Ups and Downs: February 1974
I’m thinking, one month in this place, yes, but two years are inconceivable, perhaps because I think of time as a single, overwhelming unit, forgetting the possibilities of a series of changes, growth, experiences.
Week of 2/2/74 – Time and Toilets
On Monday I realized that I’d been almost a month in town. I had a busy work day. I went to a meeting with the municipal council and barrio captains. The spectrum of my job widens, even as I wonder if I’ll be able to accomplish anything at all.
In the evening I finished reading Island as my lamp ran out of oil.
On Tuesday morning I conducted follow-up visits with pregnant mothers in my pilot barrio and wrote up evaluations. In the afternoon I went to a barrio captain’s coconut party expecting to have a boring time, but I didn’t. They poured a touch of sweetened condensed milk into the freshly opened young coconut….such a sweet treat. Ending the day with a nice beach walk, I was surprised to have enjoyed myself after the weekend’s mounting frustrations from the many social events. Back home, in the evening, I played “generals” and scrabble with Inday and Linda. At bedtime I began a new book.
Time goes by a little easier each week, taking on its own dimension. I’m not sure yet how I feel about it, but I think I’m settling in to life here. I’ve never particularly wanted to “get used to things”. Is “getting used to things” a matter of filling up time so I’m not always curious what will happen next? Have I begun to learn the art of simply filling time? That sounds so depressing; to not be always curious about what will happen next. I feel time slipping by now that I can measure it with what I’ve done and read rather than just a jumbled inconsistent set of new places and experiences. But I’m still growing. I know it. I feel it. One can’t always be moving. During the first three months I expected everything to be unlike prior life experience. I think when I get back to the states I’d like to read all these letters and see if I can follow my personal transitions.
I wonder too if the Filipino people are changing because of me. I was interviewed by a high school student recently. He asked me if I was Miss of Mrs. I said neither. I told him I was a “Ms” and explained it. A couple of single female teachers in their 20’s thought is was great.
On Friday Dave came to help with my project. We held a demonstration on how to make toilets that flush by pouring in 1 liter of water. We built Bugasong’s first water seal toilet. This is my new skill. I’m even learning a little about working with cement. In 2 years I could be an expert. Because Dave was here, the family prepared a feast including spaghetti. I received great mail: a birthday book from Cherry, a yoga book from Lynn, and a raise from Peace Corps (I now get 600 pesos a month instead of 500.) Happy day.
On Saturday my emotions swung far and I felt Anger, Anger, Anger—Frustration. “Come.” they said. (I said “where?”) “Over there” (“Why?”) “We all are going.” (“Why?”) “We have to go”….(sigh),,,,”Come” “Let’s eat.” “We must go.” Somebody with a camera kept taking my picture. I wanted a peaceful day, but there was a party down the street for a local who had returned from the U.S. for a visit. Clearly I had no choice but to go. People thought it was so cute every time I said anything in the dialect. I distracted myself with a great conversation with Sister Ruth about family planning and the food crisis. Then I noticed that the priest had made his exit, so I decided to leave and walk home (ahead of the family). But they pleaded against my leaving. I hadn’t been introduced to everybody, and somebody should walk me home (about 50 yards). I said I didn’t need to meet anybody else; that I had to go home, and I would be fine alone. I went outside and breathed. There were no people on the streets and our house was empty because everyone was still at the party. I read a while. Then I went to the health center (which was deserted!!!) I bought chocolate cookies and sat there alone eating them while putting the finishing touches on my demonstration toilet. Then I sat in the health clinic alone and wrote. I just wanted to go into seclusion for a month or a year. It crossed my mind that I could terminate and go home (everybody talks about quitting and it happens about half the time.) Though I know I’m just letting off steam. Tomorrow I’ll wake and feel differently. Every day is different. Today the release is good for the soul. I usually get sort of depressed finishing books and I’ve finished 2 this week. I guess my mind gets constipated when I feed it too much. Then I want to be alone to grunt. the alternative is getting angry. If I can’t find a healthy release, I start hating myself. “Don’t let it bring you down—It’s only castles burning…Just find someone who’s turning…And you will come around” Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young off 4 Way Street Album.
