Educators to Enemies

In recent days I’ve been paying a lot of attention to the presidential primaries. As an Obama fan, I must admit I’m feeling a bit crestfallen by the way things are going. But more than anything I’ve just been fascinated about how this whole thing is playing out. The news media of today isn’t your momma’s news media, and it seems to be playing a very different role than it has in the past. It seems to me that they’ve gone from reporting on the differences between the candidates to actively fomenting dissent among them.

It was pretty awful to watch this last debate, in which the would-be leaders of the country were directed to attack each other with questions like "Specifically, what are the issues where you, Senator Obama, and Senator Clinton have differed, where you think she has sounded or voted like a Republican?” Aw snap, thems fighting words, are they not? It also happened to be the first question of the debate.

The debate that followed was not about the issues, but about the ratings that conflict could generate. It was the first of it’s kind, a Democratic Presidential Berate. The media made our leaders dance, and they had at each other like attack dogs. Responding to that first question, Barack seemed hesitant, but that just made him look petulant when he did dig into the heels of his rival. Edwards, the trial terrier, was vicious and merciless. I’ll bet he scares small children. He certainly scared me. Kucinich, ever relaxed, just smiled.* The next day plenty was heard about how vicious the other candidates had been to Hillary, but I didn’t hear much mention of the fact that they’d been directly asked to do so.

I remember just a few years ago I used to get so upset about Fox news because of how they sensationalized everything. That plague seems to have spread pretty quickly, and all the news networks seem to have dumped their integrity for ratings. That’s sad, but I didn’t find it quite so disturbing until now. CNN’s doing the next debate, and they’re advertising it as if it were a boxing match, claiming that this time the gloves are gunna come off.

So far I’ve only mentioned the Democrats debate, but the last Republican Debate was hosted by Fox News. Not that there was a great deal of difference there. The Republicans spent all their time attacking Hillary too.
Fox didn’t seem too upset that the candidates weren’t focused on the issues, either. In fact, they often accepted Hillary insults in place of valid answers to questions. For instance Guliani was asked the question “on a lot of the social issues, like abortion and gay rights and gun control, that there's not much difference between you and Clinton. Is there?” He responded via rant on how much he dislikes Hillary Clinton. Bravo.

Question dodges don’t get you far in a real debate, but that’s an A+ on Fox News. And in all fairness, with a question like “There’s not much difference between you and this lady we all find intensely distasteful, is there?” what sort of answer could they have been hoping for?

Politicians have been dodging questions since the beginning of time, so responses like Mr. Guliani’s aren’t really so surprising, but debate questions that sound like they were written by Jerry Springer are. Oh, ha, Jerry used to be Mayor of Cincinnati didn’t he? I guess he’d be over-qualified to write these questions now, come to think of it. But you know what I mean – these questions were written by mobs of eager instigators, not news reporters.

Regardless of what you think of the candidates in the race, it’s hard not to think that the media isn’t doing their best to bring out the worst in our nation’s leaders. I’m saddened to see that they’re succeeding so well at it, but I wonder how it will work out in the longer term. Next election season, will candidates continue to play the networks games and walk knowingly to whatever ‘debate’ MSNBC sets up? Or will the candidates be more careful in setting the terms next time?

This seems to me like it’s setting some interesting historical precedents. I guess these are being set all the time, what with modern technology interfering, but the idea that this could be a trend that continues well into the future sends chills up my spine. A media that broadcasts Black Hawk Down and an actual war with the same goals in mind – ratings – is starting to scare me more and more.

*He also thickly criticized all the other candidates positions and the institution itself, but in his usual friendly manner.

A Time of Change

In the last two weeks a lot has happened in my life. I went to Canada, for one - though it was fun to see miles turn to kilometers and all it was certainly more about seeing the people: Jinx, Sarah, Maria, Jason, Baby and of course the birthday pup: Corky (Maria's terrier, the reason I went to Canada). I also went to the Getaway, the annual weekend-long gathering of folkies, though I wasn't quite in the singing mood that I could have been, I did get a good chance to catch up with my brother.

But those events sort of take a back seat to greater changes. When I set out to Canada (starting with a greyhound to Cleveland) on the very first day I received an email from my Peace Corps country director that led me to think that I could not only be returning to the Philippines, but that I might be doing so to work on exactly the project I wanted - something which was better than my best case scenario. I immediately offered to extend my contract an additional year if this could be set up.

The last day of my time in Canada I received an email regretfully informing me that this would not be as possible as hoped (the position was going to take too long to set up, if it could be set up at all), and effectively closed the door on Peace Corps in my life.

So there's that. I'm here to stay folks. I'm sure that won't surprise many people at this point, but it was sort of a surprise to me after I had begun preparing myself for the next big trip. But truthfully, I feel nothing so strongly as relief at having a final decision. As hard as it was to step on the plane and leave for Peace Corps, keeping my life in this continuous stasis since July has been much more difficult.

Obviously it's now time for me to take the next step, and that's the change: I think the next step is law school. This is a real change in direction for me, and it's bound to surprise a few people, but I feel pretty certain about it. I don't want to be a defense attorney or any lawyer you see on TV - I think that's what steered me away from the idea when I was younger (I remember heavily considering the career of Lawyer when I was in HS). But if I want to continue helping people, there are many ways to do so as a lawyer (after all, isn't that what people think of when they think of lawyers?). At this point I'm thinking of advocacy work or throwing my lot in with an organization like the ACLU, but the idea's still fairly new in my mind.

Everything's still disorganized, I'll not pretend otherwise. But my thoughts are starting to get ordered. We'll see how these first steps go. I need to hunt out scholarships and such, and if anyone has tips for that I'd love to hear them. I think they're pretty sparse for law school, but they must be out there. There are signs I'll have my car back before long, and now that I know I'll be in the country three weeks from now, figuring out greater employment should be less prohibitive.

Fun times we live in.

Strange Days are Coming - Peace Corps

Do you ever get the feeling that the universe is fucking with you? I do. I get that feeling a lot. Honestly, if my fascination with religion has been driven by any one thing, it's been by this feeling, which has come and gone through different times of my life. A feeling that while the universe may be made up of many components and people all functioning separately from me, their arbitrary interactions with my life and their timing frequently seem planned from the start. And this is such a time of my life. Boy howdy, I don't know what to make of it.

But enough of my crazy. That's not what you came here to read. What did you come here for anyway? Well there's more I haven't told you of my life. Actually there's alot more. But I'm going to talk about the question I get asked most - "What's the deal with Peace Corps?"

There's a reason I haven't answered that before now. Because it's complicated. I think about a month ago most people stopped believing me when I told them I couldn't make any long term plans because I was waiting to hear back. I mean, I've been waiting for over 3 months now - 1/4 of a year. How long am I honestly going to wait?

Well here's the thing: when we last left our hero, he was stranded, dead in the water, unable to get a letter of medical clearance from his neurologist, who refused to write him a letter of medical clearance until November at the Earliest. Roughly 5 weeks ago, I decided to write him a note - because I felt he hadn't properly understood the gravity of the letter I'd asked him to write for me, or what effects they had on my life. Unfortunately he was on vacation so it took a while for him to get back to me -- but I was absolutely right. He conceded and agreed to at least discuss the matter with me (which I am fairly certain means that I can convince him to write me the needed letter, because I don't need it to say much).

So I'm medically cleared to return to the Peace Corps.

Yay!

But it's late in the game now. Really late in the game. The next step is to contact my Country director-so that's exactly what I did. Unfortunately, the quick reply I received to my email is that my country director was gone, and would not return for more than another 2 weeks.

Now, 2 weeks is normally a reasonable time period to wait. But I have to admit, in this case, I've had a difficult time not thinking that "Well that's it. That's that last straw. I don't want it to be, but how can I take another?" On the other hand, the email was sent, inquiries were made, I assume he's going to respond. And depending on how he responds, no matter what sort of despair I feel right now, that might vanish. My life might be turned on it's head tomorrow.

And I mean that, because my country director is supposed to return to his post tomorrow. Though how quickly I can expect a response, I've no idea. But this whole Peace Corps thing has been dangling in my life, unresolved for an unbearable amount of time. And I really, really hope that it's about to get resolved one way or another.

On a side note, I should once again make mention, for anyone who doesn't know me well enough: I love Catholics, and I love Catholicism. That's why I'm so hard on them sometimes. I take strong disagreement with the church on MANY issues - I mean I'm honestly not sure I'm a Christian myself, so you can see where I might have some reservations. But there are too many people out there villainizing the Catholics in particular for me not to say this: several of the finest people I know are Catholic, and take their faith very seriously. I don't mean to insult that. I admire that, even if I have strong disagreements on the cosmology of things.

The Catholic church takes a lot of flack. Some of that (such as not adequately punishing priests who molest children) is deserved. But truthfully, I think they get more than their fair share, and it borders on hate-speech sometimes. That sort of message bothers me, and I really want to make sure I'm not spreading it. So I just wanted to mention that, in case I came off as overly harsh before.

Wish me a good week folks, it's sure to be a long one.

Free Until they Cut Me Down

It's been a while since I've written much here - and I realize that. Life has been slow, but steady. That is to say, spectacular amazing events have not been regularly occurring, but as usual, my life hasn't suffered from too much boredom here. I managed to see a Mountain Goats concert that was pretty awesome.

JD was a little bit off his musical game that night, I thought, but he had a really good stage presence and loads of energy that sort of spread to the audience. He announced several times that he was playing a song in public for the first time (one he said was unpracticed and off-list, but it sounded great), and I just plain lost count of how many times I announced he was going off list. He more or less winged the show, which was kind of fun and, like I said, lowered the quality of the music a little bit. But really, the mountain goats have played with so many different people and instruments over the years that for him to go on stage with just one other guy, he really has only a small fraction of his repertoire that he can play "just like on the album". On the other hand, that was also kind of cool, because it meant I got to hear old songs played really different ways -- for instance he played Diludid on his guitar, whereas on the album Sunset Tree the melody is driven by several furious violins. I prefer the album version, but it was really cool to see JD play it on the guitar.

So anyway, that way fun. I met up with Leerie (a friend from high school who I hadn't seen in years - but a very cool person nonetheless) and Glenn (also very cool, but I'd seen him more recently than Leerie). And I ought to mention that the opening band, the Bowerbirds, were also really good. They had an accordion. Of course I liked them.

I was all set for that Iron and Wine show the next week, I really was. Unfortunately, I was in New York for that Iron & Wine show, attending the funeral of a distant relative Joey, who chose to take his own life.

Now, to say that I didn't know Joey well would have been a great understatement. I can't recall how many times I met him, but twice is my high estimate. If I had passed him on the street, I probably wouldn't have noticed it - embarrassing to say, but probably the truth. But I do recall the first time I met him - he seemed like a nice guy and an impressive person. I'm sorry he felt such a terrible need to get out. "Tragedy" is a word without enough power behind it sometimes. But I hope he can take consolation in the fact that at his Catholic funeral, the priest announced that Joey had gone to heaven - and if he was a good enough man to make the Catholic church reverse their stance on suicide, he must have been a very good person indeed.

In all seriousness, I think religion ruined that service for me. Not because I didn't like the priest - actually I loved his service. I suspect I'd like the man. But when a Catholic priest declared that Joey was in heaven, I couldn't help it, I began to imagine Catholic Heaven. Was Joey the first suicider to get in? If so, he must have felt very honored when he arrived. Are people being retroactively let in? And if so, are they bitter from their time spent in Catholic Hell? This is the sort of dumb shit I thought about at Joey's funeral. If you think that sounds like I'm being a dick and making fun of another man's beliefs, then you have me only half right -- because I seriously don't understand what that priest believed, let alone what he was preaching.

Then came the time for Communion, and a friend asked me if I wanted to go up and take communion. And you know what? I did. I felt like it would be a show of unity in a time of sorrow and loss -- remember that even if I didn't know Joey well, I was surrounded by family. But as soon as they pulled out the stuff for Communion and started the opening ritual I was suddenly fiercely offended to be at a Catholic funeral. Why? Because the Catholic church doesn't want non-Catholics taking Catholic communion. Simple as that. Therefor, to hold Catholic communion at a public funeral felt horribly exclusionary to me - this sense of exclusion applied to an act traditionally expressing unity. Maybe it was unjustified, but I felt insulted.

Now, I'm willing to bet less than a quarter of the people who did take communion were Catholic, and I'm equally willing to bet that the Priest might have felt that non-Catholics should be allowed to take communion, if only during circumstances like these. But none of that mattered at the time, because I knew that the infallible church, directly driven by the indirect voice of god, WOULD object. More, it would have been an insult to the Catholic faith to ignore what I knew was their objection. But unfortunately, all this pent up anger and frustration (doubtless more driven by the tragedy of Joey's death, and the surrounding sorrow than by the church) led me to an outburst when I was asked if I would go take communion with this friend, and I said just two notches too loudly and five notches too sharply "The Catholic Church Kindly Requests That if You Don't Believe That Stuff Over There Actually Turns into Flesh and Blood inside Your Stomach, you Should Stay Seated for Communion".

And that was at a funeral, 2 rows from the front. No one said a word to me, then or afterwards. But I really felt I'd embarrassed myself as soon as it slipped out. That was definitely not the right time, Allan.

Major ChAnges * Cluster FucK

The internet is an amazing thing, truly it is. And last night it changed my life in a way I really hadn't anticipated.

You know, I've heard more than one doctor complain that they really hate the internet - they keep having patients who read about diseases online, self-diagnose themselves, and come into the office thinking they know more than their doctor. "::cough cough:: I think I got the black lung". Now I'm sure that sucks from the doctor's end. But personally, I'm a patient, and last night, as I surfed the internet in hoped of finding another person, any person, who suffers from the same peculiar migraine symptoms that I do, I discovered something kind of mind-blowing: I really don't think I suffer from migraines at all.

Well ok, I DO suffer from migraines. Occasionally. But that's not my issue, not the great foe in my life, and last night I discovered that I thought I'd been fighting the wrong one all along. The Grand Pu-Bah I've been battling is actually known as the "Cluster Headache". Now, he doesn't sound quite as cool or dramatic as "migraine" I know. However he does commonly go by the nickname "suicide headache", but don't worry -- this is only because people have been known to kill themselves to escape the pain. Now, probably if you don't actually suffer from them, the subtle differences between a cluster headache and a migraine will probably escape you, but to me the differences are not small. It opens up a whole new world.

Physiologically speaking, migraines and cluster headaches are very similar -- in fact the treatment I've been receiving for migraines is perfectly suitable for cluster headaches as well. However, while that treatment has been ok, and it seems to be reducing the number of cluster headaches (dubbed "cluster fucks" from hear onwards, so pardon my Canadian) I get in a given month, the medication I have doesn't reliably do much for the pain once I DO have a cluster fuck.

However, recognizing that I suffer from cluster headaches opens up a whole host of new treatment options that hadn't previously been considered. Of course, it's entirely possible that they will be just as frustratingly ineffective as past treatment options have been - pain treatments aren't really known for their effectiveness among pain sufferers. But it's something. And there's a particular treatment used for cluster headaches - oxygen treatment (the equivalent of having a home oxygen bar!) that could be worth exploring.

Most importantly though, it explains things in a way that pretty much discounts medical abnormality. Cluster Headaches would explain so much that I've been trying to understand since my migraines first struck - symptoms I've heard of no one else having, and that no doctor can explain to me or recall any other patient having. Symptoms that kept me up at night, worrying what the hell could be wrong with me. Because when I saw that list of symptoms for cluster headaches, my world just sort of snapped into place. It all just made sense.

For the sake of these migraines, I have seen 3 Neurologists, 3 ENTs, had 3 CAT scans, an MRI, and an EEG. I've had surgery - primarily because my ENT thought that my migraines were caused by Sinusitus. This turned out to be false (although I probably suffer from chronic mild-moderate sinusitus, and who the hell knows how that's contributing to all of this, but I'm starting to think that the matter has been exaggerated to me in the past).

Have past Doctors known about this or had their suspicions, and simply never told me? I'm not sure. If so, I'd prefer not to know that. I really don't want to harbor that sort of hatred against someone - because there are lifestyle changes that I could have made that might have helped me as a cluster headache sufferer, that I knew nothing about. If they had known they ought to have told me. If they didn't know, then they ought to have known.

I do know that it seems like my 2 hours of online research may have done more for my personal health than any doctor or specialist I've seen (or surgery I've had), even though that research was practically free while my neurologist costs me $70 / visit. Last time I saw him, I handed him a piece of paper vividly describing my symptoms, and although he is supposed to be one of the best neurologists in the dc area, he didn't mention a thing to me about "cluster headaches".

Personally, I suspect he didn't really read it. But that's alright, what's a few more "suicide headaches" to put up with, right? Inattentive jackass.

The sad thing is, I think it's a dysfunction the health care system, not with my doctor(s). If I ever have children, their doctor may be downgraded to the role of "prescription writer". Because really, what the fuck else are they good for? All the information they tried to learn from their fancy texts books, but actually forgot somewhere along the line (just like I did 3 days after every test I took in college) is available somewhere on the internet, and probably discussed in greater detail among people dealing with the issues.

...
...
...

Phew
Well that was a rant, wasn't it? But by God this could be a very good thing

Attention Suckers / Music Lovers / Music Loving Suckers

The Mountain Goats, September 20th @ The Black Cat
The Mountain Goats, September 21st @ Sonar (Baltimore)
Iron & Wine, September 29th @ the 9:30 Club

These are both bands that have my eyes wide in anticipation of their arrival. Two of my favorite bands in a single month! But, you see, lacking a single local friend who really shares these musical tastes, I will need to either make new friends or find suckers.

If you're the slightest bit interested, or even interested in being interested here's some info.

The Mountain Goats is basically a guy named John Darnielle. He's been recording in a huge variety of styles and subject matters for 16 years, but mostly these days his music tells a story. Sometimes those stories are biographical, sometimes they are fictional (he just recently began doing biographic concept albums), but what draws me to him is the combination of wit and blunt emotion that he combines in his songs. For instance he made an entire album centered around his childhood relationship with his abusive stepfather. Now does that sound like the most whiny piece of emo music you can imagine listening to? But he actually does it without managing to sound the least bit self-pitying, and I consider it a pretty wonderful album.
Anyway, Youtube has a little selection of Mountain Goats videos, if you're curious
Dance Music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddxbQbqjHhw
This Year: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYCzDhaRV60-

Iron and Wine is basically a guy named Sam Beam. His music typically strikes people as being really soft and melodic, almost unbearably so. The first time anyone hears an Iron and Wine album, their first inclination is probably to fall asleep. But the gift of Sam Beam is that the first listen is a trick of the ears: Underneath the sweet melody he's able to keep an underlying current of very real intensity that, personally, has come to blow me away over repeated listening. The third video link I put up isn't one of my favorite songs of theirs, but it's the only one that ever came close to being popular (technically it's a Postal Service cover) so I figured I'd try and lure you however I could ;-) .

