The sun had sunk behind the horizon leaving a palette of soft shadows over Olongapo City.  With its slightly newer and modern look, its bustling commerce,fleets of speeding jeepney drivers, and loud motorcycles, the city was a picture of motion even in the fading moments of the day. We walked further up a worn path and stepped on flattened stones buried in the packed loamy earth. Old men sitting on benches drinking the last of their beer and puffing hand rolled fat cigarettes stared at us from their hollow block houses.  Our destination was within sight now.

Gumamella shrubs decorated the pathway, with bright red paper thin blossoms and struck me as a good example of nature's artwork, as chickens foraged nearby for specks of discarded rice hardly moving beneathe our feet. On this trip we would pass through Pampanga with stops in Baguio and La Union. Fely and I stopped with our baggage at the top of hill, swung open a large corrugated steel gate, and met a crippled black dog.  Judai wagged her tail as she drug her rear crippled leg over the warm cement. The patio area seemed quiet, until little Mitze walked out smacking her flimsy sandals and greeting everyone with a smile. She was a skinny child with a beaming smile and was quick to warm up to visitors. A skinny calico cat squirmed in her arms, flipped a quick sommersault, and wobbled away to avoid a confrontation with strangers.

Her father, Bernie, now emerged from a darkened room and immediately began talking about the summer weather and how it would change. Bernie was a schooled historian and worked as a curator for a museum on the former naval base.  He was awarded his coveted job after first volunteering for a long period of time on the former U.S. Naval Base. When an opening for curator became available, he was immediately hired. Presently, he yawned, stretched his arms, and offered to serve coffee.  Although our arrival came on a calm day, darkish clouds belied a big storm ahead. Soon, we would feel the crippling effect of typhoon Chedeng, a typhoon that would cause widespread agony for many in the days to follow.

In the afternoon another of Fely’s brothers, Jerry, invited me to tour one of Olongapo City's four power substations atop Mercurio Hill. A chain fence surrounded the facility, but we were able to easily walk through an open front gate. Jerry was well known throughout the city due to his position with the Public Utilities Department as an electrician, meter reader, and troubleshooter. Today he was wearing taupe shorts, a white tank top, and worn out slippers.  He pointed toward two domestic turkeys foraging in the grey graveled courtyard near high voltage equipment and said the birds had always been there. We entered the plant through a side door and found rack mounted sensors blinking and meters registering electric consumption, yet no one was present! No security guards challenged our presence, so we walked outside and bumped into Rene who was dressed in civilian attire and clutching a two-way radio.  He offered a limp handshake and then sat himself down again outside. Jerry told me he was his co-worker in the Public Utilities Department for the city. I learned that most of the power generated in the Philippine Islands comes from nuclear and hydroelectric sources and would later discover the reason why brown outs last as long as they do.

Typhoon Chedeng had not yet arrived, so we enjoyed warm sunlight and watched small children playing with their toy trucks in the street. Toward the main house, Jerry observed we already had visitors gathering under the front patio area. Two electric fans were blowing the humid asian air in slow lazy swaths, hardly an effective way to control the persistent black flys in the room. Judai and Monique, the family dog and cat, had been resting under a table, but were now snapping at one another.  The grizzled calico raised her head, but would have none of this fighting, so she had stationed herself near a garbage bucket as if on sentry duty. Fely had told me that Monique was a special cat because she was so old having survived more than her nine allotted lives.

"She’s close to twenty", Fely said running her fingers through her hair.

I wondered if any cat could live to this ripe old age, but while watching the feline's movements near the garbage bucket, I figured she could be right.  She was a spinster of the animal kingdom. 

It was late afternoon, yet Jerry felt it was necessary to make early preparations for a party. He stated he would return after he had purchased a kambing, (Tagalog for goat). The kambing would be used as a sacraficial centerpiece for a party commemorating the passing of Fely’s father, Victor, who departed a few years previous. Presently, a large kettle of water had started to boil over a two-burner propane stove top in the kitchen where the women were quartering cabbage for Nilaga, a beef soup for tonight’s dinner. Since the cubed beef would have to be softened for a while, I grabbed a small handful of jellybeans and continued reading while Monique purred beneathe my feet.

Anna Nalica, my wife’s niece, had dressed up earlier in the afternoon as a princess for the Santa Cruzan festival. She looked stunning in her pure white gown. Mercurio Hill was now dark and kerosene torches dotted the darkened hill above as the queen and her princesses began their slow marching down the shadowy steep incline known as Mercurio Hill. As the procession was passing the main house, little flower girls dressed in white sequined gowns walked alongside their pages under dim torchlights and grinned. Parents were also among the group and proudly snapped pictures of the queen and each princess as the parade continued down the hill. The Santa Cruzan festival is steeped in the country’s religious history dating to the Third Century and has great meaning to those involved. The reynas, or Queens, are beautiful young women. They pass under tall flowered arches carried by young men holding white banners that were difficult to see in the darkness.

