Setting Up House

Where thou art, that is home.

– Emily Dickinson

We move in to the Sanat's house in Margarita Village in Tagum City. About four kilometers from downtown, the village has a suburban feel with houses a little further apart and a little larger than many of those in the surrounding neighborhoods though still relatively modest by American standards. Some homes have lawns and sidewalks and brick style facades. Just down the road are some recently constructed larger, more upscale homes. The rocky road in front of the house has a new cement lane with cement forms set on the the other side.

“When will the road be completed?” I ask Mare Vising.

“The government is constructing it,” she says. “So probably in about a year.”

Once a banana plantation, there are still many banana and coconut trees clearly visible from our roof balcony with cows milling in the fields. We live near the crossroads between Capitol Road and the National Highway and about a 15 minute tricycle ride from the public market and malls. 

Elsa with daughters Hairy Lynn and Risa

Tagum is the provincial capital of Davao Del Nortre and the provincial government buildings lie just a couple of blocks away including the legislative building, a two story, 1950s modern style building with curved colonnades and an extended portico and wide recessed columns. Behind the building, rows of palm trees fill a large grounds area. Across the road from them, a new sports complex sprawls, housing a modern track, swimming pool and basketball court (no gym though). Elsa and I arise at 5 a.m. each morning to take a walk around the track before the sun rises above the mountains and waves of heat beat down on us.

The household is bare and we need to make a home. First things first. We need a bed. A wooden bed frame lies in a corner of the smaller bedroom on the second floor, but we can't get it out of the room and into our bedroom. It's too heavy and bulky and Elsa and I can't shimmy it through the doorway by ourselves. In the street outside the front gate, we see four teenagers throwing a basketball through the hoop on a makeshift, plywood backboard attached to a telephone pole. Elsa asks them for their help. They agree and follow us up to the second floor. Two take one side and two the other and they try to jam the bed through the doorway. No dice. They decide to disassemble it; it's held together with nails (like most wooden furniture here in the Philippines), instead of screws. So one of the boys grabs a hammer and bangs on the frame until the nails give and the bed falls into pieces. The boys carry the pieces into the larger bedroom and hammer it back together. We pay them 100 pesos each (about $2.25 each) and thank them. Now we need a mattress. So the next day, we go shopping. Elsa and I walk down the road in front of our house to a side street to catch a tricycle; it will be my first of many tricycle rides. We pass a small open air pool hall.

“Hey Joe,” comes the call from a couple of young men, playing pool. Elsa says ignore them and walk on. I think she is telling me that this is a sign of disrespect – many Americans take it as such and so did I at first – but later Elsa assures me that the comments weren't intended as such. Those who use the appellation simply don't know how else to call to us or attract our attention. The term isn't used because Filipinos view us negatively – in fact, most Filipinos have a favorable impression of Americans. The latest polls show 92% view Americans favorably; Filipinos hold us in higher esteem than do the citizens of any other country (even Americans view other Americans less favorably than Filipinos).

First house in Margarita Village, Tagum City.

A tricycle passes and Elsa flags it down. She and I sit in the front seat of the green monster (every municipality has it's own color of tricycle – Tagum City's are green). We occupy two narrow padded seats next to the motorcycle driver and I feel squished. Four people sit in the back on two facing benches. The tricycle pulls away from the side of the road and we head down Pioneer Highway toward NCCC and Gaisano Mall, the largest local shopping centers in Tagum. The tricycle putts along at less than 10 mile per hour and stops frequently. We arrive at the malls in about 15 minutes.

At NCCC mall, we take the escalator to the third floor and head to an appliance store. We buy a new fridge, a microwave, a coffee maker, a toaster, a television with accompanying DVD player and karaoke machine and speakers. Then we go to Gaisano Mall and buy dishes and a foam mattress for the bed. I'm a little concerned about exhausting my savings, but we are starting all over again. NCCC delivers the appliances and goods from Gaisano while we head on down to the supermarket in the basement.

On the way, I need to relieve myself and find a comfort room (toilet) on the first floor. Unfortunately, there is no toilet paper in the stalls and no soap to wash my hands. I do with what I have and then we head down to the supermarket. We fill our shopping cart and I look for some ground coffee. Most of the coffee is instant, but I do find some coffee beans next to a coffee grinder. We're not allowed to grind the coffee ourselves though. Instead, a store clerk must grind it for us. But before he can make the grind, we must stand in the grocery line and pay for the coffee. We come back and show our receipt. The clerk nods and grinds the coffee. He grinds, and he grinds and he grinds until the coffee beans become a fine dust.

Next I want to buy some razor blade cartridges. I see some Gillette cartridges behind a glass case in front of the aisles displayed like they were museum artifacts. I point to the clerk, but she tells me, once again, I must first stand in the grocery line and pay and bring back the receipt before receiving the cartridges.

Finally, we complete our grocery shopping and wheel our cart over to the grocery line. An American stands in front of us. Another man with a carton of ice cream pushes ahead of him and the American complains bitterly that the man has cut in line. The man points out that's the custom in the Philippines -- those with ice cream go first so that it doesn't melt. The American refuses to accept his explanation and continues to complain. He grumbles on about the poor service in the Philippines. He's an older man who looks to be in his 70s. He tells us that he has left his 20 year-old wife at home since he can do the shopping quicker.

We finally get to the head of the line. The clerk rings us out and another clerk boxes the groceries and seals the box with plastic twine. Outside, twenty or so tricycles wait in line. Elsa haggles with the drivers and one agrees to drive us home at a premium cost for transporting our groceries – 30 pesos rather than the standard 20. The driver grabs our groceries and tosses them on the floor of his tricycle and I rest my feet on them, holding my knees to my chest.

Once we get home, I turn on the fan and plug in the refrigerator and microwave and the coffee pot. Udong helps me set up the TV and speakers. Almost immediately there is a brown out. There is a brown out every day for an hour or two, sometime longer, for the next two weeks.

After a couple of hours, the electricity comes back on. I brew my first pot of coffee. It tastes stale and flavorless. Definitely ground too fine and the coffee is old. Brewed coffee is still a luxury here. Elsa's daughter Risa visits and I offer her a cup. She declines, saying she has never tasted brewed coffee and doesn't want to start now. Most people drink five in one or seven in one – instant coffee mixed with nondairy creamer (mostly made of highly saturated palm oil) and some herbs.

