1/16/75 – Thursday –  Birthday

There’s no work today because the RHU (rural health unit) staff are decorating for fiesta, so I slept in, showered, and relaxed.

We had pancakes at breakfast, and I don’t know where, but they dug up an ice cream bar. Vic brought it to me at 11 am. I was so psyched. (I know  now that the ice cream had been brought in for town fiesta, which occurs at the same time as my birthday.)

The custom here is for the celebrant to throw a birthday bash and pay for everything. (This was, of course, odd to an American who is accustomed to being spoiled and paying for nothing on their birthday.) But, I have no money yet—so I told the family that I’d just bake a cake for everyone (they’d bought an oven for the occasion—It’s about the size of a shoe box). They told me to invite the other 3 volunteers that are near, and that they’d pay for everything. Only Tom could come. He lived in the closest town. His town mayor had decided to serenade me for my birthday, giving Tom a ride home in the evening. Tom arrived early in the afternoon and stayed until 11 P.M. It compensated for the fact that I had not yet gotten any mail from home.

The family fixed special food—really good spaghetti (with fish!), macaroni & chicken salad, barbecue, cabbage and tomato salad! (a real delicacy). We also had this chicken and pineapple thing that was just like my sister’s sweet and sour chicken.  It was fantastic. And I made a chocolate devil’s food cake. First cake I’ve had here with frosting. It was really good, if I do say so myself.

Tom and I went swimming for 1½ hrs at sunset and watched a brilliant sunset. It was gorgeous—the water was purple then pink while we were swimming. It was fun and relaxing.

The provincial dentist serenaded and brought me a huge bunch of bananas. (The bunch of bananas was a stalk as tall as small woman with dozens of bananas attached.)  Unfortunately he also brought an obnoxious drunk guy. But Tom was there and it was okay, especially when the Patnongen mayor came with people from Tom’s town. They were really nice and sang beautifully in barbershop quartet style. What a crack up.

Got a birthday telegram from Patty, but nothing from home yet.
All in all the day was a success.

 In 10 more years will 23 seem half as far away as 13 is now? Or is 13 so far away at all?

As I was writing this, from the beach, a pregnant pig walked by, and then stretched out in the water. She just walked up to me and then left. Guess she didn’t like me.
1/17-19/75 – Friday – Sunday morning – AtiAtihan Kalibo

Rode to Kalibo (Northern Panay Island) for Atiatihan. It was a beautiful ride. Eighteen members of our group have gathered in here for a festival which is the Philippine equivalent of a New Orleans Mardi Gras.The festival is full of costumes, balloons, drums, dancing in the streets and whatever. I’ve taken a lot of pictures of the children in costume and Peace Corps volunteers painting each others’ faces. I got a picture of Bob kissing the feet of a dude dressed up in a purple robe, beard, and crown who marched alone all day carting a huge cross on his back—dragging it down the street. (The cross said something about Jesus and suffering.)  Bob just walked out in front of him, kneeled down and kissed the guys dirty feet. It was superb.

It was great to see folks from other provinces– McQuestion, Pat, Sioux, Zachary, Neal, Ken, Peter, Paul, Lou, James, Toni, and Crain. Everyone got super drunk. Being with so many people again was freaky. Got so tired but couldn’t sleep all night because of mosquitos and the cement floor and being squashed between Neal and Bob.

On Friday night our 6’5” Texan (who acts like everything you’d expect of a Texan when he’s drunk) really came close to his end (life & Peace Corps). He sees the P.C. (police—who can do anything with martial law) and he’s out after curfew. So he pretends he’s looking for a hotel and asks them—in a loud, drunk voice. They just don’t even answer or seem to notice and just walk by. (They probably are also drunk because of the festival and most likely don’t understand English, or at least not Texan English.) But Paul gets mad and screams back obscenities (that they understand). The P.C. guy comes back and hits Paul in the head with a bottle. Paul says it “pissed him off when he tastes blood” so he beats the shit out of the P.C. (police). They finally subdue Paul and try to take him to jail. He threatened everything, including the American Army (great PR work!). They finally take him to the hospital for stitches without anesthetic. The only reason he gets away is because he is a faster runner & bigger and they’re too drunk to shoot. Considering police and government here, he’s really lucky. So he comes back (3 A.M.) and wakes us up with his tales. He goes to the bathroom, leans on the sink and it breaks off the wall on his foot. He has to go back for more stitches. The Peace Corps reputation grows—and America’s.

OnSaturday I painted my face, danced in the streets and took a million pictures. Found a place with ice cream. Bought McQuestion a balloon; gave another to a little boy who smiled. Patty came and we shopped at night. Bought a neat tiger T-shirt. It was a day with emotions from super high to really mellow. Getting tired, so tired of the crowds though.

