I just wanted to link you all to my latest project blog.

“Balikbayan” is a Filipino word referring to an individual who lives outside the Philippines returning for a visit.  It is a composite word comprising of the word ‘balik’ meaning ‘to return’ and ‘bayan’ meaning ‘country,’ ‘community,’ ‘village,’ or ‘my house.’  

Our project uses this word literally and metaphorically.

Our work will use the questions of identity that are common for the majority of Filipinos who were born or raised outside of the Philippines to explore the rich cultural legacy that we all share.  In the project we will encourage the members of our community to share their own stories of cultural exploration, and ask those who have just begun to join us in a virtual visit ‘home.’

This project intends to explore identity through the lens of literal balikbayans, hoping to bring Filipino-Canadians to the metaphorical home that is self-realization.  We will speak with and record the views of Filipino-Canadians both in Canada and in the Philippines, and we will show our own vision of the country via a multimedia installation project.

This summer (2010) we will be showing the photos, video shorts, and mini-documentary at the Kultura Festival in Toronto, Canada.  The doc will explore the life we or our parents left behind…

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Check out the blog now: ProjectBalikbayan.com

Some of my posts there include:

Pride, Shame, and WWII @ Transitio Manila

Family, A Mirror to What Could Have Been...

Thinking About Our Past and Future

International Women’s Day

My Air-Con Experience

A Golden Past… now what about the present?

Pacquiao Time in da Philippines.

Bacoor: Children, Photography, and Opportunity.

A Cemetery Adventure.

Overnight in a Jeepney to an Evening in a BMW.

My recent run in with the military has resulted in a concern from people both in Canada and here in the Philippines.  Even the NGO peeps I work with that deal with this sort of situation all the time have been asking whether I’m ok, whether I was afraid.  People have even gone to call me brave.  Very strange.

To tell you the truth, and this isn’t me putting on a front, I’m always a little surprised when others call my little adventures brave.  I mean, don’t you have to overcome fear to be brave?

For some reason I really don’t feel a strong sense of at-the-moment fear.  I feel concern sure, but gut wrenching fear?  Not really.

Sometimes I’m concerned by it, shouldn’t that freak me out?  Isn’t fear in that situation normal?

[*note: the kind of fear I’m talking about here is the kind you feel at the spur of the moment when something happens unpredictably.  The kind of fears that are what if’s about the future still scare the crap out of me!]

I’ve had a lot of, what many would probably call ‘reckless’ adventures in the last few year so I’ve thought about this many times before.  I figure that as this trip is supposed to be partially about self-reflection, I’d share some of my thoughts on this with you.

Just so you have an idea of my idiocy, since I’ve been travelling I’ve:
- been strip-searched in public in Colombia by heavily armed soldiers after an attempted drug frame up.
- almost flew off a cliff in Colombia when the driver of the car decided to get really drunk.  Seriously, 1/3rd of the car was hanging off the edge.  This was after the driver just saved our asses (I was travelling with friends).  He had found us alone on the top of a volcano with no transportation and Colombian bandits on our tail (not kidding).
- negotiated with a drunk machete wielding mugger on a dark Ecuadorian sidestreet, who kindly didn’t kill me and only slashed off my shoulder bag.  I continued to walk after him to protest even after the fact.
- went hiking in the Andes without any water (as I thought there would be a shop at the Ecuadorian provincial park—there wasn’t), got bad altitude sickness while alone in the middle of the mountain forest, which resulted in my getting lost.  In a haze (really it was bad) I forced myself to push on blind up and down the rolling hills, and around ponds and rivers (which I drank from in desperation) towards a road I could only see every time I got to the top of a hill.  Had I not made it back before 4pm I would have been stuck overnight, the temperature would have dropped to below 0C and it would have been bad.
- gotten drunk with Filipino sailors I had come to travel with in Palawan, who then preceded to have a gun fight.

And those examples are all from before I started doing human rights work (where at least the danger is for a cause).  Yes I’m a fool.  But it’s weird, in none of the above instances was I afraid.  And I mean the shivering, unable to think, frozen in fear sort of afraid.  I recognized the danger and thought of what action would be best (granted sometimes the choices haven’t been the wisest—drunken machete man being a good example.)

