I wrote the following one day, in the autumn of 1975, some time after I moved into my nipa house and settled into my life in the barrio.

Even now I relish Saturday mornings, the very idea of awakening to a day to be felt beneath the skin. Once upon a time I liked sleeping-in on such mornings, but I prefer now to wake at sunrise to long peaceful hours spent in morning solitude. Throwing a smock (which lays always tossed at the foot of the bed) over the long night’s dream-spent nakedness, I carry the lantern back to its hook in the main room, then unwire the bamboo hatch door and descend, as if in a sea-going vessel, to the toilet below the house on stilts. Reentering the upper deck the day begins as the mosquito net is taken up and the windows are untied and pushed back, letting in an orangeness to fall in patterns designed by filtering palm trees. Admittedly the cocks have long been crowing and the majority of neighbors rose by 4 a.m. (one or two hours before dawn); yet I feel the gratitude of waking “early” with an alertness never known since childhood. I used to drag my bones wearily from the mattress and flounder all the daylight hours (except when too madly busy) wishing to chance upon a pillow and stolen moments (stolen from who? I never figured). Here there always remains the option of an afternoon siesta during that peaceful time of day when all activity magically ceases—magic to an American-grown. But just now siesta is hours away; the early morning sun is still weaving through the swaying palms to its dance across the bamboo floor and woven partition of the bedroom, which is situated in the southwest corner, away from the rising sun. I enter the bedroom but notice later with some melancholy that when the blankets have been folded, hair brushed, shorts and tee-shirt replaced the smock, and the bed-table is being carried to the main room to resume its role as desk, eating table and end-table, the sun streaks beyond the partition have stilled and dimmed from orange to paler yellow. The sun, above the trees now, will soon turn the day into its white, work-a-day world. Nonetheless, having glimpsed these early oranges catches in my memory, making easier the acceptance of an onrushing brightness. In another life I woke late to a world already washed in white, blinding, and like an electric shock, tensing the nervous system in preparation for a rat-race existence.

Sad to see the early edgeless colors slipping into daytime clarity, but happier to have caught the soft serenity—in this frame of mind I set about my business, meager as it may be. My mind wanders of its own accord as my feet carry my body and two buckets along the muddy path to the water pump. Daily with greater proficiency I carry these two brimming buckets up the stairs into the house, kicking off my sandals upon entering. I also make a game of alternating pumping arms, so as not to develop nonsymmetrical biceps. One bucket now lends itself to washing yesterday’s clothes—having soaked first overnight—and the dishes accumulated after the evening meal, perhaps a cup and spoon from tea or hot chocolate. The other bucket stands faithfully by for the day’s demands. After hanging the wet clothes and preparing something hot to drink (regardless of health advice, I still hate hearty breakfasts)—simply enough, my manual labor is completed. I ought to feel guilty that the townspeople “pity” me this very labor, which is carried out with a minimum of effort, and my life alone, which I find delicious, with no “helpers”. I smile at the irony, a smile generally mistaken for embarrassed humility, as I honestly wonder what busies people so. For me to have a household “helper” as is frequently suggested (and household help is sinfully cheap here) would be undesirable and perhaps unpardonable—to so lack initiative to forego the smallest amount of labor necessary, in my opinion, to maintaining a free healthy body, not to mention a self-respect. What debt would I unwillingly owe society if I willingly depended upon it for my basest needs? There is no denying however, that as a foreigner in the most accommodating of cultures, a trap of laziness and dependency is an easy one in which to fall. For nine months I lived with a local family, fearing to alienate myself irreparably by breaking social patterns, a generous family who forbade me so much as to clear my supper dishes from their table. I was always a China doll, to be handled with indulgent care. When weather, or my own lack of initiative did not permit long afternoon walks and/or swimming, my unspent energy would burst inward causing me to lapse into spells of frustration, loneliness, sluggishness, and short-temper directed self-inward—frequently even becoming physically ill from my under-exertion and overeating, both fundamentals of the culture. Looking back, I was fortunate to have had available the periodic saving outlet of tears, to dilute my frustration. This measure proved numerous successes though it was not an option to my neighboring volunteers down the coast, being all males and therefore limited by their thwarted upbringing. I must add, however, that males, on the whole, have many more advantages—the opportunity of physical activity such as basketball, the chance to relax during evening get-togethers and drinking sessions with local contemporaries. A female, on the other hand, is generally protected and confined to the home of her “host-family” from dusk until dawn. How I longed to see the moon and the stars those first few months. Even during daylight hours, females are severely discouraged from wandering without a “companion”. With the poor lighting, as there is no electricity in this rural town, evening restrictions begin early, confining one to quarters and leading to over-extended sleeping hours, further laziness and concurrent sluggishness. Here in my own nipa house, although I’m still “confined to quarters” after dark by local mores, I enjoy the priveleges of minor daily activities to maintain the premises and of waking slowly and silently through my morning chores. I drown my lethargy in vigorous water-pumping or floor-polishing (a local ritual dance, as I call it, of sliding barefoot on a half-coconut husk over the bamboo slats. The entire body weight is balanced on one foot sliding across the floor atop an inverted half coconut. The other foot maintains the balance and rhythm as it hops across the floor directing the activity. The process seems to be as efficient as expensive, electric, department-store buffers. It further seems to be marvelous exercise for the knees and fore-thighs.) At dusk I usher out the day in a similar fashion, slipping easily into the peaceful evening as I go about my mindless tasks—fetching water for the toilet, dishes, and “bath”, sweeping, dusting (what little there is to be dusted), floor polishing, walking a few blocks for drinking water once or twice a week, perhaps a short trek to the market for kerosene or fish or vegetables, filling and pumping the lantern and stove, burning garbage weekly, doing a few ritual exercises for peace of body and mind (possibly omitted depending upon the current status of my self-discipline), lighting the lantern, and lastly, when once again all color has left the blackening sky, I pull back the windows and tie them shut. Aside from cooking, these daily chores take less than one hour if carried out efficiently. I find this small amount of work healthy, an opinion substantiated by my previously unhealthy state during a parasitic existence with a kind, but over-accommodating family.

