Awesomegiving

A weekend of Friends, Food, Fun and of course, Fatness (actually, ‘Gluttony,’ but that doesn’t start with an ‘F’). This past Thanksgiving (henceforth to be referred to as ‘Awesomegiving’) was a huge success.

Getting There
Regardless of what others may say, Erin and I weren’t really in charge of Awesomegiving this year. It wasn’t at our house, but since we have the mighty force of the Internet at our disposal, we took it upon ourselves to relay important information to the rest of the volunteers who were attending. Our original plan after Thanksgibbons last year (we miss you Kevin Gibbons by the way!) was to have this year’s Awesomegiving at our house. Better stated, our previous house. That house had a private beach for roasting any number of our gobbling friends, lots of room for turkey-stuffed volunteers to sprawl out in, and perhaps most important of all, an oven—intricate in the development of our favorite addition to any holiday festivities, pies. Sadly, since we’ve moved, those amenities are not available to us anymore. If we had celebrated Awesomegiving at our new house we would have had to fight with hundreds of fishing boats for roasting space on the beach, many volunteers would have had no covered space in which to sprawl and our tiny toaster oven most likely would have left us with a black hulk of damaged dough instead of pies. We couldn’t imagine 25 volunteers with a pie-crazed look in their eyes. It’s too scary to imagine. Fortunately, our good friend Ian knew about a place that could take care of all our wildest dreams and more. We rented a house (nay, a Mansion…yes, with a capital ‘M’) that gave us a private beach, an oven, many rooms (which happened to have AIR CONDITIONING and HOT WATER) as well as a Videoke machine. It was perfect. We leapt at the chance to celebrate Awesomegiving in our rented Mansion.

One of the biggest challenges of Awesomegiving was that no one could find turkeys. Last year it wasn’t much of a problem, but this year, we figured they must have gone into hiding. Word must have leaked out in the Turkey community that Americans were in the area looking for proper Awesomegiving essentials. We had spread the word to all of our friends, co-workers and even random people on the street that we were on the look-out for the elusive Awesomegivingus Hugeus Birdus. Our landlord’s brother (who is also our neighbor) was getting a new alternator for his van the week before Awesomegiving when he saw some baby turkeys running around the shop. I’m not sure why baby turkeys were running around an auto shop. They weren’t even old enough to drive. Anyways, he knew we were Turkey hunting and asked if there were any bigger Turkeys lurking anywhere. There were. He saw. He liked. He called. We went. We saw. We liked. We bought. We were very happy. Two 8+ kilogram birds hiding out on a Turkey farm. Who would’ve known to look there?!

We picked the birds up on our way to the Mansion, intending to place them in boxes and bring them with us on a bus (the fact that sentence sounds normal should indicate how much we have changed since arriving here). The first bird went in without any questions or worries. I think he was excited to see the Mansion. Apparently the second bird had received some form of information about what was to happen to him and his friend at the Mansion, and he was determined to make a break for it. Fortunately he broke the cardboard bonds that were holding him before we left the farm. (I say ‘fortunately’ because the only thing worse than the thought of my trying to catch a loose turkey and putting him back in a box is…wait…I can’t think of anything that could possibly be worse. That is my nightmare. My fear of fowl runs deep—a well tossed stone a number of years back on the shores of Lake Michigan at a gull’s head that resulted in his death has made me wary of all birds and their impending retribution. But I digress.) The turkey worked his way out, but after catching the loose turkey (the Farmer, not the Farver) and putting him back in the box, an overly generous amount of duct tape and string was applied as our protection against any further escape attempts. Our journey on the bus was as uneventful as riding a bus with live birds in boxes should be. We transferred the birds to a tricycle (I wish our camera wasn’t kaput so you could see this sequence of events...) and a few minutes later we arrived at the Mansion with 2 boxed birds and 3 boxes crammed with miscellaneous Awesomegiving paraphernalia, pots and possible prizes (pending playing of plenty of party games).

