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.
Monday, February 16, 2009
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!
Sunday, February 8, 2009
thinking is feeling
2.4.2009 1:10pm O`ahu time, on the runway
the beautiful new journal Aunty Terri and Kyle gave me comforts me as Hawaiian flight 455 to Manila prepares to lift off. i try not to feel the heaviness. i try not to think about what i'm leaving behind, i try not to be overwhelmed. if i think too much i'll begin weeping uncontrollably. ironic -- if i think too much, i'll feel too much. as if they could be disentangled, thinking and feeling. in a way i envy baby being able to feel everything fully in his body in the relative privacy of the car in the airport parking lot. if i were to do the same we would have inconvenient theater, of the kind no one enjoys on a plane, myself included.
salamat sa mga ninuno, they are with me now when no one else i know and love is.
a woman across the aisle from me crosses herself. will i go to church in the PI? i'm vexed when i consider what situation could compel me to do such a thing. cultural drag is difficult to sport when it is cultural drag. who will i be constantly becoming while i'm there? someone who feels mute, american, godless, fragile? someone who goes to church? someone who commits inscrutable, irredeemable acts? someone who is happy?
i've been preparing forever. baby sister said do a little everyday. i've been doing a lot every day for a month. and Iokepa helped so much, supported me, supports me, endlessly.
salamat sa ninuno. i am grateful for their guidance on this trip.
excitement, anticipation, the buzz from wanderlust fulfilled, anxiety, terror, hunger, bladder fullness, longing, heartbreak, loneliness, fretfulness, relief, calm. thinking is feeling.
the beautiful new journal Aunty Terri and Kyle gave me comforts me as Hawaiian flight 455 to Manila prepares to lift off. i try not to feel the heaviness. i try not to think about what i'm leaving behind, i try not to be overwhelmed. if i think too much i'll begin weeping uncontrollably. ironic -- if i think too much, i'll feel too much. as if they could be disentangled, thinking and feeling. in a way i envy baby being able to feel everything fully in his body in the relative privacy of the car in the airport parking lot. if i were to do the same we would have inconvenient theater, of the kind no one enjoys on a plane, myself included.
salamat sa mga ninuno, they are with me now when no one else i know and love is.
a woman across the aisle from me crosses herself. will i go to church in the PI? i'm vexed when i consider what situation could compel me to do such a thing. cultural drag is difficult to sport when it is cultural drag. who will i be constantly becoming while i'm there? someone who feels mute, american, godless, fragile? someone who goes to church? someone who commits inscrutable, irredeemable acts? someone who is happy?
i've been preparing forever. baby sister said do a little everyday. i've been doing a lot every day for a month. and Iokepa helped so much, supported me, supports me, endlessly.
salamat sa ninuno. i am grateful for their guidance on this trip.
excitement, anticipation, the buzz from wanderlust fulfilled, anxiety, terror, hunger, bladder fullness, longing, heartbreak, loneliness, fretfulness, relief, calm. thinking is feeling.
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