Fiesta

Pulsating, Pulsating, masks, colors
frenzied people; dancing mobs
insanely Falling in
Falling out,
touching, grabbing
sharing beer
with strangers
releasing
Balloons into the sky.

Monday, January 20, 1975 – Getting a Little Perspective

On Sunday morning, I began writing a letter, but was called to go to town to watch the festival procession. I didn’t feel at all like dancing or painting my face. In fact, I wanted to be back in Bugasong. But I went (figuring I could always leave) and next thing I know, it’s Monday.  If nothing else, this week-end was good for helping me appreciate the serenity to be found in Bugasong. Most of the other volunteers seemed happy to be at the festival and with the group. So many times I just wanted to be alone reading, or writing, or thinking. Nevertheless the procession was gorgeous – took more pictures.

I arrived in Bugasong around noon on Monday after a 6 hour jeep ride, in the dust, over dirt roads and through rivers. Thank God Antique is an underdeveloped province and no one comes here for giant festivals. I’m really glad I went and saw all the painted faces and native costumes—but I couldn’t stand such frenzy for long. Was so happy to be home–and to be alone. I ate and began to unpack but found myself needing to unwind after the fiesta and travel and being around all the other volunteers for a week-end. I decided to walk down to the beach to swim, think, dream, and write. On the way I stopped at the post office and 2 letters waiting waiting for me. I read them as I walked the mile past lime green rice fields and baby coconut groves with gorgeous mountains in the background. It’s sunny but breezy. It’s summer here now—just beginning. I began doing a lot of reflecting. Things are beginning to come into perspective; not just Peace Corps Philippines, but Marilyn – past, present, future. Things are beginning to fall into perspective and the letters really helped. I guess it just sounded like people cared or were at least interested.

Right now it’s difficult to say exactly how things are falling into perspective—or why that even matters. It’s just that there was no perspective at all for the first two months. Things were changing and moving incredibly fast. Everything has been intense with the good times and bad times melting together into something even more intense and intangible. Then little things began to happen this week within my head. Like the other night when I listened to suite for the seasons as I drifted off to sleep under my mosquito net. I flashed on things like riding a big semi-truck (hitchhiking) into Colorado in a blizzard while my head was singing “It’s cold and getting colder….” I realized how incredible it was that we got the only ride at the exact right time (before the last mountain pass road was closed). I saw trail camp. I remembered cross-country skiing with Linton last year. I saw all of us around the fire at east Calhoun, and me, alone, writing poetry at Mirror Lake in Yosemite. I remembered a many times when I was depressed and a song had lifted me. I saw myself alone in Lincoln City kicking the waves, and Cherry and Kathy and I on the coast of Maine by the lighthouses, and me here in Asia kicking waves and watching the sun set. You see, it’s not just the last 2 months—or the next 2 years—falling into perspective, it’s the last 23 years and the next million.

I’ve been letting the ocean take care of everything; every time I go swimming, everything’s all right, all right in the morning (or afternoon as the case may be). I’m going to be an ocean freak pretty soon (of course the ocean has to be near mountains—you can’t take a climber off her belay rope).

Ocean

Thankful for letters and all the mornings
that pass by bringing me closer
to my time alone letting the waves
glisten for my eyes, splash as I touch, pound in my ears
—the smell of the sea and taste of salt
soothing my frustrations. I know not how.

Perspective

Can another year expand half as much?
How is it that stagnant minds develop,
stop growing?
How can any day be less
Than today?
How can today help but be
more than yesterday?
Can the center of a person ever grow smaller?
Can my experiences ever be less?
Could the lives that have touched me
ever be no longer part of me?
Could I ever have cried less tears,
laughed less times from my gut,
Had less lovers, climbed less rocks,
or seen less sunsets
Than I have by now?
Where can time take me
if not to further growth
more experiences of laughter and loving and tears
that keep me vital everyday
through frustration, loneliness, depression,
serenity, peace, loving, satisfaction, ecstasy.

1/21-24/75 – Tuesday  – Friday- Work Week

Tuesday I woke at a decent hour. Started work at 8 a.m.—distributing plaza care schedules. Spent the afternoon writing mom, going over finances and making work plans. I’m beginning to see a direction for my work. Went to the beach for sunset with Inday, Linda, and Vik. Linda (assigned here for her required governmental service) got here yesterday. They asked if she could stay in my room. I said no and am glad I did, though that sort of thing (saying “no”) is hard for me. But she’ll be here six months and I know that I need some privacy, especially while I’m adjusting.

