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.