Today, as I was walking to this internet cafe, it started raining. Saying that it rains in Bali is like saying the sun shines in Florida. I'd estimate it rains for at least an hour at least every other day. If you like lush greenery, gorgeous rice terraces, and flowing streams you'd love it here. If you dislike being wet a lot, sticky humid heat, and having to duck under the nearest awning to patiently wait out the rain, well, maybe Bali (and the rest of South East Asia) is not your cup o' tea. I bring this up because one of the benefits of traveling is learning perspective.
We all grow up in a bubble. When I was a younger lad in the K-12 school years, the 20 or so square miles that surrounded me seemed like the world. Sure I visited far-away exotic places such as North Dakota, Minnesota, and California, but by and large my world revolved around a small town in northeastern Wyoming. Then I moved to Montana to attend college. Suddenly my environment, my life terrarium, was drastically expanded. I was exposed to new and exciting phenomena, such as living within a 15 minute drive of a ski-resort, eating university-cafeteria food, and learning how to fence (with swords, not with posts and barbed-wire). The world was my oyster. Then, through a series of events, I found myself signing a piece of paper that would eventually fundamentally alter my world-view, what some psychologists would call a "life map". This document, an enlistment into the United States Military, would set into motion a domino effect that would eventually, in the grand picture, bring me to this little internet cafe in a place called Ubud on a small tropical island in the vast country of Indonesia.
Why am I ranting about all this "life-map" and "world-experience" mumbo-jumbo? I'm not sure myself, actually. It could all be related to a conversation I have in my head every now and then about what to expect when traveling in a third-world country. That conversation involves me telling people that you should expect to see at least one rat and/or cockroach in every restaurant you eat and should expect to find at least on hair in every dish you eat. This advice it not intended to gross anyone out. It is fact. These countries simply don't have health inspectors. Even if they did have health inspectors, they could be paid off. A Balinese friend recently confirmed something I've heard from western expats: the police don't want law and order, they just want your money. Translation: officials can be easily paid-off. One blog I heard of actually stated the proper amount to give a cop if stopped for a traffic violation. Amount: 50,000 Rupiah or about $5.50. Think about that. Imagine you're driving along, enjoying a refreshing cappuccino, when you run that red light. Dang, good thing no cars were coming. But a cop saw you, pulled you over, and saunters up to the driver's side window. You go through the formalities and then say something like, "can I just pay a fine now?". The cop says "sure" and you hand him a crumpled up five-dollar bill along with some loose change. Here you are, officer, go buy a donut for yourself.
Anyway, I've gotten off topic. Perspective is such a powerful virtue these days. And traveling provides you with plenty of it. You can get the same thing from enlisting in the military. I experienced this first hand shortly after I returned from Iraq and had decided to visit a local work-wear store. As I was shopping, a man and woman were shouting at the check-out clerk. They were livid that, on a specific article of work-wear, the amount stated on the price tag wasn't the amount that rang up in the machine at checkout. Were these people wrong? No. They were simply living their lives. To them, in line with their perspective, infractions such as incorrect price tags are serious offenses. Much like a person might get irate and throw things if their cheeseburger has onions on it when they specifically requested no onions. Once again, I'm not trying to judge or criticize. We all operate in our own worlds, with our own experiences, histories, desires, wants, and needs. Here's the point to this whole post: I am thankful for being able to travel, to experience a multitude of different cultures each with their own challenges, idiosyncrasies, and oddities. The culture of New Zealand is far different from the culture of Cambodia. But they both contain aspects that make you stop and think "Hey, that's a good idea. Maybe we should all be living like this". On the flip side, they both contain aspects that make you stop and think "Wow, what a backwards place, I'm sure glad my country doesn't do it like this".
I guess I'm writing this to point out the benefit of expanding one's horizons. We don't have to all pack a bag and head off to some third-world country. How about a book? Reading books is a great way to expose yourself to new ideas and cultures. Maybe a an instrument will challenge you and make you think about situations in a new, beneficial light? If I can see something as inane as waiting out a downpour under an awning as an opportunity for perspective (which is to say, sometimes a little rain provides down time for personal reflection) I have hope that we can all help ourselves be better at...life.
