A Look into Culture

Friday's are currently my favorite day-no work, no responsibilities-just a bum day most weeks. Friday is also the day of the big lowland market in Bingbilang, so almost all of Kensuli goes down to buy rotting fish and ice candy, visit with friends from different villages, and carry the project's stuff back up. (Fuel, rice, packages from America...) Because weekdays are a jumble of teaching, maintaining my house, and satiating needy children, I've designated Friday as my unofficial "mimic-a-Palawano" day. In a nutshell, that means that I attempt to do things that they're really good at and I'm really bad at-i.e. speaking Palawano, walking without falling, and figuring out how to put a box inside of a batik and not fall out. This week, I desperately needed my Palawano day after receiving some unhappy news from The Home front. Palawanos rarely act angry or sad-nor turn down any form of food-and since these were all things I'm struggling with, I knew a day with Ruwina would do me good. Defying the imminent typhoon outside (and inside) my house, I fell asleep thinking about calf muscles and dysentery evasion and reveling that I didn't need to speak English if I didn't feel like it.

The next morning, the rain had abated, so I begun my mimic-a-Palawano day right: chasing a rat around my hut with a machete, eating plain rice with my hands (best hiking food ever!) and donning a loose skirt. Soon, Miltiyur called "Mam? Panyap ke ne?" "E'be!" I affirmed, grabbing my tadyun and hurrying outside. I soon fell into stride behind his mom, Minan Narita. Ruwina, one of my Palawano best friends took up the rear. The conditions were awful for Duralites and awful for cleats, so I opted for tiked teng (barefoot), This should give me major Palawano points, but I only made it to Niyug before my feet started protesting. It wasn't just my feet that were protesting-my whole body was reminding me how stupid it is to try to keep up with a woman legendary even by Palawano standards for her speed-seriously, this woman has calves that most male pro cyclists envy. So, I stopped to put on my cleats and instead walked with Ruwina, who is a little slower. We laughed about how slow I am, how funny I sound when I try to pronounce new Palawano words, and how my cleats made me as noisy as a water buffalo.

We made it to Bingbilang intact, and Ruwina and I skipped around the market holding hands, ignoring the annoying amorous approaches of lowland guys. (Being tall AND white, I'm apparently trophy-wife material here...) I bought ice candy for me and all the Kensuli kids that came down. Ice candy is rumored to give Americans dysentery, but I've tried it 10 times and will continue to try it until it does indeed give me dysentery! At this point, I had to temporarily abandon my Palawano-ness; I actually searched out a trash pit to deposit my wrapper, instead of just tossing it on the ground like the Palawanos do. We winnowed our poison from the various rice sacks going up the mountain--Minan:14 kilos. Miltyiur:11 kilos. Ruwina: 17 kilos. Me? 8 kilos (just for the record, I have carried 22 kilos in, but that was when I was hiking with Americans...)

We started back up. The sweat running down my back-the strain of my neck under my load-my achy legs-I love physical hardship since after living here for nearly 6 months, I've determined most Americans don't really understand the concept of labor. Soon, we sat on rocks in the stream and shared out food-boiled sweet potatoes you peel with your teeth (from Ruwina) and banana bread I made in a wok that wouldn't balance resulting in deep-fried banana bread. Ruwina liked it so much that she demanded I bring a whole rice sack of it next Friday.

Between Bingbilong and Kensuli, we did more Palawano things; like, drink water out of a rock like Moses; stop at EVERY mango tree and gorge ourselves-I think I like 2 dozen-and, of course, shower in the Tamleng River.

In America, I would probably not be friends with a 21 year old who already has 3 children, but...Ruwina is pretty awesome and has brought me more joy than anyone else in the last few weeks. Her head might only reach my belly button, but somehow our hearts have irrevocably bonded. I can't wait until market day again-or until we're in heaven, with no malaria, cancer, or language barriers to come between us. Please pray that Ruwina's faith grows as she learns more about God, and that she's strong when Satan tries to dissuade her.