On Thursday I went today with the sanitary inspector to barrio Talisay, which has been selected for a pilot barrio. A meeting was set with barrio members for Monday. Feeling very rushed, but happy to be busy and productive. I spent the remainder of the day typing up my proposal with carbon copies. Then I had to go to a barrio fiesta unexpectedly. There was a dance. I have no interest. So tired of crowds and festivities. All in all a day of mixed emotions.

By Friday I woke early even though I’d gotten to bed late. Must have something to do with sensing a purpose or at least feeling productive. This week I got some of my projects organized and introduced.  My projects look very comprehensive, on paper. Surprisingly enough some of my first steps have gone smoothly. We’ve picked a pilot barrio to address nutrition and sanitation. The barrio is divided into units (10 houses per unit) with elected unit leaders. Monday there will be a barrio counsel meeting and I will present my proposal (A barrio is a community that is really small. It’s just a group of houses that pretty much have their own school and everything because they’re rural and transport, even to town (which is also small), is difficult. I plan to ride my bike back and forth to the barrio while we work on the project. It’s probably about 5 miles. We’re going to survey house-to-house, weighing the kids to determine malnutrition, presence of toilets, drinking water availability, family planning, etc. Almost no one has toilets. So then we will hold Nutrition classes, put in toilets, do a bunch of public health education, have contests, awards, etc. There will be supplemental feeding programs set up for malnourished kids and vegetable gardens for every household. (There are a lot of vitamin deficiencies here.) The plans are long and detailed, with adaptations for social and cultural preferences. It’s nine type written pages. I think I will have at least partial success with the way I’m going about it because the plans involve personal work with each household and involvement of barrio people at every level.

Other projects in the plan include cleaning up the market place, putting in gardens for supplemental feeding programs, cleaning up the town, education, food handlers classes, and cleaning up the health center itself. Been making a lot of visual aids for education too. They told me I wouldn’t do anything for 6 months, but I’ve actually been busy. Next week I may be pessimistic again. So it goes.

1/24 – 27/75 – Weekend Excursions – More Celebrations

At the end of the day on Friday I had to go to Valderama for their fiesta. Once again I avoided dancing and wrote two letters and read. Am eating too much. I don’t like constant fiestas! We were going to leave Valderama early Saturday morning, but were flooded in until late afternoon by a typhoon. I stayed alone all morning reading. I admit to feeling angry because I didn’t want to come, but wasn’t given a choice. I imagined that I couldn’t enjoy an experience I was forced into. However, the experience of riding the banka (small boat) across the river changed my mind. I realized that usually things end up having some purpose (if we let them).

I arrived in Culasi late Saturday for Craig’s birthday. The people here are great, but I feel horribly that Craig is taking advantage of the generosity. They are wrapped around his finger like a rich man’s servants. And still he’s dissatisfied with their lack of “culture”. It’s sad…and he’s done no work yet. It makes me feel better about my own adjustment. We paddled to Marilison Island—beautiful. Got some great shells (washed up by the recent typhoon). Gorgeous world. The people are so great. Ate like a queen.

I spent time chatting with the Dutch Priest in Culasi. He’s been in the country for 10 years. He talked about how there are millions of technical terms in the language (e.g., different words for washing feet, or washing hands, or washing clothes, or bathing, or washing clothes or somebody else washing your clothes, or washing a table, etc., etc.) but they only have one word which has to mean to think, to meditate, to contemplate, etc., etc. There just are no philosophical terms in the language.

Week of January 27th, 1975

Night Sleep

So natural to see the stars
feel the sand
adjusting to my weight
with lulling wave sounds
singing lullabies
speaking of friends
noticing far off fireflies
and falling stars
forgetting to drink the beers
because we’re high.

1/27-230/75 – Monday-Friday – Settling In

On Monday I was happy once again to return to Bugasong. I think I am beginning to like this place….the serenity and peace. Got four more letters with pictures from Cherry. How her caring does help me. And just now Dodong is playing soft guitar music including “Sounds of Silence”, some Helen Reddy, etc. It’s quiet now and peaceful. Linda and Inday are singing. Began pilot barrio project today. Life here is underway.

On Tuesday I spent much of the day in the house reading material and working on organizing my head, my handouts, and my job plans. Felt like the clutter is getting swept away. Spent the later afternoon at the beach—talked to a lot of people and swam. Am beginning to feel the possibility of feeling comfortable in the culture. Love talking to the children.

I’ve gotten a lot of letters, I’ve eaten a lot, I’ve been to the beach and swimming a lot, I’ve slept, and I’ve worked some. And even if nothing had happened, I got your letter with pictures and songs. The music was perfect. I can already slowly play “simple gifts” on my banduria—but not very well, in fact very poorly. Unfortunately, they don’t have much of our folk music here, though more in my house than most. The doctor plays the guitar and knows some Simon and Garfunkel and a few other goodies. I don’t believe it—as I write this, they put on Vincent, by Don McClean—one of my favorite songs.

