and now 3 months

Hard to believe I have only written once so far, which is unusual for me. But life in Ireland has been an absolute whirlwind, probably because I came with no plan and was working everyday to sort out what seemed for a while to be the unsortable. Amidst finding my feet in a new and very beautiful, incredibly welcoming city, and taking some trips down South to Cork, out West to Sligo and up North to Edinburgh, I somehow managed to find a job in my field and have met some fantastic people that now, looking back, makes all of the uncertainty and challenge seem much more worth it.

Anyway I started this post in New York while I was home for Christmas, feeling very strange that for once being back home was only temporary. I thought maybe stepping back from my office, my apartment, my new city, new country would create enough distance for me to reflect on the past four months, but that wasn’t really the case, and I found it difficult to summarize my time here and the little nuanced things that make it such a unique experience. It’s a good indication that I should start a daily journal or something, because I want to be able to recall all of the little things, since it’s these that make the time so exceptional.

I think the best way to treat a blog so neglected is to reflect a little on both home and away (wherever home happens to be for me at any give stage). For Christmas, my dad gave me a bunch of CDs that he made for me, some of which were compilations of Irish music. These were accompanied by explanations of why he chose certain songs, or the meanings behind them. I thought I would go through a couple with my own thoughts, as it might help to highlight some of the things I’ve been experiencing here:

Number 5 on the 1^st CD by the Clancy Brothers is called the Jolly Tinker. This was the name of a bar in the Bronx I went to a few times in college, and was the first time I heard this expression but actually had no idea to what it was referring. From my own experience with the “Tinkers” here in Ireland, they are not particularly jolly at all, and many people tend to have a very wary, unpleasant view of them. I’ve been told that Irish Travellers for the most part are useless criminals, siphoning money from hardworking society, trying to claim special status while all they do is live in dirty caravans, have heaps of babies, not go to school, and cause fights. I had a job interview a few months ago in a town about 40 minutes outside of Dublin called Portlaoise with a Travellers Rights organization where I had my first (and really only) sit-down conversation with Travellers, in which they expressed extreme suspicion of me and were not very friendly in the way I had been accustomed to with other Irish. Not that they don’t have a right to be guarded or choosy of who they work with, especially considering that they face a fair amount of discrimination and ostracization by the general population - but I was a little surprised since their mission statement emphasized making a greater effort to collaborate with the wider community. I thought maybe being American could play to my favor since their biggest issues would be with getting on with other Irish, but I think they figured that as a complete outsider I was totally oblivious to the challenges they face as a very distinct minority that almost always gets a bad rap. Case in point: I was introduced to some Travellers on the Luas tram, where the mother was yelling unintelligible English at her son, who was tracing penises on the window glass and swinging from the overhead bars while the father laughed. On American public transport, I’m not sure this would necessarily be very noteworthy, if still annoying, but my friends who were with me very strongly stressed that these were most definitely Knackers and not like the other Irish and apologized that I had to witness that kind of behavior. I hadn’t really noticed it in the first place, and asked how you can tell a Traveller from a non-Traveller, as I’d asked other Irish before, and was given the same sorts of answers – their track pants, their unpleasant manner of speech, their extremely rude behavior; as if all of these things were purely Gypsy qualities that other people wouldn't really have. 

The only other Traveller experience I had was going to the Merchants’ Market in East Wall, which is far down in the Docklands; in the “dodgy part” as many Dubliners might pin it. I kept seeing it advertised all over the IFSC where I live, and online as a cool free thing to do in Dublin, so I walked down there to a big warehouse full of vendors selling different odds and ends – clothes, antiques, paintings, toys; all very cheap and the place was full of Travellers. One of them sold me two prints for my room for 4 Euros each, and there she seemed jolly enough to get the two coins from me anyway.

Number 9 on this CD is Mountain Dew, a song that is about Poitin, which I’ve only recently just tried, though apparently it’s a real country drink and so I’m not sure where it came from. According to this song you can get some good stuff in Galway, which is next on my list of travel spots in Ireland (not necessarily for the Poitin, but that doesn’t hurt).

Number 18 is Four Green Fields, about the provinces in Ireland – Connacht, Leinster, Munster, and Ulster. Ulster is the only province I haven’t been to yet, though some of our family was evidently from Donegal, and it is home to great sites like the Giants Causeway and Lough Neagh. Much of the province is in the UK, and while I still don’t have an exceptional handle on the current sociopolitical dynamics between Northern and Southern Ireland, I do often get the recommendation to visit Belfast.

