Kali as Poetry, Poetry as Kali

Poetry and Kali together again! Since Eileen often calls me up to do kali at her poetry gigs, I decided to call her up for one of my martial arts gigs. Here's the 411:

Pacific Association of Women Martial Arts Camp Demo

Sonoma State University

Rohnert Park, CA

Saturday, August 2, 2003

7pm

Admission $8

Click for Directions

I'm doing one of many demos that the different instructors of the camp are doing. I always like to do something different each time, and thought it would be fabulous to do kali to the music of poetry. Eileen is cordially coming down from her mountain to be a part of this demo. I'm honored!

Drums of giants: Marawi City

Jafar is our driver. He is Maranao. They tell me Maranao drivers are special. We hop into the van: Sunnie, Maui, Alex, a current Kambayoka member, and me and head to Tugaya. There are numerous towns along the lake. Tugaya is known for its craftsmen.

We first go to the brass makers collective. Jafar's family is part of this collective. We pass through the home and enter the backyard. We watch as they add a layer of bamboo ash to the inside of a wooden mold. The design is done by sticking strips of bee's wax to the side. The designs have triangles and curly cue swirls. They will later put together the two parts of the mold, then poor wax in two holes at the top. Jafar demonstrates. This is the old way of brass making. It takes about a week to finish one, depending on the design and the intricacies. Down the street is where they sell the pieces, nice and polished. They have a seller in Davao at Al Davinco market.

Sunnie and Maui explain that I am from Manila just visiting and they are taking me around. I have that urban sophisticate look about me which blends well. My camera too.

We get back in the van and drive along the roads in the neighborhood. They've set it up so there's one road in and one road out. They are narrow. There is a radio or tape playing Arabic prayers. Kids play alongside the road. There is a neighborhood mosque.

Maui tells me, the Maranao keep many guns. It's a status symbol, like expensive cars. Here it's guns. The Maranao are known as a fighting people. One of their traditional weapons is the kampilan, a long and heavy sword shaped like a crocodile. Unlike most other Philippine swords that have a dual purpose, the kampilan was built for battle. Maui had told me stories before about how his uncles constantly got into street fights to protect their honor. Talagang astig!

We wind down the road to one of the wood carvers. They make the traditional wooden chests called baol with similar designs of mother of pearl pounded in. He had several different baols each of increasing intricacy. In addition he was working on a tv stand and hood where the lid lifts up and slides back. People want TV cabinets more than chests. The design must be first chipped out of the surface of the wood, then the mother of pearl is pounded in. His house stands on stilts right on the water's edge. Under his house are gong and kulintang stands, some so carved in so much detail it looks like it's shimmering.

Sunnie haggles for a couple of small boxes that I want to buy for pasalubong. He is quite the charmer. There is an art to the bargaining, called tawad. There's shock of disbelief of such a high price, the asking for a discount for bulk purchases, the acknowledgement of comeraderie, the well timed jokes, complimenting the seller on how nice they are, the enthusiastic thanks once a price is agreed upon, etc. It's a dance really. In some sense, the seller's willingness to go down in price shows how much they like the buyer.

We hop into the van and drive again. A few houses down, we spot a log of wood, 10-12 ft in length lying on its side, with carved designs. Stop! Stop! we cry to Jafar who abruptly parks. Sunnie calls to the people inside asking them if we can take a look at the drum. "We are from MSU with a guest from Manila." A family walks out. One of the men, wearing a rainbow colored malong, says, "Sure!" and indicates where I should stand to get a better picture of the log.

The log is really a HUGE drum. They bring us to their workshop where there are 6-7 of these drums already finished standing upright. They are twice my height and carved from base to rim. It takes two years to makes one, carved out of a single piece of wood from a tree born in Spanish times (ie over 100 years old). What possesses anyone to spend two years carving out a drum? The drums were used to warn of danger. If there were attacks from one side of the Lake, they would play the drum to announce to the other villages of the attack. I can only assume that they were hung on their side. They use horse's hide for the drum skin.

In another areas of their workshop there are 3-4 incomplete ones and another on it's side being hollowed out. It's all done by handtools, no black and decker here. The similar Maranao design of the wavy curly cues that remind me of paisley patterns is penciled in on the side, while that dig out the inside of the trunk.

They invite us inside to see another baol piece. I am amazed by the craftsmanship in each new piece.

We hop back in the van and continuing driving. We make out way like this. See something interesting, tell Jafar to stop, then ask the residents there if we can take a closer look. The people there are quite welcoming and enjoy showing off their work, in part hoping to make a deal, but also you can see the pride that they take in their work. Some are making innovations like the TV cabinet or a wooden vase with the mother of pearl designs. In order to retain their traditions, they must innovate to art to what the market is looking for. Yes, they are being influenced by a global market that spreads handicrafts throughout the world for the tourist trade, but it's also what they need to do in order to remain being carvers. It's either this, or go abroad, like many others.

As we pass by schools there are makeshift checkpoints. People are so used to driving through checkpoints they have utilized this concept to force drivers to slow down when near schools. The checkpoints are integrated into the every day psyche.

On the way back to town, Jafar races through the roads. In general Philippine driving is crazy, but Maranao drivers will scare the wits out of a regular Philippine driver. Like the chicken games the buses play on the highways, Maranao drivers play it up a notch. At the closest split seconds they somehow make it back into their lane. A leftover road block covers our side of the road while the cars coming down hill cut into our lane to cut the curve, even though the road is wide. A timid driver would wait. Jafar steps on the gas and somehow we squeeze through as a oncoming car whizzes inches past. All of us exhale in relief. Alex who sits next to me had his hands covering his face, too scared to see what might have happened. This is much scarier than a rollercoaster.

We all commend Jafar's skills. I'm not sure if his mind simply can calculate physics at a tremendous rate or that he simply believes. Maui says that his kind of driving represents the Maranao attitude. They are a prideful people who rarely back down. These are the kinds of games they play, the need to show face and courage. This is what I believe people in the lowlands are afraid of. But I find that they are simply mirroring what they are presented as is natural for people.

We drive through the narrow streets of downtown Marawi. There are no busses here so there is no need for wider streets. We hear kulintang music, stop the jeep and follow the golden sounds. It is a thanksgiving feast at a home. There are women dressed in malong, long sleeved blouse and head dress. Two large agongs are hung from the ceiling. A row of 8 large bronze gongs are suspended on strings on a wooden stand. They allow us to sit and watch. Maui tells me it's unusual to see all women play, often there is usually at least one man. Their dabakan/drum is a plastic pail.

Most areas that play kulintang have a few rhythmic standards upon which each player improvises to create their own version of the tune, in the same way many jazz musicians riff of off a jazz standard. I am honored that they let us listen. The children of course are quite fascinated by the new visitors. They pile up near the bench I'm sitting on, they press against each other as if there is an invisible barrier they cannot pass a few feet away from me.

We thank the women for our intrusion and hop back into the van. We do not have time to stay long in any one place. This is partially for safety purposes as well as the lack of time we have today. We still have to drive back to Cagayan de Oro from here. We take a few photos at the provincial capital building and grand mosque. It's the largest mosque in Marawi.

I ask Sunnie about weavings so we stop by a co-op of weavers. They make malong landap, the fancifully decorated malongs. Bright red, yellows, with gold threaded trim. I buy a couple for my mom and sister. $40 US, pricey, but you won't find these in SM.

Our last stop is Maranao food. We go by a row of turo-turo (point-point) food stands near the campus. The vendor hits the front of the display case to chase the flies. We choose the chicken with yellow tumeric and coconut sauce and a spicy fried fish ball with rice. There is a metal bowl and water pitcher with which to wash our hands with. Traditionally, men are separated from women and the food is eaten with hands. We are constantly waving flies off the table, but at this point, I don't care and swatting of flies is a normal thing. The food is delicious!