The following day, roosters blasted their shrill notes over Mercurio Hill with a cacophony of sound along with barking dogs and small chirping birds adding to the event as if a ceremony were beginning. I looked up the hill and noticed Jimmy's front door was closed, and looking closer, noted a picture of Jesus painted over with heavy green brush strokes. Jimmy's swarthy body could be seen moving from one task to another as he had been out of his shanty since daybreak tending to his roosters. Some are restrained with thin rope tethers, and others are confined to bamboo pens where they spent their days pacing like expectant fathers. The previous day Jerry proudly displayed one of his champion roosters, a scarred warrior with thinned out white feathers. This bird had earned him a nice profit in the arena only days ago. Cockfighting is legal in the Philippines where it is considered a sport - never mind the inhumanity of dying birds in public events - these spectacles generate lively activity and inflate the egos of the owners.

Some twenty years prior I had attended a cock fight in Castelliejos near Subic City, Zambales. The images of the competition were brutal and stayed with me. Filipinos in a bleacher style arena motion to a pit boss that receives their bids. Great wads of pesos are splayed from the spectators’ hands like small fans as they yell and shake their blood money at the massacre in center stage. Even louder screams come from weekend gamblers placing side bets as the action heats up. Razor sharp blades attached to the cocks’ legs leave deadly gashes as the birds jump into air and plummet on their opponent. When the one bird cannot move, the fight is over. To the non-enthusiast, this sport seems entirely unnecessary.

Three hours have passed since our early rising and the random crowing heard hours ago has given way to streaks of blinding tropic sunlight breaking over distant mountains. Looking off into the morning haze, I was inspired by the great natural beauty of Subic Bay with landscapes dressed in broad swipes of green, purples and yellow pastels crowning the jungles surrounding the city.

Jimmy poked his head out of a shuttered window looking at his hen coops.  He draws his hand across his stubbled face and gets ready for a morning of devotion to his animals. All of his birds are tethered and rest either on a bamboo perch or are restrained by a stake in the ground. Even at this early hour in the morning a towering Kopang² tree does little to shade the scene below, but its 80 foot height adds an element of beauty to an otherwise blighted area. Today Jimmy has been busy placing new hollow blocks around his dilapidated bamboo shanty as beads of sweat roll off his dark body. He takes frequent sips from a large pitcher of ice water nearby. Beneath the mighty Kopang, 4-week-old chickens gather nervously around their mother in a bamboo coop designed for a much smaller brood. Jimmy stops his work and motions for his two helpers to continue. He walks a short distance to the coop where I'm standing and moves his arm in a sweeping motion telling me that every chicken foraging in the lot nearby is his. I give the appearance of being impressed and wonder how he keeps track of these birds, as they appear to blend in perfectly with young banana trees and overgrown shrubbery. He told me he doesn't have to search for any bird because when its dinnertime, the young speckled hens dash to him.

Below, in the main house, the conversation turns to a large jackfruit tree that Fely’s father had planted over 30 years ago. Only three ripe fruits were hanging from the tree and each of these were enclosed inside a large bag, like a gunnysack. The bags protect these elongated spiny fruits from the insects and also support their great weight. A single fruit often grows larger than a basketball. Unfortunately, the tree was now on an adjacent lot due to a homesteading family staking a claim with the government's Bureau of Land.

Fely tapped me on the shoulder awakening me from my reverie and fading thoughts of the jackfruit tree. She wanted to go to the city market, or Palengke, a huge complex of dry good shops and food vendors. After a short jeepney ride, we arrived at the Palengke and were able to blend in with the local crowd. Amid the colored straw baskets, old women bargained with vendors while little boys licked their ice cream cones trying to keep pace with the burning sun. Almost everywhere we looked the geometric lines of the market were pleasing to look at. A stack of neatly arranged orange mangos, presented a mesmerizing effect as did native bananas and other fruit. We stopped in the meat department where I had hoped to buy some bones for Judai and Loopin, but were informed there were no bones. Jerry suggested we buy a bag of chicken feet. The previous day the dogs had been lapping up cold noodles from the red cement floor, so I figured they deserved a treat.

Card playing in the Philippines could be compared to Rip Van Winkle's sleepy trip into dreamland. With a few hours of vigorous shuffling and dealing, the wheels of time are retarded creating the sensation of movement in slow motion, as if in a dream. In the dream, cards float through the air in the theater of my mind along with the muffled chatter and jingling of coins. In fact, I wasn't dreaming, just lost in the drudgery of repetitive hand motions and the incessant swiping noise of cards being tossed on the table. Being a sideline witness to card playing while listening to a foreign language commentary lulled me into old Rip's catatonic state of mind. I have not witnessed any Filipino playing a short game of cards, nor will you. The purest aficionados hang around the card and mahjong tables denying themselves most of the basic necessities of life. Today, my mother-in-law has been playing mahjong for at least 5 hours straight and has been fingering piles of peso banknotes and stacks of silver coins next to a cold cup of coffee. She'll stop playing when she's hungry. When that time comes, another family member will take her seat and play with her winnings. In mahjong, the large plastic game pieces are shuffled around the table revealing glimpses of strange Chinese symbols. The pieces are then neatly stacked in long rows for the beginning of a new game. I have been told it would be easy to learn how to play this game, but I am not the type swat flies and swill instant coffee.

