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Being a part of a culture entirely unlike your own culture has its repercussions. It’s perfectly acceptable to discuss worms over lunch (as in, intestinal worms-which I myself had mere weeks ago), to slide halfway down a mountain, losing clothes and skin en route-and just laugh about it. Rice is probably one of my favorite foods; a hot shower sounds terrible….having a naked kid on my lap to lice-inhale-it’s all the norm now. But, those are just the superficialities. I have changed, inevitably, hopefully irreversible.

On Friday, my students, several of our Palawano friends, and I were excitedly heading down the mountain to the lowland market. Our goals: eat lots of ice cream (I was preluding on charcoal), meet the Goodson’s (AFM family visiting for a fortnight), and maybe carry 20 kilos back to KMTN. Then, I tripped. And because my butt is a long way from the ground, I foolishly put out a hand to break my fall. “Ay….negsugbek ku!” I needlessly announced, and tried to brush the dirt off my hand. It wasn’t dirt. It was basically a small tree, embedded in a bloody gash in my hand. “Uhh, Sandra, I gotta go to the clinic…” I announced. “Can I see?” “No,” in fact, I covered my hand with the other hand, and tried not to notice the blood dripping out. Leaving my batik and dualities with the women, I tore off down the trail. Barefoot. Making it to KMTN in an adrenaline-failed rush, I was soon lying on my back in the clinic, grimacing as my hand was shot full of lydocaine. It was a good cut—long enough for two nurses to learn the mattress stitch, deep enough that I have significant nerve damage, and full of nasty splinters.

The funny thing was-it really wasn’t a big deal. I was grateful that my girls were still able to eat ice cream in Bingbilang. I was glad the nurses were able to learn a new technique. I was glad I wasn’t hurt worse. True, it’s been hard not being able to wash my own hair, open dry erase markers, or cook my food. I don’t like feeling like a burden. But, had this happened in America, I know  I would not be as positive nor as well cared for either.

It’s not worth dwelling on when there are bigger battles to be fought…and, if nothing else, the scar will make for a great children’s story someday.

Kalu atin lang

Things I like about life/culture in Kensuli

1. The relative lack of manmade noise-I can go for months without hearing any motors apart from an occasional plane…for me, it’s much easier to feel closer to God when there’s not 10,000 cars passing by each day.
2. The noisiness of the culture-yeah, this contradicts #1, but each morning I hear someone out on the trail whooping, then answered by someone else a mile or so away. It’s FUN to walk to the Tamleng Gorge and play with your echo there!
3. THE STARS. Ohhhh man are they stunning. NOT even the stars in Brazil trump these.
4. That the bulk of my communication with the outside world comes through snail-letters. This is a practice I hope to maintain upon my return….letters are so much meaningful and intentional than texts, Facebook messages, or emails.
5. MY GIRLS-I love them like sisters, and I hope I’m as good of a teacher to them as they’ve been to me. Their parents are in KMTN for a meeting tonight, so we had a sleepover. We ate linidgid, had worship, I read them a bedtime story (or WE read a bedtime story…the book about gecko noises are better than mine…) and the funny thing is-Kensuli’s water is gone and we all DESPERATELY need showers. STINKIEST SLEEPOVER ever!
6. People have chickens for pets. Like, they love their chickens more than their dogs. It’s great.
7. If you want to go somewhere, you HAVE to walk there-good for the mind, body, and relationships.
8. The language. Palawano is a really cool language, and I’m happy to say God’s helping me acquire it WAY more proficiently than I ever expected or dared to hope. Language learning is a game, and I want to play this game again, with more languages.
9. Datag. I will MISS having a floor that has so many cracks that cleaning is a breeze.
10. Living without electricity. Life is simpler, by default….it’s easier to think, to meditate, to prioritize.
11. Emphasis on family and relationships. This is a part of Palawan that will be coming home with me-really-is there anything more important?
12. Utter need for dependence on God’s strength. For the first time in my life, I can’t do it by myself.
13. Abundant laughter. Almost everything is funny, so you laugh at it. Makes sense, diki Le?
14. Teaching. I enjoy it far more than I thought I would, and am getting better at it, too. There are still days when I wish all my classes were science classes, though.
15. The effort it takes for mere survival. 

