Guitar Heroes

There are over 100 boys living at the Regional Rehabilitation Center for Youth. Located in La Union, it is part of the greater Philippines DSWD, and Scott, a Children, Youth, and Family PCV, has been working here for almost two years now.

As we enter the high-walled gates of the center, the boys kick plastic straws threaded through bottle caps into the air. They shuffle around, machismo and v-legged, in their plastic tsinelas and sagging basketball shorts. Some practice ball-less jump shots on the cracked concrete court, rehearsing the placement and flip of their hands. As six Americans walk past them, they stop to leer at us. Their ages range from 12-18, though a few are as old as 24. Only a third of them have privileges to leave the center. They are allowed to attend school and to buy candies at the sari-sari store across the road. To them, these six tall Americans are basketball stars, rock stars wearing Raybans with guitar case in hand, the next Idol or Gaga.

These are boys ‘in conflict with the law,’ as they say. What that term really means, we can only postulate. Some are locked in here for mere behavioral issues: acting out in class, disobeying the will of their parents, sibling rivalry. Many are here for theft, dishonesty, and bullying. Some have been charged with murder, of suspected rape or molestation. Most stay here for less than a year. Yet, some of these boys have been here for years, stuck in limbo inside a system trying to both account for them and rehabilitate them with life skills and livelihood training.

In this music camp, I am teaching a group of boys how to sing. Fifteen faces look upon me as if I am about to offer them the world, but will ask them to crawl across an electric fence to get it. They are suspicious, excited, and inquisitive of me- this foreign creature from another land and another language. After a few attempts to explain what a scale is, I realize that several of them cannot read, let alone understand my English. Luckily, after several clumsy attempts to incite some sort of noise resembling music, one of the Filipina staff members, Mahm Raquel, comes to my rescue by translating my words into Tagalog and Ilocano.

Most of my class is actively tone deaf, and though I keep pressing repeatedly on a note on the keyboard, they continue to sing completely off pitch. By doing vocal drills and sirens, I try to explain the concept of lower and higher so I can try to manually adjust their pitch as they listen to the keyboard. Yet the concept of higher and lower, even done through hand signals, does not adequately translate into their ability to control their voice. After much practice, a few of the boys momentarily reach pitch, and, in my excitement, I give an enthusiastic thumbs-up followed by a palm-up stop sign in an attempt to maintain that pitch. Yet as their voices continue to waver, like a crowd riding a rollercoaster, the attempts at music really just get lost in the noise. I even attempt to encourage a description of what it feels like inside their body to match pitch, but this proves to be a level of critical thinking that the boys are both uncomfortable with and cannot adequately express.

Next, I try to practice basic rhythm, in the hope that the boys can at least connect with the music in this way. We start by clapping basic rhythms, patterns of 2, 3, and 4. Yet, as I clap a basic beat and speak the numbers, the room becomes a din of clapping, boys struggling to catch up as they clap in every random space between the beats. After several minutes of adjusting speed, practicing speaking and clapping both apart from each other and together, only about half the boys are able to clap on beat. Even as we practice clapping to music, only about half can keep an accurate basic rhythm.

By now, only a few are actively participating, one because he is making his best creepy attempt to flatter me, and another who still seems to be stuck counting to four. I am dripping with sweat, forcing a smile on my face to swallow the lump of anxiety inside my throat. Inside, I feel I am swimming in my own failure, in inability to really reach these boys, affect change, or encourage interest within them.

During lunch, I try to gather my faculties for the afternoon session, though the sun is screaming down at us and the electricity has gone out again, leaving us soaked in our own sweat, strung out on benches in a futile attempt to dry out as we await the arrival of the schoolboys.

Half an hour later, the boys amble past the guards in their neat school uniforms. Already, they are a welcome respite from the failed chaos of the morning, even as they shoot rocks into the basketball hoop and demonstrate their best ‘Michael Jordan’ jump shot in 1 cm thick tsinelas. The boys orderly enter the classroom, bowing their heads to me in reverence, acknowledging me with a shy smile and a “Good afternoon Mahm.”

I repeat much of the same lessons as in the morning session. I begin by asking how their day at school went. A bit like their fervent jump shots, they zealously fumble for the words, “uh..um..berry good mahm. How..uh… your day?” In definite contrast to the energy of the morning session, the boys here are actively attentive. Though I hadn’t realized it at the time, the boys who attended the morning session wouldn’t look at me in the eye.

As we practice notes and scales, almost all the boys can sing on pitch, though it seems more difficult for them to match a single pitch than to sing along with a song. Clapping proves to be equally as rewarding, as the boys can differentiate between different rhythms and clap along to the songs I am playing. All of my anxiety has diminished, and I’m smiling and laughing and sharing with these boys. Many of them are so endearing that I have a hard time believing that they could have committed serious crimes. If anything, being with these boys renews much of my faith in education, as there is an immediate and a stark difference between the schooled and the non-schooled boys at this center.

For our final performance, I had chosen a Jason Mraz song, “I’m Yours,” since it is rather easy to sing. I figured that the boys would already know it, since I pretty much hear it on a daily basis, either from my students’ lips or on the radio. In the afternoon session, the schoolboys immediately pick it up, clapping in time, and singing the lyrics off the sheet of manila paper in front of them. Delighted that they have prior knowledge of the song, I focus my efforts of working on particular passages, adding harmony parts, and practicing some pronunciation issues.

In the morning sessions, it is a whole other story. Only one of the 13 boys has heard of the song. I also realize that since many of them cannot read, they cannot read the lyrics I had written out for them. I do my best to encourage the literate boys to try to help the illiterate, but it proves neither effective nor productive. I really begin to contemplate just how small some of these boy’s worlds are. They are locked inside this facility for 24 hours a day without any real contact with the outside world, without a real support system, and without the ability to gain any solid sense of education.

Yet, this is the precisely the reason why having a camp such as this provides such a positive outlet for them. It allows the boys a chance to learn in a non-threatening environment. It allows them a chance to develop a hobby, a passion, or even just a positive diversion for their time.

Travis, another PCV, shows chord fingerings inside an eager circle of guitar-wielders who shakily adjust their fingers to form the C chord. He shows one boy an alternate chord fingering using his pinkie, as his immobile ring finger was broken in a fight. In another room, Ryan demonstrates how to properly hold drumsticks and keep basic rhythms. For hours, the drum set rattles, as the boys attempt to teach their hands and feet to keep different beats in tandem with one another. Scott and Keith sit in a large hand-drum circle beneath the banana trees. They pass simple rhythm patterns around the circle for the boys to mimic and build upon. Clumsily, hands and feet gyrate, searching for the correct rhythm and hand placement.

Other boys are huddled around the circle, waiting for their chance with an instrument. Yet, as meryenda comes, as the sun begins to set, as we wipe the sweat from our brows and prepare to make haste, Raymond still practices his waltz pattern on the drum set, attempting to get his limbs to work separately together. Macky sets and resets, sets and resets his fingers to the C chord. Jaylord fumbles at the microphone chord, and Lawrence rocks his body to match the beat of his hand drum. Ramon taps his foot, twists pegs on his $15 dollar guitar, and strums quietly. Down, up, up; down, up up….

Happy Trip New Daughter

Transformation at the Point of Arrival and Departure
August, 2011

It’s as if the sky has turned on a faucet; water pounds the aluminum rooftop. I am inside a metal drum being beaten by a hundred determined hands. The long fingers of the palm trees quicken their tangling, like long strands of hair outside a speeding window. The wind pulls their bowed fronds straight, as slanting bands of gray rain scatter onto the concrete houses. Angry rapids flash through drainpipes, as the surrounding jungle of greenery gyrates, gathering its sustenance. The rocking gusts, like the rampant waves of a raucous ocean, shred the long banana leaves into pieces.

Inside the houses, the rain renders conversation futile. Words become riddled inside the sound of pounding metal. Manong Eric and I are suddenly deafened, watching each other’s mouths opening and closing mechanically inside the surrounding din. We smile and giggle, assuaging the awkwardness of trying to continue conversation. Yet, in seconds, as if the sky has turned off its pouring faucet, there is a sudden silence. A single white cloud, swimming inside the heavy rainclouds above, diverges across the sky.