Nonetheless, if ever a life was undemanding, this one is. The only demands are self-imposed, rather than societal. Even my so-called “job” melts into the pattern, leaving me free to function in my assigned capacity, or not, as personal initiative, opportunity, or guilty conscience dictate. This is the life people dream of during the mad hours of their busiest season–a life unbound by time with chance enough to notice the colors of the day; the rare life, like at Walden Pond, when a human being unlimited can experiment with life-style as it relates to eventual peace or happiness or whatever goal, if indeed, a goal be desired. Here is living with no place for excuses or rationalization—an opportunity thay potentially exists everywhere, but in reality, perhaps is rare. Just now, I desire to attempt each new day in this light—as if each were magically the beginning of a rare and significant experiment in growth, in living. Sluggishness, boredom, and complacency, may very well be the signs of failure, my enemies. But just now as one day is still fairly beginning, my vaguest responsibilities behind me, I face the question of the day—How shall I live this free and unlimited day?

As usual, I postpone any decision for purposeful activity, preferring just now to read by the window in the morning’s lingering coolness as passersby seem too preoccupied to stare beyond my bamboo boundaries. I, the stranger living alone against custom, a strange curiosity with blue eyes and white skin, seem perpetually to be ‘on exhibit’ and so now grasp at the opportunity to reverse the habitual roles, becoming the unnoticed observer, an audience of one before this stage of local activity. Pretending to read, it’s the Saturday sounds that urge me to halt between paragraphs and identify the distant reverberating noises. The church is sounding three bells—one very low and familiar (used as the local time-piece, a rural “factory-whistle”, announcing dawn, noon, and dusk with six, twelve, or six clangs respectively); the next clang is somewhat higher though more penetrating like a school-bell calling children from recess; and the third clang is tinny and awkward, as if for lack of anything better, an old woman is calling her deafening husband in from the fields, making use of a collection of large pots and pans. These three bells sound in succession, though lacking a definite beat, for several minutes. As the intervals of silence lengthen (I suppose the toller is tiring) there can be distinguished another deeper, rhythmical, thundering sound. Shortly, when the bells have ceased altogether, a whole cacophony is heard accompanying what is obvious now to be a large drum. No doubt it’s the local, bare-footed street band gathered with their rusty ancient instruments to march (for a fee) with one of the endless successions of funeral processions. The town assuredly has committed to memory the band’s small repertoire of tunes—dreary hymns, cheerful marches, and outdated popular love songs. These noisey rainbow parades of umbrellas crowd the streets in disorganized fashion to the same accompaniment, year-in, year-out, so unbelievably frequent in every barrio of the province; it seems the municipalities must be importing their dead in order to keep strong the businesses of funarias, marching bands, and umbrella sales. The funerias “rent” rather than sell the plastic flowers and silver spray-painted caskets. The passing processions fade in the distance, seemingly unnoticed as life continues—no thought given to the passing of life or the barefoot trumpeters. Like the townspeople, I begin to accept this delicate, fluctuating balance between life and death as routine….”So Mrs. Dela Cruz’ little boy died of tetanus (was that the boy in third or fourth grade.)”, and “Mrs. Vista had a baby at midnight. Was that her twelfth?”, and “Dodong’s motorcycle isn’t working well.”. I hear the squeaking water-pump and children tossing pebbles, a woman is selling fish and a hoarse dog is barking at a passing bicycle.

Hours pass in just this manner; reading chapters all in all but especially absorbing the day—the sights, the sounds, the routines. All this quiet observation maintains the interest of my wandering mind until the increasing heat begins to overtake me, threatening the dreaded tropical drowsiness lest I take up another plan of action. Realizing the hazard before me, I rise and rattle around the house like a dog shaking off a summer’s nap.

The day passed, like a hundred others, resting beyond the touch of memory. Perhaps I was caught in conversation or went to the beach for an afternoon swim, finished a novel I was reading, or caught a jeep ride to a nearby town to visit an expat and drown in conversation and hidden habits of a culture whose framework was lost to us now. I might have made a particularly good soup for dinner that night, or Quaker Quick Oats.

The sun rises, passes, and sets. I interact, perhaps less passionately than in my first months. I’ve even lost the clever cynicism capable of authoring  witty letters I sent during the frustrating and often depressing days of my adjustment phase. I passed then through a melancholy time of passionate reverie for the Cascade Mountains, temperate seasons, and other symbols of “home”. The hatred died, nostalgia lessened, the cynicism came to be in jest, my depression dissipated, and I came to the limbo in which I float these recent months. It strikes me that this strange development is my reason for writing this journal of thought and feeling. Perhaps this is an inquiry, a probing into an unnamed sense of spirit that might be mistaken for ennui or boredom or complacency. The question arises, “why am I not bored?” That’s it. I want my pen to probe this for me before I lose the remnants of being simply unbored. Happy is an insufficient word. It is not what I mean to imply. Lola, the grandmother here, might merely say that I am satisfied and it is enough.  There’s a trap or gate that lies at the a narrow border between boredom and acceptance, between nothingness and simplicity, between dissatisfaction and peacefulness. It’s all around me here. It sends volunteers home early, bored and cynical; it brings others a fulfillment and acceptance. Perhaps I am experiencing the latter.