Kalabaws and Soldiers

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Kalabaw River Expedition

Last week was a busy one for the students -- as I'm sure it was for the staff. Near the beginning of the week, I had already set my heart on going to the beach and I'd be darned if anything was gonna stop me from going. Others had ditched on similar plans the weekend before, and this time I was planning to go by myself. I worked hard to get everything done before the weekend, and already saw the hope of freedom on Friday afternoon.

That first chance I had on Friday afternoon, I went for a little swim in the river nearby. We call it Kalabaw River, because dirty kalabaws are taken there to drink from it, and they often swim in it. After ignoring a kalabaw in the river long enough to cool off and take a leisurely swim, I decided to go back to the base to get my camera. I got my camera and gave him some photo-lovin' from as close as I could. Like every other animal without a carnivorous tendency, it shied away from the tall white figure that inched closer. Even if he did like white meat, I couldn't blame him; chicken fingers are delicious, but the meat-to-effort ratio makes it more of an activity than a meal. The camera in my hand was just starting to have fun though. I hadn't been spending enough time with it in the past few weeks, and I decided me and him would spend some quality time together, hiking up the river.

The water level lowered as I neared the overhanging branches which marked the entrance to the unfrequented part of the river. I saw another kalabaw to my right, this time much closer, and ran through my head the possibility of him chasing me. I don't think it was so much a fear as it was a fantasy of some sort. I have never been chased by an animal before, much less ones with horns. Aware that kalabaws are merely entertaining to look at, and offer very little in terms of interaction, I entered the gate of the river, a curtain of leaves draped over a looming branch. I could see two bends from where I stood, and it may have gone on forever for all I knew. The doming foliage that sheltered me from the sun goaded me forward, saying "go on, Quincy, see where the river takes you. I mentally analyzed my time availability and set out to the challenge.

I was walking in flip-flops until I reached mud. Suck, suck, suck is all they did, so I removed them and placed them on some rocks near a bend. From here on in, I would go barefoot. Even though my feet sank into the muddy bed, I found this to be better than the Trip-Flops. Recharged, I approached a rock area with no precaution. My feet felt every edge of every rock I stepped on, but I trudged ahead at a slower pace. I approached a very thick tree that jutted out at a 20 degree angle over the river, with an additional branch shooting off. This could be nothing but an invitation. I spotted a nearby rock, which I tested for integrity, and wasted little time crawling into the tree's long sturdy arms. Crawling down was a no-brainer, but as I stepped on that same rock, it gave way to my foot, which then felt the hostility of a large jagged rock beneath. What resulted was my 4th foot sore. It may have concerned me to be in the river with open sores, but I had already opted for fun over health when I first entered the water with a still-bleeding bolo cut on my right middle finger.

So I continued, and the rocks got bigger and sharper. They were spaced out, so I tested every step before I took it, eventually reaching another curtain-like branch overhang. I dodged its thorns carefully and continued. In this area, I met some young guys, perhaps age 18-20, working in a rice field. I made a few comments in Tagalog, like "good afternoon" and "what are you guys doing," which they seemed to throw right back at me. "Are you fishing" they asked? Realizing that no answer I could give would possibly be a settling explanation for a white guy in wet clothing trudging through a murky river alone, I shot back honestly "no, I'm just exploring the river." Little more conversation occurred after that, if any. They went back to loading something on their wooden cart and I took my queue to push ahead. At this point, my shelter of foliage abandoned me and suddenly the stealthy exploration of this waterway seemed less exciting. Sensing that this river was but a small introduction to many much larger expeditions, I headed back the way I came in contentment. I sat for a few minutes in 2 inches of water that flowed over the concrete pad beneath the bridge, taking in all that compiles life here, and headed back for supper.

What The Heck Is 'Rotection'?

I was beach-bound last Saturday, whether anybody liked it or not. Not only did I need time away from the busy atmosphere of the base and to see more of the gorgeous islands, but I needed to be shirtless under the warm embrace of sunshine. I needed to be unrestricted. It cost me 36 pesos (~0.80) for the 45 minute travel to Pristine Beach, and 10 pesos (~0.23) for admission.

I found myself a little rest spot under the shelter of one of many bamboo huts, many meters from the beach. It struck me as a rather long distance to be from the beach, especially since I would have to keep an eye on my own bag. I wasted little time getting into the water, quickly amazed by the light sandy composure of ocean footing. This was the closest I had been to paradise, and not a single white person was in sight. If I was ever to consider myself a tourist, this would be my destination: places that reflect a countries unique beauty without resembling the place you came from; enjoying something for what it is, not what tourists pay for it to be. Being alone, swimming got boring after a while, and I sat with my back to the son, reading a book and bathing in the radiation of the sun. And it was good.

