Thursday, March 27, 2008  

Welcome Home

It's been an extremely long and tiring day. As we're driving through the city, mom points out the various locations that have significance to her and our family. The schools she attended, the bank where my cousin works, the nursing school where my aunt teaches, the local churches, the hospital. There's pandemonium on every street - sidewalks, jammed with uniformed students and market-goers. We pass a sign of western world influence, McDonald's, known to the locals as McDo (pronounced Mc-due).

I scan the storefronts for the one comfort of home that has so far eluded me - a coffee shop. At lunch my cousin broke the news that she had to close her cafe, Holy Coffee, because they were not able to attract enough clientele. The mochas and lattes were too expensive for the locals. Not good. Even worse, there was not a single Starbucks in town. Still, I was hopeful. If there is one thing that Filipinos love, it's coffee. All those boxes of instant Sanka and Coffeemate that mom used to send home should translate into lots of places to sit and sip on a warm, soothing cup of coffee. After passing blocks of panciterias (restaurants specializing in pancit, a Filipino noodle dish), bakeries, drug stores, sidewalk food vendors, and sari-sari (variety) stores, I conclude that I will have to put my coffee cravings on the back burner.

We pass more landmarks that hold fond memories. Rizal Park, where they used to show movies in the summer evenings of my mom's childhood. The church where mom & dad and lolo & lola (grandpa & grandma) both married. I sense the excitement in mom's voice as we drive through the neighborhood, an indication that we must be close to home. "Welcome to Barangay Centro 9", the archway announces as we pass underneath it onto Rizal Street. To the right I spot graffiti that is looks extremely out of place - STONER. The neighborhood has a much cleaner appearance than the one in which my cousin lives.

We arrive at my Uncle Pepe & Auntie Nilda's home. The lot is much smaller than that of my cousin's, but it is more neatly kept. On the property is a modest two-story home that was once owned by my lolo's brother, Lolo David. There is a two-story guest house on the lot adjacent to their home, the one which was previously occupied by the bahay kubo (small house made of bamboo with a thatched roof) built by my lolo & lola. Across and all the way down the street are relatives. In fact, almost all of the lots are occupied by descendants of the original owners. The lots have been divided and re-divided among the siblings and their children, some of them inhabiting pieces of land big enough to support only a small concrete block of a house.

We are welcomed by my Uncle. "Where's my Fina?" I hear from the inside of the house. It's been at least 20 years since I've seen him - the one and only time he came to visit us in America. My heart jumps when he appears at the doorway. He's aged so much, requiring the support of a walker to get around. I want time to stand still so that I can absorb everything that is happening around me. Why did I wait so long to come home? What was I so afraid of? I go to him, wrapping my arms around him, wishing I had made more of an effort to stay connected with my family.

Our arrival signals other family members to come to the house. Cousins, uncles, aunts. It's all too much for me to remember. Uncle Carlos - mom's cousin who always accompanied her on dates and such. Auntie Consaling - another cousin who was my babysitter for the short time we lived in the province. Auntie Baby. Lola Glorie. (By the way, in the Filipino culture, there is really no such thing as second or third cousins, great-aunts or great-uncles. My parents' cousins are referred to as my uncles & aunties. Their children are my cousins. My parents' aunties & uncles are called lola & lolo by my generation. My cousins' children are my nieces and nephews. I know, it's a little difficult to follow, but it works for my family.) And the list of newfound family members goes on. And so do their comments...

"Ah, I remember when you were just a little baby."
"Oh, Fina, you used to cry soooooo much. We had to call your mom because you wouldn't stop."
"You are so guapa."
My personal favorite - "Fina, are you pregnant?" To which I replied, "No, it's just American fat." Another note about Filipinos. There is no hesitance when it comes to commenting about your appearance. Not only is it common to tell someone how fat they have become, it is acceptable.

Despite the comments, everyone's very welcoming and affectionate. They are genuine. It is a feeling that I easily became accustomed to and one which I sorely miss - an instant connection. We are all family. They are a part of me and I of them. I knew I was home.

Uncle & Auntie's House


Lolo & Lola

Chronicled @ 8:04 AM

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Tuesday, March 18, 2008  

Driving in Tuguegarao

Driving through the streets of Tuguegarao resembles a movie scene. It is too crazy to be real. There are unattended dogs wandering the sidewalks and streets. Chickens scratching for food with their baby chicks not far behind, some even daring enough to cross the road - no joke! Tricycles, scooters, jeepneys, cars & vans all vying for pole position. And if you're a pedestrian, look out. Anything with wheels has the right of way over anything with legs. The roads are crowded. The air is smoggy. The environment seems chaotic - but in a very organized manner.