All this talk about self-reflection has reminded me of something I wanted to say. I'd like to thank my parents, Sally and Paul, for providing me with the kind of life that has resulted in me being able to spend a long stretch of time backpacking around the world. Without their hard work and good parenting I would never have been able to graduate high school, survive the military, or make it through college. I am the direct benefit of many hours of blood, sweat, and tears suffered by my parents.
That's all for now. I hope everyone is having fun in other parts of the world. Oh, and by the way, the rain has recently resumed. Guess I'm spending a little more time in this internet cafe.
Pat
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Back in Blog
I will begin this blog post by mimicking politicians in the form of making weak apologies and then blaming any shortcomings either on my opponents or factors beyond my control. To wit: I regret not being able to keep up with this blog. It is unfortunate. However, traveling can be so exhausting and the locals in this region simply have not been giving me the material required for a witty and engaging blog. Furthermore, I have been ill with the a cold/the flu/traveler's diah...diore...diare...the shits. Also, leaving the Philippines and moving through Thailand to Laos has given me little time to write entries. Due to the these factors, it is not at all my fault that I have not kept up with my blog and if I am elected president, by the end of my second term we will have permanent blogs being written from the moon.
In all seriousness, though, my motivation for posting on this blog went through a period of waning. Here we go with a new entry!
In my last post I ended with a cliff-hanger about climbing stairs. Here's the story. Around Batad are the most striking rice terraces in the world. They form a sort of huge amphitheater, making a person imagine a crowd of giants filing in to see a rock concert or something. In order to travel up and down the rice terraces concrete staircases have been put in place. However, the staircases do not meet any sort of building code, standard regulation, and certainly are not ADA compliant. The size of the "surface" of each step (the part where you step onto) varies from a generous 12 inches to a hazardous three inches. The "rise" of each step varies from a comfortable six inches to a terrifying two feet! The challenge of the stairs wouldn't be nearly as bad if there were not thousands of them. Seriously. Thousands. The mountainside that the terraces were carved into is steep and gargantuan. In short, climbing the stairs around Batad finds a person muttering curse words under their breath about how the damn waterfall better be amazing or how the view better be f***ing awesome. Batad and the surrounding valley truly were amazing, though. I wish I could have stayed longer, but I was traveling with two Israelis at the time and, unfortunately, one of them came down with an awful illness. This required us to abandon plans for subsequent hikes and beat a retreat back to Banaue.
Two anecdotes about transportation in the Philippines: First, the ride from Batad back to Banaue was in typical Filipino style. Dotan, Noa, and I were piled into/onto a tricycle while the driver shifted and throttled the little engine while wrestling the handlebars of the motorcycle like a cowboy breaking a mustang. Imagine a tiny two-stroke motorcycle putting, sputtering, and spewing with me and three other average-sized people weighing it down. Add to that a landslide (which are common) at which we had to halt while an excavator with only one working track dug away the mountain-side that had slid down and blocked our way. It was interesting to say the least. The second story is more tragic, and involves a 9-hour over-night bus ride on a very cramped bus, with an overweight inebriated local man for a seat mate who kept talking to me in slurred Tagolog and antagonizing the driver by shouting at him whenever the bus got stuck in traffic (this produced angry looks towards the chubby drunk from other passengers), and finally a back-window malfunction that caused the rain to cascade into the back of the bus, thereby providing passengers who were seated in that section with a refreshing cold-water shower. I sure hope the bus company didn't charge them for the shower. Anyway, I can confidently say that it was the most unenjoyable bus ride of my life. But, as they say in Mexico, que sera, sera. Or is it c'est la vie? Wait, that last one's French. Never mind.
Christmas was fun. We spent it in Baguio with a local family eating local Filipino food, the main course of which was a sacrificed pig. I got to see the actual sacrifice, which involved a wooden steak through the heart (no joke) and once again made me realize where the phrase "squeal like a pig" came from. Jema was ill during this time so we didn't do anything really exciting except for movies and eating. After Baguio we bussed to Manila and took a flight to Cebu City in the heart of the Visayas, the island-dotted center of the country. After engaging in a night of karaoke in a college town we took a ferry to Siquijor, a small island said to be inhabited by mystical spirits. Let me pause here and say (yet again) something I thought I'd never say: thank goodness for second-hand smoke. You see, as frequently happens on vessels that move in jerky motions and undulate with erratic waves, some passengers experienced sickness de motion. And, in simple terms, their lunch came up. The offensive smell of regurgitated lunch was, thankfully, masked by the stench of a Frenchman chain smoking nearby.
