It honestly hurts my heart to be writing that my Peace Corps service has prematurely come to an end, but it has. I never, ever would have imagined 16 months ago that I would end my service just 9 months shy of my 27 month commitment. Life is both beautiful, and incredibly cruel at times. For reasons that are both out of my and Peace Corp's control, I cannot finish my term and have been granted Interrupted Service. What does that mean, exactly? Well, besides being totally and horribly sucky, it means that I am still considered a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer who, by any other measure, successfully finished my service. But, excuse my language, that's bullshit. I did not succeed.
The Philippines was my home for a year and five months. I left behind people whom I considered my family. I had so, so much more I wanted to do and goals I hoped to fulfill. My students will not know, not by my narration any way, why elephants have noses. I won't get the chance to paint a mural of the world on my school's walls. I'll never again get to observe the majestic sea turtles while snorkeling at San Juan beach. I will never know if the trike driver who was permanently parked in front of my host family's house will get a haircut like he told me he was going to every day. I'll never find out if Carlos found his tsinelas that he mysteriously lost in the middle of the school day. I have so many unanswered questions!
I told Noella that I would bless her the next time I saw her because my hands were completely full at the time she asked me, in her sweetest voice, to "bless, po." I'll never get to do that now and I will never forgive myself for it. My fifth grade classes were learning simple past and present tense verbs at the time I left for what I thought was a weekend trip to Manila. I know they will learn the simple future tense, they are smart kids and have more than capable teachers, but it hurts my heart to know that I won't be the one to teach them it. I failed them. I failed myself.
I distinctly remember writing a blog post about my biggest fear of letting people down as a Peace Corps Volunteer, it's even in the archives as proof. My biggest fear has come into realization. I know you're probably thinking that I'm being super dramatic and that I just need to move on, Peace Corps doesn't last forever for anyone. But, if you're reading this and you're a current PCV or a RPCV, then you understand where I'm coming from. I put my whole heart into my service. How do you explain to the people in your community that you have to leave them for no apparent reason at all? I would have much rather broke my leg in five places so that I couldn't walk and needed surgery because then at least my exit would make some sense. But, that's not what happened. I was there, apart of the community, making plans to attend a baptism the following month one moment, and gone the next.
I will forever be grateful for the once in a lifetime experiences I was given the opportunity to have for over a year, I was seriously spoiled. But, I think I will always also mourn for the experiences I will never know. Just like there are pieces of myself scattered throughout Honduras, Peru, and Uganda, I'm now also in the Philippines, Aklan and Batangas in particular.
Please excuse me while I purchase my own bell to ring for anyone who will listen and try not to dwell on the fact that the year and five months of my life that were so beautifully fulfilling are now tapos na.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Salt Water Healing
I recently read a quote that says, "salt water heals all things: tears, sweat, the ocean." I could not agree with that more.
I'll start with my favorite, the ocean. As a girl who grew up in the suburbs of Dallas, Texas, I never felt any sort of special connection to the ocean. But, all of that changed when I joined Peace Corps Philippines and the Sulu Sea became my backyard. Many of my volunteer friends and I joke that you must have a go-to coping mechanism if you are to survive and thrive in the Peace Corps; mine is taking daily trips to the shores. It's difficult to explain the beauty of my favorite beach, Jawili beach, but I'll try. The waters are clear as glass so that I can see my toes underneath me as I wade. The water is warm and inviting, with hidden cooler currents that are fun to play hide and seek with. The sand is white and pure, with tiny pale crabs constantly scurrying about. The differing shades of colors are a combination of turquoise, sea foam, and sky blue. The sandbar is long, so you can swim for miles without feeling lost at sea. The coral is vibrant and snorkeling there has become one of my favorite activities. I almost always see a family of sea horses hidden in the sea grass. I like to play chicken with the territorial clown fish. The eels are not my friends, but I still like to stare at them. I also love to find the chocolate chip starfish (that's really their name). Some are giant, as big as my face! They come in blue and pale pink, mostly, with big brown dots, resembling chocolate chips, on top of them. I feel most at peace when I'm swimming in the ocean, discovering a world that is so beautifully different from my own. It's a reminder of how I am but a speck on this earth. It wasn't always like that, I used to be terrified of not knowing what could be swimming underneath me. But, I've come to appreciate and wonder at its magnificence. The ocean has given me plenty a therapy sessions. I feel centered the moment my feet feel the powdery sand and my body submerges in its salty embrace. It's pure and invigorating, encouraging me to continue when times are hard.
My next favorite, sweat. I've always had a complicated relationship with running; it's very love/hate. There are times when I squeal at the idea of putting on my shorts and lacing up my tennis shoes, but I have never, ever regretted a run after it's completed. Well, I do regret one run in particular, but that is the exception, and not at all the rule. And then there are times when I literally cannot wait for the time in my day when I can move my legs in that familiar and comforting motion, while feeling my body work in the beautiful way it was born to. I feel confident in saying that running has saved me on more than one occasion. It's how I release pent up emotions-anger, sadness, happiness, frustration, pain-they are all lost in the run. I love the feeling of salty sweat streaming down my face as my feet pound the ground in a rhythmic pitter-patter. I am no longer concentrating on that person who hurt me, the pain I hold in my heart, or the day's failings. I am concentrating on the current path, my breath that's in sync with my steps, and the song that is blaring through my headphones. Some runs serve the purpose of clearing my mind, while others are meant as a time for me to dwell and comprise a solution; an answer may not always be the end result, but the run met its goal by giving me time to process with no interruptions. Sweating, especially done in conjunction with running, cleanses toxins from the body, mind, and spirit.
