are named Katrina.
Step 8: Laugh at the American saying "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew" in a very shrill, girlish manner if you are one of nine Filipino onlookers.
Step 9: Cut up pig and eat for fiesta.
Step 10: Repeat.
The Diet
About three weeks ago I made the bold declaration that the relationship between Katrina and Rice would end. No more. Kaupt. Finished.
Allow me to relay the seriousness of this situation. To say one will eat no rice here in the Philippines is on par with declaring that the mountains of the earth must shift their positions to form a giant smiley-face shape visible from space, and, in effect, give that stupid man on the moon a run for his money and show him that Earth cannot be beaten in the planetary faces game. The no-rice decision came at a hefty social price as well. In refusing to eat it, I traded my relatively solid image of sanity for a lesser image of idiocy and lunacy, and my host family on the mainland looked at me kind of like all those kids in high school did when I made the mistake of cutting my hair short, effectively making me look like a 10 year old boy.
On top of no rice, I also gave up meat entirely and relegated myself to eating only fish as my main protein source. The impetus for this “diet,” as I have dubbed it, was the training I went to several weeks ago. There, in the presence of 30 other American volunteers, I ate what can only be described as the closest thing to American food I have eaten in three months, including: pizza, pancakes, peanut butter, french fries with tomato ketchup, spaghetti Italian style, not the sweet Filipino style, and delicious wheat breat with REAL BUTTER THAT HAD BEEN REFRIGERATED. For three weeks I ate no meat and no rice, and after the training I was spoiled rotten, like a spoiled little American in the presence of lots of Americans. It was then and there, at training's end, that I decided it is entirely possible, if not downright easy, to eat whatever I want. So I declared it. I said no more meat and no more rice, and I was serious, too.
My plan was genius until I returned to my site and indulged in fiesta. Oh no.
But the “diet” was to return in full swing immediately following fiesta, because, as I'm sure it was declared in the Bible or some other really important historical document, everyone knows that all diets are off in times of fiesta and vacations. Sadly, immediately following fiesta was also vacation, which involved gentle persuasion by my chosen travel companion to eat the “most delicious food for its value in all of Asia, no, wait, make that IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.” I thought it was impossible for said travel companion to have eaten the best food for its value in all of the restaurants in all of the world when he hadn't been to more than about 7 countries of, like, at least 70 total, so naturally I had to try the food to see for myself. And yeah, it totally is the best food for is value in all of the world, but it did involve rice. One must eat rice with curries and sauces from the best-valued restaurant in all of the world, musn't one?
So anyway, the rice aspect of the diet was put on hold. At this point, I might have declared the diet a complete failure, but because I was staying relatively strong on the meat front, I felt that I was doing okay on a scale of “horribly bad” to “super excellent.” And then. Oh, and then....sometime between the diet declaration and me breaking the diet on multiple occasions, a tiny Filipina named Nanay Flor approached me with the dullest knife in all of Asia, no, wait, make that IN THE ENTIRE WORLD, I AM SO SERIOUS, and asked me in sweet Filipina-doesn't-speak-English-so-good fashion, “Do you like to kill?”
Insert roaring laughter here.
And then I killed my first chicken by slitting its throat like I was flippin' Rambo. The fact that it was with a dull knife has little to do with the story, except I think it made the task all the more third-world and therefore better in the telling. But the fact that Nanay Flor and her husband Tatay Bal insisted we kill a chicken, well, that's important. They don't exactly kill chickens all the time because they are very poor and simply can't afford to. Only on the most special occasions and for special guests, and maybe even sometimes when a lost chicken wanders onto their property like a little Hansel or Gretel, they find the event of killing a chicken for a meal appropriate and perhaps even necessary out of respect for the occasion or individual visiting.
It was truly my honor to be able to do “the deed.” The experience of the killing was one that invovled a bit of exhileration, a bit of fear, a bit of queasiness, and, in the end, a bit greater understanding of the life of a rural Filipino on my part. I don't know that I'll replicate the act (although that's what I said after my first videoke attempt, and now, four months later, I'm in the ranks with Barry Manilow for musical performance), but in its own right, my brutal murder of a clueless chicken will remain as a special memory for me for a long time to come.
