It begins with tiny shimmers, the glitter of the gods, on the umbrellas of the trike shaws and the cement roads. Then the color of the sky changes as the ubiquitous aerosol sand and dust are pulled down to the earth in the drops. They, the drops, come small and tentative at first before cooperating on a fluid dynamic level. Rain drops like clown cars or mom-sized and filled SUVs on the way to a soccer tournament. All the while the people begin to scatter, carrying on the aeons old tradition of the people of these islands of being subject to the whims of the wind and weather.

The children’s mouths part in sensory overloaded glee. The question the sky and the gods and the roofs of their hovels as the sprint and shriek and jump through fresh puddles to wheresoever their mothers are working. The teenage boys laugh and swagger like unaffected is the new nonchalant. The girls run and cover their heads and laugh, snapping pictures of their just-now-recently affected hairstyles and outfits. The older folks, past 30 or so, act dignified as they seek shelter as quickly as possible. The don’t let on how much fun theyre having, but their eyes smile at the temporary misfortune which brings with it some reassurance that life is so temporary and beautiful and weird to be worth it.

The waitresses huddle behind the bar and sing along and gossip, happy for the respite. The mother covers the head of her new born while the father guns the motor of the scooter to spirit them home and away from harm. The expats drink and tell stories, but that’s all theyre good for anyway.

Tons of Jesus.

Meeting

Wut

Not a Meeting

Working

Posse (Taken with instagram)

Meetings.

Some of you have seen me, literally, move to a place and live there.  Some have seen me as I live there.

I have now been the bottom-line comptroller for varied and confused projects for nearly three months now.  The local coffee shop knows me by name.  They all holler their time-of-day relevant salutations nearly as soon as I park my truck or motorcycle.

It is weird that now instead of moving to Wilmington or Columbus that I am in a country which desperately wishes to pull off a reference to american culture while simultaneously being inexorably different.  The folks who frequent the Casino Espanol probably don’t know this, but everyone else is happy and poor in that order.

I’ve gotten shitfaced with the guards of this gate complex as well as the upper crust.  They are not different.  My stepmother referred me to the fact that her sisters and brothers are poor and happy and that the world could learn a lot from their ignorance.  She is right.

My stepuncle breeds cocks for fighting.  I have just accidentally signed up for a new construction project wherein I am in charge of resetting the foundations of a home which has been ravaged by flood and landslide.  My workers each have nicknames,  which is par for Filipino convention.  The malls are where things happen, where the young congregate, but they do so in carefully proscribed cabal.

The sun is hot and the roads are hot and the wind is hot and the seawater is hot and the food is hot.  The mountains beyond the clouds which obscure them are jade and deciduous.  Winter never comes but the non-summer months bring rain and hell.

The last earthquake killed a few dozen poor villagers whom all didn’t make much money neither.

It is strange and beautiful to be known by name, and naught else, when on seeks to drink coffee and read a newspaper.  It is strange and beautiful to ride past privte public-utility-vehicles (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeepney) as they careen twixt scooters and trucks and people and trike-shaws etc.  

I am no longer a tourist here, nor merely visiting.  When I get pulled over by the constabulary I run the risk of them taking my license until I prove how long I have been in the country by bringing my passport to the station.  I wish to avoid this scrutiny if possible, and luckily the constabulary is poorly paid and poorly fed.

The room I sleep in has the subtle spirits of recent memory making shallow etchings in its walls.  That, of course, is to occlude that I have found the enamel paint on the walls of this room to be perfectly suited as a floor-to-ceiling dry erase board.  So ensconced are my ideas and feelings on the walls of this room that the subtlety of the aforementioned spirits is lost except for further consideration essayed herein.

I have only today begun to seriously consider the process of leaving here and returning there.  This all spurred by comments as to the, apparently quickly, approaching “end to my travels”.  I hadn’t realized my attachment to my erstwhile detachment.  I have somehow fallen into complacency in my pursuit of a “next move”.  Probably more probable is that I am waiting for my next ludicrous epiphany to rattle my reality and illuminate my path, whatever awesome and dislocated city or town it might require moving to.  

Therefore, I henceforth intend to do my due-est diligence in divining my own path, be it to graduate school or to work - in the delta or the central pacific coast. 

Please find below a short list of my accomplishments so far this trip.  Part of my impetus to publish this list is for my own annuls, to keep track.  Part of my impetus to publish this list is to share with you my exploits, and fish shamelessly for your actualizing consideration.

Mwa.

Some of the Things I Done Did

• Run an 8-12 man crew of contractors
• Learned about prostitution
• Bribed a cop
• Confirmed my ability to effectively pilot motorcycles and standard transmission vehicles
• Reconfirmed my ability to SCUBA dive without dying
• Survived Dengue Fever
• Watched every episode of Archer, Community, Treme, Louie, Bored To Death, The Wire
• Finally watched Up and Toy Story 3
• Wept while watching Up, and Toy Story 3, and Treme
• Learned a great deal about Filipino Culture
• Demolished metric tons of termite infested wood and poured concrete
• Read every book of the Ender’s Game saga
• Avoided sunburn despite being only ten degrees north of the equator
• Didn’t die