When Jema and I arrived on the island of Siquijor we boarded a jeepney to take us to our hotel destination. When we arrived at the place, upon disembarking the jeepney, Jema had an accident and suffered a serious sprain of the ankle. So, our remaining time in the Philippines was spent relaxing at the hotel, me taking solo walks around town, Jema resting, and taking her to the local hospital where an x-ray tech took pictures of her injury and may or may not have given us both radiation poisoning.
We traveled back to Cebu city (once again being grateful for cigarette smoke) and celebrated Jema's bday with massages and sushi. Then we boarded a plane and landed in Bangkok, Thailand
That's it for this time. Once again I apologize for the hiatus I took between posts. I hope everyone is doing well in other parts of the world.
In all seriousness, though, my motivation for posting on this blog went through a period of waning. Here we go with a new entry!
In my last post I ended with a cliff-hanger about climbing stairs. Here's the story. Around Batad are the most striking rice terraces in the world. They form a sort of huge amphitheater, making a person imagine a crowd of giants filing in to see a rock concert or something. In order to travel up and down the rice terraces concrete staircases have been put in place. However, the staircases do not meet any sort of building code, standard regulation, and certainly are not ADA compliant. The size of the "surface" of each step (the part where you step onto) varies from a generous 12 inches to a hazardous three inches. The "rise" of each step varies from a comfortable six inches to a terrifying two feet! The challenge of the stairs wouldn't be nearly as bad if there were not thousands of them. Seriously. Thousands. The mountainside that the terraces were carved into is steep and gargantuan. In short, climbing the stairs around Batad finds a person muttering curse words under their breath about how the damn waterfall better be amazing or how the view better be f***ing awesome. Batad and the surrounding valley truly were amazing, though. I wish I could have stayed longer, but I was traveling with two Israelis at the time and, unfortunately, one of them came down with an awful illness. This required us to abandon plans for subsequent hikes and beat a retreat back to Banaue.
Two anecdotes about transportation in the Philippines: First, the ride from Batad back to Banaue was in typical Filipino style. Dotan, Noa, and I were piled into/onto a tricycle while the driver shifted and throttled the little engine while wrestling the handlebars of the motorcycle like a cowboy breaking a mustang. Imagine a tiny two-stroke motorcycle putting, sputtering, and spewing with me and three other average-sized people weighing it down. Add to that a landslide (which are common) at which we had to halt while an excavator with only one working track dug away the mountain-side that had slid down and blocked our way. It was interesting to say the least. The second story is more tragic, and involves a 9-hour over-night bus ride on a very cramped bus, with an overweight inebriated local man for a seat mate who kept talking to me in slurred Tagolog and antagonizing the driver by shouting at him whenever the bus got stuck in traffic (this produced angry looks towards the chubby drunk from other passengers), and finally a back-window malfunction that caused the rain to cascade into the back of the bus, thereby providing passengers who were seated in that section with a refreshing cold-water shower. I sure hope the bus company didn't charge them for the shower. Anyway, I can confidently say that it was the most unenjoyable bus ride of my life. But, as they say in Mexico, que sera, sera. Or is it c'est la vie? Wait, that last one's French. Never mind.
Christmas was fun. We spent it in Baguio with a local family eating local Filipino food, the main course of which was a sacrificed pig. I got to see the actual sacrifice, which involved a wooden steak through the heart (no joke) and once again made me realize where the phrase "squeal like a pig" came from. Jema was ill during this time so we didn't do anything really exciting except for movies and eating. After Baguio we bussed to Manila and took a flight to Cebu City in the heart of the Visayas, the island-dotted center of the country. After engaging in a night of karaoke in a college town we took a ferry to Siquijor, a small island said to be inhabited by mystical spirits. Let me pause here and say (yet again) something I thought I'd never say: thank goodness for second-hand smoke. You see, as frequently happens on vessels that move in jerky motions and undulate with erratic waves, some passengers experienced sickness de motion. And, in simple terms, their lunch came up. The offensive smell of regurgitated lunch was, thankfully, masked by the stench of a Frenchman chain smoking nearby.