Jezebel: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a39YktBYSbU
Free Until They Cut Me Down: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=360M4a9dong
Such Great Heights: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ZYhgG32pn8

So there it is. I repeat, if you have any interest at all
The VanBone wants YOU
To come to a club with him.
Let's do This

Bringing Allan Home

My journey to Cleveland was haphazard, but reaching Cleveland was in some ways, like reaching home.

No, that's not really an accurate thing to say. It's an overly simplistic metaphor for something very complex I want to express. It wasn't at all like home. Jinx lives in a duplex with her mother - I've never really spent time in her house before.

But ever since I've returned from the Peace Corps I've had this recurring feeling that I'm doing more than seeing the places and people I used to know again - I've felt as if I literally haven't been Allan for some time now. And now that I'm home, I keep feeling these fierce urges to pour through old letters and belongings, through anything that had meaning to Allan. In fact, I've completely taken apart my room searching for old writings, letters, gifts, anything to remind me of things I've left in my past. I never meant to forget.

And I've forgotten a lot. But the memories come back. And one thing that I discovered that weekend (and here's the piece where what I'm ranting about connects back to the beginning) is that there are, beyond question (to my mind anyway), certain people who are just so essential to who I am that that without them, I am not the same person. I guess that's something lots of people know instinctually. We know some of our friends can be bad for us, and some of our friends are good for us. Especially in romantic relationships we're all familiar with situations where you have to tell a friend "Leave her, she's no good for you!" But... I felt as if this were a radical change. By the time Jinx, Maria, and I dispersed that weekend, I left with a piece of myself I didn't have when I'd arrived. And more than that, I felt refreshed.

I know that sounds odd, and more than a little melodramatic to write. But in fact, I don't think my words fully convey the full weight of truth and conviction I mean them with. The Allan who existed in Cleveland that weekend didn't all arrive on the same greyhound. That's puzzling, but I'm glad to have him back.

It probably helps that we all feed each other's memories when we gather. We've known each other for too long, we see each other too seldom, and the memories we do share have been so intense. So they were more than happy to share in my memory digging fervor; in fact we spent the last night listening to old tapes we had.

You see, when we were young and stupid, we bought a bunch of hand-held tape recorders. We thought they were so cool. And every time the three of us (there were 5 of us then) would get together, we would just tape record EVERYTHING with the idea that many years later we would be such bloody sentimentalists that when we got together we'd have nothing better to do than to sit around listening to what we were doing and saying when we got together a decade ago. And we were right on the mark!

I'd spend more time talking about what we did for Jinx's birthday weekend, but the truth is, it was who I was with that counted far more than what we did. For the record, we visited tea houses (I got to try clotted cream, which I did not particularly care for), watched bad movies, ate cake, And surfed the waves of lake eerie. On Jinx's birthday the four of us took a bottle of wine to an empty field to watch the Perseids fall (ghetto, I know, but we make do ;-). Sadly, I don't think anyone got a direct look at a star (though I'm certain I saw a nice one out of the corner of my eye. Jinx thinks it was just a giant firefly skimming across the atmosphere at subsonic speeds). On another evening we tried to make it to a bar and... failed utterly. But it reminded me of our endless walk at Ocean City, and I smiled.

It was a... really great visit. I guess I have to leave it at that. Seeing Maria and Jinx again felt like coming home to myself and ALSO seeing two great friends. And getting to know Sarah (who I realize I haven't mentioned yet) was also really cool. I felt like I knew her much better than I had any right to. If you want to see pictures of said trip, you'd best blame her

I think this rambling drivel has been allowed to go on long enough. Honestly, why do you people read this stuff?

PS: Please. Please. Don't quote drew carey when responding to this post. I'm pretty sure I already know what ditty you're humming to yourself.

Wanna Take You For a Ride - Greyhound!

Now for anyone who hasn’t been blessed enough to ride greyhound in the last few years, I feel you ought to be informed: ride greyhound – you probably won’t enjoy it, but chances are, you won’t forget your experience! For me, I’ve taken greyhound twice in the last month, and both experiences left me with more stories than the actual visits I made.

My first greyhound experience began with a taxi cab driver who spent the whole ride on the phone to his ex-wife, pleading with her to let him see his children again after 2 years. Over the course of the ride, it came out that his ex-wife’s hesitancy was probably related to some experiences with crack the man had had, but those experiences were behind him now (or so he assured his wife). This has absolutely nothing to do with my trip, but I think it really set the mood perfectly for what was to come.

There are two buses that leave daily from Lexington, KY to Cleveland, OH. Now, if you look online, that’s not what their website says. Their website says there are 3. But one of those buses is marked “transfer” and magically arrives in Cleveland 45 minutes before the other. That bus doesn’t, in fact, exist. But greyhound still lists it, just to confuse any customers that might want to use their service.

Confused customers might want to call the station. Clever move! But those customers would find that Greyhound, as always, is a step ahead! First, to confuse such customers, there is one number listed for their station on the greyhound website, and another completely different number listed in the local phone book. No matter, because anyone dedicated enough to call these numbers will find that neither one actually answers the phone, or even bothers with an answering machine to detail things like hours of operation, addresses, or bus times. Silly bits of information like that, that modern businesses often wish to present to their customers. Additionally, in their local phone book, where they list this phone number, seemingly disconnected from a working phone, they list no address. To a bus station.

Can I repeat that? In the Lexington, Kentucky phone book, Greyhound chose to list the phone number, but NOT the address of their local bus station. And they don’t answer that phone. This is why, incidentally, my taxi cab ride was necessary.

Anyway, back to my actual trip. As I said, there are 2 busses that leave for Cleveland daily: one bus departing in the morning, one about 8 hours later. I arrived in the morning, purchased my ticket, but when I tried to board I discovered they had overbooked the bus by about 15+ passengers. The driver never really explained this to us in so many words. He just sort of stopped the line of people from boarding the bus and said “Ok. Can’t take anymore folks. The rest of you are going to have to take the next bus, or else you can stand in the aisles. ‘Course then you’re ridin’ at your own risk.” He never did say a word of explanation about how we all came to have tickets to get on his bus, or why they had sold us these tickets. At that particular time, I didn’t ask - I was overwhelmed with the sudden desire not to wait around that bus terminal for additional 8 hours (or arrive into Cleveland at 1am for that matter).

So it was that I sat in the aisle for the first 2 hours of my trip (until our first major stop). It really wasn’t that bad. But what I found comical is that they have a similar practice in the Philippines. The difference is, when they overload a bus in the Philippines they have plastic chairs that they set down in the isle for passengers to sit in, and if you ride on greyhound you have to sit cross-legged on the fucking floor until a seat opens up.

So basically, what I’m trying to say, in complete seriousness, is if you want to find a better run bus line than greyhound, try looking in some 3rd world countries. You’ll find them. Easily.

Then there was my bus returning from Cleveland to DC. From what I could tell, they overbooked that bus so massively that they had to split it into 2 busses. I was on the second bus to depart – 2 hours late. I think the difficulty was in finding a bus driver, who, when she finally arrived, seemed quite disgruntled. She just might have been the least friendly bus driver I’ve ever had. One customer was loudly discussing his dis-satisfaction with another. Not in a belligerent or angry manner mind you, more with an amused “once they’ve got your money you’ve got no leg to stand on” resignation”, but he made no attempt to keep his voice down. He must have offended the driver, because she asked him if he needed to get off the bus.

This driver proceeded to get lost at every stop along the way, including getting hopelessly lost for about 45 minutes in Pittsburgh (during which time she also hit a sign). Now, if by chance any representative of Greyhound should read this, I’d like to make you an offer. I recognize that we are living in an age of technology. I have multiple friends who have their very own hand-held GPS devices, which would have directed my driver out of any one of these messes. However, I do recognize that these devices are not cheap (I certainly don’t have one yet) and bus drivers certainly aren’t known to be rich. I guess greyhound can’t afford to provide it for them yet.

All the same, GPS is really overkill, isn’t it? If ever I do ride Greyhound again, I would like to personally offer to pay an extra 20 cents on my next greyhound ticket to cover the printing cost of Mapquest directions. Now, I realize that this might only cover the cost of directions to one or two stops, but surely we can find a second person willing to donate 20 of their cents too? Or maybe someone could sell a cigarette and we could print the whole route out?

Anyway, I was supposed to have a 2 hour layover in Pittsburgh. Instead they held the bus I needed to transfer to there at the station a whole half an hour for me (to their credit!!).

And the final leg of the journey? Well it might have been quiet, but it wasn’t. I ended up engaged in two conversations with two very different people over the course of the journey. First, I sat next to a middle-school teacher from Pittsburgh. Now, I’ve been on my share of bus rides in my life, and I’ve seen lots of people start of conversations with people they have randomly found themselves next to. I’ve never been the sort of person to do that. I keep to myself. But this one day seemed to be an exception, and though I couldn’t tell you her name, I got along really well with this elderly middle school teacher. Probably it was her sense of humor. We talked about half way from Pittsburgh to Maryland. At that point, she got off and I ended up sitting next to my second conversationalist.

My 2nd conversationalist (conversationalist #2) was about my age, maybe a little younger, black, in a suit jacket, and I’ve come to believe he was mildly autistic, schizophrenic, and obsessive-compulsive all together. I know that’s a pretty impressive list to put together, but he was a pretty interesting character.

He would break long silences with questions like “What does your pillows smell like?”
[Pause] [humoring pillow sniff] “Feathers”
“Oh.” [Pause] “From here it smells like hair gel” (It smelled like absolutely nothing).

Or he would say things like “I was thinking the other day, do you think it’s possible that the government could have raised us from birth to work for them, only we wouldn’t ever know it?”
“Uh… I think that might be possible. But I don’t think so. That’s a scary idea.”
“Nah. I don’t believe that.” [Unsure eye shift] “That’s crazy. I don’t think that’s true.”

And over the course of the ride he told me that the day before he had been riding going the other way, but he had been kicked off the bus (he didn’t say why and I didn’t ask) and discovered that pizza places won’t deliver to the bus station, and he described certain places around the area, but in a way that made them sound like they might be imaginary. Certainly parts of his description were, like stairs that you didn’t want to go down very quickly, because they sucked you down.

The truth is, he was definitely the lighter side of crazy, but I liked him. He seemed like a personable guy. I think the funniest part about the whole thing was when he asked me what I did for a living, and I ended up telling him about my peace corps experience. His response was an almost instant, amused “Off alone in some hut in a jungle on an island? Nah, I don’t believe that”. Although I did convince him pretty quickly I think, there’s something really funny about a schizophrenic man refusing to believe what you tell him.

Anyway, I got home. And thanks to Greyhound, I’m not likely to forget my travels.

Tramp, keep on a-trampin'

Today I’ve been home for 2 months.

Yesterday, I sat outside and remembered what it was like, the first time I returned home. Not when I returned 2 months ago, but 3 months ago, to visit. The first time I’d been home in over a year, and how strange and perfectly normal everything seemed all at once. Memories like that don’t strike me when I call to them. They come unbidden, disorienting my thoughts and concentration. Coming home that first night held several currents of emotion for me, particularly in my side yard where no side yard had been when I left for the Philippines. This made the yard something of an oddity – the rest of my house seemed more or less how I had left it, as did the people. I think a lack of evidence had my subconscious mind convinced that I had never really left. Peace Corps was no more real an adventure than Dorothy had, only I had aswang (mythical flying bat people) instead of flying monkeys, and malaria prophylaxis instead of ruby slippers.

Yet here, this side yard was bothersome. It poked a glaring hole in the “the last year an a half didn’t happen” theory my brain was espousing. A nagging thought was gradually shoving upwards into my consciousness: This new house resembled the home I’d left, but could not be mistaken for the same place.

And last night, in the side yard, that feeling of having returned home but also to a somehow strange place trickled through me again. Memories of that first night tugged at me, begging for attention. It was only 2 months ago guys, what’s so urgent?

Since the last time anyone’s read anything here, a lot has happened. I went down south to North Carolina to stay with my brother and cousins in my grandma Joan’s beach house for a few days, and naturally I had a great time catching up with family. I hadn’t seen grandma for a matter of years (she’s been busy being MAYOR!!! And the rest of us have been busy being losers and living far far away), and of course I haven’t spent time with my cousins or aunt in a while.

Then I helped David move up to the UK. That was a fun trip, one which began with some sort of bird (perhaps a vulture or raven) trying to either dive bomb or land on our car as we sped along on a busy interstate.* I’d never been to Kentucky before, but I will say this: they have plentiful horse statues, voluminous sacks of rice, and overwhelming walmarts. And, seemingly out of left field, the fortunate man has an Irish-style pub within walking distance of his house. I can only assume the UK placed it there out of respect and anticipation of his arrival.

I’m not sure what to say about Lexington, Kentucky. I have a feeling, like many college towns, it’s different now that college is in session. When I was there, it was, for all intents and purposes, a small town. It was hot, and things were slow, but the campus was slowly starting to move, preparing for the school days ahead, the area was like water slowly rolling just before the boil.

After I had helped Dave move in, I ended up at the Greyhound station, bound for Cleveland. Jinx was, after all, turning 25 in a matter of days. And how long had it been since I’d seen my cousins in Cleveland anyway?
Oh, right. A year and a half.

*Miraculously I feel fairly certain the bird survived his final landing, although for how long I couldn’t say

Cisco

These days, the currents of life seem to be passing me by faster than usual. Or is that slower? I'm not sure. All I know is that I've lost the ability to tell. Recently I've been looking back to the beginning of my weeks and thinking "Really? That was just monday, was it?"

I took up work as a misc office worker for DSA for roughly 4 days. That was fun. Got some files in order, managed to accomplish some feats that I thought might have required greater skills with computers than I possessed. I'll be back at work doing that again soon enough, no doubt but meanwhile greater duties come first!

At the last minute, against all the rules, I had the gaping hole in my jaw filled by a dentist and followed my parents to nantucket like the dutiful son that I am. To help with the manual labor and stuff, you know. The sort of thing a son can't get out of.

I left for Nantucket about a week ago, and I've been here about 5 days now. It's been grand. I've been kayaking, and really enjoying it. Every day until today, come to think of it. There's something wonderous about traveling in such a fragile, but mobile manner over the water. And drifting on a pond is really a different experience when you're literally drifting just a matter of inches over it. It's more interaction.

I saw seals in the ocean the other day. I've never seen seals swimming in the wild before - didn't even know there WERE seals on nantucket. But there they were, right out in the tide, so close in we could easily have been swimming with them.

When my father first spotted one, I thought it was a person. A seal head bobbing up and down looks remarkably like a persons head, and I was all getting concerned until I noticed several more heads. Then I assumed it was several people swimming together, and I was relieved, when actually it was a great number of seal swimming together. The most I counted at one time were 8, but I'm sure there were at least 10, I just couldn't count them together because they were always diving and never together.

They were so close. So incredibly close, much closer than any dolphin I've ever spotted. In fact, I don't think they could have gotten any closer without the waves smashing them on shore. I'm quite certain they were staring at us too. Actually they followed us down the shore after we lost interest in them (or lost interest in standing there staring at them in the wind), and it seemed to me that they would edge closer when they thought we weren't paying such close attention to them. It was... really quite an experience, and an entirely unexpected one.

So that's where I am now folks. Kayaking, enjoying the company of family, seal watching, and actually managing to be vaguely productive too if you can believe it. Hope everyone out there is doing so well.

Long days and pleasant nights,
allan

Here I exist - p5 - The Joy of Homecoming

So the last four entries have been sort of despirited. Couldn't have come off very well. But let's be honest here for a minute - I'm back in America: Land of Milk and Honey! When I haven't been on hold, lost hopelessly in some bureaucracy phone maze, I've been having lots of fun, and just generally happy to be home.

I landed 6 nights ago, and in that time I've eaten great mexican, sung heartily in a pub, seen quality fireworks displays, gone to the beach (well it was sort of a beach), gamed until 4:30 in the morning. It's been good, even in the midst of everything else, to be home.

It looks as if I'll be around for a while, no matter what happens. My best case scenario places me here for a month and a half, and of course my worse case scenario never sees me back in the philippines. It looks like I'm going to be doing some part time work for DSA to get some extra spending money, and that will be good. If I don't go home... well my options are many. But it's early for such thoughts.

Long days and pleasant nights everyone,
Allan

Here I exist - p4 - The Sinuses

Now I've got the trick of trying to figure out how best to deal with my sinus infections. The first step, all on its own, is a tricky one - seeing an ENT. In order to get the Peace Corps to let me see an ENT, I need the neurologist (the one doctor the peace corps had decided I DO need to see) to recommend that I see an ENT. He's already done that. BUT as it turns out, he needs to do so in writing, also saying the reasons he wants me to see one, and what he expects an ENT to find. And I need to fax that to some guys, who will then approve or disapprove it.

Then there's what I want. Do I want to pursue this sinus issue right now? I'm afraid that if I do, it will vastly hinder my chances of returning to the Peace Corps. Or will it? If I am successful in actually getting the surgery, well I'm not sure if that really would hinder me. Because my medical issues would be solved, right? And I'd be much happier, especially if it helped or solved my migraine issues, which at best current hope could simply be diminished.

Of course this all hinges on what an ENT has to say. I certainly want that second opinion, regardless of what that opinion is. Honestly, their opinion could heavily impact my life just now. Hope I find a good doctor.

Here I exist - p3 - The Neurologist - Center Stage

Even before I arrived home, I took the advice of my health officer and arranged my appointment with a Neurologist. As luck would have it I was able to see an excellent neurologist at the soonest plausible date! He didn't tell me much unexpected - but he did say that he wasn't confident my sinus issues were causing my migraines, though he felt they might be making them worse. Might be.

In any case, this man is the key. My perception of things is that the best chance I have of appealing this decision and applying for reinstatement is to find an effective treatment for my migraines that I can live with, and to do so as soon as possible. He is an excellent neurologist, and he's convinced me to give Topomax a chance, as well as Imatrex (ironically a combination of treatments I was already getting while I was in the Peace Corps).

So I've got this treatment now, and another appointment in early august. I'm keeping a migraine calendar for him and hopefully, next time I see him, he'll be willing to write a letter saying that I'm healthy enough for Peace Corps service - a letter that should fuel my reinstatement. Unfortunately, this puts me back in the Philippines by mid-august at the absolute earliest.

And of course there are hitches in a plan like this; ie I need medicine. And when I dropped my prescriptions off at the pharmacy, I quickly learned that my new peace corps insurance doesn't know who I am. Not the pharmacy services branch anyway (they're being paid by a company, who's paid by another company, who's paid by another company, who's paid by peace corps, or so my phone calls have informed me). But that was days ago, and as of this afternoon, I think that's been solved. I'll find out soon.

Here I exist - p2 - The Dentist

I arrived in America last Friday evening, disordered mind and body all. 4 days before I left, I expected not to see home for another year. Until I touched down in DC I don't think I believed I would. I had everything with me; everything I could humanly fit into my 3 bags. Half my things still sit on the shelves of my nipa hut, where Apol, my landlord, is graciously allowing them to stay until I know more about my situation.