On Wednesday I went to San Jose to mail film and a calendar home. What a hassle. Last week they tried to charge me 20 Pesos in Bugasong to mail the calendar. They said I might be able to get a better rate in San Jose. It’s a long, uncomfortable, and costly trip so I waited ‘til I had to go to the bank and get some supplies for work. The postmaster said the calendar would be only 4 pesos, but that 5 rolls of film would be 35 pesos. I just about choked. I tried to explain that perhaps that was wrong (It’s very difficult to be irate in this slow-paced, disorganized system as everyone is so nice.) It feels like everyone here does everything the longest, slowest, most illogical and disorganized way possible. The postal clerk insisted that the rate for mailing film was extra, so I asked him to show me where it was written that I had to pay excessive rates for film. (I figured it could be true but chances were he’d never find where it was written and I might get to pay the regular air parcel rate.) 45 minutes later he gave up reading the manual and started to charge me the lower rate. Then somebody found it. “All films and their sound recordings…” I suggested that meant movies and their sound tracks. Finally I got away paying 16 pesos.

There is a reason that I worry about the cost of mailing things. Local batteries don’t last long. I seem to spend all my money on batteries for music and  aerograms and stamps for letters. The Peace Corps Volunteers in rural health get paid only 2/3rds as much as PCV’s in all other of the 9 programs because we’re “rural”, but batteries and food and everything costs more here (city folks don’t need batteries because they have electricity). Also we have to pay to travel to cities for most supplies or to see other volunteers. (or mail anything except letters—or even to cash our paychecks). When we go to the city we even have to pay to stay overnight because we can’t make it back in one day. For example, Iloilo is actually quite difficult for me to get to because of poor transportation. It’s over the mountains, but a beautiful ride. I flew in there when I came, and stayed overnight. So far it’s my favorite city in the country. I’ll probably go there every 2 months to meet my friends assigned elsewhere on the island (16 in all from our group). There are no other women assigned in my province. On top of that, we actually pay the same room and board as volunteers in the city assignments. Peace Corps says they’re working on it.

I saw David in Sibalom. He’s been feeling down and says Bob’s really feeling down. David is starting to come back up, but very frustrated. I guess Tom’s head is closer to where mine is—still not too upset about work.

On Friday I began surveying in pilot barrio and surprisingly finished one pucok (one barrio unit). Felt vaguely productive. Fell asleep quite early after only one game of scrabble. Just couldn’t keep going. Been dreaming weird.

A mosquito just bit my toe….itch, itch.

Solitude

When frustrations build, begging me to somehow save my sanity, I get away. In the late afternoon I’ll walk alone to the beach, passing rice paddies—lime green and framed by deeper green mountains. I notice some intangible fact and begin to relax. Each day the clouds hang differently over the mountains—though some days I simply forget to look. Certain days I bring my camera. The light brown calf on the left (by the small, young coconut grove) grows larger and larger. The workers in their cone-shaped hats sometimes stare up at me from their positions knee-deep in mud; sometimes they don’t notice. They laughed one day when I took a picture. Men, women, and children of all ages pass me as they walk to the water pump with long, hollow pieces of bamboo to be filled with water. They usually laugh when I speak a few words of their dialect. Other times I just pass silently.

Walking down the beach, I usually kick at the waves. Some days I only sit. At times I read or write letters, or swim, or meditate, or walk and sing, or read a book. At sunset, no longer somehow frustrated, I listen to waves and lick salt off my face. The fiery ball sinks incredibly fast—too fast for thinkers, there remains only a feeling. The water turns purple or pink with silhouetted black fishing boats against the darkening, many-colored horizon. Regretting my time alone has passed, I stroll home—along with the homeward bound muddy caribao (water buffalo). I don’t know how (nor do I care) the ocean soothes and makes life easier. Perhaps this solitude I share with the sea can help me eventually mellow into this strange, new environment.

1/31 to 2/1/75 – Saturday/Sunday – One Last Fiesta

Went to Belison’s fiesta. Ate lunch and talked with Bob. He’s pretty depressed; can’t get comfortable. Dave and Tom came. Had a delicious afternoon swim. Drank beer. Slept on the beach and ate peanuts. It felt so good. Awoke to a mellow sky and the sound of waves. We began the day relaxed, but eventually had to return to the stifling crowd. We were on the edge, overwhelmed by another day of staring children and our own need to be ever ready with smiles and laughter and politeness–all obligations.