Saturday Socializing
Feasting at the baptism luncheon
faces smiling insignificant
references to family planning
i never saw the baptized
boys are all so thin amidst
crowds with heaping plates
Saturday morning wasting oh God
how can she wear stockings
overwhelming heat magnified
by inactivity my mind switching
to feet, shoes children—smile
they’re snapping your picture
now i see in my mind
that other boy badly
burned we treated him last
night i wish this day would
end they told me to come
couldn’t someone ask
i can’t hear in this rumble you’re
testing my knowledge now
of the dialect i don’t care
would you listen if i said
all of you mispronounces it
my home Seattle not Sheattle
i want to go home my legs
sticking to this plastic chair
what was that book i was reading
earlier i can’t pay attention
i’m leaving now without
good-byes i’m wandering
down the gravel road to my seclusion
recluse in my mind as slow it’s coming
alas i’m home
I think I’ve got some sort of parasite. Cheers! I’ve got a bad rash on my back too. I think I’ll see a doctor when I go to the conference in Iloilo next week. For now I’m taking a Benadryl from my medical kit. It seems to help but makes me really sleepy so I only take it before bed.
On Sunday I finished making the toilet and went to the Visayan Athletic Meet in San Jose with the Riveros. I still wanted to get away from crowds and have philosophical conversations. I’m stifled by attention, by always having a body near, by the constant staring at me. I feel cynical and frightened, momentarily feeling once again that despair I hadn’t known quite so deeply in a long time, since high school. I anticipated next week in Iloilo at a conference with other volunteers. I need to talk to someone. I need to cry.
The musings and poems I wrote this week reflect both a yearning for home and the falling in love with my new home.
Dusk
Everything is turning pink and peach again—outside and inside. Through the bamboo window slats I see a bright pink layer resting on a blue background which keeps getting deeper and deeper, crescendoing until it pales again just before it turns black for the night. The church chimes are fading in the distance just as suddenly as the light fades, forcing me to stand and light the tiny oil lamp. Lamp light is so helplessly feeble at dusk; no way to brighten the light until the room darkens. All work rests—the world is in transition. The pink has left my window now and the sky is graying, leaving only the darkening green of the banana leaves standing as still as the bamboo slats between us. Mosquitos are becoming active as an inverse function of the streets emptying. I’ve changed to long clothes now—in defense of mosquitos. I lean a little closer to the lamp and hear the ticking of my clock. I hear a broom moving across bamboo floors. There’s a heavy odor and the dull noise of hurried movement drifting in from the back of the house where supper is being prepared. Rice, fish, maybe a soup, and something extra for the imagination. The banana leaves have begun to sway a bit as evening breezes settle in…the blessed coolness of evening. Voices gather in the outer room—mostly talking to (or of) the baby. The dogs clank their toenails across the bamboo—anxiously viewing dark silhouettes returning home…first past this window, then the other. Ah yes, and there’s the first late call for the doctor. Perhaps another boy fell from a star apple tree. Now I relax and watch the hastening movement of the banana leaves, listen to the water splash from the house to the ground, smell the appetizing odors, feel insects on skin, and taste the feel of dusk. Later I’ll read; now I just wait, aware of subtleties around me. My favorite hour of the day, spent in the sand, on ocean waves, or here behind bamboo slats. Experiencing the culmination of day and creation of night. No seasonal changes to feel and take energy from, but a thousand miracle sunsets. And I’m always present, aware; never trapped behind cement or glass or wood or brick or linoleum. Once again I speculate that I have discovered my reason for being here.
Glimpses
Why am I not home
like the tree that lives
in one place forever
to sit and stare
at a Western Hemlock
through the mist
snow melting
from the boughs
forest smells
moist fungus
black soil
the quiet sound
of animals
searching for food.