Kambing, yelled Jerry from the rusted front gate.

Jerry walked in with a thin tether attached to a goat, or kambing. Accompaning him was a friend carrying some shiny knives. Glancing his way again, I noted he was acting more like was trying to control a large fish. The kambing had tried to escape, but Jerry guided the nervous animal into a grassy area near the patio to munch on a large area covered with green plants. The kambing was to be prepared the following day to provide polutan (snack food), a festive accompaniment to light drinking and entertaining during special occasions. Polutan is often prepared with special seasonings which bring out the mild taste of the animal. Years ago I remember having goat meat at a Mexican wedding, and at that time I thought it was very good.

Inside the house, Fely has been given a dish of rice and three large sugpo, or loosely translated as small lobsters or more appropriately, small shrimp. The sugpo were purchased in the market today at $3.25 per half kilo which is half what it cost in the States. After she had finished her meal, she watched as Jerry walked in from the grassy area where the goats are grazing. Jerry told us one of the kambing was ready to give birth and recommended sparing her life. The shorthaired black and white mother-to-be was then escorted away from the grassy staging area and taken to a birthing pen near Jerry's house.

Early the next morning, sunshine again floods through the gamumella plants near the house as the day begins anew. Nearby, the remaining kambing is still tethered and has managed to denude a large grassy area near a retaining wall. Several broken branches are scattered on the ground with the leaves stripped clean. I could really use this animal in my back yard at home! 

Bernie has risen early and is sweeping the shiny red concrete floor of the main house. He notes our presence and prepares a boiling kettle of water for us. Even at this hour a slight breeze is cutting through the sticky tropical air providing some relief. My mother-in-law had arranged to have ceramic tiles laid down in the lavatory, shower, and kitchen areas of the house today. The workers were standing nearby with white towels wrapped around their heads. Already, they began dousing water into a pile of Portland cement and preparing their crude scaffold and tools for the days work. Fely’s brother, Rolando, would also be placing a corrugated metal roof over the kitchen area as typhoon Chedeng comes closer. Above the main house, Jimmy looked down and motioned for me to come up. Construction on his shanty has been coming along well. He explains that ants have destroyed the already weak foundation of his shack, so the hollow block shell was being erected just in time.   

This entire vacation is beginning to sound like a marathon card game. A new face has arrived at the main house, Sammie. He looks up and sees me coming down the hill from Jimmy’s shanty and greets me loudly, yelling almost. He asked me if I had remembered him. Lying, I said of course. Some twenty years ago I told him I had met him at the main house, and he smiled widely as he looked at me through huge round spectacles. Sammie had been a baker in Saipan, capitol of the Northern Mariana Islands (until 1975 when a separate commonwealth was established). He told me he had been a pastry chef on the island and that even a school kid could have done what he was doing. He smiled again, almost apologetically, and explained all he had to do was add a powdered mix to water to bake cake donuts.

Regretfully, the morning breeze had disappeared and the humid air had placed her sticky hands on the afternoon crowd once again. Even Judai and Loopin had sought resting places under some wicker furniture near a blowing fan. A loud rapping was heard at my bedroom door. John-John, owner of the white mouse, was offering to clean my tennis shoes. Later, Fely told me he had cleaned them nicely, so I offered him 50 pesos. Clean shoes make a good impression, something I would need for a 2 a.m. departure tomorrow for the province of La Union. La Union lies below the mountainous region of Bagio, the summer capitol of the Philippines in a lush area filled with verdant tobacco fields and tropical forests.

The long drive to Agoo, La Union began in total darkness. After a couple of hours, shadows along the road began turning into real objects as we passed through the San Fernando, Pampanga area about 15 miles from the historic Pinatubo eruption. Heavy piles of volcanic ash from the June 1991 event could still be viewed along the roadside and under bridges in many areas. Nearby Clark Air Base was eventually closed and the U.S. Government pulled out of the Philippines due partly to the eruption. Several inches of fine ash covered housetops and caused heavy damage. When our lease expired with the Philippine government in 1991, it was not renewed thus ending our long use of land in the Philippines. But, with the Cold War now history, the need to have a ship repair facility in Southeast Asia had become much weaker.

The sun had now risen into the lower part of the sky lighting up vacant sari sari stores and small children along the road. Tricycle taxis moved slowly near the shoulder of the road under the thick branches of large bushy trees. Mile after mile the trees overlap the national highway forming a leafy canopy that shows off the noble beauty the Pampanga region. As we approached our final destination, tobacco fields, grazing water buffalo, and roadside vendors stationed along our route seemed hungry for customers. We hadn’t had our second cup of coffee yet, so the thought of a mango slices or crunchy fried pork skin snacks seemed unlikely. Fely pointed to some fields and observed that the workers must have harvested tobacco recently. As a young girl on her grandfather’s tobacco fields near Francia Sur in Tubao, she would often help her grandfather, Don Francisco Oribello, the tall friendly man well known in the area for his business acumen.

