Lucky bet with Better Luck Tomorrow

If you haven't seen it yet, this is the movie to watch! It's playing tomorrow, Friday, August 29 7p and 9p I believe at Wheeler Hall UC Berkeley campus as part of ASUC Superb which shows movie hits for a fraction of the price.

And if you can't catch it there, it's set to come out on DVD September 30, 2003.

What I loved about this movie was how it really turned the idea of "overachieving Asian" on its heels. The chance to see Asian Americans in complex roles on the big screen, plus its a story that you don't have to be Asian to understand and relate to.

Check it out!

Bada bing! Update your spelling lists kids!

A few years ago Homer Simpson's "D'oh" got into the dictionary. This year blog along with "bada bing" and phrases from a british show. Prairie Dog is now a verb with prairiedogging, the act of Dilbert-like cubicle workers peaking over cubicle walls to check out the scene for perhaps their eagle boss.

pretty sparkly toes

In contrast to the weekend prior, I was a bit more femme this past weekend. I always love nourishing both the yang and yin parts of me. This weekend is yin.

Had my 10th year high school reunion on Saturday at the Claremont Hotel. I had heard about other people's experiences at reunions and didn't know what to expect. I went to a small Catholic school, you knew everyone in the class.

Anyway, it's a nice opportunity to dress up and have some fun. We couldn't find a place to find get a makeover, but I did live down the street from a nail parlor, "Oriental Nails." As with many nail salons, it was Vietnamese owned and operated. In the same way, many of the African American beauty product stores are owned and operated by Koreans.

I've never had a manicure before, much less a pedicure. So I sit at the foot soaking machine: a chair dangling over a vat of water with bubble jets. The manicurist sits on a stool in front, filing and shaping my toes on one foot while the other soaks. I've known many women who go and get manicures every couple of weeks. The others getting their nails done look like regulars as well. There was also a back room for waxing services. Ouch!

Being a tomboy growing up, I never got into dresses, fashion, makeup, and the like. I don't really know how to "do" any of that stuff. Eventually I picked up a style for myself and now I know what kind of dresses I would look really good in, but I only put on a touch of makeup, have no idea what kind of foundation to pick, but do know the shade of lip color that works well for me.

I got into fingernail polish a few years ago and have several bottles of that along with polish remover, but stopped doing that after my boyfriend, who knows a lot about biology, discussed the kinds of toxins in nail polish and remover. What women do to look beautiful!

One friend recently suggested I might pluck or wax my eyebrows. ouch! I can endure pain, but I don't endure that kind of pain.

In many ways, Filipinos are obsessed with beauty, we love beauty pageants, and gowns. Parents want their children to have more pointed noses and fair fair skin (thank you esquinol). I've for the most part been a rebel to this level of beauty. In high school, I would have liked to been noticed by the guys, but had problems with how much work it took to get that notice so I stayed out of the socializing fray. We all know it's in high school that most girls really learn and obsess over this stuff.

But I think there's a line between pampering oneself to feel good and another to do it cuz well, that's who I think people want me to be. I know women who do the nails, do the plucking, exercise, cover all the bases in terms of getting ready for the guy, yet wonder why they don't have a guy. Sure, women do this to create this illusion the way Hollywood stars do, but we ourselves can't get entranced by it as well. These are not guaranteed means to an end. Yet the world tells us this is so.

So, I'm here, sitting on a chair, my feet soaking in stirring bubbles in a bath below thinking about issues of beauty while the Essence magazine cover implies they know why "he won't marry you" followed by hair and makeup tips for the upcoming season. I must say, soaking tootsies in a warm vat is rather relaxing. Hits all the right pressure points.

The manicurist files away to shape my nails and round them out. She follows with small short clippers tugging away at the dead skin around them. Dead skin is not pretty. The sensation reminded me of the tiny cold water fish in Camiguin that nibbled on your skin if you sat still enough.

A lot of people think toes are ugly, yet they are essential to our being. How do we hate parts of ourselves that are us? I like my toes. I like walking barefoot. Even hiked for two miles on a trail barefoot. It's nice to feel the earth between your toes. There is a gentleman in the chair next to me getting a pedicure. I learn later he's 45, has a son at Tuskeegee and is a nurse. He certainly deserves a pedicure in his line of work being on his feet all day.

Over the bubbling water, she asks, "what race you from?" I ask her to repeat the question having slightly fallen into my own thoughts. "oh," I answer, "Philippines. I'm Filipino."