In the Cordillera Mountains during rainy season, bands of sunlight are few. They become a respite to the constant grayness, a brief moment of warmth to dissuade the constant onset of a shiver. For a moment, the ashen rain puddles reflect the blue of the sky, brightening the muddy gravel. The brief moments of sunshine here are a rattle given to a crying child, an instant smile produced to warm the tears. The women rush to the clotheslines in a futile attempt to dry bundles of molded clothing.

After 7 hours of rough travel ascending the mountains from the coast, the jeepney drops me off in the sleepy mountain town of La Trinidad. An old Filipino man in a 1980’s Reebok windbreaker sits on a concrete step, toothlessly balancing his cigarette between outstretched lips. He takes a long, heavy drag and stares nonchalantly onto the strawberry field in the valley below. The rusted silver and blue jeepney sputters onwards up the mountain, hanging a large black cloud of exhaust over the gravel road.

The shop owners emerge from beneath aluminum overhangs, resting hands on hips as they watch the Americana clamor up the road. I get the usual, “U wun-uh ride?” from the drivers; the excited “Hi Mahm!” from the students. A woman, balancing a palm-woven basket upon her head, gives me a guarded smile as her eyes dart nervously between me and the road ahead.

In the midst of the rainy season, the busty, verdant mountains cool to a deep gray to match the muted sky. The thick, bluish clouds hang so low I am inside them; I remain still to watch the mist swimming towards me. The sepulchral bands of vapor intermix with cumulus clouds to create intermittent falling bands of mist and pouring rain. The gravel is laden with dirtied puddles, grit glued together in imminent entropy. My flip-flops flick bits of mud onto the backs of my legs as I hike up the small mountain road to a bright orange metal rooftop.

At the house, a small Filipina woman shyly smiles at me, as she emerges from behind stacks of hanging clothes. Her name is Brigette and she owns a Wagwagon (thrift shop of imported used clothing), her sole means of livelihood. For the week I am mentoring a group of recently arrived volunteers, I will be staying with her and her family. I have never met them before.

She immediately invites me inside, and warmly offers me some instant coffee and white bread. The house is basic, yet warm and inviting- a barren concrete shell without real flooring or an attached roof, but adorned with bright curtains, collections of stuffed animals, and a loudly buzzing radio. She tells me her husband is working abroad to help her family. They are making the ultimate sacrifice to put their two children through nursing school and college. She humbly apologizes for the penury of her surroundings, even though I attempt to convince her otherwise, and she assures me that someday, maybe she will have enough money to finish building the roof. Outside, the rain continues to drip, drip down within the gray mountain expanse.

In the early morning light, I awake to the roosters outside and a quiet knock at the door.

“You take your breakfast now, Mahm?” A demure voice beckons through the cracked door.

I didn’t sleep well the night before, as I couldn’t ignore the mosquitos buzzing around my ears. The mold-laden air had kept my feet both from drying and obtaining warmth. Downstairs, Mahm Brigette had warmed a bucket of water for my bath and I quietly step into the outdoor bathroom to take my bath. I do my usual spider-check, and thankfully find it all clear- the hand-sized ones usually live inside the bathrooms. After my bucket-bath, I am greeted by a cheerful woman busying herself with the presentation of the family breakfast table, a buzzing radio in Ilocano, steaming pots of coffee, and of course, the endless gray rain falling outside the window. Mahm Brigette has even made a sack-lunch for me, complete with separate plastic containers or rice and viand, and even a thermos of hot water for tea.

I am spending the week here in the Cordillera as part of a mentoring program for the recently arrived batch of volunteers. After a wet hike down the mountain, I greet the group of buzzling newbies, huddled around a table learning traditional Ilocano greetings from their Filipina language instructor. There are 8 total in this recently-arrived group- the only Education volunteers within their batch who will be assigned to work in the Northern Luzon, Ilocano-speaking area. Immediately, upon meeting them, I am confronted by a barrage of questions- “How is it working with a counterpart?” “What projects have I done?” Do you have a good relationship with your supervisor?” “How are your language skills?” etc.

These new trainees- hyper, loud, and overly-assertive- are like puppies swimming in a pond of quiet goldfish. They are wide-eyed and ignorant to the Filipino culture. In the coming months and years, each of them will undergo a transformation. In time, they will gain a much greater understanding of both this culture and their own American culture. This intensely difficult transition derives its splendor from the complex cultural and self-analysis, which is inherent to Peace Corps service. Being with the new trainees reminds me much of my own training. It’s hard to believe that it has been already been two years. In those two years, so much about myself, my behavior, and my understanding has changed.

Every afternoon, after training commences, the trainees and I walk down the mountain to the MacDonald’s- me splashing through the mud in plastic tsinelas- and them in their more appropriate rubber rain boots. MacDo offers one of the only places in La Trinidad with free Wi-Fi. Yet, for the trainees, it has become a place of recognizable comfort, a beacon of security- the last familiar oak tree growing in a forest of palms.

Every day, the rain falls. All pathways between the barren concrete houses are gravel swimming in wet mud. Most of the time, a large and long mist surrounds us and continuously drops from the rooftops and into the drains. At times, a beam of sunlight breaks through the mist, and we race out from under the rooftops to embrace a respite of tingling warmth. At times, the rain pours down hard, as if the sky is screaming at us, shedding hard, penitent tears. To break the monotony, the trainees, the other resource volunteer, and I play spoons on a long table. As the last card is taken, the volunteers leap across each other in aggressive competition, forcing spoons from other’s hands in order not to lose. We double over in laughter at each other’s daring moves, immensely enjoying our congenial competition. The Filipinos watch us in almost frightened bemusement, giggling as they cover their mouths with their handkerchiefs.

At the end of the week, after training and preparation, the volunteers hold a PACA workshop (Participatory Analysis for Community Action). They have gathered almost 50 community members together in the school library. These consist of teachers, barangay captains and other politicians, student leaders, PTA members, and local police officers. The objective of the meeting is to obtain community feedback in order to design and implement a community project, which the volunteers will complete at the end of training. PACA’s premise is basic- community development work needs to address community needs, follow the local seasonal calendar, and utilize community resources in order to be effective.

I was really proud of the volunteers, as they rather gracefully lead the entire workshop, leading the community members in designing a local seasonal calendar, making a community map of community assets, and deciding upon a local project idea- despite warring ideals from various community members. In the end, the community decided what it needed most was reliable access to local medicines in the local pharmacy, which constantly was running out of basic medicines. The secondary project ideas were the establishment of school security guards to protect school equipment, and the clean-up of the school bathrooms, which were neither sanity nor functional.

As I am preparing to make my exit here as both a volunteer and as an adopted citizen of this country, it is immensely rewarding to offer my assistance and advice to those who are preparing to make their entrance to this country and culture. Though I will not be able to see their transformation and growth in the coming days, it is enlightening to once again revisit the beginning of such a transition- to see the point of departure as I reach my arrival- and to offer hope and inspire future endeavors. I wish those 8 volunteers nothing but the best in their preparation for their service.

As I prepared to travel back to Vigan, I said my final goodbyes and thank you’s to Mahm Brigette and her family, who were enormously generous and accommodating. She offered me a freshly ironed sweater for the cold bus ride, wrote down my email to add me on Facebook, and sent me off down the mountain in the cool, perpetual rain. On the bus ride home, I received a text message from her- “We are not forgetting u here. Happy trip new daughter.”

In this, I can see my own personal and cultural transformation- as I walk into a stranger’s home in a country not my own and speak to them in their own dialect. I am welcomed not as a foreigner, but as one of their own. As a volunteer in the Philippines, I am given and offered a kindness I have learned how to translate in the last two years, a pan ethnic humility I have learned how to speak.