When Jema and I arrived on the island of Siquijor we boarded a jeepney to take us to our hotel destination. When we arrived at the place, upon disembarking the jeepney, Jema had an accident and suffered a serious sprain of the ankle. So, our remaining time in the Philippines was spent relaxing at the hotel, me taking solo walks around town, Jema resting, and taking her to the local hospital where an x-ray tech took pictures of her injury and may or may not have given us both radiation poisoning.
We traveled back to Cebu city (once again being grateful for cigarette smoke) and celebrated Jema's bday with massages and sushi. Then we boarded a plane and landed in Bangkok, Thailand
That's it for this time. Once again I apologize for the hiatus I took between posts. I hope everyone is doing well in other parts of the world.
Pat
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Batad, Episode I
Back in November, when I first arrived in Manila, I purchased a guidebook and took some time flipping through it to get an idea about where I wanted to go and what I wanted to see. One section that specifically caught my attention was a couple paragraphs about a small village called Batad. Batad sounded like a serene wonder, a place with wondrous views, far enough off the beaten path to escape from the crowds and tourist trail while not so far off the beaten path as to require loads of cash and time to get there. So, I made a mental note, or rather more of a mental promise, to make it to Batad. I didn't have a concrete plan or any idea really as to how I was going to get there (the guidebook was vague with its directions and every tourist office I visited didn't seem to know where the place was), but I knew that I'd be passing near there eventually. So imagine my delight when Noa and Dotan mentioned that they'd heard about Batad and were interested in going there. Aside from the fact that they seemed like interesting people, this is the reason I made sure we became a traveling trio.
So the day after we saw the Banaue rice terraces, the three of us waved goodbye to the two Norwegians (who had to head back to Manila) and started cookin' up a game plan for the day. We knew that a public jeepney departed for Batad around 3pm, costing P150 per head. We also knew that many tourists tried to group together and hire a private jeepney (with guide/driver) in order to get to Batad earlier in the day. We had become acquainted with one particular guide/driver, named Randee, and he said he was taking a bunch of people up to Batad in the morning for P200. Noa politely declined for us, telling him that we plan on taking the public jeepney later on for P50 less. Randee then came back several minutes later with a counter offer: he would take us up with this group and charge the three of us, and only the three of us, P150, as long as we didn't tell the others that we were getting a better deal. Let me take a minute here to mention something I might not have mentioned as of yet: Israelis love a deal. More often than not they refuse to accept the stated price and will haggle, bargain, and argue on anything. Often times they do in fact get a reduced price on everything from hostel rooms to taxi rides to meals. The point is, it was very advantageous for me to travel with Dotan and Noa, simply because they brokered the deals and I benefited. We each prepared smaller three-day bags and stored our big long-term-travel bags in the hostel storage, and the three of us joined the others and boarded Randee's jeepney (riding up top, of course). After dealing with road construction, slick muddy roads, and several broken down vehicles blocking our way, we finally made it to the Batad Saddle, a collection of craft shops near the start of the hiking trail down to the village.
At this point Randee ceased to be our guide, as he suddenly became busy wrangling other tourists, who had hiked out from Batad that morning, to ride in his jeepney back to Banaue. Dotan, Noa, and I found the start of the trail and descended down into the valley. Let me pause here and tell you want the guidebook says about the area: "The Batad rice terraces are widely believed to be the world's most striking". As we descended into the valley, however, pesky pillows of precipitation partially partitioned the panorama (sorry, I got carried away). We found our hostel (recommended to us by other travelers), and settled in for a day of eating, card-playing, and intermittent view-enjoying. The next day, when the clouds did vacate, the terraces presented themselves in awe-inspiring vistas. What you must realize is Batad is located in a bowl-shaped valley. The valley walls, from floor to ridge, have been carved into steps, and the whole place looks like a stadium for some mythical population of giants. Also, even if the terraces didn't exist, the surrounding mountains are gorgeous in their own right. In short, Batad is cool. I often found myself meandering out to the balcony of the hostel and just staring at the sight before me. It was hard to fathom just how much work it took for the natives of the area to create this awesome expanse of terraces. Not only did they have to dig out the terraces, beforehand they had to clear all the vegetation from the slopes. And after the terraces were formed (or perhaps during) they created elaborate irrigation and drainage systems using nothing but rocks and bamboo. All this was done in a place where, nowadays in these modern times, it takes an uncomfortable 4WD ride plus a one hour hike to get there. Truly impressive.