It wasn’t always this way.  When I was younger I used to hear, like most did I’m sure, the taunt, “are you chicken?” (followed by the requisite chicken sound effects).  Being a smaller guy I may have heard it more than some.

Truth be told I was afraid of a lot of things those days: heights, being left alone, the dark (I slept with a night light forever!), people, and on and on.

Despite that I always daydreamed what I figure are usual guy dreams: superheros (this is really what I wanted to be when I grew up, it kindof still is), 007 type spies, being Bruce Lee, etc.  I always dreamt of a life of adventure, and the usual ‘adult’ life seemed so boring to me.

I remember starting a ‘spy club’ as a ten year old where me and friends would follow ‘suspicious’ people around town.  It would have been a ‘superhero club’ but we couldn’t quite figure out how to fly (apparently even if you really want to, ya can’t fly).  We’d never confront them but we always thought we would—you know, like when they posed a danger to innocents (which never seemed to happen—hahaha).

All the while if anything really bad happened to me I’d just back off and do nothing.

Eventually as I got older the fears really started to piss me off so I purposefully put myself into situations were I was afraid.  Thus I jumped out of a plane, travelled alone, forced myself to sleep in the dark, etc…

Then one day they were gone.  And that’s when the idiocy really began.  The correlation between the two is somewhat disturbing.

I’ve figure part of it all was about proving something to myself at first.  But these days it’s just normal.  These days it’s focused: bad shit is happening to people, people that look like me, and if I can do something (and have an adventure at the same time) then that’s the life I dreamed of as a kid isn’t it?

I’m still waiting for my superpowers though.

~  ~  ~

***Oh, and just so my Mum doesn’t freak out: I’m not a reckless as I was in my travelling days.  My travels these days are with responsible orgs and we are in constant contact with the outside when we go into the field.  There’s a buddy system where no one goes out alone, and we always have an exit plan.  I’m a responsible fool nowadays Mum!

Superheros, Identity, and Art:

Yeah so I want(ed) to be a superhero when I grew up:  to go right wrongs and have cool adventures.  That’s a good part of why I love the photo-ing so much.

To get good pics you have to be out there.  I thought about being a writer at first, but chose against it as I felt bored with the making calls and hunting down people in offices for interviews, I’d rather be where the action is, its the adventure instinct I think.  You have to be out there, and more, you have to be out front.

I freak out the human rights workers here in Manila all the time for example when I won’t stay behind the rally line and actually push the police out of my way to get shots.  At first whoever they chose as my ‘buddy’ (you always go to rallies in pairs in case of something happening) always looked like he was going to have a heart attack.  (Sorry bout that guys!)

That’s how I see it all and where my motivation is.  (Plus Peter Parker is a photographer.) 

And that also where my difficulties start in purely ‘art for arts sake’ type work.  For me it has to mean something, it has to be of service somehow.  I have no problem with beauty for beauty’s sake, I just have trouble doing it myself.

For me identity is tied with politics and history.  As Filipinos lucky enough to have opportunities in our lives that our brothers and sisters didn’t have here, I feel we need to represent them and their struggles.

What was it the uncle of a famous superhero said about great power and responsibility?

A winning chicken gets stitched up after a cock-fight. His severe leg injury will keep him out of the game for 6 months. Bukidnon, Mindanao (2005)

Notes about the photos and story:

It all started with the pictures of chickens I took in Balanak, Bikol (I also added a couple on the bottom from Bukidnon, Mindanao).  “WTF am I going to write about?!?” I asked myself.  I was at a loss.

Then Rose Cortez wrote that I was ‘brave’ in a comment on my last post.  People have said this to me in the past too and I always feel weird about that.

Brave I thought?  Not really, but no chicken either.

Sure it’s a stretch, but hey there it is…

©2009 alex felipe
All Rights Reserved.

I lived here in 2001 with my family. The simple house of corregated iron, plywood, and cinderblock was by active traintracks.

