See it Swim it Save it

A lot of my working time here is spent teaching students in school about biology, or integrated science. I sit in the library and grade papers, talk to teachers, and throw baseball with students in the afternoons. However, the main purpose of my work here is to conserve marine resources, to work with the local community to realize the inherent worth of their marine fisheries, and the integral relationship with the overall livelihood of the coastal villages.

As part of my work to improve fisheries, either directly by reducing fishing pressure, or indirectly by educating about responsible use of the marine resources, I decided I would combine my interests here and take my students out and teach them about the coral reefs here in Babatngon. To get snorkels for us to see the coral, seagrass, and fishes underwater, I filled out a grant for financial assistance from World Connect, Kids to Kids. Kids to kids is an organization that awards small grants to kids groups all over the world in order for them to learn about their world. What is really neat is that its actual kids who read proposals, decide which ones are worthwhile, and are involved in doling out $500 project grans to the different worldwide communities. It's really neat.

A few weeks back, while in Manila, I spent the bulk of the grant for snorkels at a Peace Corps-friendly dive shop downtown and then toted all 22 of them back down to Leyte. Ever since, I've just been waiting for the rain to stop long enough for me to tell the students that the gig is on and get them out in the water. You might be surprised, but most kids here don't know how to swim despite living in the middle of a 7000-island archipelago, so I had some anxiety about having them all out in the water at one time, flailing around, giving reef sharks a target and parents hypertension, but figured that I should rely on trust and just get them to fill out some permission slips in case anything (or anyone) went down.

Since the teachers got tired of teaching and decided to end school a week early, I thought that I should probably tell the students about the snorkel day while I still had a captive audience in the classroom and bite the bullet. So, last Monday, I went to Tacloban, found an internet cafe with Ink and Printer (harder than you might think), got a bunch of permission slips, and ran the idea by the students in class that afternoon. They were all about it, already talking about what they would wear, how their fathers' fishing areas are close to the area of Kilangawan Island where we would be going, and some students even ran around in the rain outside, telling me how they were already getting prepared to bathe in the ocean. The excitement level was quite high.

Throughout the week, I kept on reminding students, telling them to make sure and attend, and to get their permission slips signed. The students here are unfortunately accustomed to adults not coming through on promises, of events not happening, and especially accustomed to a lot of waiting without much return. As the weather continued to be gloomy and rain continued to pour during the week, my hopes of a sucessful event were waning, and I was afraid that the other participating volunteers may be coming to Babatngon for nothing.

On saturday morning, the supposed event day, I decided to ride the pedicab to town and see if the boatman was ready and if any kids were going to show. Other volunteers who had stayed over at our house the night before were just getting up and around and I told them to take it easy, that we might not be doing anything. It was gloomy, a heavy fog on the near side of the mountains, and roads were still flooded with the nights rain that hadn't soaked in to the inundated soil. I was also afraid that I wouldn't be able to report on the activity in time to close out the grant since this was really my last chance to get the school group to come out in any numbers.

When I got to the boat port, expecting to find 2 or 3 students waiting, and a nonexistant boat, I instead was met by a boatman wanting to know when to start, and 42 excited students faces behind him, asking about the visitors and when they would be coming. I was choked up, because, for one thing, it was 8:30 and the event was supposed to start at 9:00 a.m. That means that 43 Philipinos were early to my event. Philipinos are never early. I couldn't believe it, and so I started texting Selena and the other volunteers frantically to come to town, that despite a cloudy day and uncertainty, we were going to go learn about marine resources. We were going to snorkel!

For the rest of the day, 43 of my high school students, 8 Peace Corps Volunteers, 1 JICA volunteer and a boatman, Edwin, hung out. We went to the dilapidated municipal fish sanctuary in 2 waves, since the boat couldn't hold us all. Kilangawan island is about an acre and a half of rocky outcroppings, thick mangroves, and coral sand. We had snacks for the kids a couple hours into the event, but for the most part, the kids woudn't get out of the water, they were so excited to be seeing all of the corals and sea grasses and fishes underwater. I would like to think that the students were proud to see the beauty that lies in the waters of their community.

One thing that sticks out to me from the day that doesn't have to do with snorkeling or education, was when I heard two of the other Peace Corps volunteers call the students by name. The american culture takes it for granted that when someone wants to talk to you, they will call you by name, or when a teacher calls on you to answer a question in class, they will call on you by name. However, that's not the case here. Most teachers never know students' names, and just call them Edoi (boy), Edai (girl) , Bayot (gay one), or some other random word, but kids don't get called by name. Even at home, children are known as Ate, Kuya, Edai, or Edoi, but very seldom does someone call a kid by name. This may be an attribute of the culture that isn't degrading at all, that is endearing in some ways, but from my american perspective, I would have to assume that in some way, to be called by name by one of these american people, to be given some sort of individual identity, would be thrilling.

