No cellphones. No journals to confide knee-jerk thoughts to. No
music to lull me to sleep. No phone-a-boyfriend or other lifelines. No
stress-relieving cigarettes. No pocket money, save for a hundred pesos. Nothing
but the bare essentials and one classmate-slash-housemate in a house of rural indigents
– our “foster family” – in a small, poverty-stricken village in Real ,
Quezon for a week.
music to lull me to sleep. No phone-a-boyfriend or other lifelines. No
stress-relieving cigarettes. No pocket money, save for a hundred pesos. Nothing
but the bare essentials and one classmate-slash-housemate in a house of rural indigents
– our “foster family” – in a small, poverty-stricken village in Real ,
Quezon for a week.
For a semi-millenial baby like me, this abrupt unplugging from the
comforts I’ve become accustomed to, that 360-degree shift, wasn’t just a
nightmare. It’s the nightmare of all Freddie Krugger nightmares.
comforts I’ve become accustomed to, that 360-degree shift, wasn’t just a
nightmare. It’s the nightmare of all Freddie Krugger nightmares.
I crunched my knees up on the bus on board to Infanta and welled
up. “This trip leads me to uncertainty… and possibly to death”, I wrote in my
journal. A friend seated next to me thought it was an overly melodramatic
psychobabble. “You’re just going to live with a different family for a week!,”
she squealed.
up. “This trip leads me to uncertainty… and possibly to death”, I wrote in my
journal. A friend seated next to me thought it was an overly melodramatic
psychobabble. “You’re just going to live with a different family for a week!,”
she squealed.
Three days into that trip, that same friend — who’s the toughest mama of three I know — cried desperately in front of
an audience of 50 as we spoke of our respective experiences. It was the closest
I’ve seen of her to giving up.
At the back of our heads, we all wanted to, but that also meant giving up on
graduation, that RN title, on our futures, and the futures of our families.
an audience of 50 as we spoke of our respective experiences. It was the closest
I’ve seen of her to giving up.
At the back of our heads, we all wanted to, but that also meant giving up on
graduation, that RN title, on our futures, and the futures of our families.
The community immersion program, as administrators in the school
called it, was created for one purpose: to immerse ourselves in the culture of
poor rural communities who have limited to no access to health care so that we
can educate them about everyday practices that pose health risks. Change the status
quo, so to speak.
called it, was created for one purpose: to immerse ourselves in the culture of
poor rural communities who have limited to no access to health care so that we
can educate them about everyday practices that pose health risks. Change the status
quo, so to speak.
We arrived at dusk on brown, earthen roads dampened by a nearby
stream. Nanay Edna peeked out of her kubo along with two of her boys to welcome
me and Chikki, my housemate for the week.
stream. Nanay Edna peeked out of her kubo along with two of her boys to welcome
me and Chikki, my housemate for the week.
“Magandang hapon po,” we greeted in chorus. She
reciprocated with a warm smile and hot salabat.
reciprocated with a warm smile and hot salabat.
Introductions were short. Nanay Edna is used to students like us
coming in and out of her home every year for community interviews, though this
was her first time to actually host a pair for a week.
coming in and out of her home every year for community interviews, though this
was her first time to actually host a pair for a week.
Our “grandmother” uttered the angelus in
Latin, its strange melody contoured beautifully with sadness and age. Chikki
and I sat on the family’s bedroom floor behind Nanay Edna and her four sons,
muttering foreign words to Jesus.
Latin, its strange melody contoured beautifully with sadness and age. Chikki
and I sat on the family’s bedroom floor behind Nanay Edna and her four sons,
muttering foreign words to Jesus.
Like many Filipinos, faith is the glue that holds Nanay’s family
together, especially on days like that when her husband was out in the sea for
a bounty. Sometimes he’d stay at sea for days to a week and only have enough
catch to feed his family.
together, especially on days like that when her husband was out in the sea for
a bounty. Sometimes he’d stay at sea for days to a week and only have enough
catch to feed his family.
The next day, I opened my eyes to our three year-old foster
brother, now squatted next to us, peeing on the same bamboo floor that we slept
in for the night. At night and sunless early mornings, it was more convenient
to do one’s business by the balcony or elsewhere in the house than to scoop
pails of water from the artisan well then stagger in complete darkness to the
restroom 100 meters away.
brother, now squatted next to us, peeing on the same bamboo floor that we slept
in for the night. At night and sunless early mornings, it was more convenient
to do one’s business by the balcony or elsewhere in the house than to scoop
pails of water from the artisan well then stagger in complete darkness to the
restroom 100 meters away.
Mounds of excrement — both canine and human — covered
in gray sand, were a common sight at the beach not too far from home.
in gray sand, were a common sight at the beach not too far from home.
Like many folks in town, Nanay’s makeshift bathroom — a
roofless, miniscule bamboo cubicle with a flimsy door made of tattered rice
sack — is
installed outside her home instead of inside. It is used sparsely, often only
for bathing, never in the evenings. There are no street lamps at night,
and we used gas lamps to wash the dishes by the well.
Even the few households who had access to electricity like Nanay
Edna’s barely use it, not that they even have appliances to begin with. We get
by with a single light bulb in the living room in the evening while we eat and
while the children finish their homework.
Most pay less than P10 per month for electricity. “Yun lang ang kaya namin
(That’s all we can afford),” Nanay would say.