Finally, tears, my least favorite. Well, that's not completely accurate. It was at one time an unpleasant activity, but as I grow, I'm beginning to appreciate its purpose on both a physical and emotional level. I can honestly say that I have never cried as much as I have the past year of my life. I think it's almost impossible to complete your Peace Corps service without tearing up at least once a week. That sounds bad, but it's really not at all. My tears are produced from many different sources, such as happiness, sadness, frustration, confusion, clarity, amazement, wonder, longing, loneliness, witnessing the beauty of humanity and nature, being misunderstood, laughter, pain, anger, and sometimes, for no reason whatsoever. I've come to realize that tears are both a beautiful and unique part of our human composition. Tears are cleansing for the mind and soul; they clean the wounds of the heart and spirit. Tears serve such a fundamental purpose. When we are babies, we cry as a way of communicating with caretakers that something is wrong. As adults, it gets much more complex. I cry when I miss my family, friends, and Luna. I cried when I was sworn-in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I
literally cry every time Beth dies in Little Women. I cried like an infant when I had amoebas. I cry every time I get a shot. I cried during my Language Proficiency Interview (that's embarrassing and on tape). I cried from laughing so hard when I fell on my butt in front of dozens of Filipinos while getting off a boat. I cry for the pain I see in some of my student's eyes, and for the fact that I can't do
much to take it away. I cried, discreetly, when my students asked me to read Horton Hears A Who, "just one more time." I cried the first time a student told me that her favorite part of the day was English Club. I wept over the destruction that Mother Nature can cause. I cried when sweet Arlene told me that she learned a lot at Reading Camp (and she said it in English!). I thought I would never stop crying when someone hurt me. I still weep for the intangible things that were stolen from me, but I know that every tear I shed is quietly mending my broken heart and spirit.
Whether it's swimming in the ocean's salty embrace, running so hard that I end up in a pool of my own sweat, or crying because it's the only thing that makes sense, salt water heals all things big and small.
I'll start with my favorite, the ocean. As a girl who grew up in the suburbs of Dallas, Texas, I never felt any sort of special connection to the ocean. But, all of that changed when I joined Peace Corps Philippines and the Sulu Sea became my backyard. Many of my volunteer friends and I joke that you must have a go-to coping mechanism if you are to survive and thrive in the Peace Corps; mine is taking daily trips to the shores. It's difficult to explain the beauty of my favorite beach, Jawili beach, but I'll try. The waters are clear as glass so that I can see my toes underneath me as I wade. The water is warm and inviting, with hidden cooler currents that are fun to play hide and seek with. The sand is white and pure, with tiny pale crabs constantly scurrying about. The differing shades of colors are a combination of turquoise, sea foam, and sky blue. The sandbar is long, so you can swim for miles without feeling lost at sea. The coral is vibrant and snorkeling there has become one of my favorite activities. I almost always see a family of sea horses hidden in the sea grass. I like to play chicken with the territorial clown fish. The eels are not my friends, but I still like to stare at them. I also love to find the chocolate chip starfish (that's really their name). Some are giant, as big as my face! They come in blue and pale pink, mostly, with big brown dots, resembling chocolate chips, on top of them. I feel most at peace when I'm swimming in the ocean, discovering a world that is so beautifully different from my own. It's a reminder of how I am but a speck on this earth. It wasn't always like that, I used to be terrified of not knowing what could be swimming underneath me. But, I've come to appreciate and wonder at its magnificence. The ocean has given me plenty a therapy sessions. I feel centered the moment my feet feel the powdery sand and my body submerges in its salty embrace. It's pure and invigorating, encouraging me to continue when times are hard.
My next favorite, sweat. I've always had a complicated relationship with running; it's very love/hate. There are times when I squeal at the idea of putting on my shorts and lacing up my tennis shoes, but I have never, ever regretted a run after it's completed. Well, I do regret one run in particular, but that is the exception, and not at all the rule. And then there are times when I literally cannot wait for the time in my day when I can move my legs in that familiar and comforting motion, while feeling my body work in the beautiful way it was born to. I feel confident in saying that running has saved me on more than one occasion. It's how I release pent up emotions-anger, sadness, happiness, frustration, pain-they are all lost in the run. I love the feeling of salty sweat streaming down my face as my feet pound the ground in a rhythmic pitter-patter. I am no longer concentrating on that person who hurt me, the pain I hold in my heart, or the day's failings. I am concentrating on the current path, my breath that's in sync with my steps, and the song that is blaring through my headphones. Some runs serve the purpose of clearing my mind, while others are meant as a time for me to dwell and comprise a solution; an answer may not always be the end result, but the run met its goal by giving me time to process with no interruptions. Sweating, especially done in conjunction with running, cleanses toxins from the body, mind, and spirit.
