Philippine Workday

This is a real-time blog, as I like to call it, or I'm writing the thoughts as they form in my head. I don't know if it's a good writing strategy, but there's no one here to tell about this, so I'm left to write a blog about it, purging overwhelming anxiety as it develops.

I got in to work today at the Municipal Agriculture Office around 8:20. There was no one here except Mano Odic, a really skinny guy with gaudy glasses sitting at his little desk, hands folded in front of him, desk clear of any papers, staring out into space. I came into the back room, where my materials have been placed, and plugged in the extension cord to my computer. Rats have eaten though all of the electrical connections in the building except for one outlet, in the ceiling of the main office. The extension cord is strung though to the room where I am currently sitting, offering me some semblance of work, since then I can plug things in. At 8:35, one of the flamboyantly feminine male mayor assistants came by and stuck an electrical cord through the window, and asked me to plug it in to the power strip I am using. I had to extend the extension to reach so as to plug the mystery appliance in. As soon as the plug found current and I saw the familiar spark that signals electrical connection here, a large sound rocked the building and I jumped from my seat.

As incredibly loud '80s remixes started pouring from some sort of amplification system I had just abetted, the gay dude looks at me, winks, and then walks over to a spot 10 feet from the window, and proceeds to dance, fluidly swaying his hips from side to side, eager for his colleagues to join him.

Now it is 9:10. One person of the 12 that work here has actually come into the office. Most of the remaining employees here have driven motorcycles into the parking lot, begun the walk into the office, but, upon hearing the music emanating from the sound system, have been lulled into a semi-catatonic state where they are compelled to sing along to all the songs, top of their lungs, and yes, dance alongside their very colorful colleague, the arbiter of the happiness.

'What holiday is it?' you ask. 'What celebrated occasion is the source of all of this mirth?' We have a fiesta coming up in 16 days and they are just doing sound checks for the equipment. One sound check is not enough though; while we have the equipment out, may as well use it to its fullest. Yesterday, everyone took the day off because it was the Monday after Easter, and everybody knows you're sleeping the day away on the Monday after Easter. It's almost compulsory here.

Oops, the sound system just broke. So sad.

Going Viral

Just the other day, I met another PCV in the coffee shop where we do all of our internet dealings on Saturdays. We sat side by side for a half an hour or so, and becoming bored with my to do list, my eyes wandered to her screen where I saw she was watching something on You Tube while talking to a friend on skype. I was curious, and avoiding my work, asked her if there's any good You Tube stuff that I've been missing, since I've been out of 'the know' for some time now. She said not really, but one video had become quite popular over the past 6 months in the states, and that I should download it and watch. The You Tube sensation was one that I'm sure everyone has heard of by now, 'Double Rainbow' a filming of a double rainbow in Yosemite National Park after a cloudburst. For 3 minutes, the guy goes on and on about the double rainbow, its magnificence, how he's never seen one so complete and 'awesome.' She watched the video with me, telling how popular it had become, we laughed at how over-the-top the video was, and then went back to what we had been doing.

I thought the video funny for the length of time that the man went on, and the level of emotion he had about this seemingly benign natural occurrence, but couldn't wrap my head around why, out of all the videos on YouTube, all the freaks and bloopers and misfits out there, this video of YosemiteBear had made it so far. Well, this week, as with most every week here, I have had ample time to hash it out. So here goes:

It may be precocious of me to suggest, especially for those who have spent much longer away from the US than I, but I feel like I have been away from the states and 'our' communities long enough to have gotten a pretty objective view on our culture. Every day, I see people acting in a way that's radically different than how I would imagine people at home acting. There's good things and bad things; for example, people here tend to be misleading and indirect so as not to offend, people at home are direct and to-the-point so as to avoid miscommunication and unintended mistakes. These cultures are equally offensive, it just so happens that one culture's attributes lead towards a social culture of interwoven relationships and families, but little progress, while the other culture's attributes leads towards a much more efficient, progressive culture with a dwindling social element. Six of one, one half dozen of the other, as my brother would say.

So what does this all have to do with the quack in Yosemite? Well in the Philippines, I don't think that video would have ever gone viral. I think a lot of the Filipinos here would, in the video, see a man who may have a chemical imbalance, but they would not find his passion about the rainbow absurd, as I'm sure many of the States' YouTube watchers probably did. Television programs here routinely are very dramatic, almost sickening to my American sensibilities.

On a website with everything from T & A dances from Beyonce, to the inebriated ramblings of a little boy returning from a dentist appointment, what made this particular clip get so much attention? I posit YosemiteBear is an old, white man, which, whether deserved or not, is a very attractive demographic in our society to ridicule. Might be a little hard to swallow, but who, other than an aging caucasian male, could garner such widespread disparagement in the U.S.? Secondly, and most importantly, our society is so pragmatic, so removed from 'primitive' emotions and appreciation for simplicity, that the extreme passion that this man recorded for the world was unsettling for the American public. Instead of arousing wonder, amazement at the emotions of this old wanderer, the video incited ridicule, pity for such a lost soul.