Diplomacy, Dengue, and almost Done

July, 2011

To celebrate American Independence day, many of the Luzon volunteers were invited to Baguio city to attend a U.S. Embassy Independence Day Party. Us ladies attempted to find shoes other than our tsinelas (flip-flops) to wear, while the boys struggled to find a pair of jeans without holes in them from within their wardrobes. We all hopped a bus to the great city in the mountains. It was a great contrast to our everyday existence, as we wandered through the lavish Embassy estate, holding glasses of white wine in our hands, as we socialized with various diplomats, aid workers, and socialites. I met a Filipina Opera singer (she won Filipino’s Got Talent) and talked to a Fil-Am Embassy worker and diplomat, who struck up a conversation with me impressed that I knew all the words to the Filipino National Anthem.

In addition, an array of American military men was attending the party. They were stationed in Baguio for an American/Filipino multi-cultural event being held at the local shopping mall. Some of the men took us ladies out drinking and dancing (a special treat) for the weekend. After a long, stressful, and often-isolated time at site, it was great to meet new friends and have new experiences to share.

After such an extraordinary weekend, I returned home to Vigan on Monday morning and took a nap beside my electric fan. I awoke, hours later, shivering and cold. It was 90 degrees in my room and I had NEVER felt cold before, nor have I shivered at all in the past two years. I took my temperature and it showed a slight fever; I took a few Ibuprofen and lay back down.

At midnight, I awoke with severe chills and a severe fever. My bed sheets were completely wet with sweat. I took a higher dose of Ibuprofen and told myself that, if in an hour my fever did not come down, I was going to go to the hospital. I lay in my bed, shaking uncontrollably with chills, for over 30 minutes before I broke down into tears.

I woke my Nanang in the middle of the night, still shaking uncontrollably and in tears. I am not usually one who cries easily, but just as I could not control my shaking and chills, I could not control my tears. I had no idea what was happening to my body. That was the most strange and frightening thing- losing control of my body.

At the provincial hospital, a few nurses asleep on wooden benches were awoken, and they laid me out on an old piece of foam to take my BP and temp. For the reminder of the evening, I lay in a pool of my own sweat, shaking uncontrollably in a barren, third-world hospital as I watched the mosquitoes flying around me. (Pretty much the picture of your worst nightmare when you imagine joining the Peace Corps…haha) A few hours later, my blood tests confirmed it was Dengue Fever. Unfortunately, the only thing to do was to give me fluids and wait for it to go away. There is no treatment for Dengue.

For two days, I lay on that bed- shaking as if in seizure. I was sweating through the bed sheets while covered in blankets, and I still felt cold in the 95 degree heat. My fever soared to heights of over 104 Degrees, as the nurses stripped off my blankets and piled cold, wet cloths to my thighs, stomach, neck, and back in order to cool me down. My blood platelets dropped from a normal level of over 300,000 to just under 120,000. Lunch was a cup of plain rice with a can of cold tuna soaked in vegetable oil; dinner was a cup of plain rice with boiled cabbage. (I didn’t eat.) My host sister stayed with me, curled up on the bench beside my bed, occasionally getting up to adjust my pillow, cover me with a blanket, or a apply a cold compress. I shivered and shivered, through raging temperatures, as the ostentatious and obnoxious WAWAWEE (TV show) blared in the background.

A volunteer nurse stayed with me for much of time. Due to the overabundance of nurses in the Philippines, many nurses are forced to volunteer in local hospitals for months and even years before they can find an open position. She was very curious about my life in the States, as it was “her only dream to work overseas.” She told me not to worry because she wouldn’t leave my side and apologized for the poor conditions of hospitals in this country, wishing she could be working in a nicer hospital, much like “the ones you see in the TV.” She asked me if I liked to watch Glee. She invited her friends to come into my room, as they were curious about the young Americana. Picture this: Katy in a red-faced, shivering, fever-induced haze being stared at by groups of tiny Filipina nurses covering their faces in shyness and peaking at me over the tops of neatly-folded handkerchiefs. No words were spoken, but I do believe I tried to smile. In the Philippines, it is the moments like these I will always remember.

Since I was not staying in a Peace-Corps-approved hospital, I was asked to transfer to a better hospital. I stayed another day at the other hospital, with an attending doctor who was the wife of my school principal. Out of kindness, she did not charge me doctor’s fees. Another reason to appreciate the Philippines.

After the chills and fever subsided, my biggest problem was that of an approaching G.R.E exam, which I was scheduled to take place in a few days. I had scheduled it months ago and had been studying hard since. Doing well on this one test was my best chance of getting a scholarship into the Graduate program I have been looking at. I decided to leave the hospital, against doctor’s wishes, to travel to Manila to take the exam. Anyway, my fever had already subsided.

Upon arriving to Manila, I felt better. At least I was able to eat a few bites of food. I rested for the day and tried to do some studying. The next morning, the day of my exam, I awoke early to study feeling incredibly weak. I had not eaten in almost a week and I could barely get out of bed. I realized there was no way I could undergo a three-hour test. Finally (and luckily), my friend who was taking care of me forced me to get out of bed and go to the hospital for a blood test.

At Makati Medical Center in Manila, my blood results showed my platelets (normal 300,000) had dropped from 121,000 to 51,000. I was immediately admitted. With Dengue Fever, patients showing a platelet count of less than 50,000 must get a blood transfusion or they risk death. I lay there- my third hospital in less than a week- weak and fatigued, while the doctors implanted me with more needles and IV’s too large for my tiny veins. The hospital started looking for blood donors.

Lunch was cold rice and a pile of cold, lumpy potatoes, but dinner was delivered from Pizza Hut by a good friend. Yet, I just couldn’t eat anything. The following day, my platelets dropped to 41,000. The doctor decided to give me one more day before doing a transfusion. Luckily, the next day my platelet level slowly began to rise. I lay in that hospital bed for just over four days. The doctors let me leave as soon as my platelets rose above 150,000.

Meanwhile, all of the volunteers from my batch were gathered just outside Manila for our Close of Service Conference. This is a special conference, in which volunteers begin the transition of finding closure on one’s service and preparing oneself for a life back in States. At COS, we all attempt to understand how changed we are and will be when we return to our homes. I arrived at the conference late, on the eve of the first day.

It was great to see all of the other volunteers, many of whom I had not seen in a long time, as our sites are across the country from one another. Much of COS, I still felt very weak, which was unfortunate because I had really wanted to spend as much time with the other volunteers as possible, as it was the last time we were going to see each other.

In one of the more memorable COS sessions, our Sector Manager turned the lights off inside the conference hall and lit a candle, as she told the story of someone whose life she had touched. The 60 volunteers from my batch sat in a circle, each taking turns lighting each other’s candle after having told a brief story from our service. It was a session filled with both laughter and tears, and hours later, we stood in the dark room, in a circle of our own light, having shared a few brilliant and private moments together.

The day after COS, I was excited to participate in a Habitat for Humanity Build with many of my other batchmates. We were helping to build a housing complex for families displaced by one of the more recent and devastating typhoons. We put on our hard-hats and began shoveling and sifting sand into piles, which would later be made into concrete. After only 20 minutes in the 95 degree heat, I was soaked in sweat and exhausted. Unfortunately, I didn’t yet have the energy for this kind of work. I spent the rest of the day sleeping on the bus, while the other volunteers continued to work.

July was a busy month, both physically and emotionally. It was filled with just about everything you can expect as a volunteer: ill-timed sickness, the confliction and meeting of one’s American citizenship against one’s new-found Filipino citizenship, mutual assistance and community love, the brief moments of respite found in meeting new friends, and the warmth of reflection with old friends.

Peace Corps Philippines Batch 268

White Butt! White Butt!

June, 2011

In early June, parents, teachers, students, and community members all gathered at the high school for the annual, “Brigada Escuela.” Numerous hands are shaken by the principal and the higher-ups of DepED in a long-winded ceremony, as the people each file away, propelled to do their bidding. During Brigada Escuela, the students grab their stick brooms and sweep the mounds of fallen leaves from the rock pathways between buildings. Community members and teachers pull the cobwebs from the ceiling corners, re-paint chipped doorways, and fix broken and rusted locks. With straw brooms, teachers sweep floating stacks of dust from the concrete classroom floors. Thunderous pounding and screaming drills emanate from a concrete box undergoing its construction, soon to be a new classroom. The old, wooden desks are aligned in straight, even rows inside every open doorway. They rest, in silence of their constant creaking, awaiting the throngs of plaid-skirted, blushing girls, and pasaway boys, who will arrive in just a few days.

