Wonderful Tonight

As luck would have it, one of the teachers had an extra ticket to see Eric Clapton Monday night. I might add that it was a free ticket (free to me anyway; $100 for the bloke who was giving it away). I went with Sunny Cooper, the super talented and funny Canadian who teaches third grade at my school.

The concert was across town at IMPACT Arena, which is just like the Norfolk Scope or the Hampton Colisseum. We arrived about twenty minutes into the show (we had lingered too long over our passion fruit and lemon sherbet at dinner). The first thing that struck me as odd was that the floor was filled with chairs. I can’t recall having been to a rock concert where there were chairs set out on the center part of the arena. And what was more surprising is that people were using them. This was the most sedate concert I’ve ever been too. M-e-l-l-o-w. Not that I was expecting a mosh pit or people rushing the stage, but a little more…um…excitement perhaps.

I guess the man is getting old. He reminded me of my dad (sorry, Pops). Somewhere etched in my mind I still have the younger version of Eric Clapton, with longer hair and not so many wrinkles, and definitely not sporting the turkey neck action. The man can still jam though. He ended with some of the zippier tunes. The Geritol was paying off by then and people were actually out of their seats and some had ventured down the aisle closer to the stage. You just can’t be seated for “Layla.”

I’m getting old too because I suggested that we leave before the encore was over so that we wouldn’t have to fight with the crowd. I used to hate it when my parents gave me that line but I totally see the sense in it now, especially on a school night. Finding a taxi was a chore; I haven’t gotten used to the idea of needing to find transportation after an event, especially a late event across town. Sunny and I walked around for quite a while in search of a taxi to no avail. I ended up taking my shoes off (I had worn feminine shoes with a wedge heel instead of my Birks since I was wearing jeans and a black tee shirt, and combined with my short hair, Birks would have been a surefire brand of a butch lesbian).

Anyway, after walking in circles for a while, I stopped by a little restaurant to ask where to get a taxi. I was talking to a few older Thai people, shoes in hand, when I see something out of the corner of my eye. Scurrying. Many things scurrying. Many large things scurrying in close proximity to my bare feet. In the middle of my “where can I get a taxi” schpeil my voice jumped up a few octaves—I may have screamed—as I realized that those were the biggest cockroaches I have ever seen. We’re talking a good four inches each. A good dozen or so of four inch cockroaches scavenging near my perfectly manicured toes.

I tried to keep my composure because the Thai’s were nonplussed by the whole thing. Totally unphased. I didn’t want to come across as some hoighty toity privileged American who has never been around bugs before. I looked over at Sunny who was managing very nicely considering she hates cockroaches more than ANYTHING in the whole world. She took a step or two back, had an expression of sheer terror on her face, but she did not spew forth the number of expletives I have heard her expel before when we have encountered said pests.

Good to know that not EVERYTHING in Thailand is Thai sized. Well, kinda.

The Philippines

At Pastor Pete's wedding.

The river in Boklaoan.

Baguio City from up high.

The house in the country and the house in town.

Christmas in town and country

While in the Philippines, I read An Assembly Such as This which is the first part of Pride and Prejudice written from Mr. Darcy’s perspective. He states very clearly that he abhors the folks and mannerisms of the country and much prefers the culture and civilization of the town. While I do not share Mr. Darcy’s sentiments on town being better than country, I do recognize the extreme differences between the two, which were apparent while I was in the Philippines.

The time I spent in Baguio City was like being at a wealthy English manor. The house was huge: four stories of stone, grand windows, and hand carved crown molding. Cathedral ceiling in the great room. Two kitchens. At least five bathrooms. Landscaped grounds with climbing roses and hundreds of orchids. The maid, Millie, lived downstairs and cooked all the meals, washed the laundry by hand, and cleaned. A couple college-aged boys were always around to do manual labor, feed the dogs, and run errands. At first it was awkward being served. I felt a little guilty but before long it was pretty nice having my morning coffee brought to me, sitting down to a full meal and not having to help with dishes, giving my dirty clothes to someone else and having them returned to me cleaned and pressed.

In addition to staying at a full service residence, there were many gatherings in the town. One night Albert and Shirley hosted a caroling dinner party at the house. About twenty people came over and we sang Christmas carols and then sat down to a wonderful dinner. We attended a Christmas luncheon at a judge’s house in a nearby town. Another lunch was hosted at the Marcello’s house, where we were privileged to hear a nineteen year old child prodigy play Chopin on the piano. I attended a beautiful wedding for one of the pastor’s at the Methodist church in Baguio City. A birthday celebration was held on another night for one of the church members where there were over twelve different dishes of food, several cakes and three different types of wine.