So that's why, after a day of snorkeling and hanging out with the kids on the island while the rain squalls were threatening, I was really happy to hear Mark (volunteer from Tacloban) say "Wilmar, lets go check out the corals ever here.." or Holly (Volunteer from Palo) say "Mikey is really swimming against the current. He's gonna be worn out." I think that the students will remember our outing for quite some time, but being called by name, recognized as an individual, I don't imagine that feeling ever goes away.

Allow me to digress

It has been raining a lot this week. I mean, inch-an-hour rains non-stop for days at a time. The rain comes slowly over the mountains that are to our West, headed by a front of heavy fog falling over the lush saddles and folds of mahogany, avocado, guava, jimalina, and cogan grass, and falls down the slopes. You can always hear the rain coming, its drops are bigger than those at home; they fall heavy on the big flat banana leaves, revealing a gloss that looks like plastic. Unlike the thunderstorms in the Shenandoah Valley, you can't smell this rain though, it comes so often and with such force that you don't have time to smell it, unless it shoos the sun away fast enough to send smelly steam up from the road asphalt. Advance of the rain run the farmers, flocking to their rice drying on blue tarps in the road, they bring wooden rakes and sacks, and frantically sweep and rake their precious kernels into piles and scoop, scoop the grain. Then come the children, first shy of the rain as they huddle under little sheds beside the road, waiting for it to stop. If the rain lingers, their timidity fades and the kids begin to run in the rain, some bathing, some just with a smile, playing. If I walk to the town center, there is a big waiting shed, a concrete block without walls, 20 feet by 10, where men sit all day playing native games, Damat, Chess. As if I didn't know, the same men smile every time I pass and yell, 'Nauran pa!' (It still is raining), and I reply with 'Siguro'(surely); we laugh, and I continue walking. At the ocean edge, I watch the rain mingle with the saltwater, the silhouette of fishermen sit in boats out on the flat water. Distant islands are obscured by fog and rain, ours is the only island left visible. The rain pools in the rice fields, just fluorescent green tips of leaves stick out of the deep water, the plants submerged. Rain puddles under nipa houses on stilts, children stick their heads out of windows to check the storm's progress, then disappear again inside to go back to sitting. Stream beds bloat with rivers, water buffalo just sit in their fields and wait patiently, and the big plops continue. Fog lowers, leaves glisten, we all wait.

2 years of Lawn Parties

A couple months ago while my mom and aunt Karen were visiting us here, mom and I spent some time talking about mine and Selena's Peace Corps service and how we might translate the experience to others when we come back to the States. Mom remarked that the summary of our stint here would most likely have to be somewhat pithy, a concise summary for the casual conversationalist.

Fast forward 3 weeks to a frustrating trip Selena and I were making back from our weekend shopping and emailing in the nearby city of Tacloban. While sitting in a multicab, sweating profusely, crammed together with lots of shady characters on run down jeepney, I turned to my wife and said, 'This here is like a two-year lawn party from hell.' Suddenly we turned and looked at each other, and realized that was it. That was the great summation of this experience, at least the unpleasant parts of it.

Over the past couple weeks, I have continued to mull this description over in my head and find many striking parallels that the casual observer might miss if not articulated.

1. Much like a lawn party in Western Virginia, the weather here is usually balmy, bordering on really freaking unpleasant, unless the skies open up, release a deluge, and everyone who was standing around huddles under huts and tents and it's really annoying.
   
2. Much like a lawn party, the music here is way too loud, always, and the music consists of bad '80s music you'd just as soon forget, as well as remixed covers of songs that were never that good anyways.
   
3. Much like a lawn party, the smell of sweat and pee is ever present, and people are always urinating in inappropriate places.
   
4. Much like a lawn party, most of the food is deep fried, and the bathrooms don't flush.
   
5. Much like a lawn party, highly unqualified middle-aged men are always in charge of running the rides.
   
6. Much like a lawn party, there is an ever-abundant supply of cheap alcohol, and the individuals who seem inebriated are usually also wearing some sort of sharp object strapped to their waistband.
   
7. Much like a lawn party, there are hords of children running around with candy-stained faces and seemingly no guardians in toe.
   