I went for another swim. Figuring it would be much easier to keep an eye one my stuff if it was on the light sand, I left my bag closer to the water. Every so often, I'd check back to verify the presence of my bag in it's location, and I would find it. Then suddenly, I couldn't see it. Had it been stolen? I subdued my panic and walked closer to the shore, keeping my eyes on the sandy horizon. When I was only knee deep, I spotted it, half-submerged in water. I took a split-second trip back to grade 8, when we learned about tides. The tide had snuck up on my bag, and my flip-flops beside it were already bobbing up and down, as if to decide on whether to stay or float away. I emptied the bag onto a sun-exposed area of a bamboo bench and set it out to dry. Nothing was damaged. My money had been in the waterproof pocket of my surfer shorts all along, and I felt pretty clever.

I sat down beside my drying items, when one of about 12 guys at the opposite end of the shelter asked me if I had a lighter. I politely apologized that I didn't. Too cut this part short, 15 minutes later I was sitting with 12 Philippine soldiers, who offered me food (litson) and drink (brandy) to celebrate one guy's training graduation. They asked me a lot of questions, especially about what I was doing here and why I left Canada. They were all very friendly, and a handful of them drunk. Somewhere in conversation, one of them said "bro, you have protection without p." A bit confused, I asked him to explain, and was told it meant that they would give me free protection if I ran into problems; "protection without peso." Of course, I will probably never see them again, but it was a kind gesture. After about 45 minutes of being their center of attention, I went back to the water.

I don't even know how it all started, but my last 45 minutes in the water was spent playing with about 10 Filipino kids between the ages of 3 and 10. They wanted to know my name, told me all their names, asked me all the classic Filipino kid questions. My personal favorite, which I found more cute than presumptuous, was "do you have a big house?" I explained to them, that I lived in an apartment in Canada and that it was not big. Though I have come to realize that I (as well as anybody who reads this blog) was living richly in a large place, it wasn't a concept that the little kids would understand, much less I one I wanted to explain to them. Their question was whether or not I was a rich man who came here to retire and to amplify my bank account, or a tourist, and to that I had to say "no." They probably thought I came here to find a young wife too. I could write pages on this, but I divulge. Me and the kids developed a game in which between a bunch of them would hold onto my neck, back, arms or legs sometimes using each other as a way to hold on, and after I would count to 3 (in Tagalog of course) and stand up, the last one to fall into the water would win. Christian-Lloyd was probably the overall champion in the multitude of rounds we had, and the smallest of the bunch. This was the best moment of my week.

I returned to the shelter where my things were still drying and a few of the soldiers were still there. One of the guys told me he wanted me to come along with them. At first, I thought they meant for a ride, and I declined 4 times, to which he seemed to take offense. It worried me that he was so insistent, but when at last I realized that he just wanted to introduce me to more people at the opposite end of the beach, I took the opportunity to do so. Unexpected to me, there was about 50 more of them. I even met two sergeants who were equally as friendly as the soldiers. Again, there were many questions asked and they were curious about my existence here. Like Filipinos often do, they asked me if I was looking for a girlfriend here and if I liked Filipinas. Though I am not wholly opposed to the idea of a relationship right now, I understood what they were getting at with this question, so I steered clear. I explained to them that I thought Filipinas were beautiful, but that I didn't want to settle down or go back to Canada any time soon, just keep lingering on this side of the world alone. I also talked to a girl there for about 10 minutes, who was a news reporter at a local radio station.

When the clock struck 5:30, I headed out of the beach to catch a ride to the tricycle terminal. On my way, two young soldiers greeted me and offered to share a tricycle with me. When we got dropped off, they told me I should just wait for a jeepney at the corner. Because I wanted to go home by tricycle, I waited till they left and just walked to the terminal. Because my ride from the terminal to the YWAM base required a transfer, a hotel security guy who rode home from work with me, stayed to help me flag down a tricycle in the dark that would bring me home. I asked for none of the help they gave, but I definitely appreciated their gestures.

I've always been told "you'll get a lot of attention in the Philippines. Good people will welcome and help you; bad people will try to take advantage." I haven't experienced any of the bad attention yet. The beach made me feel so confident about being here. Being a white person in airports and on the streets attracts a lot of staring from people here, but that can more easily make one feel awkward than welcome, especially in Western culture. But when I truly come into contact with people, they seem excited and eager to meet, just like me. I need to keep this in mind once I set forth in my own travels. Initiation to interact with people I don't know is the only thing that will deliver me from lonliness.

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