Hiking in Palawan

For the last 8 months—and for the next 3 to come—I am part of a culture whose sole transportation system is composed of a network of steep, narrow, dark trails and your own two feet (AND quads and calves and lungs and balance). If you think this is the essence of simplicity, you’re blissfully misled; with the ample opportunity I’ve had to make substantial observations on the complexities of trail conditions—and even so, with each hike, I learn something new and invaluable.

Before getting into that, though, I probably elaborate on the average Palawano terrain, since my own definition of “trail” has undergone dramatic reshaping since my arrival. The most rugged American trails seem like superhighways in comparison. Anyway, 1-they’re really narrow. Imagine a trough about 6 inches wide, with colossal drop-offs on either side, and you’re on the right track. My balancing muscles are always more tired than my actual walking muscles. 2-They’re not level. You’re always sliding off one side or another; hopefully, there’s a vine or tree to catch you. 3—they’re REALLY steep. Palawanos are short, but they have this super-natural ability of covering like 40 vertical inches with each step. Obviously this talent renders switchbacks completely necessary, so…there are none. If you want to get to the top of the mountain, you do just that—walk up. STRAIGHT up, your ankle joints will flex into contortions you never dreamed possible, if it’s a true Palawano trail. 4-there is a height limit, which I indisputably exceed. Every day, I experience “Absalom moments” when vines rake my face and branches ensnare my hair.

Now that I’ve established a picture of a Palawano trail in your mind, let’s get on with the variables.

·         On footwear:

-Tiked lang (barefoot): Although my feet are Palawano tough, they’re not Palawano flexible. The dexterity of their feet defies all the things I thought I knew about kinesiology.  While it’s possible for them to slide down a mountain and nonchalantly grab rocks and roots with their toes while balancing a 50-kilo rice sack on their heads, I come from lineage that has incarcerated their feet for too many generations, and my toes, when faced with such a treacherous obstacle course are like…”kaya sewd kay”. Hence I only walk tiked lang when it’s bad weather for cleats and bad weather for Duralites.

-Cleats: Every time I lace them up, it saddens my heart—cleats are decidedly UNpalawano, and my feet always protest at the confinement. On days when the trail is like one of those moving walkway things at the airport-but a moving walkway of mud, sticks, and leaves travelling downhill at approximately 30mph—they are indispensable; without them, there’d be no hope of ever matching Palawano pace. Downsides: they are deadly on wet rocks, and if you hike in them frequently you get this delusion that you are actually learning how to hike. This delusion will prove lethal the next time you wear Duralites.

-Duralites: for the unenlightened: Duralite: flipflop = Tacoma: Civic. They’re tough little shoes that have this annoying tendency of being entirely useless unless you need to kill a snake or have the urge to play a spontaneous game of shakoy, or you need a seat. And even then, because you wear were wearing Duralites, your rump is probably so muddy anyway that this application is vestigial. When traveling downhill with Duralites, my initial impression is that I’m skiing, but without snow OR skis. And then, inevitably, the Duralitie will hit a bump, and because my feet are so narrow, they’ll keep sliding right on through the Duralitie, until by big toe hits the next bump. By then, the Duralitie is mid-shin, and my ibas are doubled over laughing.

·         On conditions.

-Dry: Although it appears benign, dry is deceivingly undesirable. First, the ground hurts more when you fall. Secondly, your cleats don’t dig in; finally agis-best likened to thousands of marble-sized rocks-accumulates, and formerly trusty footholds become dislodged. And that’s when you learn experientially of course, how hard the ground is.

-Muddy (as in aqueous): muddy is why I have a designated hiking skirt; it’s also why said skirt has metamorphosized from white to varying shades of brown. The skirt isn’t the only thing to undergo significant pigment alteration, either. Some days, I shave my calves just so that I don’t forget that I am, indeed, white.

Valentine's day

I know this is out of order, some of the letters come before others, so my apologies.