I’ve been in the Philippines a few days now with the Kilusan Collective and I am lost in a sea of conflicting thoughts, much of it stemming from an inner debate as to my responsibilities as a balikbayan [returning Filipino living abroad] and my purpose in this project.

I am introspective by nature, travel back to the homeland only heightens this. This post is not about art, it is about my mindset on this trip.

As a balikbayan one fits outside Philippine society. No matter how economically challenged one might be in Toronto all of us are still better off than the vast majority in Philippine society. This weighs on me heavily.

There are two main classes here: the elite and the masses (the middle class is very, very tiny and so exert little of the balancing influence that they do in Western societies). Conversations with the girls made me realise that as balikbayans we have to make a choice about which group identify with—and this choice gives us focus and purpose.
I think most Filipinos from abroad make this choice subconsciously, I make mine fully aware.

So with whom do I identify you may wonder? Well let me share with you a family story from my first full day here: I have an adopted cousin who is currently working illegally in the Middle-East, and while spending time with family in Quiapo I found out she just got caught by the authorities.

This cousin was abandoned by her birth mother as a child and was unofficially adopted by my aunt. When I lived with them in the squatter neighbourhood by the railroad tracks during my first trip to the Phils in 2001 she was just finishing high school and she took care of the household chores. She ‘found’ a caregiving job in the middle-east just before my next trip to the Phils in 2005 but it was sketchy and the family was concerned. They grew more concerned when she didn’t call for months and when she finally called (I was with them when this happened) she was barely intelligible through the tears.

We all wanted her to go home, but she felt that she had to stay in order to make money and help support her adopted family (who struggle as street vendors). She never told us about her work, and the family had severe doubts she was actually working as a caregiver (they didn’t know yet that she was there illegally).

She finally made it back earlier this year (2009). She came back with very little money, and even less in terms of details of what she was doing there. The family found out that the people that found her the work were not with a legit agency, and that she was made to travel under a fake name and passport. Further she was asked to transport mystery packages she could not open.

Just days ago she was caught as an illegal worker. The family is in tears wanting her to return, but she doesn’t want to be a burden. She tells them that a rich family is offering to help her out, but again illegally and with a ‘new’ fake name.
Her story is not unique. This happens everyday to the poor of this country just trying to make a better life for their family—even at the expense of their own.

I am a balikbayan and I am very lucky to be in the position I’m in. My position, contrasted with my family here, is not easy on me it never has been and I doubt it ever will be. All this informs my travels back, and shapes a great deal of who I am.

My Culture Shock

I have to admit that I am probably experiencing more culture shock on this trip than on any of my other visits. I am living in a nice air-conditioned place in Malate where I have someone cook for me and drive me around. I eat with the girls at Aristocrat, and I speak English most of the time (even with the locals that are in my immediate circle this time around, which is strange and somewhat unsettling).

I feel like I’m in a foreign world for the first time ever in the Philippines. And I have to admit, it feels so very odd to me.

Now I do know that as a balikbayan I am not one of the Philippine poor. I know that I can never be, and I know that I am glad for that fact—but the poor remain my point of reference when I think of life in this country. Because of this I find myself feeling guilty and uncomfortable at times.

I knew before hand that this was going to be a unique trip for me. But only a few days in, it’s already messed with my mind more than I expected.

This month is going to be crazy….

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photos ©2005-08 alex felipe  /  All Rights Reserved.

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Monday 17 December, 2002

The girl who sat next to me on the bus to Semarang had the aura of one that worked in the fields of Java. It was not the way she dressed, nor anything else she carried that gave me that impression. It was her smell.

The journey from Yogya to Semarang usually takes around 3 hours on the A/C “Executive” bus. I had decided to take the regular bus with the locals, it would take 4.5. I was on my way to meet up with Jay, a teacher borne of Indonesian and American decent, and Andrea, a Brit.  It was the beginning of my “holiday.”

About half an hour into the journey, the girl got on board and sat down next to me. The girl (I call her “girl” but she was no doubt in her early to mid-twenties) fell asleep during the ride and eventually her head rested on my shoulder. She smelled of earth and work.  It is the same smell the world over.