"ah, yes. Vietnamese and Filipino look lot the same." "yes, we do. We look the same."

She finishes by rubbing oil into my toes, exfoliating my soles (so ticklish), and a bit of a foot massage. The feet are said to contain pressure points for much of the body: organs, lungs, heart, etc. I can feel the rest of my body relax. She puts the foam separators in my toes. I ask her to paint my toes purple. They end up a bright pinkish purple with a shiny coat.

When she's done, I move to another table to get my hands done in the same fashion, while my toes cool in a fan breeze.

I look at my hands and think, "I'm never going to be a hand model." There are rough spots on my knuckles, slightly callused from hitting stuff, lighter colored knife knicks and scars, the vein on the top of my hand raising ever so slightly to show it's shape. My mother told me, it's a sign of tired hands. My fingernails are of uneven length. A hangnail still sits on my thumb. I tend to let them grow until they break. I always wondered if jamming my fingers in basketball ever made them shorter. But I've been told I have fingers the shape of candles, "parang candila" they say. My toes too are long, like my mother's pinching toes that can kurot you as quickly as picking up a fallen napkin from the floor.

I ask the manicurist to paint them red to match my outfit for that night. She finishes by brushing the edges of cuticle with acetone to wipe up the spill over, then leaving me to hold my fingers in the fan.

They're really pretty. All bright and shiny. They don't look like my hands or feet anymore. I try to not touch anything while the nailpolish dries. I feel like I've been pampered. No wonder women do it every 2 weeks or so. I don't think I could afford that, but I can understand why they might want to.

My boyfriend waits for me while reading "Reader's Digest." We have dinner reservations at the Claremont at 6:30p. We figure, might as well enjoy a lovely meal before the reunion just in case, it's boring. You can't go wrong.

Even while typing this blog, I watch my nails dance in and around the black keys. It's funny how fascinated I am by them. I wiggle my toes, watch the light change and sparkle. It's silly really, but fun from something so small.

The next day, my nails survive kali class. I head over to a girlfriend's house that evening, drama with the boyfriend and she needs help packing. We both know that she'll survive this, but its the moment that is hard. While she showers, I tape boxes. The packing tape gets stuck to my nails. I wonder if it'll pull the color right off. dang! When she gets out of the shower, I joke to her and say, "I must really like you, cuz I'm about to ruin my brand new manicure taping up boxes." She's like, "I'm sorry, Girl!" I just smile and laugh, "Just kidding! I can always get another manicure."

I can't get another friend.

Bullwinkle's Corner

Bullwinkle: Hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.
Rocky: Again?!
Bullwinkle: Nothing up my sleeve.
ROAR! (roaring animal pops out of hat)
Rocky: Now, here's something you'll really like!

Every early morning, me and my sister would wake up for the early morning cartoons. Obviously I was still young enough to enjoy waking up that early in the morning. One the cartoons we never missed was "Rocky and Bullwinkle."

"Rocky and Bullwinkle" introduced us to Fractured Fairytales, Peabody's Improbable History, and the Canadian Mounties with Dudley Do-Right. Little did we know how they were worping our views of the way the world really told fairy tales.

Browsing through the Costco DVD section, we came across Season One of Rocky and Bullwinkle. ooooooohhh! It was only til later on how I realized how genius the cartoons are in terms of being entertaining for kids yet throwing in jokes that "adults" could pick up as well. Even now, their silly spontaneity and goofiness sparks laughter. Bullwinkle was the innocent genius before Forrest Gump.

"Rocky and Bullwinkle" was set up like a 30 minute variety show with different segments. They understood the attention span of 5 year olds. Each story line was broken up with a cliffhanger ending.

Anyway, one of the segments was called Bullwinkle's Corner in which Bullwinkle recited a poem and enacted its words which of course ended up a big silly mess. For instance, he would recite, "little miss muffet" and Bullwinkle would be the Miss Muffet while Rocky questioned what a tuffet is and would fill in as the spider roll.

In some ways, it was my first exposure to a poetry reading and what poetry is. I would later recognize some of the poetry as coming from the classic English poets, but in cartoon form it wasn't so distant or detached from my life.

CorpsePoetics as Chaffeur

David "keep your seatbelt fastened" Hess is a brave brave man.