We were on our way to Caritan, the area in which Auntie Susan lives. On the way there we encountered a massive traffic jam. Everyone was at a complete standstill. I could see a crowd of people, kinda mob-like, about 100 yards away. Our driver seemed a little flustered, but not like Bay Area road rage flustered. (I forgot to mention that my cousin loaned out his driver to us for the entire time we were in the province. Kinda weird to be chauffeured around, but something I easily became accustomed to.) It was more like, let me figure out how I'm gonna get past this crowd flustered. His driving motto can be described as, "Where there's a will, there's a way.

We found ourselves stuck between two tricycles on a very narrow road. The space on either side of the van could not have been more than a few inches. The tricycle drivers had nowhere to go, yet Nestor, our driver, insisted that they move so that he could maneuver through. To my surprise, they did. One of them pushed his trike onto the sidewalk to make room. And, with great skill, Nestor managed to squeeze through the tiny space, putting us right across the street from the mob. Continuing down the road making ample use of his horn, Nestor carefully moved past the crowd, past the traffic jam, freeing him to speed up and get on his merry way.

By the way, the crowd was gathered around a boxing ring that was set up in the middle of the road. A boxing match in the middle of the day in the middle of the road in a busy city? I guess it's not unusual to encounter such things, because neither my parents nor my aunt seemed fazed by it. You can only guess what was going through my American mind at the moment. Filipinos are so unique :-P

We arrive at the street on which my aunt lives. This is the Philippines that I see on TV. Homes of different styles & sizes - a mish mash of buildings put together to create a neighborhood. Half paved roads. Dirt lots with scatterings of exotic trees. Kids running around barefoot. In front of every few houses there is someone selling something - fresh fruits & veggies, instant coffees and juices, freshly cooked food and prepaid cell phone cards. My aunt lives in what looks like one of the more modern homes on the street, though it is probably more than 40 years old. Their lot is huge, with coconut, mango, avocado, guava, and pepper trees, just to name a few, growing in the back yard. The house is a typical middle-class home. The furniture is made of carefully crafted wood. The floors are hard - no carpeting anywhere - which makes sense when you live in a climate characterized by unbearable heat. Again, we're offered something to eat. This time it's boiled bananas and buko, fresh young coconut juice from their back yard.It was here that I met my cousin Rosanne for the first time. Wow, she looks like me! Though I've met some of my dad's family, most of the cousins have been much older than me by at least ten years. My dad is the baby among his siblings which makes us the youngest of the entire clan. Rosanne is only a couple of years older than me and the adoptive mother of Angelie, a very cute and energetic little girl. Angelie speaks only Tagalog. I managed to get her to warm up to me by offering a piece of gum. Angelie was asking me questions to which I was unable to respond. Because I don't speak the language, I listened attentively to the conversation taking place, hoping to learn something through osmosis. You can all guess how successful that was. So I just sat there and smiled, happy to make another connection with family.
After a few pictures, we piled back into the van to make our way to our final destination - Rizal Street - to meet my mom's family. That old proverb, "It takes a village to raise a child" is alive and well in the neighborhood.

Chronicled @ 8:07 AM

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Friday, March 14, 2008  

Friday wrap-up

Though technically I am unemployed, I am still working. I'm a chauffeur, shuttling kids back and forth to various activities. I am a planner, creating grocery lists and menus, budgeting for school activities, ensuring the family is properly equipped with the essentials to get through the week. I am a counselor, providing conflict resolution to children who think they know it all. I am a fundraiser, hawking girl scout cookies and PTA goodies to unsuspecting supporters. I AM TIRED! And I'm glad it's Friday.

By the way, I had an interview this morning with a wedding photography company. I had to do something I hadn't done in a long time - role play. Overcome the objection and close the sale. YIKES! I dread role playing. But I did well and I left the interview feeling very enthused. Great to end the week on a positive note.