Now, the country proved to be much more rustic. I had the pleasure of going to Boklaoan, where Albert and Shirley have built a church and their retirement home, and to Anchingching, home to Shirley’s eldest sister and the Ibaloi people. Both afforded me with unique experiences quite different from the town.

Baklaoan is a two and a half hour trek up into the mountains, reached only by a gravel and dirt road boasting treacherously sharp turns. The kind of road where you have to honk your horn before rounding a corner. A slow journey but beautiful. Poinsettia trees growing in the wild. Terraced rice fields could be spotted in the valley. Trees heavy with bananas, jack fruit, and mangoes graced the roadside. I thought I saw grapes running rampant along the hillsides—a vineyard, perhaps? Turns out it is sayote, a common vegetable in the Philippines that I had already tasted at more than one meal.

As we wound our way into the uplands, I saw a few houses. Small corrugated tin dwellings. Occasionally a cement building. There were hardly any personal vehicles up there, only jeepnees—jeep type buses with long beds and benches used as taxis. People also ride on top of the jeepnees or stand on the back holding handlebars. Sometimes you would see people sleeping on top of them. I wonder how they manage to stay on up there?

Once we reached the church and the house, all you could hear was the river rushing by far far below. Perfect serenity. As for country events…

I attended a wedding at the church Al’s parents built. It was very much like weddings I have been too before, except that it started one hour late and lasted an hour and a half. Remember, this was not a Catholic wedding but a Methodist one. The flowers were beautiful (calla lilies, bougainvillea, statice, and alstromeria—locally grown?), there were bridesmaids, groomsmen, and all that jazz. Only one or two people in the congregation were dressed up. It was crowded though, standing room only. The groom’s family all walked over from the other side of the mountain to attend the ceremony. Afterwards, there was a reception down the road (we walked) at what I guess constitutes their gathering place. It was more or less a picnic shelter, but not as sturdy, attached to a building made out of the corrugated tin. There was way more people at the reception than there were in church. I think everyone from ten miles around came to eat the boiled pork, pancit, adobo, and rice which was being cooked right next to some tables amidst all the guests. We sat at one of the few tables and were served locally made rice wine. This is different from sake in that it is sweeter and there is still rice in it. When you are poured a cup of rice wine you get a nice helping of rice at the bottom of your cup, which I couldn’t bring myself to drink (or eat?).

The other gathering I attended in Boklaoan was Christmas Eve service at the church and a feast afterwards with lechon (roasted pig), red rice, and pancit. We were late to the church service because we had attended a two hour, “Nine Carols and Nine Readings” service in town. On the way to the mountains, we listened to Miss Davis’s CD of out-of-the-way Christmas music which included “Go Tell the Congregation” by The Black Crowes and a biblical reading that was a longer version of one of the nine readings we had heard earlier in church that morning. (By the way, Albert and Shirley liked it all, especially the reading.) By the time we made it to Boklaoan, we had missed the readings and the sermon which was fine by be. As we arrived, the games were starting. The games were supposed to be for the children but they were too shy to play at first, so the adults had to demonstrate. They were mostly boys against girls, relay type games (which Mr. Darcy would have frowned upon but I found most entertaining). There was make the longest line (which was unfair because the guys were taking off their clothes), knock down the coke bottle with an eggplant tied on a string between your legs (imagine that one), and which couple can eat the apple tied on the string the fastest (the nineteen year old pastor was better than I thought he would be at this one). Most amusing.

My other adventure in the country was the Grand Canao in Anchingching, the highlight of my visit to the Philippines probably because it was the most foreign to me. From Baguio, we drove an hour and a half into different mountains and then parked the car and waited for a boat. The parking area was by the spillway for a huge dam. The little thirty person boat, a cross between a canoe and a john boat with a small motor, arrived after a while. We all piled in with our accoutrements for an overnight stay and made our way to the other side, about a twenty five minute boat ride away. When Stefanie attended the Grand Canao, the boat dropped them off right next to the village. However, due to low water levels and the dam, we were dropped off a mile and a half from the village.

As we were trekking through the valley, wading through river streams and padding across mud flats, I was reminded of A River Runs Through It. Crystal clear streams rushing over brightly colored stones, surrounded by mountains and trees. Walking on the dry mud flats was easy, but some of the not-so-dry mud flats were an obstacle. Only for me though. None of my traveling companions were plagued by the quagmires the way I was (the reason for my difficulty was later pointed out to me, as if I didn’t know already!). At different points in the crossing, I would just sink. Knee deep in mud I went down like a stone in the water. I would try to gain some leverage with my other foot and pull out my sunken one, only to find the situation reversed—the other leg now buried in the mud with the opposite one gaining purchase. And it went on like that, a vicious cycle. I was so glad to have to wade through the thigh deep, ice cold river in my jeans because it washed off all of the mud.

