Gwapa

As many of you know, last January, Kate, Abby, Jessica and I had the amazing good fortune to help out the Faces of Tomorrow team with their medical mission in Tagbilaran City right here on our very own Bohol. An incredible team of dentists, surgeons, nurses, speech therapists, and more swept into the provincial capital, set up shop in Borja Hospital, and spent one grueling week repairing over fifty cleft lips and palates, thereby fundamentally and permanently changing the lives of dozens of children and their families.

Now, what you may not have known is that among that team there were also two documentary filmmakers following the story of one family in particular - and family in which three (yes, three) of the children had existing, untreated facial deformities.

I am thrilled and honored to share with you the link to the trailer for the upcoming short documentary Gwapa, shot by Med Pinsonneault and Sabina Padilla.

Click click click!

http://vimeo.com/27995962

525,600 minutes

One year.

A handful of hot showers.

Half a dozen new family members.

Countless new friends.

A shit ton of rice.

Many dives.

Not enough yoga.

A couple dozen books.

One big move.

15 months to go.

Nice to meet you, Clarin

It's been eight days now that I've been in Clarin, but somehow that doesn't feel possible.

Already, I have these shiny new things called "friends" that I'd kind of forgotten existed (my PC pals don't count - they long ago graduated to family), I've had more face time with the mayor here than I had in the many months prior, I've snorkeled the MPA (hello giant clam, aren't you supposed to be endangered?!), and been a dinner guest twice and a lunch guest once. Whew!

The change in pace is giving me whiplash. That is if whiplash was the best thing ever.

Before the transfer, I had some worries about adjusting to a new town all over again. The first few months at site are exhausting. You are endlessly attending courtesy calls and formal introductions, trying to remember names, reading old ordinances, and getting the same three questions over and over again, "How long you been in Philippines?", "Understand Bisayan?" and "You have boyfriend?" Okay that last one never goes away, but you get the idea.

I knew I wanted this, but wasn't exactly sure I was ready for all that to start again.

So here comes the good part. As it turns out, the whole experience of getting to know a new town is a whole heckuva lot easier when you are not simultaneously trying to get to know a new country. Back in Lila, I wasn't even sure which questions to ask in the beginning in order to familiarize myself with the current state of coastal resource management. Even when I did have an idea of what to ask, I had know way of knowing if my question would have betrayed an unforgivable lack of knowledge. So there was a lot of "fake it 'til you make it"-ing going on. Eventually, and organically, everything fell into place, but it took some time. Which brings me to my first meeting in Clarin, where I sat down with the Municipal Agriculture Officer and without much thought was able to ask exactly what I needed to know to get me up to speed. "Do you currently have a CRM plan? Are there MPAs here? When were they established? What is your management strategy for those areas? Is there an active Bantay Dagat (coast guard)? What is the state of your MFARMC? What are the primary challenges you face with regards to illegal fishing? Who are your community partners and what level of commitment have you agreed to" Yadda yadda yadda. It all just kind of works.

Another examle cropped up this afternoon when I was to be formally introduced to the Association of Barangay Captains. "Barangays" are essentially districts of the municipality, and the captains are the elected officials who run them. Together, the barangay captains form an important governing body. I remember this same meeting back in Lila. My supervisor stood up, unceremoniously read aloud my resume front and back, and I choked out a few rough lines of prepared introduction in Cebuano before going on to outline the work I hoped to do there. I asked if anyone had questions. The leader raised his hand, "Do you have a husband, or boyfriend?" Everyone laughed. I felt my jaw clench and I leaned back into the mic. "Are there any questions about my work or qualifications?" There were not.

Back to this afternoon - the same meeting but in Clarin. I walk into the room where all 24 barangay captains are seated and take a seat myself. The mayor opens the session, there is a prayer, and he moves on the the first order of business, introducing the new Peace Corps Volunteer. This he does all in English, then asks me to say a few words of my own. I pull myself up to a mic. "Maayong hapon sa tanan!" "Maayong hapon!" they reply, with many excited exclamations on my choice of language. And off I go, easily and in Visayan, introducing myself, my work, my intentions here. "And now most importantly," I say at last, also in Visayan, "I am single, but not available...and that's not negotiable!". And this time I'm the one getting the laughs. I ask if there are any questions, and there's a deep silence before someone admits that they are all intimidated. "Sorry about that!" I say cheerfully, and it's over. Done and done. Nothing prepared, not nervous at all, and now know how to get them to laugh as opposed to simply being laughed at myself. All this though no great ability of my own, but the simple passage of time. In all fairness it would be pretty sad if, a year in, I couldn't pull that off, but that's not the point. The contrasts are what are so striking.