We go back to the Kambayoka offices and hang out there for a few more hours before heading back to CDO. We leave around 5p and drive in and around the campus a bit. Maui tells me that these buildings here are on university property but the university president is too weak minded to enforce the boundary. There used to be trees there that were burned down. They think it was arson. Pretty soon, the university will have no room. "Once they are here," Maui explains, "they will not leave unless forced to by guns. They will claim that this is their ancesteral domain, even though it is public land of the university. Guns are the only language they know." I ponder this for a moment. This is true with many areas of the Philippines. With 10 million people, land is scarce and so long as no one complains, someone will squat on other people's property and must be paid or forced off in order to leave. Some make it part of their livelihood.

We head down the hill and we whiz past the banners, mosques, and schools as the sun starts to fade. I count backwards the number of checkpoints. We are stopped at one. The one near the fishery. Maui says this is a key checkpoint. We roll up to the soldier standing there, a bright searchlight pointed directly at the car. Maui turns on the light inside the car to allow the soldier a clearer view of the passengers. Sunnie speaks to the soldier, tells him we are from Cagayan de Oro and simply returning home. He is a professor at MSU. I say nothing. There is nothing for me to say. The soldier looks at each of our faces probably trying to compare them to the Philippine's top ten list of fugitives and rebels. After a few more moments he lets us through and Alex races back to CDO.

Maui turns off the light. "Behind the searchlight," he says, "is what do you call it, the gun with the bullets that feed through." "A machine gun?" I say. "Yes," he says, "behind the searchlight is a machinegun pointed directly at the car just in case something happens. Before they didn't have this and a few soldiers paid the price. They know better now." "I'm glad you told me this after the checkpoint." I reply, exhaling to release the tension in my chest.

The rest of the trip back is uneventful. Once we're past the refinery the landscape has changed. Malongs have turned to blue jeans, covered heads and long sleeved blouses turn to uncovered heads and t-shirts.

Back in CDO we stop by the brand new SM mall, so I can get a balikbayan box. I txt my friend, "now my trip is complete. m @ SM CDO." How can you not go to the Philippines without visiting at least one mall and specifically SM (Shoe Mart), the cookie cutter mall of the nation. They have Ace hardware, stores that look like GAP, National Bookstore that sells mostly NY Times best sellers with a small shelf for Philippine books.

We get back to the hotel and rest a bit. We will head to Tribu again later to meet up with some folks. This is my last night in the Philippines. I'll be going home tomorrow.

The Road to Marawi

It's 5am. Everything is in a light blue hue of morning. I always like this time of day. The air is crisp, the streets are relatively quiet. inin-inin (sp?), a word I've heard, I think literally it means when the rice is just cooked but you let it sit a bit before it is really ready, sometimes it's used to refer to that time just after waking when the world is still a blur and you rest in bed slowly coming into consciousness. I enjoy this part of waking up. We often cram past it by drinking coffee or taking a cold shower when all we really need to do is lay in bed for a few more minutes with our eyes open, but waiting for our minds and bodies to fully awaken. This time of day is like this: inin-inin, a slow rising to the morn, when cats stretch and jeepneys putter past, when you hear the sound of walis-tingting scrape against the concrete porches, the air is cool and rested, the light not so harsh on the eyes or skin.

We take a taxi to the bus station and pick up the bus to Iligan. I sit next to Maui who is my resident tour guide for this part of the trip. Born in Jolo, his family moved to Marawi when the fighting there got bad. He says, "I was born in Jolo, but in Marawi, I learned to be Maranao." In Jolo, the fighting is still bad. That's where most of the US troops here are located, in the southwestern part of Mindanao.

It's an hour and a half to Iligan just east of Cagayan de Oro and about 38 km north of Marawi in the province of Lanao del Norte (north of the lake). The bus is sparce, plenty of seats. We pass by Baligoan, the ferry port to Camiguin. It seems so long ago that I was there, though it's really only been 5 days. We reach Iligan at 8:30am. Take a taxi from there to downtown looking for a breakfast spot. The only thing open is Jollibee and even then we have to wait 30 minutes. They open at 9am.

Iligan sits on the north coast of Mindanao. There are 14 waterfalls around Iligan. The largest is Maria Christina. The dams around Iligan supply roughly 80%-90% of all power in Mindanao. It used to be called the Pittsburgh of the Philippines. It used to be quite a prosperous town from the mining in the mountains. They were a steel capital. That's when prices went up. But when the mining industry went down, the prices, still stayed up. It's a much smaller city than all the others I've visited and stopped through thus far. This is where Maui teaches guitar lessons to Chinese-Filipino kids, whose parents don't let them out anywhere, for fear that they be kidnapped and ransomed. He says sometimes it's like babysitting.

A Jollibee employee at the door says it will be a few more minutes. The staff is doing their morning prayer.

Jollibee finally opens. We order, but it seems as though almost everything on the menu is going to be another 20 minutes. Sunnie asks, "what's the point of opening if nothing is ready to eat?" I order pancakes and they order the chickenjoy. Yes, chickenjoy is an any time of day meal. There is a plaque on the wall verifying Halal standards of food preparation. It'd be like McDonald's saying they're a kosher restaurant.

This is how Halal is defined:
Halal is an Arabic word meaning lawful or permitted. The opposite of Halal is haram, which means unlawful or prohibited. Halal and haram are universal terms that apply to all facets of life. However, we will use these terms only in relation to food products, meat products, cosmetics, personal care products, food ingredients, and food contact materials.
While many things are clearly Halal or clearly haram, there are some things which are not clear. These items are considered questionable or suspect and more information is needed to categorize them as Halal or haram. Such items are often referred to as Mashbooh, which means doubtful or questionable.
All foods are considered Halal except the following, which are haram:

• Swine/pork and its by-products
• Animals improperly slaughtered or dead before slaughtering
• Animals killed in the name of anyone other than ALLAH (God)
• Alcohol and intoxicants
• Carnivorous animals, birds of prey and land animals without external ears
  
• Blood and blood by-products
• Foods contaminated with any of the above products

We wait here for Sunnie's friend Alex. A woman passes out flyers for some homes being built. 5000 pesos down payment for a house less than 600 sq ft. I'm not sure how much the entire house would be. Yet most likely there will be at least 6 people living there. The American dream may be to buy a home, but nothing is like the Filipino desire to come home and be tied not only to a house but a location. Even when the kids grow up and move on their own, there's a homestead to come back to.

Alex arrives. We wait for him to eat, then jump into the car and head up the hill to Marawi. Alex went to MSU but now works for a pharmeceutical company.

Me and Maui sit in the back and describes what I see along the way. It is 38 kilometers to Marawi City from Iligan, but 28 Army checkpoints along the way. The checkpoints begin near the Shell refinery next to the soccer field where the helicopters refuel before their bombing runs. There has been heavy bombing along the Lanao del Norte and Lanao del Sur border about 40km from Marawi City where there are MILF (Moro Islamic Liberation Front) camps. It's part of GMA's (Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo) plan against terrorism. In her term, she has sent more refugees fleeing from their homes than the get tough actor ousted former president Erap.

People living in Marawi often hear the deep bass of the bombs dropping. It doesn't phase them.

Checkpoints consist of three blocks that allow only one person at a time through in either direction. It forces the cars to slow and weave left and right to maneuver through. To the side of the road is a raised wooden outpost where a soldier sits watching each of the cars. At night, cars will be stopped at some of them. Larger vehicles will be asked to empty of the men as all the men are searched. It depends on how tense the situation is.

There are no buses to Marawi, only jeepneys. They can maneuver through the blocks. There are a few larger Army trucks along the way in fatigued green. Maui points me to a plateaud hill. "See that," he says, "the military bombed that flat. Suspected rebel communications outpost." Its flattop stands out amongst the more rounded hills around it, an unusual mesa in the middle of it all.