The first song on the Chieftains’ Album Long Black Vail is Mo Ghile Mear, which features Sting. My dad notes that he hopes I can find someone who understands Gaelic. This is not really a problem, as I know quite a few people who can speak a fair amount, and one or two who are fluent. It’s impossible to escape the Irish language here, which as someone who studied sociolinguistics (at what feels to be some ancient point in time) I actually find really interesting. I’ve found many people will say that they can’t speak a word of Gaelic, despite having been taught it all the way through school, and despite all of the signs everywhere being in both English and Irish. Irish is so prevalent here that I’m even starting to recognize some words and phrases, even if trying to pronounce them is utterly hopeless. My friends who would be fluent would likely have gone to a bilingual school, but there are also communities around Ireland (I think mostly in the West) that still speak Irish as their first language. I remember being told once that Gaelic was a dead language, and I mentioned this here and was met with defensiveness. Even though people don’t know it, didn’t really learn it, don’t want to learn it, don’t think they should have been forced to learn it, they still very much want to keep it.

The next song on this CD is the Foggy Dew featuring Sinead O’Connor. I was interested to learn about the history behind this song, as the Foggy Dew was one of the first bars I was taken to in Dublin, and I’m more than sure there is a connection. This pub will be on the list of places to take my parents when they come visit, along with O’Donoghue’s on Merrion Row where the Dubliners got their start, and Stag’s Head where James Joyce apparently frequented. While I don’t think my parents are necessarily big pub people, there’s a few that I think will be good craic for them – and O’Donoghue’s is close to Stephen’s Green, mentioned in another one of the Clancy Brother’s songs. My dad has asked me a few times if I live close by to it. Stephen’s Green was one of the first sites I saw in Dublin, though I probably take it for granted and don’t even really classify it as especially interesting. Though, I do like the story of a standoff that happened there during the 1916 uprising between the Irish Citizen Army and the British Army when they temporarily halted fire so they could feed the ducks in the park.

Number 11 on the Cranberries’ No Need to Argue is Yeats’ Grave. My dad notes that this was the song that inspired the CD project because I had visited this grave during my time in Sligo. I’ve personally read very little Yeats, and embarrassingly had no idea he was buried anywhere near Sligo up until the moment I was literally driven to his gravesite. I think my tour guide was more interested in showing me Drumcliffe Church, which was very beautiful (but maybe also because I had accidentally missed mass that day…) and she left me for a few minutes while I sought out the grave I hadn’t know was there. It was one of those very strange private moments. The place was empty, the silence compounded by the very dramatic Sligo landscape, most notably Benbulbin and Knocknarea. I did miss out on climbing Knocknarea, which is meant to be an incredible hike, and leading up of course to Queen Maeve’s Tomb.

The last song on this CD is So Cold in Ireland, which is funny because I left New York in a blizzard, and once I got back to Dublin the sun was shining and it was 40 degrees. In the song Delores O’Riordan doesn’t seem too keen to get back to her home country, but I felt the opposite whenever I was sitting on the plane making my way back to Dublin after the holidays. It’s easy for me to feel strong connections to the places to which I travel, so that’s nothing really new. But I’d have to say there’s something a bit special about Ireland. It might be colder and rainier than I’m used to out there in the Pacific, but I’d say there’s honestly still been nowhere quite like it.

Three weeks in Ireland

This week marks my third full one in Dublin and a crazy few weeks it has been. There's a lot to write about - the good, the bad, the frustrating, the wonderful - and so much that it nearly feels overwhelming. I'll begin maybe with the story behind newest background photo to the blog, which I just took this past weekend on a cliff walk from Greystones to Bray. These are two small coastal towns about an hour away from Dublin city. I tried to wake up early-ish on Sunday to get a run in since my exercise routine here has been less than regimented, but didn't end up getting out until about 8. Still, in true Irish style, there was no one on the streets, in the road or in the cafes and I pretty much had the city to myself. Daylight seems to follow suit in this yawning lag as it doesn't get properly bright here until about 7:30-8 am. But the weather has been (uncharacteristically, I'm told again and again) absolutely beautiful and the mornings are especially so. I live right on the river in the docklands, and running over the bridge near sunrise and catching the smell of sea salt and hearing the caw of water birds is almost enough to help cure my caffeine habit completely.

But not completely, as one of the first things I did in Dublin was research the best coffee places near where I live. There are a few I like, and usually in the morning I'll go to the little stand by the harp bridge with all the finance bankers because it's close and pretty cheap. A more trendy, pricey one is about a 15 minute walk away and not really central to anything, which is kind of why I like it, if I've the time for a leisurely walk with no other destination in mind. But it does happen to be only about a 5 minute walk from a Dart station, which was useful to me on Sunday as I was planning my trip out of the city. While last Wednesday I look a more fancy 2 hour train ride to Cork that had a dining car and wifi and my pre-ticketed name above my seat, but cost less than a peak hour metro north ticket, the Dart train reminded me more of the train to NYC… except that it only cost 3 euro each way. And, ok, the Hudson River can be very pretty, but it really doesn't compare to traveling along the Irish coastline, which on this day was overcast, misty and and expansive. It was on the train that I realized I had set out to walk along from Greystones to Bray, but actually had no idea what that meant or what direction I was meant to be headed, or where the station would be relative to the coastline. But what Ireland seems to often lack in inefficiency it makes up for in simplicity, and things tend to be relatively easy to figure out.