Check Eileen's blog about the poetry blog party. I'll try to make it earlier next time, so I can match more names to faces.

when the gloves come off
for Rita (2-3 2KO)

They had called me a man once, for wanting to fight, to fight for money. I remember the first time they let me into a ring against another person. It was a guy. I was the only woman in the gym. I didn't do this for the "exercise." I wasn't a part of the kickboxing cardio class. I wanted to fight. It's about the competition. It's about picking yourself up, about fighting past the pain. He didn't want to hit me. He was a good kid. Got raised right by his mama not to hit girls. He let me have a few blows, but when I stunned him with a right cross, the pools of light in his eyes shifted. It was about honor, about manhood, about not getting beat by a girl. Each hit came down in a deep thud. It was all I could do but ride the ropes and take it.

I don't remember the punches hitting. I don't remember the sweat stinging my eyes. I don't remember the sounds of the crowd. I don't remember seeing his face. I don't remember leaving the ring. I don't remember the doctor. I don't remember the ice bag. I just remember lying down in the locker room feeling like I fell out of the sky, like the fallen angels.

Later, complete strangers would show grave concern over my slightly closed eye. "Are you having problems with your boyfriend?" "Here, this phone number is completely anonymous." "How long has this been going on?" I didn't have the heart to tell them, "I told him to hit me."

My partner knows the routine of the 3 "I's": ice bags, iodine, and ibuprofen. Even the slightest touch from her softest hands makes my body wince. In the ring, my body was numb, but here now it retells each blow and I cry like watching a good drama serial. I know she wonders "why?" and the only answer I can give is, "because I have to."

Asian American stand up comedy this Sunday, August 24 8pm

Check it out, head on out to Kimball's East, that's right come on over to the east bay for some seriously funny stand-up comedy. The line up includes: Kevin Camia, Leah Eva, Joey Guila, Jasper Redd, Oliver saria, Bernie Sibayan, Mario Ubalde, Sheng Wang, Brent Weinbach, and hosted by Al Manalo.

Tickets are $12.

Because you understand the fight in me, Part III

A year ago, a friend put a bug in my ear, "I've always wanted to watch a boxing match." I remember watching boxing matches on TV. My grandfather would circle them in red ink in the newspapers tv guides along with the other shows he faithfully watched, "Sanford and Son" "Lawrence Welk Show." Before boxing was a regular tv programming with Howard Cosell and his lovely matted hair on the "wild, wild world of sports." But since the scandals and corruption, and the perceived "violent nature" of it, it's be relugated to the Spanish channels or late night tv on a non-major station.

The thing about boxing is that we hate to admit that we enjoy watching two fighters pummel each other. Yet, we watch hockey and football. But for some reason unless they're padded like a mattress, it doesn't seem "right" for us to enjoy watching it. I have no shame. I like boxing.

I like it the way Romans like Gladiator fights. I like the drama, I like the strategy. I like the athleticism to avoid one strike, while finding the opening to another. I like the courage of facing one's fear. Do they fall for the fake? Do they remember to do what their coach tells them? Boxers have some of the smoothest feet out there. There's a certain grace and style to it. The lighter weight matches are fast and furious while the heavyweight battles are like giants battling in the heavens.

So, I was a bit surprised this friend of mine, who isn't much of a sport fanatic, wanted to watch boxing. But, always going with the flow, I said, hey if you want to go, I'll go with you. Thus bringing me to today.

I've been searching for boxing matches to go to. Ideally, Las Vegas would be the place to go, but Vegas is expensive! You're talking $100 to get in the door and nowhere near close to the ring. My friend wanted ringside. We'll have to look at no name events then.

A few days ago, I get a call from my boyfriend. He reads off this sign in Spanish. Live Saturday Nite Fights at the Oakland Coliseum. "Wanna go?"

Ooooooh! yeah!

I email my friends, but no one can go today, so my boyfriend said he'd go with me. See, this is how I know my boyfriend LOVES me dearly, he goes to a boxing match with me. Though i wouldn't mind a dress up gourmet meal, he knows that I couldn't really care much for jewelry or perfume nor the regular "chick flick."

I'm still looking out for boxing matches to go to with my friend. But my BF and I decide to go and check this one out at the Oakland Arena. There are five scheduled fights. The main attraction is a boxer by the name of Celaya from Salinas. The promotions were sent mostly to the Latino community, about half of the boxers were Latino.

Incidentally, Tuhan (my martial arts teacher) knew of the guy. Celaya's trainer is married to his cousin. There you go 6 degrees of Pinoy separation. We'll get more into the Filipino-boxing connection in a bit.