The day before my flight, a tooth filling that peace corps had put in back in January came tumbling out of my mouth. Peace Corps had their dentist hastily fill it, and recommend me a crown (this was the 4th time they had filled this gap). That new filling fell out on the plane home, broken off by a tough but tasty English pastry. So I've got a gaping hole in my gums at present, that needs to be taken care of in addition to my other medical problems.

But getting my tooth work has proved difficult. Peace Corps Philippines didn't give me the paperwork to see a dentist, and Peace Corps Washington hasn't received anything from them on the subject, nor have they received my medical records (which typically take 30 days to arrive). I can't wait for 30 days with this gaping hole in my mouth. Thus I have a problem which I get to make my 2nd phone call about tomorrow.

Here I exist - in the center of things, off to the side

Sometimes there is too much to write. Occasionally too much has happened, event-wise, to keep the interest of the writer, let alone the reader. It's not uncommon for a person to be so overwhelmed, emotionally, that the person cannot sort all those emotions out themselves, let alone write them out (though perhaps that can help). Sometimes bad luck and good luck seem so frustratingly intertwined that you can't complain about the one without renouncing the other.

Let's start with my arrival home. That occurred last friday afternoon. Two days later, my mother had a heart attack.

The glorious thing about my mother - well one of many - is that she doesn't like the sort of attention these issues attract. I arrived home to see her heading into my room to lie on my bed. "What are you doing?" I asked her, surprised that she would go to MY room to lie down.

"Oh, I might be having a heart attack. I'm just going to lie down in your bed for a while" she told me, in much the same tone she might have used to inform me that she had been considering cheeseburgers for dinner. Honestly, I'm thankful for that, because I think her attitude in just that minute was what sustained me calmly through the whole ordeal.

She was in the hospital for 2 nights, and on the 3rd night she returned. They don't have a lot of answers for her about the cause - she hadn't been at risk for it. She seems perfectly happy and able , though she's taking it slowly as she's been advised to do. I'm glad I'm here.

I try to imagine getting a call in the Philippines "Your mother's had a heart attack". I can't imagine it. I can't. So when it comes down to it, the knee deep pool of post-peace-corps-feces I feel like I'm wading in seems to drop substantially in thickness. But I'll talk about it anyway, given that it's essentially enveloped my life.

Lets make that a mercifully separate entry though

An Unexpected Plot Twist

I'm going home sooner than expected. Much sooner. I ought to be home before Sunday. Maybe by friday. I've been medically separated - meaning I am not to be returning to the Philippines.

I got the call this morning, from my medical officer. It was an unbearably brief call, but not so brief that the glass path I've been following wasn't shattered. Peace Corps washington reviewed my request. They've denied my surgery on the basis that they don't believe my migraines are related to my sinus condition, but they do feel my migraines are serious enough to take me home for good. They want me to see a neurologist.

Odd, that. They knew about these migraines when I applied, and I still got through medical screening ok.

So 15 months into my service, now past the half way mark, they seem to have retro-actively decided that peace corps service isn't for me. It's bullshit, and I have every intention of appealing. Living so close to Peace Corps national headquarters might help, but we'll see. They want me to see a neurologist. That's fine. I've already had an EEG, an MRI and two CAT scans. What else can they do?

In any case, that's how things stand. As of this morning, my medical officer gave me 2 days - extra time, she told me, for closure. Not that in 2 days time I can say goodbye to my 2 host families, my center, my neighborhood and Marianne AND pack my entire house. It's not even enough time to pack my house. 'Time for closure'. I'd take it for a joke if I didn't know so well that she was serious. I've already spent day 1 consoling Marianne. Tonight and tomorrow will be big days.

I'm coming home folks. You'll be seeing me soon.
~Allan

It's been a While

First off, let me declare, for the world to know, that rumors of my death have been grossly exadurated.

I'm alive, though I'd like surgery.

When last we left our hero, I had returned from America. Most international planes fly into Manila, and it was in Manila I became trapped by medical issues. It's a long, and not particularly interesting story, so I'll make it succinct.

I stopped into the peace corps office. If you'll be in Manila it's really just polite to see the staff that devote all their time to you, even if you rarely get to actually see them. While I was there, I mentioned to my medical officer that my migraine meds weren't being effective. Since I've arrive here, they've shifted meds on me a few times, hoping something will stick, so I thought they might have something new I could try. Eventually, something has to be effective, right?

Well they wanted me to see a dr about the issue while I was there. I did, and the dr told me to have an MRI. There's another few days in Manila. The MRI (thankfully) showed a completely normal brain, utterly devoid of tumors or other nasty business. But what it did show was a serious sinus infection. Now, this was hardly a surprise at this point. Anytime my sinuses have been examined they have been seriously infected, as far back as I can recall. This was allegedly due to my deviated septum for which I had surgery a few years back.

Well they sent me next to an ENT specialist, who was in the middle of a long rant about how these things are completely normal, when he stopped mid-lecture and looked intently at my scan. "But... this is different" he said.

He examined my nose and told me that my previous surgery for a deviated septum had been a failure, and my septum was deviated again. Then he went on to say I might have another, unrelated, sinus issue. He wasn't sure, and he wanted a CAT scan. But first, he wanted me to take 10 days of antibiotics to clear out my infection.

So I got my meds, and they sent me back to Guimaras (where I hadn't been for roughly a month at this point, since I'd just come back from America). However, my cheerful reunion was only about 10 days long before I hopped a plane back to Manila for a CAT scan. This made the Big 3 for me: I've had a CAT Scan, an EEG, and an MRI since I got here.

The CAT scan showed roughly what I think my dr had expected it to. For one thing, it showed that sinus problems are basically built into my nose at this point. My sinuses can't drain, bacteria feeds off of the stuff thats in them, and BAM you've got a bad infection. In fact, I took my CAT scan just a few days after I ended my antibiotic treatment, and it was already infected again. We're talking about a constant, predictable, unavoidable sinus infection that I've probably had... well... forever I guess.

As I'd been told before, sinus infections are linked to migraines. I just happen to have perpetual severe sinus infections, and perpetual, severe migraines. Could be a coincidence, and doctors can't promise that getting rid of one will rid me of the other. But it seems to me that it would be quite a coincidence if the 2 severe problems, known to often be related, just happened to be unrelated in my case. Also, when I was taking those antibiotics to kill the infection, it definitely had an effect on my migraines, in some interesting ways that I won't get into.

The doctor has recommended surgery for me, Endoscopic Sinus Surgery, basically creating a hole in the structure of the nose through which my sinuses could drain. My previous ENT, in America, villianized my deviated septum, while my secondary problem, a subtle structural abnormality in my nose, went un-noticed and un-treated. And of course my septum surgery didn't succeed, it seems.

So now I've entered into a whole new arena. It's hard to take when a doctor tells you that you need surgery. And for about a day, before I was able to discuss this with Peace Corps, I was a little bit intimidated. Now that I've discussed it, that feeling has passed. If I want this surgery, I may need to take some great pains to pursue it before Peace Corps will approve it.

Peace Corps doesn't authorize many surgeries inside your country. I suspect this is because, as our medical care provider, they would be liable if someone flung an accusation that they were subjecting you to untrustworthy medical care. Therefore, if I have this surgery it's likely to be in DC. But of course that brings in a dozen other complications - cost of the plane ticket, significantly longer disruptions from our work at site, jet lag, and of course the significant possibility for many surgeries: that the patient won't return to his job at all.

For these reasons (and this is only to the best of my understanding, not from official sources) Peace Corps is reluctant to do any surgery that might be considered "un-necessary". This is my worry. However, it takes a while for them to make a decision. I returned home from America almost a month ago, and I think I've spent more time in Manila than at my job. But as of yesterday, I'm back on Guimaras. They sent me here to wait for an official response from Peace Corps. Ultimately, the man who will decide whether i need this surgery is an expert who will never examine or talk to me. This makes me uncomfortable.

But I'm resolute. Since returning I've had a renewed sense of determination, and I've divided it two subjects: First and most obvious (as the subject of most of this writing) I'll get that surgery. I've lived with these migraines far too long, and my sinus troubles as well. If they can't cure it through medicine, than they will find another solution. I'm fairly certain this is a requirement of denying my surgery. Short of putting me on antibiotics all the time (which I'm certain is not an actual option), I don't see what alternative treatment they can offer.

Second: My work. Coming home was depressing. I've accomplished markedly little in my year on the job. Mostly because no one seems to know what to do with me, I suspect. But I've used my time in Manila to have long discussions with Peace Corps staff, who are now planning a rather serious intervention. I like my center, it's an interesting place to work. I like my co-workers, they're good, intelligent people who know what they're doing for the most part. The only thing I lack is a particularly useful function there. That will be solved. Unfortunately my first issue distracts me from the second by no small measure.

In any case, that's where I am now. That's my life. I'm waiting to hear back and find out how easy it will be for me to get my surgery, and planning out some change (still vague for the moment) at my center. Hope everyone out these has had a pleasurable, if not easy, time since I left. I know it's been difficult for some, but hang in there.

Long days and pleasant nights all,
Allan

Interesting Fact

In addition to treating migraines, Topamax is also used to treat Obesity, Bipolar disorder, Infantile Spasms, Epilepsy, Alcoholism, and Post-Traumatic Stress disorder.

One of the listed side-effects of Topamax, occuring in .1%-1% of users is: Suicide

Whoa, now there's a pill.

The Medical Train Rarely Makes a Stop

So I'm back in Manila again. Jet-lagged out of my mind again. I had a great visit to America, a surreal visit too. I'll write more on that later, when the remainder of my thoughts catch up to the body that lost them somewhere over the pacific.

Rachel got married (to Howard, to be more specific - and he seems like a good guy), I got to catch up with good friends, and somewhere between the cheese and the good beer I managed to gain a few lbs. But that's not the reason I'm writing this.

When I touched down in Manila I figured I'd probably get a few things done while I'm here and head back to site Thursday or friday. One of those things on the list was to talk to my medical officer about getting new migraine medications - since my imigran hasn't been of great help. A part of me hates to complain about such things. That part of me has fallen into some sort of Learned Helplessness trap that feels these migraines are inevitable, that no medications will ever work particularly well, and that leaning against a wall for 4 hours, with my legs wobbling, my knees shaking, and my head screaming is just something I ought to resign myself to and take with dignity when it comes about.

Except there ARE effective pain meds out there. I know there are. They're just quite heavily controlled (or illegal) and thus haven't been made available to me. I've become determined that I will work this system, however long it takes, and eventually they will have to give me something that works. I'm sick to death of expensive, bullshit medications that often don't do anything for me when I take them. For $10 / pill you would think they could give you something that works half the time (though of course Peace Corps is shouldering that cost for the moment).

But I digress. The point is, among my goals was to talk to my medical officer about this, and today I did. She sent me to another Migraine dr, who changed my meds to something new, and put me back on a daily dose of Topamax.

Funny enough, I used to take Topamax. I didn't find that it helped much, and I stopped taking it after less than 4 months. I got scared about the severity of what I was putting in my body. Reading the label on my Topamax, it told me that if I were to suddenly stop taking the medicine, I would risk going into seizures. Now think about that for a second. Whatever you're putting in your body is so addicting that your body could actually go into seizures if you didn't keep taking it. Wouldn't YOU be terrified to read that on your headache medication?

Well that was cleared up by my doctor today. Evidently Topamax is an anti-seizure medication, and the label I read was assuming that the patient was ALREADY PRONE TO HAVING RANDOM SEIZURES. Sort of like those fast food cups that say "Caution: Beverage is extremely hot" on the outside, even when filled with ice cream. They just don't bother tailoring the instructions on the medication to the ailments of the patient anymore. This upsets me greatly - just another indication that we're all McPatients in the world of medical fast food - but I guess I won't take it out on the Topamax.

I'm still rambling away from the greater point of this entry is - jet lag and a personality prone to rambling are a bad combination. The greater point is that the doctor also decided I ought to have an MRI, which means I'll be staying here in Manila until Monday, Tuesday, or possibly later.

I'm slightly annoyed at the delay, but frankly I feel safer with every new test they give me. When I experience a bad migraine, it really feels all wrong - like some gear turning in my head must have cracked. It's nice to be told that nothing is wrong with me. I've had a CAT scan and I've had an EEG both test me as perfectly healthy, but that doesn't change that "broken" feeling a bad migraine gives me. So the more times I hear "your test results are perfectly normal", the better I feel. Here's hoping I hear that again soon.

Long days and pleasant nights all,
Allan

A Further Anecdote - Why I don't wish to be hospitalized again

Checking in for my hospital stay began, as it does in the states, with Triage. The nurse there asked me for my symptoms, life story, and took my vitals. This would all have been business as usual, but as she came to the part where she listens to my heart she took an exceedingly long time.

Perhaps she sat there, stethascope pressed to my chest, for more than a minute before she removed it with the slightest of frowns. "Anything wrong?" I asked her.
"No" she answered hesitantly, "but... do you have any heart troubles?"

This brought about a brief pause from me. "I certainly hope not." And I ended it there, waiting for her to explain. But she didn't, she just set about nervously on her paperwork until I interrupted her with my silly question

"Why do you ask?"
"Well", she answered, looking up from her paperwork, "A normal heartbeat is between 60-80 beats, yours is 57." And that was that.

Later in the ER, a nurse came into take my vitals. He listened to my heart. He listened long, and hard, and his listening ended with a troubling frown. "Anything wrong?" I asked him.
"No... well... do you have any history of heart troubles?" he asked me.
"No. Why? Is my heart beating unusually slowly?"
"Yes, it should be 60-80 beats per minute, and yours is 57." And on that note he walked out, looking troubled.

Perhaps 10 minutes went by before the doctor walked in, and with a roll of his eyes put a stethascope to my chest, listened briefly, gave a slight nod, then turned to walk briskly out. As he did so I called his attention back "Anything wrong?" I asked him.

He paused to give me an amused, conspirative look "My nurses both think there's some problem with your heart, but they're wrong. There's another noise in there that was throwing them off, your heart is perfectly normal." And with that, the doctor turned and strolled impatiently from the room.

Shortly after he left, the previous nurse that had come in to check on my vitals came back, put his stethascope to my chest, and nodded sagely to himself, as if suddenly something made more sense.

Then he, too, left me to myself and my ER booth filled with mosquitos.

Dry Run - The story of How I Got Out of Dodge

These last few days... these last few days have been days to remember. Or to forget. Perhaps I'd best remember to forget them.

April 20th, the day after my birthday, I woke up in Antipolo feeling sick to my stomach. I think I've mentioned this before. Well, Wednesday, April 25th, I still felt sick. The symptoms were unfamiliar to me, but I was certain I knew what I had: intestinal parasites. So certain was I, that I told several people, including my parents, that this was my ailment before ever seeing the doctor.

I went to Iloilo city, I saw the dr, he gave me meds and told me to come back on Saturday for a follow-up. I took the meds, I felt better, shouldn't that be the end of the story? Well it wasn't. Not by a long shot.

Although the medication had given me several days of decent health, I woke up that Saturday feeling ill again. When I told this to my dr, he was concerned. He decided that something must have been passed over in my last fecanalysis and made me take another.

Now, it's not pleasant to think about, and I won't go into great detail, but for the record I would like to remind everyone that a fecanalysis, AKA pooping in a cup, isn't great fun. It is nasty and frustrating to take one in America. But here in the Philippines, even more so. They give you the cup in the lab, the hospital bathroom is next door. This would be nice and convenient, except that the hospital bathroom lacks toilet paper and it lacks soap.

So you leave the hospital, go across the street, buy TP, buy soap, and return to the grungy hospital bathroom with a single stall that has no lock, and in between informing your fellow bathroom visitors that there is already someone in the stall (while you hold the door closed to keep their entry at bay) you try and figure out what the cleanest way to capture your own feces will be.

Fun times.

Anyway, that was the second time I had to do it that week, which is why I felt compelled to my rant. But completed it I did, I waited a few hours, and brought the results to my Dr, who was kind enough to inform me that there was blood found in my sample.

What does that mean? Well he had a few theories, but he didn't know. He wanted me to stay in the hospital that night so that they could "prepare" me for a colonoscopy in the morning (for you kids, that's the operation where they attach a camera to the tip of an unfortunately large hose, and insert it into your colon in a most unpleasant fashion).

This was saturday the 28th, 3 days before I had a plane bound to manila, my first stop on the way back to America. To say the least, I was not happy. But Marianne was with me, and agreed to be my Kasama. This is the best news I have to report regarding the last 3 days.

So they held me there saturday night, they "prepared" me for my colonoscopy. Sunday morning they woke me up bright and early to perform the procedure. "what were the findings?" You might ask? Well Sunday morning, I could not have told you, nor could my doctor, on account of the fact that I had been incorrectly "prepared" for the procedure and the camera could not see everything the dr needed to see.

So, the first time was something of a "dry run" (a little diarrhea humor there). I was to spend another night in the hospital. Having insufficiently "prepared" me the night before, the dr was not pleased with his staff, and took it out on yours truly by means of laxative-overkill.

The next morning, April 30th, one day before I was to embark upon the first leg of my trip to America, I was woken up bright and early to have the procedure perforned again. Just as unpleasant as the day before. But this time we had results!

And the results were *drum roll* Nothing Wrong! Nada! The Doctor's official opinion was that the initial test results were "false positive for Occult Blood Sample", meaning that I was entirely well and my entire hospital stay, all the "preparation", both those times they had to put me in adult diapers following the camera-insertation - well that was all really just one big misunderstanding.

By the way, time to go home and pack. Everything. Tonight.

So I had missed my last day of work over this (my last day of work before my vacation at least). I was sleep deprived, probably dehydrated, definitely stressed, and any of these or all of them might be why, by the time I reached home that evening, I had a terrible migraine.

But I had to leave 7am the next morning, and I had to be packed before then. I had been gone the last 2 nights, and hadn't begun my packing. Thus it was that I spent my night in the slowest and most excruciating packing efforts of my life. The night went something like this: I would go inside, pick 3 things up, put them hurriedly into a suitcase (the slightest effort and movement caused me head to pound 5X harder). Sometimes I would actually throw them into the suitcase, not caring how they ended up, then I would go outside to my porch for 5-10 minutes of leaning against the wall with my eyes closed, waiting for the pounding to decrease so that I could go back inside and pack some more.

I've had worse migraines, but never a worse-timed migraine. It effected my stomach, so I could neither eat nor drink. So I stayed dehydrated. It kept me from sitting / lying down for most of the night, so I stayed sleep deprived. Did I somehow become less stressed? I should say not. But gradually, sometime in the night, the migraine faded.

I woke up very disoriented at 6am, but at least my migraine was gone. And proudly, I write this to you from Manila. That's right, I made it here. I sure hope everything I need is packed, because there's no going back now. I'll be getting on another plane in less than 48 hours. What can I say about all this except "If it pleases you, sir, I'll have a Guinness"?