Lord of the Ring and Bratwurst, too
The night before Awesomegiving we celebrated the wonderful holiday of Lots-Of-Americans-Who-Get-Together-And-Grill-And-Eat-Real-Bratwursts Day. It’s a wonderful (as well as self-describing) holiday. Erin prepared and baked yummy fruit pies and everyone talked about how awesome Awesomegiving was going to be. That evening, we celebrated Lots-Of-Americans-Who-Get-Together-And-Grill-And-Eat-Real-Bratwursts Day by doing just that. It was wonderful. Real brats. Real mustard. I wish this holiday was celebrated more often here.

Awesomegiving Day itself was a flurry of activity. Some of the less-girly men of our group woke up early, killed and prepared the Turkeys on the beach before the sun even knew what was going on. Others (mainly the women and I) stayed in the kitchen and prepared the other necessary items for a successful Awesomegiving. Our list of items includes Baked Macaroni, Green Bean Casserole, Squash Soup, Mixed Veggies, Cranberries, Stuffing, Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Gravy, 3 Pumpkin Pies, 2 Apple Pies, 1 Cherry and 1 Blueberry Pie, Biscuits, freshly baked breads, Brownies and 4 Slow-Roasted-on-the-Beach-Turkeys. The cooking was amazingly laid back as we timed everything with German precision. Our experience of last year’s Thanksgibbons (where we had 1 knife and a kitchen built for 2) prepared us to be, well, better prepared. The atmosphere was so relaxed that I even had a chance to go play some football in the ocean.

Some of Ian’s friends from college were visiting (they had provided the beverages for Lots-Of-Americans-Who-Get-Together-And-Grill-And-Eat-Real-Bratwursts Day) and someone else had brought a real, honest-to-goodness American Football. I haven’t thrown a real, honest-to-goodness American Football for a while, so I excitedly scampered into the water to toss around the pigskin. Since I hadn’t killed any Turkeys that day, I needed to do something to raise my testosterone level to appropriate levels. We tossed, we joked, it was great. Just like Thanksgiving at home, except in an ocean. Everything was going well. That seems to be when something goes wrong. At least for me. After one particular botched catch attempt I looked down at my hands and saw, well, nothing. Not just no football, but nothing. For single men, this shouldn’t be a problem. However, I am married, and this was cause for considerable concern. My wedding band had decided it didn’t want to play football any more. I wish it would have told me. I would have gladly gone back inside. Instead, it must have jumped off of my finger while I was chest deep in the water. I immediately froze and tried to scan the bottom. It was pretty clear. I could see the thousands of rocks that littered the ground with little effort. Thousands of perfect places for a perturbed ring to go and hide in. Ian, in his infinite wisdom, had brought his mask and snorkel, so he donned it and proceeded to slowly circle the area that we had been playing in. We joked about how cool it would be when we found it—it would be just like Lord of the Rings. He looked, I looked, other people took turns swimming around the area, but the Ring did not want to be found again. His freedom was apparently more important than my commitment to my wife, because after an hour of intense searching, he did not show up again. It was like Lord of the Rings except we didn’t find the Ring. For what it’s worth, Erin thought it was kind of funny that I was the one who lost his ring, since I have been worried for over 20 months that she would lose her wedding band. No worries, we’re still married; I just don’t have the ring to prove it anymore.

Dinner was spectacular to say the least. We ate at around 4 in the afternoon after I forced everyone to gather in a circle and tell what they were thankful for. Actually, most people were very eager to share what they were thankful for. Many of us were thankful for the tight bond that exists among the group of us assigned to this particular region of the country. I really appreciate the people that I’ve met here. They have been the ones I’ve worked with, played with, griped with and celebrated with since we arrived in country some 20 months ago. Although we celebrated a wonderful Awesomegiving together, it will be nice to celebrate next year with our family at home.


A picture of Erin and our Awesomegiving spread

The Long Walk Home

For those who don’t know, we’ve moved. Our old house was in an area of ill repute, and Peace Corps thought that it would be better for all parties involved if we were to move. It was hard for us—the house was beautiful. Facing the ocean we could cook dinner and watch the sunset every night if we wanted. We also had privacy, something that can be rare in a country that stresses family, community and interdependence. However, we didn’t really have many friends in the community over the age of 12 and it was a long commute into town. To make a long story short, we moved closer to town into a house that is part of a “compound.” The compound is actually just 4 houses that a few brothers own and live in with their families. It’s a brother of one of my close friends and co-teachers at school.