At 9:15 our van had arrived in the central market area of Agoo, La Union. A short visit was planned here with a stop at an aunt’s house and a tour of some important landmarks downtown. In town, our van stopped at St. Mary’s Academy, Fely’s first school and across the street, Santa Monica Catholic Church, a great example of spanish architecture. Fely told she took her first communion there.

At about 10:40 we arrived at the northern section of Don Francisco Oribello's 3,600 hectare farm in Francia Sur in Tubao, La Union. The Don as he is referred to, was Fely’s mentor and father figure in her early years. The Francia Sur region is largely farmland with large tracts of rice, tobacco, corn, sugar cane, sweet potatoes, native carabao, and tall orange flowered trees. Here is a scene forming a beautiful mosaic - as pleasing a view as anyone could expect anywhere in the world.

Giant mango trees dwarf nipa huts and houses in this semi-mountainous region and provide an important food crop for its residents. From her earliest recollection, Fely recalls playful times at a running creek near the two story wooden house her grandparents lived in. Small crawfish were caught in the crystal clear water behind the house, and were taken by calesa to the market to be sold. A vestige of the former fishpond peaked through a clump of trees just a stone’s throw away from the mansion. Large broad leaf plants were cluttering the center of the pond near a large blue butterfly flittering in random circles. Today, no splashing water disturbed the tiny green plants floating on the surface of the stagnant pond. Only a young water buffalo stood nearby defiantly swishing black flys with its tail. The pond had once provided catfish and other varieties of fresh fish for the family.

Don Francisco was a well to do man in his time who enjoyed wearing his large brimmed hat as he often did prior to his trips into the city. He loved to relax sitting outside on sweltering summer days while puffing slowly on hand rolled sticks of tobacco. Fely remembers the Don solving problems by manipulating and using the energy of nine piles of small stones as a means of establishing contact with nature. She claims her grandfather was able to get answers to family problems and other worldly things that bothered him. Little Fely was a serious student of life and her grandfather ensured she studied her lessons thoroughly. As a result, she graduated as the valedictorian of St. Mary's Academy in Agoo, La Union. But, life wasn’t easy for young Fely. One day he had spat on the cement near the old mansion and cautioned her to return before the sun had dried up this spot on the ground! And, another day, she remembers fetching large stones to be used in building a retaining wall for her grandfather’s hacienda. She said she was paid 10 centavos for each stone she could find.

Meanwhile, Fely’s cousin Mercedez, who lives near the main house, guided us down a rutted road to the Don’s former residence. Carmen Boac, a white haired woman looked up at us from her rocking chair, greeted us, and cracked a suspicious smile. She seemed puzzled by Fely’s presence, but soon recognized her. They both sat and talked about childhood experiences in Francia Sur. The Don’s neatly manicured rice fields stretched as far as we could see. For a moment, I could imagine seeing the Don’s workers knee-keep in the muddied rice fields alongside lumbering carabao, but today there were only green empty fields with water buffalo either grazing or slumbering in the shade. Looking up now, the darkened mountains in the distance jog Fely’s memory as she recalls walking far into the fields as a child to deliver meriendas. These meriendas, or snacks, consisted of bibinka, puto, and other high carbohydrate foods designed to boost the energy of the Don’s tired field hands. Fond memories were treasured during this short stop, but it was time to depart. The morning breeze had picked up again causing overripe mangos to silently drop near Mercedez’ house atop the hill. Our driver collected all of us and we proceeded to Baguio City to shop for fresh vegetables. Produce bags in hand; I suggested a quick snack of siopao as we began our 4 ½ hour trip back to Olongapo.

This is a day of rest; however, workers are mixing Portland cement and laying ceramic tiles in the kitchen. The trahabador’s were working quickly and sweat poured off their bodies like they had come out of a shower. Up the hill from the main house, work has also resumed on Jimmy’s shanty dwelling. I’d already read the newspaper, so I begin pulling out old volumes of Grolier’s encyclopedia to search for interesting articles, and I find several to keep me occupied for hours while activity on the card and mahjong tables resumes.

The typhoon season is beginning in this area of the world. Last night, warm tropical rain pelted the galvanized roof over our heads like frozen peas dropping out of a huge bag in the heavens. Fely had stayed up late playing cards with the others as the loamy chocolate earth around the house turned a darker color from ground saturation. In the early afternoon, a large swarm of subterranean termites began clouding the air around a waterlogged stump a few yards away. Soon these small winged insects were floating everywhere, but mostly drifting upward into a large jackfruit tree near the patio where we sat. Some alit on my arms and neck. They didn’t appear to be interested in biting me, although they do have biting mouthparts, so I swatted them with my hand. Bernie shut the dusty louvered windows inside the house as children gawked at the menacing stump below the house. After a brief foray of confused flight, the entire colony had disappeared.

Meanwhile, Sammie is heard singing at the card table along with two fellow players. The rusted front gate is suddenly shoved open again as Jimmy walks in. He is lugging a couple of large shopping bags filled with beef, potatoes, onions, and a safety razor. I look up at him from the table and notice his 5 o’clock shadow was days old. In a while, I smell dinner simmering on a propane stove in the kitchen. 