We made friends with another Israeli couple and one of our days was spent hiking through the mountains to Bangaan, another spectacular site of terraces, similar to Batad but striking in their own way. After lunch at the only restaurant around Bangaan, the five of us caught a jeepney to the Batad Junction, just down the highway. We hiked along the dirt road to the saddle, then down the main trail back into Batad. That night we nursed sore leg muscles with beer and card playing. We stuffed ourselves on fried rice, Dotan played some songs on the guitar, and eventually we all crashed early.
Join in next time for the follow up story, where you can learn how I learned to loathe stairs!
That's all for now. I hope everyone is doing well in other parts of the world. Take care!
Pat
So the day after we saw the Banaue rice terraces, the three of us waved goodbye to the two Norwegians (who had to head back to Manila) and started cookin' up a game plan for the day. We knew that a public jeepney departed for Batad around 3pm, costing P150 per head. We also knew that many tourists tried to group together and hire a private jeepney (with guide/driver) in order to get to Batad earlier in the day. We had become acquainted with one particular guide/driver, named Randee, and he said he was taking a bunch of people up to Batad in the morning for P200. Noa politely declined for us, telling him that we plan on taking the public jeepney later on for P50 less. Randee then came back several minutes later with a counter offer: he would take us up with this group and charge the three of us, and only the three of us, P150, as long as we didn't tell the others that we were getting a better deal. Let me take a minute here to mention something I might not have mentioned as of yet: Israelis love a deal. More often than not they refuse to accept the stated price and will haggle, bargain, and argue on anything. Often times they do in fact get a reduced price on everything from hostel rooms to taxi rides to meals. The point is, it was very advantageous for me to travel with Dotan and Noa, simply because they brokered the deals and I benefited. We each prepared smaller three-day bags and stored our big long-term-travel bags in the hostel storage, and the three of us joined the others and boarded Randee's jeepney (riding up top, of course). After dealing with road construction, slick muddy roads, and several broken down vehicles blocking our way, we finally made it to the Batad Saddle, a collection of craft shops near the start of the hiking trail down to the village.
At this point Randee ceased to be our guide, as he suddenly became busy wrangling other tourists, who had hiked out from Batad that morning, to ride in his jeepney back to Banaue. Dotan, Noa, and I found the start of the trail and descended down into the valley. Let me pause here and tell you want the guidebook says about the area: "The Batad rice terraces are widely believed to be the world's most striking". As we descended into the valley, however, pesky pillows of precipitation partially partitioned the panorama (sorry, I got carried away). We found our hostel (recommended to us by other travelers), and settled in for a day of eating, card-playing, and intermittent view-enjoying. The next day, when the clouds did vacate, the terraces presented themselves in awe-inspiring vistas. What you must realize is Batad is located in a bowl-shaped valley. The valley walls, from floor to ridge, have been carved into steps, and the whole place looks like a stadium for some mythical population of giants. Also, even if the terraces didn't exist, the surrounding mountains are gorgeous in their own right. In short, Batad is cool. I often found myself meandering out to the balcony of the hostel and just staring at the sight before me. It was hard to fathom just how much work it took for the natives of the area to create this awesome expanse of terraces. Not only did they have to dig out the terraces, beforehand they had to clear all the vegetation from the slopes. And after the terraces were formed (or perhaps during) they created elaborate irrigation and drainage systems using nothing but rocks and bamboo. All this was done in a place where, nowadays in these modern times, it takes an uncomfortable 4WD ride plus a one hour hike to get there. Truly impressive.
We made friends with another Israeli couple and one of our days was spent hiking through the mountains to Bangaan, another spectacular site of terraces, similar to Batad but striking in their own way. After lunch at the only restaurant around Bangaan, the five of us caught a jeepney to the Batad Junction, just down the highway. We hiked along the dirt road to the saddle, then down the main trail back into Batad. That night we nursed sore leg muscles with beer and card playing. We stuffed ourselves on fried rice, Dotan played some songs on the guitar, and eventually we all crashed early.