8. Much like a lawn party, the noise, laughter, annoying music, and constant eating continue for many long hours, everyone seemingly oblivious to whatever it is they should be doing instead.
   

Now, you may say that this is an understatement of the experience we must be having here; all of the presumed cultural integration and wonderful places, the nice people and unforgettable memories. I will concede, this 'lawn party' description does not do the experience justice some days, but on the other days, the days when we wish we would have just stayed home and read another book, or watched another podcast, the lawn party thing, it's dead-on.

Death at Sea

This past Wednesday, I went to the town market here in Babatngon to get my usual, 1 kilo potatoes, 1 kilo carrots, ¼ kilo green beans, 10 bananas, 1 sandwich bag holding about 5 tablespoons of curry powder, and 2 heads of garlic. I picked through the vegetables and fruit, negotiated the price down to what I always pay, and turned to go on my way when I noticed a crowd had gathered at the shoreline. Babatngon's market faces the ocean, you can see the other islands that are right off the coast, the market is about 20 yards by ten yards in all, a pole frame open-air building with a corrugated metal roof and always has a stale odor of fish guts, sweat, and pork cuts that have been out too long. There is always a row of pump boats, fishing vessels and the like that are docked at the shore, waiting to take passengers to nearby islands, or fishermen out to sea.

This day, though, the crowd gathered around the shore area where boats are docked, and the fixed gaze of a wondering, murmuring crowd focused on one of the small fishing vessels tied with fishing line to another of the pump boats. I walked over, pushed through the little crowd of 40 or 50, and saw what they were looking at. Two fishermen had been out fishing the night, before, and found another boat, floating, kerosene lamps burnt out, and the boat owner sitting, listless, slumped over his little two stroke engine, dead. The men presumably tied fishing line on the dead man's boat, and towed it in, then, to the market area, where the crowd was looking at the contorted body of the fisherman. He was still slumped over, his right arm straight out, wrist twisted upwards, left arm flung over the side of his boat, bent at the elbow, both arms weathered, the sinews of tired muscles apparent, and fingers still soiled with his toils in life. One shop owner, Jimmy, whom we buy our eggs and elbow noodles from, walked past me, just shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said, 'The police will come, they will know what to do.' I looked around, saw two of the police standing in the shade of a cacao tree, chatting idly with a group of men, smiling and nodding. I doubt they were carrying out any sort of investigation of the man's death.

As soon as it had gathered, the crowd of people began to disperse, their curiosity gone and no more questions answered than when they had come. All the while, the tide continued to lap at the little concrete storm wall, the ice cream man, box slung over his shoulder continued to ring his bell, and the little market continued its business. Still, the man's body remained in the boat, awaiting some sort of official examiner, its only movement being that of the breeze on his thinning hair and the current on his little boat.

I tried to process that scene later, all of the pieces and how they must all fit together in this culture. My initial impression was that of someone seeing, for the first time, a dead body, one that was not inbalmed or hooked up to tubes in a hospital room. It struck me how little anyone cared that here, in front of them, was a dead body, it seemed no different than if the crowd were looking at a beached whale, and the temporary intrigue. I thought about all of the loud, painful, overbearing ways of dying, and how, compared to all of the wars and suffering, this man died in one of the most peaceful ways I can imagine, out on the ocean, doing what he did all his life, without a care in the world. After thinking about it for a while though, I think that is all wrong.

The people in the crowd around me saw themselves, a man fishing to keep his family fed, in poor health, who died without anything but a Nipa Hut, and a small, broken down fishing boat. I realize now that the more time those people spent looking at that body, trying to find out what happened, who he was, where he was fishing, the more they would have seen a reflection of the lives they live. The man in that boat probably didn't die peacefully at all; he was working his hands and arms raw to fight for a livelihood in the ocean, in the unknown. Maybe to die in the middle of the ocean fishing would be the dream of Bill Dance or some other sports fisherman, but for this man, fishing may have never been his avocation. Without a choice of doing something, I don't think we can ever be satisfied with it. Maybe he lucked out, and loved his life of fishing in solitude every night, rain or shine, but most likely, that man led a life of struggle, resenting the choices he never had.

As I turned to go from the crowd on Wednesday, I hoisted my bag up on my shoulder, and said goodbye to our vegetable vendor. She looked at me, smiled, and gesturing to the man in the boat, said in Waray, "Maybe he caught a huge fish that was so big he had a heart attack trying to pull it in." I agreed maybe, smiled, and rode away on my bike.