In the Resort

The Grand Ballroom on our resort devoured the last few days of our lives. 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., with an hour for lunch. Yes. Listening to lectures was our employment. Though as jobs go, it was easy, but attention became slippery after the lunch; the span between two-thirty and five was agonizing.

I am confident that challenges with actual substance are on their way, but for the moment, the end of those long days is relieving.

Today, we went to the beach for water safety training. The process of putting the thing on brought all the airplane flight-safety presentations I’ve seen in my life to the physical world. Until today, the yellow inflatable vest was more an ethereal concept. While it took perhaps thirty seconds to accomplish on the dry run, the experience would likely be useful if you found yourself consumed by the maelstrom of a typhoon at sea. A delay in 30 foot swells could be problematic for your continued consumption of oxygen.

Then we practiced the fine art of using the life vest in the water. There are two main schools of thought in this respect: either you lay out on the water like you’re taking a nap, or you do you best impression of an inanimate object, you know, like driftwood, or perhaps a pumice stone. I still need to work on my form.

The pump boat was cool, however.

Random photo of a pump boat.

I was rather impressed by the hand-made construction because the easiest way to describe it would be “it’s like a canoe that was made by a genius.” It has two pontoons made of some light wood, like bamboo, and these make the thing damn near impossible to tip over. In comparison, the western-style canoe is like a visually-triggered epileptic attempting to walk a tight-rope with a strobe light tied to their face.

A river would make the pontoons problematic, especially the tiny streams common to mountains, but these pump boats should be in lakes all over the world. Right now.

We then just sort of hung out at the beach. Peace Corps orientation is hard.

The weather waited politely for us to be inside out hotel rooms before unleashing a flash rain storm. It then lessened a noticeably degree in time for us to leave for the local super-mall. It was a very hospitable storm.

To get to the mall, we took a jeepney, a sort of privately owned mini-bus. They are extravagantly embellished with all sorts of do-dads, and the front window shield is more like a narrow visor than anything else. But jammed with bipedal hominids, these prevalent logistical marvels ferry the people of the Philippines about with immediate efficiency. In short order we were at the mall, and only 10 pesos lighter for it (about $.25).

I was told that during the age of 8-tracks, half the windshields would be covered by stacks of tapes.

Local children found a jeepney full of Americans either hilarious (one particularly thuggish looking twelve-year old gave me a view of his boxers with eagerness), or a valuable opportunity to see if the English they were learning in school actually works. “Hello! My name is Glora! I like Ice Cream!”

We pulled up and hopped out at the super-mall. Between the jeepney and the mall, there was a sort of private little parking lot guarded by a bored looking man cradling a short-barrel shotgun to his chest. Don’t key cars in the Philippines, apparently.

The mall was busy, but we had little trouble walking around after we had a great deal of trouble deciding on how we were to split up in pairs or trios to go about our business. Philippines stores are staffed with ridiculous amounts of staff. The J.C. Penny style place had about 8 young people on shoes alone, two on umbrellas, etc. and they gathered about me as a tried a pair of strap sandals. It was like a live action Cinderella scene. I noticed the salesman had motioned the others over, so I assume it was some ploy to use social pressure to make the sale. (or it could have been mere curiosity.) A bit weirded out, I said I would think about them and made a hasty retreat.

In fact, the first thing I did when I entered was look at some umbrellas. I had forgotten that it rains in the Philippines when I packed my bag. Awesome. Not really understanding the purpose of all the staff, I snatched out an umbrella and popped it out, examining it and then collapsing it. As I tried to put the thing away, a rather plainly annoyed saleswoman who had been watching me do this from two feet away finally said “Please, sir,: and rescued her product from my clutches. She then began going about resettling every part of the umbrella, every crease in the fabric, back properly on the wires, making it factory pristine before carefully placing it back in the bag and hanging it on the shelf. Meanwhile, another saleswoman had arrived and was showing me another umbrella.

The American ideal of shopping, of walking around on your own whim and only asking for help as a last resort, is not in effect in the Philippines. You walk down an aisle: “Socks, sir!” “Do you want some perfumes, sir?” “Good evening, sir. Did you see these socks?” (I had perused the socks briefly when I first entered, and they expertly spotted it and sought to remind me.)