Greystones was the last stop on the line and was quite a pretty little town from what I saw - very quaint and old-looking with heaps of little shops that (of course?) being Sunday at noon were not even yet open. But there were church bells everywhere, and cafes around where I could stop for a coffee and some directions. The shoreline was just a five minute walk away and I noticed a tourist map at the head of the beach mentioning a cliff walk. I'd really just been keen to walk from the beach in Greystones to Bray, which had been the train stop before but would probably be about a 1-2 hour walk, but a cliff walk sounded too interesting to ignore despite the fact that I'd worn a knee length skirt and some flimsy ballet flats. My second order of business was finding the beginning of the cliff walk since I'm terrible with maps, and the big red arrow signaling YOU ARE HERE means legitimately nothing when I have no idea which direction I'm supposed to be going or what any of the place names signify. But my first order of business was finding a bathroom. Like Australia, public bathrooms in Ireland seem to be kind of a problem as in there aren't many around, and cafes don't necessarily like you to use them, if they even have them for public use. Even for bigger places in the city centre like Starbucks, there are lots of procedures and codes and secret passwords before they let you in. But thankfully I did see a sign for a public toilet by the beach parking lot, and was confused when I came across what looked like one of those pods that gets ejected from space shuttles. Someone beat me to it, and I watched with very keen interest as he put a 50 cent euro coin in the slot and the door slid open with an ominous whirring noise and shut behind him. When he came out the door closed behind him quickly before I could slide in without paying a coin, and then even when I tried to pay the coin, it rejected it. I noticed a little screen beneath the coin slot that said "sorry - cleaning in process, please wait."

What.

Two older tourists came up behind me and gave me an inquisitive look.
"I think it's cleaning itself. It won't let me in."
The woman nodded knowingly, and it confused me even more that she would know what this meant. Public restrooms in America are on the whole pretty disgusting. I thought they'd be better in Australia, but they were actually unfailingly abominable. The only country in which I've ever had a good public bathroom experience was Japan, and I can only speak for the airport. This was totally blowing my mind.
Finally, the cleaning was complete, and I was allowed into the bathroom pod. There was a series of instructions and buttons on the wall notifying me that I could press one to lock the door, press another for assistance, and another for further instructions on how to use the bathroom. I was told that the bathroom was self-cleaning and would sterilize after each use. I was also warned I only had 20 minutes, which stressed me out way more than it should have. There were no faucets or taps, just an automated sink/dryer. All I had to do was hold my hands under the counter and first came out soap, then two seconds later hot water, then the dryer turned on. I must have come out appearing dazed because the tourist woman gave me a look of genuine concern. I didn't know how to express why this was all so bizarre to me, so I just said, "I'm American, we don't have bathrooms like that."
She laughed, and gave me the same knowing nod as before.

I still had very little idea where I was going, and had all but decided to to just have a walk along the beach and hope I ended up in Bray, but then stumbled on a small sign directing me towards the cliff walk. I was a bit wary of it firstly because at the onset, it looked as if the path was headed through a construction site rather than up a quaint Irish coastline, and also because everyone else was dressed in hikers and yoga pants huffing along with fanny packs and tank-sized water bottles. I guess "cliff walk" can sound daunting and rigorous, but really aside from some rocky parts where I'd have been grateful for a sturdy pair of sneakers, it was just a gravel path up and over the hills with some beautiful views of the very green cliffs that hug the shore. It wasn't the sunniest day, but the mist and clouds and on-and-off rainbows made it seem all the more Irish. Most of the people on the walk seemed the be tourists as they're were plenty of couples and big groups, and I heard a multitude of languages. I probably stood out a bit, firstly as someone who opted to wear a skirt and cardigan on a hike, and also as someone who was going it alone. There were a fair few joggers and some lone photographers, and even a few people by themselves just there to pick the berries that grew on the bushes alongside the path, but most people were in some sort of team. I don't really mind traveling alone, or doing things on my own (this entire endeavour had been an exercise in doing things on my own) but I AM pretty used to having some kind of companion with me when I've explored some new place, and it has been a very surreal leap out of my comfort zone. It's been good in some ways - never have I really been forced to learn everything about a new city, or a new country for that matter, on my own terms, and never have I really been forced to get out and meet people and do new things any way that I can. It's really made me take advantage of all of my surroundings, and take no experience for granted. But on the other hand, it's not always successful, and some of the people I've met have already felt a bit transient in the way that the people you meet at uni orientation are your "friends" for about five days before they meet people that are not just there for convenience, but people they actually like. Or, they are people that are already settled and have friends and lives and I have the sense that I'm trying to wiggle my way into their circle. But that's also what's so great about Ireland. Unlike Americans who (in a very general sense) I feel can often be really suspicious of meeting new people and accepting new acquaintences from out the blue, the Irish I've met so far have been pretty welcoming and easy to get on with. And then again, I've been told that's also a generalization, and could just be because I'm American and foreign and "interesting" and all that. Probably there's some truth there, but I also think there is some overall cultural friendliness to the Irish. For instance, on the cliff walk, I could tell immediately the locals, who would smile and say good morning and literally tip their hats as they let me pass; from the tourists, who would all but push me into the sea if I had to wedge through them to get by as they tried to take what was surely their 503852094904th group photo of the day. When Irish people thank you, they say "thanks a million," when they apologize, it's excessive and profuse; when they have to sit next to you on the train, they ask very politely if you're alright with it.