Compound the ease of adjustment with an actual increase in work, and you have yourself one very happy camper. And good thing too, because it's been a while.

Oh Me! Oh My!

Pictures at last!

My new neighbor, Cathy, is off to Cebu for the weekend and dropped by my house this morning to ask if I'd like her to put all her Internet cordies and gadgeties out on the porch for me to use while she was away. Um, yes please!

So here I am, sitting on a bench, listening to chickens and cats scratch about in the yard, on an uncommonly cool day as I browse the list of Paul D. Coverdell Fellows Program graduate programs online. Not too shabby as far as Saturday mornings go.

I've been in Clarin five days now, but somehow, in the best way possible, it feels longer.

I think this whole transfer thingy might just be working.

The town is pretty and green, the people curious but friendly, and even though the population is twice that of Lila, its distinctly more rural feeling due to a prevalence of overgrown lanes and persistent manifestations of jungle life. I'm enjoying the amenities as well. The convenience store, bakery, and Internet cafe all mean that I'll have to travel to Tagbilaran less frequently now that I can actually do my grocery shopping and communicating in Clarin itself. Which means a lazy Saturday morning at home may become a tradition instead of an anomaly.

And now, for some pictures of my new house. It's actually quite a bit smaller and more rustic than my place in Lila, but those are both bonuses in their own way. I just love it.

My first decoration: My monthly call-in sheet, covered over in blue crayon through August 2011. When the right side is all filled up, I come home.

The wall between my dining room (space, area, walkway...? "Room" is a bit generous) and my bedroom.

My kitchen is a concrete room with a sink, to which I added a double burner electric stove. (The man outside is fixing the water.) The lack of refrigerator has altered my diet pretty dramatically, but it's an adventure. It's all a bit rough, but lends a quality of perpetual camping to my existence that I find appealing. No surprise there.

Necessary implements

My first breakfast - out on the porch with oatmeal, coffee, and Sir Ernest Shackleton

This little shelf was a doily-bedecked Mother Mary and Jesus shrine when I moved in, but Abby and I have reimagined it since into a more subtle presentation. The wooden figure is still Mary, but with the addition of a Found Image Press vintage American flag postcard, lucky bamboo, and my version of a doily - the circular design cut from a favorite tee shirt that met its death when I leaned into black hair dye in a salon in Taipei.

The dresser in my bedroom. I'll start sleeping in this room when my new bamboo bed is finished.

The desk in my bedroom. Moleskine central.

My bathroom! It's cleaner than it looks (that's a rust stain, not dirt), and smells like bleach and fresh paint. The extreme lack of water pressure makes that shower head just about useless, so I'll still be bucketing, but the really important thing here is the flushing toilet complete with toilet seat!!!! That's right, I'm fancy.

That's all for now!

Clarin

I'm here!

So far so good, but communication might be iffy until I figure out where to get reliable Internet. There is, however, an Internet cafe! Oh big city livin, I've missed you. There is also a bakeshop and a convenience store, so I think Clarin and I are going to get along just fine. I really like my new house, and I'll get some pictures up soon.

xo

Drum roll please...

And the official moving day is....Monday!!!!

That's right, THIS Monday. That means starting next week, I'll call Clarin, Bohol, home.

And just in time too.

Though I've managed to keep myself in good spirits since The Break In - distracted by endless episodes of House, one incredible book about the Amazon, and my wonderful friends - this week has worn on me a bit. While not actively paranoid or scared, something, almost subconsciously, has me on edge. The first night it was a dream that someone was in my house, but I couldn't find them. I kept running from room to room (in real life there are only two, but in the dream I had about eighteen more dark, creaky, full-of-hiding-places rooms), where it was clear someone had been moving things, but no one was there. I started rushing around, growling, increasingly panicked, trying to act tough, and proclaiming out loud that they better show themselves...or else. When I finally saw a human form hiding under an old blanket, I woke up. Lovely, right?

That morning, pouring myself some cornflakes, I noticed a match and a needle lying together in perfect parallel directly between the four legs of a chair in my kitchen. Though they had obviously rolled off the table on their own (though I don't know how the match wiggled from its box first), and there were no signs of someone having gotten in through the door or windows, and everything was telling me that would be a ridiculous thing for someone to do if they had been in my kitchen in the middle of the night, there you have it. The hairs on the back of my neck just don't listen to reason, no matter how hard I try explaining things to them.

The next morning it was an origami flower, which had previously sat on a shelf next to the Virgin Mary, lying all to deliberately on the living room floor. It is not hard to dislodge a paper flower from its perch - any passing breeze could do it - but onto the list it goes: Perfectly harmless things that would hardly have caught my attention a week ago, now intent on driving me mad.

