Monday, May 11, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Sagada: 2.14-2.16.09
My housing drama resolved, I hurry out of the office to buy a backpack, snacks, pick up dinner. Exhausted from the week of transition, I knock out for what seems like 10 minutes before the alarm goes off.
The six hour bus ride north, into the heart of the Cordillera, begins before sunrise. Most of the road is paved, but for the last hour on the bouncy bus we literally eat the dust kicked up from the dirt road by passing vehicles. On a few occasions early in the trip our bus is passed by trucks transporting chicken manure used to fertilize the commercial vegtetable farms in Benguet. The stench is nauseating, forcing most riders to cover their faces with shirtsleeves or pano. But I only mention the noxious smells and the hurtling switchbacks of the road so my descriptions of the land aren’t so patently scopophilic. The view on the ride to Sagada is absolutely spectacular, undoubtedly one of the best features of the trip. In the early morning chill, the sun rises, transforming the sky from azure to peacock to lilac. We ascend, rising above clouds thickly ringing adjacent peaks. The ridges protruding from clouds resemble islands in an ethereal, white sea of sky. I cannot help but think of O`ahu, and early morning rides on the Pali.
I do not know how to read the land, so I snap endless photos of the picturesque terraced vegetable farms that cover the mountainsides. I do not realize until later that these commercial farms represent ever-increasing conversion of land from subsistence to cash crop production. Agriculture is the dominant source of income for families in the region. People who have land and want to farm can no longer afford to produce only for regional or national markets. I’m told coffee and vegetables from the region are prized commodities in Japan and Australia. Along with commercial mining and deforestation, input-heavy commercial agriculture is criticized for diverting water from subsistence farmers and for polluting the watershed.
After our arrival in Sagada we check into our hotel, Alapo’s Inn. It is sparse but cozy. After dumping our bags Vangie and I head off to the Yoghurt House, famed for its homemade pasta, organic veggies, fresh herbs, and killer yogurt from free-range cow’s milk, all local. Our meal of grilled fresh veggies (talong, green beans, carrots, red peppers), taro fries, and yogurt with saging does not disappoint. Then it’s off for a hike in Echo Valley.
The Northern Kankanaey ili of Sagada was the seat of Anglican missionary work during the U.S. colonial period, and the U.S. priest/ethnographer/historian and radical advocate of Cordillera peoples, William Henry Scott, lived here for many years. Sagada is a town in Mountain Province beloved by lowland and Korean tourists for its bucolic setting, and indeed, “eco-tourism” has become a primary driver of economic development in this town as it has elsewhere in the region. From the map of Sagada I purchase across the street from the barangay hall, where we must register and pay a fee in order to go caving, I learn that the community here has attempted to control tourism in different ways. These include regulating the number of guide groups, refusing to develop rapaciously consumptive resort-style hotels that cater to high-end tourists, and refusing to perform sacred rituals on tourists’ whim: “Tourists are welcome to observe scheduled festivals or ceremonies that are open to the entire village, but these will not be performed on demand.”
We encounter French and Manilena/o tourists on our hike through Echo Valley, which concludes at caves famed for “hanging coffins.” Traditional burial ceremonies of the Northern Kankanaey include wrapping the body of the deceased in a blanket, then placing it in a coffin to be carried into a forest cave and suspended in the rock. That these burial sites have become tourist attractions is especially appalling to me. Eleven years ago, when I came to Sagada for the first time, I could not bring myself to enter the caves with my cousin and kapatid to view them. If my ancestors’ burial place were the backdrop for photos of grinning, raucous, high-fiving tourists, I would be disgusted. I may be a tourist in Sagada, despite the formal educational premise of our trip, but now, again, under such circumstances, I cannot bring myself to enter this resting place for the dead. I am met with strange looks when I explain that I would prefer not to disturb any spirits, and so will wait outside for the group.
The next morning we go on a guided tour of Sumagong Cave (which, I am told, is not a burial cave. But how can I know?) A beautiful, icy cold underground river runs through Sumagong. I vividly remember swimming in it with my kapatid my last time here. The caving experience is physically demanding and deeply affecting. Memories of my childhood trips to Luray Caverns in the Shenandoahs, and my last trip here with my brother, sister and cousin, fill me with gratitude to be where I am, and a longing for my family. I vow to learn stories about these caves.
After a mammoth bowl of pasta with grilled eggplant and fresh basil from, again, Yoghurt House, our crew heads out for a hike to Lake Danum (danum means water in Ilokano and Kankanaey, making “Lake Danum” a redundancy). There are fishermen and Manilena/o tourists there when we arrive. The students talk about their impressions of the trip and connect their experiences to what they are learning in their Environmental Psychology class. I am impressed by their insights and their fervor for protecting the lupa, the kalikasan of the Philippines.
Two final striking anecdotes. When I speak in Filipino to the Yoghurt House proprietress (and others throughout our time here), she responds in English, confirming that some here view the language of postcolonial power with greater disregard than that of the former colonizer. I am always asked to turn to historical accounts for explanations of this dynamic. For starters, the U.S. is associated with health and sanitation campaigns and Thomasite education. Filipinos are associated with much worse.
In conversation with a theory-head student/photographer/Anak Bayan and Cordillera People’s Alliance organizer, Jay, I discuss the violence of militarization in Hawai`i. I mention the history of the 1898 overthrow and the occupation of 30% of land in the islands by the U.S. military. Jay listens with great interest. “And is there rape and torture, disappearances, extrajudicial killing of activists in Hawai`i as there is here?” he asks in Filipino. He knows that I know that he knows the answer to this question.