We enter the gateway to Marawi. Bolos Kano (Welcome)! There are red and yellow banners all along the roads. "Alhamdullilah and Congratulations...!" (Alhamdullilah means thanks to you God) to Sultan So-and-so for this-and-that-accomplishment...from some-family. Or it will congratulate someone completing their Phd or passing a board. The land of streamers they call Marawi. Part of the Maranao tradition for friends/family to openly proclaim the accomplishments of their loved ones. A strong sense of community in one sense. An understanding that the accomplishment of one is the accomplishment of all.

I try to take pictures of the streamers as we whiz past. Also of the smaller mosques along the way.

The air gets cooler the higher we go. Marawi sits in the mountains at the edge of Lake Lanao, which is really a redundant name, Lake Lake. It's the largest lake in Mindanao. Jun txts me, tells me that I should ask them where Sacred Mountain is. There, Maui points. "Why is it sacred?" "oh, I don't know. I guess because it kind of shadows Marawi as if it's guarding the city."

After a while you get used to the zig-zag through the military checkpoints, but so many of them do scratch on your soul. I can't imagine doing this every day. I am told nighttime is much more dangerous. Another txt from another friend who lives in the Philippines, "wow, nevr bn 2 marawi! ingat!" I txt him back saying I'm in good hands, and I'll bring back lots of pics and stories. Of course in txt speak it looks more like "oo, n gud hanz d2. com hme w pics & storez." It's a mix of Tagalog and English. oo=yes. d2 =dito=here. yet another txt from a different friend, "Merci says ur having quite d adventure!" I reply, "yes, quite, n marawi now. bak 2 cdo 2nite." His reply, "b safe!"

I trust the people I am with to guide me through this unknown city. It's not a common place for tourists. Unlike Camiguin and Surigao where I saw quite a few foreigners, I have yet to see someone with white skin here. The newspaper the day before spoke of the nearby bombings. I am a bit grateful we are not staying the night. I don't know what kind of haunting memories I would have had, if I got a chance to hear the helicopters and bombs exploding. In some sense, I am cautious of experiencing the reality. There are enough emotions running through me now. Unlike the others, these uncommon sounds to me, I feel will rattle my nerves to no end. My friends say I am adventurous travelling all these places in the Philippines. In one sense I am, in another, I'm not all that crazy either. I go, so long as I feel there is safety and people to guide me through whether I know them from before or find them along the way. People have been kidnapped here recently. There are active military actions happening here. Though these people are not refugees, they are close enough to know how to tell distance from the sound of the explosion, the way we count seconds between the lightning and thunder.

You begin to see more and more women with the head scarfs. The scarfs are quite colorful: light pastels, white, black. Some in the stricter full clothing, where only the eyes are showing. These women are dressed in black. Reminds me of the pictures of Iran on TV. Some of the men too are wearing the middle eastern type hats and tunics. I suspect those that leave here often go to work in the middle east, in the same way quite a few of the Catholics go work in Italy. They bring back what they see.

Back in San Francisco, my kulintang teacher worries that when Filipinos bring back the stricter Islamic practice it will put pressure on the old culture. He says sometimes they come back saying that we shouldn't dance and play music, this music that has been around before Islam came to the Philippines. (Kulintang is an ensemble of percussion instruments, the main one being the kulintang, a set of 8 sometimes 7 or 9, depending on the area, graduated brass gongs.)

It was the same with Christianity pushing out "traditional" music and replacing it with others.

I am beginning to sense what they mean by this "other world." Other women and men, wear the cloth malongs, the tubular cloth outfit, mostly the common Indonesian print. There are fancier styles with more distinctive designs that indicate the cultural region, but the imported Indonesian ones are cheap and easy for everyday use. We pass a Madras school, the Islamic based schools, then a mosque, it's crescent peeking above the trees.

We reach the entrance to Marawi State University. Rows of flags with "Bolos Kano" line the main drive. To the side are the classic Maranao flag decor, bright colors, triangular patterns. We reach the middle of campus to the Kambayoka office and theater building where Sunnie lives. This is it! I'm in Marawi.

Who are these people? What makes people fear them so? Why are Moros blamed for everything? Where do these people live? How do they live? I have so many questions. We wait here for the private transport. I'll get a chance to answer some of my own questions soon enough.

the emerging day

It's 3:30am and my cell rings its alarm. Time to get up and go. Wipe the sleep from my face with some cold water, unplug the recharger for my cell and go. The streets are still dark. There are numerous people at the ferry terminal already, two vendors sit in the booth a light shared between them. Other than the bright light at the pier entrance, this is the only light next to the moon's fading glow. It's booked. Both trips. They tell us, they might be able to fit standing passengers depending on what the coast guard says. So we wait.

A small snack stand is open for business too, selling corn and drinks. The island once green and bright, is not encased in black and dark blues. I can't see much farther than the rim the lamppost light casts. To the side anchored near shore is a lone bangka. Filipinos understand opportunity involves waiting and timing. There are no takers now, but they know when the ferry leaves there will be more than enough to fill his boat.

Right now, we're all back to waiting. Boy, can't get on this island, can't get off. No wonder people end up staying. 4:30, they begin to take ticketed passengers, the duty of the lone guard at the gate. He tries to separate the locals just saying goodbye and helping load cargo with folks trying to get in on the ride. The sky is starting to lighten a bit, the island's mountain peaks begin to show themselves.

5am. This older woman pushes her way past the guard waving what appears to be a ticket. He decides to let her storm through and keep the tide of the crowd at the gate. The folks on the ferry can deal with her. By 5:30, the passengers and cargo are loaded and the coast guard officials come on board to make sure things are in order. The sky's dark blue hue lightens and more of the landscape emerges, the small wave crests, the shore, the land.

10 minutes later, the ferry disembarks with no extra passengers allowed. The bangka picks up anchor and moors itself to the pier. The time is now. "Suwerte si Manong." Jun comments, "Manong is lucky." I guess it's 3 more hours on bangka. As we take off from the pier a beam of lights crests on the horizon, the colors melt into place from this point on. I reminds me of water cascading on a dirty window slowly revealing another side of the world. the sky's yellow and reds push out the blues of pre-dawn. We putter away following the wake of the ferry.

After getting comfortable, most of us try to sleep through the calm of the mangroves. The growing heat of the morning wakes me and I notice the other passengers on the boat. There are 3 women travelling with two young girls, one about 6, the other just a toddler. There is another guy and one woman with a Muslim head scarf. Eleven passengers in all. The waves are noticeable now, it scares the young girl, but her younger sister is unphased, she seems to enjoy it, though you can see the fear in her mother's eyes with each wave splash. We play with the toddler. She has taken a liking to Sunnie and shows him the handkerchief her mother gave her to play with.

Two hours go by, sleep, play, sleep. We pass through the last of the mangroves and hit the open water. We can see Surigao in the distance. It's a bit windier and this boatman is not quite as skilled. The waves though only a few feet seem mountainous to this tiny craft. They put up a tarp to shield the two in front from the crashing water. It only helps a little.

The Muslim woman has been tense the entire trip. I'm sure, like the other passengers, they have read and watched the news over the years about capsizing ferries and tragedies. I'm sure, like most of the other passengers, they do not know how to swim. She has tried to force sleep onto herself. She has wrapped the scarf over her face and head, her prayer beads held tightly between thumb and forefinger. I watch as the beads rotate which each thumb movement. The craft rides high on a wave and comes down. The beads spin faster and faster with each crest.

We are sitting near the back next to Manong. Yet the spray still reaches us back here. The little toddler enjoys the ride, thinks it's a game, like taking a bath. We cruise up and over each wave. The next one Manong doesn't quite time, sitting at the bottom of the wave, all we see is a 4ft wall hanging over us, a collective inhalation of breath is heard as we all turn to the back of the boat, the wave thoroughly drenching the front passengers, tarp or no tarp. its wash spilling to our feet. The Muslim woman moves to the back and rides with Manong. Her face is more relaxed, she feels safer there.

This is where the currents cross which makes the water choppy. I'm not that scared. During a sailing class once, we capsized our small dinghy 7 times in high winds in waves this high. Then again, I know how to swim.