It's Not FAIR

 

It’s not fair that you come bang on my porch before even all the roosters are up, and sabotage my meditation time. It’s not fair that you incessantly beg me for food that I bought from you yesterday. It’s not fair that you crawl under my house….or climb the adjacent tree so you can loudly inform me (and everyone else for that matter) that you’re hungry and what I’m preparing looks appetizing. It’s not fair that you steal my shampoo and razor from the Tetayan, then lie about it. It’s not fair that you beg me for bobby pins, lose them the next day, and come ask me for more. It’s not fair that you make me feel like an American vending machine, regardless of my attempts for simplicity.  

It’s not fair that I have enough food for 2 solid meals each day, and you might eat just once. It’s not fair that I ignore you so much of the time. It’s not fair that you, my shampoo thief, are getting married in December, at the ripe age of 16, while I have the privilege of choosing when, who, of if I even will get marry. It’s REALLY not fair that my culture has painted an inaccurate representation of my values and lifestyle to you. It’s not fair that you lost your father and husband to an easily-preventable disease in the states, all while on the same day I was celebrating another day of life.

The worst part of this injustice, though, is that I came here to serve you. That intention seems so idealistic, so manufactured. I am quickly realizing that I am not able to live up to my own faulty expectations that I entertained stateside. Each day, it is you who penitently helps me as I futilely grasp for your language and culture, you, who laugh with me and welcome me into your lives. I don’t know why you do it, because you know as well as I do that my time with you is not permanent. It is absolutely mind-bogging to me how completely you accept me, how you help me survive---all while knowing that I’ll leave you all too soon.

When that happens, your heart will break. It has happened to you before, and we often talk about “ma’am Brittany” and “ma’am Kara”. My heart will be shattered, too. You are my sisters, my aunts, my friends. I pray every day that God will shine out of my life, and His love will transfer to yours. But, I can honestly say that you’ve shown me more about practical Christianity than I would ever learn in the states.

It’s hard to fathom how unfair life is when we serve a God who is perfectly fair. But, that’s just the problem. We are mere humans, who, try as we might, are unfair. I’m sorry for my shortcomings. I’m sorry for your hardships. But….thank you for teaching me how to truly live and love.

Guide To SM's Continued

Disclaimer: There are many people on our team who are also deserving of a field entry; they were not part of both Summer Training AND boot camp, so I don’t have enough blackmail on them yet. Someday, their time will come….hopefully.

November Golf/ “Well, if he’s capable of thinking he’s a chicken, he’s probably capable of thinking he’s a female.” Description: Although we all display Palawano pigmentation at times, particularly after traversing muddy trails, this pigmentation spontaneously disappears the moment we enter the shower and undergo the painful process of prebasic molt. NG is set apart in this respect, because she is genuinely dark, in composition. /Habits: /NG is a very diligent, driven species, who probably accomplishes more in one day than the rest of us do in one week. Because of this, she’s often solitary….or faithfully serving as Girls Dean. Yours truly and NG have a particularly bizarre relationship that could be described as parasitic; I come stink her house up after hiking from Kensuli; she cheerfully greets and feeds me./ Vocalizations: Decidedly more feminine than any other species. Very diagnostic.

Kilo November/ “MegGrandma”/ “I want to go on vacation and take my brain with me! I mean…I need a vacation without my brain.” / Although it is with great reluctance that she wears clothes, a batik is pretty standard plumaged. Should you be granted an usually close observation experience, you might note that between her toes, the skin is usually pristine. This results from abusing the acid which combats foot fungus/Although KN is really not a difficult-to-identify species, one sure test would be to orchestrate a SPIDER ENCOUNTER. If the potential KN stops for nothing---doors, mosquito nets, of even fellow SMs—in her escape, your i.d. is certain. In the event that a spider is unavailable, she’s also a happy hiker (uhh, more accurately happy faller), who wears her tukew on her left side always—she’d rather slice her spleen than her liver./Varied and abundant, one would never consider her secretive constant noise emanates from all joints, organs, and most orifices. Most common calls “Dude”, shrill “Eeeeeks” or deceptively manly “BLEAAUHRRRRRP”.