Finally, tears, my least favorite. Well, that's not completely accurate. It was at one time an unpleasant activity, but as I grow, I'm beginning to appreciate its purpose on both a physical and emotional level. I can honestly say that I have never cried as much as I have the past year of my life. I think it's almost impossible to complete your Peace Corps service without tearing up at least once a week. That sounds bad, but it's really not at all. My tears are produced from many different sources, such as happiness, sadness, frustration, confusion, clarity, amazement, wonder, longing, loneliness, witnessing the beauty of humanity and nature, being misunderstood, laughter, pain, anger, and sometimes, for no reason whatsoever. I've come to realize that tears are both a beautiful and unique part of our human composition. Tears are cleansing for the mind and soul; they clean the wounds of the heart and spirit. Tears serve such a fundamental purpose. When we are babies, we cry as a way of communicating with caretakers that something is wrong. As adults, it gets much more complex. I cry when I miss my family, friends, and Luna. I cried when I was sworn-in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I
literally cry every time Beth dies in Little Women. I cried like an infant when I had amoebas. I cry every time I get a shot. I cried during my Language Proficiency Interview (that's embarrassing and on tape). I cried from laughing so hard when I fell on my butt in front of dozens of Filipinos while getting off a boat. I cry for the pain I see in some of my student's eyes, and for the fact that I can't do
much to take it away. I cried, discreetly, when my students asked me to read Horton Hears A Who, "just one more time." I cried the first time a student told me that her favorite part of the day was English Club. I wept over the destruction that Mother Nature can cause. I cried when sweet Arlene told me that she learned a lot at Reading Camp (and she said it in English!). I thought I would never stop crying when someone hurt me. I still weep for the intangible things that were stolen from me, but I know that every tear I shed is quietly mending my broken heart and spirit.
Whether it's swimming in the ocean's salty embrace, running so hard that I end up in a pool of my own sweat, or crying because it's the only thing that makes sense, salt water heals all things big and small.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
He's My Brother, She's My Sister
One of my favorite things to experience while living in the Philippines is getting to call every person I meet either my sister or my brother. Here, strangers aren't a thing. Even if I've never met a person before, I will call her ate (pronounced ah-teh), which means sister in Tagalog, or I will call him kuya (pronounced koo-yah), which translates to brother. Volunteers are constantly saying that the solution to any problem is finding a kuya or ate, because they literally have all of the answers. Filipinos have an unique way of making you feel like you are their family, no matter where you might come from.
I'm an especially clumsy and frequently lost person, but I always find my way with the help of my kuya or ate. I have lost count of how many times they have given me directions, helped me up when I have fallen, taken me where I need to be, told me how to say a phrase in Tagalog, not laughed at me (or laughed but meant it in a loving way) when I make a fool out of myself, given me an umbrella, caught rabbits that I accidentally let loose into the street, picked out a ripe pakwan or mango for me, told me which boat/jeepney/bus/trike/ plane I need to take to get to my destination, given me a bag to puke in, or told me which sketchy street to not walk down in Manila. I am convinced that I would not have survived my first year here without them.
I think it is just in the Filipino nature to be helpful, and I am so grateful for that. I ask a dumb question, in broken Tagalog, and they answer it with a smile. I burst into tears because I'm on the wrong plane, headed to a place that is bawal, and they don't get frustrated, but simply escort me to the right place. I hyperventilate because I miss my stop on a bus and end up lost late at night, and they calm me down and put me on the right track. I get caught in a current while snorkeling and they bring me back to shore with their bangka. I think you can see how they have literally been my saviors.
Now, I'm not positive if it's because I am a particularly unlucky and ridiculous person that I have experienced the helping hand of a kuya or ate so frequently, or if it's because they really are that helpful, but whatever the reason, I know I would be stranded on some random island, probably with the rabbits whose cage I knocked over, if it weren't for them. So, when I return to the states, I am proposing that the kuya and ate policy be implemented, making everyone be as kind and willing to help as Filipinos, because I no longer know how to function without them.
Filipinos make connections with almost everyone they encounter, making people, even those who are far away from their family, feel cared for. I may be thousands of miles from my blood sister and from my friends who may as well be my siblings, but I've got plenty of ates and kuyas here to keep me out of trouble. Salamat!
Saturday, March 8, 2014
You Think You Know, But You Have No Idea
If there's one thing I've learned during my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer, it's that it changes everything you thought you knew about yourself. I began this experience believing that I'm open minded, flexible, laid back, and culturally aware. How could I possibly be in the Peace Corps and not have those qualities, right? Wrong. Let me elaborate.
I've done quite a bit of traveling in my life, so you would think that I've got cultural sensitivity and awareness down. Negative. A prime example of this occurred during my baranguy's fiesta. Every baranguy has their own fiesta in which their patron saint is celebrated and it is characterized by street dancing, competitions, face painting, and endless amounts of food and alcohol. I was asked to partake in the street dancing competition with all the other teachers at my school, which I gladly accepted. However, I did not realize how long this competition would be, what I would be wearing, or the day's temperature. It was about 3 hours of non-stop dancing, I was wearing a huge, pink mu-mu with feathers on my head, and the humidity was approximately unbearable. I kept telling myself, "Sarah, you are a Peace Corps Volunteer, you can do anything." But, I quickly learned that day that I cannot, in fact, dance for 3 hours in a mu-mu. The dancing is performed throughout the streets while one person holds up the statue of Santo Niño and all the others dance behind it. It was a beautiful cultural experience, which I messed up royally. I decided mid-dance that I needed to either get a bottle of water or pass out in front of hundreds of Filipinos, so I chose to get water. That was a huge mistake. Apparently, it is not only disrespectful for the dancers to stop dancing for the baby Jesus, but it also brings bad luck onto the whole town for the rest of the year, until the next fiesta. I had no idea. So, anything bad that happens in Kalibo from now until January will more than likely be blamed on me. Perfect. Oh, and I also caused my school to lose the competition because I stepped out of formation. I wish I would have chosen to pass out, it would have been less painful.