I’ve caught that scent before:

In Ecuador on my way from Guayaquil to Cuenca our bus balanced on the sides of mountains winding though one village to another. I gazed wide-eyed at the ocean of cloud that rolled and tumbled between the Andean valleys below. My seatmate was a farmer coming back from the market. He later got off at one of those random towns…

In Brazil, on a boat to Peru across the Amazon we made stops in small villages on the great river’s banks, the smell was there with her people as well, on those who toil to tame a jungle, to feed a family…

And again in the Philippines, in my motherlands northern mountainous province I shared Jeepneys with local rice farmers who accepted the burden of tending those 2000 year old fields.

Everywhere the same smell.

It is not an unpleasant scent. It’s the aroma of earth, of sun, of labour, and most of all, of years. The girl who sat next to me looked 23-25, but I would not be shocked to hear that she was a teenager. The lines and cracks I’ve seen on the faces and hands of other field-hands just a few years her senior testify to the aging process of her task.

I remember taking a job as a treeplanter in the May-June 2000. I remember that beyond the hope to make some money I had (misguidedly) taken the job with the desire to “experience the lives of the worlds manual labour class.” (A cheese, lame, emo rational I know.)

My fellow planters and I never smelled like that girl.

I am not saying that they all shared a scent merely to make a point, they really did smell the same.

We planters simply stank. And we each stank differently.

That treeplanting summer left me with knees that will forever ache in the cold, and worse, it left me ashamed. Ashamed that I thought that 8 weeks of 10-12 hour workdays could teach me what a lifetime of said work was like. We were just rich kids playing field-hand—no, that was only me doing that, everyone else was just in it for the money. I saw nothing of what they saw, I could only see what my background as a “rich” kid (relatively speaking) let me see. I came in knowing full well that I would step out, that there was a world after the endless backbreaking days.

Back on the bus in Indonesia the girl woke up just in time to get her stop, we were still 30 minutes or so from Semarang.

As the scenery of kamikaze cars weaving through traffic, coconut trees, dilapidated buildings, rice paddies, and small town markets flew past I started to think of where I was now and of the beginning ”holiday.”

Everyone at work was really excited about it, about the upcoming break from the day to day.

It’s a shame isn’t it? That we have to “holiday.” I mean, doesn’t it all just imply that regularly life just sucks? And if this is the case, if we holiday to escape “the routine” then a short break changes nothing… things will still suck when you get back.  Shit can be very patient.

“It’s a good thing that for me, this whole trip, this whold ESL teaching thing was just a holiday.  I didn’t have to look forward to the few weeks off at Christmas that we were getting,’ I thought smugly…until the stupidity of the notion caught up with me.

So I began to wonder about the nature of what I was doing and where I was. ‘I am travelling,’ I said to myself. ‘I travel because I am sick of the Western worldview, because I don’t want any part of it,’ pretentiously proclaimed the thoughts of an English (!) teacher.

I’m an idiot.

When I started with this idea of travel it was because I did not know what to do with myself after university. Now that I had “finished” my education the practical part of myself told me that it was time for a job, but the other part said that it wanted no part of the usual crap. Besides, he couldn’t think of anything that he wanted to do. ‘The West sucks,’ it declared, ‘because all it does is accumulate for no good reason. Spend it’s accumulations on things it never needed, let alone wanted (until someone else told it that it REALLY did want it after all). And think about how great it all was and that everyone should do the same.’

I looked out the window to see an old man peddling a becek (bicycle taxi) up a hill.

I looked at the window and saw the reflection of a former treeplanter. Here he was, travelling, accumulating experiences and memories and photos, with the intention to use said items for gloating rights, and wondering why everyone doesn’t do the same…

And at that stomach turning realization the bus stops and our wanderer arrives in Semarang.

* * * * *

***all images: ©2005 alex felipe / All Rights Reserved.

Please contact the photographer with use inquiries***

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Family members of the people who are thought to have been taken by government agents.