Half Dome
What I wouldn’t give
to sit at Mirror Lake
today—alone
like so many dozen times before
you never grow old to me
I love your architecture
your life and color
your interaction
with the seasons
staring and waiting
for your dynamic energy
hidden behind your powerful stillness
to create a force
a poetry within me
week 2/10/75 – Barrio Work and City Escapes
Work’s been okay. On Monday and Tuesday I submerged myself in my pilot barrio work. Literally, I almost submerged myself. I fell into a rice paddy today trying to walk on a muddy, raised, narrow path to the farm houses. I went to take medicine, conduct surveys, and weigh the children to check their nutritional status. I met some frighteningly malnourished children including a 9 year old boy weighing only 30 lbs., one girl with polio, and one with worms so bad they come out of her mouth. I never see a fat child here. But I’m encouraged about our pilot barrio project. It only covers about 140 houses, but it’s a start. We’re holding classes for the mothers in March. This week I’ve asked the doctora to hold a clinic in the nearby center of the barrio. Tonight I’ll be busy until after midnight preparing notebooks for purok leaders for tomorrow at barrio clinic. While surveying house-to-house, I convinced mothers to take their kids to the clinic. I feel some small sense of accomplishment. Still, I’m so tense.
I got a kitty! (Gusty—a girl)—striped and cute with beautiful facial markings.
By Thursday I wrote that I was so tired of waking up angry when I can’t say or do anything about it. Sick of the staring. I thought, maybe I can talk Brian (program director) into letting Pat or someone come here and work with me. Then we could live alone together like the male volunteers do. I just need some quiet and independence and privacy. Help! I’m smothering—alone in a crowd.
Joy of joys…on Friday I finished the survey of my pilot barrio. Love the people on the farms and feel like I’ve actually done some work and accomplished something.
I had gotten depressed during the first month and a half in my village. When it got worse, one way or another, I just played out that depression until it was gone. And I am so definitely living unbored. On Friday night, Valentines, I decided I just had to get away. So I left on Friday for a conference in Iloilo City beginning Monday afternoon. Friday night I stayed in Belison with Bob. We just talked out our frustrations that were similar. Then after dinner we sat outside and drank a couple of bottles of rum. Then we went to the outdoor 4H sponsored Valentines Dance. We got them to put on some American tunes, took off our flip flops and danced like crazy. Everybody watched mostly. Bob asked me to dance just about every dance so I wouldn’t have to dance with the guys I didn’t know from his town. It was really fun because we were just relating to the music and expressing ourselves with our bodies and not caring about fitting in to any cultural expectation. It was a release. It’s not easy (as a woman) to get uninhibited in this country. So afterwards we went to the beach and slept on the sand. Saturday morning I take off for the big city alone. Some guy on the bus paid my bus fare when he got off and didn’t even tell me. When I got off they say—it was paid. Far out. I roamed around not caring about time. Bought some books (I’ve been saving my pesos). Then went to get ice cream. At the cafe, the restaurant owner introduced me to a Greek man named Serpico—Serpico Serafim Polychronopolous. He was rich (at least compared to a Peace Corps Volunteer) and handsome and interesting. We chatted for several hours. He bought me a spaghetti lunch. Then I bought him ice cream for my peace of mind (women’s lib forever!). Then I told him I had to go to the conference (to avoid any expectation of an affair). I wanted to be alone. So I went to the River Queen hotel and got a single room. I ate dinner at an outdoor restaurant over the river, ate American food, watched a brilliant sunset, had chocolate ice cream, and went back to my room—alone. There I stayed with my fan on and my clothes off until 10 a.m. Took an actual shower. How exciting. Ate peanuts and fruit and read….and didn’t see a human for the whole time. It was even quiet. I loved it! I needed it. It was expensive on my budget, but worth it. All this was helping me get undepressed. Then I went to a movie by myself. (By the way—don’t go to see Airport 1975….It’s gotta be one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen.) Such independence is just not allowed here. I would love to do it more often. Love this chance at solitude, quiet, and deciding when to eat.
When I went back to the hotel I met Mike McQuestion from my group. I feel like we speak the same language. Eventually just about everybody else arrived—a day early. We drank beer—ate—drank—danced—drank—went to bed. James and I danced well. He needs companionship and seems to need it from me right now. I hope I can be of help. So I chattered away, laughed, and smiled with all these friends that have been mine since November.