Probably the one example that encapsulates why I have cottoned so well to the Irish was the early morning train I was taking to Cork. Everyone seemed already to be in a good mood, which I found interesting already since Irish people hate getting up early, and it was a 7am train. I assumed their good cheer was due to the fact that this incredibly luxurious train cost less than a moderate dinner out and there was a food and coffee trolley and free internet and a gorgeous countryside to look on. Aside from the general good vibes, across from me on the other side of the aisle there was an older man reading a paper, very well dressed, but nearly you might say stuffy looking. At the first stop the train made, two younger girls got on, probably about 14, wearing hoodies and sweatpants, loud music bleeding through their headphones and as they sat down across from this man they immediately hijacked the shared table between them with magazines and soda bottles, and started rolling their own cigarettes. They were talking loudly and punching each other in the arms and I was sure this quiet, reading man would at least let loose an eye roll or a sigh or some other small sign of displeasure. But somehow, probably within about 5 minutes, the three of them were laughing and talking about this and that, and getting on like they were family. It was amazing to me, not only necessarily that they would find some common topics about which to talk for so long, but that a conversation between them had been sparked at all. I always think about that now when I'm sitting next to someone on the train, or standing next to someone at a bar, or behind someone in a queue and suddenly we're chatting, and how that has never really applied back in the States. Maybe every so often, but here it seems to happen just about every day, and I find myself doing it now too, and find that it makes me genuinely a lot happier to feel free enough to just be nice and friendly and welcoming without it being weird. Of course, not everyone is friendly, or sometimes the opposite and they're overly-friendly... and it's not ubiquitous that everyone wants a chat or is in an especially sunny mood. But on the whole I'd say that the culture seems to have more of an open-door policy in a more-the-merrier type of fashion, and I think so far it's fair to say I probably picked a good country to hike it out on my own.

Aftermath

I have no idea how to start this blog, so I will start with my own current situation. I’m at work, in a temporary office where my computer screen is visible to anyone who walks down the hall. I leave the Philippines in three days for the next leg of this half-year journey. I’m listening to George Winston’s “December.” Usually, Thanksgiving marks when I begin listening to this album, because it reminds me of driving home in the dark and the snow from Thanksgiving at my relatives’ house, listening to the sounds of the piano and linking them inextricably with happy feelings of the holiday season. I listened to it in college when I was missing out on all the Christmas celebrations in New York City, busy toiling away on final papers. I listened to it in Micronesia when I missed Thanksgiving for the first time and was looking forward to spending Christmas on the beach with my family in Guam. I’m listening to it now, because it’s snowing in New York and I want to be a part of that, despite the relentless hazy, humid heat outside my office. Beyond that, I guess, I want to think of my home and force myself to feel a constant gratitude for it while other people struggle with the reality that theirs have disappeared.

Last weekend in Manila, we had about an hour’s worth of heavy rain and wind. I was almost excited to step out into the typhoon weather, and watch the squall from a café window. It was just a passing burst of a storm, and then it was over with a pointed definitiveness. But in the aftermath of it all, as numbers and statistics and stories incessantly roll in, this impression of finality has quickly faded. I want to make this tragedy personal because it is so close to me, but it really isn’t. I was oblivious to the chaos that was happening while I was out to dinner, drinking poorly made mojitos, wishing my jeans weren’t wet to the calves. During my short time in the Philippines, there has been more than any country’s fair share of crises: typhoons every other week, armed conflict in Zamboanga, and the Bohol earthquake. None of them, I imagine, made many headlines outside the Philippines despite their terrible and widespread effects. But everyone back home, in their concern and their confusion, wondered if the thing they did hear about, one of the most powerful storms ever recorded, had any immediate impact on me. I want to say that it did, because it’s what I feel is expected. But just like the humanitarian crisis a few hours’ flight south of me, and just like the earthquake that violently rocked a place I had visited just two weeks before it happened, Haiyan’s effects just leave me feeling heavy and disoriented, in a powerless and ignorant kind of way.

I want to illustrate how I feel about Haiyan, but have been wildly unsure how to do that, because my feelings are tumultuous and complicated. My colleague and friend put it well to me saying she feels no different here – an hour’s plane ride away from mass devastation –  than if she were back home in the States, thousands of miles removed from it. Oh, another big typhoon in South East Asia, what are the chances.