We pass through this area and enter calmer water as we approach Surigao. It's 9am. We are all grateful to be on more solid footing. Sunnie, Jun and I go to breakfast at the marketplace. This restaurant has a small air conditioned eating area. Sunnie and I are heading to Marawi today. Unfortunately, Jun has many things to attend to and cannot join us. I ask him what Marawi is like, he tells me, "it's a whole other world." Thus far, I've only seen one or two mosques, a handful of Muslim women. I wonder what this other world looks like.

We stop by Surigao high one last time to pick up my other bags. Jun has one final surprise for me. One of his students drew a charcoal drawing of me as a parting gift. It's quite good! I'm very impressed! Sunnie and I pick up a tricycle to head to the bus depot. I take a picture of them waving at us as we leave. This leaving is not as sad. Perhaps it's because I've been in motion, this seems more like a brief stop, than a settling.

From the bus depot, we take the bus to Butuan. Though airconditioned, the bus picks up so many passengers along the way, you can't even feel the AC. Again, I try to sleep, it makes the time go faster. At some point, I get tired of even sleeping and just settle watching the land go by and txting. Jun txts me in Maranaw telling me to ask Sunnie later what it means. I txt Maui, another kambayoka member who came to the states. He's in Iligan teaching guitar. I'm hoping we're able to meet up as well.

We reach Butuan 3 hrs later and wait for the bus to Cagayan de Oro. It is 2pm. Four more hours to CDO. Sunnie says it's too late to go to Marawi. We'll sleep overnight in Cagayan. We reach Cagayan de Oro and take a taxi to the hotel. Cagayan de Oro is a bustling city with an active night life. It's quite safe here. Don had told me there was a Filipino-American that was kidnapped here. It turned out he was kidnapped by his own relatives hoping to extort money from his family. Other than that, it's really quite uneventful place.

We have dinner at this hip restaurant, Tribu down the street. Maui too has arrived and will meet us there. It's good to see him again. He was a member that stayed for nearly a year in the U.S. He tells me about his assimilation back. He actually spent a few months first in Manila, just re-learning how to txt again. It had been so long, his phone number expired. (Unlike in the U.S., you can easily transfer your number from phone to phone, just by moving the card, and the number disables itself after a certain time of inactivity.) He had to find people's numbers again. He had to get used to the heat and travelling by jeepney again.

He realized the Philippines is sensory overload. There are people EVERYWHERE! And constant noise and sound. In the Bay Area he found pockets of solitude, particularly late at night when everything shuts down. But here, there is no such thing as that. He can barely think, he barely has time to do his music in between commuting and teaching classes. It's funny, I think, Maui is experiencing what most Fil-Ams experience the first time they come here. The sounds that most Filipinos have pushed aside as a quiet din is echoingly loud for unaccustomed ears. The individualistic nature of the U.S. requires the need for moments of solitude, but in an overpopulated country like the Philippines, you must find solitude in the privacy of your own head.

We go to a 1950's US type outdoor diner, another kind of hip trendy restaurant, for beers. Later we head back to the hotel. It's 9pm. I've been up for 18 hours and travelled nearly 11 hrs. whew! Tomorrow we wake up at 4am to take the 6am bus to Iligan. From there a friend will pick us up and drive us up to Marawi.

Some other Kambayoka members stop by the room. Enye, who I met on the tour, her husband who left before they got to SF, and one other guy (I can't quite recall his name, who was supposed to have gone if Jun hadn't). Enye's husband asks me, "So are you ready for the full Mindanao experience? Hold on, I can make a phone call to some friends. Just remember I get 20% of the ransom but I'll give you 5%!" We laugh. Everyone thinks that getting kidnapped in Mindanao is a rite of passage or something.

There shouldn't be any problems really. Being Filipino allows me to blend in more, just let them do all the talking. I've survived the trip thus far.

I'm grateful for the day's travel that brings me sleep. Otherwise I think I would have been anxiously awake. The aircon fan noise lulls me to sleep.

Siargao: sitting rocks, surf's up, and cliff edges

The fast ferry is booked...again. We decide to take up the offer of a bangka pump boat driver who says he can take us there for 300 pesos each. It's 11am. We walk the 6 inch wide shaky plank and board the small bangka that fits 10: two side benches and a plastic tarp to give us shade. The water is calm. The sky is clear. This is my element...the water. While the other passengers seem nervous, I love this.

We leave Surigao behind and pass through the mangroves. The mangrove trees look as if they are built on stilts. They will slowly gather the silt to form larger islands. Jun likes this way, the bigger boats don't go this way, just the small boats. The mangroves calm the waves making it easier for the smaller boats.

For a while we are out of cell phone range. It's the first time in a while that Jun's cell has been silent. I don't know what they would do without Jun. His cell rings off the hook day and night with questions about what they should do. At least he gets a break.

A few people take naps. Filipinos do so much travel, sometimes it's the only place to catch up on sleep. For example, my cousin wakes at 5am to cook breakfast and get her daughter ready for school. She then goes to a full day at work, comes home, cleans, makes dinner and doesn't go to bed until midnight only to repeat it all again the next day. It's fun to watch people's different techniques for comfort sleeping depending on the mode of transport.

The one that works on all vehicles is the cross-arms on chest, chin on chest position. You can sleep yet remain on your seat. On jeepneys, there's the classic cradle in your arm. You hang onto the ceiling rail with one hand, then lean your head in the crux of your arm. This keeps you from not falling out of the jeepney. There are variations of this of course. I've seen people hang a towel on the rail then hang onto the towel. If there's room there is the sleep on the groceries move. You put your bags on the seat next to you, then lean and sleep with your head on your crossed arms on top of the packages. The variation on this one is to put your backpack on your lap and sleep on it that way. My Baguio backpack is excellent for this. If you're on the bus, you can always use the window to lean on. Accessories for sleeping can be important too. Some people put handkerchiefs over their face, others use folded up jackets as pillows.

I wake up and we're still on the water. I really don't know how much farther it is, but the waves are getting bigger. For a small craft like this the waves don't have to be that big to feel them. I can see the nervousness in the eyes of the passengers. In general a lot of Filipinos don't know how to swim. Kind of ironic for a place surrounded by water. The water starts to splash a bit over the bow. We all turn our heads away keeping the stinging salt out of our eyes. The boat driver has excellent skills. He times the revving of the motor in the valleys of the waves and keeps from riding past their peaks but gliding over them. This keeps the boat from falling into the wave valleys and the next wave from crashing over us. He understands the rhythm of the water and is able to dance us through safely.

It's 2pm. We see the port on Siargao. 3 hrs of being windswept and a layer of salt spray on our skin, we've arrived safely. We get a quick bite to eat, find a room lodging for the night, then pick up a habal-habal driver to take us around. Jun has been here before and so we're going to try to go around the whole island before the sun sets, we have 3 hrs.

Siargao is known for its surfing in September and October when the big waves come in. The island is packed then. Roads in Siargao are really nice. GMA (Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, Philippine president) came for a visit late last year. They made sure that they paved the roads and put up enough cell towers for her visit. That's the way it is here, if someone really important comes, then they make sure to spruce up the place as much as possible. When the nation's leaders met in Manila a few years back, they cut closed a few of the main roads just so the world leaders wouldn't have to go through traffic. It of course prevented hundreds of people from getting where they needed to go, but that didn't matter so long as the guests were happy.

So, here we are, enjoying the roads especially paved for GMA. This makes it easier for us to get around the island in a shorter amount of time. The motobike is large so all 4 of us, including the driver ride. I sit on the far end just over rear tire. I watch our shadow race on the pavement past the green fields under the blue sky. Much of the Siargao farms are owned by one political family. Signs exclaiming the land ownership are seen off of every road. In their fine print, they warn of tresspassing.

We race to the other side of the island to meet the Pacific Ocean. It's low tide, so the waves crash meter away while the near coast glistens in tide pools and tiny creatures skimmering across the dry land. Along with the ocean smells is the sweet smell of freshly baked bread. We follow our noses to a barbeque bakery. Sunnie buys a bag. We brave burned tongues in our anxiousness to eat the fresh pan de sal that simply melts in your mouth.