I soon find out the risks of buying cheap goods in the Philippines and what it is like to live without American conveniences. The washing machine was advertised with a dryer, but it turns out the dryer is just a small spin chamber that really is not functional and there is no spin cycle on the washer, so we still have to wring out clothes by hand and hang them outside on a line to dry. Elsa's daughter Hairy Lynn does the washing, but I try wringing the clothes a couple of times and it's hard physical work. The coffee pot stops working after one week as does an electric water boiler bought at Gaisano. Other things break just as quickly. We lose the umbrella I brought with me and Elsa buys another for 50 pesos, but it breaks in a week. We go through a dozen umbrellas over the next few months. Few last more than a couple of weeks.

We set up our television, but we have no cable. In the U.S., I could just call or make an appointment on the internet, but it doesn't work like that in the Philippines. If you want to see a doctor, you visit his or her office or you visit the hospital; you don't call. And if you want cable service, you go to the cable company's office; you don't call. Same for paying your bills. It's not done online or by phone. You don't call or ask for service for anything. You must go to the office.*

So we visit a local cable company office. The woman at the front desk says that they don't have service in our area and she sends us to another company's office. We go there and again they tell us they don't have service in our area. We're too far out from city they tell us even though we're less than a 15 minute tricycle ride away. So finally, we ask our neighbor about his cable service. We talk to the company that he recommends and they promise to install the following Monday. Three weeks later, there is still no installation. Marie Vising tells us about her service, a company that installs a satellite dish. The service is more expensive, but in frustration, we go ahead and make an appointment. Finally we have service, but no HBO or major English language channels.

We sign up for internet service through Smart Communications. They make Elsa sign a a two year contract with no opt out for bad service, promising a speed “up to” 3 mbps – still slow compared to the 20 mbps speed typically available in the U.S., but adequate for our needs (if the promise were true). In reality, the speed rarely reaches one tenth of that; the internet service is extremely slow and video viewing is next to impossible. Furthermore, the contract has a “fair use” clause in which Smart ratchets the speed down even further when it deems you have used the internet too much.

We have no air conditioning; usually a fan is sufficient, but I sometimes have difficulty sleeping in the hot and stuffy upstairs bedrooms and Elsa doesn't want a fan on her. She believes they cause illness. And, of course there are the brown outs. There is a shower in the downstairs comfort room (bathroom), something few Filipino households enjoy; however, the water is unheated and ice cold. Still, there is a flush toilet, toilet paper, and soap to wash my hands – conveniences that I don't find in many public facilities in the city. And then there are the insects and rats. I'm startled one day to see lizards crawling around our walls.

“It's okay,” Elsa tells me. “They eat the mosquitoes.” They don't seem to be doing their job since I'm covered in mosquito bites. Cockroaches the size of my thumb scurry about. And there are ants all over the kitchen. We find a dead rat under our bed.

This first month in the Philippines is proving challenging for me. I am finding that I took my comfortable American lifestyle too much for granted and need to make more of an adjustment than I expected. Maybe I'm more like that 70 year-old American in the grocery store than I would care to admit.

*Actually, online payment is available, but it is still relatively new and few Filipinos use these services as yet. Only about one quarter of Filipinos have an account at a formal financial institution and only about 3% have a credit card. 

Creating Space

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home 

wherever I find myself.”

– Maya Angelou

After meeting Elsa's parents and celebrating at the San Roque fiesta, we drive on to Montevista where Elsa's daughters and grand-kids are waiting to meet me. It's less than a half hour drive from Mawab down the National Highway. Ten minutes out, we pass Nabunturan, the provincial capital where the mountains seem to disappear – ironic, since the name Nabunturan means “surrounded by mountains.” (In truth, they're just receded into the background.) Elsa worked in Nabunturan for nine years, serving as women's organizer for the provincial government, educating women on domestic violence, gender equality, and health care issues. We drive on and pass Golden Valley Cemetery, where Elsa's first husband is buried. A sign announces that Golden Valley is “a garden for the living and the dead.” A few minutes later, we see another billboard with the smiling face of Ramil Gentugaya welcoming us to Montevista. We pass it and immediately turn right down a rocky, dirt road.

Elsa's house lies about 100 feet off the main highway. As we drive down the road, two children come running toward us – Chan Chan, the four-year-old daughter of Bernadine (Elsa's daughter working in Dubai), and Fem Fem, the seven-year-old daughter of Risa. They're both yelling and screaming with delight. Chan Chan beams at us with the most beautiful smile I've ever seen and melts my heart instantly. We stop in front of the house and get out of the car. The two of them run up to us and grab hold of Elsa and Risa. I've never seen such pure joy in children's faces. 

Rich and Elsa with daughters and grandchildren in Montevista

Croton shrubs hide the three foot high cyclone fence that surrounds the house – a cement hollow block home with no finishing and no paint. The faded metal roof looks in need of some repair. Elsa takes me through a front gate built of cyclone fencing and coconut wood. The gate post is a slab from a tree stump tied to strips of bamboo with a piece of wood nailed to the contraption to hold the gate closed. To the left there's a larger tree stump sitting on a small mound of sand and gravel, the remains of a coconut tree damaged by Typhoon Pablo. Next to the mound sits a bamboo bench with a hammock tied between two trees alongside it. There are tropical trees and flowers and shrubs everywhere, many of them medicinal, and almost all planted by Elsa – durian, papaya, avocado, lanzones, rambutan, cacao, guyabano, gumamela (hibiscus), many bamboos, and bunga (betelnut palm tree). Elsa is an amazing gardener. In the front yard, clothes hang on three wire lines tied to trees and bamboo poles – no one in the neighborhood has a dryer, few even have a washer and most people hand wash and wring their clothes, a laborious job for anyone who has ever tried it.

We walk up to the front porch, a cement veranda with an attractively designed cement and tile balustrade entrance supported by two cement balusters at each side. We walk through a handsome, although faded and damaged, nara wood door into a house filled with women and children. Elsa introduces us – there's Hairy Lynn, the unmarried youngest daughter, so named because she was born with thick, coarse hair; Krisna, the middle child, and mother of one-year-old Chrivyan, and of course Risa. All three daughters are about the same size as their mother except Risa who has put on much weight in the last year. Hairy Lynn and Krisna get up to greet me. The grandchildren remain seated on a faded, flower print sofa with the stuffing come out of it, all six of them – four-year-old Chan Chan, seven-year-old Fem Fem, nine-year-old Cedric, eleven-year-old Crem Crem, and the one-year-olds Chrivyan and Zion.

One other daughter, Bernadine, mother of Chan Chan, is working overseas in Dubai and the oldest, Jaret, mother of Crem Crem and Cedric, is living two hours away in Pantukan with her boyfriend and six-month-year-old daughter Serenity. The boyfriend does not want Jaret to spend time with the family. Unfortunately daughters who separate from their husband often find that a new boyfriend* will not accept their children. Welfare doesn't exist here, so single mothers become financially dependent on their domestic partners and find it difficult to question their demands. Too often this dynamic, as well as the need to work overseas to support the family, means separation from their children. Fortunately, these children have many aunts as well as their grandmother to look after them.