Definitely a different experience.

I’ll end with a short list of other different experiences.

Being an alien: Living my entire life lost in the white, average, American masses, becoming the outsider, the different one, is quite different. It makes me a bit uneasy, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it. Or have a psychological episode.

No-Flush toilet paper: You can’t flush it. You throw the used rags into the trash can. Perfectly sanitary unless you suffer from user error (or dig through your bathroom garbage can), but definitely different. You‘ll want to empty the trash every day.

And I think I had more, but I‘m exhausted and again cannot keep my eyes open..

Arrival

The long flight to Japan had a maddening aspect of endlessness. Windows were closed for most of the flight, creating an illusion of a motionless universe. If not for the consistent drone of the engines outside and the occasional bump, we might as well have been sitting in a rusted box car infested by a hive if bees. But the necessity of my stagnation provided opportunity for finishing Ray Bradbury's From The Dust Returned. It was good.

We had an hour in Japan, so my friend Wes and I found some iced green tea and some rice crackers. It reminded me of my Camp Adventure trip, or at least the gastronomic part of it.

When we finally arrived in Manila, our plane was forced to dodge a few rolling thunderstorms. At first I found this ominous. But instead of acting as some warning of the gods, the storms rolled respectfully away into the distance as we went into our final approach. Lightning danced through the dark, illuminating the clouds into gray cauliflower, giving us a grand fanfare into the capital of the Philippines.

The airport was much more of the mortal world. The walk from the gate from made special by a greeting from a large gathering of Peace Corps staff, revitalizing us from our flight, or perhaps encouraging the budding excitement of finally being there. The walk through customs and the wait for the baggage at the conveyor was quite familiar, though; one of the consistencies of all the airports I have visited. However, the general time investment was compounded by the presence of about 100 of us new arrivals. But that's the way it is.

Our bus ride offered a strange introduction to Manila. The darkness hid much, but under the streetlights cars and the ever-present motor scooters darted about in late night haste. Pedestrians wandered about everywhere, and crosswalks are not in general use by the population. Often we passed people standing in the middle of the street, waiting patiently for the rest of  their crossing to open like in the old Frogger video game. It is a refreshing change from the over-protective mommy-ness of American J-walking law, though I have little doubt that people do get crunched from time to time.

Most of the businesses we passed were closed for the night, locked behind sliding metal screens. Most windows are barred, so I assumed burglary is a consistent worry for many residents. What few nightclubs or fancy establishments we passed upped the ante with full gates, creating near fortresses that stand out from the rest of the street. Bare walls were covered in graffiti tagging, mostly simplistic signatures and possibly gang identifiers, though I have no idea for sure. This lead me to believe that at least four or five people wander about the city with spray cans.

Most corners featured a few locals chilling, smoking or talking with each other. Larger congregations relaxed near various sorts of mini-marts that advertised their presence with large signs in the street  lights. Beyond and surrounding most of these shops were mishmashes of  cobbled-together shacks and buildings. Though I could not see far beyond the street lights, I gained the impression that these humble dwellings extended far into the darkness. A blind void hiding a great many people who doubtless possess incredible amounts of fortitude, work ethic, hopes, dreams, trapping them when admirable merit would judge much greater than myself.

Advertisements come in only one size in Manila: HUGE. The billboards which easily dwarf the largest on offer in Los Angeles are common.

We were greeted at our destination with grand excitement. Peace Corps and resort staff turned out to make us feel beyond welcome, and an ingenious organized effort checked us in, delivered our baggage, offered us delicious fruits and juices, and tucked us into our rooms in an amazing twenty minuets.  The effort put forth by those involved in our care was a perfect end to a long and grueling journey, and for that we were all immensely grateful.

Our first day started early. Ancy and unable to sleep, I jogged around our large compound. On two sides, we are bordered by neighborhoods that I assumed to be similar to those we passed the previous night. A few fishing canoes darted about, and wizened masters of the deep cast their nets into the dawn water. The ocean, or perhaps a lagoon, stretched off the final side till it hits another island which seems to exist only as dark fog upon the far horizon. Then we ate an awesome breakfast, and went about our day's schedule of speeches and logistical/financial explanation and forms.