The river crossing was pretty exciting and not just because the men took off their pants in order to cross. Standing alone in the middle of the swiftly moving current, amidst the glittering stones, was thrilling. It almost made up for the humiliation of my public mud bath.

We eventually made it to the village which seemed more like a camp site to me. There were only three houses; crude structures made out of wood and/or tin up on stilts with only ladders to gain access. The large house was enclosed in a fenced in area and that is where all the action took place. The dancing, music, slaughtering, eating, and washing. Past the man-made gate comprised of branches and bamboo there was another smaller house, this one lower to the ground with steps instead of a ladder. And Shirley’s ancestral home was a little distance off surrounded by another rustic fence. These buildings were all simple in design and only the ancestral home had any furniture to speak of. The one bathroom was located near the main house, a shed with a squatter and huge vat of water for flushing purposes. The one shower was about ten paces from the toilet, pieces of tin lashed together to create an enclosure with a spigot about chest high (for me anyway). The bath was a few meters away…in the river. I skipped the bath and shower and opted to employ the largest tree I could find in the woods for my rest area.

The celebration centered around dancing and music to rouse the ancestral spirits, to invite them to come and dance and bless the village in the future. The music was created by what at first I thought were merely pans, but turned out to be copper gongs. There were two of those and one guy hit together two pieces of metal to create a rhythm. These men walked around in a circle with the dancers, while two other men sat nearby playing long, cylindrical, ceremonial drums.

There were always two people dancing. The lead dancer was draped with two swaths of fabric, one on each shoulder and he represented the eagle. He danced with his hands alternately waving above his head and then outstretched down by his waist, knees bent like he was coasting through the air. The second person had a swath of fabric tied draped over her and tied in a knot on one shoulder. She represented the carabou (water buffalo) and danced with her fingers fanned out and pointing towards her temples, palms facing outwards. Musicians and dancers circled around a certain number of times, all the while the gongs, drums, and tin instruments were going. The crowd would collectively call out something like “ooooh eeeeee”. Then a pause. And then “ahhhhhh ooooo.” This showed their appreciation for the people dancing. After the group called out, the eagle and the caribou would switch their drapes and their symbolic roles and do it again. The noise making and the dancing was to rouse the spirits of the ancestors and to ask for their blessings. Dancing went on all night, except for when we were eating the slaughtered animals.

Yes, I danced—after I’d had my share of rice wine.

More meat than I can handle

I had been forewarned by my sister Stefanie that there would be a sacrificial pig at the Grand Canao. I was prepared for this (or thought I was) and figured that I would observe the ritual to gain some insight for the next time I have to teach Lord of the Flies. I was up at the ancestral home with Albert and Shirley after our afternoon nap when the pig started squealing. Albert said it was time for us to go and watch the festivities. When we walked down to the main camp area, the pig was hog tied and people were dancing and playing the music. Over in the corner I saw a guy sharpening a short wooden stake; they don’t just slit the pig’s throat—they put the stake through the heart so that the pig will make more noise, enough for the ancestral spirits to hear. I kept telling myself that I will be able to watch it, will be able to view the slaughter as an educational experience. That all changed when the man approached the pig with knife and stake in hand and the pig started squealing bloody murder. Much to the amusement of the natives, I high tailed it out of there before any blood was spilled.

I did eat the pig though. The first one that was killed was boiled in a cauldron and served with rice. I ate on the floor of one of the three houses. It was late and I’d had my fair share of rice wine and rum and coke, otherwise I would have felt very self conscious eating fresh cooked pig and rice on the floor with my fingers. Your hands get pretty darn greasy that way. While I was eating, one of the men placed one of the “tastier” delicacies on my plate, pig intestines. It looked like black sausage. I didn’t want to appear rude so I ate it, and actually, it was quite tasty. Salty but good. I’m glad, though, that the liver wasn’t put on my plate. I don’t think I could stomach that.

Later in the evening, another pig was killed and roasted over the fire through the night. That was served for breakfast. A water buffalo and (don’t read this Abby) a horse was also killed, butchered and served. Again, I absented myself from the slaughter. I tried the water buffalo which was more or less like beef but passed on the horse. I thought horses were used to make glue at the knackery?