The paradox is that I either have nothing to worry about, or I'm dealing with an absolute lunatic who can walk through walls and has a very sick and subtle sense of humor.

Waking up the other morning to a chasm violently splitting open in my bedroom wall was less subtle. Though I almost immediately saw that a pair of stray cats fighting on the roof had just knocked a board down, the fragment of a moment just before that realization was enough time for my just-waking mind to form the though, "Oh great, now they're really trying to kill me."

Plus, now there's a hole in the wall of the room where I sleep. That same day I spent a significant amount of time turning imaginary skulls and pelvises around in my mind, trying to wedge them through, before concluding nothing but an infant could really make it. And I'm pretty sure I could take an infant.

Though I'm quite certain I'm not in any danger of the Butterfinger Bandit's return, my own mind might just do me in.

So for many reasons on top of the reasons I already had for making a site transfer, this move to Clarin is a welcome and wonderful change. Bring it.

Butterfinger Blues

Please excuse me while I take a break from a very slow-moving recounting of my now not-so-recent trip to Taiwan. Suffice it to say in the meantime that the trip was wonderful and beautiful, and pulling up all the pictures again from this current state actually leaves me feeling a bit...icky.

I haven't been blogging much because life seems to be dragging its feet as of late. It's now no secret that I'm in the middle of transferring to a new town, and have been for what feels like a lifetime. Finally in the very very very last stage - waiting for some signatures from an outside volunteer coordinating agency, the thing having already been approved by the entirety of Peace Corps Philippines right down to the housing in my new town - my current town of Lila seems intent on getting in a few more sucker punches before it spits me out into my next assignment.

The latest is a particularly cruel incident involving a disappearing Butterfinger.

Now, to fully appreciate the magnitude of this tragedy, it helps to know just how valuable American junk food is to those living long stretches without it. Something as simple as a Butterfinger, by virtue of its sudden scarcity, takes on a whole new meaning. Covetous feelings abound. So when, last week, a few of us PCVs found ourselves suddenly awash in American chocolate bars after the visit of a very thoughtful member of the Faces of Tomorrow team (four bars each!!!), our bug-eyed selves had a hard time not devouring them all on the spot. I immediately ate a Babe Ruth and through great personal strength tucked the other three into my refrigerator. This was Thursday, and I managed to eat only one more bar before the weekend arrived. So far so good.

The weekend came and went. It was a typical, fun weekend with good friends, but the Butterfinger remained staunchly in the back of my mind. Which is why yesterday, returning home mid-afternoon, I walked straight to the fridge before even setting down my bag. The door swung open, a cloud of cold air rolling out over me and into the sweltering Philippine heat, and the Butterfinger was...gone! My brow furrowed, and mind racing, I pushed all the other items around, searching. But both my intended snack and its companion had disappeared.

Despite being the only person with keys to the locks I had installed, I texted the caretaker to ask if she or anyone else had been in my house while I was away. Perhaps she had come in for some reason, brought her kids, and they had helped themselves to my fridge while their mom was busy upstairs. But while I was waiting for her reply, I began to notice the other signs: the contents of my backpack pulled out onto a chair, another bag lying in the middle of the floor, my favorite Gerber knife absent from its usual spot on the coffee table, and, in an odd and petty twist, every single chocolate item in the house - gone.

Ugh. Both oddly and luckily, nothing of real value was taken. Though my computer and kindle were with me in Tagbilaran, my cameras were at home and still in their bag where I left them. My passport, strategically buried in a box of odds and ends, remained unmolested. Though I suppose that was smart. A gorgeous, bright orange underwater camera might raise some eyebrows if it suddenly appeared in town, but chocolate is easily disposed of. The curious thing, of course, was how they - whoever they are - got in. The lock still intact on the front door means the only other obvious point of entry is an upstairs window. The window can be prevented from opening by inserting a nail into a hole in track on which the window slides, but with the Philippines' humidity, neither wood nor nail maintain their integrity forever. With enough force, Butterfinger.

The whole thing has me feeling a bit morose, but if the break in had happened six months ago it would have likely been the last straw. At this point, it comes on the tail of many other invasive events: peeping toms, drunken men leaning over the fence, finding someone else's pictures on my computer back when I was still living with a host family... In a society that already has very few inclinations toward privacy or the notion of personal space, being a tall, white, female foreigner in a town completely unaccustomed to such apparitions is something of a perfect storm. I come home feeling completely overexposed, and I come home to hide. Which is why finding someone has eaten the Butterfinger right out of my fridge is almost, ALMOST, funny.

The lesson here: When live gives you four candy bars, eat them all at once.