Why am I here?
I joined Peace Corps for many reasons--some that I can roll around in my head and pop out as words and other reasons that continue to dance around the mulberry bush of my mind, refusing to be relegated to exact words. One of the reasons I joined that can be squeezed and extracted into syllables and words is because I wanted to get away from the materialism and selfishness that I so easily fell into in the United States. Constantly thinking about products and things and brand names. I wanted to get away from that and do something pure--something that would release me from the bonds of American consumerism, obesity and overall obsession with ownership. I wanted to help others in the process. I wanted to do away with me and focus on everyone else.

The irony
All of this has been floating around in my head as we've been in Manila these past 3 weeks, wading in and out of various doctor's offices on medical hold. Along the way to these appointments I see the vast discrepancy between the upper, refined echelon of society and the ragged lower part. In the province where we live, the differences are not so extreme--community is the way of life. Children run from house to house, rice is shared and fishermen help one another mend nets or patch boats while farmers help plow, plant and harvest fields. Everyone, for the most part, is on the same plane--with a few exceptions riding past the flock in their fancy cars and gracefully gliding into the their multi-storied, gated homes. I was pondering these differences and realizing how akin he situation here is to America--hustle bustle for yourself in the big cities, tighter knit communities in the country.
On my way to drop off laundry yesterday, I walked past 3 of the finest hotels the country has to offer--the Pan Pacific, the Diamond and the Hyatt. A stay at any of them would mean a minimum of $150 (US) per night (as opposed to around $18 a night for the room we have in the pension). Impressive to say the least. As I looked up in wonder at the sparkling structures with their formidable view of Manila, I have to weave my way between begging mothers and their children. Clothes are few and far between on the children, as teeth are for the mothers. In Manila, I don't mind dropping various coins or food items in outstretched, malnourished hands. However, my pace is usually quick. I'm uncomfortable walking here. Tagalog is foreign to my tongue and comes off in broken pieces--fragments of "Here you go" or "You're welcome" or all perhaps more often, "Not today, I'm sorry." Eye contact varies according to how guilty I feel.
I wanted to help. I wanted to make a difference in the world. I wanted western materialism behind me. These thoughts echo and bounce in my head with every stride. They weigh on my back, hindering my quick steps past the begging children and their mothers. I walk quicker, the echoes reverberate louder. Help. Others. Away. Materialism. Maybe those thoughts and words are not on my back--maybe they are cradled in my left hand like a precious treasure. All of my thoughts about motives for joining Peace Corps and poverty and helping others and economic disparity and small precious hands reaching out--they are all silenced by the incredibly loud sound made by the coffee dancing around in the telltale white Starbucks cup, clutched greedily in my hand.
I am pathetic. The ideals I claim to possess are much harder for me to swallow than a white mocha cappuccino.
So the question continues to beg answering
I'm afraid. I still don't know.
Why am I here?
Can I really get away from the monster of myself?