I cannot recall a time in my life when I did not procrastinate. I always, always tell myself that I will start this project early and not stay up all night frantically trying to finish before the sun comes up. But, I never follow through with that promise. I mean, I wrote the majority of my senior thesis the night before it was due. I'm not sure why I do this to myself, but I also sorta believe that some of my best work has been produced from sheer panic and adrenaline. That's what I tell myself, at least. So, when I was warned during my first few weeks in the Philippines that I could pretty much guarantee that my co-workers would be laid back and that dead lines weren't a real thing here, I was completely fine with it, excited even. Life here definitely runs on island time and it was refreshing, until it wasn't. I eventually got real American and realized that it was going against everything I was ever taught. Waiting 3 weeks for a signature from the district supervisor of your school is not fun. Lesson learned, I am not as laid back as I thought I was. I would love to say that I've magically learned to let go of this hindrance of mine, but I haven't even been here a full year yet and I'm only human, so maybe one day down the line I'll be able to say that. Until then, I will breath very deeply.
Not only am I apparently not laid back or culturally aware, but I'm also not very open-minded. Before you judge me too quickly, answer this question. Have you ever been asked to eat a chicken fetus (multiple times), told you were fat by a stranger, laughed at for attempting to speak an unfamiliar language, have a seance performed on you because you have strep throat, or seen a huge dog locked in a tiny cage for hours on end all in the same day? No? Okay, well I have, and let me tell you, it can cause you to have a bit of resentment towards people. If I were completely open-minded, I would eaten the balut without hesitation, remembered that being called fat here is a compliment, realized that the laughter was due to shock since not many foreigners take the time to learn the language of the country they're visiting, understood that the seance was done out of concern, and told myself that American standards for proper pet care are not universal. But, perhaps I'm being too hard on myself, like I generally am. I may not always see the world with an open mind, like I once thought I did, but I do see it in that way more often than not. It's in the Peace Corps Volunteer job requirement.
I've learned more about myself in the last 9 months than I ever did in my 22 years of life. Actually, it turns out that all that stuff I thought I knew was mostly wrong. It's incredibly overwhelming 100% of the time, which is why it takes a very special person to be in the Peace Corps. But, I honestly believe that I'm turning into the person I was always meant to be, and I owe that to this experience. I won't have it all figured out by the end of my service, at least I hope not because that wouldn't be fun, but I think I'll have a much more accurate picture.
I've done quite a bit of traveling in my life, so you would think that I've got cultural sensitivity and awareness down. Negative. A prime example of this occurred during my baranguy's fiesta. Every baranguy has their own fiesta in which their patron saint is celebrated and it is characterized by street dancing, competitions, face painting, and endless amounts of food and alcohol. I was asked to partake in the street dancing competition with all the other teachers at my school, which I gladly accepted. However, I did not realize how long this competition would be, what I would be wearing, or the day's temperature. It was about 3 hours of non-stop dancing, I was wearing a huge, pink mu-mu with feathers on my head, and the humidity was approximately unbearable. I kept telling myself, "Sarah, you are a Peace Corps Volunteer, you can do anything." But, I quickly learned that day that I cannot, in fact, dance for 3 hours in a mu-mu. The dancing is performed throughout the streets while one person holds up the statue of Santo Niño and all the others dance behind it. It was a beautiful cultural experience, which I messed up royally. I decided mid-dance that I needed to either get a bottle of water or pass out in front of hundreds of Filipinos, so I chose to get water. That was a huge mistake. Apparently, it is not only disrespectful for the dancers to stop dancing for the baby Jesus, but it also brings bad luck onto the whole town for the rest of the year, until the next fiesta. I had no idea. So, anything bad that happens in Kalibo from now until January will more than likely be blamed on me. Perfect. Oh, and I also caused my school to lose the competition because I stepped out of formation. I wish I would have chosen to pass out, it would have been less painful.
I cannot recall a time in my life when I did not procrastinate. I always, always tell myself that I will start this project early and not stay up all night frantically trying to finish before the sun comes up. But, I never follow through with that promise. I mean, I wrote the majority of my senior thesis the night before it was due. I'm not sure why I do this to myself, but I also sorta believe that some of my best work has been produced from sheer panic and adrenaline. That's what I tell myself, at least. So, when I was warned during my first few weeks in the Philippines that I could pretty much guarantee that my co-workers would be laid back and that dead lines weren't a real thing here, I was completely fine with it, excited even. Life here definitely runs on island time and it was refreshing, until it wasn't. I eventually got real American and realized that it was going against everything I was ever taught. Waiting 3 weeks for a signature from the district supervisor of your school is not fun. Lesson learned, I am not as laid back as I thought I was. I would love to say that I've magically learned to let go of this hindrance of mine, but I haven't even been here a full year yet and I'm only human, so maybe one day down the line I'll be able to say that. Until then, I will breath very deeply.
Not only am I apparently not laid back or culturally aware, but I'm also not very open-minded. Before you judge me too quickly, answer this question. Have you ever been asked to eat a chicken fetus (multiple times), told you were fat by a stranger, laughed at for attempting to speak an unfamiliar language, have a seance performed on you because you have strep throat, or seen a huge dog locked in a tiny cage for hours on end all in the same day? No? Okay, well I have, and let me tell you, it can cause you to have a bit of resentment towards people. If I were completely open-minded, I would eaten the balut without hesitation, remembered that being called fat here is a compliment, realized that the laughter was due to shock since not many foreigners take the time to learn the language of the country they're visiting, understood that the seance was done out of concern, and told myself that American standards for proper pet care are not universal. But, perhaps I'm being too hard on myself, like I generally am. I may not always see the world with an open mind, like I once thought I did, but I do see it in that way more often than not. It's in the Peace Corps Volunteer job requirement.