I write this on Valentines day 2013. This has undoubtedly been the happiest Valentines day of my life; I'm surrounded by people who I love-and who love me. Life could not get much more perfect, even though I'm on a different continent than the person I love most. My time in Kensuli is half-over. Wow. I have learned more in these  5 months than during any other's-yet-there's so much more that I could learn. I'm past my goal of language learning-acquisition for my 10-month nark--that is irrefutably God at work. I like teaching and am better at it than I thought I would be (yeah, it helps that my students are very eager to learn...); relationships with the Palawano's are simultaneously awkward, wonderful, painful, and fulfilling. I wish I had more time to devote to learning their life skills.
Here's what differed from my expectations:

• I never dreamed the kids would be so trying and difficult-to-love. I am so thankful that I only strongly dislike two of them right now (and I think I'm justified to dislike the one that bites me...)-God has been growing me, indeed. There was one afternoon about a month ago when I felt almost despondent because of my attitude to them. I realized I was trying on my own strength to like them, and that was a turning point. It's still a challenge, but...God's working on me.
• I never thought that I would be this healthy-no malaria, only puked once, no dysentery--not to be taken for granted.
• I never thought that I'd gain weight-true, it/s almost all leg muscle, but still...
• I never planned on losing my English. In writing, I'm semi-articulate. Speech-that's laughable.
• I assumed my friendships with non-Americans would be different only because of the language. Wrong. They're good, but different.
• I thought there would be more mosquitos, spiders, and birds.
• I never thought 70F would make me feel hypothermic.
• I thought I'd miss people in America more than I do--I still miss people, but it's more of a happy memories than a painful ache.
• I didn't expect death to be so prevalent as it is, nor as peaceful as it is either.
• I didn't expect the culture to be partly very undesirable (jealous, manipulative, shy...)
• I thought there would be ripe mangos without worms inside of them...

This, on the other hand, fulfilled my expectations.

• I knew I would suffer culture shock. Yup. Glad that's over.
• I knew some of the biggest challenges would be (a) happily wearing long skirts day-after-day AND (b) not being able to interact much with the guys.
• I knew it would be strange to live in a culture where almost all of my closest friends already have several children.
• I knew I'd love living without electricity, running water, and internet.
• I knew many of the other SM's would become my best friends.
• I knew the hiking would be epic.
• I knew the stars would be awesome, and that I'd feel isolated/protected from the rest of the world. I knew God would qualify me, since He called me.
• I knew I'd eat lots of coconuts, bananas, and rice.

I have no idea what the next 5 months contain-lots of surprises, I'm sure-but, I can't wait to learn more about the Palawanos, about teaching, about myself, and about practical Christianity...

kerendemens

Kerendemen is a Palawano word that means "remembrance".

So, here is your first photographic documentation of what life is like in Palawan. There are more on the way -- this is just an appetizer.

 

This is Emrang, a 1.5-hr hike from my hike in Kensuli. I took this picture from church, actually -- there are no walls. Pretty sweet ocean view, right?

My missionary family, the Villaricas.  They are some of the kindest, funniest, quirkiest people ever, and they are definitely my family and friends -- not my students & bosses.

Me and Kasia in THE TREE at Emrang. It's a great place to read and journal, even though this tree is also host to ellupians (poisonous centipedes) and sketchy snakes...

Like this one! We were enjoying a restful Sabbath afternoon in our tree when the boys started saying, "Seli", which means "snake". I told Kiley I thought they were kidding because snake-killing in Kensuli is a very rambunctious village affair, but... they climbed up, extricated this snake from a hole perhaps 8 feet below us, and killed it. They thought they were so manly ahaha.

The sky there is beautiful -- and never the same two days in a row. Photos do not even begin to do it justice.

My older student. She's a cool jungle girl -- I might teach her science and English,  but she teaches me cool jungle stuff like blowgun technique, machete safety, and jackfruit demolition.

Kuya Sunday's students. Obviously, I'm not conspicuous at ALL.

Another skyscape.

This is one of my favorite Palawano families. Ruwina is the mother -- she's 21 and has 3 kids. She's my hiking buddy, and is pretty darn skilled at: climbing coconut trees; weaving baskets; grating cassava root into linidgid; making me laugh. She's also a really good language teacher, always correcting my pronunciation & grammar. My nickname for her is "hero". :)

 

More later!