We get there an hour early by BART. But the matches are delayed an hour due to traffic and waiting for the ambulance. I think they were just stalling to get more of a crowd in. The boxing crowd was interesting. There were rows of old timer white men, whole Latino families (fathers with their sons and a few daughters), there were those dressed up as if going clubbing with their chains and rings, then the women dressed as well as if going on the night on the town in tight sexy outfits and heals, then regular joe-schmoes dressed in shorts and tshirts.

We watch them set up the ring. The referee leaning against the ropes to test out their strength. The distinctive ring bell sounds. A bright metal bell sits on a table at the side of the ring, the timekeeper puts on a distinctive black and white striped shirt. It's all about fashion and flash in boxing. The referees are dressed in business blue shirts with black slacks and neat bow ties, you wouldn't think they were getting ready to push a pair of sweaty boxers arm's length apart. Later one we'll see the boxers in basic black, shiny silver, velvet red, hot pink, and fire engine red colors.

There are 5 fights tonight, most of the their career records seem unmatched. A few young pros with only a handful of fights to their name, then a couple of old timers, with 40-50 fights. First two fights are junior middleweight, the third is a women's bout, fourth are the heavyweights, and the last the named title round.

The announcer in his finest tux comes to stage and announces the first bout. The bell rings after each of the introductions: the judges, the refs, the timekeeper, and him. Rap blasts over the sound system as the first fighter comes out. Next, mariachi music comes on as the second fighter approaches. more later...

Because you understand the fight in me, Part II

Just got back from Tuhan's (my kali master's title is Tuhan, which means master) seminar. He held it at a Cayuga Park in San Francisco. Cayuga is in the not so nice area of San Francisco, off of Geneva and sits under the BART tracks. It is here that this Hawaiian Filipino guy who had never carved wood his entire life, starts finding faces in the stray wood he finds, eventually erecting an entire wonderland of tree carved faces and animals. It's very enchanting.

We just so happened to be practicing next to on the them that looked like a stickfighter, his hair tied and waving behind him holding a stick in each hand crossed. "too wierd" my teacher says.

This class was special. A lot of the older Guros/Teachers back from when I was just beginning were there with some of their students. There were other kali folks I hadn't seen in ages as well. It was good to see them. One of them brought his daughter and month old baby! When you give up your body a few hours a week to these people and they give theirs to you, there's a connection. I always love seeing them and seeing how they're doing and hoping the best for them.

I arrived a bit late over the bridge (accident totaled a VW bug) with one of my students. As we approached the group, one of the other Guras greeted us happily, "yay! More girls!" as I looked around to the big tall buff guys practicing techniques.

We got through the morning practicing the various techniques Tuhan shows us. It's Saturday morning. I haven't been up this early on a Saturday morning in a long time. My control is just a bit off as I apologize to my partner for pegging her a touch too hard. When you practice for accuracy and control, you know when you are off and when you are on.

As others come in, the pairs are uneven and I practice on my own a bit watching. I learn a lot from watching people practice, see what they've picked up from what Tuhan is saying. No one ever gets it the first time. I still don't get a lot of it and I've been doing it for a few years. It's also just a beautiful style to watch, the sticks float and bounce in and around the bodies, quite graceful. The BART train passing overhead drowning the normal soundtrack.

Near the end of class is time to spar. A lot of the guys were from the old San Francisco class that I started in. That was a fighting class. They were younger, in their 20s and could bounce up faster. They would wrestle to the concrete. Tuhan would have to yell for them to stop before they went too far, before someone got hurt.

In those old classes, the women would mostly watch. Every now and then Tuhan would throw us in. I was in my early 20s then with little muscle mass. I got good at deflecting shots, but Tuhan would always yell at me to hit them and hit them so they could feel it. It's the only way for women fighters to show guys you're not a pushover. You have to get your hits in, you have to hit them so they feel enough pain to know, "yeah, you would have gone down." It's easy for the guys to overpower me. Their hands wrap easily around my wrists. Tuhan told me to hit them for years and years before I started figuring out how to do it right.

But it's been a while since I've seen them and they've seen me. Tuhan sends me out with a staff to defend a stab with the staff. I'm off and it takes me a while to get into a groove and defend properly. As I fall into that groove, the targets become clearer: deflect, hand, knee, ankle, calf. The staff reaches each target as if knowing what I mean with the precision of my own finger. This is warm up.