I've learned more about myself in the last 9 months than I ever did in my 22 years of life. Actually, it turns out that all that stuff I thought I knew was mostly wrong. It's incredibly overwhelming 100% of the time, which is why it takes a very special person to be in the Peace Corps. But, I honestly believe that I'm turning into the person I was always meant to be, and I owe that to this experience. I won't have it all figured out by the end of my service, at least I hope not because that wouldn't be fun, but I think I'll have a much more accurate picture.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
The Hardest Job I'll Ever Love
I think that most people have a certain image in their head of what being in the Peace Corps looks like. I think it probably resembles a carefree person, usually dressed in tye dye with messy hair, strumming a guitar around a campfire with a bunch of ethnic looking children. I won't lie, that's what I was hoping for. However, the life I imagined for myself here is so far removed from what I actually got, which isn't bad, just different.
Contrary to what many believe, I am not the least bit carefree. I worry every minute of every day. I worry about fulfilling the expectations of the Peace Corps, my host agency, my family in America, my host family here in the Philippines, and all of my friends both near and far. I am positive that I am not what anyone here was expecting. I am not the stereotypical loud and outgoing American. I am quiet and reserved around people I don't know. I am also awful at Tagalog. It doesn't seem to matter how many hours I spend studying or tutoring with my patient and kind tutor, no one ever knows what I'm saying; some times I don't even know what I'm trying to convey.
I am not an expert teacher, not even close. I have so much learning to do. I worry that my co-teacher will end up sharing with me more of the knowledge that she has gained from her twenty-plus years of experience in teaching than I could ever bestow upon her with my few years of tutoring. I worry that it wont be an equal amount of giving and that she'll always wonder why this strange American girl invaded her classroom for two years. Also, I'm sure that I offend someone, some where, at least every week if not daily. Navigating different cultural normalities is a full time job in itself.
I worry about the souls I left behind at home. I worry that I'll be forgotten. I worry about how my friends are doing, if they're happy and well. I worry about my family, especially with the recent loss of our Junebug. I worry about missing out on the important things that will inevitably happen in the lives of the people I love so much. Life doesn't stop just because I'm not there to experience it too. I worry, constantly, about my precious Luna. Will she remember me in two years? Is she happy and healthy? Does she think that I've abandoned her? Does she know that I'm coming back? It's embarrassing how much I think about that dog.
The Peace Corps has been my dream since I was 16 years old, and I worked very hard to get where I am. But, I come here, and I meet all of these other extraordinary volunteers, and I wonder why I was ever chosen. I worry that I won't be what everyone expected me to be. My biggest fear is that, at any moment, they will all realize what a mistake they made and tell me to leave. My even bigger fear is that they'll do this in Tagalog, so I won't actually know what's going on until they hand me my plane ticket and say bye.
I admit, I thought that this whole being in the Peace Corps thing was going to be a breeze. I wanted it so badly, for so long, that I never really thought about how difficult it could be. I only had one purpose, which was to get my invitation. I had done so much traveling prior, that I assumed I could handle anything that this life threw at me. Nope. The Peace Corps slogan is that it's "the hardest job you will ever love," and that could not be any more accurate. I just wrote three paragraphs depicting my worries as a volunteer, but I never once mentioned that I was worried about whether or not this was the job for me. Some times, after a particularly frustrating day, I will ask myself why I am here and what I'm doing with my life. I don't always have an answer, depending on how bad the day was, but my heart has always told me that I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing at this time in my life.
This job is hard, really ridiculously hard and it's definitely not intended for the faint of heart. I have never sang with children around a campfire (although it does sound nice), I do wear tye dye, but not as frequently as you may think, yes, my hair is always messy, but no, I am not carefree. There are times when my heart literally feels like it will break from how much I long for my loved ones, and there have been instances where I want to start crying (and do) because I can't always understand the language, miss my bus stop, and end up in a random baranguy by myself, or I'll feel so alone that I want to curl up in a ball and not move. But, these feelings DO pass, and give way to moments of pure bliss from the realization that I'm living out my dream. I get to spend my afternoons with a group of sixth graders who tell me that their favorite days are Tuesdays and Thursdays because that's when we have our English club together. I get to see the beauty of the Philippines every day of my life. I get to rely on, collaborate with, and build friendships with some of the kindest spirits I have ever known. I get to live a beautifully weird life for two whole years. My desires to be a good volunteer can often blind me into insecurity and cause me to second guess everything I do, but I still love my job. In all of its beauty and heartache, I still love it.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
And Then Came Yolanda
It was a clear and sunny day when I received a text message from Peace Corps instructing me to evacuate my barangay of Tangalan and consolidate with four other volunteers in the neighboring town of Kalibo. I had heard news of something called a "super typhoon" that was on its way to the Philippines and was given information from Peace Corps about its projected strength and arrival date, but took none of it too seriously. I leisurely finished my lunch, threw a few random items into a backpack, sent a couple of joking texts to friends back in the states about the nerve of Yolanda to interrupt my weekend plans, and strolled my way to catch the next jeepney to Kalibo. I didn't even bother to pack my passport, but luckily my site mate convinced me to go back and get it...just in case. We met up with three other volunteers in Kalibo and stayed at a hotel. We spent that first day walking around the town and making jokes about how anticlimactic we thought the storm would be. We were told that the typhoon would hit us around three in the afternoon that next day, but it was actually a few hours early. We went out to a bar the night before and made friends with tourists visiting from Germany; we again made jokes about how weak we anticipated Yolanda to be. I feel so stupid looking back on the jovial attitude I had.