Escapes
I lived my chocolate ice cream escapes
and perpendicular paths
away from loneliness
for the chance to be alone
saving my soul in the sand
making love
and silently leaving my mind
to touch of skin
feeling the pulse within my ear
knowing I’ve trudged so far away
from college books and words
now lying in the contours
feeling some fragment of reality
Week 2/17/75 – Conference (“retraining”) and Connecting with Female Volunteers
On Monday I went alone to the River Queen for breakfast, but met a bunch of volunteers and Brian and Barry (Program director and country director). Blah, blah, blah. And the conference began. Talked and listened and ate too much. Went to bed early and exhausted. Did have ice cream at the River Queen with Mike Zachary. Both of us mellow and talking about the books we’ve read. On Tuesday the meetings were more interesting. I spent the afternoon with Neal….mellow and slow. I gave him my tiger T-shirt because he liked it. Material possessions seem to mean little lately and friends so much. I find myself on the verge of becoming a potential compulsive flow of generosity.
The conference was soon over and I proceeded north, taking a circuitous route home from Iloilo City north to Capiz and Aklan provinces to visit the volunteers assigned there on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Saw several of the guys. Mike McQuestion is a love and so is Neal. John Mulligan is a riot but still scares me a little. Went to Roxas with Sioux. I enjoyed the time with her regardless of the fact that she is going to terminate. (Sioux was the first from our group to quit). I spent two nights in Aklan at Toni’s. Toni is geographically the closest female peace corps volunteer to my town. We had some good talks about our work and cultural adaptation. I never get to talk to other women volunteers because I’m the only American female in my province. I should complain to Gloria Steinem. Emotionally and technically we gave support to each other. She is working with a family with a hydrocephalic child. It is so alarming and so sad. The baby cries 24 hours a day. The mother is so good and so loving. Night came to end with rain and new things to see. Loving my new found independence. Hope it blossoms.
On Sunday I got up at 3 a.m. to catch a 4:30 a.m. bus from Kalibo to Iloilo. Transferred in Iloilo to a bus bound for Bugasong. The two long bus rides gave me time alone to think, read, enjoy the serene view, and decide I’m glad to be returning to Bugasong. A renewed and heightened interest and ambition in my work and in Antique has happily developed.
Week 2/24/75 – Big Picture Work and A Scary Incident
Back to Work
Monday morning there was a nutrition meeting at the provincial capital. It was valuable. Ideas flood my head about the possibilities and dimensions of my work here. The meeting ended at 4:30—too late to catch transportation home. So volunteers went to Belison, played tunes and slept on the beach—ate fish, clams, bread, cheese, peanuts, rice, beer, & rum. I drank too much. (Belison is a tiny town close to the provincial capital where Bob and Dave have a little nipa hut on the beach. Bob is assigned there and Dave is nearby in Siabolom.) It was beautiful and the moon was full, but somehow I’d gotten over my depression so much that I just wasn’t in to “be an American for a few hours to escape from the frustrations of this culture”. Had to get back to my place. That’s a good sign. So I left at 5 A.M. before everybody woke up and got back to Bugasong by 7 A.M. I’m ready to get pretty involved here for a while. I’m vaguely enthusiastic about work and I have to milk those good vibrations. I’ve been working hard at learning the language. I really want to work now. Hope I don’t get discouraged. I am realistic about the fact that I may never really be at home here—and these people may never be like the friends back home. I’ve just got different ideas on many things. It’s as if they believe their morals are their philosophy. And I feel that my personal philosophy is my moral value. I’ve never really thought about that—it just came out of the pen onto the paper—plop. Take it for what it is. (My cute little kitty is watching) and S & G (Simon and Grafunkel) are starting as Elton John ends.