Have you ever worked in an environment where you had to worry about being followed?  Of having your phone tapped?  Or that maybe, during a dark and stormy night, not make it home?  There was a time that thought passed through my mind—and I wasn’t necessarily overreacting.

It’s Labour Day so it’s a good time to remember the workers that ensure that we eat, that we have our tools and conveniences, and generally make civilization possible.  Now as difficult as things are getting here in Canada, it could be worse—it could be the Philippines.

I want to share a piece I wrote last October when I was in the Phils working with social justice organizations.  Here in Canada workers are worried that job security no longer exists (see what happened to the auto factory workers), but they are lucky they don’t have to worry about their lives.

From the time Gloria became President in 2001 to April of this year, 193 have been “disappeared” (ie. taken and not seen again) and 903 have been killed extrajudiciously—and all fingers point to her government.  Most of these individuals were either workers or working for the rights of workers.

I actually just got an email a few minutes ago telling me that while there was the good news of the Tagaytay 5, labour leaders imprisoned for over two years, seven more activists from the same organisation went missing just yesterday.

So yes, back to my story…

* * * * *

October 2007

It had been raining all day, now it was 7pm, dark, and it was pouring down.  I was leaving the office of a social justice organisation and was headed home.  The office opened out into a narrow alley and I was approaching the first of two gates when I saw the blue minivan.  I had just finished an orientation meeting where I was told straight out that the org was a “hot” organization and definitely on the government watchlist.

It slowed as it passed the alley and I noticed that its windows were tinted black.  At this point a slight wave of paranoia hit, I had read about the abductions in the Philippines in the press and I entertained the thought that this seemed a bit odd.  I imagined shadowy figures behind its black windows watching me–I smiled and chided myself for being so melodramatic (‘you sound like one of your Tita’s’ I thought).

I brushed it off and passed through the gate.  The minivan crept to a halt with the rear two windows directly in view of the alley—and I hesitated.   I brushed it off again and kept going.

‘It’s early yet’ I told myself, the Barangay [Municipal] Hall was just a few houses down and it had kids playing basketball outside, and frankly, I’m just not that important, so I walked out into the street and walked away.

I walked about 50 metres and looked back.  The van was still parked in front of the alley with its hazard lights on, no one came out of the vehicle (and no one was approaching it either).

I laughed it off.

When I got to the LRT station I got a text on my cell.  I’ve since deleted it so I can’t remember the exact wording, but it was something like:   Did you make it back ok?

The sender was my org contact, I replied yes.

I wondered why the person was asking as I had made the trip many times before so she knew that I knew the way.  I figured that the text was sent late and she was asking this earlier in the day when I got a little lost going somewhere new.

Later I got this exact text from them: “ALEX, WERE U ANSWERING A TXT FR ME WHEN U TXTD THIS?-No problem.  So whats our plan 4 2moro?” [The latter part was my response to if I had made it back ok.]

I told them I was only answering their text.

“Can u send bak 2 me d msg u got? Sori but we r realy paranoid abt our celfones. I nid 2 c whether my fone is tappd.” [exact text]

Apparently it wasn’t them.

That’s when I thought back to that blue van.

I still not sure exactly what happened or why became of the suspicion, but I can definitely say that it got my guard up.   Despite my–no doubt limited–knowledge about the situation here in the Philippines, this was the first time I felt its reality.

So it was a dark and stormy night, and I got a little taste of what that clichéd horror device really means.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Additional Notes:

> UN Special Rapporteur Philip Alston confirmed much of what activist organisations in the Philippines claim.  His 2007 report and clearly points the finger at the government.  To download his final report please visit: http://stopthekillings.org/stknpv2/?q=resources/60/alston%E2%80%99s-final-report-rp-extrajudicial-killings

> For more information on the Labour Situation in the Philippines please CLICK HERE.

> Also check out my Philippines links on the main page for sites that can provide more information.

***To take a bit of a break from some of the heavier subject matter I’ve been posting, here’s an old travel story from my very first trip back to the Phils in 2001. It’s an email I wrote my friends. I was less than a month into that Asian trip, a trip that would last almost 2.5 years. I read this and I remember a younger me…

* * * * *

Monday June 11, 2001

I have come to realize that the psychological aftertaste of testicle lingers far longer than the actual physical flavour… but I am getting ahead of myself. Please let me restart from the beginning of the story.