Join in next time for the follow up story, where you can learn how I learned to loathe stairs!
That's all for now. I hope everyone is doing well in other parts of the world. Take care!
Pat
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
The Tourist Scramble (with rice and ketchup)
My traveling companions, Noa and Dotan, and I arrived in Banaue with a rough plan of our agenda for the next few days. To get more information we stopped in at the Tourist Information Center. The man behind the counter began to describe to us the various sites and treks around Banaue. We soon noticed, however, that he was less giving us "information" and more giving us a sales pitch for his friends who just happened to be guides. At one point he even said something to the effect of "You could do this tour with a guide for...let me see...I could go as low as...only P800". It soon became clear that we were wasting our time and politely excused ourselves. That night the three of us hashed out a game plan. In the morning we would cut a deal with one of the independent guides who were constantly roaming around the hostels, and at the same time we would nab other travelers to join our group, thereby decreasing the individual cost for each person. Noa found a guide who would take us to some hot springs and lookout points for P4,000. I ambushed two Norwegian guys during breakfast who had just arrived on the overnight bus from Manila and were just dazed and confused enough to be talked into joining our tour, but not so tired from the bus ride as to want to immediately find a bed and crash. So, with the addition of Nils and Christian (the Norwegians) we were now four (Dotan was ill and would be staying behind). Meanwhile, two French women whom we had met were planning on leaving Banaue that day for Manila, but were sympathetic to our plight and helped us conspire to rope in a French couple. After speaking with Phillip and his wife (the French) we now totaled six. The guide said our departure time was fast approaching, so I ran upstairs to my room to hurriedly pack a day bag with water, snacks, sunscreen, etc. By the time I returned downstaris, Noa told me our group had nearly doubled in size to eleven. Somewhere in the mix, she told me, her and I had ditched our original guide and attached ourselves to the guide that Phillip had been negotiating with. Our final group consisted of one Israeli, two Norwegians, a smattering of Belgian and French, and yours truly. Phew! The constant cajoling, convincing, and negotiating of the morning had me fired up for the tour.
After everyone else was inside the jeepney, Noa and I climbed onto the top, so as to better enjoy the epic views. Others in the group then decided that our idea was less crazy that it sounded, so they left the cramped inside of the vehicle to join us up top. The ride was absolutely spectacular, as the rugged area is peppered with rice terraces. The view was impressive enough to keep my mind off the bone-jarring ride on the severely ill-maintained mountain road. Seriously. Put a vehicle with no shock absorption on a road that causes you to feel like you're inside a cocktail shaker, and you get the idea. We eventually arrived at a lookout point, where everyone snapped photos and attempted to realign their spines. From the lookout the guide took us along a path through the rice terraces, where, in barely intelligible English, he explained some interesting facts about the process of planting and harvesting rice. During all this I felt sorry for the French people, how also had only a rudimentary mastery of English. I realized that I may be the only one on this tour who's understanding what they guide is saying. If I have to strain my ear and connect the dots with his pronunciation and vocabulary, how can the non-native English speakers understand? Once again, I felt lucky to have English as a first language
We arrived at the hot springs a little while later feeling...hot. The hike through the stuffy, humid climate made the springs less attractive than they had been earlier. However, nearby was a rushing river and I dashed off to see if I could locate a calm pool where someone could take a refreshing dip. Upon finding a suitable place, I ran back to the hot springs, changed into my swimming suit, and excitedly told everyone what I'd found. Let's just say everyone were less than thrilled. Apparently no one, not even the Norwegians, liked the thought immersing themselves into an ice-cold river. Come on! You're from Norway! Aren't you all born in a snowbank up there? Anyway, after I alternated between the cold river and hot spring a few times, while everyone else just sat in the boring hot spring, the guide told us it was time to move on.
We returned to the jeepney and rode to several more lookout points, each one providing awe-inspiring views of the rice terraces. It was humbling to imagine the local people carving the terraces out of the mountain with just crude shovels. Some of the terraces are around 2,000 years old. It made me think of how I always complained when my parents made me shovel snow as a kid. Or about how I thought working construction during my high school summers was hard work. Shoveling concrete all day pales in comparison to moving tons of dirt by hand and hauling river rocks up mountains for years and years to just provide rice for your family.