Back on the bike and onto Cloud 9, where the surf competitions take place. We pass by rows and rows of resorts. Ros had told me her friend has a resort here, but we have no time to stop by. As we approach cloud 9, there is a new resort being built. A rickety platform takes us in, we watch for open planks, careful not to fall through. The actual ocean is distant. There are a few locals hanging out on the platform, while children play in the tidepools. I notice a foreigner climbing out after his swim. There are quite a few foreigners who live here, for the same reason as Camiguin, it's an island paradise.

Even now the Pacific's waves are powerful. I can imagine their heights after the rainy season packed with even more water. Perhaps this is why many Filipinos fear the water, they have witnessed its power and true the water's power can be devastating.

The view is gorgeous! A palette of colors I have never seen before. The sun angling as if showing off the landscape below. Next stop Mangpopongko, which Jun tells me means "sitting."

The road gets rockier on the way there. They haven't completed all the concrete roads. I guess GMA didn't go to Mangpopongko. As we climb the hill, we notice the hill washed out over the road, the flat dirt turning to mini-valleys with smooth river stones. We try to hang on and keep from getting bounced off the bike. Our speed slows and the driver attempts to maneuver around the rocks. The bike stalls, the wheel turns sharply to the left, we begin to fall over to our right, I manage to step off the back while the others roll to their side with the bike. Everyone gets up, mostly bruises, some scrapes. Sunnie with a slightly bruised, but managed to hang tightly to the bag of pan de sal. We bust out laughing! "Save the bread! Save the bread!"

The cliff we notice later was about 2-3 feet to the left of where the bike fell. Maybe it was a good thing we fell, cuz well, that cliff wasn't going to be a good alternative.

We jump back on the bike and make it to Mangpopongko. Sunnie and the driver stay behind while Jun and I climb down. The tidepools are crystal clear, the sun falls to the Golden Light. Golden Light is that time of day that Retong describes as when everyone looks absolutely gorgeous because of this softer golden light. He's right. The colors are crisp, everything is so well defined, each leaf of the trees, each crevice in the rock. Tiny crabs no bigger than my pinky fingernail scamper to and from different pools.

Jun is director of photography. We take numerous pictures: me sitting next to the sitting rock, touching the water. Untouched the water surface is like glass. Later on people would ask if I took the picture underwater. The water's clear surface makes it difficult to judge the depth of the pools.

The sun is setting fast, so we race back to the port city. The roads are good the sun setting to our right. INCREDIBLE! I can no longer describe the sensations of being on the back of a motorbike through this landscape, the air clear, the land green. It certainly beats Manila!

For dinner we head to the marketplace for blue fin tuna (25 pesos a kilo) and squid that we get grilled at the local restaurant with a couple of cold beers and rice, it's one of the better meals I've had in a while (the day's events certainly enhance my enjoyment of this meal).

After dinner, Jun and I take a walk around the town. Sit and watch the children play tag in the park around 10p. It's the best time to play when it's nice and cool. The church still has the scaffolding in front from the Easter events. It's a nice time to walk around. I go to bed early, we have to catch the 5am ferry which means we get up at 3:30am to see if we can get a ticket.

I'll have to come back here again. Maybe try out some scuba diving here. It's 11p. I've got 4 hours to nap.

1 year olds and disco lights

That evening, we're invited by former Kambayoka member living in Surigao to their daughter's 1 year birthday party. Jun goes off to attend to his student's rehearsals. Their big performance tomorrow morning. Sunnie introduces me to many former members of the theater group.

Of course, the food is fabulous! Baptisms and 1-year old parties rank high on the big party list, thus the food tends to be good and plentiful. Dinuguan, pancit, fish, etc. Then there are the desserts: cake, Filipino fruit salad (with the creamy sweet dressing and coconut), bibingka.

While Sunnie and the former members talk about the old days, I move inside and watch them sing karaoke. It feels just like home. Tons of food, chatter in languages I don't understand, and karoke singing. There are some aspects of Filipino that don't change much no matter what side of the ocean you are on.

I watch some of the children playing volleyball with one of the balloons. Though I understand and speak some Tagalog, Visayan is a whole other language. After the children play I strike up a conversation with one of the little girls. She asks me questions in Visayan that I don't understand. I tell her in English and Tagalog that I don't understand Visayan, so in a very proper English she translates.

"[phrase in Visayan] means "where do you live?"
"[phrase in Visayan] means "how old are you?"

She runs back and forth to another child outdoors. She is obviously the courageous messenger willing to pass along the questions of her inquisitive counterpart outside. I hear Visayan is relatively easier to learn than Tagalog. Plus it's spoken by over half of the population, just about everywhere south of Luzon.

We head back to the hotel we're staying at. I'm staying in the Red Room. It's very girly with the red frilly curtains that open to a brick wall. At least the curtains are pretty and they have a shower with built in water heater for hot showers. I rarely take hot showers and prefer the cold ones. Besides electrical equipment near water is kind of scary.

Loud bass eminates from the top floor of the hotel. There's a club there, free to hotel residents. I head up there to check out the party scene. I probably should have changed into the standard jeans and t-shirt clothes. Everyone dances in groups, never alone. After sitting around for a bit, I decide to dance...alone. Apparently, this is not really done. As I turn around, a lot of people are looking at me. Someone asks me if I'm with this other woman, I think she's referring to the other tall Filipina on the dance floor. I tell her no. And decide to take a seat.

Frankly, I've never been too comfortable in most disco dance clubs. I spent most of my college years going house parties rather than SF night clubs. That along with my apparent gigantic size increases my self-consciousness. A friend txts me to say I should go dance! Even though the fear pools in my belly. I'm not really having fun. Unlike in US clubs where dancing alone is a regular thing, we're so big on individuality. Here I'm just crazy.

Not that this is not the first time I've taken on what's normally expected of me in this country. I played a pick-up basketball game with some Philippine Marines in Manila once. But when you're tall on a basketball court, they have to give you some respect. Here, on the dark intimate packed dancefloor, I become keenly aware of the circles and dance groups. Plus staring in the Philippines is not necessarily as taboo as for Americans. I take the dance floor again and just close my eyes trying to escape the fishbowl in my own darkness trying to fall into the music. I think to myself, "why do I care? It's not like I know any of these people, and I probably will never see them ever again."

But deep down inside, I do care. I do care that I'm sticking out even more than a sore thumb. It's a matter of fitting in. Each time I come back to the Philippines, despite my Americaness I'd like to fit in or at least not create the kind of commotion the ilicits children screaming and pointing at the "kano." Growing up in the U.S. it was my Oriental eyes and mathematical wizardry. Here it's my accent and height. I am a non-standard Pinay in many ways which I have taken great pride in at times, yet there are some days, I wish I was the standard stereotypical Pinay. Like right now.

Intellectualizing all of this, I know this is crazy talk. That there is no "standard," and these stereotypes are ridiculous to compare myself too. blah blah blah... But there's nothing that can negate the feeling at this moment: the weight of the eyes, the wanting to shrink into nothing, the nervousness churning in my stomach. I wish I was 5'2".

are we there yet?

We make it back the next morning to Surigao and by 9am we're at Jollibee's eating breakfast. Sunnie arrived in Surigao last night and meets us there. The plan today is to try to get to Siargao, one of the islands around Surigao. Siargao sits along the Pacific Ocean and is known for its resorts and surfing competitions in September/October.

After breakfast, we try to go to the Siargao ferry office. The ferry fits 80 people. There are 2 ferries that go there, 4 trips a day. All booked!

Jun must check back on his students. They are preparing for an event for the district's principals. Jun's track record of being able to coordinate students into fabulous performances has made him Surigao's unofficial welcoming committee. Fortunately, he trains his students in a way that they have to manage themselves and he only comes in to check up on things. He wants kids to think for themselves and not have to rely on him or the person in authority to tell them what to do next on every little thing.