I think of everything Keanu Sai’s family lost over Perfect Title. I think of George Helm. I think of the endless evictions, of the disproportionate poverty and incarceration and poor health and un-/under-employment, of the institutions of miseducation, of the toxic waste left everywhere by the U.S. military, of the myriad other forms of violence experienced by Kanaka Maoli as a consequence of illegal U.S. occupation. But Jay’s question is pointed. He highlights the many faces of militarism that are sometimes enabled by, but invisible or absent in, the experience of militarization in Hawai`i.
“No,” I respond.
The six hour bus ride north, into the heart of the Cordillera, begins before sunrise. Most of the road is paved, but for the last hour on the bouncy bus we literally eat the dust kicked up from the dirt road by passing vehicles. On a few occasions early in the trip our bus is passed by trucks transporting chicken manure used to fertilize the commercial vegtetable farms in Benguet. The stench is nauseating, forcing most riders to cover their faces with shirtsleeves or pano. But I only mention the noxious smells and the hurtling switchbacks of the road so my descriptions of the land aren’t so patently scopophilic. The view on the ride to Sagada is absolutely spectacular, undoubtedly one of the best features of the trip. In the early morning chill, the sun rises, transforming the sky from azure to peacock to lilac. We ascend, rising above clouds thickly ringing adjacent peaks. The ridges protruding from clouds resemble islands in an ethereal, white sea of sky. I cannot help but think of O`ahu, and early morning rides on the Pali.
I do not know how to read the land, so I snap endless photos of the picturesque terraced vegetable farms that cover the mountainsides. I do not realize until later that these commercial farms represent ever-increasing conversion of land from subsistence to cash crop production. Agriculture is the dominant source of income for families in the region. People who have land and want to farm can no longer afford to produce only for regional or national markets. I’m told coffee and vegetables from the region are prized commodities in Japan and Australia. Along with commercial mining and deforestation, input-heavy commercial agriculture is criticized for diverting water from subsistence farmers and for polluting the watershed.
After our arrival in Sagada we check into our hotel, Alapo’s Inn. It is sparse but cozy. After dumping our bags Vangie and I head off to the Yoghurt House, famed for its homemade pasta, organic veggies, fresh herbs, and killer yogurt from free-range cow’s milk, all local. Our meal of grilled fresh veggies (talong, green beans, carrots, red peppers), taro fries, and yogurt with saging does not disappoint. Then it’s off for a hike in Echo Valley.
The Northern Kankanaey ili of Sagada was the seat of Anglican missionary work during the U.S. colonial period, and the U.S. priest/ethnographer/historian and radical advocate of Cordillera peoples, William Henry Scott, lived here for many years. Sagada is a town in Mountain Province beloved by lowland and Korean tourists for its bucolic setting, and indeed, “eco-tourism” has become a primary driver of economic development in this town as it has elsewhere in the region. From the map of Sagada I purchase across the street from the barangay hall, where we must register and pay a fee in order to go caving, I learn that the community here has attempted to control tourism in different ways. These include regulating the number of guide groups, refusing to develop rapaciously consumptive resort-style hotels that cater to high-end tourists, and refusing to perform sacred rituals on tourists’ whim: “Tourists are welcome to observe scheduled festivals or ceremonies that are open to the entire village, but these will not be performed on demand.”
We encounter French and Manilena/o tourists on our hike through Echo Valley, which concludes at caves famed for “hanging coffins.” Traditional burial ceremonies of the Northern Kankanaey include wrapping the body of the deceased in a blanket, then placing it in a coffin to be carried into a forest cave and suspended in the rock. That these burial sites have become tourist attractions is especially appalling to me. Eleven years ago, when I came to Sagada for the first time, I could not bring myself to enter the caves with my cousin and kapatid to view them. If my ancestors’ burial place were the backdrop for photos of grinning, raucous, high-fiving tourists, I would be disgusted. I may be a tourist in Sagada, despite the formal educational premise of our trip, but now, again, under such circumstances, I cannot bring myself to enter this resting place for the dead. I am met with strange looks when I explain that I would prefer not to disturb any spirits, and so will wait outside for the group.
The next morning we go on a guided tour of Sumagong Cave (which, I am told, is not a burial cave. But how can I know?) A beautiful, icy cold underground river runs through Sumagong. I vividly remember swimming in it with my kapatid my last time here. The caving experience is physically demanding and deeply affecting. Memories of my childhood trips to Luray Caverns in the Shenandoahs, and my last trip here with my brother, sister and cousin, fill me with gratitude to be where I am, and a longing for my family. I vow to learn stories about these caves.
After a mammoth bowl of pasta with grilled eggplant and fresh basil from, again, Yoghurt House, our crew heads out for a hike to Lake Danum (danum means water in Ilokano and Kankanaey, making “Lake Danum” a redundancy). There are fishermen and Manilena/o tourists there when we arrive. The students talk about their impressions of the trip and connect their experiences to what they are learning in their Environmental Psychology class. I am impressed by their insights and their fervor for protecting the lupa, the kalikasan of the Philippines.
Two final striking anecdotes. When I speak in Filipino to the Yoghurt House proprietress (and others throughout our time here), she responds in English, confirming that some here view the language of postcolonial power with greater disregard than that of the former colonizer. I am always asked to turn to historical accounts for explanations of this dynamic. For starters, the U.S. is associated with health and sanitation campaigns and Thomasite education. Filipinos are associated with much worse.