There is one more daughter – Pag-Ibig, which means “love.” She is hiding in her mother's room. We push aside the drape and go inside. Ibig is lying on the bed. She is the smallest in the family, about 4'8” and weighing only about 80 pounds, but also considered by the others as the strongest. Elsa introduces us, but Ibig says nothing and does not get up to greet me. Elsa says she is shy. That may be. She also speaks much less English than Elsa's other daughters and probably is uncomfortable attempting to communicate with me. But most importantly, she is not happy about her mother remarrying. None of the children wanted Elsa to remarry after her former husband's death, but it has now been four years, and the others have accepted Elsa's need to move on with her life. But Ibig is having a harder time accepting this. Also she is largely responsible for managing the household and Ibig fears her mother will leave her solely responsible for the household tasks and expenses.

The entire family depends largely on the 3,000 peso a month pension Elsa received upon her husband's death (a pension she will lose if she remarries) and an 8,000 pesos a month stipend sent by an American priest from New York who Elsa worked closely with in Mawab before he returned to America. The grand total from these two sources comes to about $250 a month. Risa lives with her boyfriend in Andalade near Mawab and Krisna lives on a farm with Marvin, but both often stay at their mother's house while providing little to no financial support. Bernadine sends some money home to support her daughter, but that stops soon after I arrive.

We sit in the sala and talk, and I survey the room. The floor is tiled, but the hollow block walls remain unfinished. There's a narrow hallway, only about a yard long leading to the three small bedrooms. A linoleum-floored kitchen lies behind us. Elsa gets up to show me the house. The kitchen has small clerestory style windows – or rather wooden frames – the windows were never purchased. The ceiling throughout the house is made of two foot by three foot plywood panels. Some need repairing. The ceiling in the kitchen was totally destroyed by Typhoon Pablo and is damp and falling apart. Elsa's bedroom in the back of the sala has no door, only a cotton drape separating her room from the others. Elsa sleeps in her bedroom and Fem Fem often joins her. The others sleep in the two small adjoining rooms, many sleeping on the floor. The kitchen and bedrooms have old linoleum floors that are peeling away. There's a wet kitchen off to the side of the main kitchen, a lean-to with a cement floor and a hollow block wall capped by slanting sheets of galvanized steel.

The comfort room (bathroom), a three by five foot room with ten foot tall walls that need painting, stands in one corner of the wet kitchen. The toilet is flushed with water from a big garbage can and smaller pail,sitting next to it. The shower consists of a dipper and a pail of water. It's dark inside, the light bulb needs changing and I'm afraid I will pee on the floor.

Back in the sala, I hear some grunts and squeals across the road. The smell of ammonia and rotten eggs wafts through the windows. There's a pig farm just 30 feet away.

“Doesn't the smell ever bother you?” I ask.

“Oh, we just close the windows,” says Elsa.

After the tour and the introductions, she asks me if I would like to live here or in Tagum City. We had discussed this previously and she had told me it is all right for a parent to live separately from her children if she remarries. At this time, there's no question in my mind.

“Let's rent in Tagum,” I say. Elsa sighs and looks down at her feet.

* Divorce is not recognized in the Philippines, and so no one can remarry unless widowed. 

The Feast of San Roque

“I saw the fiesta as our highest community expression… that was the impression it made on me so I wanted to preserve it.”

– Alejandro "Anding" Roces, National Artist of the Philippines for Literature (when asked to talk about his motivation for writing The Fiesta)

We're traveling along the National Highway toward Mawab in Compostela Valley – the province adjoining Davao Del Norte and the home for many of Elsa's relatives. Manny drives and I sit in the passenger seat. We talk about his radio program and the Army's pacification program. Manny's son Em Em, Elsa, Risa and her son Zion sit in the back.

Manny points to a sign, Army 6^th Infantry Division.

“The colonel is my friend,” he says.

We leave Tagum, and the palm trees disappear. The road begins to twist and turn, snaking along up into the hills. Coconut trees and banana trees fill the lush valley below then rise in waves toward a long mountain range with soft rolling peaks; it reminds me of the Pacific Range near the central coast of California.

“What are they called,” I ask as I point toward the mountains. She gives me a blank stare. “The mountains,” I say. What's the name of these mountains? 

The feast of San Roque

“No name,” she says. “We just call them the mountains.”

We're now surrounded by dense forest. Rain forest once covered most of Mindanao, but very little remains – most of it destroyed by intensive logging. The trees provided shelter from the typhoons, and up until the last year, many believed that the Compostela Valley was a typhoon free area. Logging removed this sanctuary and just eight months before I arrived, a super typhoon (Pablo) struck the valley causing major flooding and killing almost 2,000 people. The winds whipped through the valley, snapping coconut trees like they were matchsticks, and pealing away metal roofs like they were lids on sardine cans. The many rivers crisscrossing the area flooded, sweeping away rice fields, and homes, and many people. Elsa's home, fortunately, sustained only minor damage to her roof. But her parents and many of her neighbors lost their homes as well as their livelihood.

In the backseat, Risa tells everyone about a coconut farm for sale near Mawab. Someone wants to sell the farm or more precisely loan the rights to the farm for five years at a cost of 150,000 pesos or about $3,500.

“You can raise a new crop every three months and sell it for 30,000 to 40,000 pesos,” says Risa. “It pays for itself in a little over a year.” I'm not sure whether this is just information or she is suggesting I invest. In any case, I'm not ready to make any business investment (although I will be approached to do so several times in the next few weeks). The family discusses the merit of the proposition. Elsa says you can plant mango trees or banana trees and other crops between the coconut trees and so increase your profits. Manny says he once had a coconut farm, but he sold it to send his wife to nursing school.

Along the road, the town yields to a few nipa huts and hollow block, metal roof homes and storefronts. A little further, the road descends into a plain where the coconut and banana trees give way to rice fields. A billboard with a large picture of a smiling man welcomes us to Mawab.

“Who's the man in the picture?” I ask Elsa.

“Board Member Ramil Gentugaya,” she says. A board member is a provincial legislator. There are many of these signs with his smiling face announcing the approach to towns throughout Compostela Valley. Manny turns left off the highway and crosses a bridge over the Hijo River into town. The streets are packed and traffic moves slowly. It is the feast of San Roque, the patron saint of the falsely accused and of Mawab. Elsa explains that every purok (neighborhood), barangay (ward), municipality and city has its own fiesta. It is a national obsession dating back to before Catholicism arrived on the islands.