Not a Normal Routine

I hate routine, love spontaneity. One of the great things about living here is that when I wake up each morning, I’m absolutely clueless about what the day’s going to hold. There are some things that are fairly routine, like the kids soliciting food or finding a roach or a spider in the bananas, or sweating, uh, ovaries during 3^rd period of school. But, you never know when you’ll find a snake in your house, or when a kid will cough a worm (nearly) into your lap, or a typhoon will come through and demolish your roof. This Wednesday, I woke up and didn’t really plan out my day past telling the story at school worship-we’ve been memorizing Matthew 6 this month, and the verse where it says it’s futile to worry about tomorrow? Pshh, it’s futile to worry about anything past the next 2 hours. Oh, and I really need to clean.

Anyway, I get dressed and walk to school. But—school is outside! Cool! Except for the fact that it is only outside because Dyipuy broke his elbow and we’re waiting for the big boys, Rimun and Marbitu, to carry him to the clinic in KMTN. We pray for him, give him ibuprofen, and sing while we wait. Soon, Duipuy’s loaded into a bakid, and carried down. I pray that the carriers don’t slip-the trail is a little treacherous right now.

After school worship, Sheena and I do school. We have 3 phases at school. First, mosquitos. Then, wayward bees, then LOUD cicadas. The cicada phase was particularly awful today-I even deserted Sheena amidst a challenging math lesson so that I could go throw my Duralite at it. Sometimes, I even give the little kids ripe bananas if they’ll climb up the trees and destroy the cicadas. If only I was better with my blowgun…

We don’t have school during the afternoon because Sandra’s having a malaria day. Sandra gets BAD malaria, Kiley gets good malaria, and me? I don’t get malaria. I tidy up school and ponder which of my friends I want to visit. That’s decided quickly-Di’in needs to take Mirian to the clinic, and wants iba Sandra needs meds—perfect!

I love Di’in. It’s so strange to be close friends with someone whose life is completely different than mine, but Di’in is pretty awesome. She’s a great language teacher, a talented basket-weaver, and makes stupid mistakes, like me.

While I’m waiting for Di’in to change, Kunil, my favorite little boy comes tearing down the hill, clad only in a ba’ag (G-string) that he made out of leaves, rope, and tape off a box. He’s very proud of his G-string, and eagerly models it. I laugh until I cry.

Once at the clinic, Di’in, Mirian, and I wait and visit. There are non-team Americans in KMTN today-Kiri’s family (who barely made it up the mountain-they’re troopers to try it in the heat of the day) and an older donor. The donor is talkative and very observant. I patiently answer his questions (yes, those are warm bellies; yes, women marry early here-Di’in is a few months younger than me and has a 2y/o) until they get a little more difficult (no, I’m not staying for two years; no, I’m not sure what my future holds…) It is HARD to express myself verbally in English, especially when talking to a guy—you just don’t do that here. Yesenia—bravely battling her 6^th round of malaria, comes over. “I just took my meds!” She giggles, and introduces herself to Di’in. Then, she kisses Di’in on the cheek and ambles off. “Begbalig ye” (“crazy”) I say to Di’in. “Abu, mebeyt banar!” responds Di’in. (“She’s really nice!”)

Drugs-in-hand, we head back to Kensuli, talking the whole way. I only fell once. We share many laughs, the best when halfway up the mountain, I drop my water bottle and it ALMOST rolls down the mountain. I save it, but my skirt falls down in the process (I really fail at skirts…) Di’in and I laugh.

Then, she asked me if I was staying 2 years. I was wondering who the first Palawano to ask this would be. Ugh. I don’t know enough language to tell her that thinking about going back to America simultaneously breaks my heart and terrifies me, but-I wanted to stay, and God said, “not now.” Maybe, I’ll be back….anyway, that’s not for months---and I’m only worrying about the next  few hours, right?

My house still needs to be cleaned, Sandra still has malaria, and I definitely still have spiders in my bananas. Tomorrow will be a mystery, but I have peace knowing that God will both (a) use me, and (b) give me the required energy. It’s only when I look back on my life that I can truly appreciate the way it all fits together and makes sense, and tomorrow is just another piece in the mosaic.

Kalu atin lang. 

What would you like me to write about? Do you have any questions? Please comment!!

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