In conversation with a theory-head student/photographer/Anak Bayan and Cordillera People’s Alliance organizer, Jay, I discuss the violence of militarization in Hawai`i. I mention the history of the 1898 overthrow and the occupation of 30% of land in the islands by the U.S. military. Jay listens with great interest. “And is there rape and torture, disappearances, extrajudicial killing of activists in Hawai`i as there is here?” he asks in Filipino. He knows that I know that he knows the answer to this question.
I think of everything Keanu Sai’s family lost over Perfect Title. I think of George Helm. I think of the endless evictions, of the disproportionate poverty and incarceration and poor health and un-/under-employment, of the institutions of miseducation, of the toxic waste left everywhere by the U.S. military, of the myriad other forms of violence experienced by Kanaka Maoli as a consequence of illegal U.S. occupation. But Jay’s question is pointed. He highlights the many faces of militarism that are sometimes enabled by, but invisible or absent in, the experience of militarization in Hawai`i.
“No,” I respond.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Baguio Week 1, 2.8-2.14.09: Crib Search
On Monday morning of Feb. 9th, after yoga and a timba-heated tabo bath, I cautiously cross the street and – voila! – arrive on the campus of the University of the Philippines - Baguio. I lament the transient nature of my housing, since the location can’t be beat. I can only stay in my nice apartment until Thursday, though, since it has already been reserved by “a guest of the Chancellor.” Ah, well. I am optimistic about my housing search.
Taking a short-cut via the back entrance of the campus, I admire the lovely new Fine Arts, Linguistics, and Communications building as I walk past on my way to the Social Sciences building – commonly referred to as “socsci.” The familiar walkways and terraced landscaping trigger happy memories of my last visit here, for a conference in February 2008. I enter socsci and walk up four flights of stairs. When I walk into the Cordillera Studies Center Research Office, I am greeted warmly by Alice Follosco, the CSC staff researcher. She introduces me to the rest of the staff, shows me to my desk, and gives me what I need to set up my workspace, including internet access passwords. The CSC offices are airy and bright, and full of beautiful wood furniture. I do not miss the steely gray austerity of over-air conditioned Saunders.
When Ate Alice introduces me to Lolit, one of the CSC administrative staff, she tells me Lolit will be helping me with my housing search. In Taglish I tell them both how thrilled I am for the help. I apologize to Lolit, explaining that I was born and raised in the Washington, D.C. area, thus accounting for my busted Filipino: “Naiintindihan ko, pero dahan-dahan lang ang pagsalita, at baligtad.” Lolit and Alice look at each other and, in Filipino, Lolit says, “Well, that makes two of us,” and laughs. Alice says, “Sometimes she mixes up words in Filipino,” indicating that Lolit’s mother tongue is Ilokano – the lingua franca of this region.
Ate Lolit has already identified some “bachelor pad” prospects from the Baguio Midland Courier ads. I ask if I should make some phone calls to follow up, and she tells me, “I’ll call muna and then we’ll go together and look,” then, in Filipino, adds, “otherwise if they know you’re not from here you’ll get gouged.” I thank her, profoundly grateful.
The rest of the week is a blur of getting settled in at the CSC, searching unsuccessfully for housing, and dinners at SM. On campus I tool around figuring out the logistics for library access, which is the best canteen for lunch, and at what time of day the internet connection is the strongest for videochatting or IMing with my boys in Honolulu, my bro in the Bay, and my sis in D.C. Around town with Lolit, who is incredibly sweet and funny, I acclimate myself to jeepney etiquette as we check out apartments and rooms in Engineer's Hill, Quezon Hill, and around Burnham Park. We follow-up on newspaper ads and word-of-mouth recommendations for joints in condotels and multi-floor family compounds. It is a bad time to search for housing, with the annual Panagbenga Festival right around the corner. Tourists flock to Baguio by the thousands to participate in the revelry, snatching up all the available transient cribs.
On Tuesday night before bed I write in my journal, “Am happy, truly. Slightly surprised to be so happy, but it hasn’t even been a week yet. After this week only 23 more to go – it’s going to pass too quickly! How am I going to get everything done in only 23 weeks?” The following night I write, “Not such a happy day today. Housing search sobering. Just finished packing up to move to another temporary unit in faculty housing. Am really sick of SM. Carrying 6 liter jugs of H20 [for drinking] back from SM every two days getting to be a drag. I long for my boys, for the ocean, for my familiar, for clean air. I long to cook!... Be patient, sleep, I’ll feel better in the morning. It will all be ok. It’s only been one week. It will all be ok.”
By Thursday I’m beginning to panic about my housing situation, since I only have another week in my 2nd temporary unit (which is, incidentally, not beautiful. The bathroom always smells unpleasantly because the toilet splashes up water when other units flush. I am disgusted.). My budget cannot handle another week of meals from Max’s, and I’m not sure my immune system can handle a week of eating the oil-heavy, but delicious, myriad cheaper restaurant food. Since I have no cooking facilities, it is these options or instant noodles, should I choose to dine in my room.
