A WALK IN THE PLAZA AND RAIN RULES ON THE ISLAND OF NEGROS

This was written prior to the kids arriving and although not very current, I still thought it worthy of posting.  Daryl…

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It has been raining for the past three days here on Negros Island. The mornings will start out partly to mostly cloudy and if you have errands to run, that is the time to do them, but by noon, the clouds darken and the rain returns.  Yesterday, it rained throughout the night and this afternoon, it was raining elephants and giraffes.  I actually had to shut the windows to protect my television and computer from getting bathed in the sheets of rain that was determined to cleanse anything exposed to its windswept deluge.  It is usually dry this time of year and the rainy (wet) season doesn’t begin until late May, but what we are being blessed with is a very slow moving tropical disturbance to our south.  What makes this weather more exciting is that there is another tropical disturbance to the east just waiting to take disturbance number one’s place.  Such is life in the Philippines.  A few days ago, the nights were quiet (if you discounted the dogs and roosters), but last night the air was filled with the croaking of THOUSANDS of frogs, all eager and ready to procreate. 

I know it has been awhile since I have posted anything.  It’s not that I haven’t had anything to submit, it is just the fact that I have been procrastinating.  The adopted kids are coming here in a few days and I have been busy preparing for their arrival.  I have purchased a huge bunk bed, a cabinet for clothes, storage containers for more clothes to shove under the bed, pillows and fabric for the cushions for the couch and chair being made.   Still, I need to purchase a few more pots and pans, more dinnerware (two plates won’t work with six people), and bowls.  In some ways I am very nervous.  It has been approximately nine months of solitude in my two bedroom sanctuary, but in a few short days, it will be overcrowded with a handful of kids running around…not to mention eating me out of house and home.  There are moments when I ponder the noise and needed attention they will require, yet I also know their quality of life will vastly improve from now on.   I have been waiting months for this to transpire and, in a way, I am very excited. Clarisse (the oldest one) texts me every day to tell me how many days remain until they come here and was overjoyed to read I was going to meet them at the ferry in San Carlos.  When that day comes, I will put pictures in the blog for everyone to see. 

 

There is a festival starting in Himamaylan.  I don’t know the name of it yet as it really doesn’t start for another two weeks, but the plaza has been busy with games of chance, food concessions, and vendors along the street selling assorted items. Each evening there are basketball tournaments and it is interesting to see how many men in their 40’s and 50’s were out there bouncing the ball across the court.  

I have to the festival three times since it began taking pictures, then sitting back and watching the activity.  I get quite a few stares from the many browsers or spectators.  Even had one lady in her thirties stop (with young child in hand) to ask if I was married and gave me a disappointed expression when I told her I was.   

It was too dark my first night visiting, so a couple of nights later I decided to attempt pictures before it got too dark. On my way there, I passed a couple elementary school children.  The girl called me “Lolo”, which meant Grandpa.  I took their picture, waved, then moved on toward my photo assignment.   I walked past the vending stands, taking pics as I strolled, then it was into the plaza itself.  It was still rather early and the gaming activity was very light, but still I got some photos of them and also the several food stands that lined the walkways.  A basketball game was in progress and I got a few photos of them as well as some of the spectators at courtside.  I purchased a hotcake (nothing remotely similar to the states) and finding a bench, I sat and again watched the people pass or visit as the youngsters ran between feet and around the plaza enjoying the festive freedom of the evening.  

As the twilight was transformed into darkness, I finished my “snack” and decided to head home. I walked up the steps out of the plaza and started walking past the vendors when I heard a little voice call out, “Daddy Cano!  Daddy Cano!”  along with the pitter patter of running feet.  Suddenly a tiny pair of arms wrapped themselves tightly around my legs as an excited girl thought she had found her papa.  I laughed, bent over and gave her a little hug back as mama grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away.  I got out my camera and took a picture of her.  She had a toy camera and took a pretend picture of me too.   I waved good-bye to the little preschooler as her mama walked her up the street.  It’s funny how a little episode such as that can melt your heart. I never did find out her name.  But that wasn’t the end.  As I walked down a quiet side street, I passed a group watching their father or brother or someone working on a trike when again, a four year old girl called me “Tatay” (papa in Illongo).  I smiled, took her picture, and moved quickly on.  I was now getting gun shy with all those “fatherly” names.  I would like to make it clear that I had never met any of those kids or parent (s) before that evening.   Except for a week’s visit to Negros in February 2011, I had never been to Negros before and Donarae will attest to the fact that I am incapable of bearing children anymore. 