Kilo Tango/”MegPoupsie”/”You know, that’d be really great for language learning if we burned our house down.”/Palawano-sized, with a Palawano-style twinkle in her eyes. However, the resemblance ends here, for KT is decidedly Scandinavian in appearance. Again, if you’re granted a spectacular opportunity to scrutinize her characteristics, check her nostrils-the absence of nose-hair is a direct result of her prolific cayenne-snorting./Her handwriting atrocities set her apart from everyone except yours truly; additional behaviors include truly creative and determined dedication to cat-punishing and lizard-catching. Her infatuation with the unlikely combination of turkews, batiks, and tea, might have repercussions, someday.../Burps’ constantly register 7+ on the Geiger scale. 

Field Guide to the 2012-2013 Palawan SM Crew

Yankee Golf. (MegMalaria”)/”I’m a biology major…I know everything there is to know about life!”/Description: short (e.g. Palawano-sized), with BIG hair that becomes bigger with each day in the jungle. Generally accompanied by a faint aroma of DEET, since she’s adamant about preventing another episode of Malaria. Although she’s pale-skinned and light-eyed, there’s no denying her Mexican-ness./Habits: Although, someday, she’ll be teaching high school and elementary science, her current position is head cook of her Spoon Village. You’ll always hear her before you see her, whether she’s singing in the shower…or tripping over something. Was disappointed to find Palawanos aren’t big on siestas. Vocalizations: Spanish, then English, then Palawano-especially when talking to cats. “Ay madre!” typical alarm call.

Charlie Hotel (“MegGiggles”) /(“we were like Little House on the Prairie….but with headlamps.”/Not Palawano-sized, nor Palawano-pigmented. However, defies hookworms by adopting optimal Palawano footwear (read: NAKED FEET). Often attached to a cat, since few are compassionate enough to acknowledge their presence, this is a relatable field monk. Someday, she’ll get carpal tunnel from her prolific letter-spawning. Needs plenty of sleep---and even more soy sauce. Her day job is a nurse at the clinic…but by night, she fixes the team with her magical, mysterious, questionable tasting herbal potions. No one would complain if she just switched to full time massage therapist….mmm./Vocalizations:Varried. Dawn chorus a beeping watch alarm that wakes us ALL, except the MegGiggles herself.

Alpha Golf (“MegCaptin Obvious”) “well if you cut your finger off with that machete, I’ve got a band-aid for that!”/Lanky, pale, decidedly un-Palawano sized. Covered with sandy hair the Palawano fledglings love to pull! Basic plumage includes camel-back, cleats, radio, and >2 knives./A species of absolutes, Alpha Golf is always in proximity to Echo Golf, never far from a food source, and is NEVER EVER unprepared for ANYTHING. Before training commenced, he wasn’t thrilled about the abundance of X-chromosomes the team contains-perhaps, this has to do with the fact that a big part of his job entails fixing the things we break—yeahh, we’ve got the better end of the deal, no doubts about it./Slight Ohio twang; funny Ohio expressions, like “over yonder.”

Kilo-Kilo (MegRippyPants”)/”too much sun, not enough seasoning.”/Her affinity for green is a diagnostic feature, as is the muddy patch on her rump—this latter field make is the testament to her frequent encounters with gravity, generally triggered by somebody else’s unintentional study of the Palawano mud../Prefers habitat with ample hammocks, soccer fields, and the bananas. Her tendency to eat PB straight from the jar has established her rank as THE PEANUT BUTTER MONSTER, and her frequent stepping through the bamboo floor has ensured the business of Alpha Golf./Contagious, high-pitched, laughing attacks that transform into coughing fits.

A Day in the Everyday Life of Alison

4:00 A.M.  A vivid dream, per usual with the Doxy in my system, rips through my brain. This edition features the Kensuli kids and me. We are playing Simon Says (a great way to learn the language) and “Simon” (me) sends the whole gang into the jungle to gather everything that’s edible. They come back in 15 minutes, heavily-laden with Kumberhan, pulug, fish…the dream ends when I snap awake, and my first thought is that this could be a really stellar idea. The distant drumming that’s barely entered my hearing for the last 2 weeks reminds me to pray that the efforts of this witch doctor summoning the Palawano equivalent of Baal go unrewarded.

5:40 A.M. The rooster walking across my roof crows determinedly. I evaluate the amount of light in my hut, and guess that it’s about 4:45. But, this first night I’ve spent here since the new wall was added throws my time off, and it’s actually 5:40. I sit up, turn my headlamp beam to 1 Samuel where I read about God calling Samuel before he knew or understood the lord. It helped drive home that God qualifies the called—a reassuring promise at this moment in time.