At this point Lolit and I have checked out the following cribs worth mentioning (in addition to several others not worth mentioning): one the size of a closet with a hotplate on a counter at the foot of the bed – P5,000/mo; a one-bedroom joint with a modest but cute kitchen/dining area and water access 24/7, but a bedroom with no windows and dark painted walls that feels like a tomb – P7,500; a beautiful, spacious 2-bedroom place with new floor tiling and big windows but completely unfurnished (no refrigerator, bed, stove, tables, nothing) and two jeep rides from campus – P7,000; and a completely perfect, fully-furnished, one bedroom apartment with a lanai, hot water, in a wifi building with 24 hour security that is a 10-minute walk from campus, all for P15,000/mo. P15,000 is P5,000 more than my maximum housing budget but, as I said, I’m getting desperate. I hem and haw, vacillating between the P15,000 joint and the P7,500 joint – can I really sleep in a tomb?? Can I live in a place with no internet access? Should I just resign myself to getting comfy at the internet cafes? But how am I going to feel safe carrying my computer around everywhere, especially coming home alone at night? Will I be able to do research and stay connected to my people otherwise? Shouldn't my home also be a place where I can do work, think, and read comfortably? If I take the P7,500 joint, a fine place to lay my head but do little else, I'm in for more weekends and evenings than I care to imagine hanging out in wifi spots or working late at the office. The campus library closes at 6pm. It would be a 20 minute walk home. I remember ruefully a joke Krishna once made in class about the Internet being his prosthesis. Am I being ridiculous?
Feeling gouged, embracing my cyborg nature, caving in to the desire for comfort and convenience, I go to the bank Friday morning and take out more than half the money in my account to pay the first month’s rent and two months’ deposit on the P15,000 crib, with the understanding that I’ll be moving into a P12,000/mo studio in the same building after the end of the first month.
As I hand over the rent money to the manager at Ina Mansion, I feel both anxiety and relief. I walk the ten minutes back to the CSC through Burnham Park, imagining my daily commute. And then, when I’m back in the office, two miraculous things happen. First, CSC Director Del Tolentino calls me into his office and announces he has found a sublet in faculty housing for me. His friend Mng. Celia is on sabbatical and has agreed to rent her apartment to me, in the same building I’ve been staying temporarily. “When I heard you were about to pay P15,000 for a place, I just had to find you an alternative. I had been trying to get ahold of Cel for the past few weeks because her place would be perfect for you, but her cell phone was stolen so she never got my messages. Anyway, I finally talked to her, and you can move in early next week.” I’m speechless. This was my fantasy scenario. I fall all over myself thanking him. Sir Del directs Lolit to return to Ina Mansion with me and claim my P45,000 deposit, which we do without trouble.
“Wow, suwerte ka (you’re so lucky)!” Alice exclaims, when I tell her the news. “Mng. Cel’s house is beautifully furnished – but very cluttered.” I make note of her warning but am elated nonetheless. And then, miracle #2: Vangie Ram, a Psychology faculty member and friend of Alice’s whom I met earlier in the week, walks into the office and asks me if I want to join her and her students on a trip to Sagada, Mt. Province, for the weekend. “I’d love to!” I say without hesitation. “Wonderful!” Vangie responds, and proceeds to rattle off a list of required items for the trip – sleeping bag, backpack, snacks – most of which I don’t have. She concludes by saying, “We meet at the bus station at 4:30am tomorrow morning.”
I look at my watch. It’s 5:35pm. I have to get gear, pack, sleep, and be up by 3:30am. No matter. I’m going to Sagada!
Photos are of my office space and Ate Alice, who is 2 offices down from me. More photos of the CSC and other staff forthcoming.
Taking a short-cut via the back entrance of the campus, I admire the lovely new Fine Arts, Linguistics, and Communications building as I walk past on my way to the Social Sciences building – commonly referred to as “socsci.” The familiar walkways and terraced landscaping trigger happy memories of my last visit here, for a conference in February 2008. I enter socsci and walk up four flights of stairs. When I walk into the Cordillera Studies Center Research Office, I am greeted warmly by Alice Follosco, the CSC staff researcher. She introduces me to the rest of the staff, shows me to my desk, and gives me what I need to set up my workspace, including internet access passwords. The CSC offices are airy and bright, and full of beautiful wood furniture. I do not miss the steely gray austerity of over-air conditioned Saunders.
When Ate Alice introduces me to Lolit, one of the CSC administrative staff, she tells me Lolit will be helping me with my housing search. In Taglish I tell them both how thrilled I am for the help. I apologize to Lolit, explaining that I was born and raised in the Washington, D.C. area, thus accounting for my busted Filipino: “Naiintindihan ko, pero dahan-dahan lang ang pagsalita, at baligtad.” Lolit and Alice look at each other and, in Filipino, Lolit says, “Well, that makes two of us,” and laughs. Alice says, “Sometimes she mixes up words in Filipino,” indicating that Lolit’s mother tongue is Ilokano – the lingua franca of this region.
Ate Lolit has already identified some “bachelor pad” prospects from the Baguio Midland Courier ads. I ask if I should make some phone calls to follow up, and she tells me, “I’ll call muna and then we’ll go together and look,” then, in Filipino, adds, “otherwise if they know you’re not from here you’ll get gouged.” I thank her, profoundly grateful.
The rest of the week is a blur of getting settled in at the CSC, searching unsuccessfully for housing, and dinners at SM. On campus I tool around figuring out the logistics for library access, which is the best canteen for lunch, and at what time of day the internet connection is the strongest for videochatting or IMing with my boys in Honolulu, my bro in the Bay, and my sis in D.C. Around town with Lolit, who is incredibly sweet and funny, I acclimate myself to jeepney etiquette as we check out apartments and rooms in Engineer's Hill, Quezon Hill, and around Burnham Park. We follow-up on newspaper ads and word-of-mouth recommendations for joints in condotels and multi-floor family compounds. It is a bad time to search for housing, with the annual Panagbenga Festival right around the corner. Tourists flock to Baguio by the thousands to participate in the revelry, snatching up all the available transient cribs.