Yolanda arrived around one in the afternoon on November 8. We were fascinated by the circular rotation of the clouds and decided to stand on the balcony to watch it come in for the first half hour. I had never been in any such situation before and was amazed by Mother Nature in all her glory. We didn't stay outside for too long, though, because soon the winds became so strong that tin roofs were being torn off of their homes and into the sky. Debris began to fly into the room but we kept the windows open so that they wouldn't bust. We watched as things gradually got worse. We watched as the bus terminal that was next to our hotel crumbled. We watched as power lines fell and became tangled with one another. We watched as the streets began to flood. We watched as nipa huts fell apart and to the ground. We watched as Kalibo became a whole new place right before our eyes. At first we stood at the windows, taking pictures and videos in awe, but quickly became scared and sad at the destruction occurring in our midst. I felt powerless, weak, and very small.
It's amazing what the forces of nature can claim in such a small window of time. We experienced the storm in its fullest capacity for only an hour or so. Then, it was gone. The winds continued to blow and the rain remained, but nothing compared to when it was directly over us. Our rooms were flooded because the winds blew the rain in through the open windows. We lost power and cell phone reception. Everyone was in shock. The most unnerving aspect to me was that Filipinos were scared, which meant that it had to have been bad.
When cell reception finally did return, we were instructed by Peace Corps to travel to Roxas City, a town about three hours from Kalibo, to meet up with four other volunteers who were consolidated there. This order came after we informed them that we were being asked to leave our hotel because of safety concerns. The most inspiring thing about Filipinos is how resilient they are; not twenty-four hours had passed since the storm and they were already in reconstruction mode. This characteristic made it possible for us to take a multicab to Roxas. The ride there was quite emotional. People stood outside what was once their homes, but had now been leveled, torn apart, or had collapsed trees on top of them. All vegetation that had covered the mountains was gone. It looked as though a bomb had gone off. The trip should have taken three hours, but ended up taking about five because of bad road conditions. Roxas City was not any better than Kalibo. Upon arrival, we were forced to try out several different methods to get to our destination because of the fallen and tangled power lines that
occupied the streets. When we finally did reach the other volunteers, we immediately began to
exchange stories of what we had just witnessed. No one had imagined that things would have been as bad as they were.
Roxas City was also without power and water. We went to a supermarket and stocked up on gallon water jugs, which was a challenge since everyone else was doing the same thing. One day, a fellow volunteer, Meg, and I decided to walk around the town and observe the damage more closely. We approached a house that looked as though half of it had been stomped on by a giant. I wanted to get a better look and went up closer so that I could see inside. A young girl then walked up to Meg and stood next to her. Meg asked her how old she was and she replied that she was eight. She was quiet for a moment and then pointed at the house and said that it was her home. Meg and I exchanged glances and tried not to cry; it didn't seem like we had any right to. I had no words so I instead made my way into the demolished house and grabbed a Garfield stuffed animal that I had noticed through the broken window. I asked the girl if she wanted it and she said yes. I felt so helpless. What can you say to a child who has just lost her home, the town she lives in, and possibly family members? I don't think you really can. I think that all you can do is give hope, which in this case was in the form of a Garfield stuffed animal.
We stayed in Roxas City for three days until we were told by Peace Corps to fly to Manila. We had no money left at this point because all ATM machines were down. Peace Corps tried to wire us money through Western Union, but that didn't work because all their available money had become exhausted. Thank goodness that a volunteer's mother had sent her money a few days prior to the storm in anticipation of something like that happening. We were able to purchase bus fares with that money to get to Ilioilio, a town four hours away with the only functioning airport. Ilioilio had miraculously not been touched by the storm. It's strange, but there were small pockets throughout the Visayas that were not affected by Yolanda. It was even stranger to make the drive from a town that
was unrecognizable, to a town that was in pristine condition. As we drove, the scenery changed from
that of uprooted trees and smushed homes, to beautiful rice fields and operating sari saris.
Our group was the second to arrive in Manila, preceded by those who had been airlifted out of Tacloban. One emotion that I noticed to be consistent among all volunteers was confusion. How did this happen? Why did this happen? Are our host families, co-workers, friends, and students alive? What are we going to do now? Where do I go from here? Did this actually just happen?
Peace Corps gave all of those in batch 272 the same choices, which were to declare either administrative hold or interrupted service. Administrative hold meant going back to the states for at least 45 days until either our original site became viable for us again, or a new site was picked in the instance that our prior site would not be ready in time. Interrupted service meant either ending service all together, or ending service in the Philippines and choosing another country. Everyone, however, had to choose administrative hold in the meantime and could choose interrupted service once back at home.
It was a hard choice to make, but I chose to return to my work in the Philippines. Anyone who knows me knows the love I have for Uganda and how tempting it was to choose that as my country of service. But, I believe everything happens for a reason and that I am meant to be here. At this moment, I'm not quite sure why I am here, but I do believe that it will transpire in time. Until then, I will continue being the best volunteer I can be, stand underneath some water falls, make waves in the ocean, and drink lots of buko juice (not from a street vendor, siempre).