Some fellow PVCs and I then engaged in a game of soccer and a brief exploration of the on-site swimming facilities (complete with three slides!) Capped with dinner and conversations with new people, the day proved incredibly tiring, and I fall keep falling asleep in my chair as I tried to finish this.

ETA: Countless Hours

Philadelphia joins my growing list of cities I’ve been in but not really seen. I arrived in the airport around 5 p.m. and promptly become confused by where my hotel was. My original thought was that the Peace Corps would have chosen a hotel near the airport to cut down on transportation costs and confusion such as mine. However, upon asking a local law student who I befriended on the plane, a sharp dressed man named Drew, he took out his iPhone to punch in the address. Google Maps was as in the dark as I was. So we parted ways, and I found a few other people to ask. All of them shook their heads in a “I thought I knew everywhere in this city, but I’ve never heard of that” sort of way.

Finally, I was directed to the kiosk for hotel shuttle vans, and I was given a number to call and a pager like the ones they give out at Olive Garden when it gets busy. Expecting a wait, I went outside to see what Philadelphia smelled like, and I was surprised by numerous voices yelling my name from a nearby van which I had already been informed was full. Figuring them to be Peace Corps members, I waved and smiled then went back inside because it had started to drizzle but slightly, and then I thought I should have at least gone over to say hello in a more personal sort of way. My timing was impeccable. Already frustrated with waiting for one lost Peace Corps member, the drivers and organizers of the shuttle service snatched my bag from me and threw me into the van. So myself and six others were finally off to the hotel. I heard of a local describing it as "in the middle of nowhere."

The first night, a group of us gathered for dinner at Houlihans, mostly chosen for its name. A general kind of T.G.I.F. kind of place.  Then I headed back to the rooms and met my roommate, Wes. We watched an episode of Hard-Knocks (which I had never heard of but found immensely interesting), and the tail-end of Batman: Dark Knight. The next day, the orientation began at noon.

Orientation involved a multitude of questions and about one answer: you’ll find out when you get there.

Afterwards, I ate at California Pizza Kitchen with five other PCV’s, the Jamaican Jerk Chicken was quite delectable. A large group of us then enjoyed some socializing at the hotel bar before hitting the sack for our 5 a.m. departure the next morning (or rather, that morning) for J.F.K. airport in New York City, New York.

New England is an entirely new experience for me, so I contentedly listened to music for most of the ride, enjoying the mix of old architecture, straight thoroughfares, and the prim and straight vegetation. This slowly gave way to highway, and I promptly fell asleep. When I awoke, I was perhaps five blocks from the Empire State Building.

New York City is like nothing I had ever seen. Movies just do not capture it. Ahead of us, a corridor of tall buildings stretched before as like a roofless tunnel. It seemed the buildings flowed until the curvature of the earth cut off into the golden-orange sky. To right and left at each intersection was the same view, some buildings short and stocky, brick, perhaps six to ten stories; scrunched again them were 40 story behemoths, their windowed facades shining like fire in the morning sun. It like a picket fence made with random length boards the entire way down.

Every which way, people of all different colors scurried about like ants who never stop and talk to each other, either listening to iPod’s or walking as if they really had no clear purpose for the day, ignoring through practice the giant piles of refuse festering in the dawn light. Yellow beetles and blue and grey centipedes crept through the labyrinthine passageways between the buildings, and the humans would scurry in front of them when a green light told them they could. These crissing and crossings would happen at odd moments from each other, down the line of the street, creating a kaleidoscope of human life. A few trees dotted the roadside like an afterthought.

Even the city’s dead were crammed together under the ground like sardines in a tin, sleeping desperately for Judgment Day, when God will roll the tin back and let them loose from their eternal confinement. Cars wizz pass their grassed crypts of rot and age, drivers oblivious, either through lack of imagination or through necessity, of the near tangibility of their own mortality.

The City is easily the ugliest thing I have ever seen in my life. Some great monument to human pride and a blight of ingratitude to the Earth and all its other forms of life. If I have my way, I’ll never set foot inside it again.

Now I eagerly await our plane, which will carry us away from this foul place to a land hopefully more green, more fresh, more alive.