Deep in the darkness between dusk and dawn, the bellowing sky rattles the cinderblock house under which I sleep.
Heavy drops beat the tin roof two shadowed floors above my head, the cacophony disturbing my distant bed.
The storybooks tell of Death visiting on such nights, but she worried not me, for I sought her brother, Dream, with frustrating futility.
Time past the witching hour passes in a stream of endless moment. My aching eyes would close, and as has been oft before, history's physical memory began to torment.
Though blind I began to see fuzzy flickering spirits walking curiously above me. A woman joined two men at a table perched in the wall above my bed, and they stared down curiously and I was empty of dread.
Sleep not found, my eyes would open, watch the rain patter outside the ground-level window, and I began to worry that, if it rained too much, it would all begin to pour in.
Closed again, I met a jovial man, curious, with a large mole just off his nose. His skin was dark, and his sockets were enshrouded, but in life I knew they had sparkled. He wondered where I was from, what I was called, and why i was here, only Filippinos had lived there, and only they were there impounded.
Open. My bath towel waves lazily in electric-born wind, the mosquito net is bunched up again. A quick adjustment, a flop back down, and I hoped Dream might be found.
My final vision was a scolding nan, convinced I was a corrupt young man. I had an idea why she was upset, but it was no crime to commit, to live where generously invited. Old memories with old values, or perhaps simply as blind in death as in life.
I stare at the ceiling, felt the breeze, sighted the lightning, embraced the roar, and finally sleep entered from out the door.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Capturing Dumaguete
Like when the cotton candy man dips a stick into the swirling sugar, clouds wrap about the mountains over Dumaguete. Their jagged slopes, canvassed with coconut, banana, vivid blossoms, become adorned with vast puffs of nimbus, a whipped cream topping for paradise itself. Below, a gentle breeze sweeps through the city, swaying the trees intermittently and providing brief relief from the heat. It is the breath of the ocean, though that fact is hidden from the senses; The pungency of humanity hides its salty freshness, stunted constructions hide its azure expanse, the incessant putter of two-strokes mute its whispers. Only by getting close enough to touch the sea do you notice its presence.
Yet it is sufficient that the rhythmic water is a neighbor. Dumaguete has a pulse of its own. With the threat of sunrise, the roads to the city funnel 400,000 people into the grid to join the 100,000 who slumber within. Exotic fruits, smooth or prickled, are stacked high for sale. Chickens are spitted, fires kindled, and their final rotisseries begin. Thousands upon thousands of pots bubble away, millions upon millions grains of rice soften for the breakfast table. Jeepney trucks toot their jingles, trike drivers kick their livelihoods to life and begin to ferry the Gentle People about their lives.
Breakfast eaten, the 500,000 join each other in a dance. Lanes, traffic signals, and stop signs are utterly absent. Daring and acceleration determine right of way, a fear of costly repairs breeds caution and attention. Stern men and women with official jackets stand at notorious intersections and school crosswalks, organizing the fate of dozens with a single sweep of the hand. children in their various uniforms zip past, curious eyes peeking from trike seats, from the back of motor-scooters.
The midday heat returns a sense of calm to the world. Shade becomes a premium, and walking to your destination is regarded as madness. Only the trikes and cycles continue the pace, their drivers and passengers enjoying the cool wind created by the speed of their conveyance, their metal chassis indifferent to the sweltering humidity. It’s snack time. Meriendas. Time to see your friends over a cold Coke and a fried banana-on-a-stick. After all, breakfast was a long three hours ago, and lunch a grueling two hours away. Relax, it will all keep for a little while.
Lunch time! Scurry home! You only have an hour, and the rice is probably bubbling back home in anticipation “Errrr,” says the trike, “Clink-Clink,” says the seven pesos and fifty centavos: thanks for the ride. It’s time to eat, now its time to return. Back to school, back to work, back, back, back. Errrr. Clink-clink.