The school year begins in a bustle. Crowds of students wander aimlessly around campus for almost a week, before the school is organized enough to disseminate them into their classes. Aileen and I take up our usual gregarious routine, giggling together in our corner of the faculty room, attempting to plan lessons. I also begin working with another counterpart, Ms. Joan. She is a sweet, though often demure, younger teacher. She is incredibly bright and I am looking forward both to learning from her and helping to contribute to her box of teaching tools.

I was ecstatic on the first day of school. I had been attempting to get the English Department to re-organize the faculty room to provide placement for the incoming ERC shelves. In the past year, the faculty room was an organizational disaster, as piles of teaching materials, folders, and stacks of manila paper lay in piles on every available shelf. Yet, as I entered the faculty room, poised for another school year, my jaw dropped. The entire room had been cleaned, re-organized and an empty space lay in the corner, ready for an English Resource Center shelf to arrive. I was ecstatic! A few weeks later, the shelves finally arrived for the English Resource Center project. All three schools received them- brand new metal cabinets, with plastic window panes aligning the front to see inside. I kept wishing I was ready to fill them, yet I was still struggling in the midst of printing the materials.

Printing was going well at first- with the donation of a Business Jet HP from my school (donation of past alumni). Yet, soon the ink ran out and the Local Government informed me that new ink cartridges could not be found or ordered in this part of the world. A good friend of mine from the LGU loaned me his small printer from his local internet café. This was very kind of him, but the printer could not keep up with the demand of printing so many materials, and the ink cartridges remained empty and useless. No one at the LGU was willing to sit down and help me, nor give the project any attention. The weeks passed by, as I had only printed half the materials for the master copy. Once again, I felt frustrated and totally incapacitated with the project.

At the end of June, I took a trip to the Cordillera mountains to the province of Ifugao. Ifugao is one of the most culturally-rich places in the Philippines, as its remote location within the Cordillera mountains has sheltered it from hundreds of years of Colonization. The people there were celebrating their annual Igorot Heritage Festival. Along with the traditional art, dance, clothing, and music of the Igorot people, a few Peace Corps volunteers set up a booth commemorating 50 years of volunteer service in the Philippines. At the booth, local community members came to write memories of past volunteers on a large banner, and buy items from livelihood projects, which volunteers helped to create.

During the final ceremony of the festival, a group of 15 PCV’s put on the traditional woven clothing of the Igorot people and performed a native dance to the beat of drums. For us ladies, our clothing consisted of a wool-like blanket wrapped around our bodice. However, the men wore a much-less conservative G-string of fabric, tied to hold their loins in place. I think the most memorable part was watching the laughter of the crowd as we danced, and them pointing at all the males, saying, “White butt! White butt!”

Below: Igorot Dancing; Printers, Projectors and White Screens being received for ERC Project by Local Mayor.

Vigan Padayan and the Genius of Juan Luna

June 6, 2011

I: Padayan

In Cebuano, the word ‘Padayan’ means ‘to continue.’ Peace Corps originally designed the program, and it is done in many countries throughout the world. In an effort to promote youth leadership in countries where leadership skills are often lacking, the ‘Padayan’ model encourages youth within the community to learn and practice leadership and mentorship. To begin the training, several Peace Corps Volunteers hold a leadership training for local youth in the community. Afterwards, the youth plan and hold their own youth camp for younger kids. The Padayan model is for the youth to learn and immediately practice their leadership skills.

Having heard of this model, the city government of Vigan requested for a Padayan camp. Ate Stella, from the Vigan DSW office, took charge of much of the planning, while I hosted the event and helped with planning. Three other volunteers were invited to Vigan to help host the event as well.

The theme of the camp was centered on Conservation and Preservation. The Heritage city of Vigan is the oldest remaining example of a Spanish Colonial town that exists in all of Asia. Walking down its aged cobblestone streets, one can enjoy the sounds of kalesas (horse-drawn carriages) clip clopping down the lane. The buildings aligning the streets are Spanish fortresses of aged concrete. Their capis-shelled windows and wooden arches have remained for several centuries. During the Spanish colonialism of the past 4 centuries, the Philippines had many Spanish-looking towns. However, World War II brought the demise of all of these cities, except one- Vigan, Ilocos Sur. During the war, the Filipina lover of a Japanese army General resided in Vigan. Thus, the Japanese army vowed not to bomb the city. Today, Vigan is revered as a World Heritage Site and tourists from all over flock to the city to take a trip back in time.

Forty-five local youth leaders were scheduled to attend the training. However, only 23 of them showed up. Andrew, Jane, Mary, and I gave icebreakers to start the morning, before presenting a series of activities. The biggest challenge on day one was really their shyness. It felt like no matter what I did, I could not get them to speak. A majority of them was in college, yet they were so extremely shy. We even encouraged them not to speak in English, and to use a language they felt more comfortable in, such as Tagalog. By the end of the day, I felt exhausted by their taciturn glances and having to drag every single response out of them. Many of them would not look at me in the eye at all. (This is something about this culture that I will never be able to adjust to comfortably.)

Day two brought about less shyness, more small group work and the result was better, as many of them were able to express themselves better, be it in Tagalog. As facilitators, we talked about the qualities of a leader and the best ways in which to expresses these qualities.

I was especially impressed with day three. The youth leaders planned and prepared for the youth camp they would give the following day. They decided upon a theme of ‘Kalikasan’ (nature) and ways to protect the environment. Us facilitators divided the youth leaders into groups to plan each aspect of the two-day camp. Together, the youth leaders planned every activity of the camp.

The next day, we held the camp at my high school’s gymnasium. Around 75 participants showed up for the camp. For the two-day camp, the youth leaders had to organize and facilitate the entire camp. Once registration, nametags, and introductions were finished, the youth leaders facilitated a series of activities, including dancing, pass-the-bouquet, relay races, and a sack race. In the afternoon, the participants competed in an “Amazing Race” in the schoolyard. Some of the activities included trash pickup, separation, and recycling, as well as trash art contests stationed at different booths points during the race.

To conclude the camp, the students prepared for a Mr. and Ms. Kalikasan 2011 pageant. A participant from each team had to design a costume out of trash or from nature and compete in a pageant. The students busied themselves preparing for pageant, spending hours practicing team cheers, dancing, and gathering various materials for costumes. The kids were pretty ingenious, creating their costumes with leaves, trash bags, flowers, vines, and bamboo. In the final afternoon, they haled the pageant, and I watched the tiny Filipino children parade across the stage, naked beneath layers of leaves and taped-together trash bags. After lots of waving, walking, some painful high notes, and a few nosebleeds during the Q & A, Mr. and Ms. Kalikasan were awarded.

The final two days Padayan were led by a guest speaker, a professor from a university in Manila. Initially, I expected his lecture on conservation and heritage preservation to be a bit boring, but I was very wrong. Mr. Eric Zerrudo, a flamboyant and brilliant professor, kept us giggling and intrigued by Philippine History and Heritage.

One of the most memorable moments of his visit was a teamwork activity wherein the youth leaders had to construct their own Vigan city Plaza. Each group was assigned to build a particular building within the plaza, such as the church, the City Hall, the bell tower, and the market. However, in order to do this they had to purchase their building materials (wooden dowels, tissue paper, glue, and tape) from Mr. Zerrudo, using their own clothing as money. At first, we all thought he had to be kidding. Yet, the youth started to remove panties, bras, pants, and shirts in an embarrassed panic. Boys walked around in boxers and girls wrapped shirts around their exposed bottoms in an attempt to cover themselves. Midway through the activity, Mr. Zerrudo, the tyrannical bank owner, moved the bank, thus forcing them to walk outside the classroom to buy their final items. Meanwhile, (in the same building as our camp), the induction ceremony for the newly elected Congressmen was taking place. Just imagine the politician’s faces to see their youth leaders scampering around half-naked trying to build a paper building!

Overall, the camp went remarkably smoothly and it was great to see the youth leaders interact with the kids. Many of them really came out of their shells and took a leadership role. As facilitators, we were really proud of the youth leaders- most especially the unique increase in their confidence throughout the span of the camp.