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The other morning I was heading to Bacolod on the motorbike to get groceries.  The air was refreshingly cool, albeit humid and that tepid chill as well as muggy conditions, combined with diesel exhaust hanging in the air triggered memories of my childhood and one occasion as a young adult.  As a youngster, in the early spring mornings the aroma would assault my nostrils.  It wasn’t unpleasant, but noticeable all the same.  On another occasion along the coastline of Virginia in early spring (as a young adult), I breathed in that unique air once again.  Years ago I couldn’t pinpoint the source of the odor, but now in Philippines, I concluded it had to do with the temperature, humidity, and amount of diesel exhaust in the air.  It was a mixture of sweet and yet sour fragrances.  To think it took over forty years to experience that smell again just went to show at how something that may have been insignificant to me at the time, was noted and filed in my brain.  There was nothing particularly memorable about those sniffings decades ago, but the aroma memory still lingered.  Let’s face it, the human brain is a fascinating computer.

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The next blog will be about the kids coming and then how it has changed my life….and it has.  By the way, for the better.

MY MANY TITLES IN THE PHILIPPINES

Ever since I came to the Philippines I have acquired a few titles.  In the beginning it was “Hey Joe”.   Everywhere I went, adults as well as youngsters were always yelling that epithet. I found that they had actually been taught that in elementary school.  The humorous thing was they yelled that to anyone who was Caucasian or Black.  It didn’t matter what country they came from, it was just that those “foreigners” were not Filipinos and thus identified with that catch-all phrase.  

When I returned here in 2010 and settled in Balamban, Cebu, the youth (and yes, the adults too) would still yell “Hey Joe.”  Let’s face it, what else would they say, which gave me an idea.  I was curious if the kids even bothered to remember one foreigner from the next and thus I devised a plan.  With the help of Diana (my housekeeper), she told me if they yelled out “Hey Joe!” I should reply with, “Dili ako si Joe.  Ako si George.” (No, my name is not Joe.  My name is George).  It was a steamy afternoon as I walked toward the town market when three boys called out, “Hey Joe!”  Well, I tried that phrase on the trio, and they all laughed and then yelled, “Hey George!”  We waved to each other as I continued along the busy roadway toward downtown.  

I had only done that a few times but suddenly all kinds of kids started calling me “George.”  I had seen other foreigners pass and some of the youth would say “Hey Joe,” to them while with others they would say nothing. For some unknown reason though, those children seemed to like me and whenever I would stroll by, they would all call out, “HEY  GEORGE!”  Then they would laugh and wave as I continued walking.   As time went on, there was the occasional “Hey Joe”, but most times it was George that came from their lips. 

Taw Taw (left) with Coy Coy & his tootsie roll

In Negros, the children were different in some way.  They acted like the kids in Cebu, but for me they had TITLES.   When I would walk to Julius’ house, the kids would say “hi”, but not much else.  Later I found out they were talking about how big and tall I was.  Then there was the little two year old neighbor boy named Coy Coy.  When he first saw me he started to scream, “MOO MOO!” (Monster) and would run into his Grandmother’s house.  He would never come out when I was visiting and no matter how hard they tried to verbally or physically coax him, the harder he resisted.  After seven months, he would finally take tootsie rolls from me, but he would not stay and still had to be pulled over to their house to receive his treats.  