The heat is growing old now, the breeze becomes stingy. The bicycle-bound peddlers inch their way down the streets. Slow, slow, it’s much to hot for haste. Merchants fan themselves in the shade of their shops, waiting patiently for a trike to deliver them patrons. Shade. Find it. Turn on the fan, ignore your body’s secretions, its constant dripping complaint. Everyone is as sticky as you. You hope.
The sun begins to sink beyond the mountains, readied for slumber, its cruel yoke lightening. The crane trucks rumble into town, the work trucks, the flat trucks loaded with bare-chested men, pleased with the end of their labors. The streets fill again with students, their uniforms loose and flying or stuffed away into backpacks already. Time now to dally, take the slow hours long walk home for dinner. The rice bubbles, the people eat, as the folk of the outlying towns funnel out, the streets become a maelstrom of darting metal and stoic humanity, hair flowing in the wind.
Dinner is over. Let’s stay in. Turn on the TV. Let’s go out to the mall, to the market, to the table on the sidewalk with a bottle of rum, to the girlfriend’s house on a shining clean motor-scooter, to the park for calm romance, for exercise, to the fish ball stand on the corner, to the Video-K saloon. Laugh, talk, sing, drink, be merry, the night comes and tomorrow is still a day away.
The sky slips into a dark purple. The dime lights of trikes glow lazily in the growing gloom. The city turns to orange under the lights as the sky goes black. It is quiet now, its people have left. Now it belongs to the cats, the dogs, the roaches. The inhuman janitors scurry, fight, and make loves.
Sleep now, those loyal who stay here. You want to be rested to do it all again.
Yet it is sufficient that the rhythmic water is a neighbor. Dumaguete has a pulse of its own. With the threat of sunrise, the roads to the city funnel 400,000 people into the grid to join the 100,000 who slumber within. Exotic fruits, smooth or prickled, are stacked high for sale. Chickens are spitted, fires kindled, and their final rotisseries begin. Thousands upon thousands of pots bubble away, millions upon millions grains of rice soften for the breakfast table. Jeepney trucks toot their jingles, trike drivers kick their livelihoods to life and begin to ferry the Gentle People about their lives.
Breakfast eaten, the 500,000 join each other in a dance. Lanes, traffic signals, and stop signs are utterly absent. Daring and acceleration determine right of way, a fear of costly repairs breeds caution and attention. Stern men and women with official jackets stand at notorious intersections and school crosswalks, organizing the fate of dozens with a single sweep of the hand. children in their various uniforms zip past, curious eyes peeking from trike seats, from the back of motor-scooters.
The midday heat returns a sense of calm to the world. Shade becomes a premium, and walking to your destination is regarded as madness. Only the trikes and cycles continue the pace, their drivers and passengers enjoying the cool wind created by the speed of their conveyance, their metal chassis indifferent to the sweltering humidity. It’s snack time. Meriendas. Time to see your friends over a cold Coke and a fried banana-on-a-stick. After all, breakfast was a long three hours ago, and lunch a grueling two hours away. Relax, it will all keep for a little while.
Lunch time! Scurry home! You only have an hour, and the rice is probably bubbling back home in anticipation “Errrr,” says the trike, “Clink-Clink,” says the seven pesos and fifty centavos: thanks for the ride. It’s time to eat, now its time to return. Back to school, back to work, back, back, back. Errrr. Clink-clink.
The heat is growing old now, the breeze becomes stingy. The bicycle-bound peddlers inch their way down the streets. Slow, slow, it’s much to hot for haste. Merchants fan themselves in the shade of their shops, waiting patiently for a trike to deliver them patrons. Shade. Find it. Turn on the fan, ignore your body’s secretions, its constant dripping complaint. Everyone is as sticky as you. You hope.
The sun begins to sink beyond the mountains, readied for slumber, its cruel yoke lightening. The crane trucks rumble into town, the work trucks, the flat trucks loaded with bare-chested men, pleased with the end of their labors. The streets fill again with students, their uniforms loose and flying or stuffed away into backpacks already. Time now to dally, take the slow hours long walk home for dinner. The rice bubbles, the people eat, as the folk of the outlying towns funnel out, the streets become a maelstrom of darting metal and stoic humanity, hair flowing in the wind.