It’s great here!

We have our own space if we need to get away from the world for a while, but at the same time, we are part of a wonderful community of families that enjoy hanging out with us and looking out for us. It’s still on the beach but it’s closer to town. We are happy living here.


Now…There are three ways you can get to our house from my school. The first is to hire a private tricycle (a motorcycle with a covered sidecar) and fork out 15 Pesos for about an 8 minute ride. We really only take a private tricycle if we’re in a hurry or if we want to get home quickly. Wait, that’s the same thing. We also take one if we don’t want to have 3 people sitting on our lap. It’s a luxury that we can afford once in a while not to be squished. Another way is to get home from my school is to walk to the terminal where the tricycles gather. This is usually the way I go home. Getting to the terminal is a journey in itself. Not in distance, but rather in fortitude. Usually between 40-60 tricycles gather at the terminal, each having its own distinct color indicating the barangay it is traveling to. It’s pretty loud at the terminal. Not jet-blast loud, but loud enough to not be comfortable. The constant clamor of revving 4 stroke engines is matched by the chatter of people waiting for their tricycle to fill up (they won’t leave until there are 8 people who are willing to shell out 5 Pesos each for the privilege of cramming themselves into a vehicle designed to hold 4 comfortably). There are also the ubiquitous vendors chanting out the necessity of purchasing their particular products. Peanuts, bread, barbecue, banana-que, various forms of sticky and sweet rice, water, juice, fruit, and for the more courageous, balut, that delicacy of hard boiled, embryonic duck egg that has yet to tickle my palate. The balut vendors are my favorite because their calls of “Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalut!” are followed by the squawk of a bicycle horn. I guess the vendors aren’t really my favorite. Just the horn. And just sometimes. Other times I want to shove the horn down their throat and punch them in the stomach to make it toot. I wish I knew how to type the sound it makes. The best I can do is to compare it to the Honkers from Sesame Street.




Click here to hear the sound I mean

http://freesound.iua.upf.edu/samplesViewSingle.php?id=27882

After rigorous training I now can weave through the ruckus with a lowered head and a quick first step and can find my particular tricycle rather quickly. Most of the time between entering the terminal and finding my tricycle I only get shouted at, pointed at, laughed at and made fun of for whatever reason about 643 times. On a Good Day I can ignore it. On a Not So Good Day I utter expletives not fit for a blog my Grandma reads.

The guys that drive our tricycles all know us (our alien whiteness and gargantuan height tend to make us stick out) and love to chat before the tricycle leaves. So far I’ve explained to them how I can’t have a Filipino wife because I’m married (“Yes you can, just have a few other wives on the side”), tried to convey that we want to wait until after Peace Corps to have children (“Well you should have one that is ‘Made in the Philippines.’”) and doled out personal financial information as requested (“How much do you make? How much do you pay in rent? How much did your bike cost? How much is a ticket to the US? Will you buy me a ticket to the US?”). On a Good Day I enjoy the fact that these guys know my name. On a Not So Good Day I just want to be shoved into the tricycle with everyone else and be driven past the shouts of onlookers. Either way I save 10 Pesos (about $0.20).

Yesterday, I walked home. I’ll make it known right off the bat that I don’t do this every day. I had to mentally prepare myself for a good 3 hours before setting off for home. It’s probably a less than 2km (a little over a mile). It took me almost an hour. It was quite an experience. To get to the ‘goal’ of home (I had to make the walk like a game, otherwise I wouldn’t have done it), I have to walk through two communities before I reach our barangay. The road is, for the most part, unpaved and strewn with potholes. Where there are strips of pavement, speed bumps reward tall passengers of fast moving tricycle drivers with a bruised head. The street hugs the shoreline and the houses, food stands and people literally spill onto it. At around 4:30, when I was on my way home, the thing for everyone to do was to hang out and watch me. I actually think a memo was passed out to all residents along my intended route for them to come out at the appropriate time and just watch. The path is long and straight, and my bobbing blond hair could be seen from quite a ways away.