YosemiteBear probably needs help, and he should learn not to set up his tent on a hill, but he may be tapping into a profound love for nature and an understanding of the basics that our myopic culture has lost.

Commencement 2011

**The other day, I was asked by a friend who teaches at a local high school to give the commencement address there. I've helped out at the school on various projects, and gotten to know some of the kids, so decided that I would be honored to try and give a respectable address. Knowing that most of the students have only a rudimentary understanding of English, I know that it didn't get through to some of those in attendance, but given my small vocabulary in the local dialect, any speech attempted in pure Waray Waray would have been less than an inspiration. I inserted some Waray explanation where I could, but below is the speech I delivered. This post is at the bequest of family who wanted to read what I said, so if you're not into reading this, you can move on, guilt free, to the next blog post. If, infact, you decide to read this, keep in mind the fact that this speech was given in a very rural village community, only accessible by motorcycle. In the free world of the United States, parts of the message are rather benign, but in the Oligarchical society of the Philippines, some of the prose I'm sure is a bit provocative. **

 

Maupay Nga aga ha iyo nga tanan. Damo nga salamat para ha namon nga invitatione dinhi. Ako hi Peter H. Barlow, taga ha Virginia, United States. Pasentia, pero dire ako maaram damo damo nga Waray Waray, so I will be speaking mostly in English this morning. So, again, good morning Dr. Kalingag, my good friend Kuya Nic, esteemed teachers, politicians, good friends, and most importantly, our graduates.

First of all, let me say how honored I am to speak with all of you, to be able to greet you all, the graduates of San Augustin's national high school with some final words of advice before you all move into the next phase of your journey.

As many of you already know, I was born in Western Virginia, and grew up in a small, rural town called Montezuma, a place with lots of hills, lots of farms, and lots of wonderful, nice people.

After serving in the military, my father worked for 35 years for the government finding jobs for disadvantaged people, people who were poor, or people who were disabled. My mom counseled married couples and troubled people, and tried to help them to have better lives.

From my parents, I learned the importance of honesty and loyalty, and of serving other people.

My brother Ben lives in Maryland and is an attorney. His wife, Monica is a great writer and editor for the Baltimore Orioles Baseball Team. Both of them are very smart, warm people.

My wife, Selena, whom I met in college is my best friend. We do everything together and are lucky to have found each other. She is the wisest person I have ever met. Her parents, my mother and father in law are extremely supportive, kind people as well. Now you all know about me. (Pause)

When I looked at the program for today's event, I was impressed by the theme. The graduates: Partners toward a transformational society, an answer to social change.

So, what is social change? Why is it important enough that it would be the theme of this commencement celebration? Social Change is progress of entire communities towards a better future. It is the change that takes place when a person makes a decision to keep going, remaining honest, remaining loyal to what they know is right, in the face of hardship and adversity, in order for the whole community to benefit. Social change is difficult, but it is crucial to the welfare of everyone, and integral to a transformational society. Social change is honesty, transparency, hard work, and ingenuity. Without these four things, Social change will not happen. Look around. We have signs that say 'Honesty is the best policy' and to be honest even if others are not, to drive with caution, to stop, slow down, be respectful, pay the fee, be transparent with funds, report all earnings, pay the taxes. Are these signs just suggestions? Are they meant to be read, but not taken to heart? Are they just here to nag us into being nice people?

No! We have signs saying to be honest and laws to be transparent because that is how a functioning society works. If we do not abide by certain principals as a whole, if we do not all work together with industry, and if we do not use God-given talents for ingenuity, we cannot achieve social change. You, the graduates of San Augustin high school of Babatngon, Leyte, Philippines, have completed your secondary education. You now have the knowledge to go to college, or become a business man, or business woman, or tradesman or tradeswoman, or whatever you desire. Along with that privilege, you also have the responsibility of being partners and leaders in your communities toward Social Change. As high-school educated young people, you are the economic and political leaders of tomorrow. The future is up to you. Now it is time to decide if you will lead towards social change, the honesty, transparency, hard work, and ingenuity that comes with it, or if you will not. The Babatngon of the future depends on your leadership.

Finally, I would like to say that I have gotten to know many of you. Through teaching a few classes here, and in Juan Tismo National High School, as well as at St. Vincent Ferrer, I have seen what students here are capable of. Before serving here in the Peace Corps, I taught at high schools and a University in the United States and got to know many of the students there. I am here to tell you that there is no difference between you and students in the United States, or Canada, or France, or Italy. You are just as smart, just as beautiful, and have just as much potential as any other students anywhere. I know that for a fact. There is no difference. The only difference is whether or not you are willing to keep pushing to get to the top. So that's it. No excuses. You can do whatever you want to do, if only you are willing to work for it. If you need money, apply for a scholarship, if you need food, grow it, if you need fare, earn it, but never ever give up. Corazon Aquino said, "I would rather die a meaningful death than to have lived a meaningless life." So think as you go and prepare for the next step of your life's journey, what will you do to make your life meaningful? With the tools that a high school education gives you, how will you now help to lead your community to social change?

Thank you all for your time, and I wish the graduates the best as they continue learning.

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.