On Tuesday night before bed I write in my journal, “Am happy, truly. Slightly surprised to be so happy, but it hasn’t even been a week yet. After this week only 23 more to go – it’s going to pass too quickly! How am I going to get everything done in only 23 weeks?” The following night I write, “Not such a happy day today. Housing search sobering. Just finished packing up to move to another temporary unit in faculty housing. Am really sick of SM. Carrying 6 liter jugs of H20 [for drinking] back from SM every two days getting to be a drag. I long for my boys, for the ocean, for my familiar, for clean air. I long to cook!... Be patient, sleep, I’ll feel better in the morning. It will all be ok. It’s only been one week. It will all be ok.”
By Thursday I’m beginning to panic about my housing situation, since I only have another week in my 2nd temporary unit (which is, incidentally, not beautiful. The bathroom always smells unpleasantly because the toilet splashes up water when other units flush. I am disgusted.). My budget cannot handle another week of meals from Max’s, and I’m not sure my immune system can handle a week of eating the oil-heavy, but delicious, myriad cheaper restaurant food. Since I have no cooking facilities, it is these options or instant noodles, should I choose to dine in my room.
At this point Lolit and I have checked out the following cribs worth mentioning (in addition to several others not worth mentioning): one the size of a closet with a hotplate on a counter at the foot of the bed – P5,000/mo; a one-bedroom joint with a modest but cute kitchen/dining area and water access 24/7, but a bedroom with no windows and dark painted walls that feels like a tomb – P7,500; a beautiful, spacious 2-bedroom place with new floor tiling and big windows but completely unfurnished (no refrigerator, bed, stove, tables, nothing) and two jeep rides from campus – P7,000; and a completely perfect, fully-furnished, one bedroom apartment with a lanai, hot water, in a wifi building with 24 hour security that is a 10-minute walk from campus, all for P15,000/mo. P15,000 is P5,000 more than my maximum housing budget but, as I said, I’m getting desperate. I hem and haw, vacillating between the P15,000 joint and the P7,500 joint – can I really sleep in a tomb?? Can I live in a place with no internet access? Should I just resign myself to getting comfy at the internet cafes? But how am I going to feel safe carrying my computer around everywhere, especially coming home alone at night? Will I be able to do research and stay connected to my people otherwise? Shouldn't my home also be a place where I can do work, think, and read comfortably? If I take the P7,500 joint, a fine place to lay my head but do little else, I'm in for more weekends and evenings than I care to imagine hanging out in wifi spots or working late at the office. The campus library closes at 6pm. It would be a 20 minute walk home. I remember ruefully a joke Krishna once made in class about the Internet being his prosthesis. Am I being ridiculous?
Feeling gouged, embracing my cyborg nature, caving in to the desire for comfort and convenience, I go to the bank Friday morning and take out more than half the money in my account to pay the first month’s rent and two months’ deposit on the P15,000 crib, with the understanding that I’ll be moving into a P12,000/mo studio in the same building after the end of the first month.
As I hand over the rent money to the manager at Ina Mansion, I feel both anxiety and relief. I walk the ten minutes back to the CSC through Burnham Park, imagining my daily commute. And then, when I’m back in the office, two miraculous things happen. First, CSC Director Del Tolentino calls me into his office and announces he has found a sublet in faculty housing for me. His friend Mng. Celia is on sabbatical and has agreed to rent her apartment to me, in the same building I’ve been staying temporarily. “When I heard you were about to pay P15,000 for a place, I just had to find you an alternative. I had been trying to get ahold of Cel for the past few weeks because her place would be perfect for you, but her cell phone was stolen so she never got my messages. Anyway, I finally talked to her, and you can move in early next week.” I’m speechless. This was my fantasy scenario. I fall all over myself thanking him. Sir Del directs Lolit to return to Ina Mansion with me and claim my P45,000 deposit, which we do without trouble.
“Wow, suwerte ka (you’re so lucky)!” Alice exclaims, when I tell her the news. “Mng. Cel’s house is beautifully furnished – but very cluttered.” I make note of her warning but am elated nonetheless. And then, miracle #2: Vangie Ram, a Psychology faculty member and friend of Alice’s whom I met earlier in the week, walks into the office and asks me if I want to join her and her students on a trip to Sagada, Mt. Province, for the weekend. “I’d love to!” I say without hesitation. “Wonderful!” Vangie responds, and proceeds to rattle off a list of required items for the trip – sleeping bag, backpack, snacks – most of which I don’t have. She concludes by saying, “We meet at the bus station at 4:30am tomorrow morning.”
I look at my watch. It’s 5:35pm. I have to get gear, pack, sleep, and be up by 3:30am. No matter. I’m going to Sagada!
Photos are of my office space and Ate Alice, who is 2 offices down from me. More photos of the CSC and other staff forthcoming.
Monday, February 16, 2009
2.8.09: Baguio Day One (2 of 2)
A rough cut of video footage from this "National Arts Month" concert at SM-Baguio featuring Kalinga-Bodong Dance and Music Company (Lubuagan, Kalinga) and indige-rockers Katangian [katang´ian n. characteristic (from t´angi'), quality or character of a thing]. And yes, the band used a smoke machine.