We head back to Surigao high with him. The students sit on raisers on the stage in the back. "Good morning, Michelle!" they sing in chorus. I'm still not used to it when they do that. He introduces them to Sunnie, then proceeds to ask them the tasks remaining to be done. I hear him reply to them, "What did I tell you when you don't have something? That's right! You go find something." He sends them off to their tasks.

The high school is bustling. It's registration time and the district teachers are here going through seminars. Jun is supposed to be in these seminars too, but he's excused himself out of them. The building is in the shape of an "o" and has a rectangular open courtyard. There is construction here to put in a covered canopy, so people can still walk across during the rains. There are workmen with blowtorches and on scaffolding chipping away at the concrete sides to put in the supports. There are no orange cones or yellow warning tape separating us from their work, just a lone rolling chalkboard in the middle that says: "Caution, Falling rock." Yet, people still walk through just making sure they don't step with the chips of stone have accumulated.

Just another one of those situations where it's left up to the individual to take care of themselves. Don't blame me if you get knocked by a flying stone piece, you were warned.

We meet the principal of the school and a few of the teachers. Jun introduces Sunnie from MSU Marawi, then introduces me from San Francisco, one of Kambayoka's sponsors and truck driver in the U.S. They look at Jun then turn to me and simply nod in this "aaahhh" recalling Jun's previous stories to them as they connect face to tale.

Since we can't go to Siargao, we will try tomorrow. Today we'll head to Lake Mainit, about 30 minutes outside of town. It's the 2nd largest lake in Mindanao I believe with hot spings emptying into it, thus the name, "Hot Lake." We take a Jeepney out of Surigao. We reach main town near the lake and walk to the shore a few blocks away.

The Lake is huge! It almost looks as if there's an opening where the lake forms the horizon from the cascading mountainsides. There are a pair of ferries half filled with passengers waiting for a full load before heading to the villages across the lake. They say there are New People's Army groups around the lake living alongside Memanua villages. This is their home.

There's a man in a canoe bailing water out on the shore. Jun and Sunnie want to take a short ride around the lake. Jun scouts out some of the local fishermen to see if they'll take us around a bit.

The scenery around the lake is breathtaking. Besides the few canoes and pump boats along the shore, the lake is calm. The green mountain peeks measure how large the sky really is and the lake's water reflects the blue above.

Remember the guy bailing out water from his canoe? He says he'll take us. I'm not too sure about this. But we get in anyway. We sit as low as we can though there's still a small puddle at the bottom. The canoe shakes, we try to sit directly in the middle, hoping not to tilt our wait from side to side. The canoe owner pushes it out to the shallow shore, the canoe trembles under our weight and we're not even out onto the deep water yet! Sunnie screams, "balik, balik, balik! go back, go back, go back!" I can't help but laugh out loud as the canoe owner pulls us back. I imagine what it may have been like flipping the canoe out in the middle of the lake.

ok, back to shore. We like shore. There's a young boy, about 9 years old, who takes interest in us tourists and follows us around. He looks as though he spends all his time out on the water, his skin a deep kayumanggi, his hair lightend to a brown from the sun.

Jun finds a pump boat fisherman to take us aboard. We like pump boats. They have the side pontoons that keep the boat from tipping too much either way. As we board, I watch the canoe owner paddle away. He sits high on the back end, the bow skimming just above the water's edge.

We ride the pump boat out on the lake for a few minutes, our young guide, tagging along. I never get enough of being on the water. I swear I was a fisherman in a previous life. The past 2 weeks I've either been on, in, or under the water. I can't describe how rejuvenating it's been.

We get back to shore. Our young guide takes us to the marketplace, through the shortcut around the back. Kids know where everything is. We shop for some swim trunks before lunch. 15 pesos for a pair of shorts.

Sunnie orders some chicken adobo. He loves eating local chicken, the true free range variety. Chicken tastes different here. They grow at their own pace, not the hyper-grown agri-business chickens that Americans are used to. There are numerous flies in the still afternoon heat, but I've become used to it.

Our guide brings us to habal-habal drivers to take us to the hot spring nearby. We take two of them. I personally wouldn't drive a motorbike, especially on U.S. roads with the SUVs and Semis, but I love riding one on the open roads out here in these small towns, no helmets.

A friend of Jun and Sunnie who lives here on Lake Mainit told them they were building the road to the hot spring. We ride this road for a few minutes before hitting the regular dirt roads. The rain from a few days ago has washed out and made the road muddy. The bikes can't go any farther so we walk.

Jun tirelessly leads the way. We walk along the road both sides dense with trees and coconuts. Though you can still get a strong cell signal and all the coconuts have wedge cuts indicating we're not in the middle of nowhere.

After walking several minutes, Jun stops to ask a man chopping wood along the side of the road. "How much farther to the hot spring?" The man replies, "oh just over the hill, you're very close" as he point with his arm extended in the direction we've been walking.

Another 10-15 minutes later, Jun asks a family by the road, "How much farther to the hot spring?" "oh, you're very close, maybe two hills more. just over there!" We continue to walk. It try to keep with Jun's pace, my steps stepping into the prints he just left.

Again, several minutes go by and he asks another man by the side of the road, "Manong, the hot spring, is it in this direction? how much farther?" "oh," he answers, "quite far still, maybe another kilometer or two."

ANOTHER KILOMETER OR TWO!!!

Sigh. There's no turning back now. It's either keep walking to hit the hot spring, or walk back to motors and go home. I'll bet on the hot spring. Jun tells me Filipinos never tell you how far by their words, if they point with their arm it's still really far, but if they point with their lips, it's close. We should have paid attention to that first guy's extended arm.

I send a few txt messages as we walk. Txting is always something to pass the time. I send a few messages to friends updating them on my location.

We reach a pair of kids with a carabao. "Dong, how far is the hot spring?" "It's right over there. Very close, we'll walk you there." We've gotta be close now, they're willing to walk with us and kids know everything.

We cross a cold spring and hike up the hill following the hot water stream. The area is lightly cemented. The stones are washed smooth, the minerals in the water painting them orange, green and yellow. The water is so hot, I can only dip my feet into the pools for a few seconds. i try to splash in the water as much as possible to keep the mosquitos away. There are always mosquitos...everywhere.

The hot water eases our tired muscles. Funny, hot springs are the list of things I'm to avoid based on the list from Kaiser Hospital. According to Kaiser, I should stay away from natural springs, food at road side stands, drinks with ice, tap water, etc. I mean, what would my trip have been like if I listened to that?

The hike back doesn't feel as long squishing in our flip-flops. The motors are still where we left them. They take us back to the main road where we pick up a jeepney back to town.

Day 3 Jun Pilapil's Survival Surigao complete.

A teacher's teacher

After dinner we take a short tour of the island, up to the founder's shrine and mansion at the top of the hill.

Later on in the evening, Jun and I find ourselves on the roof balcony. He's smoking away. The people here don't like smoking, but he gets away with it, he's a friend.

In the time that Jun spent in San Francisco, I knew only a handful of things about him. So, tonight, I spend time to learn more about who he is.

The breeze is moist and warm, which is nice, few mosquitos but it means a storm is coming.

Jun asks me what I want to do. I tell him I don't know much about this place. I'm game for just about everything. I'm a writer. I'm happy just watching people live out their everyday lives. Oh it's nice to do a few tourist things, but I like to do stuff that locals do. Sitting out here, talking with you, that's what I like to do. So I ask him, what brought you to Surigao 15 years ago?

Jun was part of Sining Kambayoka Ensemble (Kambayoka Theater - who actually have a very unique Filipino style of theater) while in college. It took him nearly 10 years to get out of college to finish his Physical Education major because he travelled with the ensemble whenever he could. He went all over the Philippines with them: touring, researching, etc. There's only 3-4 places in the Philippines he hasn't gone yet. But he never regretted a moment. He got a chance to have wonderful adventures.