Chronicled @ 5:30 PM

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Thursday, March 13, 2008  

First impressions


The Tuguegarao airport is small - very small. The simplicity of the airport contradicts the large city feel that is touted on its website (http://tuguegaraocity.gov.ph/wowtug.html). There is one runway, one terminal, one fire station, one pick-up/drop-off area, one everything. We deboard the plane and walk directly into the waiting area where we are greeted by family that I have only known by name - my cousin Romel and Auntie Susan, his mom. It is through Auntie Susan that my parents were introduced. She's crying when she sees us. My mom jokes with her, "Why are you crying?" as she smiles and hugs me. It's a feeling that is still vivid in my memory. "Welcome home."

I survey my surroundings as we wait for our bags which are unloaded from the cart directly into the terminal building. There is no carousel. Passengers claim their items directly from the cart as the airport staff unloads the baggage. My cousin has some sort of connection, so we don't have to wait as long as many of the others. Everyone is extremely courteous and helpful, insisting that we not lift a finger as they carry our bags to the van. It's a colorful scene outside with all of the tricycles waiting for passengers who need transportation into the city. My cousin Noel's asawa (wife) Chona suggests that we go out to eat, 'cuz that's typically what all Filipinos who haven't seen each other for a while do - EAT. We pile into the van and leave for our next destination, a restaurant that is supposed to be one of the best in town.

The time is about 2pm, which is 11pm California time. I'm not particularly hungry, just exhausted and weak from the cold that I had caught the day before. As we leave the airport, the difference from my America strikes immediately. The land is lush and green, but the homes are old and run down. "This is the Muslim area," says my mom as we enter the city. "This is -----, that is -----." There was so much to take in I don't hear a single word. Clothes lines strewn with drying laundry everywhere. Cement block buildings that look half finished but are obviously inhabited by businesses and families. Congested traffic characterized by crazy drivers who cut each other off, using their horns to warn each other to "get out of the way - I'm coming through - my car is bigger than yours!" It is truly a different world.

We get to the restaurant which is located inside Hotel Roma, the best accommodations in town. Chona tells me that it's the equivalent of $30 American to stay there - a bargain considering a room like this in the US is probably over $100. The restaurant is modern and bright. The food is yummy, though I don't eat because I'm still full from the two and a half airplane meals and airport hot dog that I devoured over the past 24 hours.

(Doesn't this look good????)

I do, however, eagerly scarf up dessert, leche flan, my favorite.

My fears of being in the province (which any area outside of Manila is called) are dispelled for the moment. I mean, there are flushing toilets in the airport and hotel. The mosquitoes are non-existent. Bottled water is plentiful. Except for the insane driving that I now refer to as "crazy Filipino driver syndrome" it looks like a normal, bustling city. Then we make our way to Caritan Sur, the barangay (neighborhood) where Romel lives. Time for another eye-opener.

Chronicled @ 8:18 AM

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Monday, March 10, 2008  

Journey home, Day 1

We left San Francisco close to 10pm. I was recovering from the teary eyed goodbyes when I caught sight of the plane. It was so BIG. I had never been on anything that huge before. In my mind I thought a plane that large would be roomier than the standard domestic flights I was familiar with. WRONG. The seats were hardly large enough to comfortably sit a toddler, let alone a 5-foot tall adult. Add to that the non-existent legroom and you've got the makings for a very uncomfortable 16-hours. Luckily I had equipped myself with plenty of reading material and a travel journal to keep myself occupied. I was hoping to catch up on some movie watching but my headset jack was not functioning. So, I tried to sleep, knowing that I would have difficulty adapting to the time change.

Sleep was difficult, not only because of the tight space, but also because of the seemingly non-stop stream of food and drink offered by the flight attendants. If there's one thing about Filipinos, it's that we love to eat and we love to offer food to others. Every time I managed to drift off I would awake to an offering of some sort - chicken for dinner, fish & eggs for breakfast, blueberry muffin and granola bar for snack. Would you like some water? Coffee? What about a copy of the Manila Metro News? Ummm, I think I would like to sleep, but thank you. I'll take some tea. Did I mention that I was also on the tail end of a cold? My head was doubly congested from the sinus pressure within my head and the air pressure within the plane. I was suffering from an irritatingly dry cough. And I was sooooo tired. What a way to start a vacation.

We arrived in Manila a little after 5am. That would be 1pm California time. My body was aching. My head was spinning. But I was excited.

"Welcome to Manila," said the attended as we disembarked. "Thank you for flying Philippine Airlines m'aam."