2/8/09: Baguio Day One (1 of 2)
I open the door to receive Mng. Carmen, the 57-yr-old, incredibly kind yet no-nonsense dorm manager. “Good afternoon, Ma’am Melisa! How are you?” she greets me in English as she steps inside. “A bit shaky, but ok,” I respond. “Ah well,” she says, brushing off my vulnerability like lint. “You’ll feel better after some food. Tara na, let’s go. We’ll go to SM. I have to show you where to cross the street, the intersection here is dangerous.” [*Note to the anxious: though there is a trick to it, the intersection referred to here is not “dangerous” as long as the pedestrian has clear vision, is fully ambulatory, and knows the trick. Yes! There are codes for street-crossing!] We walk arm-in-arm the four blocks to SM Baguio, a massive open-air shopping mall whose location was hotly contested by Baguio residents. (The final site was approved after developers responded – though not fully – to protesters’ concerns regarding zoning, water, and traffic flow.) I learn of Mng. Carmen’s family origins in Ilokos Norte, her beloved nephew, her home outside the city. She gives me a good chastising for waiting so long to give birth to a child. “You can’t wait too long,” she cautions. “You’re already nearly forty!” Salamat po, Manang. How did Nanay and Tita Lydia and Tita Luz and Laurie Onizuka all get to you so fast, Manang? I grow weary of this relentless, transnational, maternal coalition of reproduction-pushers.
After Mng. Carmen and I walk back to the dorm complex, arm-in-arm, I eat my Max’s take-out and – lo and behold – I discover I have wifi access in my apartment. I feel like dancing. I check email instead. Later, I fall asleep to the sound of traffic roaring up the hill adjacent to my building, and the unsettling quiet of a bedroom occupied only by myself.
The next day I wake to the choreography of sunrise and traffic. My spirits are high. Excitement has mostly replaced last night’s jitters. I fill every bucket that isn’t full, knowing from previous experience that water in this building is only available on tap for a brief window of 60-90 minutes a day – and not always at the same time each day. I double check to make sure all the rubbish can-sized water back-up reserves are full. I was warned there are no kitchen facilities in my room, but there is an electric kettle. I eat the instant oatmeal I brought, and the oranges and papaya I picked up the night before. I ichat with my brother, with baby, and send a round of emails and texts to family informing them I’ve met with no treachery or mishaps.
After unpacking a bit, I decide to have lunch at the mall, since it’s the closest place to get food, before wandering around the city. I hate malls, and generally only step foot in Ala Moana if dragged there, but in the PI, shopping malls produce a curious ambivalence. They are filled with, as yet, for me, uncommon consumption potentiality – dozens of kiosks on every floor offering everything from durian ice cream and fresh hot chicharron to empanadas and ensaymada to hopia, siopao, and waffle fries – and that’s before one even turns to the restaurants. Philippine malls offer an exotic familiar, variations on the food i was exposed to sporadically growing up. But they also offer a pedestrian familiar – the architecture, the flows of bodies, the scopophilic pleasures, the hum. Mall publics.
The SM Baguio Mall public today was treated to a concert I had no idea was scheduled. I wander out onto the “Mountain Terrace” to check out the vista of the city and notice there is a band warming up on the ground floor. Thirty minutes later Joey Ayala is emceeing a concert featuring a dance group from Kalinga and a rock band comprised of indigenous and non-indigenous folks from the region. They feature traditional instruments like kubing and gangsa in addition to electric guitar and kit drum. I eat my spicy seafood and get sucked into the performance, staying for most of the afternoon. I rush home at 4 to make a scheduled ichat with my lalaki.
Photos are of my temporary apartment in faculty housing.
After Mng. Carmen and I walk back to the dorm complex, arm-in-arm, I eat my Max’s take-out and – lo and behold – I discover I have wifi access in my apartment. I feel like dancing. I check email instead. Later, I fall asleep to the sound of traffic roaring up the hill adjacent to my building, and the unsettling quiet of a bedroom occupied only by myself.
The next day I wake to the choreography of sunrise and traffic. My spirits are high. Excitement has mostly replaced last night’s jitters. I fill every bucket that isn’t full, knowing from previous experience that water in this building is only available on tap for a brief window of 60-90 minutes a day – and not always at the same time each day. I double check to make sure all the rubbish can-sized water back-up reserves are full. I was warned there are no kitchen facilities in my room, but there is an electric kettle. I eat the instant oatmeal I brought, and the oranges and papaya I picked up the night before. I ichat with my brother, with baby, and send a round of emails and texts to family informing them I’ve met with no treachery or mishaps.
After unpacking a bit, I decide to have lunch at the mall, since it’s the closest place to get food, before wandering around the city. I hate malls, and generally only step foot in Ala Moana if dragged there, but in the PI, shopping malls produce a curious ambivalence. They are filled with, as yet, for me, uncommon consumption potentiality – dozens of kiosks on every floor offering everything from durian ice cream and fresh hot chicharron to empanadas and ensaymada to hopia, siopao, and waffle fries – and that’s before one even turns to the restaurants. Philippine malls offer an exotic familiar, variations on the food i was exposed to sporadically growing up. But they also offer a pedestrian familiar – the architecture, the flows of bodies, the scopophilic pleasures, the hum. Mall publics.
The SM Baguio Mall public today was treated to a concert I had no idea was scheduled. I wander out onto the “Mountain Terrace” to check out the vista of the city and notice there is a band warming up on the ground floor. Thirty minutes later Joey Ayala is emceeing a concert featuring a dance group from Kalinga and a rock band comprised of indigenous and non-indigenous folks from the region. They feature traditional instruments like kubing and gangsa in addition to electric guitar and kit drum. I eat my spicy seafood and get sucked into the performance, staying for most of the afternoon. I rush home at 4 to make a scheduled ichat with my lalaki.