That night some of us went to a local bar, where a three-person band amazed us with their musical talent. The guys were singing everything from Eric Clapton to Toby Keith to Guns N Roses. And they were good. Very good. Dotan and I couldn't stop marveling at their talent. It was because we were so impressed that, during a break in the set, Dotan approached the lead singer as he was ordering a beer from the bar. Dotan complemented the guy on how good he was and asked him a question about a song he'd played earlier in the night. In response to Dotan's question, the lead singer replied with...a blank stare. It turns out that the guy can't speak English. At All. Later on we would learn from a local that the cover bands in this country (and there are many) learn the chords and master the lyrical pronunciation of all the famous American singers. But that's all they master. They can nail a Pearl Jam song or sound exactly like Jon Bon Jovi, but wouldn't understand you if you asked "Where's the bathroom?" I find this a very ironic quirk of the Filipino culture. It would be like if I perfected Feliz Navidad or The Macarena, but didn't understand a lick of Spanish. I'm still baffled by it.
Sometime during the night Nils and I had an interesting conversation about ketchup. You see, in the Philippines when you order ketchup you don't get tomato ketchup. What comes to your table is actually banana ketchup. Only it's still red. For some reason, most likely due to the lack of tomatoes and surplus of bananas, condiment manufactures have somehow managed to create banana ketchup that looks like the real thing with only a slightly different taste. I thought back to New Zealand and remembered that the ketchup there, which was tomatoes, also tasted slightly different than American ketchup. Nils then told me that Norwegian ketchup tasted different as well. He told me he loves Norwegian ketchup but can't stand Danish ketchup, even though Denmark is right next door to Norway. This got me thinking. If ketchup tastes different in every country, it would be interesting to gather ketchups from all around the world and sample them. There could be a World Ketchup Festival where people could sample ketchups on french fries, burgers, and hotdogs. Then, there would be a taste test. One ketchup would be designated the King of Ketchups. Also, I wonder, if ketchup in the USA, New Zealand, The Philippines, Norway, and Denmark all taste different, then every ketchup in every country has to be different than all the others. Fascinating. What does Indian ketchup taste like? How about ketchup from Uganda? Is there a ketchup unique to the Vatican? I'll keep everyone posted on the ketchup issue when I have the opportunity to try the condiment in other countries.
After everyone else was inside the jeepney, Noa and I climbed onto the top, so as to better enjoy the epic views. Others in the group then decided that our idea was less crazy that it sounded, so they left the cramped inside of the vehicle to join us up top. The ride was absolutely spectacular, as the rugged area is peppered with rice terraces. The view was impressive enough to keep my mind off the bone-jarring ride on the severely ill-maintained mountain road. Seriously. Put a vehicle with no shock absorption on a road that causes you to feel like you're inside a cocktail shaker, and you get the idea. We eventually arrived at a lookout point, where everyone snapped photos and attempted to realign their spines. From the lookout the guide took us along a path through the rice terraces, where, in barely intelligible English, he explained some interesting facts about the process of planting and harvesting rice. During all this I felt sorry for the French people, how also had only a rudimentary mastery of English. I realized that I may be the only one on this tour who's understanding what they guide is saying. If I have to strain my ear and connect the dots with his pronunciation and vocabulary, how can the non-native English speakers understand? Once again, I felt lucky to have English as a first language
We arrived at the hot springs a little while later feeling...hot. The hike through the stuffy, humid climate made the springs less attractive than they had been earlier. However, nearby was a rushing river and I dashed off to see if I could locate a calm pool where someone could take a refreshing dip. Upon finding a suitable place, I ran back to the hot springs, changed into my swimming suit, and excitedly told everyone what I'd found. Let's just say everyone were less than thrilled. Apparently no one, not even the Norwegians, liked the thought immersing themselves into an ice-cold river. Come on! You're from Norway! Aren't you all born in a snowbank up there? Anyway, after I alternated between the cold river and hot spring a few times, while everyone else just sat in the boring hot spring, the guide told us it was time to move on.