After waiting for what seemed like forever at the baggage carousel, my parents and I went to the ticket transfer area to purchase tickets to our first destination, Tuguegarao, the city in which most of my mom's extended family currently resides. It is a 45 min - 1 hour flight from the city. While they handle the transaction, I survey my surroundings and realize that nearly everyone looks like me. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tanned skin. How weird. I feel at home and out of place at the same time. People speak to me in Tagalog and I feel helpless not being able to respond back with anything other than, "Sorry, I don't understand." I receive an equally puzzling look that says, "Why not?" or "Why didn't you learn" or "You are a FOREIGNER." Again, I know this is just a made up cerebral conversation, because the response was almost always, "Oh, sorry m'aam," followed by the English interpretation.

The air was not unbearably hot, just a little muggy. Everyone was friendly and helpful and greeted me with "Hello m'aam." Sometimes they used the gender confused m'aamsir. Must be something out of a training manual. Anyway, the flight to Tuguegarao was not for another 5 1/2 hours, so found a quiet spot to contemplate on what adventures I was about to embark. I missed my family and wished they were there to take it all in with me. I was happy my parents were excited to finally "bring me home." And it wasn't until our arrival in Tuguegarao that I realized why.

Chronicled @ 12:00 PM

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Friday, March 7, 2008  

End of an era

I'm gonna break away from my traveling chronicles for a moment and talk about the end of an era. This has been an extremely emotional week for many of my old work friends. The economy hasn't been kind to the newspaper business. Advertising revenue which, if you don't know, carries the paper, is extremely down. Way, way down. So far down that the new owner of our once-beloved neighborhood publication has deemed it necessary to further cut into the heart of the business - the people. And it's been made clear that this won't be the last time.

The corporate axe fell yesterday on many who have spent untold hours, days, years to keep the paper thriving. Sales people, circulation people, marketing people, editorial people. PEOPLE. Human beings. Moms. Dads. Friends. What happened to the paper that once prided itself on being a family oriented, community focused business? There's the keyword. BUSINESS. And it's never been more apparent than in the past year that the business takes priority over everything, even humanity.

Put aside the pain of a layoff. Job loss is an ugly, horrible experience. How does this affect the community - the larger picture? I'm looking at this from the perspective of editorial. Besides the Sunday ads, most readers enjoy the paper for its content. I do.

Every metropolitan paper has its own voice, its own opinion, its own personality. With the editorial cutbacks, one can safely assume that the news we read will be the same up and down the Peninsula, all through the Bay Area, even down to Southern California. Sure, local news will be different. But what about the big stuff? Will all the papers in the chain end up endorsing the same political candidates? Will they all favor keeping our troops in Iraq? Will they all share the same message with complacent readers who accept what they read as truth?

This truly bothers me and it should bother you. Take a look at local network news, a (sorry, I don't mean to offend anyone) dumbed down version of reality. How many of us really question what we see or hear on TV? Maybe adults do, but how many young adults, teens? There are clearly a few who rule our channels. Differing views are few and far between. The big networks define how and what information is disseminated to the masses. It's a scary thought. Maybe I'm wrong. Who knows. Only time will tell.

Chronicled @ 10:37 AM

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Wednesday, March 5, 2008  

The spoiled American brat

Those of you who know me well are fully aware of my limitations, especially when I am not in control of making my own decisions. After being in the Philippines for a week, my mental state started to deteriorate. I'm taking this directly from my travel journal, with a few embellishments to make the situation more clear. I find it so dang hilarious. Hope you do too.

Friday, February 22
We arrive around 3:15 in Manila. The air is hot but not overbearing. Tony (Cora's brother) picks us up. He and his wife are obviously more comfortable conversing in their native Tagalog, 'cuz they direct questions about me to my parents. I don't even get a hello, just an uncomfortable smile that says, "So you're the American cousin." I'm not concerned with the lack of conversation because I am in awe of this huge city. Manila traffic is a bear. Cars, trucks, jeepneys, scooters - all packed onto a three lane road that somehow has turned into four. Pedestrians crossing the street who amazingly avoid being run over. Vendors selling everything from water to cell phone chargers roaming between the cars. It's unbelievable. After about 30 minutes we finally arrive at the house which is located in a security monitored community, similar to our American gated communities.