7:00 A.M. The kids are crawling under my house, looking through the bamboo slats to see if I’m there. I sit quietly, but Palawanos are unbelievably observant. Especially when they think I’m consuming tinapile (bread, crackers, cookies, cake…) They know I’m there, and soon, cries of “Mam, embe ta’aw?” persist. The battle has been lost, so I open my door and trek to the tetoyan. In the states, my bladder was near-famous for its capacity, here, I’m always having to pee, and it’s always urgent—and the whole SM team suffers from this too. It’s an annoyance, but makes for quality conversation.

7:30 A.M. Ignoring the persisting children I shut my door and start breakfast. It’s actually only the second time I’ve used my stove, since the propane adapter was wrong—oatmeal has become my new favorite food. While eating, I spy a SERIOUS spider hiding in the bamboo floor. I attempt to smash it with a squash (nearest available weapon,) but this only manages to break a leg off. Three hits later, and the spider, plus the squash, have transformed to entirely different shaped. Last Sabbath, I killed a snake in my kitchen-what’ll it be next week?

8:15 A.M. Sandra, Keni, and I trek up (and I DO mean UP) to Marilyna’s house to help her carry her disabled son to church. I’m anxious about getting my precious load down safely, but eager to feel like I’m helping somebody, my fears are unfulfilled. Keni carries him down, since he’s terrified of me. I enter the worship service feeling like I’ll always be more of a burden than a help—not a particularly worshipful perspective.

11:20 A.M. We’ve been in church all morning, and between gleaming Palawano’s words I recognize from Kuyo’s sermon, my brain wonders to how church in Kensuli differs from church in America. We’re barefooted. Men and women don’t sit together. Since we’ve started worship this morning, countless infant feedings (and infront, uhh, excretions) have occurred. 2 hens have laid eggs—right there behind out backs-and at least one kid is lying under several jackets, moaning and shaking from a malaria attack. Ohh, and there’s another spider, too. This one is pancaked sized—Paul Bunyan pancaked sized. Seriously, this creature MUST have an endoskeleton to support all that mass. As luck would have it, the spider skitters across the floor, towards me. Things with 8 legs seem to defy any law of motion, and you…Sandra and I defy some law of gravity, because suddenly we’re standing on the benches and I don’t remember consciously trying to stand. For the rest of the service, I watch the floor around me with attentiveness of a concentration camp guard.

12:00 P.M. This time, Bep lets me carry him up the hill. Before I set off, I pray “God, don’t let me fall.” He tells me “I won’t”, and He doesn’t let me down. Marilyna and I visit for a bit at the top, and I learn that her husband is an expert blowgun hunter, but she’s not. This is an important topic right now since I bought a blowgun last week, and would love some lessons. Marilyna gives me a green coconut, and I stumble down the hill. My hands are heavy, but my heart is happy. Once I’m on the porch of my hut, I attract a flock of opportunistic kids. We open the coconut, pass it around several times, and after draining it, scrape the flesh from the shell. This reminds me of the Nalgene full of coconut water I left here last week. Oops. I crack the lid—and yeah, it’s defiantly fermented, as evidence by my burning nose hairs and watering eyes. After convincing Tiper that yes, I eat goat, and no, he doesn’t need to kill one for me right now, we look at my Filipino bird book. It falls open to the Pigoin plate, and the kids erupt into a cacophony of “Ga’ay ky! Menga’an ginseng!” Well, that explains why there aren’t any birds here. After entertaining half-hour or so, Tiper closes the book, “shoots” the Philippine Eagle on the front and triumphantly shouts “Petuy!” I respond “kaya. Ga’ay ku begit biyet.” And he kisses the illustration and says “sorry”.

5:30 P.M. The afternoon service is over, and were consuming Deborah’s meal in honor of my imminent birthday. We’re eating by headlamp, since sundown is at like 6. Pancet, pusu et punti patties, a no-bake cake-it’s all delicious. The sunset over the jagged peaks was majestic, and reminds me of God’s grander and size. I’m so glad to already feel part of the Villarica family, although I’ve only been here for 2 weeks.

8:20 P.M. Here I am, under my mosquito net, about ready to check out for the night…I’ve taken my proxy, emptied my bladder (I hope) and am reflecting on the joy and struggles this week brought. I’m so glad for Sabbath, especially here in Kensuli.