He came from a family of teachers: both his parents, 2 of his sisters, and the third sister works admin at a school. He says his father didn't help him out much through school, maybe because he knew he didn't need the help and could pull through on his own. So Jun worked through his college days, doing just about everything and anything that would pay him a buck: scrub floors, heavy labor.

His first teaching gig was a school in Butuan, I think. But he got into trouble, publicly disagreeing with some head honcho, which essentially forced him to leave Dodge. Then he went to Surigao. At first, he went to another high school but something told him to walk up the hill to Surigao High. He said it felt right. He liked the energizing feeling of walking up the hill and when he got to the gate, he kind of knew to be here. And he's been there every since.

This is how Jun has lived his whole life by following a feeling. He tells me that when they got to Los Angeles 2 years ago, he didn't have a good feeling about it. But when I walked into the room to get them, he felt good and knew they should go.

I understand what he means by this feeling. And often try to listen to that feeling myself. I know quite a few people who lived their lives this way, not as some planned map, but as simply walking through each door that came their way.

He tells me about how he led Surigao High to win the open Sinulog street dance competitions in Cebu 5 years in a row and how he bowed out of a 6 year because he was burnt out and felt that Surigao shouldn't go just to win it or to think that they have to win it every year. His philosphy was that if you have something to show or to contribute, go, but if you're doing the same old thing, why bother. His speech is as fast as he walks and takes breaths on his cigarette in between. The red ember at the tip as he inhales is just a touch of the fire he tells these tales with.

He tells me about leading 5000 students in the middle of the day running up and down rows screaming at them. No sitting pretty under an umbrella for him, he's a hands on kind of guy. He tells me about the politics of being a teacher and getting funding. [I already know how hard public school teacher's in the States work to get funding, I can't even imagine how much more for here!] He earns some money from people renting out his costumes to other choreographers.

He wishes he had a house. He says it's not much of a living being a teacher. He is so poor. But, Jun, I say, what other kind of life could you have had? You would have killed yourself if you were in a desk job inside with airconditioning. He laughs imagining the scenario.

He tells me of past loves and current loves, how he decided that Surigao was still pretty small that everyone knows everyone else, so that when he moved to Surigao he would just be out. Often his kids try to set him up, egg him on, "sir, ooh, that one over there. yes, him!" But he finds his life too busy to fit anyone else just yet. Like everything else in life, he has faith that the right person will come when they come.

I have watched these past few days how memorable a teacher Jun Pilapil is. EVERYWHERE and I mean EVERYWHERE we go, there is a former student who makes sure they say hello and waves and calls out, "morning, Sir!" "afternoon, Sir!" "evening, Sir!" You would think he was the mayor or governor. But you can see, they respect his honesty and his faith and his determination.

His kids often tell him, "Sir, we don't have this! we don't have that! we can't afford this!" And he replies, "so what? just use what's around you! the grasses, the leaves, the wild flowers." He took a whole class out picking wild flowers once. "Use your imagination, your creativity!" he screams at them.

He says, oh I can't just teach them a sport or a dance withouth teaching them the history and cultural and political significance of it. They have to understand the world. I learned Surigaonon from them asking them to translate world events into Surigaonon. They have to understand how it all fits. [Just then, I wish I had a PE teacher like Jun when I was growing up. I feel a kindred spirit with him, since I too was a PE major and had once thought of being a PE teacher. If I had become one (there's always time), I would have wanted to be one like him.]

The thick clouds above finally burst and we tuck overselves under the eaves as the sheets fall.

I ask him about his work with the Memanuas. The Memanuas' home range covers Butuan to Surigao with Lake Mainit in the center. They are closely related to their neighbors the Monobos. For the most part, most have converted to Christianity and like many indigenous groups live on the impoverished edges of the main cities. He and his students go back and interview them. Ask them what they remember, what their grandparent's used to say and do. Very few know their language anymore. But the dance, I ask, how do you find that out?

They had drums they said. So, we gave them drums and said, just play. They told us, but we don't know how to drum or dance, we have forgotten. That's ok, just hit it, just play, just move, don't worry about knowing anything. And so they move and so they play. And somewhere in all the forgetting, a rhythm comes out and movement emerges. oh, see! You know! They have a very unique rhythm, it's very difficult.

He steps his foot a few times trying to recall it, but stops frustrated.

I tell him how my trip to the Philippines is planned on feeling. I know when I'm flying in, I know maybe where I'll stay the first few nights, but from then on, it's wherever I find myself and to simply be where I am. The way he walked up the hill to Surigao High. Lots of things were supposed to happen and lot of things might have happened, but they didn't, so this place talking to you seems to be as good a place as any to be.

The rain stops and we pull are chairs out a bit onto the black shiny balcony. We talk through another half pack of cigarettes til about 2 in the morning. I learn so many things from him about who he is and more importantly how he lives life. I believe Jun is more prosperous than he thinks he really is. He's a man that sees opportunities and takes them and gives them out to people he feels deserves it more. My teacher once told me, "Prosperity isn't about the number of dollars, it's about living the kind of life you want and do the things you want to do." Jun's life seems to have all the prerequisites. We have 4 hrs to sleep before breakfast and the first ferry out at 7am.

I go to bed thinking I couldn't have planned a better trip.

now I know what it feels like to be a judge on Star Search

After prayers and anthems (both for the PBMA and the Philippine national anthem), the judges are introduced one by one and we stand in acknowledgement. My only credential to sit on this panel is that I'm American and a friend of the chairman.

The 9 women come from various areas throughout the Philippines and are allowed to do their routine in whatever language they feel most comfortable in. Three from Luzon, three from Visayas, three from Mindanao.

There's one who did salsa ballroom dancing. Another who did modern pop dancing but used a lot of northern mountain costuming and props: costume of the tribal people of the Cordillera mountains, a clay pot with fire, and the black clay pots that are usually stacked on one's head for traditional folk dance. At first I thought she would actually do that dance known as Dugso, but she didn't.

The vast majority did several things: part acting, part singing, part dancing. They often started out with an acting bit about how they felt they were really talented then proceeded to the different things. They often picked a love song for singing and did what my friend classified as Japayuki dancing, the kind of club cage type dancing done by many Filipinas who travel to Japan to work in the night clubs there. The acting for the most part was drama with a woman who was being beaten and/or raped by their family, their boss, or their lover. Another woman's scene was about how she never received love from her mother. The acting involved a lot of screaming, agonizing pain convulsing, followed by crying.

I could barely sit through it. This was probably the most disturbing part for me. I had known that Philippine movie and television is filled with women being abused, which is why I often steered clear of it. In some ways these suffering female characters are a way of showing how strong Filipino women in enduring pain and still surviving. But to watch it brings an uneasy feeling in my stomach, which I try to squelch with the soda and spaghetti on the table. I wonder deep into the psyche this goes whether women grow up expecting to get beaten and whether men grow up to beat them. I know Filipinas can endure great pain, but do we have to be beaten to prove it? In my personal family, this never occurred, but I had heard many stories of it happening in some of my cousin's family. The other judges and the audience didn't seem phased by any of it.

I tended to give those women lower scores than the ones who picked one talent to showcase. From my American view, I would rather have a person do one thing well, than a bunch of things only ok. It was clear after the tallying which numbers were mine. They wanted someone who could do a bit of everything even if they were so-so in all of them. They wanted the all around performer.

While we waited for the final results, they took a poll from the audience for Txter's Choice, a play on Taster's Choice, essentially the audience favorite. The women came out again, sat in a row on stage. They were then asked to vote for Miss Congeniality.

After we review the tallied votes, they announce the winner of the talent competition, which was only 10% of the total. The ultimate voting would happen next week. The beauty pageant winner gets some kind of scholarship prize money. This is really what most pageants were based on, a scholarship fund.