As we drive down the main street, we see banderitas (flaglets) waving and people milling around canopied kiosks. We make our way through the crowd and pass the bus terminal and public market before we reach Elsa's parent's home, about a half mile from the National Highway. A small turquoise colored cart stands next to a resting shed enclosing a wooden table with benches on both sides. Next to the shed stands a Sari Sari store* owned by Pin Pin, Elsa's younger sister. A half dozen people sit at the table in the resting shed. I assume they are Elsa's relatives and go up to greet them. I say hello and some of them nod, but say nothing. I take a picture of the group. Afterwards, I take Elsa aside and whisper, “Who are these people?”

“I don't know,” she answers.

“They're not relatives?”

“No. Just fiesta celebrants resting.” I slap my forehead.

Behind the shed lies a cement floor courtyard filled with plastic chairs and a sofa. A dozen or so relatives sit and stand there drinking beer and soft drinks. There's a small bedroom off to one side where Elsa's parents sleep. Behind their room is the sala, the living room where food dishes are laid out for the celebration – lechon (roast pig), manok (chicken), rice, camote (sweet potato), string beans, and fruit salad. The walls are empty except for a small Sacred Heart of Jesus poster and a large tarpaulin poster congratulating Pin Pin's granddaughter Ayesha on the occasion of her fourth birthday.

“Eat. Eat,” says Pin Pin as she ushers me toward the table. A pleasant woman with a kind face, warm smile and inviting manner, she is the earth mother of the family.

Another dozen or so relatives mill around inside the room. Pin Pin and her husband Jaime (who actually own the house), their two daughters Joy Joy and Balot, twin sons GR and RG and granddaughter Ayesha share the two bedrooms just beyond the sala. The house is packed with relatives, cousins and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters, 40 or more of them. Elsa tells me most family events are larger than this.

She introduces me to her 91-years-old Tatay (father) and 82-year-old Nanay (mother). He is thin and wiry with sunken cheeks, but a firm body and appears much younger than his age. He no longer has any teeth and walks slowly, but he still walks without any support. She is heavy-set, white-haired with bounteous lips for which she is famous in the family. She has a strong voice and commanding presence; you can tell she is the matriarch of the family. Tatay and nanay continued to farm on leased land until quite recently when Typhoon Pablo damaged their home; a fire shortly after totally destroyed the house. Now they live with Pin Pin, their youngest daughter. Both know little English, but attempt to communicate to me in a mix of Bisaya and English (mostly Bisaya). Tatay urges me to take good care of Elsa's children and grandchildren. Nanay asks me to marry Elsa in the church. And soon.

Elsa's older brother Umberto and his wife Flor arrive in their Toyota pickup. Bert is about the same size as his brothers, but has graying hair, wears thick glasses and has an altogether more serious demeanor. Flor looks younger, and is thin – about the same size as Elsa. She is friendly and puts out her hand to introduce herself. Bert and Flo speak English reasonably well as do all of Elsa's brothers and most of her daughters. He sits down to talk with me and expresses concern about us getting married; we haven't known one another long enough and face disappointment, he tells me.

“The Philippines is 50 years behind the US,” he says. “You will want to return to a more modern country.” He is the practical one – and also the wealthiest (probably because of his practicality and frugality – he saved for years to purchase his pickup in cash and urges Elsa and me to begin a savings program). An agricultural scientist, Bert worked 30 years for the Philippines Rice Research Institute (PhilRice), but now raises and sells rice seed on the 12 hectares (30 acres) of land he owns. Flo, a commerce graduate, helps run the business.

I also meet Ray, the second to the youngest brother. He is the intellectual in the family. He has a broad smile, and a thick, muscular frame like all of his brothers. A former seminarian, he now works as an assistant city planner for the regional government and heads the nutrition program in Compostela Valley. He is close to completing his Ph.D. in English studies and teaches English in the evening at St. Mary's College in Tagum City. When he finds out I have an M.A. in writing, he asks me if I would like to join the faculty and offers to introduce me to the program director.

We fill our plates and settle into our chairs. Manny sits next to me. I mention everyone seems to be happy and satisfied.

“We Filipinos are always happy,” he tells me. “Look at my father. He lives long; he has no stress. We are among ten most satisfied people in world despite being poor because do not want much and we have strong families.” Nanay comes over and says something to him in Bisaya. He nods and turns back to me. “Mother once asked what father will do if she dies and leaves him all alone I told her don't worry mother.” He pauses and then delivers the punchline. “My sisters will take care of him.” And he laughs.

Manny leaves to talk to Ray. A heavy set woman with a broad smile sits down next to me (most of the women relatives over 40 are heavy with Elsa and Flo the sole exceptions). The woman is Elsa's niece Indira, a high school counselor with six kids of her own. She wants to practice her English with me and strikes up a conversation. Others shy away because they don't feel they can speak English well enough to converse with me, but Indira is more outgoing, irrepressible and confident. She speaks English well and has no problem with three syllable words. She asks me about my family. I tell her I have none. She asks me about my relationship with Elsa, how long we have known one another, how we met, what we like to do together, and then she asks what we call one another.

“I call her 'sweetheart' and she calls me 'honey.'”

“Ewww,” says Indira screwing up her face. Apparently Filipinos don't use terms of endearment. They are a more physically expressive people and show their affection – men with men, women with women, men with women, boys with girls, children with adults, and older siblings with younger children – by holding hands and touching and kissing one another.

After the meal, I take a few pictures. Only a few relatives are left and I take a family portrait. Then we say our goodbyes. We're on our way to Montevista.

* A Sari Sari store is a small home-based grocery store where many Filipinos supplement their income by selling small, sample size items such as detergent, instant coffee, crackers, corn chips, and other foods and sundries as well as cigarettes, soft drinks, beer and rum.

Hot Chilis and Durian

"No yesterdays on the road.”

– William Least Heat-Moon

The next day we drive to Tagum City. Davao is spread out and it takes us an hour to get out of the city. “The largest city in the world,” says Manny. “More spread out than any city.” Actually, Davao barely hits the top 20 – New York has three times the land area – but at almost 2,500 square miles, Davao does have the largest land area in the Philippines; it's the third most populous metropolitan area, but only a fifth the population of the Manila megalopolis.

Traffic is almost as bad as the previous night. We pass the malls and, for several miles, the road winds along one continuous line of small store fronts open to the street – most with galvanized metal roofs and galvanized roll-up garage style doors. People walk by with roosters under their arms and carrying 50 kilo sacks of rice on their heads. From the road, we have a clear view of the Davao Gulf with Samal Island and a string of mountains in the distance.