I know we’ve written this before, but I believe it needs reiteration. The first phrase we learned in Kinaray-a was “Di-in kaw ma’agto, haw?” (Where are you going, really?). Even if I’m not walking, I hear that about 2,340 times between school and home. That’s about once every 3 feet. The proper response, “Ma-uli rin lang takon” (I’m just going home), brings about a smile and a nod from the Inquisitor (notice the capital “I” in “Inquisitor.” Like the Spanish Inquisition. It can be that rough sometimes). On a Not So Good Day, I tell them out loud where I’m going while in my head I tell them where they should go. I think the familiarity of knowing where it is I’m going makes them happy. Sometimes I just tell people that I walk past that I’m going home, even if they didn’t ask and sometimes if they’re not even looking at me (wait…that has never happened once here. Everyone is always looking at me).

For the people who don’t know where I’m going or where I’m coming from, I tell them. I work at school. Yes, I’m a teacher there. Yes, I’m married. No, not to a Filipina. No, we don’t have children yet. Yes, I live over there in that barangay (which I point to with my lips). Usually, that satisfies most people, and I tromp off towards the next cluster of eager eyes of all ages, awaiting news as to the exact destination of my current journey. Surprisingly my destination doesn’t change in the 5 feet I cover to get to them. In the course of my walk yesterday I chatted with some boys taking their pigeons to the beach (after giving them a polite yet firm reminder that my name is, indeed, ‘Scott’ and not ‘Hey ‘Kano (Ameri-kano…get it?...clever, eh?) or how they like to pronounce it
‘HEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYY KAAANNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOO’), learned that one of the grilled banana sellers lost in the recent local elections, got invited to drink coconut wine with a group of men who had been at it fervently for at least 10 hours (I politely declined), got dance lessons from a man who had drunk too much coconut wine in the past 10 hours (I think he may have been waiting for me to return after he saw me leave for school at 7 a.m.) and had ice cream with a barbecue vendor (it was her brother-in-laws birthday), whom I love and adore because she knows my name and uses it when she addresses me. Then I got home.


I don’t have the gumption to do that everyday. On one hand it’s nice to be in a community and to get to know the people here. On the other hand, I am only 1 and they are multiplying at a disturbingly rapid pace (Erin’s work in Reproductive Health may help to stem that…). Obviously there are more of them than there are of me and I can only take so much. Some days are harder than others and I just want to get home and grouse and complain to Erin. I don’t want to put the effort into walking and chatting with everyone. But I do love our new community. I’m so glad that we moved. And I’m glad that I walked home yesterday.
:-)








I rode a tricycle home today, in case you wondered.
:-)
sdf

Me and Headlamp

If you own a headlamp you know the primal power you posses when you wear it and turn it on. If you’ve never experienced the power of a headlamp, this may not make sense to you. Actually, according to Erin, even if you do own one, you may never have felt like this. To tell the truth, I’m pretty sure that no one else in the world but me does things like this…

Now right off the bat, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the manliest of men. I’m not a girly man (like my baseball coach loved to call me) but I’m not a manly man, either. I’ve watched Hugh Grant movies and like to drink tea and I don’t mind putting the seat down on the toilet after I’m done with my business. For some reason though, I don’t thrive on doing the stereotypical manly things that I imagine most manly men must do (not being a manly man myself, all I can do is imagine what manly men do...wait...not that I spend time thinking about other men all the time...not that that's bad or anything...) For instance, I can’t seem to go on long jaunts into the woods with my buddies, tracking vicious animals that threaten man’s very existence (such as the ever-dangerous Michigan White-Tailed deer…). I just can't. I’ve tried wearing camouflage and hunter’s orange, but I couldn’t really pull off either color very well. I’d rather drive a compact, fuel-efficient car across the country than a Bigfoot wannabe through the fields or woods. Though I enjoy spending time with my buddies throwing back beers (or in my case, sipping hard lemonade) and watching the Big Game, the only reason I watched the Super Bowl last year was because I wanted to spend a weekend in an air-conditioned hotel room with a hot shower and cable. Plus the commercials are nifty to watch.