Dinner is over. Let’s stay in. Turn on the TV. Let’s go out to the mall, to the market, to the table on the sidewalk with a bottle of rum, to the girlfriend’s house on a shining clean motor-scooter, to the park for calm romance, for exercise, to the fish ball stand on the corner, to the Video-K saloon. Laugh, talk, sing, drink, be merry, the night comes and tomorrow is still a day away.
The sky slips into a dark purple. The dime lights of trikes glow lazily in the growing gloom. The city turns to orange under the lights as the sky goes black. It is quiet now, its people have left. Now it belongs to the cats, the dogs, the roaches. The inhuman janitors scurry, fight, and make loves.
Sleep now, those loyal who stay here. You want to be rested to do it all again.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Dumaguete City
Dumaguete City. My training site. How do I describe you?
I shall start with the people. No where else in the world will you find a more hospitable and friendly place than Dumaguete City. Everyone has a smile to return, and all jump at the chance to share their meals, their homes, their lives with you.
I have been gifted with my host family, who instantly took pains to ensure I felt as one of their own, and I have experienced the same hospitality from every other family I have had the pleasure of visiting. Also, those responsible in local government and law enforcement have also been extremely welcoming and kind. I hope my work here will be of service to them, and will be seen as adequate repayment.
The sights, sounds, and smells of the city I will try to describe with honesty. The main downtown area exists around a small grid, perhaps eight blocks by eight, and then a single main highway extends out either end to the next town somewhere in the distance. The roads are constantly filled with trikes, motorcycles with an attached sidecar that function as the area’s main transportation device.
A distance greater than four blocks seems to be too far to walk for the average Philippines citizen, so they take the trikes, or ride their own motor scooters, which dodge in and out of the slow-moving traffic in an eternal dance.
It is common to see a brave man riding on a small scooter with a two-year old on his lap, or perhaps even two or three of his children on the way to school or some other destination. No helmets, of course.
The jeepney is still about, but they tend to cover the travel between this town and the next, and their smaller cousins, which look like a miniature delivery truck converted into a bus, are the only ones generally seen in the city. The trikes are loud, but smog doesn’t generally hang over the city (its too small), even though 2,500 of them are running all over the place without pause. Though the mornings are rather heavy with the stuff before the noon wind begins to blow. The city is right on the ocean, but there is no real beach within the city, and the water is dubious enough to make swimming a rare activity to even the locals. Everyone heads up or down the coast a ways before entering the water, usually at some sort of maintained and gated resort beachfront.
Garbage is a bit of an issue. The city trash disposal system is limited in scope, so the streets are quite littered. Corners without nearby habitation are generally heaps of debris. A water-treatment plant is currently in development, but for the moment most solid waste travels down roman-esque concrete trenches that run along or under most of the roadways. I assume the water evaporates well before it reaches the ocean, and the trenches are probably drudged from time to time.
The buildings are well-used, obviously beaten by the consistent sun and humidity, but the interiors are carefully maintained by their respective owners. The public market is truly a sight to see. No where else will you turn a corner and see an old woman taking a meat cleaver to the head of a squid bigger than she is. I’ll try and get a picture of that the next time I wander there.
So far, we spend most of our time in a condo where our language and education classes are held. The first week is constant lecture, four hours for each topic, with an hour for lunch. Next week we begin observations in the high school, which should offer a bit of variety in the day. The time after work is usually spent wandering about the city, visiting fellow Peace Corps Trainees, or taking a dip in the public pool (15 pesos a dip, however). This is followed quickly by dinner with the host family, and then perhaps another trip out to hang out, or a longer night of studying Cebuano, the local language. This is hard to do, as most of the people here recognize enough English to make communication easy.
There are a number of things I have needed to get used to here. Wiping myself with my bare hand was one of them (and it was a surprisingly easy transition.) The other was being a member of a formal familial group again. I’ve grown accustomed to my independence over the last five years, so remembering how to be a dependent again has been a little difficult. However, I am not one to rebel against supreme kindness and hospitality, so it will simply be something I have to get used to again for these three months in the city. I already feel like I am in a routine, and the differences between this city and any American version seem smaller every day. While I will enjoy my time here, I am already eager to hear of my permanent placement: to get my true adventure started, and for a new change of pace.