Another night of drenching rain helped us sleep like monks in a monastery. I’m thinking their living and working areas must be very quiet . When is the last time you witnessed a monk yelling?) The house was leak-free except for a couple of spots in the kitchen. The grizzled calico had curled up in a new resting area near the propane tank in the kitchen as her regular spot on the patio had become dampened by the weather.

Fely & I sat in the stillness of the morning while watching our favorite gecko catch insects on the wall nearby. Filipinos are fortunate to have these tiny lizard-like exterminators - they are quick and help to minimize the inconvenience of flies and other flying insects in living areas. Taking another sip of tea, I look up and Fely tells me she has seen her father only 30 minutes ago. The supernatural tone of her voice caused me to lean forward in my chair. She said he had walked past her only a few feet away wearing a grey shirt. Victor Nalica had passed away in 1994. No one else was awake at this hour. Certainly Judai or Loopin would have yelped had they heard the rusted front gate swing open. She said he had just walked away into thin air.

Filipinos are deeply religious and ghostly apparitions are common. You can experience this by interacting with them and their believable accounts of the dearly departed. Both picture and printed words centering on Jesus or a religious icon such as Mary are quite common. Pictures of Christ are everywhere and meaningful expressions praising Him are painted on Jeepneys, buses, and within plain view of many public places.

Another quick cloud burst added weight to the already soggy ground. A puto vendor was laboring to push his wheeled vending cart up Mercurio Hill. He could be heard all over the neighborhood. Yelling and tooting a bicycle horn was their way of attracting business. Today the puto we wanted was not available, so we told the kids maybe tomorrow the dark brown paste-like cakes might be available.

Jerry appeared near some water drums near the patio and announced the Kambing would be prepared prior to noon. The kambing and other foods would be prepared for visitors after a special prayer vigil today remembering the departed. In this case, the life of Victor Nalica would be commemorated through prayers of family members and close friends on Mercurio Hill.

Jerry’s son, Emman, brought his father a bolo knife that had been in the family for about 60 years. The late Victor Nalica had acquired the bolo from Japanese occupational forces in 1943. Jerry grabbed the bolo and began chopping away foliage from the front of the house, and then he made some wiring adjustments, which he claimed would look more presentable.

Nearby, the Kambing had fallen off a short retaining wall a few feet away, but appeared unscathed. In the Philippines, Kambing are raised for their meat as they are in other parts of the world. Today, the kambing would be sacrificed as an offering to a religious gathering. To the uninitiated, the actual steps in preparing the kambing may strike one as harsh or even cruel, yet Filipinos view the time-honored rite as a necessary function passed down through the generations. Judai begins barking, as the rusted gate swings open. A neighborhood man, Julius, has arrived to perform preparation of the kambing. He is carrying a brass kerosene torch and sharp knives, and as he walks over to the retaining wall, he looks down and hoists up the lively goat. A noose is then secured lightly to the kambings head as a quart bottle of, sukang poambong, (native vinegar) is drained into the animal’s mouth. Julius then stated that the vinegar alone would euthanize the animal, and it appeared to be working as the kambing became limp. One last defiant cry was heard from the sacrificial offering as work began on preparing the animal for the celebration. The kambing is not, as one would imagine, skinned like a wild deer. As the brass kerosene blowtorch was fired up, I watched as the fur of the kambing was blackened, then scrapped off with a sharp knife. After the carcass was scraped smooth, it was butchered with certain parts of the inside saved for a special dish known as kilawin. The inside walls of the animals stomach are thoroughly cleaned, then cooked along with selected other pieces and bile is added, the unsavory ingredient that imparts a peculiar flavor to kilawin.

Inside the house, the prayer vigil had begun. Two flickering candles represented the dearly departed. The prayer leader read Tagalog prayers from Purihin ng Diyos, a small black book held in his hand along with a cream colored rosary. Others in attendance were kneeling on pillows and responding each time the prayer leader ended a segment in the book.

With the prayers now finished, secular music now filled the air with would be singers belting out tunes despite their lack of vocal training. This was the beginning of a long celebration. Some of the singers are talented and receive loud whistling and hand clapping after their performances. It is not uncommon for a gathering such as this to last all night.

Hours later at 5 a.m., some of the mahjong players are still clicking tiles at the mahjong table while others were busy sweeping trash and cleaning the cracked red cement slab under the patio. The pelting rain came suddenly now with its fresh warm smell. Blue tarps on the patio began to flap uncontrollably and make loud snapping sounds as the new downpour filled a nearby 5-gallon can in what seemed like just a few minutes. Rain in the tropics flushes from the sky in an uncertain cyclical manner throughout the course of it life. A rainy forecast, perhaps a monsoon, could mean, to the master flusher in the skies, we’ll dump a huge load of water on you several times a day in a completely random manner. You’ll have brief periods of inconvenience followed by hours of drenching misery. At the bottom of Mercurio Hill, Jerry and I had stopped by a bakery to buy some whole wheat bread and mongo hopia, a flaky pastry filled with sweet mongo bean paste. Before returning to the main house I also felt it was necessary to buy a couple gallons of drinking water as a precaution. I did not want to take any chances drinking local city water for fear of getting diarrhea. Mid-afternoon now, the women had returned from the Pelengke bringing alemango crabs to steam in a huge metal pot. I do not particularly like crabs because of all the work involved in picking out little pieces of meat, but my wife can take an hour fiddling around with these orange crabs and think nothing of it.