Though I returned home ready to work, the RHU (rural health unit) personnel (and everyone else) is on vacation for 3 days due to the referendum. I always wanted the world to stop for a few days so I could “catch up”. Well, here’s my chance. So for three days I worked on language, my nutrition projects, my water seal toilet mold, and preparing nutrition classes for mothers of malnourished children I’d identified with my house-to-house weight survey. I also worked on organizing a proposal for the Municipal Nutrition Council. I felt encouraged but bogged down by the complexity involved in making the idea into a simple program that would in no way offend someone. As I obsess over my proposal, I stare at the garbage heap they call a health unit. These poorly designed buildings are found in every town. They were designed by first lady Imelda Marcos’ architect. They have an inverted roof that collapses during torrential downpours, resulting in gallons of water and debris falling into the health centers. So I sit here trying to think up some ultimate, perfectly organized system to get the minimum amount of work and maximum efficiency out of several bureaucrats in order to make progress toward a program that could help the poorest families in need of the services that rural health workers are ready to provide. They work in a collapsed building and are buried in bureaucratic paperwork that would predispose one to feel discouraged and give up. But I still hope to make a difference, even though the prospect of staying here 2 years seems unreal. So I continue to work on a presentation to activate the town’s nonexistent, existent (on paper) Nutritional Council. They really like dynamic presentations, attractive posters, and things that look good on paper. So I’m trying to make it look good enough so that we can start implementing the program quickly. I did this on a smaller scale with my first project and it didn’t fail, so now I’m being pragmatic. What I’ll do is present a town project in a written proposal—as if it were already a fact. And I don’t have to feel guilty about meddling with some iconic cultural simplicity because they’ve already gotten fully entangled in bureaucracies. All I hope to do is catalyze the transformation of bureaucratic intentions into real community work that results in delivering services to starving kids. There seem to be some minor details have missed been missed. I want to paint a picture that keeps the goal in sight while flagging real efforts that will not be a waste of time. Even though the language can sound like bullshit, a simplified organizational structure can come in handy when the program starts going.
For the three days of referendum-imposed vacation, I kept busy with this work—at my own pace. I also roamed around a little, hung in limbo, mailed a couple of letters, ate less, and felt comfortable with myself. I read a lot of Agony and the Ecstasy and sat around a lot with the family.
Politics, Voting, Referendum on Martial Law, Scary Lawyer
Voting is required in the Philippines. People travel home to vote. You get thrown in jail if you don’t vote. Voting age is 15. They’re voting on if they like Martial law. (Can’t see that it makes too much difference.) On Thursday night I was asked to go to watch ballot counting (in a fixed election. If the vote is yes—It’s a lie). Certainly a lot of people are mad at Marcos and his martial law because it’s getting boys killed in Mindanao. (No different than Nixon, huh?) A boy (16 yrs.) came back to our town from Mindanao yesterday—skinned, cut up, and in a plastic bag within the coffin. Those details are supposed to be a secret, but the funeral is true (the skinned part is a secret—the army is even guarding the coffin.) I got the info from a good source. So people get angry. What use? Some things are the same everywhere. Screwed that is. Went to watch a ballot counting with a lawyer from town. As it turned out, he’d been drinking and only wanted to get me alone like a typical male pig. I laughed inside and listened calmly—quite confident in myself—merely taking pity. I have grown.
(Note: I don’t know why I didn’t mention this in the journal in 1975, but this was a stranger and more bizarre incident. Perhaps I was afraid that if I told the whole truth the Peace Corps office would remove me from the town or the country for my bad judgement in going with the lawyer. But here is the fuller account: My host sister Inday was supposed to come with us to count ballots and bowed out at the last minute. I didn’t know why she was bowing out. She probably knew the man was drunk. She probably didn’t know how to tell me, or she thought I would also see that it was obvious he was drunk and something was wrong. But I didn’t. I was naïve and went. The plan was to drive only driving a couple of kilometers down the road, though it was early evening and dark. The lawyer drove the jeep off into a rice paddy where there was no one around to see us. He made advances and pulled a gun out. He asked me if I wanted to hold it. I said “no”. Then he held it between us. I was startled and concerned, but strong with adrenalin. I calmly talked to him, reminding him that he was a lawyer and should think about the legal implications. Clearly, everyone in my family knew that he had driven off with me. If he touched me or hurt me he would not get away with it. Certainly his influential father, would not be able to bribe his way past the U.S. government as he did for his son’s Philippine offenses. The lawyer must certainly realize that an injured or missing U.S. citizen would bring to bear all the forces of the U.S. government. Franklin must know that the 7th fleet is parked in Manila Bay. He should cut his losses, put his gun away, and drive me home immediately. Of course I was nervous that he might know that the U.S. government had told us we were on our own and they would not pay kidnappers or barter with any host nationals. I had taken that to mean the Us government would not, in fact, pursue any legal issues on our behalf. I am not certain that is true, but it was made clear to us that the U.S. government would not come to our rescue, so we should avoid trouble. I was banking on it that this man did not know that fact. Though I was terribly frightened, I think I came across matter of fact, strong, and self-assured. Eventually he drove me home and I told my family everything.