This being said, I was just finishing eating dinner with my wife the other night when the power went out, a not uncommon occurrence here in the Philippines. We calmly went around lighting candles and unplugging important appliances so they wouldn’t get electrocuted when the inevitable power surge brought our power back to us. Pursuant to clause 3, section B, subsection 14 of our totally informal and unofficial marital agreement (notarized in 36 US States and 14 foreign countries as well as Guam and Puerto Rico), Erin cooks and I clean the dishes. Since she had cooked our dinner, I was under obligation to wash the dishes. However, candles just weren’t giving off enough light and we were out of kerosene for our lamp. Knowing light had to be produced so that dishes could be washed, I moseyed over to our bookshelf and nonchalantly grabbed our trusty Headlamp. As I held the small device in my hands, I could feel the energy flowing from its 3 AAA batteries to the depths of my soul. I slowly slipped the weather-beaten elastic band over my head and knew that something in me would change—it always did, but I could never stop myself. With the band slung snuggly against my forehead I slowly raised my head, as if recently knighted by King Arthur himself and pushed the “on” button. Bright, LED light flooded my field of vision. Quickly, I turned my head and of course, the beam followed. The wonders of a Headlamp—it follows the path of ones head, leaving hands free to do work…the work of a man. Headlamp had freed me from the dark. Like a trusty steed, Headlamp nudged me on. We had some major work to.…some major manly work.
Suddenly instead of washing dishes, I wanted to kill animals. Big animals, small animals, it didn’t matter. Our cat, seeing the new fresh fire in my eyes, smartly ran away. She had seen this transformation before and knew no good could come of it. What else did I need? TVs. I needed TVs. Not one, many. Enough TVs to be able to watch all the major sports leagues with nifty 3 letter acronyms at once and at least one extra TV in case the demolition derby came on replay on cable access channel 3. Headlamp and I needed a truck, too. A big truck. A big truck with big tires. A big loud truck with big, big tires. One that could run over any wussy hybrid while hauling an array of off-road vehicles and deafening small children with the roar of its diesel in the process. Headlamp made me forget that I needed to wash dishes. Wash dishes? Mere women’s work! Not the work of a man—especially not the work of a man with a Headlamp. No, there was surely a piece of metal outside that needed welding whispered Headlamp in my ear. I needed to hammer something, skin something, bash something. I needed to do something manly. I needed to work out. Yes! Work out! Headlamp and I would get chiseled and buff and manly. I tore off my shirt and Headlamp shone on the floor as I effortlessly pumped out 3 whole pushups. I ground out a fourth and ended my grueling workout, quickly looking for other manly tasks that Headlamp and I needed to accomplish. Thank you, O Headlamp! Thank you for showing me my inner man! I never knew it existed! Buried deep within, my manhood merely needed unlocking with the click of a button. No more talking about emotions! No more reading books recommended by Oprah! No more!…

Then, the inevitable happened. With a Click, Pop and a Buzz, it was bright all around me, not just in my field of vision. Headlamp’s light was not the only light I saw. The lights in our house began to blaze; our temporary power outage was over. My shoulders slumped as my manliness swiftly slipped away. Erin was already waiting for the transformation. She stood there, the cat at her feet watching me closely, hand outstretched, waiting for Headlamp and I to go our separate ways. I reluctantly dropped it in her hands and sulked back to the sink where my real work waited for me. I washed the dishes (making sure to get the pots and pats sparkling clean while not getting dishpan hands) and thought about the silly things Headlamp made me want to do. I mean, really, I’m fine with who I am. Maybe I am a wussy man. Maybe my coach was right and I am a girly man. I’m ok being a non-hunting, eco-friendly guy who likes candles and reading. At least that's what I tell myself while I wash dishes or fold clothes or condition my hair. Truth be told though, I am secretly looking forward to the next power outage. I can’t wait to hang out with Headlamp again.