Afterwards we eat in the cafeteria with the contestants. As I walk by them they tilt their heads up, I'm about a foot taller than most of them even when they are wearing heels. My height plays into Jun's stories of me being a model from the U.S. My height always immediately made me a non-standard Filipina, since I was taller than even the guys. I actually didn't think I would end up with a Filipino guy, because I didn't think any of them grew tall enough.

Growing up, my family and I would often watch Miss America and Miss Universe. We would cheer for Miss California, often a blue eyed blonde woman and Miss Philippines. Filipinos still recall where they were when the Philippines won Miss Universe in the 70s. It was a triumphant moment for this island of "little brown brother's" who were too short, too dark to be beauties. In the early 1900's, American newspapers drew us as wild, dark, short, naked savages.

The store shelves are lined with Eskinol this astringent that's meant to lighten ones skin. When my boyfriend took pictures of Philippine folk dancing, his family would wonder why he took pictures of this one woman because her nose was too flat. The flat nose is often remedied by pinching a young child's nose every day hoping it can be pulled into shape between their mother's fingers. Young girls are often told not to go out in the sun, less become too dark.

I had mixed emotions when Miss Hawaii won Miss America. In one sense the 5 year old girl in me rejoiced that Miss America looked like me, plus she was only 5'2". Yet a part of me felt as though it all merely emphasized Filipinas' status as the exotic beauty open for pen pal exchanges and mail-order marriages. Do a google search on Filipina and you'll see what I mean.

I want to be beautiful, but I don't want to be objectified.

Don't look at me

Everyday is so wonderful
Then suddenly
It's hard to breathe
Now and
then I get insecure
From all the pain
I'm so ashamed

I am beautiful
No matter what they say
Words can't bring me down
I am beautiful
In every single way
Yes, words can't bring me down
Oh no
So don't you bring me down today

-lyrics from "Beautiful" sung by Christina Aguilera

more on Mindanao

Here are some articles in the SF Chronicle July 6 & 7 about Mindanao:
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2003/07/06/MN274481.DTL

Much of this is written from Iligan, a city that sits on the north coast of Mindanao.

from the forrest

I check out from the Pension House early morning. We head to an outlying barrio known as Mat-i that sits on the edge of Surigao. There is a brand new festival here, the Banwahon Festival in celebration of the Santa Cruzan. They are the first baranggay to have their own festival, usually it's just cities and towns that have festivals.

Apparently, Surigao is really into festivals and street dancing. Banwa is a word meaning forrest. Groups of mostly young people line in costume. The rules of this performance is that they are to have costumes made of natural material and that they use only a handful of colors. Many of the costumes are dried leaves or grasses. We head up along the crowd to where the judges are sitting. The groups are required to do a choreography in the street then one in the gymnasium.

Jun tells me the beat the drummers are playing is distinctly Surigao. Surigao is recognized for its street performances and has won the open division of the Sinulog in Cebu several times.

There is one group in particular that Jun and his students have been working with, they are called the Memanua. They are the indigenous group of this area, also known as the Aetas of Mindanao, they share similar African features: tight curly hair, darker skin, etc. Many of them have become a part of regular Philippine society. Many are Christian and they are slowly losing their language and rituals with each passing generation.

Jun and his students go to these areas with pen and paper trying to document the memories of elders. In order to find out what their dances and rhythms were, he simply lets them play and move. Even when they say they don't know how to dance, he just tells them to move. And somewhere there is a rhythm that emerges and a way of moving that comes through. I can see how they need to be careful of not influencing what this movement is or what it should be. They have to do a lot more listening. Jun tells me their rhythm is quite distinct and I can hear it in the drums as their group is set to go for the street performance portion.

Each group does various choreography. Some of them raise each other up on shoulders. There is always one, usually a woman holding the cross. At one point, she shouts, "Viva Santa Cruz!" and the rest shout "Viva!" sometimes while bowing low before the cross. There's a part of me unnerved by this. I am struck by layers of emotion and contradiction. Part of it is because as an American, I'm just not exposed to religion on a constant basis. Part of it is this uneasy feeling about bowing so low to a religious icon. Though I am catholic, God for me is not a deity to be bowed to or strictly commanded by. For me, God is intimate and surrounds me.

It's the feeling I get when I can't reconsile what seems to be exclusive opposites. It is simply irony that I am not accustomed to.

After watching a few of the groups, we proceed up the road to the gymnasium where the stands are already packed with folks. Jun score us some folding chairs and we sit on the more priviledged stage side of the gym. The heat is getting to me and I'm literally falling asleep. I manage to stay awake enough to watch the Memanua's healing ritual. Their Babaylan dances around the "sick" child while holding a bowl with fire, then with the cross in hand. A Memanea man wearing a priest's robes, starch white, carries a bible and simply watches from the side.

It's almost noon. I've been up for 6 hrs. We leave Mat-I and need to catch a ferry to San Jose Island for a beauty pageant that Jun is judging. On the way back we stop at a chapel. There are some kids playing see-saw in an old canoe shell. I take their picture having fun.

Inside the chapel is a statue of the Santo Nino. This one is black. They tell me that 25 years ago it was stolen and sold to the Ayala family. This barrio was able to retrieve it because it's unique. This Santo Nino has got what a Ken doll doesn't, it has a penis. When they located it, it was naked. In the chapel it is fully clothed. They say that when it was lost it took the good luck away from the barrio. With its return, it has brought great fortune.

We get to the ferries at 2. There are numerous bangkas, most that are marked to hold 75-80 persons, but I don't know if they calculate all that cargo weight in that total. The bangkas go to many of the outlying islands. The closest ones are still part of Surigao City, the rest are part of the province. We are heading to San Jose, Dinagat Island.

We board one boat. There are tightly packed wooden benches inside. You have to climb bent over to get to a seat. Let me tell you, in an emergency, there ain't no quick exit. After getting situated, Jun finds out it's the wrong ferry. We quickly get off. Two ferries down we find the proper one.

Once seated we wait. Wait for the boat to fill. Wait for the cargo to come on. While we wait, we watch as the coast guard boards the ferry next to us and orders people off the ferry. It's overloaded. Some people get kicked off. Because of this, we wait again, so the Coast Guard can check our ferry to make sure it's not overloaded. I don't mind this kind of waiting, I'd rather not make the evening news. (A week after I return to the US, there's news of a ferry accident in Manila Bay. Overcrowded vessel.)

Jun tells me that the beauty pageant is run by the Philippine Beneveolent Missionaries Association. I've never heard of them. Nearly everyone in the town is a part of this organization. He chit-chats with some of the women on board. He tells them I'm from San Francisco, they ask if that's San Francisco, Surigao del Norte. He answers, no, San Francisco, CA, USA. About 10 minutes north of Surigao is a city called San Francisco. In many ways, I'm not too far from home.

We are finally off. Back on the water again. My whole trip has been spent near or in and around the water. It's been great!

About an hour later we reach San Jose. I quickly follow Jun. He doesn't speak much, tells the officer in the port that we are judges and we proceed past him. We ride a motorbike, otherwise known as habal-habal. He takes us to an elementery school where we are greeted by Jun's friend Ben, a fellow teacher.

There's an hour before the show. We have merienda. The mosquito repellant is wearing out. While I eat the sandwich, the mosquitos are eating me.

We are asked to write a short introductory bio. I find out that I will be judging as well. I'm not sure how qualified that makes me, but I'm game. Usually, I have a lot of political issues with beauty pageants, including how and what they promote as beauty. But, I can't refuse my curiosity at seeing one in the Philippines.

The only beauty pageant I ever attended was one for Miss Trans-World. A pageant for transgender and transvestite women in San Francisco for Filipino Task Force on AIDS. I highly recommend it!

We are seated at the judges table. There are video cameras taping what will be broadcast throughout the island. They own the cable company and do their own programming. The other 3 judges are 2 doctors and a pharmacist who grew up in San Jose. There are maybe about a hundred people in the audience.

They serve us each a bottle of coca-cola. There is a folder with score sheet and pencil. This will be the talent portion which will count for 10% of their overall score. We stand for the anthems. The show is about to begin...