II: The Genius of Juan Luna

For me, the most memorable part of Mr. Zerrudo’s visit was a lecture he gave on Philippine art and the famous Filipino artist Juan Luna. Luna’s painting, “The Parisian Life,” was bought by the Philippine government for a staggering 46 million pesos!

Why? It has become one of the most famous Filipino paintings of all time; yet it remains mired in ambiguity.

Painted in 1892, it shows a picture of a young prostitute sitting in an awkward, dejected position inside a Parisian cafe. A wrinkled coat is situated next to her. She is being eyed from behind by three of the most influential Filipinos in history: Dr. Jose Rizal, the national hero and scholar of the Philippines; Juan Luna himself, the first Filipino master painter and Ambassador; and Dr. Bautista, the Filipino doctor who found a cure for Cholera. In the painting, it appears the three men are trying to pick up the dejected whore.

An initial and basic interpretation of this painting provides a commentary on the male Filipino’s notorious infidelity. Yet, this interpretation does not address Luna’s reasoning for the whore’s awkward and dejected seated posture, nor does it provide reasoning why Luna chose to paint three of the most prominent Filipinos within history as subjects of the painting. For years, scholars have analyzed and debated the meaning of this painting.

Years after its initial creation, scholars stumbled upon another interpretation. It was discovered that Luna had shot his own wife and her family upon his discovery of her infidelity. The woman in the painting becomes a representation of this infidelity and the black top hats worn by the men represent the ‘wearing’ of this infidelity, a symbol of Luna’s own anger and dejection. Upon recognition of this interpretation, the name of the painting was changed for the fourth time in the painting’s history.

For almost a hundred years, this interpretation remained, until a group of students at the University of the Philippines attempted to answer several ambiguities that former interpretations did not address. First, it is evident that the dejected prostitute is the central focal point of the painting, as she is illuminated at the front of the painting, while the three Filipino men remain mired in shadow in the background. (Previous interpretations placed the men as the focal point of the painting.) Second, the woman’s odd physical shape and awkward seated position remained a looming question. Finally, the symbolic meaning of the wrinkled jacket beside the woman was absent in both the previous two interpretations.

So how did these students unlock these ambiguities?

To understand their interpretation, we must first look at Philippine history. It is a politesse to say that during the almost 350-year colonization by the Spanish, the Filipino people were treated as subordinates, as many would claim that Filipinos were, in reality, slaves to Spanish rule. Spanish culture and language completely undermined the language and culture of the Philippines. For most of its history, the Philippines has had its identity stolen and its natural resources squandered for Spanish profit. After Spanish rule, the Americans just continued to whitewash and exploit both the country and culture for our profit and military might. Finally, in 1946, the Philippines gained its ‘freedom,’ a term I use loosely here, and in the following years, the country struggled to scrape together its mangled identity and culture.

During this reclamation, the Philippines attempted to salvage its many national treasures. Juan Luna, unarguably the most famous of Filipino painters, was awarded the title of ‘Master Painter’ for his prodigious rendition of “Spolarium.” The Filipino government attempted to reclaim this painting from Spain, yet Spain refused, claiming that when Luna painted it, the Philippines was under Spanish rule, and therefore Luna was not a Filipino but a Spaniard. Years later, after an arduous struggle, Spain finally agreed to return one of Luna’s greatest works back to the Philippines. When the painting arrived, the Filipinos found Luna’s most precious painting torn in 3 pieces.

In an attempt to address the numerous ambiguities of Luna’s “Parisian Life,” a group of students at the University of the Philippines uncovered a few shocking details. When laid side-by side, the figure of the woman resembles the outline of the Philippine islands. In fact, when the outline of the Philippine islands was turned backwards and overlaid upon the woman, it exactly matched her awkward seated posture- from her tiny waist of Northern Luzon and her breast of Eastern Isabela province, to the ruffles of her long skirt of Mindanao and her outstretched leg of Palawan. Her awkward, black-trimmed neck is not a part of her dress, rather a noose around her neck. The lady in the painting is the Philippines herself. She sits next to the clothing of her deserted user, the wrinkled coat of Spain. She is a dejected mistress for the Spanish with a noose around her neck.

But why is the woman, the outline of the Philippines, backwards? It is only the three Filipino heroes in the background, looking at her from behind, who can see her true shape; the rest of us have merely been viewing her from the wrong angle.

This interpretation came about one hundred years after ‘The Parisian Life’ was painted, almost 100 years after Luna’s death, and after a 50-year battle with Spain to rightfully bring over and bury Luna’s remains within his own country of the Philippines.

So just why did the Philippine government pay 46 million pesos for this small and ambiguous painting? As Dr. Jose Rizal wrote, “Genius knows no country.”

Peaks Staggering out into the Heavens: Sagada English Institute

May, 2011
How one can describe the Cordillera Mountains is beyond me, as pictures cannot even attempt to depict their prodigiousness. As such, the only real picture of them I have is merely a quickly-fading vision behind my closed eyes. Yet, the Cordillera Mountains remain one of the most beautiful sites I have ever witnessed, and special too, because only those who have occupied a space within those tumbling abysses can truly say they have seen them. In pictures, the sharp precipices appear flat and colorless; the far-flinging peaks become mere outlines of shaded ink.

Spasmodic, seven-hour bus rides through these admired ridges become inconsequential to the time spent memorizing the way the clouds creep through each crag and valley. Like a shark’s silent stalking before its strike, the formed white wisps float among the ridges. From a distance, the ridges of the Cordillera appear as charcoal-clawed spears jolting up into the heavens. However, once within them, precariously balanced upon the remaining sliver of a dirt road overtaken by a landslide, the green-fringed palms, the arid piles of grasses, and the angular pines texturize each sheer slope into the mottled hues of a sponge painting. The trees still grow vertically, despite their obvious struggle. Every time it rains, gravity urges crumbling rock down onto the man-made mountain shelves; these roads become impassable until inured villagers can shovel a clearing.

The Igorot live high up in these hills; many of them still dress in the red-striped, hand-woven cloth of their ancestors. They paint their aluminum rooftops in vibrant shades. From the ridge, the tiny clusters of navy, red, green, and orange rooftops form a disjunct patchwork quilt lain below. Beside the houses, hundreds of rice terraces carved into the mountain form the edges of the quilt, their lime-green facades framed in rocks the color of the afternoon rain. These rice terraces were built hundreds of years ago and have survived despite a plethora of natural disasters plaguing the region. To view them is to marvel at their artful formation, as the perfectly horizontal shelves appear like verdant puzzle pieces emerging up a dark and fitful wall.

For the English Institute, we stayed in the same school-side cabin as in the last English Institute I attended in October. It’s a rather rough cabin, with holes galore in the walls and flooring, large spiders running rampant, and rats clawing from inside the walls. After a night of waking to constant buzzing beside my ears, I slept using the blanket as a cocoon to ward off all critters great and small. I had been anticipating the cold weather in Sagada for weeks, as I felt I was boiling in the 95-degree heat of the lowlands. However, immediately upon arrival to the cool, crisp air of Sagada, I began to shiver and was soon battling an unshakable cold. My body was simply not used to temperatures below 80 degrees. I had brought no warm clothes- because I simply don’t own warm clothes. It was once again a revelation to discover that the Philippines indeed has places that are cold. Becoming so inured to the dense heat of the lowlands, I had simply forgotten how chilling the mountain could be.

Seventy Elementary School teachers from Eastern Mountain Province attended the English Institute in Sagada. They came in smiling, proudly baring their Sagada-woven baggage. In the mountains, it seems most love bright colors and pattern work. Every morning, sitting before me were 10 sets of eyes, mostly women, dressed in floral-patterned sweaters, striped pants, and speckled blazers, faded from years of hand washing. From the young, pregnant, and often demure ladies, to the stately, and rather candid, older ladies, my class was a mixture of both the bashful and out-spoken personalities one can often find within the Mountain Province.