Tuhan switches people in and out. Open hand, sticks, staffs, push hands. I play with another Guro, more recently appointed, and the play is smooth. I play with one of the older ones open hand: the strikes are strong, but my body is stronger now. I try different techniques to get a shot in on him. His biceps are twice as big as mine. We're able to get a fair trade of strikes.

A few other people go. The two Guros from back when go against each other using the heavy mahoghany/kumugung sticks. It's getting dangerous but they have trained together for so long, it's an easy dance for them, they know each other's moves.

Tuhan sends me out with one of them. I left my other sticks in the car and I have to use someone else's weapon. Though light, the grip is big. I can't be as accurate with it nor manipulate it as fine. I strike for him. In this drill one strikes the other defends. After a while you can't tell the difference. Tuhan tells me to throw change ups (in other words, "hit him, trick him"). I do as he says. Now we're getting more into the sparring fighting. It gets intense. He's hitting hard and so I make sure my tags have a bit more on them.

I was taught, that if a guy is going to hit you, hit them back. A stab here, a strike to the hand there. He wants to end the fight and goes for a stick lock to a joint maneuver. I haven't been able to figure out how to get out of a man's power, I can't really stop it from coming. If he grabs me, he grabs me. I can feel the grip on the lock, the pain rising to my shoulder. My free hand cocks back, elbow high, and comes down on his face, right on his nose. The collective "oohs" from the group watching pull me back quickly realizing where I am. His head rocks back a bit, he's stunned but doesn't let go of his grip. "Sorry" I say, before he sweeps my foot out from under me. He storms off with a not so nice look. A kind of look that makes you watch your back. I pick myself up off the ground where he left me, "Sorry. reflex." and shake his hand.

A couple of more matches and we close out and bow. We chit-chat and laugh with folks. No hard feelings. This is what we do. This is what we sign up for. Count the bruises on our hands and shins. It's alright. They heal.

A handful are left with Tuhan. He asks me, "did you do it on purpose? hit him in the nose?" "I just wanted him to let go," I say. "Boy, he was pissed, but he shouldn't have lost it with you." "What was I going to do, Tuhan? He was 'hitting' me, it's not like he was going soft!" "Yeah, he was hitting you, you could see it. He always gets so competitive with you."

"He's mad, cuz she's a girl!" proclaims the other Gura. The other woman and I smile, we know what she means. The other two women were kind of glad to see me get a lick in. It means that if you can't mess with one, you can't mess with any of us. Going through the years of training, there was always a special bond with the other women. When they went out to spar with the guys, it was our fight too. When she got hit, we got hit. But when she got one in, it was all of ours to share. When another woman gets a shot in, it makes you believe that much more that this might work for you, that you too might be able to get one in. Women learn to take the shots, last long enough so you can get one shot in, the one that takes them down.

In the moment, I couldn't really tell you what was going on or why I did it. All I know is that it was there, and I went for it. All I know is that I wanted him to let go. All I know is that, I didn't realize what happened til my hand hit his face. There's a part of me that says, if I'm going down, I'm going to get a shot in, might as well. I'd rather not go down easily. He had me on the lock. I wasn't going to pull away or get out of it. There's a reflex in my arm, that I have felt before. When I feel it, it goes.

Part of me felt bad cuz well, I should have had better control. Then again, he didn't get a bloody nose from the punch. Part of me was scared of him. Part of me said, well, this is what happens. Part of me felt I didn't have a choice, he was going to throw me anyway. Part of me replays it in my mind and thinks, damn, that's some fine kali.

Eileen, you're such a fine paduan lerner!*

Back track a couple of weekends to Saturday August 2. I'm sure Eileen has told you all about it already, but hey why not hear it again.

Way back when, Eileen took like 4 weeks worth of kali classes from me. She was a fine student, if not for her coordination, but it's the spirit of kali that she understood. So hard to find that nowadays. Most people think it's just a technique, a movement that can be diagrammed and calculated. Oh, but Eileen had a fine eye and always understood that behind the calculations and the thought there was a spirit to feel.

And that's part of the reason that I invited Eileen off the mountain top to join me. I mean, how could she say no to a woman who carries a VERY BIG sword? Besides, she knows one of the great mantras of a kali artist: hit them when they're not looking. And what better place to hit folks with poetry, but at a martial arts demo when they're not expecting it. In the same way, we've awed audiences before by bringing kali to a poetry stage (Small Press Traffic Jamboree). People don't think they want to see poetry, and that's ok, they're going to get it anyway.