At the house, I'm greeted by my aunt who feels comfortable speaking to me. Her daughters live in Texas and she spends half of the year there. We sit at the kitchen table and catch up on things - How is Cora doing? I didn't realize Eric was in San Diego, etc. A cup of coffee. A couple slices of toast. I'm through and ready for a nap. It's about 6pm, which means I'll most likely wake up at 2am. At least there are no roosters here to keep me awake.

Saturday, February 23
I woke up at 5am. I've been sitting - reading, writing - doing whatever I can to keep myself occupied until everyone is ready to go exploring. It is now 10:10 am. And again, I find myself sitting around - waiting. I feel a major meltdown coming on. I'm tired of not having spoken more than 10 minutes of English with anyone the entire morning. I'm tired of being left out of the conversation. I can understand a little bit - just can't converse with them in our native tongue. Why doesn't anyone talk to me????

After 2+ hours of reading, I tire of waiting for someone to make a suggestion. Fearing that we are gonna be stuck in the house ALL DAY because nobody seems to be interested in doing anything but sit, I, in my best 10-year old me imitation, demand, "When are we going to do something?" All I get back are blank stares when, probably out of fear of embarrassment - or to save me from looking like a spoiled American brat - someone calmly responds, "After lunch."

Unrelentless, I press on and whine, "Well, when are we gonna do that? Do you have a PLAN?" OMG - I couldn't stop myself. Perhaps it was the heat. The long hours. The lack of palatable food. The full moon. Whatever it was, the monster had been unleashed and was extremely, extremely irritable. "Why don't you put me in a hotel? At least I can explore by myself if I'm downtown. You guys can stay here and I'll do my own thing."

It was then that I realized I had truly lost it. Number one - I don't speak the language. Even though most Filipinos speak fluent English, I still found it difficult to communicate. Number two - Manila is a huge, unfamiliar city. Do I really want to be roaming around by myself? Number three - My parents paid for the entire vacation. I need to chill out and show a little more gratitude.

Had I no shame? The family was opening up their home to us for four days. They went to the market earlier that morning and bought some freshly made Filipino delicacies. They offer their air conditioned bedroom to us. They welcome this American stranger who doesn't speak the language. What was I doing?

Still, I could not contain the beast that escaped me. My dad was trying to console me, saying, "You know when we visit home we do it to spend time with the family."

"Yes, I know. But how would you like it if nobody spoke to you in two days! Does anyone speak English around here?"

My dad finally caved in and said, "Fine, pack your bags and we're all going to a hotel." Damn. I felt about 2 inches tall at that moment. But you know what - I felt good. And in the end, I think my parents were happy about it too.

"So when are we going?" I asked.

"After lunch."

Chronicled @ 10:20 AM

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Monday, March 3, 2008  

Trip of a lifetime

I'm back!!! The unfortunate thing is I've not yet acclimated to Pacific Standard Time. Figures that when we're ready to come back home my clock switches over to Manila time. Isn't that how it always works? I'm hoping that two weeks will be enough for me to recover. After all, I can only use that excuse - (I'm really tired right now. It's only 2am in the Philippines. Can't you cook dinner tonight?) - for so long before the house mutiny begins.

There is so much to share about my first visit home. Chronicles of my daily experiences, observations of the culture, how spoiled we are as Americans, etc. One cannot truly appreciate how fortunate and blessed Americans are until visiting a developing country. Though most every city I visited had every appearance of a modernized, forward moving, bustling metropolitan, there is an obvious disparity between the haves and have nots.

For example, my mom's hometown is the city of Tuguegarao, the capital of her province, Cagayan. On the street she grew up on, and on which many of her cousins still live, there are modernized two-story homes with large, well-lit, comfortably inviting open rooms. Within 25 yards of her house lives a cousin whose home looks like a cement box- cold, dark, sad. Go 25 yards in the opposite direction and there live the parents of the head of Philippine security. And when I say head, I mean TOP of the security food chain. Interesting that within that 50 or so yard stretch you can see a small piece of the economical quagmire that plagues the citizens of the Philippines. Add to that the blatant corruption of the Philippine government and, well, that's content for another blog post.

Overall, the most rewarding and priceless part of the visit was reconnecting with a culture that always puzzled me. Why do my parents do the things they do? Why this undying devotion to a country that hasn't been their home for 40 years? Now I know. And now I understand. And now I too have a love for the country and respect for the family that raised me so far away from their home.

Chronicled @ 5:21 PM

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