Mare Vising, Rich, Elsa, and Pare Odong Sanat

We leave the city, and the road begins to fill with tricycles, motorized rickshaws with metal cabs attached to motorcycles. They're not allowed on the main streets in Davao, but remain the principal means of public transportation outside the city. The tricycles look like they can hold three or four people comfortably, but I see as many as seven or eight riding in them. Single cycles (motorcycles) whiz by with families of five perched behind the driver and on his lap. One single cycle passes by with a passenger facing backwards while holding a television in his lap. On another, a passenger clings to the cycle with his feet while carrying a five gallon water carboy in each hand. A jeepney rushes by loaded with passengers, including a dozen or so people sitting on the roof while another half dozen stand on the bumper and hang on where ever they can grab a hand hold.

Stands of banana and coconut trees rise up into the surrounding hills, growing thicker as we drive on. We pass Panabo City, the banana capital of the Philippines, and then adjacent Carmen and soon, we're driving past rice fields with a few scattered homes here and there. We take a bridge over a river and then palm trees line the highway – the outskirts of Tagum, the City of Palms. Risa says the former mayor's wife owns the business that planted the palm trees.

“Isn't that against the law?” I ask.

“They were the law,” she says.

We're less than 35 miles from Davao, but it has taken an hour and half to get here. We pass a couple of hospitals, and larger stores, and finally a major shopping mall where we take a left turn up a side street. We drive past more open storefronts with galvanized metal roofs and roll-up garage door fronts. There's a strong smell up ahead, something like a dead rat, but Elsa tells me it's only dried fish, a popular food here and throughout Asia. Definitely an acquired taste (and smell). We've come to the public market, a huge collection of storefronts under a dozen or so metal roof canopies held up by cement or metal posts. Some have curvilinear roofs that look like airplane hangars. The place is enormous, maybe four times bigger than the public market in Seattle. No tourist attractions here though – just food vendors selling rice, vegetables, fruits and fish. Outside, on the streets surrounding the market stand strings of storefronts. Beside the market sits the bus terminal.

We drive on for another ten minutes up to the capital area, turning left in front of a long stretch of white buildings with well-kept lawn and grounds – the provincial government buildings (Tagum is the capital city of the Davao Del Norte province). On the other side of the street stands a new sports stadium with a swimming pool, track, and basketball facility. No weight room for me to work out unfortunately. We continue up the street another block, take two lefts and arrive at the front of a gated, European style home with a brick facade, the home of Mare Vising and Pare Odong Sanat, wealthy friends of Elsa who own three funeral parlours and a gas station in Montevista. The gate is open. We drive in and park on a large, covered, cement courtyard. The property actually consihts of three homes all owned by the Bisings. We find Mare in a small conference room between the center and third house. She is talking business with a couple. She looks up and finishes her conversation and comes over. Elsa dwarfs her. Marie is stout, in her 50s, and only about 4'8,” but she has big, powerful voice.

“Elsa is my friend,” she tells me. “You be good to her. I will spank you if you misbehave.” She laughs. She's always laughing.

“She is a joker,” says Elsa.

Just then Pare Odong pulls up in his new Kia Sportage SUV. He is about Manny's height, thickset and muscular. He doesn't say much; he doesn't appear to speak English at all. When he does speak in his native Bisaya, he appears to have a strong, confident voice, but not as strong as Mare's. She speaks little English, but makes an ongoing effort to communicate with me in English. The Sanats show us the houses. There's a balcony just above the second floor on the roof between the center house and the first house with a view of a nearby stand of coconut and fruit trees and the sports stadium in the distance.

The Sanats stay in the first house when they come to Tagum (they actually live in Montevista and have a home in Davao as well). They tell us they will rent the center home to us for 5,000 pesos a month – about $110. For this first night, Elsa and I will sleep in the first house where the Sanats live. It's small, only a sala and one bedroom with an adjoining comfort room, but well kept and well appointed with carpets, carved wooden furniture, and a bathroom with a shower and flush toilet. There's an air conditioner in the bedroom. The Sanats show us the second house where we would be staying. It's a two story, with sala, a wet kitchen and comfort room with a cold water shower and flush toilet on the first floor and two bedrooms and smaller comfort room on the second floor. I have to bend over to step into the second floor comfort room. There's no furniture other than a wooden bench in the sala, so we will need to buy some. Still, the place is relatively comfortable and it seems like a good arrangement to me. However, Elsa wants to show me her home in Montevista before we make the decision to rent. Manny returns home to Davao, but plans to return in a couple of days to drive with us to his parents' home in Mawab where the annual city fiesta is in full swing.

The next day, we visit a department store at the Gaisano mall. Elsa wants to buy gifts for her family and other relatives. She fills a shopping cart with popular Filipino brand chocolates – Goya milk chocolate bars, Choc-Nut bars, Theo-Philos, chocolate-coated marshmallow biscuits, coconut milk candy bars – and tops it off with Toblerone Swiss chocolates. I'm a little worried about the expense; I'm sure that in the USA, these chocolates would cost over $500. Fortunately here, they come to less than $50. I breathe a sigh of relief.

In the evening, the Sanats return and invite us to dinner. We climb into Udong's Sportage and head back into the city. Downtown, we circle around for a few minutes before settling on a large open air restaurant with bamboo poles holding up a grass roof – the Royal. Udong orders us a bowl brimming with grilled fish, shrimp, pork and chicken and noodles. The sizzling scent of grilled meat hits my nostrils and my mouth waters. Before serving the meal, the waiter brings dishes of lemons with peppers and a seasoning sauce. I grab a small pepper about the size of my thumbnail and pop it into my mouth, expecting something like the pleasant sting of a jalapeno. Instead sudden, intense heat hits my mouth, and sears my tongue like I'd stuck it on hot burning embers. I start waving at my mouth, and gasping. I let out a howl and grab my beer and gulp. Udong almost doubles over and Elsa and Marie join in laughing hysterically. Elsa tells me I've just eaten the siling lalbuyo pepper, once rated by the Guinness Book of Records as the hottest chili in the world.

On the way back to the Sanat's house, we pass a fruit stall filled with what look like foot-long spiked pineapples – durian. Udong pulls over and we walk up to the stall. The pungent mercaptan odor is almost overwhelming. Udong grabs a durian and holds it to his nose and smells, then shakes it and listens to the sound. He does this a few times before he finally buys one and we head home. Along the way, we stop at a drugstore and he buys a bottle of Maria Clara wine.