I was able to witness and participate in an experience known to few Americans. It was difficult for me to do, and as the pictures will show, my eyes were closed for most of the time. I didn't know that chickens don't stop moving for minutes, minutes, after their throat is cut, or that their blood isn't smooth like water as it flows out, but more thick, like a mixture of corn starch and water. In some ways the whole process downright scared me, but in a greater way, and I know this is going to sound so cliché, I finally saw where the meat on my table comes from. Moreover, for all of the chickens that I see on buses and yards and streets around my municipality and beyond here in the Philippines, I now realize that to kill one of them for a meal means taking away just a piece of its owner's livelihood, just a piece of a future meal. That notion of sacrifice makes my role in the killing and, naturally, eating of the chicken afterward all the more valuable to me as a part of my experiences here. And thus, it was at this realization that the diet officially ended.
I bring this experience with me back to Himokilan Isla, where fish and rice are the staple, and where chicken and pork are also a very special and rare treat. Strangely enough, it took a training event, a brutal killing, and about 4 months at my site to truly realize what a luxury it is to be able to afford both the food and the things I love. Be it on an island in the Camotes Sea with 550 people, or a rural mountain barangay, or even the slums of a dirty city, to have the choice for your next meal or your clothing or your livelihood, well, that's something you may need to be an American to really understand the value of, because in some parts of the world, a person has no choice about what her next meal will be, and therefore the fantasy just ceases to exist.
I once asked my host mother on Himokilan Isla what her dream job would be, her most fantastical of fantasies. Her reply: a house maid in Manila. No, Mila, if you could have any job, in all of the world, and if whatever job you chose would make you rich beyond your wildest dreams, what job would you want? What job would you chose? Yet again, her reply: a house maid in Manila.
To afford to dream of diets and of jobs...what a wonderful thing. How sad that some people can't afford the luxury.
I returned to Himokilan last week. Rice and I have been reunited. Fish and I remain together, though I'm sure when the next oppourtunity for a slice of ham comes along I will spare the calories and the concern for high blood pressure and just indulge with everyone else.
Allow me to relay the seriousness of this situation. To say one will eat no rice here in the Philippines is on par with declaring that the mountains of the earth must shift their positions to form a giant smiley-face shape visible from space, and, in effect, give that stupid man on the moon a run for his money and show him that Earth cannot be beaten in the planetary faces game. The no-rice decision came at a hefty social price as well. In refusing to eat it, I traded my relatively solid image of sanity for a lesser image of idiocy and lunacy, and my host family on the mainland looked at me kind of like all those kids in high school did when I made the mistake of cutting my hair short, effectively making me look like a 10 year old boy.
On top of no rice, I also gave up meat entirely and relegated myself to eating only fish as my main protein source. The impetus for this “diet,” as I have dubbed it, was the training I went to several weeks ago. There, in the presence of 30 other American volunteers, I ate what can only be described as the closest thing to American food I have eaten in three months, including: pizza, pancakes, peanut butter, french fries with tomato ketchup, spaghetti Italian style, not the sweet Filipino style, and delicious wheat breat with REAL BUTTER THAT HAD BEEN REFRIGERATED. For three weeks I ate no meat and no rice, and after the training I was spoiled rotten, like a spoiled little American in the presence of lots of Americans. It was then and there, at training's end, that I decided it is entirely possible, if not downright easy, to eat whatever I want. So I declared it. I said no more meat and no more rice, and I was serious, too.
My plan was genius until I returned to my site and indulged in fiesta. Oh no.
But the “diet” was to return in full swing immediately following fiesta, because, as I'm sure it was declared in the Bible or some other really important historical document, everyone knows that all diets are off in times of fiesta and vacations. Sadly, immediately following fiesta was also vacation, which involved gentle persuasion by my chosen travel companion to eat the “most delicious food for its value in all of Asia, no, wait, make that IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.” I thought it was impossible for said travel companion to have eaten the best food for its value in all of the restaurants in all of the world when he hadn't been to more than about 7 countries of, like, at least 70 total, so naturally I had to try the food to see for myself. And yeah, it totally is the best food for is value in all of the world, but it did involve rice. One must eat rice with curries and sauces from the best-valued restaurant in all of the world, musn't one?