Mad Maudlin Goes on Dirty Toes to Save Her Shoes From Gravel

April 20th I woke up feeling bad. Not depressed bad, fever bad. And for the next 6 days, right up to today, I've been sick with some travelers bug I've never experience before. It's the sickest I've been in my 14 months here, but really not that bad. I was convinced that it was some form of intestinal parasite, worms living in my digestive tract. But yesterday tests told me I was wrong. They gave me some meds. Today, I think, it's finally subsiding. And here I am, back at site, I've completely lost track of what I never expected to: my swiftly approaching trip home. Today is April 26th. 5 days from now I need to be in Manila with my packed suitcases, ready for my trip. 7 Days from now I'll be in the air. In 8 days I'll be home - and I still can't believe that's actually true. But it is true. And I'm not remotely prepared. But in 5 days, I'd just better be. See you folks soon, Allan

Mad Tom was so Disdain-ed

The following day, on Thursday, April 19th, I had officially lived through a quarter century. I feel hesitant to mention it now, even moreso then. In fact, it was on that day that every media source we turned to first started claiming that Julia had not endured a hiking accident, but had been murdered. That was news to us. Horrible news. And on that day, it was quite clearly not an appropriate time for me to have a birthday. But have it I did, and Ross and Tim (fellow volunteers from my area) even made a special effort to see that I enjoyed it. They're good friends.

Grief is a funny thing. Even the worst grief comes in spurts, and occasionally subsides, leaving even the deepest mourner a little numb but often able to experience and enjoy life (something which many will feel guilty about later). As I mentioned before, I wasn't a deep mourner. I was effected by the situation, and certainly by the atmosphere of grief and shock, but I still enjoyed the day.

We went to starbucks. I had a iced triple grande mint mocha. It cost a small fortune in pesos, which Ross covered. I watched a movie, "300". That night, we had a few beers and played Scrabble. Things were ok. I had all these plans for my birthday, which all went out the window. But things were ok. I didn't discover it that day, but waiting on the internet for me was the sweetest surprise I've received by email: a video of my young cousin Bea singing happy birthday to me.

In the days that followed, in small groups and with different people, with Marianne, and Anna, and Erin, I got different parts of my plans in. It was a successful, if sobering revolution around the sun.

Bedlam

I've been trying for some days now to find a way to follow my last post. Time and again I've come up with nothing. These last days have been busy and they have been crazy. They have not all been awful, but they've been an awfully mixed bag. I will start with the awful though.

I arrived in Manila the day of my last entry. Gathered there were 40-some volunteers. Julia had been missing 8 days. For those fortunate enough to have known her well, there were phases to go through. Shock, denial, rage, numbness. Not knowing is a terrible thing. Others, like myself, were less certain where we fit in. Personally, I barely knew her. I exchanged a few emails with her, met her twice. I hadn't been entirely uneffected by her disappearance - she was one of us. But to be in a group with her closest friends and comrades I felt vaguely out of place, like a fraud. Imagine cutting your finger just a little bit, just enough to need stitches, and walking into an ER full of people shot in the gut. That's when you know - you're not injured. Sitting there, waiting to be seen, you'd feel kind of dumb being there at all.

The next day was the big day. It was the meeting central to the trip - where Director Tschetter and our Country Director Karl Beck would talk to us about what happened, what they knew, and what was being done. They were right in the middle of the meeting - gesturing to a map of where they were currently concentrating their search efforts, when the call came. The police had found a body.

One moment we were immersed in fear and discussion, the next moment brought a pause; one tiny second of complete disbelief before sadness boiled across the room like an angry wave. First the gasps, then the sobs, all in unison. I've never in my life experienced a moment like that, and I couldn't ever forget it. For myself, I was in a state of shear disbelief, and for the life of me I can't explain why. The moment just seemed so impossible, so improbable.

In retrospect, I agree with the psychologist Peace Corps brought in to speak with us - it was better it happened that way, when we were all gathered together in one place. Honestly, it seemed such a brutal moment at the time, but I keep going back to it, and I can't imagine a better way for everyone to have been told the horrible news.

At that time, we were being reassured it was almost certainly a hiking accident.

That wasn't how things turned out. As it turns out, she was beaten to death. With a wooden pole. Possibly by several people and probably for money.

But I won't write much on that. The subject is delicate, the facts aren't all in. Will I offend someone by writing on it? It was a deeply offensive act. How could I not?

Chilling days in a warm climate

8 days ago now Julia Campbell went missing. Since then we've had search teams, peace corps has posted 2000 flyers in the area, and offered a 500,000peso reward ($10,000) and still nothing. She was last seen hiking alone.

It might be easier to be optimistic about this if an American girl drew less attention. But if people had seen her, they would remember her. They're probably gossip and exadurate about her, and by sunset half the people in the area would know that an american girl was visiting. That's what happens when an american visits a small filipino community. She should be easy to find.

Right now I'm on my way to Manila, where there is a 3-day meeting regarding this. Peace Corps Director Tschetter arrives in country tomorrow for the meeting. Frankly I'm not sure what this meeting will be - will they be trying to comfort us? Trying to make a show of unity? Will they lecture us on safety and security? I don't know. I guess I'll find out.

I didn't know Julia well. I met her a few times, and she briefly worked with me as an editor of the Kwan. But I hope we find her. I lit a candle for her the other night. I Woke up in the morning to see Julia's candle replaced by a puddle of dried wax and a saucer scarred by burn-marks. I confess, the gesture offered me little comfort. But I hope.

Today, as I prepare to leave for this gathering in manila, my spirits have been further dampened to read about the shooting at VA Tech, which effectively dwarfs the situation that has been occupying my thoughts and fears these last days.

And it makes me think of Iraq, of Africa, of Lebanon, and reminds me that tragedies such as this aren't new. They've always been present and on a massive, sickening scale. Sometimes they just seem closer and more personal than others. Being reminded of that, well that can almost feel worse than if tragedy was new to the world.

Anyway, this is just a ramble. Stay safe everyone,
Allan

Tickets Have Been Purchased

Yes ladies and gentlemen, I know I've been saying I'm coming home for this wedding for some time, but until today, it's just been speculation. I've been madly searching around to find the best price on tickets, because Rachel had the gumption to get married at peak season. Honestly, how do I live with such self-centered friends?

just kidding

Anyway as the title of this post suggests, my search is at an end, and it's something of a happy ending. I found a ticket $250 less than I thought I was going to have to pay, and THEN I called my parents to tell them that my tickets are booked, and they tell me about my birthday present: they're going to cover half my ticket. That's alot of money, and I think it's pretty much indisputable proof that I have the best parents on the planet.

In any case let me get to the details. I'm leaving this country on Thursday May 3rd and after 1 1/2 hours in Guam, and an hour in Texas I'll be arriving home early in the afternoon on Friday May 4th. All in all it should be a 20-some hour flight (hard to calculate exactly - the ticket gives departure and arrival times, but time zones mess that all up)

Then on May 21st I'm doing the same thing in reverse.

So this means that roughly 20 days from now, just under 3 weeks, I'll be back home. Extremely exciting and incredibly hard to imagine.

Food I Miss

Originally this was in response to a note from my mother, regarding the food I hope to eat when I visit home. What a dangerous topic! But I went on a mouth-watering tangent and decided to post it here.

Ah, home tastes. There are so many. I miss good beer, cheese, and coffee dearly. And "cheese" encompasses so many things, doesn't it? Fresh mozarella, cheddar, munster, cream cheese, cottage cheese... I miss milk dearly too. And yogurt, I miss yogurt. Even the instant coffee we have here would be much better with some real milk in it.

In addition to beer, there's also no decent affordable wine here, and the crappy wine is as expensive as good wine ought to be. No good bread either, though I've recently discovered some wheat bread that's actually not half bad! But while it's not half bad, it's not 3/4 good either.

I've had in my mind a thick, juicy hamburger with swiss cheese and avacado. I've been craving that for more than a year now.

But I also miss alot of the variety of home, all the foreign foods we eat. Particularly Mexican and chinese foods call to me. You can find Mexican here, but it's not made by mexicans. I've found good Thai food here though. But Burmese? Ethiopian? Mark's kitchen (which I couldn't easily classify)

I miss decent pasta too. I mean, they have pasta here, but as easy as it is to find, there's only one meal ANYONE seems to know how to cook with it: Filipino birthday spaghetti. It's a birthday tradition to cook spaghetti thusly: cook up the pasta, pour on premade tomato sauce from a pouch (they have fresh tomatoes here, but people I've talked to actually feel home-made sauce is extremely inferior to cheap stuff from a vacuum-sealed pouch). The sauce already has sugar added, but usually people add more. Then they cut up a few hot dogs and throw those in. And voila! You have traditional birthday spaghetti! Oddly enough, people are very impressed when I tell them I know how to make spaghetti.

Anyway, the point is, I miss good pasta too.
Oh, and I intend to eat nothing with MSG in it. Everything I eat here has MSG.

Holy Week on Guimaras

I feel good today. I couldn't tell you why, but I do. It's not the sort of thing I question.

It's the holy week here in the Philippines (presumably in America too), and in the Philippines that's no small event. There are a variety to religions here, but Catholicism is certainly the most prominent; to the point that public schools actually force their students to mass on occasion. Ross, who works at a school, brought this up to a teacher.

Ross: "But don't you have freedom of religion in this country?"
Teacher (completely serious): "Yes, but we have freedom of Catholicism"

I've heard Catholics in America talk about the Philippines, and their sentiments were something to the tune of "yes, they're Catholics, but they're not REAL Catholics". I'm not sure where that attitude comes from. Perhaps because on almost every house in the country you will find an outside wall where there is a cross painted in chicken blood (during training we were advised that if we moved into a new house, and we failed to make such a cross, our neighbors would do it for us without asking - it's bad luck not to, and they don't want any part of that bad luck). Given that Catholicism was brought to the country by the Spanish, who allowed the church to rule over the country as tyrants, I think their devotion must be particularly strong. They even go to church more than your average European Catholic - both on Sundays and Wednesdays.

But their At any rate, my point is this: the country is currently absorbed in the activities and festivities of this week. Guimaras is actually host to a large event, the re-enactment of the crucifixion.

This time last year, before I had been told that Guimaras would be my home, I made the visit for Holy Week. On Good Friday the boats leave Iloilo city, but rather than bringing you to the port, the deposit you on the side of what just barely doesn't qualify as a mountain. At the top of the mountain is the biggest cross I've ever seen, and it is visible from anywhere in Iloilo city that you can get a clear line of site.

The hike up the mountain is supposed to represent the personal sacrifice of Jesus. This is a popular event, and last year it was so crowded that the hike up the mountain moved at a snails pace. I never knew a mountainous trail could be so crowded, but this one was. People from all over the world were there, and as a result we were packed on this trail like a can of sardines climbing up a mountain.

You would take one step - very careful to keep your balance on the uneven terrain (after all, if you stumbled you were likely to send a few people screaming off the side). Then you would wait. And wait. Maybe 5 minutes would pass. Then the crowd would surge very slightly forward, and you would take another careful step.

Once at the top you not only get to see the giant cross, but you also have the privilege of buying a festive belt from a man who will try to charge you quite a fee, despite the fact that you clearly went to a great deal of effort to get to his shop.

Off in Jordan, the re-enactment takes place. Jesus is led down the path, carrying a cross and being viciously whipped by Roman soldiers. This happens just outside the mayor's office, leading me to believe that he is a supporter of the crucifixion - you would think that's a dangerous endorsement to make just before elections, but the man has guts. The whole presentation struck me as oddly disney-esque last year, in a way I can't quite explain. I'll take pictures this year, and maybe you'll understand.

Now with that particular tangent complete, long days and pleasant nights everyone,
Allan

It's Been - One Year Since You've Looked at Me

A picture taken from my bedroom window. I think someone down the block just didn't tie him up very well

At the time I'm writing this it's 11:30am in the Philippines. That's exactly 12 hours difference from the bed in which i slept just over a year ago. It's been 1 year and 9 days since I left that bed.

For as far back as I can recall, at the end of every year I have been struck with the odd notion that the year had passed so swiftly by; every year seems to have been more hurried than the last. But on this year anniversary the sensation is even stranger: while the memories from one year ago still seem vivid in my mind, as recent memories often are, they also now seem alien to me. I do feel like this year has passed quickly - I remember times when I felt today was an eternity away. I recall the thought "1 year. Can I really make it one year?" Shortly before Thanksgiving, I was even decided: No I could not make it a year. I was going home. I'd be home for Thanksgiving. The great block of time I had to pass through seemed so immense and enormous, like some massive foreboding mountain in my path. I never left, and a year has passed. Now I've made it this far, I can't recall how it could ever have seemed such a big deal.

It's strange to remember back one year. The memories are still fresh enough that I can recall them with ease. But my state of mind was so different. In some ways I have trouble identifying with that person. He knew nothing back then: he understood no language, none of the culture. He had no idea what to expect of this country, of his work, of the people here. His immediate future was almost entirely unknown. I remember some of ideas I had of what it would be like - of course I knew that I had no idea, but I couldn't help but imagine. Those fantasies seem so silly to me now, more like jokes. Peace Corps told me there was a 50-50 chance I wouldn't have electricity. I considered buying solar panels and all sorts of things, I questioned whether it would be wise to bring a laptop. Of course, now that I'm here, I've never met a volunteer who has no electricity at their site. I should have known better than to trust government intelligence.

Of all the strange and unique aspects of my service, the most unexpected was this sense of distance I have from my life in the US. I feel like I've undergone some change in identity; this wasn't an entirely unexpected feeling, but the nature and origin of that change is far different than I expected. I've been removed entirely from my old life, not just from my surroundings of a 1st world country, but also from my family, my friends, and in some ways my past. It's as close to starting an entirely new life as one could imagine - except that this life will come to an end 15 months from now.

Without my friends and family, in very different company, I realize how much of my identity is social. I'm a very different person in the company of most Filipinos. I've always been a person that people, when the first meet me, have a difficult time understanding. In a new culture, with the language barrier, that's magnified 10x, and I end up behaving differently. My sense of humor is far more mild, my whole personality more sedate. I do have other close American friends here, the other volunteers, but they didn't know me before. Most of my life my close friends have mostly suffered from a social oddity of some sort, nerds, goths, straight-edge, Doomcrows (arguably it's own category), my friends have always been a strange bunch. I'm friends with almost all of the volunteers in my area, good friends with many of them. But they're mostly not people I'd expect to make friends with. And most importantly: they didn't know me before we journeyed half a world a way from my homeland. I had to make my identity anew with them.
My host grandmother, she's quite a character. She's old enough to remember hiding from the Japanese soldiers as a girl - if you were caught you were killed. In the 2 months I lived with her, I never did figure out what that is that she's doing in this picture, but she seems to do it all day long every day. I think she's shelling mongo beans, but I really don't know.

I guess the point I'm making through all this rambling, is that I never knew how much of me wasn't carried around in my head. In this new, radically different environment, with new friends, I feel so disconnected from my past and from my old life that sometimes my memories feel more like dreams. In their life, every person has their own distinct dramas and traumas, their own successes and failures that remain in their mind as something powerful and important. Each person has their own fears than loom over them. I've gained so much distance from those things, that when i recall them, I feel silly that these things ever evoked such passion and fear from me.

I've emphasized the social aspect, but the environment has just as much significance. I walk into the houses of some people in this country and think to myself "my god, these people are filthy rich". By and large, the house of my parents would put it to great shame. In other words, my innate understanding of wealth has been radically changed. I try to imagine going back to my parents house, and how strange that thought seems. On one hand it will be hard not to be awe-struck by the luxury. Screened windows, hot running water, a bath, A/C, 2 floors - I haven't seen a house like that in over a year. If a house has any one of those things, the family strikes me as rich. To have all of them and to live in that place seems - my imagination can't really grasp it.

At the same time, how could I really return to the house I've grown up in with a sense of awe? It's home. The feeling of home is practically the polar opposite of awe. That's a feeling of warmth, security, predictability. You can't "make yourself at home" in a place that seems in-credible.

It will be interesting for me to return home this May. Actually I'm so excited by the prospect i feel like the next month and a half ought to be kind and just sort of skip by me. Of course I'm excited for Rachel's wedding - to see a good friend make such a major life change is hard to conceive of. One of the reasons I felt a need to come back for this was because... well it will be weird when I return home no matter what. But to return with something so radically different as Rachel married, and a mother, well that seems like more change than I can miss.

Of course, I'd be lying if I didn't say that seeing my other friends and family didn't play heavily into my decision. That old Allan i feel so disconnected from - I miss him. I miss my life, my friends and my family. So many volunteers I've talked to feel like after Peace Corps, their old friends will probably have moved on, and that they'll need to find new ones. Perhaps I too will find new ones, as I seem to every year. But I've always been blessed with such close-knit friendships that I honestly I haven't spent one second worrying that my friends won't be there for me in the future.

Ok, in the case of the Doomcrows, I DO worry. Mostly because I know they WILL be there, possibly with spite and pointy objects. But at least they'll be there.

I guess I should wrap up this long-winded retrospective. On a side note, it truly sucks to be sick when you live alone. Especially when you have no fridge or potable water. Currently I've got a devil of a cold but I've still got to make it to the town for food and water. Then I'll have to make my sick-self some food. Bleh. Take care everyone, I hope to see you all soon,
Allan

Two Caribao bathing in the stream. I thought there was only one when I raised my camera to take the picture. The other one eagerly popped his head up for the photo op.

The Slow Rush of Time: Food, Fun, and amFibians

Today, March 21st marks a special day in my peace corps career. One year ago today I left my family and friends for a roller coaster ride I call the Peace Corps. A retrospective on this year (which feels like simultaneously the shortest year of my life, and a decade of experiences) is in the works, but not quite ready.

Here on Guimaras, dry season has taken hold. I don't believe I've seen a serious rain in well over a month, maybe 2. Droughts are a problem here on Guimaras, and water is running out at my center. The boys have begun their daily kilometer treks to the nearest body of water, so that they can wash themselves and their clothes. The former is a particularly cruel joke on nature's part, as walking a kilometer in the current heat leaves you in need of a bath. Therefore, by the time they have made the return hike from their bathing, they're in need of another trip. I haven't visited any of the boys quarters recently, but they are short on the water needed for flushing their toilets, and undoubtedly the resulting smell is not pleasant to live with.

For myself, I'm luckier. I have two buckets: one small and one quite large. Every evening my landlord turns on the water so that i can fill my buckets, and those buckets sustain me until the following evening. It's nothing so hard as life at the center must be - really the buckets hold more than enough water than I use on a daily basis. But it becomes difficult and less pleasant to wash my dishes with no running tap, and boiling water for my coffee in the morning seems less appetizing when that water has been standing 9 hours and has a visible layer of something without name on its surface. To pour that same water into my coffee cup, even after a thorough boiling, can turn my stomach. The key is not to think about it.

I appear to have a new house lizard: he is a small guy compared to the other two Tokay geckos, I've decided to call him Brain. It's only a natural choice in names, given that I already have a Pinky living above the kitchen, who is significantly larger than Brain. If I can say only one good thing about Brain, it is that he has chosen the best place to hide during the afternoons: as I am a man I naturally keep my toilet seat raised most of the time. Brain cleverly hides on the wall just behind the raised toilet cover. He's very well concealed, and I'm sure he's been there countless times without my notice. But that sounds like something you could tell your children to scare them, doesn't it? "Don't leave the toilet cover up Ben, or Brain, the toilet lizard, will hide behind it. He'll wait for you there, biding his time until you sit down - and when you do, he'll have you!"