The following day I wrote: One uneasiness developed about the lawyer—his wife threatening me & he threatening Dr. Rivero because of an “innocent, unplanned meeting”. So strange to be mixed up and react so. (Looking back I was so oblivious. I suspect the Riveros, Dr. Rivero in particular, had gone to the lawyer’s house without my knowledge—after I reported to them what happened—and told the lawyer that they knew what he had done, that I was a good girl; and he should stay away from me or else. I think I suspected that at the time, but somehow my journal does not reflect that.)
Months later, when I moved into my own nipa hut, I sometimes heard noises, I thought on my porch (up the bamboo stairs of my hut on stilts). Though I locked the door at night, it was not difficult to break into a nipa hut. Other times I would hear a vehicle in the middle of the night and peer out a crack between bamboo slats to see a jeep the color of the lawyer’s jeep parked the narrow dirt street a few houses away. I was certain he was stalking me. I finally said something to my host family—the Condez—where I lived by myself the second year after I moved out of the house with the Riveros. The mother, mommy Condez, came, played cards with me each night, and slept in my house for a couple of weeks, on the bamboo floor by my door. We made it very obvious that she was sleeping with me and I think everyone in town was informed. The night visits stopped and she would then come to see me at night and slip out a back way in the dark to her own cement house on the other edge of the small compound. The family had lived in the Nipa hut for many years and then built a cement house when the husband, a GI during World War II, got his $2000 lump sum US military pension at a certain age. He was bound to protect me. He told the story of being on a forced march during WWII (I assumed the Bataan march) and being tossed in a ditch where the Japanese were disposing of soldiers. He was weak and could not climb out or march, but he was alive. Without anyone of the Japanese guards noticing, an American prisoner had reached down, grabbed his arm, and flung Mr. Condez over his shoulder, then carried him on the march, saving his life. He told me to rest assured that he would always protect me; that he owed it to the American who saved his life.
After all these experiences, I begin my 5th month here in Southeast Asia.
Reflections On Aging – at least on Being 30
I went to visit Craig on his 28th birthday. Somewhere along the line, during the day, Craig enlightened me about female PCV’s in our group. “I know women in Cambridge as young as you all and they’re women, but the girls in our group are little girls….blah, blah, blah, blah…” I said thank you and told him I figured I’d remain a little girl for at least another 23 years. Craig’s character enlightened me about how much I like my PCV friends here—as he cut them apart one by one with a finess that would put the most pretentious caricature to shame. Looking back, he reminds me of Winchester on M*A*S*H, though less likable. So Craig’s been old his whole life I imagine. But we got this other character in our group named Mike Zachary. Mike turned 30 just 2 days after Craig turned 28. Mike has graying hair. He looks 30; but when you talk to him, he just brings out all the little kid laughs in everybody. Zachary was feeling bad about being in view of his next decade. He doesn’t like the feeling much. So he and I skipped out on a meeting (for ice cream). We chatted about the books we’d been reading. Mike forgot about approaching 30 because he’ll never be older than young. He’s going to make a great old man.
Alone Again
Released I would be
to be in love this year
knowing the expectations of passion
and full acceptance
when I haven’t the courage
to accept myself tonight
But burdened am I to live
the growth and changes alone
I want within myself
no need to walk away
from this years’ loves and lovers
to the same unanswered
need to be alone
toughestjobyoulleverlove 