If my petty frustration over the potential for my weekend plans to be ruined by the rain is any indication, I unwittingly feel the same way. I am so much closer in proximity, but there is still a deep and cavernous distance separating me from it. I feel a very detached sense of sadness, the kind you feel after hearing about any sort of disastrous third world event. The only thing really tethering me to this particular tragedy is that I have been to these places, and met a good number of people in them. I keep thinking especially of our boat drivers in Coron, the first place I visited in the Philippines for a quick holiday, and their houses that they happily pointed out to us, situated right by the shore. Now in Coron, 14,000 people are without homes; most of them were destroyed.  

2.5 people need food. Everyone needs water. There is no health service delivery, no schools open, in some places no way to communicate. 4 million people have had their livelihoods and sources of income destroyed. 50,000 women face gender based violence. Thousands of children have been displaced.

Usually, the numbers are just numbers; to me and to everyone who can’t comprehend what it is to be immersed in catastrophe. Listing them does little but overwhelm or inspire sympathy. 11.3 million people affected; almost 700,000 displaced. Reports of death tolls from the hundreds to upwards of 10,000. These numbers are too large to be fathomable. But now they represent people I’ve met in places I have been to, and that’s an entirely different sensation. I can’t consider the sums, because I can’t wrap my brain around what they really mean – how vast the devastation is and how many people have become just faceless figures in these stacks of statistics piled into towers of categories and databases. I can only consider the people to whom I can put a face, and wonder where they are, and imagine what has happened or could happen still, and that is heart wrenching enough.  

I don’t really know how to react. Talking about it, listening to reports and anecdotes, volunteering, donating… these things are meant to make me feel closer to something that is still so far away from me, and better about the fact that I have something to offer. I obviously want to help, but how much can I really do, and how much of it is for me more than it is for the people that need it? It’s difficult sometimes not to reinterpret altruism as self-righteousness, or to feel like anything short of delivering immunizations or rescuing a child from a pile of debris is ultimately superfluous, even when it’s not. These are all part of the complexity of things I’m feeling: how much is too much, or too little? How intensely should I feel, and how do I really feel? Am I actually helping, or just trying to assuage my own sense of powerlessness?

In Manila, just like back in New York, things bustle on as usual. There’s little change. People wonder how I am feeling about all of it, physically and emotionally.  They shake their heads at the tragedy and at the numbers, rising every day. But if we saw the face behind each of those numbers, if we were forced to confront each of the millions, how deep into us would our sympathy dig? How much would our compassion and sadness be intensified? The only thing that draws me to this in a very personal way are the people and places to which I’ve become connected in the short lengths of time I have spent with them. I can’t imagine compounding this by the thousands; it exhausts me to try and measure the loss. 

Early Hours

I see a lot of interesting things in Manila; a lot of things that make me laugh because I find them so ridiculous; things that make me raise my eyebrows in surprise, or shake my head in disgust. There is a lot of sadness and hopelessness too, when the brute force of the poverty and the desperation of some of the city’s people confronts me. As difficult as it is for me not to stand out here, it sometimes feels equally challenging for me to actively notice the people living with and around me because I get caught up in the chaos of my day. When I am coming home from work, usually around 4, it’s a peak hour, so there are crowds of people elbowing through down the sidewalk. While people often look my way and sometimes try to talk to me, we always all push on without much engagement. But arriving at the office is a different story. At 7am, everything is still relatively sleepy and quiet, and I can more fully feel the harsh fabric of the streets. This morning, for instance, I clicked across the road in my heels with my coffee and oversized bag, and encountered a man sitting in the middle of the sidewalk fanning a fire he had built there of trash and palms and other things. I stood next to him for a minute, and the two of us watched the flames burn into the concrete, me with my collared shirt and sunglasses, him in his bare feet, cut-off jeans and poorly rolled cigarette. Two women seated on the sidewalk under a food stall watched me with narrow eyes and whispered to each other. These things are probably always going on as I walk around Malate, but at 7am is when they all seem to take shape and slow down so I can really observe them. Like children. There are obviously always children around, but the yawning emptiness of the morning is when I see them waking up from their sleep on pieces of cardboard unfolded across the sidewalk, or crawling out from the shelter of a pedicab or an umbrella. They sit sleepy and undisturbed by the curb side, or sometimes in the middle of the road, bigger siblings holding onto the smaller versions of themselves.  The women who watch over them crouch silently against buildings holding empty plastic cups, wordlessly asking for coins.