The main goal of the English Institute is for the teachers to practice speaking and listening to English. As such, we encouraged them to speak English throughout the week-long event, even during merienda and meals. To begin the week, we started with a day of debate and discussion. In order to win candy, the teachers had to talk, talk, talk. They debated whether or not coffee was better than tea and identified the advantages of tape over glue. They pretended to be market venders and one teacher had to sell me a pen and the other a pencil. It seemed there was no amount of flattery that proved too much to win my patronage. In the afternoon, they played telephone and relayed funny tongue twisters between each other, spitting out hilariously-mangled phrases at the end of each line. In addition, the teachers each took turns explaining a process, such as how to cook adobo or the famous Pinikpikan (Beaten Chicken). Mahm Josephine actually took her purse and started brusquely beating it to demonstrate exactly how they beat and kill the chicken before they eat it. One of the more demure teachers, Mahm Sorina, came up in front of the classroom, smiling sweetly and began to define the concept of love. She had even drawn a few hearts as visual aids.

Near the end of the day, we had a class debate over some controversial topics. In this debate- whether or not men should make the first move- the brusque voices of Mahm Josephine and Mahm Arelyn arguing for the continuation of the Catholic moral tradition and the incalculation of Filipino tradition within children spoke louder than the others, despite being outnumbered. Both of the young, pregnant teachers spoke up for the opposite case, encouraging equal courting rights for both men and women. Even the lone male teacher spoke up to say, “We men don’t want to do all the work…”

The next day, the teachers learned about Filipinisms, or common English mistakes made by Filipinos. They walked around giggling and preventing themselves from saying ‘already’ after every sentence or using ‘cope up with’ in a sentence. After this, we practiced English Phonetics and my classroom sounded like the garrulous walls of a 1st grade classroom learning the alphabet for the first time. The teachers giggled practicing the International Phonetic Alphabet, their foreign tongues stumbling over short and long vowels. Many were surprised to realize they had been producing the ‘th’ and ‘v’ sounds incorrectly their entire life.

On the final day, my favorite session, we looked at Oral Interpretation. In the morning, the teachers took turn reading storybooks to each other. Their task was to make the words and characters come to life, rather than narrating them like robots reciting poetry. In the Filipino culture, it is often looked down upon to publicly express strong emotion and display strong facial expressions. Unfortunately, for school children, this means growing up with fairy tales read in robotic voices and laughter covered by hands and handkerchiefs. For some of the teachers, the dramatic and lively expression needed to portray a storybook came as a welcome break from their own quiet cultural norms. For some of the more demure teachers, it took just about all of my energy and enthusiasm just to get them to smile when reading the part of the protagonist or to scowl when reading the part of the monster. After a few hours of practice, however, most of the teachers were reading their stories to each other with lively voices and expressions. No matter how old you get, reading storybooks never stops being fun.

In the afternoon, the teachers prepared for their class presentation, a dramatization of the “I have a Dream Speech.” The expectation was that they were to prepare roles, staging, and proper voice/expression for their evening performance. For hours, they debated and rehearsed roles, pronunciation, delivery of lines, and stage places, even establishing choreography and costumes. The teachers decided that the voices of the African-Americans were going to dress up in black clothing and the voices of the White people were going to dress up in white clothing. During the performance, they represented the factions between blacks and whites by dividing the stage between the white-clothed people and the black-clothed people. They acted out the beating of a black man using a few spare bamboo sticks. Each took turns resolutely affirming, “I have a Dream!” As Martin Luther King’s poem spoke about uplifting future generations, the two pregnant teachers protectively guarded their bellies, while the other teachers bowed in reverence. Finally, the black and white-clothed groups formed a circle, and all finished the speech by singing Michael Jackson’s “We are the World,” swaying and holding hands. King would be proud!

The ride back to Vigan encompassed a series of two jeepneys, a van, and a bus. I rode to Bontoc on the first jeepney while revering the majestic Cordilleras. I felt I was viewing the heavens, as the distant, wraith peaks spilled out onto the horizon, illuminated by thousands of penetrating beams of sunlight. I have never seen such an immense procession of outlined peaks before; the mountains seem to stagger one after another out into the heavens. The cool haze limned each golden band of sunlight and the bands striped the horizon like the hasty brush strokes of a prosaic painting. I wound down and through these crags on rough, unpaved roads, as the jeepney swung left and right through every serpentine turn. A few Filipinos, usually garrulous, sat next to me in their own reverie, silently chewing and spitting their bloody bits of Moma out onto the passing road. Three hours passed in this reverie as we slowly crept through the peaks on the winding shelves of descending roads.

Finally, we descended into a wide riverbed; streams of water roamed down across a kilometer wide of haphazard stones. Our tires bumpily lurched over the jagged stones. My skin vibrated along my bones as we descended into the water. Flowing brown water immediately covered the jeepney’s tires, and as we descended deeper and deeper, water began to flood the truck-bed. We scrambled to lift our bags, purses, and feet from the floor. Just as I feared our engine would flood and our jeep would be overtaken by the river, we began to ascend again as the jeepney wearily crawled onto the bank. The water inside the truck-bed rushed out- a waterfall onto the dusty rocks beneath us. A few great concrete pillars had been constructed on each side of the great river, yet it was evident that the bridge connecting them was yet another year or more from completion. Until then, one can only cross this great river during the dry season. For centuries, this river has separated two linguistic groups, the Cancanai-speaking Mountaineers and the Ilocano of the lower lands.

Just kilometers from the great river, Cervantes, Ilocos Sur, contains an array of rounded, yellow-green hills. I wound in, out, and down through these arid hills until reaching a road only several feel from the tranquil South China Sea. The stifling heat and humidity of the lowlands suffocated every crevice of my body. The steam-bath forced beads of sweat out of every pore.

One last time, I beheld the stalwart barrages behind me before turning to head north to Vigan, my home.

A Sunset through the Acacia Tree

March, April, May, 2011

A few little Filipino girls are trying to chuck a basketball inside a hoop. They flail mechanically as if flinging a sack of rice to a point just beneath the sun. I’m watching the sun sink mercifully beneath the horizon after another day drenched in sweat. Beneath my shirt, I’m covered in baby powder, but still barely dry. Yellow bands perforate the large, leafy Acacia tree and clip the aluminum roof, where I sit- eyeing from above the arm-flinging girls on their cracked court, the horse-drawn carriages clip- clopping by, and the motorcycles laden with boys gunning their throttles while stiff upon their haunches. Another summer day draws to a close, and the twilight and oncoming darkness merely offer a respite from the sun, but not the sultry heat.

This- my second summer- in this country bring about many different emotions and memories. I’m both homesick and happy- content to whittle my days away in a quiet refuge, blending banana and mango shakes, working only at my dispense, and traveling every other week to a new adventure and sense of accomplishment. It’s quiet here- well- except for the incessant screaming of the roosters, the strident calling of wandering dogs, mewing cats, and thundering motorcycle engines. It’s quiet. Without school in session, I’m free to wake as I please, work as I please, embark upon sweaty bike rides to the ocean, or stretch out movie marathons in my bed. Yet in this quiet, memories of my previous life sneak in and I am enwrapped in reveries of people, places, and comforts far from this place.

For now- I’m watching the sun sink through the large and leafy Acacia tree. Feathery clouds float along in a vast blue sky from my rooftop view. Feeling the schism of day and night, the roosters and the dogs bellow in a panic from below, as if they are unsure of what this darkness may bring. Apart from several unsuccessful attempts to do ERC work, today I rode to the market, made stir fry, and tried to wash my friend Puraw, our stray dog (Didn’t work- I awkwardly chased her around my barangay and when I finally grabbed her to bring her back, she peed on me). I also spent some time watching the ants diligently crawl through the ant highway on the rooftop. It really does look like each ant shakes hands with another when they bump into other as they are passing.