Last Thursday I attended a local fiesta in a town near of the city of Batangas, south of Manila. The fiesta tradition dates back to the Spanish when they encouraged the annual celebration of each townships patron saint. The villagers would throw a huge party, complete with parades, dancing, and, of course, gluttony.

Each household, no matter its financial position, would slaughter its finest livestock and everyone would be invited to eat. This tradition continues. In the past, as now, many would go into debt to afford to contribute to the party (which is one of the reasons the Spanish landowners encouraged the practice you see), but everyone agreed that the yearly party was well worth it.

I stayed with the aunt of my cousin (from the other side of his family) and we also shared a common aunt there from my mother’s side. On the Wednesday I went to my relatives home and witnessed, for the first time in my life, the slaughter of a fellow mammal. In this case a large, adult goat with slightly curled 10 inch horns.

I did not know what to expect—no, in truth I was expecting a very gruesome experience. I considered not visiting while the slaughter was to be done, but curiosity won out. But I did make the decision not to take photographs [*the photo used in this entry was from my 2007 trip to the Phils]. This may disappoint some of you, but it seemed disrespectful to the animal at the time.

At one side of the yard where the livestock was kept was a large metal cauldron of boiling water sitting over a flame. Near the flame, was the outhouse that served as the shower and toilet area for the family. The rest of the yard was cluttered with spare metal parts, lumber, bamboo logs.

The goat (which stood at eyelevel with me when it got up on its hind legs to stare at me from behind a chain-link fence) had a coarse whitish coat and odd (to me anyway, who has no recollection of ever looking eye to eye with a goat before) eyes. He had horizontally elliptical irises with a dip on the top portion. My Catholic upbringing clearly recognized the medieval devil image in the creature, it was the almost knowing way the animal held himself. I immediately came to like the guy.

That was when he was led away by the rope on his hind leg. He was hoisted up by two men (one of whom was my uncle), while two others tied his hind legs to a bamboo pole horizontally suspended about six and a half feet off the ground. The wide eyed goat thrashed around for a very short while, giving up some confused yelps (“BAAA AA?!?!??), but very soon he was silent. A couple of the men held on to the legs as a third picked up a thin, eight inch knife. A boy, an eight year old cousin of mine, came scampering over with a large white bowl.

I had expected the throat to be slit. Instead, the man searched for the jugular with his left hand, then in non-dramatic fashion, slide the knife in one side and out of the other. The goat made a quick noise, but was silent when the blood began to bubble out of his mouth. The knife was removed, and the blood gushed out of the two puncture wounds, splashing my cousin, who turned to me with a smile. In just a few seconds the goat stopped moving, a short moment later his breathing stopped.

I’ve seen blood before, but the blood collected into the bowl (to be used for soup later) and splashed over the ground was of a strange hue. It seemed almost, creamy. Not a dark maroon, but the kind of indifferent red of cheap paint. It didn’t seem real. Moreover, the slaughter was not what I expected. No wild desperate attempts to escape from the butcher’s blade. No woe inspiring cries of horror and pain. No long drawn out death. It was simple, and quick. I have no illusions of it being painless, but it did shock me in that it was less agonizing for this viewer to witness that all previous cultural upbringing has made me expect.

What followed was odd. As soon as the breathing stopped, the goat was let down and thrown on to a wooden bench. A rope tied tightly just below the neck wounds and an incision made in the rear left ankle. A bike pump was asked to be fetched (“bike pump?!!??”)—the process of removing the coat was about to begin.

The end of the pump was inserted into the cut on his ankle. A second rope was tied over the ankle incision. Then the goat was inflated, yup inflated, until his skin was taut. Boiling water was poured on to the creature (remember the cauldron of boiling water?), which released the goats not unpleasant musk into the air. The water allowed tufts of hair to be pulled out by the handful.