Edna’s barely use it, not that they even have appliances to begin with. We get
by with a single light bulb in the living room in the evening while we eat and
while the children finish their homework.
Most pay less than P10 per month for electricity. “Yun lang ang kaya namin
(That’s all we can afford),” Nanay would say.
Afternoons were raw and humid despite the sea breeze. On early
mornings after cleaning the house, we roamed the neighborhood, interviewing one
mother after another as they bathed their toddlers using antique deep well
pumps. We return to our respective homes before lunchtime to help out in the
kitchen and cut up bits and pieces of foodstuff using a worn bolo,
its once-sharp edge now wholly consumed by rust.
mornings after cleaning the house, we roamed the neighborhood, interviewing one
mother after another as they bathed their toddlers using antique deep well
pumps. We return to our respective homes before lunchtime to help out in the
kitchen and cut up bits and pieces of foodstuff using a worn bolo,
its once-sharp edge now wholly consumed by rust.
These meals, consumed using bare hands, we strategically divide
1:1 – one small scad or a tiny scoop of vegetables for each of us.
But no matter how insufficient, we make sure to compliment Nanay for the food
and generosity she extends to us.
1:1 – one small scad or a tiny scoop of vegetables for each of us.
But no matter how insufficient, we make sure to compliment Nanay for the food
and generosity she extends to us.
Dusk often finds Chikki and me sitting on a bamboo bench at the
balcony, finishing reports for the following day. It was one of my favorite
things to do, looking at the tangerine sun next to Chikki and Nanay while sipping burned
rice extract; discovering both their stories, the only thing that keeps our
mind off homesickness.
balcony, finishing reports for the following day. It was one of my favorite
things to do, looking at the tangerine sun next to Chikki and Nanay while sipping burned
rice extract; discovering both their stories, the only thing that keeps our
mind off homesickness.
Nights tend to be less forgiving as the balmy air creeps into the
crevices of the bamboo floor our family of eight lays on. Even under a blanket
it can get unbearably cold.
crevices of the bamboo floor our family of eight lays on. Even under a blanket
it can get unbearably cold.
By the third day, we have become accustomed to living in Real — even
to the rumored third dimension creatures lurking around Nanay’s bush-lined balcony. Chikki developed mysterious welts that
persisted for a week after we came back to Manila (and which also just
magically disappeared). Doctors prescribed her various topical ointments, none
of which worked.
to the rumored third dimension creatures lurking around Nanay’s bush-lined balcony. Chikki developed mysterious welts that
persisted for a week after we came back to Manila (and which also just
magically disappeared). Doctors prescribed her various topical ointments, none
of which worked.
“An elf lives by the well, and he likes you,” our foster
grandmother would say.
grandmother would say.
I, on the other hand, heard a galloping horse and a large, indistinguishable
shadow outside the loo one early morning. Everybody was asleep and there is not
a single horse in town or the adjacent ones. Tikbalang, they call
it.
But despite these forces and the difficulties of being a Real
townsfolk, by the tail end of it, we found ourselves forever indebted to the
families who adopted us and saddened to be leaving. These poor families,
stripped of financial capacity to suffice their daily needs, opened their doors
to us and treated us no different than they do every family member.
townsfolk, by the tail end of it, we found ourselves forever indebted to the
families who adopted us and saddened to be leaving. These poor families,
stripped of financial capacity to suffice their daily needs, opened their doors
to us and treated us no different than they do every family member.
For many of us, travel is a matter of leisure. Often, it’s done to
unwind, to discover and revel in new destinations, to renew our sense of wonder
amid the drabness of life. For a 22-year old whose mind wasn’t so open yet to
the many faces of traveling, our “forced” immersion in one of Quezon’s poorest
towns easily became the worst travel experiences I’ve had then.
unwind, to discover and revel in new destinations, to renew our sense of wonder
amid the drabness of life. For a 22-year old whose mind wasn’t so open yet to
the many faces of traveling, our “forced” immersion in one of Quezon’s poorest
towns easily became the worst travel experiences I’ve had then.
Some travels manifest their meanings in an instant, some years
down the road. Today, I look back at it and see it as one of the most
eye-opening too – and I will do it again in a blink.
down the road. Today, I look back at it and see it as one of the most
eye-opening too – and I will do it again in a blink.
As we boarded the air conditioned bus — our
first whiff of luxury in a week — Nanay Edna, who cried buckets
of tears as we sang “That’s What Friends Are For”
to her a fortnight ago, said, “’Wag
niyo kaming kalimutan, mga anak (Don’t forget us, my daughters).”
first whiff of luxury in a week — Nanay Edna, who cried buckets
of tears as we sang “That’s What Friends Are For”
to her a fortnight ago, said, “’Wag
niyo kaming kalimutan, mga anak (Don’t forget us, my daughters).”
Our trip to Real was intended to share and influence lives of the
families we lived in. In the end, as it turns out, it was us whose lives they
have forever changed.
families we lived in. In the end, as it turns out, it was us whose lives they
have forever changed.
It’s been eight years. Nothing has ever been forgotten to this
day, Nanay. Nothing.
day, Nanay. Nothing.
This is my first entry to the Pinoy Travel Bloggers’ Blog Carnival for the month of October, entitled The Worst Travel Moments, hosted by Jona Bering of Backpacking With A Book.
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