So here we are, Sonoma State University's Gymnasium. I've only read her poems over email, so I have her read them once through so I can pick up key words and know when she's done. She finishes and I explain to her the audience: 300 women martial artists from the west coast. ie do not piss them off, they carry weapons.

Personally, I hate doing the same demo twice to the same audience. I'm all about switching it up. Give them something new and different to see. I get so easily bored myself, I'd hate to bore myself with my own repetitive demo. Yawn! Every association has their "standard" demo. In Filipino Martial Arts circles the demos consist mostly of repetitive drills followed by the teacher explaining every move then going slow, then fast. At PAWMA, the "standard" demo was drills with some dance movement, done with some kind of grooving music: salsa, latin, empowered woman song, little talking. And always the more people the better. These are just general observations.

But Kali is poetry and poetry is kali. I rarely have more than 5 people in a demo, mostly because I don't have THAT many students. It's usually just me and one or two others. That means whoever is out there must be THAT much better because all eyes are on them. In this discpline, I'd much rather be effective and efficient.

Prior to the demo we decide the order of poems. She will read one by herself, then I will enter and perform on the last three. Reading one by herself to open, it forces the audience to watch her and listen to her. It also allows the audience to become used to her voice so that way when they watch me, they can still hear her voice. I have to know the order because I need to know the emotional movement through the pieces so I can match the kali accordingly.

The demo itself feels like forever, though on tape it's only a few minutes. Whenever demos get long, it's hard to stay focused and I really need focus when I'm swinging a live blade around. I stumble backwards (though on the tape, you can't even tell) and at one point I'm resting the back of the blade on my neck and have the panic thought, "this is a single sided blade, right?" It's too much time and the mind starts to let the fearful thoughts in. But Eileen always tests my endurance to new levels. I think she took extra long pauses between poems.

Eileen is too busy juggling papers and microphone to be able to watch my movement. I don't stop to look at her either, which leaves only her sweet angelic voice to carry us through. I'm trying to find her rhythm and time the movements to her pauses and breaths. Our slower pace overall compared to the other demos forces the audience to take longer breaths as well, lulling them into this time worp we've created. Bring them back to a time when Gabriela Silang lived.

Kali is a form of anthropology for me. I come to recover lost memory. The blade I used was one from Mountain Province, antique and heavy. I wonder if Gabriela's blade was like this. I wonder if her hair went down to her elbows, and if her skirt kept her steps small. I wonder how many ways she may have killed Spaniards by her blade past their armor. I wonder if they combed her hair after battle to remove the tangles or wept in the apron of her dress then men she had killed and the ones she had lost. I wonder what drives a woman to continue on barely mourning her husband, only to die months later to join him.

We finish the demo. There's a bit of a pause from the audience, perhaps it's a collective exhale, then applause. We were mesmerizing. I think it was Eileen's long locks swaying to her breath that did them in.

I am thoroughly winded, look around to figure out where I am. I'm not used to doing kali for 4 minutes straight. It's such an intense art that demands every cell to be in the moment, that whenever I'm done, I'm not exactly sure where I am. Not unlike poetry, which asks me to be in the moment. Eileen always pushes me to go longer because though a kali student, she too is my teacher. Any good teacher knows the moment when to push their students harder, get them out of their comfort zone, only because the teacher knows they can, even if they don't. And as I promise, I always make her look good.

*paduan lerner - the first stage to becoming a Jedi knight.

And now back to our regular programming...

That ends the bulk of the Philippines 2003 trip. It's now August. A whole summer of other adventures have came and went. I may back track, I may not. stay tuned...

My Native Home

For breakfast Sunnie and I go to Cecil's house. She also works at MSU but has a weekend home in Cagayan. Her youngest son is there too. We have a delicious breakfast of longanisa, rice, fresh mango, puto, etc. They have 3 white cats. Cats in the Philippines are no where nearly as fat as American cats, even the house ones. Her cats had a lean look to them. White with sparkling blue eyes, except for one which had one green eye and one blue eye.

A taxi pulls up and Maui arrives. His girlfriend wasn't able to come, she wasn't feeling well. Though I've never met her, she seems to be quite a woman. I mean, he did leave for the U.S. for an entire year, with an indeterminable end date. My comment to him was, "and she took you back? must be true love." Plus, he refused all the proposals and advances from women in the U.S.