Arriving home, Elsa opens the gate and Udong parks in the courtyard. We climb up to the roof balcony and Elsa cuts open the durian, exposing rich slabs of fruit meat that look a little like a yellow custard cream cheese. “Eat,” says Udong and waves toward the durian. I'm reticent, but Elsa takes a spoon and scoops out a bit of the fruit and hands it to me. I chew and swallow. The durian has a rich, sweet, taste, too sweet, in fact, cloying. I can stomach it, but politely refuse another bite. Udong pours me a glass of the Maria Clara wine. It is, in fact, a sangria, a desert wine, and much too sweet for my liking. I prefer dry wines, but they're not popular in the Philippines. I take a couple of more sips and set the glass aside.

We retire early. We need our beauty sleep; the next day leave for Compostela Valley to attend the Mawab fiesta, and visit Elsa's home. 

Sleepless in Davao

“A nation's culture resides in the heart and the soul of its people.” – Mahatma Gandhi

When I get outside the terminal, Elsa is waiting for me with her younger brother Manny, his wife Rocel, and their son Em Em. Elsa's daughter Risa also accompanies her. Elsa looks stylish in black jeans with a red, long sleeve blouse. Risa is wearing black jeans with a white, short sleeve blouse. I give each of them a box of See's Candy – chocolates just like they requested – not the grapes they asked for though. Didn't think they would hold up on the plane and given the unexpected delays, my intuition was correct.

Elsa seems smaller than I had imagined. I knew before I we met that she was five foot tall, but standing next to her, the difference seems more noticeable. Elsa had asked me during our internet chats how tall I was. I told her, I'm 5'8.

Elsa and Manny with Rich

“Oh, you're tall,” she said. “My brothers are tall, too, almost your height.”

Another reason to move to the Philippines. I'm a shrimp in the U.S., but here I'm a giant. Later I find out that Elsa's height actually is a little above average for a Filipina and some women are much shorter. The average Filipino male is only about 5'4 – no doubt due to the malnutrition problem in the country – almost one third of the preschool population is underweight-for-age.

Risa is Elsa's middle daughter. She's a little taller than Elsa and more stout. She has a seven-year-old daughter Fem Fem and one and one half year-old son Zion. Risa had worked in a call center and speaks English well. Elsa taught English in a local college, but doesn't speak the language quite as fluently as her daughter.

With almost no sleep and no bath over the last two days, I want to go to our hotel, but Manny insists we eat at a local restaurant – probably he wants to check me out and see if I'm worthy of his sister. We climb in to his car – an older model red SUV that he bought along with his house from his winnings in the local lottery (winnings that amounted to three million pesos or about $70,000). I put on my seat belt – on one else does – and we head to Ah Fat Seafood Plaza. During the ride, Elsa and I hold hands. She is very quiet and doesn't really speak at all. Manny, in his mid-50s, a little smaller than me, but muscular, does most of the talking. He's outgoing and friendly and tells many jokes, pausing at each punchline, and then delivering with an impish grin. He is the joker in the family. His wife, a nurse about the same height as Elsa, but a little heavier, sits quietly as does their son, a student at Ateneo de Davao College. He's small and looks much younger than a college student; initially I think he attends high school. Rocel and Risa sit in the back, talking with one another in English. Risa says they rarely have the opportunity to practice with an English speaker around. “I have a nosebleed,” she says joking of her attempts to communicate in the language.

We arrive at Ah Fat's. The restaurant serves fresh seafood – steamed pigik or Imelda fish (bighead carp), noodles and rice and french beans with garlic. The food is delicious, but it is not the everyday Filipino fare to which I soon would be introduced (usually fish soup with rice). They also serve bird's nest soup.

“Smells like bird poop,” says Risa.

Rocel wants to work in Montreal and asks me if I know anyone who lives in Canada. Of course I do – my best friend Jack lives in Vancouver. She asks me to speak with him and see if he will sponsor her immigration to the Canada as a nanny. I tell her I will see what I can do. Later, when we are in our hotel room, I tell Elsa that's probably not legal and Jack likely will not agree to such a proposition, but over the next couple of weeks, Rocel keeps raising the issue with Elsa and I finally agree to speak to Jack. And, of course, he says no. This is my first exposure to the Philippines overseas worker issue.

Elsa tells me her second youngest daughter Bernadine works as a housekeeper in Dubai. And Elsa would like some of her other daughters to work overseas as well because salaries are so low in the Philippines. The per capita income in the Philippines ranks 139 out of the UN's millennium project list of 190 nations and currently stands at less than $5,000 a year. Almost one third of Filipinos can't afford to pay for their basic needs, and so many choose to work overseas. The Philippines has the fourth highest number of overseas workers in the world and the highest per capita number of overseas worker. The economy heavily depends on overseas remittances.

Manny is a radio commentator in Davao. His “Voice of the Military” program features guests speaking about the government's pacification program in its ongoing battle with the Muslim rebels and the Maoist New People's Army (NPA). He says that he has received many death threats for his program. The Philippines has the third highest rate of journalists murdered in the world. More than 50 journalist murders that took place from 2004 through 2013 remain unsolved

Manny says that since the Army began its community projects' program, the NPA's membership has declined from about 25,000 to 5,000. Of course, the NPA grew during the repressive era of Marcos. Could it be that the less oppressive atmosphere that followed the people power revolution had something to do with the NPA's decline? Manny sits on a different side of the political spectrum than Elsa who is more sympathetic to the NPA because she feels they serve the people. The two of them share cynicism over the US role in the Philippines.

We finish our meal and I pay the bill, which I soon find I am expected to do regularly. After dinner we drive to the hotel. Elsa told Manny that all my fresh clothes were in my luggage, which has not yet arrived. So he gives me two of his shirts – a red, long-sleeved Adidas athletic shirt, and a short sleeve shirt from the Huread Foundation given during a blood donation drive that says, “One People Mindanao: Lumad – Muslim – Christian.” Manny says he agrees with the sentiment.

Risa, Manny and his family drive away and Elsa and I retire to our room. It's a small box of a room with two single beds. I go to the bathroom to shower and shave and have my first exposure to the Philippine's CR (comfort room). The toilet and shower are in the same 4 foot by 5 five area with no separation between the two. At least there is a shower with warm water. Most Filipinos bathe by filling a bucket with cold water and dipping it over themselves.

In the morning, we eat breakfast in the lobby cafe – fried egg with sausage and three in one coffee (coffee made with a palm oil whitener, and sugar – one of the first things I need to buy is a coffee maker – that's if I can find ground coffee). I work out in the fitness room. I had spent the last two years, working out at a gym regularly and want to maintain my fitness. Little do I know that this would be the last gym with modern equipment I would find.