As evening approached, the mahjong table was still active. New players were clicking their tiles and sipping hot coffee while talking about their families. Judai let out a couple of feeble barks at the front gate and in walked Jerry carrying a bag of rotisserie chicken which we consumed immediately along with some boiled cabbage grown in the fertile farmlands of Baguio. Just as green tea was being served in the living room, the house was plunged into darkness in our first brown out of the rainy season. Candles flickered about the living areas, and a solitary flame lit up even the game-crazed mahjong players. In only minutes, the earthy smells of day old laundry wafted through the still air as an unpleasant guest. Fortunately, the candle dripping is cut short as the power is restored and the grumbling of the adults becomes more uplifting. We would get a good nights sleep in preparation for a long trip to Baguio tomorrow.

The day would begin for us before hearing the cries of Jerry’s roosters. A rented van would take us to Baguio, a trip we had made only 5 days ago. Through many areas of northern Luzon, shocks of green tobacco in large fields stand solitary. As a young girl, Fely remembers helping to stack the cured and dried tobacco leaves on her grandfather’s land. Don Francisco appreciated the help his little 9-year-old granddaughter offered, but had his male workers take the freshly picked bales to the large market in Agoo and either sell or trade them for other commodities.

The van moved on now as the morning sun clothed itself in a bright orange glow peaking over distant mountains. Soon, long oblique fingers of light pierced the fogged meadows like huge diamond daggers revealing hollow block housing and shadowy figures moving alongside the road. Later morning now, our driver stopped at the palengke in Agoo, La Union very close to the home of Soling (Marcelina) Rivera, Fely’s aunt.
As in other Philippine locations, the public market teems with activity and welcomes the shopper with fresh smells of cooked foods mixed in with exhaust fumes of tricycle taxies, and barangay police blowing their whistles. We gather around a young woman fanning the charcoal under a bibinka stove as the sweet cakes are baking on banana leaves. Fatter than a pancake and saucer sized, bibinka is made of rice and has the texture, somewhat, of a thick American angel food cake. The cakes are sooooo good! Looking around me, I can say with a certain amount of assurance, that I was the only fair skinned American in this city at the moment. Plenty of people are staring at me almost like an exhibit or curiosity. Since English is taught in the Philippine school system, I had no problem communicating with anyone. Some people in the market called me Joe a moniker made popular during World War II.

Fely had purchased some shoes today, I suspect to add to her large collection. I’ve been told women need various combinations and styles of footwear in various colors in order to perform the task of accessorizing. After some shopping around the market, our driver took us to the former U.S. Air Force facility, Camp John Hay. The grounds of the facility are a stark contrast to other areas of the Philippines due to the carefully manicured appearance of rock gardens, flowers, and lawns. Mist covered evergreens remind me of the forest areas of Eastern Oregon and the air is cool and refreshing. The government of the Philippines has maintained this facility in top condition, not only for tourists, but also for the President of the Philippines who maintains a mansion at this famous summer capitol site. It was raining heavily again today, but we managed a couple of side trips to nearby Mines View Park and the Botanical Gardens.

Our 5-hour trip back to Olongapo was uneventful except for the actual ride itself. Our vehicle, a late model 9-passenger Toyota van, was packed tighter than a Norwegian sardine can. Toyota has a worldwide reputation for quality, but the Asian import models were not designed for humans over 5 feet tall, only for young people lined up at special circus rides. Designers have placed the engine compartment under the front seats and extending a foot or so toward the rear of the van. Passengers sitting in the first bench seat directly behind the driver, like I was, are exposed to a rectangular shaped hump in the floor the size of a small Volkswagen, it seems. After a couple hours of adjusting my feet within a very small area, an arthritic pain developed in each kneecap causing my feet to acquire a numbness felt only by men who wear wet boots while driving sled dogs in the arctic. Moving my whole body, even slightly, could have resulted in the formation of a new area of pain. Everyone had been sleeping for hours. Later, when Fely asked me if I had gotten any sleep, I responded by telling her “only in my dreams”.

I would dream soon enough and wake up sweating in a room darker than Philippine charcoal. The air conditioner and electric fan had stopped working. I looked at Fely and told her it was 5 a.m. We would live without power for another twelve hours. Toward the evening hours we had prepared candles and even fabricated some crude kerosene lamps using a bottle and a long twisted piece of cloth as a wick. The kerosene lamps perform the same service as candles, but leave a sooty residue in one's nostrils after an hour or so. The tile workers, who had been feverishly working with quick setting Portland cement throughout the day, were now using one of the homemade kerosene lamps. The crude lamps were casting shadowy versions of the workers on the kitchen wall and occasionally a curse was uttered when a mistake was made due to the lack of lighting. The grizzled calico had taken up refuge in the kitchen. She occasionally opened her eyes while under the kitchen table to have a quick look around, and then she would fall back asleep like a baby. Lights flickered and then the electric fans began to whir after nearly a half day without power. One of the workers blew out the smoky kerosene lamp, stepped back, and surveyed work done in semi-darkness. We had survived a brown out, a condition caused by any number of factors. Spokesman from the Public Utilities Department told me the most recent brown out was caused by typhoon Chedeng as I had suspected. Repairing a fallen line due to weather damage sometimes involved going into very remote areas not serviceable by even 4-wheel drive vehicles. Some of these power lines ran through mountains or heavy tropical forests, which may involve cutting away heavy thickets of bamboo or other such obstructions. It was now clearer to me why power was not restored more quickly in this Third World location.