In the morning is also when I feel myself standing out the most. It’s the time of day when I have the energy to wear heels, but not enough to go without holding a latte like it was another accessory. It’s quiet and peaceful enough that I can feel the burn of everyone staring at me, but there is still morning Manila traffic forcing me to hustle awkwardly across the road while everyone watches with incredulity. Tall, white, fancy – somehow important, but in the way that also makes me sickeningly oblivious: this is the picture I’ve painted of myself from the eyes of my onlookers. I have no idea if this how anyone actually perceives me but their stares tell a multitude of stories, all of which cast me as foreign and unrecognizable. And no one on the street that needs money hesitates to go out of their way to ask me especially for it. Stupid, or rich or full of sympathy and compassion. I must be at least one of these things. And even though passing by begging women and children after just visiting an ATM stings with a certain kind of privileged shame, I’ve only given away money one time; to three women who helped me cross the street in the middle of a flood. I came out of work with a short skirt and heels in the middle of a downpour, and the road had become a river. The locals seemed slightly put-out, but they kept on moving, generally unencumbered. I stood on the sidewalk switching my shoes to flip-flops while someone held an umbrella over my head. Pedicabs rolled by, their drivers imploring me to get in and just end my misery with a quick and relatively cheap ride. But I only needed to get to a building across the street, and sought the assistance of three women who grabbed onto me and helped me tightrope my way across a thin wooden plank they were holding for pedestrians, while standing waist deep in the water. They held out cups for change, and I gave them coins; probably the equivalent of a few cents.

I recently read and passed along an article about how giving money to children is one of the worst things you can do as a Westerner in a foreign country; it propagates systems of child trafficking, keeps children out of school, and disrupts dynamics within families. Even giving gifts and food is not a good idea because they sell them, or it compromises their health - better to take the time to teach them some skill, or play with them. But some of the children I’ve met don’t seem interested in playing with me. They seem interested in eating. I wonder if articles like that are theoretically sound and probably on many levels make incredibly good points about complicated issues; but are also a convenient excuse to ignore the excruciating reality that we can’t change the situation of these people. And moreover, we aren’t obligated to. That is probably one of the most difficult things to face; that a lot of the time, no matter how many reasons we have for not doing something, for not helping, for not acting, for not giving what we have to make someone’s life easier (at least in the short term), much of it boils down to the simple fact that we just don’t have to. We don’t want to; it’s part of the social climate here for beggars to bother foreigners; to rip them off, to steal from them. And, they’re everywhere, so what’s the point in trying to help one when it means being swarmed by 100 more? But that’s the only glimpse of their life we are usually offered – the one where they are a nuisance and part of a larger social ill. That’s why I simultaneously like the early morning, and also feel shamed by it, because it’s when I see the big brother holding his baby sister while she slowly wakes up. A malnourished woman still half-asleep against a brick wall breastfeeding her small baby. The little girl petting the very thin stray cat while she cries. The two boys who are arm-in-arm laughing and counting the coins they have. These are the actual lives that they lead, and the ones that I can conveniently accept or ignore as I choose.

Last week I had some problem with my credit card, and couldn’t use it because it kept getting declined. It was more frustrating than anything else, and how lucky for me that I also have an ATM card, and some cash, and another card for an Australian account. It made me think about money more generally though; like the fact that I feel I don’t have much of it. I am often very anxious that I am not making any money as an intern here, especially when I realize how quickly I am running out of what little savings I’ve been able to accumulate. I’ve worried about not making enough money when I did have jobs, and becoming destitute when I didn’t. But in the back of my mind, I have never actually had to worry about money, or about actually being destitute. Because I have my parents and my family, and it’s like a breath of relief when I think about the security that protects me, and its overwhelming to try to feel thankful for it when you know you will most likely never comprehend the feeling of actual desperation. Of lacking so much of what is fundamental – clothes, food, water, a home, a bed, someone to love - and to consider that your normal life. And there is a gap when you realize that no matter how much you travel to a developing place, you will always have so much of everything, even when it feels like you don’t – and it gives you the luxury to dismiss the people that need.

"The excruciating minutia of every single daily event"

Since my last blog, I have done some interesting things. I went to Taiwan for two days, did karaoke for about 5 hours, and got severely ill (the two are not necessarily related). I also went to see the Philippine Philharmonic in the middle of a typhoon. But rather than talk about these things, I feel like being David Sedaris-esque and recounting some of the random observations I've been making in my daily life here. I feel like I write a lot about the big events that happen - trips and projects and super big challenges, and not so much about the little nuances that really make up my Manila experience. I've been meaning to carry a small notebook around with me so I can jot down whenever something really interesting happens, but in the absence of that, I sometimes use the notes app on my iphone. Here a few of them, with slight expounding, from the past week or so, in no particular order and with pretty much zero cohesiveness:

1). 10/1 Tuesday, Robinson's supermarket - in the US, I feel it is more common and even appreciated when people use credit cards because it's faster than waiting for someone to dig out their cash. Here it just seems like a massive inconvenience and requires lots of typing in of long codes and the signing of many receipts. Also, even though there is a long line of people behind me (the guy directly behind me is only buying a loaf of bread and two beers) the woman is taking her time carefully bagging all of my items with some kind of special bagging technique, tying all the bags, and placing smaller items like a toothbrush in their own tiny little bags and placing those in bigger bags. I feel like I should apologize to everyone waiting behind me, but unlike in America, no one here ever seems to be agitated to wait for anything.

2). 10/2 Wednesday, walking home from work - all the guards at the bank are all huddled around the steps intently watching two guards play chess on the concrete. All of them are holding what looks like AK47s. Just A little ways down the street, two other men sit on the curb playing a game whose board is the bottom of a pizza box. Demarcations for the game have been made with pink highlighter. The pieces are bottle caps.