I will never be able to erase the startling images I saw of Yolanda's destruction, but maybe that's a
good thing. I can guarantee that I will never take my home or loved ones for granted ever again. I will say "I love you" and "I'm sorry." And, I will tell others of the resiliency and water resistant spirit of the Filipinos; I should know, I saw firsthand. The reconstruction process will take years and people will eventually forget what happened to the Philippines on November 8, 2013, but I will not. This country and its people, like so many other countries and people, have claimed a piece of my heart. That is another reason why I returned.
Yolanda arrived around one in the afternoon on November 8. We were fascinated by the circular rotation of the clouds and decided to stand on the balcony to watch it come in for the first half hour. I had never been in any such situation before and was amazed by Mother Nature in all her glory. We didn't stay outside for too long, though, because soon the winds became so strong that tin roofs were being torn off of their homes and into the sky. Debris began to fly into the room but we kept the windows open so that they wouldn't bust. We watched as things gradually got worse. We watched as the bus terminal that was next to our hotel crumbled. We watched as power lines fell and became tangled with one another. We watched as the streets began to flood. We watched as nipa huts fell apart and to the ground. We watched as Kalibo became a whole new place right before our eyes. At first we stood at the windows, taking pictures and videos in awe, but quickly became scared and sad at the destruction occurring in our midst. I felt powerless, weak, and very small.
It's amazing what the forces of nature can claim in such a small window of time. We experienced the storm in its fullest capacity for only an hour or so. Then, it was gone. The winds continued to blow and the rain remained, but nothing compared to when it was directly over us. Our rooms were flooded because the winds blew the rain in through the open windows. We lost power and cell phone reception. Everyone was in shock. The most unnerving aspect to me was that Filipinos were scared, which meant that it had to have been bad.
When cell reception finally did return, we were instructed by Peace Corps to travel to Roxas City, a town about three hours from Kalibo, to meet up with four other volunteers who were consolidated there. This order came after we informed them that we were being asked to leave our hotel because of safety concerns. The most inspiring thing about Filipinos is how resilient they are; not twenty-four hours had passed since the storm and they were already in reconstruction mode. This characteristic made it possible for us to take a multicab to Roxas. The ride there was quite emotional. People stood outside what was once their homes, but had now been leveled, torn apart, or had collapsed trees on top of them. All vegetation that had covered the mountains was gone. It looked as though a bomb had gone off. The trip should have taken three hours, but ended up taking about five because of bad road conditions. Roxas City was not any better than Kalibo. Upon arrival, we were forced to try out several different methods to get to our destination because of the fallen and tangled power lines that
occupied the streets. When we finally did reach the other volunteers, we immediately began to
exchange stories of what we had just witnessed. No one had imagined that things would have been as bad as they were.
Roxas City was also without power and water. We went to a supermarket and stocked up on gallon water jugs, which was a challenge since everyone else was doing the same thing. One day, a fellow volunteer, Meg, and I decided to walk around the town and observe the damage more closely. We approached a house that looked as though half of it had been stomped on by a giant. I wanted to get a better look and went up closer so that I could see inside. A young girl then walked up to Meg and stood next to her. Meg asked her how old she was and she replied that she was eight. She was quiet for a moment and then pointed at the house and said that it was her home. Meg and I exchanged glances and tried not to cry; it didn't seem like we had any right to. I had no words so I instead made my way into the demolished house and grabbed a Garfield stuffed animal that I had noticed through the broken window. I asked the girl if she wanted it and she said yes. I felt so helpless. What can you say to a child who has just lost her home, the town she lives in, and possibly family members? I don't think you really can. I think that all you can do is give hope, which in this case was in the form of a Garfield stuffed animal.
We stayed in Roxas City for three days until we were told by Peace Corps to fly to Manila. We had no money left at this point because all ATM machines were down. Peace Corps tried to wire us money through Western Union, but that didn't work because all their available money had become exhausted. Thank goodness that a volunteer's mother had sent her money a few days prior to the storm in anticipation of something like that happening. We were able to purchase bus fares with that money to get to Ilioilio, a town four hours away with the only functioning airport. Ilioilio had miraculously not been touched by the storm. It's strange, but there were small pockets throughout the Visayas that were not affected by Yolanda. It was even stranger to make the drive from a town that
was unrecognizable, to a town that was in pristine condition. As we drove, the scenery changed from
that of uprooted trees and smushed homes, to beautiful rice fields and operating sari saris.
Our group was the second to arrive in Manila, preceded by those who had been airlifted out of Tacloban. One emotion that I noticed to be consistent among all volunteers was confusion. How did this happen? Why did this happen? Are our host families, co-workers, friends, and students alive? What are we going to do now? Where do I go from here? Did this actually just happen?
Peace Corps gave all of those in batch 272 the same choices, which were to declare either administrative hold or interrupted service. Administrative hold meant going back to the states for at least 45 days until either our original site became viable for us again, or a new site was picked in the instance that our prior site would not be ready in time. Interrupted service meant either ending service all together, or ending service in the Philippines and choosing another country. Everyone, however, had to choose administrative hold in the meantime and could choose interrupted service once back at home.