 Three waiting for their treats on the road to Julius'

Since I had given out so many treats to so many kids in the “neighborhood”, most just called me “Cano” (American) and a few close neighbors would call me “Tito Daryl” (Uncle Daryl).  If I was walking with my little black candy bag (OK, I didn’t choose the color, it was convenient, available and it holds a lot of tootsie rolls), I would hear the term “Cano” being called out to the other kids before I ever got close. Then there would be youngsters all lined up along the road waiting for their chewy morsel.  I don’t know why, but I never did teach them about George…yet.

Actually in Negros, I got called George by adults more than kids.  It’s probably because I said it more to them.  One fish vendor (of which I have yet to learn his real name) would see me and call out “Maayong Aga George,” (good morning George) and I would reply, “Maayong Aga Joe!”  We would both wave and laugh as I continued on my Cano way.

Tootsie Rolls weren't on her mind when I took a picture

I suppose I should talk about the term, “neighborhood”.  The boundary areas of a neighborhood can vary.  In Owak, where Diana lives, it would be a geographical settlement of houses (about twenty) with marshland on three sides and the Visayan sea on the fourth.  There was one path which went through the marsh to the bamboo hamlet, or one could take the highway to the beach, climb over the wall (or under it at low tide) and take the scenic route. The boundaries of MY DEFINED NEIGHBORHOOD in Negros would be the compound in which I live and I consider the neighbors around Julius’ house as part of it too. I think a neighborhood is as big as you desire. Some are bigger in size than others, but they are a close knit group of families sharing life (and sometimes Tanduay (rum) with one another.

 Feline taking catnap outside the Restaruant

One evening I was walking back from the plaza (it was too dark to really see the traffic on the highway clearly), and as I was walking down a quiet residential street I suddenly heard a three year old boy yell, “Higanti! Higanti!”  He then ran to the protective arms of his papa. There was a group of adults sitting and chatting as I passed by.  The pre-schooler kept saying “Higanti,” quietly to his papa which only brought a roar of laughter from the crowd.  His grandpa (lolo) told me that Higanti meant GIANT.  Since I was so tall and much taller than the group seated there, I must have really been tall to that sprout of a boy.  From then on, whenever I passed the little child’s house, if the parents, or housekeeper saw me, they would tell the young tyke that the “giant” was walking past. 

I am sure that I will have other titles added to my name in the coming years, but the one I have enjoyed the most is “Senior Citizen”.  I  JUST  LOVE  THAT  CARD and also the many looks when I hand it to them for my discount. 

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I have dined at the Oasis quite a bit since my arrival in Himamaylan City.  It is an open air restaurant along the national highway.  Their menu offers a selection of several filling Filipino dishes with a Mango Shake included for only $2.50, thus if I get lazy (which is probably far more than I would like to admit), I eat there.  I always knew there was a basement underneath the structure, but never bothered to investigate.  However one day there was a racket going on by the steps and I thought I would sneak a peek to see what was down there. In the states, you would have the water heater, water softener, furnace and assorted boxes, but at this nice eatery they had a basement full of Tilapia fish.  Now, I don’t mean giant fish tanks full of them, but literally the entire basement area.  Scores of fish leisurely swam around in approximately nine inches of fresh water.  I had never seen them on the menu and asked the owner what they did with them.  She replied that they sold them locally.  As far as I was concerned, it was the largest indoor fish farm I had ever seen.  Somehow, in the states, there would have been some food safety issues with that. 

RAIN, CHIMES, AND PLANTS

It has been raining the past few nights.  A nice soft rain trickling off the corrugated roofing and splattering on the pebble covered earth below. If the rain increases, puddles form within those infant stones and the soothing sound of droplets breaking the water’s surface can be heard as a rain cleansed breeze lightly filters its way into your drowsy senses.  On the main island of Luzon, the dry season has begun; but in the Visayas, the showers never seem to disappear.  It is not that we endure a monsoon season all year, but we don’t lack precipitation either.  Most times, it will be a cleansing shower in the afternoon, followed by a spectacular sunset.  The day ends in a very pleasant evening with star filled skies and sleep inducing air wafting its way through open bedroom window.