When this process was complete and the body made hairless the goat was again hung upside down. His head was chopped off as the hair on the head was proving harder to remove and one man set about on that task alone. With the “lid” removed the green leafy contents of his stomach ran, then dripped, out of the neck.

The job of skinning and disemboweling was begun. The testicles were the first to go and the initial incisions in to the abdomen were made when an interruption from the kitchen halted the work temporarily. It was snack-time.

On to the musty, hair and blood covered bench where one man worked alone on shaving the head a plate of rice cakes and cups of coffee were served. The men rinsed their hands with rainwater collected in a metal drum and passed around the cakes. I stood there eating and sipping my drink marveling at the scene. Behind me was the beheaded and partially skinned remains of the goat I had made eye contact with less than an hour ago. And in front of me was a bloody bench where the head of a goat appeared to stare at a plate of cakes.

Then someone brought out the roasted testicles….

Well it was worth a shot I decided, so with eyes wide open I bit into one. A blood red vein was exposed in its centre. It had retained its spongy consistency through the cooking process and after a few chews realized that it tasted a bit like balut (the duck fetus egg delicacy). The inside was white and, um, juicy.

I guess it really didn’t taste so bad, but the thought outweighed everything else and one bite was enough. Everyone else loved it though. One even sucked out the juices, making loud slurping noises, before gulping it down.

There was not much of an aftertaste. Anyway I immediately smoked a cigarette to eliminate any possible chance of that–though the psychological taste remained.

It began with the expected “eewwww, I just munched on testicle,” but soon it became “hey this will make for a pretty good story.” It is this latter thought that has been with me since that Thursday.

And, I hope, now that I have told it, the testicular flavour will go away…..

For a change of pace in terms of my blog entries lately here’s a “lighter” photo from the mountain villages near Zamboanga del Norte.

This is a “habal-habal.” People here don’t have the money for vehicles more expensive than a motor cycle so it’s the primary form of motorised transport. It hauls everything from people, to cargo, to livestock, to other motorcycles!

When carrying people it has a “normal” load of about five (three behind the driver, and one sitting in front of him, like in this photo). It also can carry more than the normal if they add side planks to it. They jokingly call this an “airplane” ride as up to seven ride it, some precariously balanced on the plank “wings.”

It’s partially for places like this that I love to wander.

A self-portrait waiting for my flight back to Toronto in Detroit In't Airport.

So I flew back on the 20th. In the past I would have called this leg the “homecoming,” these days I’m no longer so sure where ‘home’ is.

Now it is very cold again, very cold…

On a warmer note at least people will stop worrying so much (as if anywhere is really “safe”). To be honest I did do quite a number of foolish things while on the road, just for fun let me list some (in no particular order):

- I visited areas contaminated with toxic heavy metals in the air, water, soil, and/or food.
- I walked unprotected in/through toxic waterways that are causing health problems.
- I walked barefoot over a 7.5 km stretch of toxic heavy metals that are causing major health complications.
- I ate seafood that live in toxic waters.
- I drank water that is no doubt dangerously high in heavy metals.
- I breathed. [this is just plain a bad idea in many places in the Phils, though probably worse in those places with blowing particles of toxic heavy metals.]
- I travelled alone with expensive gear that I waved around in peoples faces [sometimes at night, often in areas with high crime rates].
- I spent time with people who have reason to fear for their lives (ain’t the photo-gig exciting?!). In one such place there was a guard dog at every door/exit, seven in all. There were previous attempts on people of this place, and colleagues had been hit—one night there was a murder next door which caused only minor worry (this being such a ‘normal’ event).
- I stood in between angry protestors and riot police in battle gear – even after the Media Advisory by Dept of Justice Secretary Gonzalez’s warning journalists that police will use necessary force if the media get in their way. I also enjoyed pushing cops out of my way through the police line.
- Then of course there are the non-risks that people back in Canada always freak about: drinking the tap water (the ice, random street liquids, etc.), eating random streetfood (esp. in places like junkyards), sleeping in random homes/porches/whatever, placing my life/safety in the hands of people I just met, etc…
- And there were others…

I don’t know why I find all of the above to be so non-worrisome. I guess its part of the reason I do this sort of thing. I identify with these people, and I can’t stomach living differently from them when I am covering their stories. This is what many do, and it stinks of arrogance to me.