To be honest- I’ve lost much motivation for the English Resource Center project. It will be completed- just not on any real schedule. I’ve spent so many hours in front of my computer I now have chronic wrist pain. I am up to 1,600 resources, all of which still need to printed and catalogued. After a series of continuous supplications for the teachers to clean up the faculty room to make space for the ERC, I decided just to let the shelves arrive, which would force everyone to scramble to make space. After several emails, phone calls, and visits, I was finally able to get a review committee together to go over the final materials to be printed. That day- most of the teachers showed up an hour late and then proceeded to do either of two things- stare blankly at me for an hour even as I asked them simple questions, or talk and giggle continuously throughout my presentation. After the meeting, I walked out frustrated and, truthfully, hurt by their behavior- none of which I can actually express or display to them. This is the second week I have attempted to commence the printing of materials- yet no one will actually take any action to communicate and disperse funding for this operation. I cannot do this entire project alone. Yet, I’ve found I’ve had little-to-no help since day one.

The good news is this! (ok- fantastic news!) Three projectors, three white screens, and two industrial copy machines have arrived and have been dispersed to the schools. In April, we had a ceremony at the Mayor’s office with the principals from each school. In addition, the shelves have been ordered and are set to arrive at any time.

To recap the past few months- since I have been rather behind in my writing- will be just an exercise in summarizing quickly passing moments. I spent much of March in antsy anticipation of my coming vacation. When it finally arrived, I was able to take a step back and enjoy the company of some long-lost best friends from the States. Immediately- I could see and feel how much I really have changed since I first stepped foot off that immense stretch of land that is my birthplace. After struggling through the truculence of Manila, we headed to hike Mt. Taal, an active Volcano south of Manila. We enjoyed breathtaking views of its steaming crater lake before taking off to Singapore for a ultra-modern respite of architecture, diversity, and culinary heterogeneity. Meeting Matt in Bali, we laid out on balcony chairs overlooking a long series of rice terraces that vanished into a dense jungle of palm trees. Every evening, the dulcet melody of crickets, frogs, and lightening bugs over the rice fields mesmerized my sojourn. After an epic week in Bali- getting ourselves into some delicate situations which I won’t mention here- we traversed back to Singapore to enjoy its unadulterated scenery and back to the Philippines to climb Mt. Pinatubo- another active volcano. As vacations go- it had everything- indolent relaxation, edifying art and culture, raffish adventure, and even a bit of audacious danger. (I’m studying for my GRE’s- can you tell?)

Apart from Vacation in March, April was filled with a brief teacher training in La Union, more ERC work, an intense sojourn to Donsol to swim with some beautiful whale sharks, and a trip to the buzzing city of Bacolod on the island of Negros Oriental. I helped to facilitate an In-Service Training and Project Design & Management seminar for the batch of volunteers that arrived last August.

In the last few minutes, the baby blue, feathery clouds have fringed themselves with orange- the delicate color of melted mango sorbet- a perfect natural complement to the blue. The sky looks like a spider web of sorbet orange and baby blue. But just as I write this, the blue is turning to violet, the orange becoming a red-yellow haze poking through a black matrix of swinging Acacia leaves. Sunsets were always my favorite.

Tudlo, Panagbenga, and Last Days of School

February- March, 2011

The end of February was complete with a trip to Manila to help facilitate an English Language Camp for Tudlo Mindanao. Tudlo is a program funded by USAID, which helps Peace Corps to provide a more pervasive presence in the Philippines. Because of the religious turmoil in the southern-most island of the Philippines, volunteers are prohibited from visiting Mindanao. Thus, we hold English Language Camps in other areas of the Philippines for teachers, principals, and school heads from Mindanao. This was the second Tudlo event I have helped to facilitate.

My PCV partner and I taught Speaking and Listening, which is one of my favorite sets of English skills to teach, as it’s often the most deficient amongst the participants. On the first day, Jerica and I covered specific English speech sounds that many Filipinos find difficult to produce. They practiced these sounds through an array of wacky tongue twisters. On the second day, we discussed a simple way to design a speech. A mock beauty pageant helped the participants to practice speaking extemporaneously. The third day was a discussion of the differences between facilitative and directive speaking when speaking to one’s faculty. As is more often the case, many supervisors in this country continuously castigate their employees for their mistakes rather than encouraging them to succeed. To demonstrate this, Jerica and I played good cop/ bad cop and we each took turns berating our employees before we built them back up again to achieve a common goal. It was fun changing roles and many of the supervisors could really relate to how the ‘bad cop’ made them feel. Many were very receptive to the ‘good cop’ (facilitative) way of speaking. On the fourth day, Jerica and I got to sit back and listen, as each of our participants presented their own speech, which they had designed and researched on the computer.

Apart from Speaking and Listening, several other PCV’s facilitated Tudlo in different subject areas. Participants were most excited about their ICT sessions, as the majority of them have little-to-no working knowledge of the computer. It’s always exciting to see a participant’s journey from being unable to click a mouse on the first day to doing internet research and creating powerpoints by the end of the fourth day. In Assessments and Planning, participants learned how to assess their school projects and faculty and complete detailed planning modules. Finally, in Reading and Writing, participants looked at the key components of business writing.

On the final day of the training, we had a cultural night, in which all PCV’s and participants participated in the native songs and dances specific to each region of Mindanao. For this, the participants dressed us up in native costumes, and even in traditional Muslim scarves. As always, Tudlo Mindanao was a joyous occasion filled with fantastic new relationships built, lessons learned, and cultural traditions shared.

After Tudlo, I met friend of mine in Baguio for the annual Panagbenga (Flower) festival. I’ve never see so many people in my life! I think that a quarter of the Philippines comes to witness this, as the streets are filled to their brim with throngs of people. The festival celebrates the coming of Spring. Hundreds of elaborate floats made out of different colored flowers parade through the streets. Elaborately painted dancers jirrate down the roads. Musicians beat drums in the park. Art shows present large sculptures made out of everything from recycled tires to patch-work clothing. Every nursery in northern Luzon comes to sell their elaborate varieties of orchids. The mountain air is cool against my skin. The entire weekend reminded me how much I really love Baguio, for its arts culture, native traditions, diversity, and for its cool, fresh mountain air.

Back at site, work on the English Resource Center resumed. Students were preparing for the National Achievement test so I had adequate time to spend on my computer sorting through hundreds of internet resource websites. As of today, I have over 1000 files inside the soft copy of the ERC. However, I still have a lot more to collect, as many of the 295 file folders I’ve created are still empty. Just last week though, I was able to meet with the mayor. The industrial print/Xerox machines have arrived, as well as the 3 projectors. She even took the time to order white screens for each school. (AWESOME!) The principals from each school came to receive the equipment and pictures were taken, interviews given, and hands shaken.

In the last week, apart from ERC work, I visited my classes for the last time of the school year. My students this school year will probably always be the most memorable during my Peace Corp’s service, as I have gotten to spend the entire school year with them. During this last week, we played games, and chatted a lot. Since the teachers were done with their lessons, it was really just a relaxing time to just sort of sit down and hang out with my students. I will always remember this last week and the conversations had. After a lot of Mahal Kita’s and Ayayatenka’s and Agyaman ak’s (I love you’s and thank you’s), I assured them that despite their pleadings, I was not going to apply for America’s Next Top Model when I go back to the States, or be the next Idol. 🙂

Manang Sipin

February, 2011

After a week of persistent back pain, I ask my nanang about getting a massage.

“You go to Mang Josef’s house just der.” She points at the house next door.

I grimace a bit. “Ah, ayaw… Adda ti babae?”

She chuckles, “Why you not like? He is a nice man.”

“Well…it’s just weird…I don’t like being a bit naked in front of him. It’s weird. Plus, the other day, I, uh…saw him…. He bathes at his water pump just outside my window.”

She giggles “Ala!” and stops to think a bit. “…Diak ammo… you ask da nurse?”

“Sige… but that’s nangina. Is there something a bit cheaper?”

“Ai…. we will go to Manang Sipin. She is a healer. You will just pray and she will rub da coconut oil on you. It’s nice…” She giggles “…and you just give a few pesos donation. It’s just ok.”

I giggle, unsure of what this might entail, but I agree. Nanang slips her plastic tsinelas on. They have a bunch of decorative plastic grapes on the top of them. In the waning dusk, we walk out of our barangay to the main road where a bamboo gate awaits us. Along the way, my nanang explains,

“I like to go der. It’s nice and she is the one to make that coconut oil. It smells sweet and you will smell sweet after she would massage you. She prays and makes da oil to be holy and many ladies would go to heal their pain, especially the older ones who have much pain.”