Since returning home, it has been quiet.  I went to Bacolod yesterday, ate at KFC (saved $1.50 with my senior discount), went to the movie (The Grey), and bought some groceries at the supermarket.  I have a pair of athletic shoes which I named my “water shoes”; that was due to the fact whenever I wore them, it rained.  True to their name, I was precipitated upon on the way up as well as on the way back yesterday.  I spent time under canopies on the way up in an attempt to keep myself relatively dry, but on the way home, I let nature take its course and ended up being saturated from head to toe.

On the way up to Bacolod, there had been a detour at Bago City, but the northbound traffic could now go on the dirt portion of the main road.  Right next to that puddle pocked passage was the new concrete replacement AND upon that pavement were motorbikes going the opposite direction.  On my return south I decided to skirt around the detour signs and take advantage of the new road.  The pavement was about twelve inches above the dirt and somebody had piled old pieces of asphalt there to help the bikers to get up and onto the smooth surface.  Unfortunately, as I tried to power my way up onto the road, the bike got stuck.  It was too heavy to make the last leap up and onto the new lane.  I backed down the pile of rubble and tried twice more, but the underpowered baby of a motorbike couldn’t do it.  I was sure it was the wet surface, or the bike was too heavy or the strapped down groceries on back was the cause…..never once did I consider the fact that my physical enormity might be the reason  All that time during my struggles, there

The hump after dirt was laid

was a Videoke stand nearby with a group of women talking. Of course, they saw me struggling to get my motorbike onto the new pavement and started pointing and laughing. In the meantime, I stood up and as Ipopped the clutch I lifted up on the handlebars.   The extra Oomph from my arms and legs (not to mention getting my acre sized arse off the seat) enabled the two wheeled cycle to clamber up the unstable asphalt pile and onto steady ground once again.  Now, the construction company had put sizeable rocks upon the pavement to dissuade people from driving on it, but so many motorbikes had traversed its stone strewn surface you only had to follow the tire tracks to be able to wend your way through the labyrinth.  AND, as I passed that store, the women continued to laugh at my poor “motorbikes” expense.

Umbrellas - Every Filipina must have one for sun and rain

I have to stress that when driving any form of vehicles in the Philippines, it does not allow for sightseeing of any kind, but over the many trips around the countryside, there were certain things that never changed.  Workers tended to their rice fields as well as laborers continued to chop down sugarcane in the rain.  Umbrellas were everywhere and used in the rain as well as during sunny days. You even saw them being used on slowing moving motorbikes.  I was given one for Christmas by the owner of the compound, but it was still sitting in a corner within its plastic wrapper.  Real men don’t use umbrellas....

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Every morning at 5:10 am, Our Lady of the Snow Catholic Church would play recorded music on its loud speakers.  I realized it was to get the parishioners up for the 6:00 am mass.  The music would play for about twenty minutes and then quit.  On Sunday mornings, it played a lot longer.  The speakers were loud and even though I lived over a half kilometer from the church, those metallic chimes were quite clear.  One morning as I lay in bed listening to the hymns, the arrangements changed and suddenly I was listening to “Silent Night”.  It was followed by “Oh Holy Night”.  That continued on for three more festive tunes until someone shut off the system in mid song.  No more music was played that day.  

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I have discovered the Filipinos will grow wherever there is land available.  Case in point, there was a narrow stretch of ground between a roadway and rice field just north of my compound and some people had decided to tear out the Carabao grass and replace it with Alogbate (Malabar Spinach) and Tinangkong (Swamp Cabbage) plants.  At first I was surprised, but then was intrigued.  In other parts of the Philippines, there would’ve been those who would have illegally picked the vegetables in the dark of night, but not in this part of Negros. I have constantly been astounded by the honesty exhibited here.  People may still have high walls and lock their doors, but then you see vehicles left out overnight with their windows open or gardens, such as that, unprotected in the darkness and you somehow feel safer.  In parts of the Philippines to feel safe at all is something of a miracle at times.