Personally, I'm quite fond of Brain.

My relationship with Marianne continues to go well. I met her family just 2 days ago at her barangay's annual Fiesta. Her family were all very nice and pleased to meet me. Her father asked me if I was considering marriage. In the Philippines there is great emphasis, i repeat GREAT emphasis on being the perfect host. Time and again I have visited someone's house, and time and again the host humbles himself (or more commonly herself) so much that it truly seems her greatest desire is to please you however possible.

You know, when I first entered Peace Corps I was told that I would face many difficulties: strange places, an alien culture, a language barrier, and having to feast until we're bloated. Well at this last item I laughed. Everybody laughs! But it's true - I have faced few adversities larger than Fiesta!

The host will stack your plate full of foods - you must try a generous portion of every one of the dozens of items served. Traditionally in the Philippines it is only polite to clean your plate - that is a message to the hostess that she is a good cook. But woe be unto him who tries that at Fiesta, for Fiesta is an exception: if you clean your plate at Fiesta, that is a message to the hostess that you want more food. The amount of food removed from your plate before this message is sent will vary from hostess to hostess - in the case of Marianne's fiesta I was being repeatedly told "Please, get some more!" before my fully-loaded plate was half eaten.

Telling the hostess that you're full - that you don't want any more - can be an exercise in futility. In the Philippines people will routinely offer things that they don't want to give you, for politeness sake. If you pass someone eating lunch, even if they only have enough for one person, they'll offer you food. They may, however, be disgruntled if you take them up on that offer; after all, everyone understands that it's for politeness sake alone that it was offered. As a result, people often will say 'no' when that are offered something, even if it's something they really want. This creates an interesting social dynamic when someone actually DOES want to offer you something, because how can they know if you are declining out of politeness or because you really don't want it? This is why, even if you've eaten a horse at Fiesta, you will be offered more food. Again and again and again and again and again.

The 'generous host' pride goes very far too: when someone leaves a Fiesta, they will often be given a bag of leftovers to take home. In my case, I was given an exceedingly large bag. As I prepared to leave the house I was given a bag containing: 3 mangoes, a container of chop suey (at least 2 servings), 4 chicken wings, a container of spaghetti (2 servings), a container of fruit salad (3 servings), a box of candy and a whole chicken. I'm certain I left something out too...

I live alone and without a fridge. This was enough food to feed me for a week! Honestly, maybe more than a week. Currently I'm storing it in my landlord's fridge and heavily encouraging him to eat to his heart's content.

Travel Update

Right now my tentative idea is to be in America for about 2 weeks, possibly arriving on May 6th and leaving on the 20th. To those of you whom I very much want to see, but who have difficult schedules to navigate, how does this sound to you? It's not set in stone yet: it can be changed for YOU! But I can't do that unless I know that I need to. I'm aiming to buy these tickets in about a week, so please get back to me before that time.

Thanks, and I hope to see everyone roughly 2 months from now,
Allan

Manila

Kwan Staff Dance Party!

So I am back from my week in Manila. I had good coffee, good food, good company, and did some good work. This quarter's issue of The Kwan is completed, and the AIDS conference was at least a little bit informative. It certainly gave me an idea that I want to pursue here.

One of the problems with the spread of AIDS in the country is the distinct lack of sexual education in schools. On paper, the students are supposed to be receiving it, but in reality the teachers are far to shy to teach it. This is pure conjecture, but I suspect many of them might not even be entirely sure on all the facts themselves. What I do know is that there are 30-year old college graduates who aren't entirely sure how babies come about.

Most everyone probably knows that it can happen through sex... but past that everything becomes extremely vague. I suspect that almost no one has a strong understanding of their own body, let alone of the opposite sex - and the term STD is known, but I don't think anyone knows exactly how these are transmitted. This is disturbing to me because I think people ought to understand basic human physiology. If women don't understand how babies come about, they probably don't understand their own bodily cycles either! People ought to be educated in how their own bodies function. But people looking to advance sexual education in school repeatedly hit the same walls - no one wants to talk about it.

My idea; what I'd very much like to convince the Department of Health or Education to do; concerns the fad of youth here: text messaging. Most people, even young people, have access to phones, and the Philippines is the Text Message capitol of the world. People here seem to text all the time, seemingly non-stop. What I want to see is a text-based Sex Ed hotline that anyone could contact with questions and expect a response.

It would be easy to set up, and extremely inexpensive to run. The texting should cost no more than 40 cents a day per active phone, and after that all you need is someone educated on the subject managing each phone. It's the sort of program that, while no replacement for actual sexual education in the schools, could do wonders to boost awareness. Filipino students are often quite shy, but they would almost certainly ask questions by text that they would never have the courage to stand up and ask in a classroom, and they could receive straighforward answers by text, without any frills, flowers, birds, or bees that the teacher might be tempted to add for the sake of delicacy.

So that's the vision I got from the AIDS conference. It doesn't really work into my primary job assignment, but other volunteers at the conference also really liked that idea and I think if I can somehow get the ball rolling it would begin picking up momentum very quickly.

In any case, I digress. I'm happy to be home now, Manila gets under my skin quickly. I love a good starbucks coffee, but I pay more for my Short Mocha Valencia than I do for 3 meals at site. That may be while money seems to pour out of my pockets while I'm there. And it just gets aggravating not being able to walk 3 blocks without encountering 2 different men trying to sell you Viagra - and those men will each follow you half the block trying to convince you! I even had one such man make me an offer - buy the viagra and get the woman free! Awesome, you see what the cost of labor is in this country?

I also had a GRO (which is an official name for prostitutes here) follow me half a block one night. I didn't know she was a GWO; she was dressed modestly and looked like she was waiting for a cab. She asked me for the time when I walked by. Now, I was raised in DC and it's common knowledge that if someone tries to talk to you on the street, no matter what they say, be it "Do you have the time?" "Got a light?" or "I'm having a baby!" you don't stop walking. In fact, speeding up doesn't hurt, and that's what I did after briskly saying "Sorry, I don't have the time" (and it was true).

She followed me, walking quickly to keep pace with me. At that point I guessed she was either a GRO or she wanted to rob me. She kept up conversation, told me she worked for some Bar-B-Que place down the street (some of the most unlikely places employ prostitutes!) and eventually told me her name and held out her hand. This was all amidst a power walk down the street, mind you. But we have certain instincts we've had trained into us all our lives, and refusing to shake someone's hand is incredibly rude, so I shook her hand even during my heart-pumping, I-really-have-to-outpace-this-woman stride.

She grabbed tightly onto my hand and shoved it onto her left breast.

Fortunately we were just about to my Pension house, and I was able to snatch my hand away and walk inside without having to worry that she would keep following me. But it gets under my skin.

You know I don't like prostitution, but I do think it ought to be legal (why should we put someone in prison because we're not keen on their choice or profession, especially with so many with no job at all?). But there are good business practices and bad business practices. I was walking swiftly down the street, barely sparing her a word or a glance as she followed me. Did she really think I looked like an ideal customer?! It's just aggravating not being able to walk down a street without fending people off. The pension is not in a bad area, that just seems to be Manila for you.

But... the point is I'm back at my bamboo house now, and not too upset to say goodbye to Manila.

An Informal Announcement

2 Days ago, I receive an e-mail from a good friend of mine, Rachel. Like many of my good friends, I've had only sparse contact with her through the last year. I knew that since I'd left she had become engaged. What I didn't know is when - and the email I received two days ago told me this: She's being wed in May.

You know what? I think I'll be there.

May's close at hand. God, it's only 2 months away, and I'll have to pull this together relatively quickly. But I think I'm going to do it. I don't have the dates yet, but the trip I'm planning ought to last about 2 weeks. It might also come at the worst possible time for my still-in-acadamia friends, for whom my visit may fall pretty much during final exams. I hope there's a way to work around that, but I'll need to figure out when those times are for everyone. So: everyone still in acadamia leave a note or send an e-mail! God knows, I want to see you while I'm in town!

There's still some details to work out. The passport that I need to get out of the country is being processed by some government organization right now, to renew my work visa for another year, so something along those lines. But I've talked to the Peace Corps, and they think they can get it back for me.

So that's the announcement guys. You just may see my face come May

Things Fall Together

If you read my last entry, you may recall that I mentioned that with everything going as well as it is, I'm expecting a nasty visit from karma sometime soon. It has to happen - everything just seems to be going so well all of the sudden.

After my meeting last week between my supervisor and regional manager, we put together a nice list of potential projects I could work on while we have no computer - my supervisor told me that she had requested the emergency purchase of a computer from the central office, but it may be months away still. By that point I had more or less given up hope of ever seeing a computer, so this wasn't the least be disturbing to me - I just wanted more work options, and the support I need to perform them.

During that meeting last wednesday, I achieved that. Friday, the computer arrived at my center.

Despite it being an emergency purchase, it wasn't old or broken or out of shape. The one computer we did have at the center for roughly a week, arrived from being "fixed" with it's shell covered in rust. That computer had no USB port, it couldn't read most CDs, and it took more than one hour to boot up. This new computer is nothing like that.

It arrived brand-new, along with a nice computer stand, a voltage regulator, a comfortable computer chair, and a very nice looking flat-panel lcd screen. What a nice friday surprise, huh?! I conducted an informal needs assessment among the staff that very day. My biggest problem? Most of the programs the staff are interested in learning, I barely know myself. So I'm going to have to start teaching myself how to use new programs, namely: microsoft Access and Powerpoint, and I'm going to have to refresh myself on how to use Excel, because it's been awhile.

The staff are all interested in learning more about the internet - it seems that while most of them feel comfortable using word, all of them would like a better understanding of e-mail, web-research, and web-design. The latter, I have no clue about. However, my good friend and fellow volunteer, Sean, has offered to come visit for a week (he works at a university, where there are no classes in summer, so he'll have the free time) and conduct a Dreamweaver training.

So I'm excited. I'm going to manila tomorrow - in this exciting time of development at work, I feel bad disappearing for a week. But when I come back, my biggest problem should be - where to start?

Excitedly yours,

Allan

Be it Ever So Crumbled: It's Life Jim

(Kris Aquino is the hostess of the incredibly popular Filipino gameshow "Deal or No Deal". I couldn't pick her out of a line-up)

So after roughly 2 months of consecutive travel, here I am, back at site. Actually, i've been back for roughly 2 weeks now, i'm just a slow poke at updating.

I'm happy to report that Guimaras has changed while I was away. About three weeks ago two internet cafes just opened up here - that's right, not one but two! The connection isn't much, but the closest cafe is 10-15 minutes from my house, which easily beats the hour and a half it takes to get to the city. There are virtually no landline telephones on Guimaras, which is why it's taken so long to get internet here. But thanks to the beauty of cell towers, there is now a wireless service being offered here. If I felt really rich, i could actually get wireless on my laptop for $20/month, but as that's 1/8th of my monthly salary, I don't feel quite that rich.

But wait, it gets better! Just beside one of said internet cafes, there is a cafe now offering some very decent brewed coffee. If I haven't posted on this before - finding brewed coffee, let alone decent coffee, is all but impossible here. There are plentiful coffee beans produced in this country, and the vast majority of them are bought up by nestle, who converts them into "nescafe" instant coffee - which is what everyone in this country drinks. Now, in fairness, it's probably the best instant coffee I've ever had the displeasure of drinking, but the best pink wine in the world is still pink wine, and I have been missing decent coffee dearly.

I've had trouble readjusting to life back at site, but things are looking up. I met with my peace corps regional manager and my supervisor yesterday about potential projects, and the results are very promising. It also built my confidence up... sometimes i feel that things are progressing so slowly that I haven't been doing much of value. But when we had to discuss my activities at the center in our meeting, it really didn't sound like I had been slacking half as much as I felt I had been.

For the first time i really feel like I have my supervisors support to pursue projects. My existing baby of a project is also progressing - we conducted our 2nd Lifeskills training yesterday. It went exceedingly well and my counterpart in that is eager to do another. In fact the 3rd was supposed to happen today, but I had to cancel for another meeting with my regional manager. Maybe before the weekend though.

I've got a girlfriend now. Have I mentioned that before? The lovely, sweet Filipina who was my date for new years. Her name is no secret, but I'm not entirely sure she's want me to write it here, so I'll abstain. All you have to know is that she's incredibly sweet and her english is excellent. She lives far away from me, so we haven't gotten together very frequently, but I think that will change in the near future. I hope!

As if all that isn't enough I indulged in something wonderous today: a chilled box of hershey's chocolate milk to commemorate today. "What makes today special?" you might ask. If you did, i would have to tell you that 11 months ago today I left my my home, friends, and family for this crazy rollercoaster that is life in the Peace Corps. The days have been long and the months have flown by.

Of course, no sooner do I find myself readjusting to life at site than I'm off again - to a city well-known to me by now and disliked a little bit more every time I visit: Manila. If you'll recall I'm part of the staff of The Kwan, the quarterly volunteer-written newsletter. We're going to hit up that big city to put this quarter's letter together.

The location is just as well, because I've just been informed that I am now the Peace Corps AIDS rep for Guimaras, and we have a mandatory conference just 2 days after my scheduled Kwan assembly ends. This mandatory conference travel and lodging is all coming out of the pocket of my peace corps allowance - note the frustrated font I write that with. It's the same font I've written everything I with, so it might be hard to pick out, but the frustration is there. Oh well.

The point is, by and large things are going great here and there's every sign that they will only get better. I would have told you that a month ago too but... things progress slowly, what can I say? I hope everyone is enjoying their snow back at home. Just now the weather's graduating from hot to Natlie Portman (extremely hot) and I'm missing the rain that the dry season isn't providing anymore. Long days and pleasant nights everyone,

Allan

Apo Island

Apo island is located just off the coast of Dumagete, about an hour by boat. Supposedly it had good snorkeling, which was my main interest, but really I went because everyone else was going there. After all, no point on missing out on something good to see when I'm already in Dumagete.

The boat ride there was not something I anticipated. The vessel was low in the water. It had a compartment for our luggage to go in, but as for the passengers - well there weren't really any seats. We just sat down where ever there was a flat surface. What no one was prepared for - least of all me - were the waves. During the hour long boat trip, the passengers could be expected to be splashed by a wave roughly every 10 seconds. Not a small splash either - oh no! As a passenger you would do no worse tethered to the back of the boat. Half way to the island, we were all as soaked as if we had been swimming the whole time. The gusty winds on the water made it cold too, and I probably would have arrived on the island feeling rather crabby, except along the trip I saw something really pretty amazing.

Can you imagine looking beside the boat and seeing a bird flying low and close to the vessel? It's kind of fun to see that. But then you have a double-take, when you realize the bird flying a few feet away from you actually looks alot like a fish. Let me tell you, that is one surreal double take, and I felt for a moment as if I was in a Dali painting. I'd seen flying fish before, but usually they don't stay airborne like this one did. This was significantly larger than flying fish I'd seen before, and it stayed in the air, gliding beside the boat, for longer than I realized any fish was able to do. At the end it didn't just flop gracelessly into the water, either. Gradually it descended until it was gliding closely above the water, and then *sploosh* it was gone.

So it was a nice introduction to Apo Island, which proved to be a magnificent place. For anyone who may come to visit me in the Philippines, I will definitely be taking you here. As I stepped off the boat I realized I was in a paradise. This island was just breath-taking in its beauty. I couldn't adequately describe it. We only stayed there overnight, but it was wonderful. The snorkeling was excellent - in fact it is one of the best preserved marine life sanctuaries in the country. The coral begins as soon as the water does, and it was actually a challenge to get past the initial coral to a place you can swim around and see the beauty and marine life from enough of a distance that you weren't in danger of letting the tide slam you into said marine life.

The Barangay on the island was enjoyable to walk through. The people there seemed as genuinely friendly as I could imagine. I got to witness what appeared to be a little girl baking bread in an outdoor oven fueled by coconut husks. In addition to the beautiful beaches, there was also a forest of very dramatic-looking mangroves. It was just, overall, a very nice place to be, and our rooms didn't have electricity or running water, but they had an amazing view.

So, in short, I enjoyed my short stay there. It was the last of the 14 different places I've ended up traveling since Thanksgiving. What a way to end it.

Still Alive

It's been a while since I've updated - I know it has. I'm not dead though. Definately still alive. My tooth hasn't even fallen out yet!

My last update came just before I set out on more travel -- first a visit to Iloilo for the Dinagyang festival. Outside of Panay island, the Ati-atihan festival in Kalibo is widely recognized as the country's best, but in this region it is a hot contest between Kalibo and Iloilo, and people in either region are likely to tell you that their's is the better festival. Dinagyang was fun, it focused more on the coordinated dancing than on the costumes. By contrast, Ati-atihan had great costumes and there are no coordinated dancing - however they also feel proud of this because without coordinated dances anyone in the audience who chooses is welcome to join in the parade.

I had mixed fortunes in attending this festival because on Sunday, the highlight of the festival, I had to leave in the morning for a Program Development Management conference in Dumagete (around 8 hours south of me). So I had to miss the best of the festival, but it also means that when I'm asked by locals which festival I thought was more beautiful, well I'm able to dodge that question.

So I traveled to Dumagete city. It was a very nice place to say the least. It was a tiny city, but it had a beautiful park area along the sea wall where people would bring their families and walk their dogs. And the dogs there were well kept, beautiful dogs all on leashes. My experience in the philippines has mostly shown me areas with many stray dogs, and where even the dogs who are pets roam free and look rather mangy. I made me happy to see some pets that looked cared-for. There were a few nice restaurants in Dumagete including an indian food restaurant which made me a very happy man.

The conference itself is not something I would talk much on. It focused on how to design and execute projects in very general terms. Most of the things focused on felt rather obvious. But it's just one of those subjects -- if I wanted to completely design a major project in my center, with grant funding and everything, I really might not know where to start or quite how to proceed. The steps involved aren't difficult, but sometimes something of that magnitude needs to be broken down for you to help you sort things out. Anyway, the conference was fine and probably did me some good.

Afterwards we travelled to the nearby Apo island. I knew virtually nothing about this island when I left, except that there was supposed to be excellent snorkelling and that everyone else was going there too. But I think Apo Island merits its own entry.

Ati-Atihan: Estimated value - 17,000 Words

Super Happy Medical Fun Time

Well ladies and gentlemen, I can say this for 2007: thus far it hasn’t been boring. And even though I’ve spent a good part of the month traveling to one place or another for medical reasons, it’s managed to be somewhat fun too, at least most of the time.

After a large portion of one of my molars fell out in Boracay (the size of a baby tooth in its own right), I high-tailed it to Manila to see the local Peace Corps dentist. As I mentioned in my last entry, I fully expected that after 24 short years of wear and tear, my mouth would see its first crown. I wasn’t looking forward to it. However, this has not come to pass. Instead, after examining my mouth, the dentist decided that although it was a close call, a large filling would do.