Good ol’ Catholic guilt is there too I guess. I didn’t come from a money family. My relatives are still street vendors just scraping by. By pure chance I got out, they didn’t.

I won’t be that balikbayan that only speaks English, wears nice new designer clothes, and basically lords it over the lazy dirty masses. I prefer to be the guy in ill-fitting stained clothes that rich Filipinos shout their orders to because they think I’m a vendor too.

This was a particularly interesting Friday. Myk and JR, Fils (and KPCer’s) from Toronto, and some foriegners that were volunteering in Manila were interested in visiting some urban poor areas to see how a vast number of their fellow Filipinos lived.

We started went a visit to the Samakana Center in Bitas, Tondo. Next to the housing complex where it’s located is a slaughter house, we are told to listen for the occasional gunshot.

On the other side of the rooftop where the center has it’s library and conducts activities we could view a twin building just like it (these were actually some of the better homes in the area), and past that is the original Smokey Mountain. To the upper right is “government” housing. When someone in our group commented “it’s beautiful” one of the community workers sarcastically replied “ya, on the outside.”

The stairwell was a precarious one with lots of rusted out gaps and makeshift repairs using scrap metal.

Live flies sat on all the electrical lines spiderwebed above. They were literally everywhere, hundreds, if not more.

Coming into the relocated “Smokey Mountain” garbage dump we saw this truck leaving with some dump “employees.”

“Do you want to see the future of the Filipino people,” asked the guy smoking the cigarette. He gestured back, “It’s right there.

The dump has been the home to countless numbers of poor for as long as I can remember.

Some area info:
- Ave daily wage at SM P100.
- Most unemployed in the area. Most jobs of lower status like vendors, pedicab drivers, and then there are those that live and work in the dump.
- many kids dont go to school for lack of funds (transport, school ‘contributions’ eg. have to pay for test papers P15+)
- of those that go to school, most are boys
- few finish up to highschool, fewer college, even if grad from college still the prob of finding work in Phils (they say diff without a “backer”) many try to find work overseas.
- government housing charges a min of P700/mo. rent, higher if not a relocatee (if applied to live there rather than made to live there). The bright colours are courtesy of GK. When someone in our group commented “it’s beautiful” one of the community workers sarcastically replied “ya, on the outside.”

* * * * *

Right after the dump a few of us went to a rally marking the seven years of the GMA regime. Later at the march a line of cops with shields and batons refused to let ralliers put flowers on the EDSA shrine and even said to the nun and priest in front who asked them to move back one step so that they could lay them on the sidewalk “Please, don’t make us do something.”

* * * * *

Right after that the earlier group got back together, met up with a friend of JRs, and went out to Mogwai’s, Cubao Expo.

This one of my last days in Manila, it was a full one. It is always a sad day when I leave the Phils. I know I’ll be back sooner rather than later…

These pics are from 9 Jan 08, the Quiapo Fiesta in Manila. They are mostly family photos from my maternal side.

My aunts and cousin--and me.

There is a part of Quiapo where my family members make up a big number of the street vendors (they sell simple electronic devices and accessories).

After the holidays the new(ish) mayor of Manila decided to crack down on “illegal” street vendors (again). So for about a week they had to run whenever cops came (a daunting task considering how massive their stand was).

This lasted a week as a crackdown on vendors, meant no vendors for cops to collect “protection” money from. Soon a compromise was made: vendors could stay as long as their stands were on the sidewalk (cutting down most in size dramatically) AND as long as they paid cops protection (from themselves).

My uncle made a tidy sale on Jesus-related tshirt stamps. The Quiapo fiesta, like all fiestas, have a religious underpinning.

My god-daughter.

Away from the main crush there were street games played on side streets. There was food everywhere too as everyone shells out beyond their means during fiesta–an old tradition used by the Spanish to keep the peasants in debt and thus malleble.

For my non-family pics from the Fiesta CLICK HERE.