3). 10/10 Thursday - same guards are seated in a line on the curb, still holding their guns, all reading different newspapers.

4). 10/3 Thursday, Robinson's supermarket - man taps on my shoulder while I am looking at cheeses. I have to take out my earphone. He keeps repeating milk, milk, milk and shrugging. "milk - like a cow"  I point to the section with milk, lots of milks - lowfat, full fat, skim, already chocolate-ed. "milk COW."
I go over, pick one up and point to the picture of the cow on the carton. He seems suddenly satisfied. "Where are you from? What part of the world?"
"USA - America."
"Ohhhhhh. I'm from Kuwait."
"Nice."
"Kuwait. KUWAIT."
"I know, that's really interesting."
"It's ok, USA and Kuwait are friends"
Apparently, this man thinks I'm incredibly dense, and what does that say about me when he can't find the milk in the dairy section?

5). Funny and nonsensical things on people's shirts I've throughout the week:
"Got soap?"
"I left my other shirt in my ninja"
Various sexually explicit shirts that are clearly meant for men, being worn by women. I wonder if this is some kind of thing here, of if they just can't be bothered to know the meaning.

6). 10/3 Thursday, the coffee shop which is weirdly located in the lobby of the hospital, and also at the WHO cafeteria - I got coffee three times today, and twice was asked if I had exact amount. I only did one time, and was very kindly thanked for my thoughtfulness and foresight. The times when I didn't, I got a very loud and disapproving tongue clicking. This country has a real problem with giving people change; they act very put out, and will sometimes say they don't have any change when it's pretty clear that they do.

7). 10/7 Monday, walking back to work from getting coffee - small children on the street selling pens to other children who are on the way to school and might have forgotten their own. Reminds me of walking down from Taal volcano when two local girls approached us, asked for chocolate and then: "Do you have boyfriend?"
"Actually, yes I do! do you have a boyfriend?"
Girl scowls. "I didn't say boyfriend. I said ball point. Do you have ball points. For school."
I don't usually take supplies of chocolate or pens with me on hikes, so I had to disappoint her. The kids selling pens on the road side seem to be doing a good deed. But their customers are headed to class; why aren't they going to school too?

8). One of my project entails reviewing medical records at the ER. The first step is getting a sample of road injury patients, so I have to look through a years worth of uncomputerized records that are organized by date, but not by injury type. While road injuries don't seem to be so common, some extremely common causes for ER admission include:
 - bites, of various kinds (cat, rat, dog, mouse, hamster, monkey)
 - mauling (as in, "patient was mauled by two assailants after they robbed him")
 - fishbone caught in patient's throat, usually just shortened to"fishbone"
Everything also seems to be classified as "severe." I know it's the ER, so you would assume that people would have a good reason to be there. But there are just some things I can't picture: "patient severely injured himself while peeling some shrimps," "patient severely injured himself while trying to open the cookie jar," "severe pinky trauma" for example.

9. 10/13 Sunday, Nailogy - I am here for a manicure, and it's very crowded, but mostly with men. Most of them are getting pedicures, but some are having their hands massaged and nails painted with clear polish. A surprising number of them have fallen asleep in the chairs.

10. 10/13 Sunday, outside Robinson's - Almost hit by an SUV because the crossing guard was too busy staring at me to direct traffic

11. 10/12 Saturday, Oarhouse - a local talks to us about all the prostitutes that hang out in and around Robinson's, and is surprised that I don't know how to spot them (aside from ones who are obvious at nighttime outside of dodge massage places and bars). Because Malate is the red light district, there is a lot of prostitution - male, female, and child that is constant and pervasive, and apparently right under my nose. I already know that Malate is less than classy. Walking around at night, you are approached by people who want you to come into their various sketchy establishments. Also I've been personally approached by female prostitutes which was more confusing to me than anything else. I don't want to always be judgmental of particular men or scenarios that I often see in this area, but with so much trafficking, forced sex work and what basically amounts to slavery, it's hard not to feel slightly embittered and disillusioned.

12. 10/11 Friday, walking home from work on Pedro Gil Street - some kid, maybe 13 or 14, in a school uniform is in the sidecar of a pedicab (basically a little car attached to a bicycle), presumably being taken home. He sticks his head out of the car and the driver (biker? peddler?) deliberately elbows him in the side of the head, signaling for him to get back inside. This kid has no shoes and no backpack. I am wearing a $50 shirt, pants that were not on sale, Gucci perfume, and I have a driver take me to work in the morning.
Even so, I am tired and sweaty and I think: Spoiled brat, you can't walk home like the rest of us?

Working for the weekends

I haven't had much time to write here, busy with all kinds of work and play. I guess the upside to having a typhoon in your city is finally getting a day off to decompress. 