On a separate occasion in town, more pig was served along with goat. I had tried goat in Mexico so that was old hat to me. Something totally bizarre and unappetizing though was offered to me on the way to the highlands. Eggs were being passed out; I figured they were just hard boiled eggs, which I like in egg salad or crumbled on a green salad but not plain, so I declined. Turns out they weren’t plain boiled eggs after all but balut, a favorite snack in the mountains. Balut is an almost hatched duck egg, complete with the baby duck inside. It’s like eating a formed embryo. I will not vomit…I will not vomit…

After this holiday, I can understand why some people are vegetarians.

Anchingching

Can we say Pat Benatar?

I have resolved-firmly-not to get another haircut while I am here in Asia. It just keeps getting shorter! I am beginning to think that “just a trim” translates into “cut off as much as you would like.” As I have been vain about my hair in years past, perhaps this is my payback.

I nearly cried when I was getting my hair cut in the Philippines. Since it had gotten so shaggy and I was nearly a month overdue for a cut, I decided to get a trim. Ha!!! Shirley took me to the place she usually goes. I looked at the hair dresser’s hair; tolerable. I tried to psyche myself out, “This won’t be so bad.” The hairdresser didn’t use scissors or thinning shears. She used layered straight edged razors fixed into something like a box cutter. That should have been my first clue. She grazed the straight edge tool against a length of hair and down fell a hefty chunk of hair. It was okay I thought, just thinning it out. But then, before I knew it, it was all gone. Gone. Finito. Naked. The tears were itching to be released. I blinked, furiously. And blinked some more. I was able to more or less hold it together as long as I didn’t look in the mirror.

Despite my wretched, now-I-look-like-a-lesbian haircut, I still have received some male attention (I think the cup size helps). When I told Stef some men had hit on me over here in the Philippines, she asked if it was before or after the haircut. After. That was her way of ascertaining that the haircut wasn’t as bad as I said it was. I don’t think she is taking into consideration that the men who were hitting on me where mostly toothless old men who have not seen any potentially new endeavors since the baby goats were running around in the springtime.

It amazes me how even though I am on the other side of the world, the same tactics are used for catching the eye of a female. That come hither look really doesn’t change. The winking of an eye is the same. Sending a messenger over to express interest from a young man across the room still happens over here, too. Many mountain men were posturing themselves as merely practicing their English in order to talk to me. It’s funny how their limited English included the infamous three words, “I love you.” I managed to get away with only one or maybe two marriage proposals.

A widower forestry professor impressed me the most, even though he was probably four inches shorter than me. Despite the height deficit, Mel had all his teeth. Bonus. I’m guessing that he was fifty-ish. Intelligent and funny. Not swilling gin at the rate some of the younger men were. We were talking about my mud adventures and he said that I sank in the mud because I was big.

“Thank you,” I replied, trying to belie the sarcasm that wanted to seep through. Why does stating the obvious have to be so hurtful sometimes?

He quickly tried to amend his error, “I’m sorry; how would I say that in English without being offensive?” he queried in earnest.

“You wouldn’t say it, you just wouldn’t mention it.” I should have gone into a lesson on how being blunt or honest is often impolite.

He thought about this but didn’t buy it. There had to be a way to say what he meant. He finally came up with “You’re big but you’re sexy.”

I guess that’s better than saying you’re sexy but you’re big. Men are funny.

L.I.G.H.T.

I have had the most gracious hosts while I have been here in the Philippines. I was trying to think of how I would describe my sister’s in-laws, Albert and Shirley Kalaskas, but most of what I came up with sounded paltry in comparison to the magnitude with which I consider these amazing people. Fortunately, I heard someone else give the perfect description. On my last night in Baguio City, we were invited to Momma Karing’s 76th birthday celebration. I met her at a wedding earlier during my stay. She plays the piano and taught music for many years. We arrived at her residence and were greeted with a display of all the yummy food laid out for the feasting, and I thought we would be eating soon. No—out came the hymnals (what do you expect with four ministers and two retired ministers in the mix). We had a little birthday celebration church service complete with readings, hymns, homily and all.

Pastor Pete started speaking in the local dialect, paused, and apologized before shifting to English. I am glad that he switched because his words were beautiful. He described Momma Karing as a light bringer. As I listened to his homily, I realized he was also describing Albert and Shirley. He had come up with an acronym for light: light bearers are a depiction of love, integrity, generosity, humility, and trustworthiness. That summed it up for me. Albert and Shirley are all of those things and much more. Spending the holidays with them has been a blessing as it is rare to find two people who have been married for nearly forty years who share so much happiness; who move together fluidly, laugh often, and have accomplished so much—raised two children, built four churches and plan to build sixteen more, put their own children through college as well as half a dozen other young adults. The way they love each other and those around them is extraordinary.