Rains from tropical storm Chedeng pummeled mainland Luzon again through the night. Near the patio, some fresh bangus were being prepared for a bed of hot wood coals. Dark grill marks are left as Jimmy declares the fish cooked some 20 minutes later. After picking bones from the large charred fish, Fely handed gave me a small portion that I used to make into a sandwich. I like to spread a little Miracle Whip on a couple pieces of whole wheat bread along with warm barbequed fish. This would be a day to dry out and stay home.

The sun has long since risen, but torrents of rain have fallen and are being assisted downward by strong gale force winds. I look up at the patio roof and detect a small nail hole in the tin roof. Rain is leaking from the hole forcefully enough to create a pestering flow of fresh water. Comments are made about how this spot should have been repaired before the storm began 5 days ago. A few hours have passed and I am awakened by the sound of the front gate creaking open. The women have spent some time in the palengke and have brought back fruits and vegetables and some creatures resembling crawfish. Jimmy told me these strange sea creatures were known as alopihan dagat (small shrimp-like crustaceans). Looking too exotic for me, I politely made myself a chicken sandwich.

Work in the kitchen was being done at an almost frenetic pace as the contract workers were laying vitrified ceramic tiles. I continued to be amazed at the skill of these young trabahadors, watching them use crude tools to craft a finished product. The new floor was being raised about 3 inches higher due to the unevenness of the aging slab. As I looked at the reflection in the floor, my memory slipped back to the early 80s when this spot was hard packed dirt. Back then, a crude wooden table sat in the middle of the room and chickens ran around the house and under the table throughout the day as if playing a game of tag with our legs. At that time, the humble dwelling had no hinged doors or actual windows. The trabahadors had begun smoothing the hollow block walls with Portland cement as my daydreaming had morphed the past with the present once again. Their chattering, lively voices filled the afternoon with a bit of entertainment.

Tropical storm Chedeng is now passing north of Luzon leaving a light sprinkling in Olongapo this morning. Near the patio, Neng’s mother was busy hand washing a pile of clothing in a huge tin basin and all around her, makeshift clotheslines held dripping towels and other items. Several years ago, the Nalica family would take their wash to a community water hole known as the batis. Clothes would be swatted against huge flat rocks in a secluded popular wash area. Over the years, trash dumped in the area and had made the area unfit for washing clothes.

In the afternoon, a short trip had been made to Pag-asa, a dry goods public market. Fely purchased some sewing materials there and then we departed for a religious bookstore where we picked up a few more items. Going back home would require either walking up the steep Mercurio Hill or taking a short motorcycle taxi ride up the grade. Riding the tricycle taxi is an experience that serves the rider in two ways. First, you receive a speedy trip up a narrow hill hoping the driver is observing oncoming vehicles, and, second, you are the recipient of pulsating vibrations caused by the driver testing the upper limits of the Honda four-cycle engine. These vibrations are intense and are in the same frequency range surgeons use to break up kidney stones. When you get out of the tricycle taxi at the top of hill, you feel strange and ethereal, like having jumped off a circus ride.

We pass through the rusty front gate and are greeted by familiar faces gathered around the card tables. I tell Fely its time for me to read a new article in a volume of Rolando’s encyclopedias, which has become my portal and escape from shuffling cards and noisy mahjong tiles.

Like an ornery child, typhoon Chedeng had stomped her feet briefly this morning as its spiral arms spread bits of rain onto the mainland.  I’ve been invited to join some coffee drinkers in the new kitchen area, but settle on a cup of dragonwell green tea.

Fely entered the room bringing a big stack of snapshots to the table creating considerable interest. Eight to ten people snatched the glossy prints and began making comments about the people in the photographs. I’m thinking ten people are leaving hundreds of oily prints on these images, but it won’t matter because these prints will end up in someone’s photo album.

The Philippine experience has been a photographer’s paradise for me. At every turn of every corner, there is a photograph waiting to be taken! The material at one’s disposal is overwhelming, so I had to concentrate on family pictures, with a bit of the country added to round out the palate. I grew up with black and white photography. This medium is considered by many to be the real test of ones ability to compose a picture using a contrast of light and shadows, but this trip I have used color digital photography exclusively. Fortunately, mistakes are easily corrected by either erasing the picture or taking another other one without buying film. Many of the 800 or so images I captured were not great pictures due to poor lighting or focus problems. The rejects will be erased from their temporary places on my memory sticks or will be expunged after a download to my computer.