Manny meets us in the lobby after his radio broadcast. There's a strange, unpleasant smell in the lobby. I had worked in a oil refinery many years ago, and the smell reminds me a little of crude oil or more precisely, mercaptan, a putrid smelling chemical put in natural gas so you can detect leaks and one of the main chemicals responsible for the smell of flatus. I ask Elsa what it is and she tells me it is durian, known in the Philippines as the king of fruits.

“Smells like hell – tastes like heaven,” Manny says. I agree with the first part. I'm not so sure I want to put the second part to the test.

We head out to the airport to pick up my bag, which was no where to be found on my arrival in the Philippines. At the security area, we pass the same national policeman that had helped me the night before and he welcomes me back with a smile. We proceed to the Philippines Airline gates and an airlines representative sends us to another terminal, a cargo area where we find the bag has arrived. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Next we travel to a restaurant at Water World in Toril, the suburb of Davao where Manny lives. A waitress takes us to an outdoor table and there's an awful putrid smell like a backed up sewer wafting from the shore towards us . Manny asks the waitress about it, but she can't explain its origin. We try to ignore the smell. Manny orders San Miguel Light for the both of us. It's a light lager with a slightly tangy taste. No bitterness, which is what I prefer. San Miguel is the national beer, although San Miguel Red Horse packs a more potent punch and is most people's favorite. Manny tells me he doesn't drink much any more. He used to drink with friends regularly, but now he has to watch his diet and drinking because he has diabetes and high blood pressure. The Philippines has three times the mortality rate from heart disease and diabetes as the U.S. For appetizers, Manny orders Calamari and Kinilaw, a raw fish marinated in vinegar similar to ceviche, and for the main course, grilled bangus or milk fish (the Philippines national fish) with rice. Again delicious.

We drive back to Davao. Traffic creeps along. Cars, taxis, buses and jeepneys (a small bus with a low roof and narrow bench seating) stop and start, all vying for position, trying to pass one another, cut one another off, but no one is going anywhere. Manny finally manages to turn in to a shopping mall parking lot. Security guards check his pass and he pulls into a parking strip reserved for media. There's more security at the mall entrance – two guards check men and women as they enter through separate lines. The guards check handbags and backpacks, poking around in them with a small baton. They frisk the men. We finally make it inside and start down the aisles. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the green mermaid – a Starbucks, the first sign I've seen of American culture.

“Ever had a latte?” I ask, and no one has – except, of course, Manny. We head inside the shop. I order and we make our way to a table with the drinks. Elsa takes a sip and makes a face. Not sweet enough and too bitter for her taste. I drink hers as well as my own. The lattes cost about as much as it would in the U.S. – $3 a cup. Later, I discover other local coffee shops that serve much better lattes for about half the price of Starbucks.

On our way back to hotel, a thunderstorm strikes. It's a deluge, and the streets flood very quickly as water (and raw sewage) from the concrete ditches along the side of the road spills over on to the highway. Manny says there's a typhoon up north in Manila (there are some 20 or more typhoons a year in the Philippines). We can barely see the road, but make it back to the hotel safely. Tomorrow, we travel to Tagum City and our future home. 

On the Way

“You got to be careful if you don’t know where you’re going, because you might not get there.” – Yogi Berra

The plane is late taking off. Some problem with air traffic control in San Francisco. I'm beginning to think that maybe I should have spent a little more money on a direct flight to Manila. But I was pinching every penny to save toward my new life in the Philippines. So I booked a milk run from Seattle to San Francisco to Taipei to Manila to Davao. Big mistake.

The woman at the ticket counter tells me that the flight might be canceled. I'm nervous about missing my connecting flight, but two hours later, we take off. Making the connection will be tight. On the plane, I begin to read a book on rural development; Elsa had told me that she had just about completed a masters degree in the topic, so I thought I would try to sound intelligent about the topic.

Image courtesy of lkunl at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I didn't get far in the book because I notice the passenger next to me is Asian. Possibly a Filipino? I strike up a conversation. His name is Aron and he's a software engineer from Boston. He grew up in Delaware. So much for assumptions. But he was born in Madras, India. For the next hour and a half, we talk about politics, rural development, global warming and the problems caused by the rich not caring about the poor.

I mention that besides meeting Elsa one of the reasons I chose to move to the Philippines is because English is one of the national languages (little did I know how little English is spoken especially in the provinces of the Southern Philippines).

“I had been interested in Ecuador,” I tell him. “But I don't know Spanish. Hope I can learn Cebuano.”

“You'll pick it up fast.”

“I'm a writer and want to spend more time at my craft in the Philippines.”

“I'd like to learn to write, too.”

So after a rocky start, it seems like the trip will be fun. I'd already made a new friend.

We arrive in San Francisco. The plane taxis the runway for another half hour and I'm worried I will miss my connecting flight to Taipei. When passengers finally do start to deplane, there is no attempt to allow those with connecting flights to disembark early – the first time I've ever been on a delayed flight where that didn't happen. An ominous sign.

The first leg of the journey I flew on Alaska Airlines, but the next leg will be on China Airlines. I have no idea where to go. Thankfully, Aron helps me. He knows the general area and runs with me through the terminal finally getting me to the right counter. I thank him and rush up to the desk without having time to get his contact information. If you're out there somewhere Aron, please contact me, so I can properly thank you.

Aron leaves and I speak to the clerk at the desk. I've just missed my connecting flight by five minutes. There are five of us who missed the flight, four Filipino seamen and me. We're only five minutes late, but China Air failed to hold the flight for us. The next flight? Not for another 24 hours. I want to pull out my hair. Because they're not partners, neither Alaska nor China Air will take responsibility for the missed connection.

I sit down in the terminal and fume. What shall I do? Maybe I can sleep in the terminal – but 24 hours us a long time to spend in an airplane terminal and I know I won't get any sleep. So I decide to book a hotel room for the night. 

I call several hotels, but there's a major convention in town and no rooms are available. I keep dialing and finally luck out. Hampton Inn has a room that has just become available. That one night stay costs me close to $200 with a $20 taxi fee tacked on. I have already paid more than if I had booked a direct flight to Manila.

One stroke of luck, I find out that the night clerk is from the Philippines. I strike up a conversation. She, like Elsa, has a big family – in Manila.

“I'm going to Compostela Valley near the Davao area,” I say enthusiastically, pleased that I have made a Philippines connection so soon.

“I've never been to the provinces,” she says with an air of disdain. I get the distinct impression she thinks that the people there are country bumpkins. I get a slight twinge in my stomach.

After a four hour sleep, I awake and get a brief workout at the fitness center, I set up my computer with the hotel wi fi and try to call Els via Skype. No luck. I try to call on my cell phone. No international connection. After an hour, I give up and head back to the airport.