P.S. My host family took me on festival, and I ate lechon at one of their friend's homes!
I shall start with the people. No where else in the world will you find a more hospitable and friendly place than Dumaguete City. Everyone has a smile to return, and all jump at the chance to share their meals, their homes, their lives with you.
 |
| The Founder's Day Parade for the local Silliman University. |
I have been gifted with my host family, who instantly took pains to ensure I felt as one of their own, and I have experienced the same hospitality from every other family I have had the pleasure of visiting. Also, those responsible in local government and law enforcement have also been extremely welcoming and kind. I hope my work here will be of service to them, and will be seen as adequate repayment.
The sights, sounds, and smells of the city I will try to describe with honesty. The main downtown area exists around a small grid, perhaps eight blocks by eight, and then a single main highway extends out either end to the next town somewhere in the distance. The roads are constantly filled with trikes, motorcycles with an attached sidecar that function as the area’s main transportation device.
 |
| An early morning petty cab. |
A distance greater than four blocks seems to be too far to walk for the average Philippines citizen, so they take the trikes, or ride their own motor scooters, which dodge in and out of the slow-moving traffic in an eternal dance.
 |
| "Brrrrrrrrrr" |
It is common to see a brave man riding on a small scooter with a two-year old on his lap, or perhaps even two or three of his children on the way to school or some other destination. No helmets, of course.
 |
| Everything moves at 25 MPH |
The jeepney is still about, but they tend to cover the travel between this town and the next, and their smaller cousins, which look like a miniature delivery truck converted into a bus, are the only ones generally seen in the city. The trikes are loud, but smog doesn’t generally hang over the city (its too small), even though 2,500 of them are running all over the place without pause. Though the mornings are rather heavy with the stuff before the noon wind begins to blow. The city is right on the ocean, but there is no real beach within the city, and the water is dubious enough to make swimming a rare activity to even the locals. Everyone heads up or down the coast a ways before entering the water, usually at some sort of maintained and gated resort beachfront.
Garbage is a bit of an issue. The city trash disposal system is limited in scope, so the streets are quite littered. Corners without nearby habitation are generally heaps of debris. A water-treatment plant is currently in development, but for the moment most solid waste travels down roman-esque concrete trenches that run along or under most of the roadways. I assume the water evaporates well before it reaches the ocean, and the trenches are probably drudged from time to time.
The buildings are well-used, obviously beaten by the consistent sun and humidity, but the interiors are carefully maintained by their respective owners. The public market is truly a sight to see. No where else will you turn a corner and see an old woman taking a meat cleaver to the head of a squid bigger than she is. I’ll try and get a picture of that the next time I wander there.
So far, we spend most of our time in a condo where our language and education classes are held. The first week is constant lecture, four hours for each topic, with an hour for lunch. Next week we begin observations in the high school, which should offer a bit of variety in the day. The time after work is usually spent wandering about the city, visiting fellow Peace Corps Trainees, or taking a dip in the public pool (15 pesos a dip, however). This is followed quickly by dinner with the host family, and then perhaps another trip out to hang out, or a longer night of studying Cebuano, the local language. This is hard to do, as most of the people here recognize enough English to make communication easy.
There are a number of things I have needed to get used to here. Wiping myself with my bare hand was one of them (and it was a surprisingly easy transition.) The other was being a member of a formal familial group again. I’ve grown accustomed to my independence over the last five years, so remembering how to be a dependent again has been a little difficult. However, I am not one to rebel against supreme kindness and hospitality, so it will simply be something I have to get used to again for these three months in the city. I already feel like I am in a routine, and the differences between this city and any American version seem smaller every day. While I will enjoy my time here, I am already eager to hear of my permanent placement: to get my true adventure started, and for a new change of pace.
P.S. My host family took me on festival, and I ate lechon at one of their friend's homes!
 |
| Them be some sad pigs. |
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