Photos are of my temporary apartment in faculty housing.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
2.7.09: Baguio Night One
the bus ride to baguio from manila takes 7 and a half hours. We had a particularly slow driver this time, and he stopped twice at rest stations rather than just once. I love the drive north through Luzon’s fertile central plains, past farm after farm. I love the bus-view snapshot of country life in the small and not-as-small towns we pass through: Angeles, Tarlac, Santo Tomas, Sison. Joey Ayala’s “Maglakad” rings in my ears. Signs tell me where folks go for videoke, San Miguel, Ginebra, and cell phone load. Where it is prohibited to urinate. Where to pray. I notice coconut trees planted on the edges of the crop fields. I notice the carabao. I notice the dried up streams, some spanking-new condominiums smack in the middle of country, banners for a new SM Mall underway. Onward progress.
The rest station CRs (comfort rooms) are staffed by young women who collect PhP2 or PhP5 “donations” for use of the toilet. I’m glad i’ve been trained to bring my own toilet paper. PhP15 for a bottle of H2O. so many food options at the vendor stalls, and the smell of the open-air grills is enticing, but i’m not hungry. I’ve been snacking on the butter toast Tita stuck in my bag. White bread toasted, then smothered in butter and sugar, then baked. I would normally never eat such a thing but I cannot resist since my Tita gave it to me with such love, along with a whole bag of other snacks I couldn’t even bring with me on the bus.
Our bus seems to be hosting a Fernando Poe, Jr. film festival. Film after film from the 1970s starring icon FPJ, aka Da King. (See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fernando_Poe,_Jr.) Later I find out he never finished high school but became one of the most popular screen stars in the history of Philippine cinema, known for playing everyman roles. He was designated a Philippine National Artist posthumously in 2006. On the bus I watch him enact vigilante justice over and over, intermittently texting Ma’am Alice, a researcher with the Cordillera Studies Center, until I eventually nap. Alice had emailed me that someone would meet me at the Victory Liner station when I arrive, so I keep her appraised of our bus’ progress. My dozing ceases when we begin the ascent into the Cordillera mountains, a sign that we’ve nearly arrived at our destination.
This part of the ride gets tricky. The road is well-built but super winding, and in some areas quite steep. Switchback after switchback eventually cause mild nausea, and I’m a bit shaky when I eventually disembark into the cool Baguio evening. I wait and look and wait and look, but no one from the CSC appears. I send Alice several texts, and she tells me to cab it to my temporary quarters at the University of the Philippines-Baguio faculty housing. She’s stuck in Irisan interviewing an elderly person for her research project and can’t get to the bus station in time. But the station is a 3 minute taxi ride from faculty housing, so no problem. Nonetheless, I’m a bit anxious – I am now completely alone, pamilya-less, with nothing but my 2 luggage and 60% Tagalog to get by on. Fortunately, my language skills for these kinds of transactions – markets, restaurants, cabs, bus stations, street vendors – is closer to 85% so I do fine getting to my temporary apartment.
I walk into my spacious and beautiful quarters, sit down on one of the three wooden chairs in the sala, stare at my boxes, and begin to cry. I miss my boys! And for the first time since I’ve arrived in the PI, I am utterly alone to fully feel their absence.
I allow myself ten minutes to weep. I call baby and we have a great talk. I pull myself together and text Alice: “Going out for food and H2O.” She texts me back: “Mng. Carmen is coming to show u where to go.” And as soon as I’ve finished reading her text, I hear a knock on my door.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Keep your stinkin traveler's checks, Yankee!
Cash is king in the PI.
Carry $2000 US dollars on the plane? Ridiculous me for thinking safety first. Not even banks take traveler's checks here.
The afternoon after I arrived in Manila, Tito Manuel drove to the working class neighborhood where his driver, Marlon, was cruising? running errands? specifically to fetch him. Why? Because Marlon, affectionately dubbed "The Scientist" by by Tito and Tita, knows his way around Makati better than Tito Manuel. And upscale Makati is the neighborhood where the American Express office is located in Manila. And the Amex office was the only place in town that would accept my traveler's checks for conversion or purchase. It was an hour's drive through 4pm traffic and heavy rain from Cavite, normally 30 mins outside MetroManila, to Makati. "Sayang," Tita Lydia said. "Their rate is 46.70 on the dollar. You could get much better than that if you had cash instead of checks."
Tito Manuel and Tita Lydia are living the retired life. Tito had a beautiful house in Cavite built a few years ago. Tita said Guam didn't have enough action for him. They live a ten minute walk from the SM Mall in Cavite. Earlier in the day, Tita took me to the mall to go to the bank. Doting and anxious Nanay had sent Tita money to open a bank account for me so I'd have some cushion when I arrived. (Isn't Nanay the best?) So Tita opened a joint account in both our names, with herself as the primary account holder. I had to become a cosigner so I can use the account for my banking for the next 6 months. Every single worker except the security guards at Banco de Oro were women, wearing black pinstriped suits. A rated-G version of that Robert Palmer video comes to mind. "For cosigners we need 2 ids, a passport-sized photograph, and since she's American, we need barangay clearance." Our worker told my Tita in Filipino. "Barangay clearance!?" My Tita responded. "You've got her passport right there!" "Policy, ma'am." There are few things more frustrating than understanding 60% of what you hear in another language -- it's enough to almost get the gist, but not enough to enable real participation in conversation, even if it's conversation about your ability to engage in sanctioned financial transactions in a foreign country. It's just enough comprehension to be dangerous. I sat there stupidly while Tita and the lady discussed alternative account structures, minimum balances, waiting periods for withdrawal. I'd break in occasionally in my jacked up Taglish to confirm the necessary details with the bank worker, who humored me generously.