He hands me a book. Essays on the struggle of Indigenous Peoples in Mindanao published by an NGO (Non-Governmental Organization), what the rest of the world calls non-profits. My girlfriend thought you might like this book. I'm thinking, though we've never met, this woman knows me well.

We jump into a taxi and head to the ecovillage and wait for the DOT guy. We're hoping he can get us in for free. He is, afterall, the DOT guy. The road to the ecovillage is a long way off from the main highway. We're actually kind of scared that the taxi might not be able to take us all the way up, but we make it. While we wait, I txt Don, who is now back in Manila. I have a 6 hour layover in Manila and want to see if I can have dinner with them during the wait. I love txting. No yelling into phones. No worry about not being able to hear people over staticy lines. When you're in range it'll send, if not it'll wait.

The DOT guy arrives and we enter. It's not really my idea of what I thought an ecovillage would be like. There are 4 houses constructed by each of the four indigenous groups in the area, constructed in the traditional way. Then there are people from those groups who basically hang out at the house doing weaving, playing instruments, dancing. I think they live there. Then tour groups come by and watch them do stuff. It's a strange feeling I get here. In one sense, it's good that people are learning from the indigenous groups, in another sense, I feel like the 1904 World's Fair in St. Louis when Filipinos were on display. Well, that might be extreme, they're not forced to wear indigenous clothing or hunt in front of folks.

I guess this display was similar to when I was in Vancouver at the suspension bridge there and there was a woodshop where Natives were carving totem poles and other wood works. It was open so you could talk to them. But it had that living museum kind of quality. I still haven't been able to reconsile that feeling.

We enter each of the houses. All made of wood and thatch roofs. Because Sunnie and Maui had spent years traveling to the home areas of these indigenous people, they played music, danced and conversed with them on different things. The people seemed to appreciate how much they knew about them and their culture.

Though it was hot, all the houses with their angled roofs were cool with open frames that let the cool breeze pass through. Ang sarap! (it taste good). Certainly beats the tin ovens in the city, hollow block and tin. Tin and brick last longer and withstand the elements longer than grass roofs, but they're basically ovens. They don't breathe. I'd also hate to be in one during an earthquake. Forget it!

Maui says I should tell Rhett that he can come back and build a house just like this. I wouldn't mind living in a house like this. After a while you get used to the mosquitos anyway and no real need for tv. It would be cabin living in the tropics. I wonder if I could live here in the Philippines. Maybe not in one of these houses but do what Don and other friends who have come here to live do. The people I would meet, the places I could travel to.

There are other wooden houses on the property that people can rent out. They're really expensive, over 500 pesos a night. Yet, they are very nice abodes in a relatively remote place. It's not like you can get to the downtown nightlife from here readily.

There is a mini canopy walk what consists of rods for steps and 4 thin wires traversing two platforms about 20 feet up. Sunnie tries it first, you can hear him scream across the valley. This walk is a replica of an actual canopy walk that is nearby. But to get to it you actually have to do a wire slide to the platform. And the real platforms are 150 feet in the air amongst the tops of the trees. 20 feet is good enough for me.

You have to go slow because it shakes. They did this on purpose because school kids used to horse around, so they made it wobblier so it makes them second guess. That's it, make is less stable. Not something we would think about in the U.S. Let's make it less stable, so they won't goof off on it. Here, if you get hurt, well it was your own damn fault.

It's time for lunch. The taxi the DOT guy used is still waiting for us. As we head down the hill, we decide where to go for lunch. Someone offers, "KFC." Cagayan de Oro has a brand new Kentucky Fried Chicken. I have to protest that suggestion. I'm about to sit 14 hrs on a plane to a country where KFC is on every other block. I'm not about to eat it here. So instead, we head to a more Filipino chicken place, sit down and kamayan (eat with hands) style. This is more like it. Here, I get to order green mango salad with bagoong and roasted chicken and halo-halo. Might as well splurge on my last day here. That hits the spot!

Sunnie, Maui and I, split from the group and I say my goodbyes and thank yous to Cecil and them. Sunnie, Maui, and I pick up our stuff from the hotel and head to the airport. They're not allowed to go past secuirty. I give them both hugs goodbye. It hasn't hit me yet. It has been an amazing trip, that I cannot even comprehend it all.