I'm getting worried because I know Elsa is frantic. At the airport, I try skyping and emailing her again. Still no luck. Then, my phone rings. I can't call the Philippines on my phone, but Elsa has contacted a friend who lives in Pennsylvania and asked her to call me. Elsa is indeed frantic and worried that I'm not coming to the Philippines – especially since that's what all her relatives told her would happen. 

Through her friend, I set up a time to Skype Elsa and finally reach her. We both breathe a sigh of relief. I tell her that I am, indeed, on the way, but will be a day late. We agree to connect again just before my plane leaves.

I wait at the airport until midnight when the China Air flight takes off. At the gate, there are at least a dozen people from China Air helping with the boarding – far different from the one or two employees checking in passengers on American flights. A reflection of Asian collectivism values versus Western individualism?

We fly into Taipei, and after finding the waiting area, I slouch in a plastic seat exhausted and droopy-eyed and wait for my connecting flight to Manila. I finally arrive in Manila in the late morning. I make it through customs with no problems and head to baggage claim. My bag is not there. What else can go wrong? A baggage claim clerk takes my information and says they will ship the bag to Davao as soon as it arrives. I'm skeptical.

I finally make it out into the airport and look for a store selling SIM cards. I bought a new phone that takes international cards just for the trip, but I've never inserted a SIM card before and am not sure what I'm looking for. Fortunately, there are several kiosks in the airport selling them. 

The sales woman helps me insert the card, and wonder of wonders, it works! I call Elsa in Davao and tell her I will arrive in the early evening. Unfortunately, there's another glitch. I had booked my flight from Manila to Davao on another carrier, Philippine Airlines. The flight was supposed to leave the day before. Would they honor my ticket?

I head out of the international terminal and there's armed guards all around – police, army, security at every entrance and exit. There's another twinge in my stomach. I ask a middle-aged couple sitting at a palm tree planter where to find the Philippine Airlines terminal. I'm not sure if they understand me, but the woman stands and points at a terminal above us. 

I climb a couple of flights of stairs and head over to the terminal. There's a security guard standing at the entrance. I must pass through another x-ray machine. There's another security guard inside next to the boarding area. I show him my ticket and he sends me to an office building across the way. I exit the terminal and head to the other building, where another security guard checks me and sends me through another x-ray machine before I can enter and go to a ticket counter. I'm beginning to think I will succumb to radiation poisoning.

An agent looks at my ticket and tells me I have to buy a new one; the airline won't accept my one day late ticket – I have to re-book and I'll have to take a later flight. I shell out another $100 and this cheap junket has become rather expensive. The agent hands me a new ticket. I exit through security again and then back to the Philippine Airlines terminal where the security guard again checks my bag and then to the gate where I go through security again. 

I call Elsa again and tell her once again I am delayed; I will arrive that evening instead of late afternoon. I finally board the plane at 5 p.m. There are no further complications and I arrive in Davao two hours later exhausted and smelly from spending two days on planes and in airports. I have no change of clothes because my luggage was lost, but at least I will finally meet Elsa.

I'm in the terminal, but I don't know where to go. I call Elsa, but she doesn't know where I am and can't explain where I need to go. She hands her phone to Manny. He doesn't know either. I ask a couple of people for directions. They don't understand me. Finally, I turn to a National Police officer. I hand my cell phone to the officer. He talks to Manny, then nods and accompanies me to an outside area where everyone is waiting. 

My ordeal is over; my adventures in the Philippines are just beginning. 

A Daring Adventure

“Life is either a daring adventure or it is nothing.” - Helen Keller

“Am I being crazy,” I asked my best friend Jack.

“Probably,” he said. Jack never sugarcoats the truth. We had served in the Army Medical Corps together before he had emigrated to Vancouver, BC, Canada. He later married a

Taiwanese woman, and lived in Taiwan for a year, so he knew of which he spoke.

I was telling him about my decision to move to the Philippines and marry Elsa. I knew it was a quick decision and had concerns. I also knew it was foolish to make a decision before I had even visited the country. But I was ready for an adventure and had no family and no longer a domestic partner, nothing to tie me down. 

Elsa cuts coconut from tree on parents' Mawab farm.

“Just buy a return ticket and think of it as an adventure,” he said. “Don't think of anything as good or bad – it's all just an adventure.”

An adventure. Somehow that made me feel a little more at ease. This would be an adventure – the journey that I had always wanted to take.

I met Elsa online only ten months after my domestic partner of 27 years had left me. Initially, I signed up for the dating site because I wanted to develop some friendships and find out more about the country. But Elsa and I clicked right away. She was generous in spirit with a sweet and loving nature, thoughtful, smart, and well-spoken. I loved her smile and her laugh. Furthermore, she had taught English in University as I had; she had worked as an organizer for an NGO serving poor tenant farmers; and she had worked as a woman's organizer in the provincial government, visiting all 248 barangays (districts or wards) in the Compostela Valley, speaking to woman and gays about domestic violence, gender equality and women's and children's health issues. I was duly impressed.

“I think we have the same principles in life,” she told me. She was right. “Maybe God permit us to meet because we have the same principles like helping other people.”

I admired her bravery. “I am Ilongga,” she said (peoples from the Central Visayas, including Iloilo). “We are the most brave people. The most romantic.” I believed her. She once took on an entire assembly of landowners and banana plantation executives, speaking out against their plans to force local tenant farmers to vacate their land. She earned much enmity that day, but her farsightedness later won the admiration of the landowners when the low standard production of the banana plantation drove it into bankruptcy.

Many younger women on the dating site had expressed interest in meeting me (Elsa was much closer to my own age), but none appealed to me like Elsa. And my heart melted when she sang to me a cappella over Skype a beautiful rendition of “And I Love You So.” In her youth, she had won many singing competitions, sang on a local radio station and had been invited to audition as a singer at a radio station in Manila, but gave up a budding career to serve her family – a very large family by the way with six daughters, seven grandkids, six siblings and hundreds of cousins, nieces and nephews.

It was a bit overwhelming, and I had some concerns. Elsa lived on the island of Mindanao and the U.S. State Department had issued travel alerts about the area, identifying local rebel groups as security threats. I was worried about the kidnappings, the mosquitos, malaria, dengue, and the spitting cobras.

“I'm friends with many muslims,” she told me. “And no malaria, dengue or spitting cobras here in Montevista.” Furthermore, she said, the rebel New People's Army only posed a threat to the Philippines' Army – not to the Philippines' people or their friends.

I was also a little wary. I was told some Filipinas regularly asked for money never intending to meet the foreigner with whom they corresponded. But Elsa never asked for money or help of any kind. She asked only that I bring myself and maybe some chocolates and grapes. And so the adventure began.