Off we went to see the barangay captain to get clearance. Fortunately the barangay office is right across the street from Tita and Tito's house. The barangay is the smallest political administrative unit there is in the PI. The word barangay means boat, or canoe. Not as big as an ahupua`a, not as big as a zip code, about as small as a neighborhood. Three middle-aged aunties talking story and watching a variety show at the barangay office helped us. I had to show my passport, give my Tita's local address as my own, sign a form, and put blue thumbprints by my signature. Afterwards Tita had me run to them a bag of some of the pasalubong chocolates I'd brought from Honolulu. "So they'll remember you."
Eventually I got everything done that day -- got my bank account set up, got my traveler's checks cashed, got load for my cell phone.
What I ate while staying with Tita and Tito for two days: pusit in ink sauce, steamed hipon, grilled spicy chicken, sweet shrimp omelet, pritong bangus, upo with fishballs, squash and green beans and taro leaves in coconut milk, and steamed snapper that melted on my tongue. Tita and Tito do not mess around in that dirty kitchen. Asparagus and tofu, and steamed fish in light soy sauce from Max's. Plus the killer kakanin: ube cream, a dessert made of a rich ube halaya covered with an even richer coconut cream, sprinkled with crumbled ube and latik. I can die now. In two days, i think i put on 10 pounds.
I felt ready to make the 6 hour bus ride north after all that pampering. Spoiled Amerikano ako!
Carry $2000 US dollars on the plane? Ridiculous me for thinking safety first. Not even banks take traveler's checks here.
The afternoon after I arrived in Manila, Tito Manuel drove to the working class neighborhood where his driver, Marlon, was cruising? running errands? specifically to fetch him. Why? Because Marlon, affectionately dubbed "The Scientist" by by Tito and Tita, knows his way around Makati better than Tito Manuel. And upscale Makati is the neighborhood where the American Express office is located in Manila. And the Amex office was the only place in town that would accept my traveler's checks for conversion or purchase. It was an hour's drive through 4pm traffic and heavy rain from Cavite, normally 30 mins outside MetroManila, to Makati. "Sayang," Tita Lydia said. "Their rate is 46.70 on the dollar. You could get much better than that if you had cash instead of checks."
Tito Manuel and Tita Lydia are living the retired life. Tito had a beautiful house in Cavite built a few years ago. Tita said Guam didn't have enough action for him. They live a ten minute walk from the SM Mall in Cavite. Earlier in the day, Tita took me to the mall to go to the bank. Doting and anxious Nanay had sent Tita money to open a bank account for me so I'd have some cushion when I arrived. (Isn't Nanay the best?) So Tita opened a joint account in both our names, with herself as the primary account holder. I had to become a cosigner so I can use the account for my banking for the next 6 months. Every single worker except the security guards at Banco de Oro were women, wearing black pinstriped suits. A rated-G version of that Robert Palmer video comes to mind. "For cosigners we need 2 ids, a passport-sized photograph, and since she's American, we need barangay clearance." Our worker told my Tita in Filipino. "Barangay clearance!?" My Tita responded. "You've got her passport right there!" "Policy, ma'am." There are few things more frustrating than understanding 60% of what you hear in another language -- it's enough to almost get the gist, but not enough to enable real participation in conversation, even if it's conversation about your ability to engage in sanctioned financial transactions in a foreign country. It's just enough comprehension to be dangerous. I sat there stupidly while Tita and the lady discussed alternative account structures, minimum balances, waiting periods for withdrawal. I'd break in occasionally in my jacked up Taglish to confirm the necessary details with the bank worker, who humored me generously.
Off we went to see the barangay captain to get clearance. Fortunately the barangay office is right across the street from Tita and Tito's house. The barangay is the smallest political administrative unit there is in the PI. The word barangay means boat, or canoe. Not as big as an ahupua`a, not as big as a zip code, about as small as a neighborhood. Three middle-aged aunties talking story and watching a variety show at the barangay office helped us. I had to show my passport, give my Tita's local address as my own, sign a form, and put blue thumbprints by my signature. Afterwards Tita had me run to them a bag of some of the pasalubong chocolates I'd brought from Honolulu. "So they'll remember you."
Eventually I got everything done that day -- got my bank account set up, got my traveler's checks cashed, got load for my cell phone.
What I ate while staying with Tita and Tito for two days: pusit in ink sauce, steamed hipon, grilled spicy chicken, sweet shrimp omelet, pritong bangus, upo with fishballs, squash and green beans and taro leaves in coconut milk, and steamed snapper that melted on my tongue. Tita and Tito do not mess around in that dirty kitchen. Asparagus and tofu, and steamed fish in light soy sauce from Max's. Plus the killer kakanin: ube cream, a dessert made of a rich ube halaya covered with an even richer coconut cream, sprinkled with crumbled ube and latik. I can die now. In two days, i think i put on 10 pounds.
I felt ready to make the 6 hour bus ride north after all that pampering. Spoiled Amerikano ako!
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