Now, I am not fond of dentists. The feeling of dental work being performed in my mouth, even with Novocain, has always unnerved me. That in and of itself would be tolerable except for that which is even worse: the sound. As soon as I’ve managed to tune out all the poking and prodding being done inside my mouth, the other senses, formerly ignored, come pouring into the forefront of my mind. This brings on the inevitable thought: ‘Why, what is that sound of cracking, hammering, and drilling? Is there a coal mine nearby?’ It takes only a split second for the horrible realization to hit me. There is no coal mine! These mining operations are taking place inside my own body. That cracking and hammering and drilling is being done not to some foreign object nearby, but to my very own body. Consequently, those noises don’t sound particularly gentle, certainly not delicate -- very unlike the work of a doctors’ graceful hands or even those of a stage magician. It sounds like they’re smashing apart your mouth.

In any case, I’ve lived through that process easily enough in the past, and I survived yet again. At the very end of the filling process, tooth fully installed, the dentist slipped a piece of carbon paper in my mouth, and asked me to gently move my jaw back and forth. As I obeyed, the filling broke off and toppled out of my mouth.

So it was right back in the dentists chair again for another 45 minutes of tooth-mining. I bite down on the carbon paper a second time, and everything seems much better. So I returned home to the Peace Corps pension only to have that filling fall out again at dinner. It was a very sad event, for having a tooth detach from my mouth ruined what would have been a very nice meal for me. Good food, after all, is plentiful in Manila.

So the next day I returned to the dentist where I was absolutely certain they would give me a crown. After all, they said it was a difficult decision in the first place, and It seemed obvious, at least to me, that the filling was not working out. However, this was my assessment, and the professional disagreed with me, opting for the philosophy of the timeless motto “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again!”

After the filling was installed for the third time, my jaw ached terribly. I’m not sure exactly what technique the dentist used, but I recall her pressing down into the filling area with all the strength her arm could muster, and I felt that for several days afterwards. As the dentist debriefed me afterwards, she told me to remember that the molar in question was weaker than all my other teeth, and that I ought not to chew on much, especially hard things.

“For how long?” I asked.

This was met by a brief, uncomfortable silence, followed by her words “Just be careful”. I pressed her on the matter, and she basically made it sound like I ought to follow this rule indefinitely. This concerned me a little bit, since in my 24 years of life chewing has actually been the most common use I’ve found for my teeth.

Then the woman at the desk went over some paperwork with me, and told me fairly directly that chances are more than likely that my filling will fall back out again, and when it does they will give me a crown.

I didn’t go back to my pension happy. Actually I returned very discontented. I have no urge to have a crown, but if I need one I see even less reason to delay the time consuming and uncomfortable operation. So I directly asked the Peace Corps medical officer that they remove my filling and install a crown, since it seemed inevitable anyway. The medical officer was very sympathetic, but told me that my dentist was convinced she had done the procedure right this time, and without the recommendation of my dentist, Peace Corps HQ would never approve a crown.

You gotta love insurance companies. They’ll just be spending more money when I return to Manila the next time my filling falls out. Such is life.

What I haven’t mentioned thus far is my migraines. In Manila I had my first migraine of the year. When I returned, half a week later, to Iloilo city I had a headache. This headache was to be the first of many successive headaches and migraines I would have over the next 10 days. For those 10 days, sometimes my headache was so minor I could barely feel it, sometimes it was an extreme migraine, but not a single day passed without the former. 7 days in, I contacted my medical officer with a medication question. When she learned how long my head had been plaguing me, she told me to see a neurologist in Iloilo, and so I did.

This neurologist sent me to another neurologist, working at the local hospital, and that one told me that she wanted to hold me at the hospital for the night and run several tests (including an EEG) the next day.

Staying the night in the hospital seemed almost laughable to me – I didn’t even have more than a minor headache at the time. But the doctor talked with my medical officer, and stay at the hospital I did. My Regional Manager from Peace Corps happened to be in town, and when she heard that the doctor had ordered me not to eat any processed foods, she went out and essentially purchased me an orchard’s worth of fruit. Grapes, bananas, mangoes, apples, pears, chico (a brown fruit that tastes oddly like brown sugar), I had them all in plentiful supply, and things were good.

The next day was my EEG. Fun times! They attached all sorts of electrodes to my head, told me to fall asleep if I could, then they flashed bright lights in my eyes. I think some part of me really expected I would somehow gain super powers from this, but if I have, they have yet to manifest.

In the afternoon the results of my EEG and neck x-rays came back – both perfectly normal. I didn’t have more than the slightest of headaches and above all else was going stir crazy in my room. Ross, who had been my kasama the previous night, went home mid-day when it was clear I would be fine. So I was more than a little shocked when the doctor told me that she would not release me until the following day. Despite the fact that I was feeling good, in perfect health, with no signs of serious ailment, she wanted to hold me for another night for testing.

This was not a good situation for me. Filipino hospitals were made with the assumption that any person staying there would have a kasama, someone to run needed errands for you. Soap, toilet paper, water, outside food, even medicine – you need a kasama to procure all these things for you. If the fact that ‘medicine’ is on that list surprises you, recall that this is a 3^rd world country. They have 6 pharmacies around the block, but only a limited variety of medicine actually in the hospital itself. So after the doctor has proscribed you to take a medicine during your hospital stay, you still need someone else to go get that medicine for you.

So this was the problematic situation I found myself in. Ross had already gone home, and the notion that I might stay in the hospital without a companion really was unthinkable, both to myself and to the staff. Someone came to my rescue though.

A lovely Filipina, the one I had spent the good part of Christmas Eve with, had come to visit me late that day. I don’t name her, because I’m not sure she would want me to, but she was very kind. She agreed to be my kasama and stay the night with me in the hospital. So my evening wasn’t half bad, staying in an air-conditioned room, with cable tv, a refrigerator, plentiful fruit, cold water, and a beautiful young lady – I would have felt downright guilty if I wasn’t being held against my will.

I was released from the hospital Thursday afternoon, and had no intention of letting my traveling stop. I had long been planning to travel north for the weekend, to see the cultural festival known as Atiatihan. Taking place yearly in Kalibo, it is known as the largest and most elaborate yearly cultural festival, and draws Filipinos and tourists alike from all around.

A New Year

The sequence of seasonal events has passed us all by. 2006, still feeling as new and alien to me as did 2005 before it, has passed into past, ushering us into the year 2007. It will take some time before I begin writing the correct year when I date things.

Usually I write some sort of retrospective post for the new years, to reflect on the happenings of the previous year, and on what has changed and what has stayed the same. This year, that seems almost silly. I don't ever expect to see another year quite like 2006, and I will be very surprised if ever I do.

It's been a big year for many of my friends and family, indisputably a year of change. It's been a year of bold moves and aimless life all at once. My father went to Botswana to pursue a dream, the outcome of which is still uncertain. My brother went to college far, far away (though writing from the Philippines I suppose 'far' is a relative term). Several friends moved out of houses and away from their families to pursue their new post-college lives as the adults which I may never believe we have become. Maria and Jason even moved to Canada.

It has been a year with divorces, stalkers, cancer, and sexual harassment. A very good friend of my family has been slowly dying, and all the tears and prayers in the world haven't changed that. As if that weren't so very hard to deal with, yet another good friend, children still young, is grappling with progressive dementia. There is nothing to be done about these things, except to do as we always have done: take each day for what it is, and value every person we've been fortunate enough to love.

It has been a year of change, and a painful one for many. The world continues to move, and thankfully the children continue to grow (though a few children ought to grow a bit slower).

Here in the Philippines, I would not have expected to see so many similarities between the life I've had hear and the life of my friends. I've spent the last 9 months adjusting to a new place and a new way of living, trying to make friends in a new land where I know no one and trying to find a place for myself where I am employed. The same is true of many back home. It seems like this last year has left every close peer I have questioning what their destination in life will be, and searching uncertainly for a way to reach it. It seems as if we have all scattered to the wind to find our places, each one of us adjusting to a new environment and looking for a place in it. As I said before, it's been a year of bold moves.

For myself, I've gone through so many varied experiences and changes that I could not imagine being so ambitious as to list them out. I still recall in the first few months I was here how new and alien everything in this country seemed to me. The things which seem simple, obvious, and mundane to me today were mind boggling and, in some cases, alarming only a short time ago. The days here have not always been easy, nor even fruitful, but I cherish them dearly for the very unique life experiences they have been and the insights they have offered me; I can think of little I would trade them for.

As this year wound to a close it left promises that 2007 will see changes of its own. On christmas eve I had my first date in 6 years with a very kind Filipina. I don't believe anything will really come of it, but time will tell. It was, at the very least, and enjoyable time. At work my supervisor and one of my best co-workers have been promoted, leaving the projects I had hoped would begin very soon in limbo - or so I thought. On December 28th, during that period between christmas and new years when no work ever gets done, I was finally able to do my first lifeskills training with the boys of my center (or rather the staff conducted the training with my guidance). The next time I went into work, just after new years, suddenly staff are asking I assist in the informal education process, maybe teaching math. The boys have begun to flock around my desk regularly for informal english tutorials that keep me busy most of the day. It may not sound like all that much work, but for me, the last few days have been very promising.

Of course, I'm writing this from Manila. My trip to the white sand beaches of Boracay was wonderful, but with the first bite of my first mouth-watering meal a sizable chunk, perhaps the size of a baby tooth, broke off of a molar and tumbled out of my mouth. So here I am in Manila for a dental appointment. I expect I may be getting my first crown tomorrow. Very exciting.

I hope this new years finds everyone reading this in good spirits, and that no matter how difficult life has been, it has not stopped you from appreciating every bit of wonderous beauty each day of joy and hardship contains.

Halong gid permi

(be well always),

Allan

Pictures from Boracay

Pictures (Because i can)

Allan here, reporting from Boracay on new years eve. It's beautiful here and amazing food is plentiful. Quite expensive for the peace corps wallet, but on the cheap side for dollar earner. I'll be enjoying the change of the year a full 13 hours ahead of most of you. I'll try to post my opinions on the new year as soon as possible, so that you can have some taste of what 2007 is going to be like when it hits you.

I've not the writing mindset for the moment, but i have received a new camera for christmas, and as such i've been taking pictures left and right. Mostly of people in a hotel room, then a bar. Exciting, huh? Well it is to me. Enjoy!

My new camera makes it easy to take pictures of myself!

And nighttime pictures that i couldn't take before, are now possible. Meet Floyd, my front-door Toko

This is Roli and his wife. He was one of the peace corps language instructors and recently helped me with my illongo. His child is my godson

This is Anna, she spent over 2 months teaching me illongo

This is May-may. She's kind of a friend of a friend from our first host families.

Meet Anna. She's white like me. A fellow Peace Corps Volunteer

This here is Erin and Ross. Aint they spiffy?

This is Tim, also a friend and volunteer. His parents are directly responsible for the good german wheat beer and excellent german food that i ate that night.

Alvin and I, first discovering that you can easily take pictures of yourself with my new camera! the lcd flips around to the front! This was my first picture from the new camera.

Ross, layin around, waiting for dinner.

A toast to good german food and beer!

Ross, appreciating his beer like he ought to

World Aids Day pt3: The Typhoon and The Parade

As it turned out it arriving late to the luncheon with the mayor was not such a big deal. ‘Luncheon with the mayor’ sounded very personal and important to me, but it was a much larger affair than anticipated. The event took place in a very large room with crowds of people, of whom the Peace Corps was only a small part, and it was the usual ceremony whereby a long list of names are thanked, a long string of hands shaken, and a large pile of delicately-framed certificates issued. After it was through, we had nothing planned until that afternoon, when we would march in the parade. We had just enough time to show the other volunteers the legendary mudslide available at the local mall.

Later in the afternoon was the parade. I have noticed that Filipinos seem to throw parades with the frequency that some college frats throw parties. Having been in this country 9 months, this would mark the third parade I’ve marched in. But here’s the twist: elsewhere in the Philippines, in the far islands of Bicol, a typhoon was menacing the local population. Kalibo was mercifully spared from anything close to a direct interaction with it, but that didn’t mean we were excluded some of the resulting weather. Recall that earlier in the day the skies had threatened to unleash their wet wrath upon us as we gave our high school aids presentation. Thankfully those dark clouds never did yield more than a few drops of rain during our workshop, but the parade was not so lucky. As it happened, someone did more than rain on our parade, someone typhooned on it.

Were the wind and rain were so intimidating to stop our march? Of course not! Truth be told they weren’t actually any worse than your typical rainstorm, but it does sound dramatic to say we marched through a typhoon storm, doesn’t it? Typhoon or not, it did manage to get me awfully wet. I should have brought my rain coat.

We set out for our demonstration with a marching band well-equipped with enthusiastic marchers, despite the rain. A man dressed in a white shirt festively decorated with multi-colored (and perhaps multi-flavored?) condoms marched in front as Caca, possessing bright colors, bountiless energy, and a set of wings hurried back and forth along the line to conduct things and keep up morale in the dreary weather. Having no initial plan, the Peace Corps first dispersed among the marchers, but gradually we found ourselves marching at the head of the line, holding the lead banner alongside a condom-covered man.

I couldn’t say quite how far we marched. Between the excitement and rain I lost track. I can tell you that I have it on good word the parade was covered by CNN worldwide, and that I was utterly drenched 15 minutes into the march. It’s just possible that I appeared in said coverage, marching at the very front as I was, but I almost hope not. I was enjoying myself the whole time, but to look at these pictures, I appear to be in a foul mood unbefitting of a man marching at the front of a parade line. For the record I was definitely happy and excited, but if I HAD been upset, it would have been due to the terrible aids crisis plaguing our globe.

As our parade route passed a major park and a large stage with the words “World Aids Day” prominently displayed in scarlet block letters, it was no surprise to me that we were directed to march inside. I should mention that as I usually am in this country, I was utterly clueless about exactly what the events of the day would be, and how they would all play out. All I know is that the parade marched into the courtyard and we turned to face the stage: Myself, Condom Man, and an assortment of other volunteers holding up our banner as valiantly as possible in the downpour. By this point I felt fairly comfortable in the idea that I couldn’t actually get any more fully saturated with water, and strangely enough this raised my spirits even higher.

As bottled water was passed out water among the paraders I admit I became confused; suspicious even. We were standing unprotected in the rain, why were they distributing the very item of menace falling on our heads? Were we unwittingly posing for a “Natural Springs” commercial? No. As it turned out we were not.

They were passing out water to us because we would be standing in that rain for a while. Two hours to be precise. We stood there, soaking wet and rain still pouring down on us as politician after politician came up to make a speech.

I hope that here I don’t come across as bitter or ungrateful toward the many \politicians that contributed to aids awareness and prevention that day. It was an excellent cause and they deserved their chance to have their moment in the spotlight and to say their piece. There is one cultural intolerance I may have unwittingly begrudged them.

I’ve noticed that speeches in this country generally begin with 10-15 minutes of thanking people. Now, if you have only one or two people speaking, if you have a place to sit, or if you have some cover from the torrential rain descending upon your head, that’s really something I can probably deal with. But that day that I made a self discovery: I am much more eager to march in the rain than I am to stand idly in it listening to people thank me for doing so. My frustrations might have been worsened when afterwards one politician came down for a photo op and remarked to me “What happened to your clothes? They are all wet! You should change!”

But I digress. Let not my whining ruin an otherwise excellent parade. They did serve us coffee, and I really ought to have had the foresight to bring my rain coat.

After all the speeches had been said the Butterfly Brigade put on an excellent dance number for us, despite the slippery stage. By the end the rain had even calmed enough that we were even able to hold a candle lighting ceremony. The program ended well.

Later than night, after a buffet dinner, the Butterfly Brigade hosted a drag queen talent show. I have to say, this struck me as slightly off-topic, but it was a good time nonetheless. They certainly had fun with it. One person even sung the song “one little, two little, three little Indians”. It was one of those moments where I had to pause and ask myself “How did that song make it to this country? Is there even one native American here?” Oh well. On the heels of this elaborate display of singing, dancing, and dragging was the main event, the Condom Fashion Show.

No… no… don’t try to picture what that could be, not yet. Let me explain first.

The condom fashion show consisted of 13 contestants (all drag queens, except for one young girl I believe) who had donned costumes of which condoms were used as an essential element. Some contestants, including the winner if memory serves me, inflated their condoms like balloons. A few costumes were so bedecked in thusly inflated birth control that if they had used helium I’m pretty sure we would have had to call air control.

Others entries opted to use condoms in a wide variety of inventive ways, such as placing them like sparkles on a dress. It may sound odd, but I wish I had pictures of this event, because there really were some very inventive participants (and all in good taste). A few of us Peace Corps Volunteers ended up being judges in this competition, and I was unexpectedly called on to give a consolation prize.

By unexpectedly I mean that they called “Allan, please come up to award consolation prize number 6” into the audience. I wish I had had some forewarning, because I know I climbed the stage with fluster on my face and I’ve no doubt it showed. Ah well, such as life.

The competition ended, and we were encouraged to stay and party with the Butterfly Brigade, but I think everyone had been drained by the days events, and we all elected to go home and sleep like the party-poopers we are. Thus ended the longest and most eventful World Aids Day of my life.

An interlude: Right here, Right Now

There's no snow, and while it's colder than usual here, it's still a cool summers day at it's coldest. The same carols that have been playing for months now (they began mid-october here, where they celebrate christmas for roughly 1/4 of the year) are still playing, albeit louder and more frequently than before. It just might be christmas.

My friends and neighbors here have kindly made a point to include me in their celebrations. My neighbors have invited me to their family gathering this saturday, and to spend christmas day with them. I'll be at the gathering, but christmas day will be spent back with my first host family, who invited me a few weeks ago. So I'll get to see Patrick, Merced, Tibong, Pat, and my host grandmother again. I've been a bad host child, and haven't visited as frequently as the other volunteers, but I do appreciate their readiness to take me into their family celebrations.

I've been to 2 work-related christmas parties, with another on the horizon (tomorrow). What a busy time.

The family of Tim (a friend and fellow volunteer) has come to visit for the holidays, and they have finally brought me my long awaited camera. Originally it had been planned as an early christmas gift, and I expected to have it months ago. Ironically, it should come to me exactly one day after christmas. Good timing, in a way. I do wish I could use it to take better pictures in my christmas celebrations though.

Following that I'll have only a few days before heading back to Boracay for a slightly longer and perhaps cheaper stay than last time. You'll be reading about my last time very soon ;-) So the new years should be brought in very nicely. If not with the people closest to me, than on a beautiful tropical beach with excellent swimming and snorkeling spots. Ah, the hardships of life. To everyone reading this, I would like to extend my best wishes for a merry holiday(s) of your choosing, and a happy new years.

Allan

Aids Day Pt2: Being Schooled by Education

When I awoke the next morning, a surprising amount of my nervousness had passed. I think I had hit a point where the situation seemed so intimidating that I just stopped worrying about it. We would educate these 400 semi-English-fluent kids about aids to the best of our ability within our given 2 hour time frame, and that would be that. We had projector slides on our side, how could we go wrong?

The day began with a visit to the Kalibo hospital (a very nice looking hospital if I may say), which would serve as our base of operations. We took some pamphlets, some stickers, and plenty of pins and aids ribbons. Each group would be assigned a nurse to accompany them to their schools, although the nurse would not really play a part in the presentation itself, but she would be there to field any questions that the presenters weren’t able answer.

