If you are a regular follower of this blog, you'll remember my recent Fiesta!!! Blog post. Well, come to find out, fiesta is not quite over. Currently, we are experiencing the post-fiesta period of 'Random Parties at a Smattering of Homes around the Relative Community.' That's right, my American tendency toward definite beginnings and endings got in the way again, and the town around me is happily continuing the fiesta tradition in perpetuity. This morning, I was minding my own business, writing on the computer and listening to some new music, enjoying Starbucks House Blend from the French press when all of a sudden, a disheveled old woman hobbled up the stairs speaking in a mix of Waray and Gibberish, declaring that patron was happening, and I would have to go with her. I reasoned with her, told her I was not ready, that I was sick (which was true,) that I had lots of work to do (which was not), but, alas, I gave in, shaved, threw on some clothes, shut down all of my electronics, and walked with the old lady to the Patron. In the 100-degree sun, weslowly walked down the little path through the grass, across the road, and to a house where I had never been before, the little lady holding fast to my elbow, slowing me down so as to get me as sweaty as possible before going to the mystery house to be the token white guy for the day. We got to the home and I met a bunch of new people and ate their food, in my normal style, sweatily sitting in the corner, with fan blowing in my face and gingerly chewing mystery meats, tirelessly searching for sharp bone fragments with my tongue.
After a few minutes, I looked around, searching for the little old lady who had drug me to this home, just to find out that she had abruptly left to go home, saying she didn't feel like eating lunch. Fifteen minutes later, I was still sitting in the little house, wondering when it would be okay to leave.
A neighbor, Totoy came then. Totoy has but one vice, and that is he is always drunk. He lives in a nipa hut nearby and somehow is related to the family whose house I was attending. Already drunk on coconut wine, Totoy sat down in a plastic chair in the middle of the little room and would randomly smile from time to time, squirming in his chair, pretending to dance, but too listless to do it while standing. Recognizing me from the waiting shed where he often sits in a drunken stupor while I wait for jeeps to take me to town, he shook my hand and nodded abruptly. For the next 20 minutes, while I sat, full on rice and other questionable foods, Totoy would look around, aimlessly smiling, and then fix his gaze upon me, pound his chest with a sideways fist and say "Friend! We-are-friend- Peter!" and then go back to looking around.
I finally just said I was full, thanks very much, and that I would be heading back to the house. The host said thank you also, and that before going home, I should stop by her sister's house on the way, who might also be preparing for my arrival. On the walk back home, I stopped at her sister's house, who hadn't prepared for me to come at all, and just gestured for me to sit with everyone outside where they were downing a 6 gallon jug of coconut wine, 1 gallon at a time. I sat down in the midst of the Tuba drinkers, 3 middle-aged women, 3 men, and an old lady. They awkwardly didn't know what to say to me, and motioned for me to drink tuba. Since I was on antibiotics, I gracefully declined their offer, and said I would just sit with them. Without much idea of what to say to me, the group began talking about Alan Jones, a Peace Corps volunteer who was the last volunteer to be here in the town before Selena and I. I asked when Alan Jones was here. The old lady, sloppily eating a chicken leg, bits of meat falling out onto her pajamas, looked up to the left, then up to the right, then screeched, "Ahh, mga 1940's maybe." I respectfully smiled, knowing that since the Peace Corps started in 1961, this old lady was a little off. One of the women then said, "Ahh, kwan,(um) 1970." And then one of the guys said that he remembered it being in 1982. I'll just have to google Alan Jones and see if anything comes up.
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