I returned my camera to a dry location in my room and returned to the patio making a joke about having a hen for dinner. Psychic forces were at work. Jerry had already dashed up the muddy path above the main house to chase down one of his birds. In a very short time, the hen had been brought into the kitchen ready to boil for the main course, tinola soup. This hearty meal features papaya, ginger, and small green leaves known as malungay although spinach is often substituted. Presently, Marife stood in a corner of the kitchen holding up a small tree branch and announced that she’d like her picture taken. Others gathered around her making the group look like a Christmas postcard. I snapped a few digital pictures and the children dispersed laughing. Then the women then began the tedious task of stripping the branch of hundreds of delicate green leaves that would become one of the extra ingredients of this vegetarian based soup.

Earlier in the day, Fely had commented on the increased activity of the lamok, or mosquito. Random bumps on my legs began to itch as the subject was brought up. Rolando appeared from the back of the house with a can of “By Gone”, a green aerosol can with a repellent designed to keep mosquitoes at bay. After our room had been sprayed, I found it impossible to enter due to a strong toxic odor saturating the air. Rolando could have swabbed the floors with 87-octane gasoline and achieved the same effect. We turned fans on and opened the doors for about an hour, but still the room had the smell of a gasoline station on a hot summer day. Fely told me she could control the noxious smell in the room. Having experience as a nurse in Southern California hospitals, she stripped the bedding and dusted the mattress with baby powder. The petroleum smell had been masked and then disappeared after a while. Oh, so that’s how obnoxious smells are controlled in a hospital…ok.

I spotted Jerry in the kitchen again. He looked a little haggard and in need of a shave, but was preparing some fresh calamari like a chef on a mission. He had stated the recipe he was using was secret; however, after serving the dish he told me how it was prepared. While munching on the crispy brown strips, he explained that calamari must be parboiled shortly before a dip in batter. Deep-frying would be fairly quick before its delivery to the table where it is served with banana catsup or some other condiment. Fresh seaweed salad was a delicacy I had never tried, nor had ever dreamt of trying. Onions and tomatoes were diced and tossed into glistening strands of snarled seaweed and piled high in a serving bowl. This salad was delicious tasting and surprised me.

Today we would pack our bags and prepare for the short 12-hour trip back home. It was dinnertime when we arrived at Ninoy Aquino International Airport on the outskirts of Manila. I have visited Manila many times before, but had not really taken notice of what the city looked like until now. For a big city, parts of inner city Manila appeared to be very rundown and blighted. The busy city thoroughfare we traveled on gave us a glimpse of old Spanish architecture, hovels of humanity hidden in dreary shadows along the roadside, and heaps of garbage piled in the middle of the street in some areas! All of this dismal landscape vanished when we turned on to Roxas Boulevard. Here, modern hotels and businesses are aligned along a manicured center divider complete with healthy green shrubbery. Flanking the side of this showcase lie the reflective blue waters of Manila Bay, where Dewey spanked the Spanish in one of the shortest wars in U.S. history. Ninoy Aquino International Airport is a very modern airport with business-like, tight security. To have dinner in one of the non-sterile areas, I had to leave my ID Card with a receptionist and my wife’s family had to wear badges identifying them as visitors! The dinner area was located in a public area well away from the security screening areas, so I was impressed with the airport’s attempt to control people near the screening areas of the airport.

We left my wife's homeland feeling time had run too short. The Philippines has a nurturing culture and leaving the country felt like leaving home almost. The evening air was strangely quiet pleasant as we walked into the shadows of the departure side of the terminal. We’d already said our goodbyes. A short distance away, little Mitch clutched her mother’s long cotton dress, still grinning from the day’s activities. She raised her skinny arm and waved to Fely one last time blowing a kiss to her, and then held her arms out looking for that gentle squeeze. Goodbye Mitch, goodbye Philippines. We’ll see you again soon.

Note 1:

The Santa Cruzan Festival features a procession of Reynas. Reynas are beautiful young women representing biblical characters. The highlight of the festival is the celebration of Elena, A Reina who represents St. Helena, mother of Roman Emperor Constantine the Great. St. Helena hoped to find the wooden cross used in Jesus crucifixion.

Note 2:

The pods of the Kopang tree - common in the forests of Luzon - can be roasted and made into a brew that tastes like coffee. Kopang trees are very large and grow from 70 to 140 feet. The mature pods drop during the summer months, and after drying, Filipinos pound the pods and apply the paste to skin wounds as a type of medicine. Jimmy also told me the Kopang tree also provide the raw material for toothpicks and a wooden shoe known as a bakya.

Travel occurred May 18- June 1, 2003 in parts of Zambales, Pampanga, Manila, and La Union in the Republic of the Philippines, 

(Editor's note: Since this piece was written in 2003, extensive remodeling has been done on the Nalica house in Olongapo). -- Mike Koffler, April 2011)

© 2003. Michael W. Koffler. All Rights Reserved.

Update:

My wife and I have both retired from working as of April 5, 2011.  Our plan is to live in the Philippines part of the year in a two story house we've had remodeled thanks to Rolando Nalica and his brothers.

 

Barbeque is tasty anytime