It was an overcast day, threatening to rain, as we made our way across the grounds of Aklan Valley High. The school was not in the style of my own high school, one giant hulking structure that students enter in the beginning of the day and exit at days end. Rather, the grounds held a scattered collection of buildings connected mostly by their close approximation to one another. Walking in, classes were clearly not in session yet, and the space in between these buildings was packed with children doing all the things that school children are prone to do: playing, pushing, running, screaming, and laughing. We were running slightly behind schedule, so after a brisk introduction to the principal, we were led to our makeshift stage.

Our audience of 400 was already noisily seated as we arrived in the basketball court, which, as we discovered, was where our presentation would be held. There was neither projector nor projection screen, so our slides were quickly delegated to the role of quick reference, but in exchange we did have a large black board and some chalk. After some negotiation we also managed to procure a much needed set of speakers and have a microphone set up for us. I think all three of us cast our gaze nervously to the sky, unsure what we would do if rain began to pour down on the open court. But while I think we were all aware of it, none of us spoke of it. We had a show to start.

I have to give it to them, for a group as large as they were, the students were incredibly well behaved. To my relief, I found that, unbeknownst to me, Sean (who had been in the Philippines a year longer than I) was already a whiz at the language. I can’t tell you what a nice surprise this was as we nervously tried to introduce ourselves and our purpose to the crowd. With this skill, and some very solid showmanship, Sean more or less took the lead role in things.

Niki managed the blackboard, writing down information as it was given (reading English was almost certainly easier for the students than understanding it spoken) and between Sean and I we went through the information, taking as interactive an approach was we could for a group of 400. There is a popular game show here called “Deal or No Deal”, the specifics aren’t important, but the show was named after the decision each contestant eventually has to face. We used this piece of pop culture to gauge the students knowledge and also their misconceptions.

We would go through our information by asking questions rather than listing off the facts. For instance we would ask what the symptoms are, or the means of transmission, and whenever a student put forth an answer, we would ask the larger audience for their opinion. “Deal?” We would ask them, “No Deal?” I think the kids got a great kick out of this approach. Sean had also the foresight to bring incentives for the kids, two canisters full of pins bearing the logo of his old college football team. Thank god he did, because we needed some form of incentive.

Filipinos, especially Filipino children, can be extremely shy. The front row would have happily answered every question we had, but row further from us than the front we had some troubles. In asking questions, the first approach I attempted was to take was to bring the person providing an answer to the front to speak into the microphone. This approach was perhaps the worst failure of the day. The first and only volunteer I tried this with began in the way I expected: she shyly refused and I thought to myself ‘this is normal. She really wants to come up on stage, she’s just shy.’
I was wrong. I spent a very long 2 or 3 minutes trying to coax the volunteer to follow me up to the front, and she didn’t budge an inch. I just couldn’t believe that a person would be bold enough to stand up with an answer, but be far too shy to be led on stage. Well, this one was, and I suspect if I had tried again I would have found the phenomenon widespread.

Given our time restraints, we didn’t end up going over some of the more sensitive subjects, namely safe sex. “Birth Control” is a dirty set of words in this mostly-Catholic country, putting us in an awkward enough situation to speak on it anyway, but the audience also seemed rather young for the topic. It was bad enough when we quizzed them on what 4 body fluids could transmit aids. They got ‘semen’, ‘breast milk’, and ‘blood’ easily enough, but they were truly stumped for the 4th one. Do you know it? ‘Vaginal secretions’ is the answer, and how red in the face we were to tell it to such a young audience. Shouldn’t there be a name for that fluid beyond the organ it comes from, like we have for semen? It would have made the whole affair much easier on us.

Anyway.

The bulk of the session went surprisingly well, with a good deal of audience participation. By and large, they were already pretty well educated on the subject. Don’t get me wrong, we definitely disposed of several myths and offered clarifications on a wide variety of matters. We had them break into two parts chanting “Invisible Disease!” and “No Symptoms!” back and forth.

The last half hour we took to play a game, introducing ‘Wildfire”, designed to demonstrate how swiftly and silently the aids virus can be spread. We had all played the game during our debriefing, but in a group less than 20. 400 participants was ambitious, and when we mentioned it, Caca was uncertain as to whether it was a good idea in such a large group. He said he had never heard of it being played with so many people. However, I think we were all firm believers that games can be the most effective means of teaching, and so we decided to go for it anyway.

In a smaller group, the idea is that everyone closes their eyes while one of the conductors goes around and taps a select few people on the shoulder. These are the ‘infected’. Then everyone opens their eyes, the group mills about and every player shakes hands with 3 people -- ‘Shaking hands’ in this case, serving as a metaphor for other, more intimate activities. When a previously tapped, or ‘infected’ player shakes someone’s hand they give a discreet signal, brushing their nail against the palm of the other person’s hand, to let them know they have the virus, and the other person has just contracted it.

The game backfired somewhat. First, with a group of 400 we didn’t remember who we had chosen as the source of the disease, and when we asked them to come to the center of the (giant) circle, very few actually stepped forward. When we went on to ask everyone who had contracted the virus to step forward, although there should have been 3 times as many, even fewer came forward. The kids were just that shy.

We turned it around into a lesson though. ‘If so many people were too shy to admit to having the aids virus, even in a game’ we told them, ‘how many do you think would come forward if they actually had the disease?’ Then we had them chanting “Invisible Disease” again, and after we passed out some stickers and issued some 400 aids ribbons we were satisfied that we had done a rather good job of things.

When we met up later in the day with the other volunteers, I would find out that I had actually been very lucky in my school assignment. While I faced a class of 400 with two other volunteers, the student turnout at some of the other schools was twice what had been predicted, which meant that several volunteers found themselves facing classes of 300 by themselves. Ironically, the largest student-to-volunteer ratio was faced by Mike, who was not a peace corps volunteer, but the brother to one. He was visiting on vacation, and joined this workshop for a chance to get a taste of the Peace Corps experience. Facing a class of 350 by himself, I would say that he had an excellent initiation.

But getting back to my story, after the presentations we were all scheduled to meet up at some sort of lunch with the mayor. By the end our aids talk with the students we found ourselves significantly behind schedule, and realized we had to depart straight away.

Deal?
No deal.

A teacher approached us as we were wrapping things up to tell us the students had prepared a small marienda (snack) for us. So, in the name of good diplomacy we resigned to a quick bite before taking our leave.

Entering the room where this ‘small marienda’ had been prepared, I think my jaw must have dropped to my shins. In this small schoolhouse room they had prepared what resembled something akin to a miniature thanksgiving feast. There was an un-carved roasted chicken, coconut salad, mussels covered in melted cheese (recall how rare cheese is), vegetables, and French baguette all beautifully laid out with a proper set of utensils complete with salad forks and dessert spoons adorning our plates. In my time in the Peace Corps, I had never seen such a marienda. Needless to say, in the name of politeness and hunger we stayed a good measure longer than planned.

Aids Workshop: the First Surprise

(from right to left: Wes, Me, and Kelly standing awkwardly around)

After 2 days visiting Sean’s site near Kalibo I was ready to head for the aids workshop. For those of you who can do math and have been paying attention, you’re correct: that makes a total of 3 days layover between thanksgiving and the workshop; I had only anticipated 2. But as I was soon to find out, the workshop was neither what I had anticipated, nor as organized as I expected. (Alice, no doubt saying something witty to Erin)

I met up with Alice, another nearby volunteer, for lunch in Kalibo, where I again dined at the excellent manokan (or chicken house) in good company. After almost 9 months, I must sadly admit that I still am not a fan of most Filipino cuisine, but there are exceptions, and the grilled chicken of the manokan is definitely one of them. This particular place easily beats out most of the low-cost grilled chicken in the states, and the garlic rice doesn’t hurt their case either.

Alice, in her 60’s, is one of the older volunteers in the batch, but I do believe she may be one of the friendliest, and certainly she has more energy than most of us. Peace Corps volunteers seem to fall into 3 basic categories: A) Those fresh out of college who haven’t started down their career path yet (insert Allan). B) Those in their late 20’s or early 30’s who decided they didn’t like the path they were going down, and decided to seek change, or C) people who joined the Peace Corps late in life because they were finally free enough of obligation to do so, and perhaps because they didn’t want to sit around and be treated like all the exciting and important things in their life were behind them. I have a great deal of respect for the elders of our batch, to a degree I am not certain I could ever fully express, and hope that I am able to emulate their attitude as the years pass me by.

But I digress.

After the chicken shack, we paid a visit to the internet, followed by virgin mudslides at Gaisano’s, tiny local mall. The mall in Kalibo is very small, but the mudslides there could rival any from home. Alice and I ordered one, drank coffee to warm us up, and eventually made the hard decision to order another. It may just be the best decision I made that week. Glory be to a good mudslide.

Only after we were fully sated (and had met up with Ward and Pete, who were also participating in the workshop) did we proceed to the location of our training, the Bakhawan Inn.

“Bakhaw”, translated from Kinuraya (the language spoken in Kalibo) means “a mangrove”, and a Bakhawan is the name for a mangrove forest. Our inn was located thusly, being very near a beautiful mangrove forest. This isn’t important now, but it will come up later.

Volunteers began arriving as the sun went down, fewer than I might have expected, but enough. The 11 of us were served a well-prepared meal, and in the late hour of 7 or 8, given our orientation. Here is where some of my surprises begin materializing. From the very beginning I had been somewhat confused as to the nature of this aids program. I heard about it through the grapevine of mass e-mail, but the location, the dates, and the sponsors had all been things that I only discovered gradually and with contrasting accounts. I think it more than likely that I missed a follow up e-mail or two somewhere along the line. In any case, it was at this point that more specifics were revealed.
This event was organized by the Butterfly Brigade, a group of mostly, but not entirely, transvestite men who are indisputably at the forefront of aids awareness and prevention in the Philippines.

Aklan, the region of which Kalibo is a part, is currently leading the nation on this issue. Compared to what it ought to be, their operation is quite small. Shockingly so, I would say, for the largest in the country. In the hour or so following dinner, they helped enlighten us as to some of their difficulties.
Telling Filipinos about the aids problem might be likened to the following situation: Sitting on your neighbors’ porch late one night, you feel the house quake somewhat, you smell the mingled scent of dung and peanuts. You hear the sound of what just might be a large mammal chewing on straw, followed up by a loud, irritating noise of what could only be plausibly deemed the call of an elephant.

You turn to your neighbor and politely suggest that there just might be an elephant in his living room, to which he politely responds that this is just absurd. He’s never seen an elephant in his living room, and he will certainly not waste the energy to go check on your strange theory.

You see, there might not be an aids problem here. It’s possible. There are very few recorded cases, and very few people have appeared in the hospital claiming that they have aids. Virtually the only people tested for aids are foreign workers, who are required to do so. Otherwise, because aids lets down your immune system rather than killing you directly, people are only tested when and if they repeatedly return to the hospital for the same illness, and only then when the doctor recognizes that this might be a pattern that merits an aids test.

Because there has been little in the way of testing, the aids rate here could be miraculously low, obscenely high or anything in between. No one has any real idea. This matter couldn’t have been left uninvestigated for so long if there wasn’t the prevalent belief here that aids is almost nonexistent in the Philippines. There is even widespread belief that Filipinos are simply unable to contract the virus.

To make matters worse, the extremely low number of people who are known to have the virus means that anyone who has a confirmed diagnosis is given a severe stigma. Augmented by the fact that this is a very collectivist society we are speaking of, in which social stigma is that more much unbearable, this all serves as a strong deterrent for people who might otherwise get tested or come forward with their condition.

(Caca, Leader of the Butterfly Brigade)

That, in short, is the state of the current aids battle in the Philippines. We were briefed on this matter by a transvestite named Caca, the leader of the Butterfly Brigade. To go on yet another tangent, this meeting marked the first time I have worked in any professional, or even semi-professional setting, with a transvestite, and it was an odd experience for me.

I hold nothing against homosexuals or transvestites, I don’t find any true value in traditional gender roles, so however people wish to dress or act is their own business. But in the past, my limited interaction with homosexuals dressed and acting as women has been in social settings and even then it has seemed to me that the behavior was aimed to shock and / or entertain; rather than being a casual detail about the person, I had the impression that it was meant to be the focus.

So to have a man in a dress walk in and begin directing everyone and explaining the events of the next few days as if he were any other professional was a little bit startling, but not as jarring as I might have expected. Caca is, indisputably, a professional. He was well organized, his English is excellent, he is clearly experienced and very intelligent. I even understand that he has been invited to other countries seeking to expand their aids programs, but from talking to him I got the impression that he wanted to stay focused on the much needed programs in his own country.

But again, I digress.

After explaining the aids situation in the Philippines to us, he also explained that the nature of this program was not a workshop so much as involvement in the promotional events surrounding World Aids Day. I had an idea that the focus of this workshop would be to teach us to host our own aids programs at our own sites, and to an extent this proved true, but I had no idea what I was in for.

It was late in the evening, our bellies full and our mouths sipping lightly on some drinks, when we were informed that the very next morning we would all be going to high schools to give a presentation for aids day. Not in large groups, either. For the smaller classes between one and two hundred, we could afford only a single volunteer. For the larger classes, approaching the size of 400, we might work in groups of 2 or 3. This 3-hour debriefing that we had just received on aids in the Philippines would serve as all the preparation we would receive in order to give our 2-hour presentations the following day.

As assignments were handed out, I learned that I would be among the 3 to face a class of 400.
Grabe!* I have never been a heavy drinker, nor one who uses alcohol to deal with anxiety, but I must admit that upon learning that I would, in a matter of hours, be facing 400 children likely to understand roughly 1/3 of the words out of my mouth, and that I would be expected to communicate with them on topics such as safe sex and to use key words such as ‘vaginal secretions’… it was all very nerve wracking, and I helped myself to a generous serving of brandy.

I would have two companions to do this with, which in a way might have made it easier to deal with than if I had been on my own facing a much smaller class (a tiny class of, say, 150 students I mean). Neither Niki nor Sean (my partners in crime) wanted to try and plan things out this late in the game. We knew too little about what we were going into, and we had too little time to plan. Instead, we elected to play it by ear, and I’m not sure about them, but I went to bed slightly nervous.

*(holy sh*t!)

(Niki and Sean, my partners in crime)

After Thanksgiving: the interim

The morning after Thanksgiving (which took place on Saturday, the 25th, as Thanksgiving is not a recognized holiday here) most everyone parted ways: Some before I awoke, some after, and some even left the night before, aboard a little-known 3am bus. By the time I stirred there were only a handful of us left. I alone was in the unique position of having no where in particular to go.

I planned to attend an aids workshop two days hence, and while the workshop was roughly an hour away from Antique, it was roughly 5 or 6 from my house in Guimaras. It seemed silly to go home just to turn around again, and so I had a day or so at my leisure. This particular night, I had conned Kevin into letting me stay once more in his sea-front bamboo house. However since Kevin, being the gentleman he is, decided to escort several of the departing guests as far as Kalibo, I more or less had the day to lounge around Kevin's neighborhood.

I spent the day wandering his local area, swimming in his sea, napping, and looking at the photos from the day before. During each of these activities, with the exception of napping, I managed to meet some of the neighborhood. Wandering to the nearest tsangay for a soda (which are not sold in cans here, but poured into little plastic sandwich bags and drunk through a straw) the owner was quick to whisk me into conversation. His tsangay, by the way, had a sign out front naming it the "Yurata Store" to which I thought to myself - "Yes. Yes I am."

Swimming in what I believe was the Sulu Sea, water as rough as a sleeping kitten, a nice local man joined me in the water for a conversation about who I was, where I was from, and what I was doing there. When you're a white foreigner people are just that curious.

When I sat in Kevin's house, looking at the 100+ pictures we'd taken between us, some of Kevin's neighbors came to the doors and windows and began peering in. My laptop, as much as the pictures, was a draw. So I did the only neighborly thing and invited them in to look at the slide show with me. I never had more than 6 in the room, but between the time I started and the time the slideshow ended, at least two would have come and two more taken their place, and as a result I got to see the slideshow about 4 times. It was fun though, we're more of a novelty than we realize and several people were trying very hard to figure out everyone's names, who was assigned where, and who was married to whom. I thought it was particularly amusing when the photos came around to our previous nights hookah session one man's eyes grew wide with shock, to which the woman to his left loudly proclaimed "tobacco, gaggo!" (it's tobacco, dummy!).

By the time Kevin returned, I felt I had lived a very social day. Eventually Tim (a friend and volunteer from negroes occidental) and Renee (the Filipina who joined us the previous night) returned from their day trip to Boracay. Together we all feasted on leftovers and watched movies in the house of Kevin's German neighbor (also a volunteer). When, during "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" Angelina, Jolie declares "I was never in Peace Corps." Renee, who probably hadn't heard of the Peace Corps until she met a volunteer, got quite a kick out of it.

The following morning I went up toward Kalibo to visit Sean, another friend and volunteer. I spent two days with him in good food and great company. Kalibo contained Latte, which just might be the nicest coffee house in the Philippines, and an excellent chicken house. All things considered these days past contentedly and uneventfully, with one major exception.

As we climbed the beach dunes, from a distance I thought is beach was horrible littered. It appeared to be covered in large plastic bags. Once I got closer the truth became clear; the beach wasn't littered with trash, but with sealife. It was along the shore of Sean's beach that I saw the largest jellyfish of my life -- over 100 times. His beach had become slimy with jellyfish bodies, each body smaller than most dogs, but definitely larger than most cats.

Up close, they were covered in small black spots. Their firmest portion, which I took to be the jellyfish equivalent a main body, contained some dark mass inside it if you made the effort to look through their gelatinous skin. I took that for some sort of brains, but I wouldn't know. Neither Sean nor I had a camera with us, and so the specifics just may remain a mystery. Sean swears that he visits that beach frequently and had never seen a single jellyfish before, which made sense once his host mother explained that it was now jellyfish season. They are commonly made into a meal in his area. It seems you learn new things every day.

I'm not sure if they were as bizarre as seeing the starfish that moved about with very flexible, spider-like limbs, but it's certainly close.

Nagluto gid Kami tapos Nagkaon gid Kami (We Cooked Alot then We Ate Alot)

There's no getting around it, I've been busier in the last few weeks than I've been since I got here. It always bothers me that the times at which the most notable things are happening become the times that I am least able to write about them, and as time passes the moments slip further and further away from my mind.

As I mentioned before, Thanksgiving was amazing, and to see the pictures you must surely lose any thought you might have had along the lines of "poor allan, half a world away without family, taking his cold showers with a bucket". I spent Thanksgiving swimming and sunbathing on a tropical beach and eating excellent food in the tradition of good American gluttony.

We all gathered in Antique for the meal, at Kevin's house. Kevin, aside from being an all around great guy, is in his 3rd year of Peace Corps (he extended a year), and in training he was assigned to more or less play mother to us hatchling Peace Corps Volunteers as we had to learn everything under the sun as if it were brand new. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 15-20 people gathered for this celebration. Most of us were Peace Corps, however we were joined by an english-fluent Filipina named Renee and by Sylvia, a traveling Spaniard. For both of them, this served as Thanksgiving #1.