It was a hard choice to make, but I chose to return to my work in the Philippines. Anyone who knows me knows the love I have for Uganda and how tempting it was to choose that as my country of service. But, I believe everything happens for a reason and that I am meant to be here. At this moment, I'm not quite sure why I am here, but I do believe that it will transpire in time. Until then, I will continue being the best volunteer I can be, stand underneath some water falls, make waves in the ocean, and drink lots of buko juice (not from a street vendor, siempre).
I will never be able to erase the startling images I saw of Yolanda's destruction, but maybe that's a
good thing. I can guarantee that I will never take my home or loved ones for granted ever again. I will say "I love you" and "I'm sorry." And, I will tell others of the resiliency and water resistant spirit of the Filipinos; I should know, I saw firsthand. The reconstruction process will take years and people will eventually forget what happened to the Philippines on November 8, 2013, but I will not. This country and its people, like so many other countries and people, have claimed a piece of my heart. That is another reason why I returned.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
A Runner's Guide to the Philippines
I've been a distance runner for the past seven years. I've ran in countless 5k's, many 10k's, and several half marathons. I've broken my femur, ankle, and tail bone as a result of running. The amount of scrapped knees I've received while running is not even in the realm of normalcy; neither are the black eyes or scratches taken to the face. I've endured long months of training and even longer track and cross country practices. I am a well seasoned runner, having had my fair share of outrageous experiences whilst hitting the pavement and trails. There was the crazy, drunk man in the woods of River Forest, Chicago. There was the crazy, drunk man who chased me in Austin. There was the time I quite literally sacrificed my own body to save my dog, which is also how I happened to break my tail bone. There was the time I got bit by a snake. There was the time I ran into a stop sign. There was the time I ran into a bicycler. There was the time I ran into a water fountain. Sadly, there was the time I actually ran into a tree. And, there was the time I got lost in the mountains of Honduras. Believe it or not, these aren't even half of the crazy stories I have from my days of running.
Although I knew that running in the Philippines would be a tad bit more difficult, there was never a question of if I would continue with it. Simply put, if I don't run, I will go crazy. And, in true accordance to my usual stubborn self, I figured that I was an experienced enough runner to handle anything that this country threw at me. I was, of course, wrong. I'm almost always wrong. But, I am constantly learning, so I thought I would share a few guidelines that have helped me along the way.
1. Always, and I do mean always, stop to absorb the beautiful scenery that surrounds you.
2. Embrace the fact that children will follow and chase after you. They will tire eventually. Unless they don't. In that case, you have a new running buddy.
3. Don't feel too defeated when the small Filipino child who's running in tsinelas is faster than you. It will happen.
4. Realize that the cars, trucks, motorcycles, and trikes will not move out of your way to avoid hitting you. Nope. Instead, they will simply honk the horn to make you aware that you are about to be hit.
5. If there's a suitable rock climbing spot, you should definitely stop and try it. You'll probably fall and look ridiculous, but it'll be fun.
6. Wear shorts that won't fall off. If your shorts do fall off, although I'm fairly certain that this kind of predicament is one that could only ever happen to me, it will be the most embarrassing moment of your life. Accept it.
7. Challenge yourself by running up the plentiful hills and mountains. It will hurt, but you'll feel like a badass afterwards. And, it makes going downhill that much better.
8. When you trip and fall, everyone within 400 meters will come out of their homes to ask if you're okay. Or, in my case, to ask if you're alive.
9. Have safe drinking water ready for post-run. If you don't, someone will offer you some, you'll ask if it's okay to drink, they'll say yes, which may be incorrect, and then you'll get amoebas. And then you'll want to die.
10. Avoid the dogs at all costs. Just trust me on this one. If you don't, make sure you're faster than they are.
11. Remember, it's more fun in the Philippines, running included!
Although I knew that running in the Philippines would be a tad bit more difficult, there was never a question of if I would continue with it. Simply put, if I don't run, I will go crazy. And, in true accordance to my usual stubborn self, I figured that I was an experienced enough runner to handle anything that this country threw at me. I was, of course, wrong. I'm almost always wrong. But, I am constantly learning, so I thought I would share a few guidelines that have helped me along the way.
1. Always, and I do mean always, stop to absorb the beautiful scenery that surrounds you.
2. Embrace the fact that children will follow and chase after you. They will tire eventually. Unless they don't. In that case, you have a new running buddy.
3. Don't feel too defeated when the small Filipino child who's running in tsinelas is faster than you. It will happen.
4. Realize that the cars, trucks, motorcycles, and trikes will not move out of your way to avoid hitting you. Nope. Instead, they will simply honk the horn to make you aware that you are about to be hit.
5. If there's a suitable rock climbing spot, you should definitely stop and try it. You'll probably fall and look ridiculous, but it'll be fun.
6. Wear shorts that won't fall off. If your shorts do fall off, although I'm fairly certain that this kind of predicament is one that could only ever happen to me, it will be the most embarrassing moment of your life. Accept it.
7. Challenge yourself by running up the plentiful hills and mountains. It will hurt, but you'll feel like a badass afterwards. And, it makes going downhill that much better.
8. When you trip and fall, everyone within 400 meters will come out of their homes to ask if you're okay. Or, in my case, to ask if you're alive.
9. Have safe drinking water ready for post-run. If you don't, someone will offer you some, you'll ask if it's okay to drink, they'll say yes, which may be incorrect, and then you'll get amoebas. And then you'll want to die.
10. Avoid the dogs at all costs. Just trust me on this one. If you don't, make sure you're faster than they are.
11. Remember, it's more fun in the Philippines, running included!
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