I get through security and check in my box and luggage. I go through security to the waiting lounge. Apprently, lotion bottles are not allowed, so I go back to the registration desk. They let me into the back area where my bags are. They don't even verify if I'm going to the correct bag nor stay long enough to watch me put stuff away. What kind of security is this? And I can't take lotion on board? Yes, this is the Philippines.

Go back to security and I get through. I buy some last pasalubong items for my officemates. Get some last goodbye txts from Maui and Sunnie and Jun. As I wait for my plane, the goodbyes start to hit me. The last 18 days I've been so involved in the places that I've been in, just living and being in those places, and now I'm going home. My eyes start to tear up and I try to pull my emotions back. An domestic airport lobby is not an ideal place to be emotionally vulnerable.

To focus my mind, I take my journal out and write about the last few days. On the tarmac, a military helicopter hovers low to the ground looking for a spot to land. I remember Marawi and the sounds of bombs. As it looks for a spot, it turns and for a moment it faces the lounge, the guns on either side are pointed at us, at me. There is no real danger here. But for a moment, I imagine what it might be like to have these guns pointed at you day in day out. To hear the sound of helicopters in the early evening heading out to one of their "runs". I feel the fear enter my heart, I feel my face harden. I am reminded of one of JoeyAyala's songs, "Tutubing Bakal" (Metal dragonfly). He wrote it when on the beach with his son and the metal dragonflies crossed the sky and he felt this fear.

The helicopter turns hovers out of view and lands. In my mind flashes everything I've seen, smelled, tasted, touched, experienced in the last 18 days. I watch the helicopter out of view and think, "THIS is Mindanao."

There is something addicting about Mindanao. A sense of vibrancy in life you rarely feel anywhere else. This land has been tormented with strife and fighting for what seems like forever. There is an edge here. As if those who live here, live on an edge. The fighting that has lasted too long. Yet, the people here wonder why people fear this place so, this place that is home, where their hearts are planted well. So many contradictions. So many surprises. So enchanting, so amazing, so dynamic. There are not enough words to explain to someone who has not been there, what Mindanao is like. There are not enough words to describe the faces of the people here, their spirit, their diversity. The only way to know, is to be here, is to see it for yourself.

The boarding announcement has gone out. I walk across the tarmac to the plane. As we take off for Manila, I take one last look at the land below. It's as if I'm looking back through the looking glass and asking myself where have I been. I'm not exactly sure, all I know is that I want to go back.

Six degrees of separation Mindanao Style

I ask Maui and Sunnie who we are going to meet at Tribu. Sunnie says some Talaandig tribe musicians, a guy named Waway. I had heard that name before, Ros' good friend who she said I *had* to go and meet. She was even trying to get me to go to Davao with her then swing up through Bukidnon where the Talaandigs make their home. I wonder what forces in the universe are at play now. It seems like everyone in Mindanao knows each other. These activist/artist/cultural worker networks are intricately intermeshed. I guess I'm going to meet Waway afterall.

We enter and the musicians are already playing atop a walkway overlooking the club. We head to the back where some of the Kambayoka tour members are. I meet some more of Ros' friends, a visual artist from Cagayan de Oro. Next to me is also the Department of Tourism (DOT) guy for the region. I proclaim that I survived Marawi without a bullet scratch on me.

We drink some San Miguel beers with ice and listen to the music. Their traditional instruments consist of drums, a lute like instrument and a flute. They are all younger around their late 20s and 30s. Ros told me much about Waway and for his passion in preserving his people's passion.

We chat about how my trip overall went and what I did. The DOT officer said he will tour us around the ecovillage tomorrow morning. Their latest campaign is WOW Philippines (World of Wonders). I saw some of their ads when Dick Gordon, DOT head, was touring the US showing the videos, very splashy videos. I don't particularly like Dick Gordon. He made most of his money exploiting women in the Subic Bay area courting US Navy men. This also makes him perfect as the head of the DOT.

The musicians end their set and come to join us. I'm still pondering why I'm supposed to meet Waway, one way or another on this trip. Maui introduces us. And our conversation goes like this:

me: nice to meet you. Ros over at Tarzan's told me a lot about you. Said I should meet you.
waway: good meeting you.

That's it. And thus completes the Mindanao version of six degrees of separation. Maybe I'll work with him in the future.

The group hangs out a bit more, then we head back to the hotel. I need to finish packing. Tomorrow is my last day.