So anyway, the rice aspect of the diet was put on hold. At this point, I might have declared the diet a complete failure, but because I was staying relatively strong on the meat front, I felt that I was doing okay on a scale of “horribly bad” to “super excellent.” And then. Oh, and then....sometime between the diet declaration and me breaking the diet on multiple occasions, a tiny Filipina named Nanay Flor approached me with the dullest knife in all of Asia, no, wait, make that IN THE ENTIRE WORLD, I AM SO SERIOUS, and asked me in sweet Filipina-doesn't-speak-English-so-good fashion, “Do you like to kill?”
Insert roaring laughter here.
And then I killed my first chicken by slitting its throat like I was flippin' Rambo. The fact that it was with a dull knife has little to do with the story, except I think it made the task all the more third-world and therefore better in the telling. But the fact that Nanay Flor and her husband Tatay Bal insisted we kill a chicken, well, that's important. They don't exactly kill chickens all the time because they are very poor and simply can't afford to. Only on the most special occasions and for special guests, and maybe even sometimes when a lost chicken wanders onto their property like a little Hansel or Gretel, they find the event of killing a chicken for a meal appropriate and perhaps even necessary out of respect for the occasion or individual visiting.
It was truly my honor to be able to do “the deed.” The experience of the killing was one that invovled a bit of exhileration, a bit of fear, a bit of queasiness, and, in the end, a bit greater understanding of the life of a rural Filipino on my part. I don't know that I'll replicate the act (although that's what I said after my first videoke attempt, and now, four months later, I'm in the ranks with Barry Manilow for musical performance), but in its own right, my brutal murder of a clueless chicken will remain as a special memory for me for a long time to come.
I was able to witness and participate in an experience known to few Americans. It was difficult for me to do, and as the pictures will show, my eyes were closed for most of the time. I didn't know that chickens don't stop moving for minutes, minutes, after their throat is cut, or that their blood isn't smooth like water as it flows out, but more thick, like a mixture of corn starch and water. In some ways the whole process downright scared me, but in a greater way, and I know this is going to sound so cliché, I finally saw where the meat on my table comes from. Moreover, for all of the chickens that I see on buses and yards and streets around my municipality and beyond here in the Philippines, I now realize that to kill one of them for a meal means taking away just a piece of its owner's livelihood, just a piece of a future meal. That notion of sacrifice makes my role in the killing and, naturally, eating of the chicken afterward all the more valuable to me as a part of my experiences here. And thus, it was at this realization that the diet officially ended.
I bring this experience with me back to Himokilan Isla, where fish and rice are the staple, and where chicken and pork are also a very special and rare treat. Strangely enough, it took a training event, a brutal killing, and about 4 months at my site to truly realize what a luxury it is to be able to afford both the food and the things I love. Be it on an island in the Camotes Sea with 550 people, or a rural mountain barangay, or even the slums of a dirty city, to have the choice for your next meal or your clothing or your livelihood, well, that's something you may need to be an American to really understand the value of, because in some parts of the world, a person has no choice about what her next meal will be, and therefore the fantasy just ceases to exist.
I once asked my host mother on Himokilan Isla what her dream job would be, her most fantastical of fantasies. Her reply: a house maid in Manila. No, Mila, if you could have any job, in all of the world, and if whatever job you chose would make you rich beyond your wildest dreams, what job would you want? What job would you chose? Yet again, her reply: a house maid in Manila.
To afford to dream of diets and of jobs...what a wonderful thing. How sad that some people can't afford the luxury.
I returned to Himokilan last week. Rice and I have been reunited. Fish and I remain together, though I'm sure when the next oppourtunity for a slice of ham comes along I will spare the calories and the concern for high blood pressure and just indulge with everyone else.
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