One volunteer, Lloyd, was well versed in the ways of preparing a turkey (he also took many of these photos). We arrived late in the morning with Turk, and Lloyd killed the bird, de-feathered it, and had it on a bamboo spit in under an hour. The locals shyly asked if they could take the guts to make Dinugayan, a dish consisting of re-fried blood, with them. I'm told they were very excited when this request was approved (though Lloyd himself enjoys Dinugayan, he knew that the rest of the volunteers would not have been excited to have it as a featured course).

The most work I managed was to sit with Lloyd under the umbrella outside by the charcoal pits and slowly turn one of the spits. Lloyd, being the head turkey chef, set up the pits initially and never left his post. I took rotations with Tim, Ian, and a few others.
Between the firey Philippino Sun and the fire this was a very warm job indeed, much like being in a dry sauna.

The feast was excellent. Perhaps, being so long deprived of good food, I am biased. But I would estimate that it was as good as any Thanksgiving feast I've had in America. The turkeys, cooked with lemon grass and herbs, we lovely. If you've browsed the pictures on facebook, you might have seen several volunteers licking the bamboo spit, and that would be why. The stuffing, though it came from a packet, did not taste like it.

We had mashed potatoes and mashed kilabasa (a native root that is very tasty, this was sweetened and tasted much like pumpkin pie). We had rice (of course) and truly more courses than I could remember. As per thanksgiving tradition, we had more desserts than I could conceivably try. There was pecan pie, apple crisp, pumpkin pie, and at least one other I'm forgetting.

Pleasantly tipsy I went swimming in the sulu sea, as smooth as glass, and watched the sun set on the horizon. Once it had, I discovered that the water contained an algea that, when disturbed by any motion, lit green. These particles were plentiful in the water, and every movement I made in the sea was trailed by glowing stars.

At night was made a small bonfire and answered bizarre Christmas trivia (well, other people answered). Then we went inside for some of Kevin's excellent green tea and peach flavored hookah (which he had brought over when last in the states).

These are just the facts of course. They don't truly contain the comradery of the day, which is, after all, what Thanksgiving ought to be about. It wasn't a thanksgiving at home. There was no similarity at all. There was not the vast and frequent gatherings of close friends that thanksgiving represents to me, nor the chilled air and fallen leaves. This was a different beast all together. But if you could not be with family and your closest friends at thanksgiving time, those who have served as your closest thing you've got for the past 8 months weren't so far off.

It was a beautiful time, and I don't expect I'll ever live another much like it.

The Turkey Travels Roll On

I have been to Antique for my Thanksgiving-on-a-tropical-beach, and it was good. Better than I had even dared to hope.

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays of the year. The idea is so simple: Let us be thankful for all we have; for each other most of all. As simply as it seems, it manages to transcend religion and philosophy to give a sense of unity that we somehow seem unable to achieve so fully on any other day of the year.

I'm afraid of this time of year. From late November to New Years we have the 3 largest celebrations of the year. We have entered a time to be with your family and closest of friends. It hasn't been easy being away from them in these last 8 months, but surely this is the worst of it. This is the time of year suicides skyrocket in America by people who realize in misery how terribly destroyed their family situations have become, and cannot bear to be alone. Here across the world I must stand in interesting contrast to those people. I have more beautiful, loving people in my life than any person could deserve or hope for, and I left you all behind for 2 years.

However, if there was one thing that might have made me feel good at this time, it was the thanksgiving we had. If one cannot spend time with the closest to us, the people who have served as our best friends in the past 8 months are an excellent substitute. It doesn't hurt that we held it on the shoreline of a tropical beach on a beautiful day.

Things started friday night. I traveled most of the way to our thanksgiving destination, but stopped about 2 hours away to spend the night with Eli and Ryanne, a married couple in my batch. They have a truly beautiful site, and a friendly neighborhood. We went swimming as the sun set in the distant waters, lighting them with oranges and reds as far as we could see. When you watch the sun set on a completely flat horizon, it's funny the way it happens. When the sun gets half way down, in a matter of a second or two the remaining half of the lazily paced sun is sucked down, as if someone had grabbed it and began to run with it.

That very day we had received a call from Kevin, the host of the event. One of the 4 turkeys needed for the celebration had fallen through, and he needed us to find one. So it was that at 5am I found myself walking along a road with Eli to find the house that would sell us this turkey.

The deal had been pre-arranged the afternoon before, and we had arranged a cage for us to transport the turkey in. However, once we got there, we encountered a priceless cultural misunderstanding. Wandering off the road and into a private yard, surrounded by collapsing bamboo cottages on one side and a field of sugar cane on the other, we had a young Filipina with us to broker the deal. I could not tell you her age, but she looked 15 or so, and was the servant to Eli and Ryanne's property (they live with a host family who keeps her on). She also had a memorable experience I imagine.

The man who owned the turkey in question had somehow not been informed (or maybe forgotten or misunderstood) the part about needing a cage. When we arrived to pick up the turkey, the first thing he did was tie its legs together and teach me the proper way to carry it under my are. If you are reading this and thinking "Doesn't seem like a big deal" you might also be fool enough to say something like "Doesn't seem like a big poultry". You would be very wrong. This was a heavy bird and improperly held it was not easily restrained either. My first attempt to carry it was met with utter failure. The man also showed us, through the sort of calm tone and hand gesturing you'd expect from someone showing you how to use a stereo, how one removes a tail feather and uses it to puncture a vulnerable spot in the animals skull in order to scramble its brains. This wasn't something, at 6am, that either of us were particularly amenable to learning.

After we spent 45 minutes waiting on a carton, only to realize that essentially the man had not been looking for a carrier at all. Really he was just trying desperately to avoid having to tell us that there would be no carrier. This is how Eli and I walked the mile back with a live turkey tucked under one arm (we switched it back and forth).

Once we got back to the house, tired and fouled by turkey smell, we asked the maid (whose name I would use if I could recall it) to find a box for this turkey. We did not plan to travel an hour and a half holding the turkey under one of our arms. At first, she returned and said there was no box, to which she was immediately assured that there was such a box because there HAD to be, and it would be terribly nice if she could find it. That may sound harsh, but it really wasn't and in our defense we did need a box, and she did find one. It was a nice cardboard thing that their host father was nice enough to close, tie, and poke air holes in for us.

We waited over an hour for the bus to come our way. As we waited, ignoring the occasional ruffle from Turk (that was the undeniably witty name given to our bird) Eli and I watched as small chickens walked back and forth through sewage trenches close by. It was not an appetizing site, especially as they pecked at the muck beneath them, but it did inspire art. Eli, as he watched, casually narrated "Walk in that sludge bird, Someday you will be eaten. Probably by me." To which I responded "That was a haiku! Did you mean to do that?"

He hadn't, and it was the first accidental haiku I have encountered and recognized in my 24 years of life. I was quite proud.

Things got more complicated when our bus rolled in. It was a greyhound-style luxurious bus. It had comfortable seats, air conditioning, a movie playing, and for some reason they were not amenable to letting someone bring a turkey on board.

You must understand the dilemma this put us in. We had waited over an hour for this bus, and we were already running hours late. The turkey needed to be killed, de-feathered, and cooked today, and for this it needed to arrive as quickly as possible to begin. In the end, we we forced to stow our live dinner under the bus, in the luggage compartment. I still feel slightly guilty about that. Sure we were going to kill it either way, but it did seem unnecessarily cruel to store it in such a hot place. We didn't really expect Turk to survive, but he arrived alive with a slightly discontented disposition at our destination.

In My Little Thatched Hut

Life goes on here in my nipa hut. It occurs to me that it’s been about a month since I moved in here, and although I think we've all lived in a bamboo house at some time in our lives, I ought to give a decent description for those people who, for whatever bizarre reason, have never encountered one (presumably out of fear of some deep-lunged wolf).

To start with, the word ‘Hut’ maybe a little bit misleading; it summons up images of a tent-sized group of bamboo sticks roughly assembled to form shelter (at least to my mind it does). ‘Bamboo cabin’ might summon a more accurate picture of things. It does, after all, consist of 3 rooms – a bathroom, a bedroom, and a kitchen / living area, as well as a decent porch.

The other day I was recalling my visit to Ireland, particularly a passage I wrote in my journal at the time. We had driven through a small village where I had my first glimpses of houses, each sheltered with its own thatched roof. I don’t know why I remember writing these particular words, but it went something like this: “It’s refreshing to visit a place in the world where people live with thatched roofs, not because it’s cute but simply because they always have.” Lo and behold, here I am 8 years later with a thatched roof of my very own, two skylights providing excellent lighting during daylight hours. Sadly, they do leak a little, but hopefully I will convince my landlord, Apple, to fix that before next rainy season.My house is almost as much window as it is wall, which provides excellent breeze at night and makes me very self conscious about changing clothes. Long ago, when I lived in Washington D.C., thick metal bars were placed atop all our windows to keep out potential burglars. My nipa hut utilizes a similar system, except in place of thick metal bars I have thick slices of (you guessed it) bamboo. That, and of course, there are no glass panels between my body and the outdoors. However, these are sturdier-looking protection than I could have imagined bamboo bars to be. If someone wanted to get in, they could, I mean my house is made of hollow sticks, but they would have to make some noise. To ward off the rain, or to give me some privacy, I have thick woven-bamboo window shades that I can roll down. Because they are heavy, they will serve me well in the wet season when hurricane-driven storms hit. Unfortunately their weight and thickness also mean that when it's not raining, closing them significantly raises the temperature of the house.In my kitchen area I have a cheap toaster which has not seen much use since I moved in. The only bread I’ve been able to find outside the city is wonder bread-esque, and whenever I do buy a loaf of bread, it inevitably turns green with mold before I’m finished with it. Aside from the low-quality of bread, I've discovered there’s also very little out there that I’d care to spread on a slice of bread that doesn’t require refrigeration. Butter, jam, cheese, cream cheese; these are all non-options. I could have a refrigerator if I wanted, but I would have too little to fill it with to justify the initial cost, and the added electricity bill each month. My neighbor gracefully allows me to keep things in his if I need to; an offer I only took up after the recent elections, when I brought home bagels and cream cheese to celebrate.

A cheap stove provides me with most of my nourishment. This isn’t the sort of stove you’re likely to find in America; essentially it’s a single burner with a tube running down the back to the small metal gas tank I keep under the counter. I had other options; there are electric stoves, but they prove hard to use during the infrequent brown outs. Charcoal stoves are also common, but in a house so flammable I opted for the flame easier contained.

The stove itself was likely purchased for the equivalent of $6 new, but the gas tank cost significantly more, around $30, to buy and fill. Sadly, the stoves in the Philippines aren’t quite as versatile as those in America. They have high, medium, and low settings but their range is so small that a more honest vendor might have simply have left them out in favor of an on / off switch. As such, Filipinos are in the habit of drowning their food in oil in order to keep it from being inedibly overcooked. I’m trying to avoid
that tactic, but it hasn’t been easy.

My house is equipped with two faucets, one in the kitchen sink and one in the bathroom. Sadly, for filtration sake the tank (which sits behind my landlord’s house) contains a good deal of limestone dust. I think this is supposed to sanitize the water for drinking and cooking, but in place of bacteria it leaves the unmistakable taste of ground aspirin. I really only use it for washing my dishes and taking my bucket showers. It leaves a white, chalky residue on my glasses, and more than likely in my hair. Such is life. For my basic water supply I receive a large blue tank of mineral water on a weekly basis for about $1/tank, and I keep that on my kitchen counter.

I have encountered some unexpected difficulties keeping a bamboo house clean; namely that one man's shelter is another bugs' dinner. This means that if I don't dust things off almost daily, a thin but constant layer of bamboo dust is on everything. There are also tiny black dots that I can only assume are insect droppings spread about everywhere. These things mean that even my clean dishes and utensils often need to be washed again before I use them, and anything I leave on the bottom row of my spice rack is covered in dust. It certainly makes my spices less appetizing to use.

The residents of my house are not confined to countless insects and myself. In addition I play host to numerous house geckos about the size of a finger, and two Tokay geckos. Tokay are the second largest species of gecko according to wikipedia, and look quite bizarre. From nose to tail, they’re roughly the length from my wrist to my elbow. From afar they appear either green or brown, but to see one up close you realize they are actually covered in raised bright-purple dots. Wikipedia has a great picture http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tokay_gecko

Initially I thought there was only one in my home, and that he moved about between the ceiling above my kitchen area and my entrance area, but this is not the case. Recently I discovered that there are actually two, each claiming their own portion of my house. Some volunteers hate or fear them, but personally I think they’re fun, if only I could potty-train them (especially the one in my kitchen area). The primary reason many volunteers dislike them, I suspect, is that they can be very loud at night. Their mating call comes without warning and is startlingly loud. It could easily rival the loudest frog I’ve heard, and I’ve been witness to some very loud frog calls.

Putting aside my housemates for the moment, my house is decently furnished. The bamboo furniture is much nicer looking than I was aware bamboo furniture could be. I’ve got two chairs of this quality, and one woven bamboo couch that folds out into a bed; modern technology at it’s best. My living area is host to two tables. My dining room table is unfinished and rather unimpressive, but functional. I keep it covered with a green table cloth. My shorter living room table is much prettier. I understand it was built by the volunteer who had the house constructed, and it’s a much nicer wood than bamboo.In my bedroom, my clothes lay on bamboo shelves that were cleverly built into the wall. Sadly, this move seems to have been a bit short-sighted. Who wants to dust the bamboo off their clothes before donning them in the morning? Aside from that, mosquitoes will happily amass atop exposed clothing over time. I don’t know why that is, but I’ve certainly discovered that it’s true. So for the moment I do my best to cover my clothing with a rain jacket, but in the long term I will definitely want to buy a larger plastic covering.

The whole house is raised off the ground by what I’d estimate to be 3 feet. I’m lucky in this regard, because many nipa huts have dirt floors, or more common, dirt floors in every room but the bedroom. My floor, like the rest of the house, is made from thick strips of bamboo. If you’ve been lucky enough to visit my parents’ house in Maryland, don’t envision the bamboo floor we recently had installed. That flooring is polished, entirely flat, and fits seamlessly together. You might not have even realized it was bamboo if no one made mention of it. If you step on my floor, you won’t be left wondering.

For one thing, although they’ve been treated and flattened, the bamboo strips are not and never will be particularly flat. They came from a cylindrical plant, and they look like it. When you step on them, it’s not like stepping on a wooden plank so much as it is like walking sideways through a particularly thick bamboo forest. The other difference is that unlike my parents house, if you bother looking you can see the dirt 3 feet down. The cracks between the bamboo strips aren’t huge, but in daylight they’re not hard to see through.

The exception to this style of flooring lies in my bathroom. My bathroom stands out from the rest of the house, as it is made largely of concrete. If you’re wondering why, imagine the effect that daily showers might have on the floor and walls of a bamboo room. This isn’t to mention that my clothes sit on the other side of an adjacent wall, and the risk of drenching them daily would be high. The concrete in the bathroom doesn’t stretch very tall; just under four feet from the floor would be my guess. After that the bamboo takes over again to meet the roof. Under foot lies a very nice blue tile floor. On an aside, although carpeting is virtually unseen in this country (wet season would not be kind to it, nor would the thick dusty air in the dry season) there is some very beautiful tile adorning the more affluent houses.

It is in this bathroom that I keep my large bucket. ‘Bucket’ might not actually summon up the appropriate image. If I chose to stand in it, I would be immersed waist-deep. This bucket may not seem like much, but it is vital to the functionality of the household. The most obvious use, showering (for which I use a smaller bucket to dip in the large bucket and pour over my head), is indeed very important. However, even more important is that without this bucket I could not flush my toilet. The toilets here are devoid of all the fancy plumbing you find in America, they are little more than porcelain holes that lead down into a personal septic tank buried deep in the ground. Some time, in the hopefully distant future, the tank will have to be changed, but they usually take 5 or 6 years to fill, so I’m crossing my fingers that this is a peace corps experience I will not have to endure.

I am very thankful for the volunteer who built this bathroom for one particular feature, let me explain. Filipino bathrooms appear very much like American bathrooms. They lack a showerhead and have a floor drain, but no one in America would have trouble recognizing the room for what it is. However, one aspect remains noticeably different: Filipino bathrooms always contain toilets, but typically are devoid of toilet seats.

Surely the same questions that I often ponder are going through your head right now: Do the locals choose to squat, or do they, perhaps, balance delicately on the porcelain? I’m not sure, I’m afraid I’ve never had the opportunity to bear witness. Regardless, visitors to my nipa will find a very nice, cushiony blue seat decorating my throne. After living in two houses where this was not the case, I can assure you such a thing is truly priceless.

Trash is as difficult a situation in my house, as it is in every house. Outside of the cities, there is almost no regular trash pickup in the Philippines. The widespread practice across the country is to pile and burn your trash; plastics, aluminum, and all. Various volunteers, especially in the environmental sector, have tried very hard to raise awareness of the consequences of this technique. Ie: “What are your feelings regarding cancer, sir? Brain damage?”. Unfortunately the inevitable question with no easy answer is “so… what do we do with our plastic then?” These trash fires, along with extremely low emission controls (on ww2 era vehicles) are almost certainly a contributing factor of this country’s skyrocketing frequency of asthma.

Fortunately for me, I am in a slightly better off area than most and we don’t burn our plastics here. I’m not sure exactly what we do with them, but they are pooled by the neighborhood and collected. As for batteries, well I can only say that I’m glad I have rechargeable ones with me. It prevents the serious ethical dilemma trying to dispose of them. Battery acid could and would eventually leak into the ground water.

So far as electricity goes, my nipa is well outfitted. Except for some of the extremely rural areas electricity is everywhere in the Philippines, and the number of areas that don’t receive it are shrinking every year. I’ve got a set of outlets in every major area of the house, except the bathroom. Although they pale in comparison to the sunlight piercing my roof in the day time, 4 bulbs hang from the ceiling to light up the interior of my house. They would be dangling, except by means of décor the wires run down through a bamboo tube fixed to the thatching. It actually looks very nice, but I’m afraid it’s difficult to describe the aesthetic appeal. In addition, I have one bulb on my front porch and one in the back of my house, which I leave on at night to deter potential intruders. Consequently, due to the numerous windows and cracks between bamboo strips, they also keep the interior lit better than I really care for while trying to sleep. I don’t really think the lights are necessary, but my landlord insists I leave them on and I don’t want him to worry.So this, ladies and gentlemen, brings me to the point of this post: in June of 2008, a mere 19 months away, I will be moving out and this house will be rented to the highest bidder. Don’t let the unsealed nature of the house deter you - the winters are mild here. So mild, in fact, that the season does not actually exist. A white sand beach, frequented by foreigners of all nationalities, is located a mere hour away, and local authorities ashore me – the oil is mostly gone. Rent here goes around 1500 pesos (roughly $30) / month before utilities and the locals are more than friendly. Act now!