Inside the gate, we duck beneath an overgrown mango tree and walk down a dense path. I palm one of the plant leaves, which is the size of my two hands put together. I decide it’s the largest leaf I’ve ever seen. An open concrete house lies at the end of the path, complete with plastic tablecloth flooring to cover the grey floors. Seeing that there are a few women already here, we rest on a bamboo bench that leans against a gray concrete wall.

Mang Sipin (pronounced See-peen) is a thin, old Filipino woman. She is a Catholic faith healer. She wears a pink floral apron tied at the waist. It has ruffles at each seam. Her eyes are bright and young looking, yet deep-set within her dark, wrinkled skin. As we arrive, she is massaging the back of another old woman, who is feebly hunched over on a chair. I whisper to my nanang that the curvature of her back is the result of a calcium deficiency. Rather than getting a massage or being ‘healed by faith,’ the woman just needs to drink milk. My nanang smiles and says,

“Yes, but not many like the milk and Mang Sipin- she is good. The coconut oil, it’s nice…”

In the corner of the room is a life-size Jesus dying on the cross. Painted red blood drips down from the plastic nails. Plastic tears fall from his eyes. Several candles are lit, white inside glass canisters. Plastic figurines of the Virgin Mary rest on shelves. Calendar photos of ornately painted saints decorate the walls. One particular picture keeps catching my eye. It is one of those plastic lined pictures where a slight movement of your head changes the picture. In the first picture, the Mother Mary stares out into the distance as coldly ambiguous as the Mona Lisa herself; in the second photo, tears are falling down her cheeks. While I wait, I move my head back and forth to watch her tears appear and disappear.

After the woman has hunchedly hobbled out the door, Mang Sipin motions for me to sit upon the stool. She looks at me inquisitively, studying my round eyes, my pointed German nose, and the messy black curls that surround my face. Nanang Lisa eagerly chats with her in Ilocano for several minutes as I sit on the stool nervously. It’s as if I am suddenly made of stone like a statue at a museum, as Nanang narrates my work, my family, and my housing in the third person. Mang Sipin eyes me like a math equation and I can see her making quick calculations in her head. Maybe she knows I’m not Catholic.

I’m able to communicate just a few words in Ilocano. She smiles and asks me a few questions. I glance up nervously at nanang, who giggles and translates for me. I do however understand one thing Mang Sipin says. Amid her intricate glarings, she whispers,

“Napintas ka.” (you are beautiful). I smile, embarrassed, and thank her.

Nanang tells me to pray while she readies the oil. I close my eyes, bow my head, and clasp my hands together- just as I was taught in church school when I was a little girl. I realize that I don’t think I have seriously prayed since then. I don’t even know how to pray. Maybe Mang Sipin will know I’m lying. I don’t know. So I just start talking to God. This arbitrary conversation I cannot share.

She instructs me to take my shirt off. Reluctantly, I take my shirt off to reveal my full back-piece tattoo. Nanang and Mang Sipin stand back with folded arms to eye me, as if they are putting together a puzzle, an optical illusion.

“Kent Karl…. Forty two to two thousand five… Who is dis Kent Karl?” She asks.

“He is my father Mahm…”

“Oh… you like do music?”

“Uh…Yes Mahm. It is a song he wrote.”

For another minute, they continue to stare at my back. Mang Sipin tilts her head down, as if studying a newspaper over the top of imaginary eyeglasses. Nanang traces a few inked lines with her fingertips to see if she can feel the ink raised inside my skin. She whispers something in Ilocano. I am sitting on a stool clutching the front of my shirt with my armpits to avoid exposing myself fully. Jesus and Mary are still crying.

Manang Sipin drips a few drops of coconut oil onto her wrinkled fingertips. She utters words under her breath and makes the sign of the cross over my forehead. Slowly, she begins working the coconut oil into my skin. Her hands knead with a gentle firmness. Her energy transcends my skin. When I close my eyes, it sounds like the tiny electric buzzing of a bumblebee hovering next to my ear. She chants words under her breath as she dexterously folds and unfolds the muscles along my back. Behind my closed eyelids, is a picture of an African shaman channeling and reworking my energy, dancing in circles around his fire, chanting his visions to his God. I open my eyes to a tiny woman in a pink apron and the large silver crucifix that hangs from her neck.

The minutes pass by as she moves from my back down my arms to my hands. She even tries to rub my stomach but I erupt into giggles and fold inward. After she has finished, Nanang slips a few pesos into her donation jar, which really just looks like a holy ashtray. I thank her and she smiles,

“Agsubli ka, umay ka ditoy…juh…ju come again.” She wiggles her palm in a friendly downward motion with eyes smiling and goes to take her apron off.

Nanang slips her grape-wreathed slippers on and we mosey out through the bamboo gate into the night.

The Wound

February, 2011

Late Thursday afternoon, the teachers end their classes early. Students pile gleefully out of the gates as vans filled with teachers exit behind them. We drive to a remote barangay on the west side of Vigan, a barangay cornered on one side by the ocean and on another by a long river leading up to the barbed mountains. Bamboo poles connecting woven nets make solemn fisheries in the green water as the birds take their turns flitting between the poles. The people here make their primary income from these fish. The streets are narrow, unpaved. Barefoot children roam, kicking bottle caps up into the air, and glaring questionably up into the windows of our vehicle. The van barely fits onto this tiny dirt road. It’s surrounded by houses indiscriminately stacked upon each other. Most are only attempts at completion- sagging plywood boards, aluminum siding, bamboo poles, and nipa palms are strewn together in patchwork minimalism. Between the houses, a network of narrow pathways separates this patchwork jungle. The dirt pathways are just wide enough for the bare footsteps of a woman and the unmoved bamboo basket atop her head. The children kick bottle caps through the mud.

As we arrive at a barren concrete house, the teachers file into the door to pay their respect to the family. An open coffin lays amid plastic depictions of the Mother Mary and endless bouquets of flowers. The service is a series of speeches. I am sitting at the front with many of the other teachers, as just outside the front door of the tiny house, plastic chairs are crowded in every available space. I can see inside the living room, where several sullen women hold handkerchiefs to their eyes. Their son, their husband, their father lays next them, the pieces of his head covered by a shroud.

The Principal stands to provide a few words for this unspeakable tragedy; the women inside the house begin to weep at his candor, rocking back and forth. Their arms are clamped around their torsos; it’s as if without their clenching, their hearts would fall out of place and collapse below their stomachs. I understand that they are merely clutching themselves to hold their hearts into place. My eyes scan a crowd filled with this same clenching of handkerchiefs, wiping sweat, wiping tears to dab at a wound.

I cannot find the words to describe this moment. To describe it simply would be to say that I suddenly understood it was okay to cry. However, words cannot suffice in expressing this- the most practical of all human sanctities. I let my own tears fall, unabashed. Though I never knew this man, it’s as if I am helping the wound of these people, these women, and this family, to bleed.
The language is a mixture of Ilocano and English. The teachers fluidly interchange the two languages to describe a man who haplessly waved them through the gates of their school every day. Yet, one night he unsnapped the gun from the holster on his belt and shot himself in the head at the young age of 30. No one here can say why. In the dozens of speeches given here, we are all still speechless. After all, he had a job- a good job. He was lucky. But suicides do not go to heaven.

After our words, the music begins. Jeremy presses the plastic keys of the Yamaha as Joan’s rapturous voice surrounds us. If I close my eyes, I swear we are in a deep cavern- except I can feel the relentless breeze from the electric fan. One by one, the people depress from their chairs and file into the house to place flowers inside the open coffin. By now, the roses have wilted. The buds hang down like the unsupported head of a sitting infant. The teachers and friends briefly touch the women, assuaging their wound. I stay in my seat and sing with a few others. Our Catholic offerings texturize the background with a molasses fixity until all have honored the deceased. As we file into our van to go, a glowing orange sun sinks into the ocean alongside the road. A few fishermen prepare their nets for the incoming tide. The children kick bottle caps through the mud.