The weeks are long here, and work is generally low-key. I'm there at 7 and leave around 4 and so far my days have been mostly filled with computer work and research. It's an interesting office environment - quiet, but somehow still always busy - and thankfully there is a small, relatively close-knit group of interns to commiserate with, though people tend to come and go very quickly and for better or worse (depending) the group is never stable or static. 

When I titled this blog Manila to Micronesia I didn't have in mind that I would always be comparing the two, but I know I am constantly doing it. I want Manila to be a separate experience with its own positives and negatives, but I have a hard time seeing it for what it is, by itself. Living in this city is a lot different than living on the islands. Things were slow and generally inefficient in Chuuk, but it was easier to roll with the punches. In Manila, all of these things are compounded by the unpleasantness of the city itself. I have hot water and electricity and (usually) internet, so there have been some upgrades. But the the poverty, the danger, the pollution and all of those other urban burdens give me frustration rather than a renewed sense of patience. 

Almost every weekend, we have tried to escape the cities for greener pastures. My second weekend, a few of the interns went to Coron Island in the province of Palawan. Coron is only an hour flight from Manila, but the difference was startling, and I couldn’t help but feel all the similarities with Micronesia. Everything brought back memories of island life, from the small houses with metal roofs, to the expat/divers' bars and overwhelming smell of the shore and the Pacific, to the power cutting off while I was taking a bucket shower. We spent the day island hopping with two friendly tour guides/boat drivers who took us around to Kayangan Lake (supposedly the cleanest lake in Asia) and some post card-esque, nearly deserted beaches. The weekend after, we swapped white sand for volcanic rock, hiking up Taal volcano in Tagaytay. As seems to often be the case in the Philippines, the real adventure was trying to navigate how to get there. We first took a taxi to a bus station that had no signs and no apparent schedule. Most of the time, locals are more than willing to try and help, but they also fear offending you or admitting they don't know something, which often means being pointed in the wrong direction. We found the right bus after being led there by a motortrike driver who wanted a tip for his trouble, and took it two hours to a drop-off point where we encountered the same ordeal with a circuit of jeepneys. Jeepney is the popular mode of public transport in the Philippines; a cultural remnant of WWII jeeps, and always packed to cracking point with people. We occupied ourselves trying to learn some Tagalog words, as being crammed into public transport has been the only real way I've interacted with locals outside of shops and my hotel. They had the jeepney stop for us at the top of a long, winding hill where we had to hire and haggle with motortrike drivers to take us all the way down to a boat, which we took across to the volcano in the pouring rain. After all of this, the hike was about 30 minutes long with a 5 minute stop at the top to admire the view and the crater lake. It was beautiful, but the grandness of it was somewhat mitigated by the daunting task of getting back home. The bus back took over three hours because of the rain and city flooding, which I should have taken as a sign that traveling here will never be smooth.

This past weekend, we traveled to Bohol Island, another beachy spot more touristy and developed than Coron. While Manila was caught in the crosshairs of a typhoon, we had perfect weather and toured around the island visiting popular sites. We walked up one of the Chocolate Hills, one of over a thousand grass-covered limestone hills shaped like Hersey’s kisses, and to reserve full of tarsiers, small, endangered primates that looks more like some kind of marsupial gremlin. Of course we also went to the beach, which was small and not as impressive as Coron’s. There was a solid cluster of bars and restaurants along the shore, as well as shady and persistent "tour guides" aggressively offering boats to other islands. You couldn't stand on the street without being immediately harassed, in the same tired and insistent manner. While having coffees under palm trees right across from breaking waves went a long way to making those walks worthwhile, any stress that might have been relieved by poolside drinks and sandy feet was rekindled trying to find a way back to Manila. Our Sunday evening flights were cancelled because of the typhoon, and delayed again the next morning after we had woken up at 4am and dealt with a particularly hostile cab driver. Now that I am finally home, I have the chance to look back on the amazing things I am able to do here and weigh them against the challenges that come with every weekend trip. Not that it's news that these things happen, especially in developing countries, but dealing with street hassling, negotiating rides from sketchy "taxis", and just generally existing by myself in any given public place are all skills that I need to hone Traveling While Female here in the Philippines. It's always necessary to have some sort of guard up, but of course it's different when you look so different, and are giving off the air that you realistically have no idea what the hell you are doing. It's not exclusive to this country by any means, but it continually aggravates me that everywhere is potentially somehow dangerous, and everyone is persistently trying to rip me off. This again feels like Micronesia, where the surreal experience of having white skin means you are the exotic minority and always prone to be stared at and engaged with. Not everything was rainbows and cupcakes being a foreigner in Chuuk, but the threats and the chaos seem more tangible here in the center of a city. Having to always structure and hold up walls against all things unsafe is exhausting, and takes away the freedom and enjoyment of the relaxion you are supposed to feel on holiday, or simply the banality everyday tasks, like walking home with your groceries. I can't excuse it away by saying it's just how things are here, but I also can't ignore or deny it. I can only try to momentarily escape it in the corner cubicle of my office, or the small private spots I claim on the beach.