We returned to the jeepney and rode to several more lookout points, each one providing awe-inspiring views of the rice terraces. It was humbling to imagine the local people carving the terraces out of the mountain with just crude shovels. Some of the terraces are around 2,000 years old. It made me think of how I always complained when my parents made me shovel snow as a kid. Or about how I thought working construction during my high school summers was hard work. Shoveling concrete all day pales in comparison to moving tons of dirt by hand and hauling river rocks up mountains for years and years to just provide rice for your family.
That night some of us went to a local bar, where a three-person band amazed us with their musical talent. The guys were singing everything from Eric Clapton to Toby Keith to Guns N Roses. And they were good. Very good. Dotan and I couldn't stop marveling at their talent. It was because we were so impressed that, during a break in the set, Dotan approached the lead singer as he was ordering a beer from the bar. Dotan complemented the guy on how good he was and asked him a question about a song he'd played earlier in the night. In response to Dotan's question, the lead singer replied with...a blank stare. It turns out that the guy can't speak English. At All. Later on we would learn from a local that the cover bands in this country (and there are many) learn the chords and master the lyrical pronunciation of all the famous American singers. But that's all they master. They can nail a Pearl Jam song or sound exactly like Jon Bon Jovi, but wouldn't understand you if you asked "Where's the bathroom?" I find this a very ironic quirk of the Filipino culture. It would be like if I perfected Feliz Navidad or The Macarena, but didn't understand a lick of Spanish. I'm still baffled by it.
Sometime during the night Nils and I had an interesting conversation about ketchup. You see, in the Philippines when you order ketchup you don't get tomato ketchup. What comes to your table is actually banana ketchup. Only it's still red. For some reason, most likely due to the lack of tomatoes and surplus of bananas, condiment manufactures have somehow managed to create banana ketchup that looks like the real thing with only a slightly different taste. I thought back to New Zealand and remembered that the ketchup there, which was tomatoes, also tasted slightly different than American ketchup. Nils then told me that Norwegian ketchup tasted different as well. He told me he loves Norwegian ketchup but can't stand Danish ketchup, even though Denmark is right next door to Norway. This got me thinking. If ketchup tastes different in every country, it would be interesting to gather ketchups from all around the world and sample them. There could be a World Ketchup Festival where people could sample ketchups on french fries, burgers, and hotdogs. Then, there would be a taste test. One ketchup would be designated the King of Ketchups. Also, I wonder, if ketchup in the USA, New Zealand, The Philippines, Norway, and Denmark all taste different, then every ketchup in every country has to be different than all the others. Fascinating. What does Indian ketchup taste like? How about ketchup from Uganda? Is there a ketchup unique to the Vatican? I'll keep everyone posted on the ketchup issue when I have the opportunity to try the condiment in other countries.
That's all for now. I hope everyone is doing well in their parts of the world. Take care!
Pat
Monday, December 26, 2011
Exit Sagada, Enter Bontoc
My last post left off with me feeling sore from a cave tour, whining about cockroaches, and describing the taste and texture of dog meat. That was two weeks ago. What follows is the first installment of a three-part account of my journey from Sagada deeper into the mountains (and amazing scenery) of Mountain Province and Ifugao Province of the Philippines. I hope you enjoy.
After exploring the caves I met two Israeli women who asked me what my plans were during my remaining time in Sagada. I informed them that my plan was to hike through the Echo Valley the following day. We had small talk about our travels and local restaurants before they left to get situated in the hostel and explore the town. Unbeknownst to me, these two Israelis (Rotem and Lior) met a German couple in town, and, after the Germans asked them of their plans, Rotem and Lior said "We're going hiking tomorrow with an American guy. He doesn't know it yet, but we are going with him." Later that night when I saw Rotem she told me about the Germans and we agreed on a time to meet in the morning. So the next day Rotem, Lior and I met up with Felix and Birgit (the Germans who currently live in Zurich), and headed out of town for some hiking. Rotem mentioned that a third Israeli woman she had met would be joining us, and we waited for Noa outside her hostel. Noa's husband Dotan was ill, so he would stay back, recuperating in bed. The six of us found the start of the trail and headed into the valley. After getting lost a few times we found the famous hanging coffins of Sagada. Local tribes prefer to stuff their dead into small wooden coffins and hang them from cliffs, rather than burying them in the ground. This sort of dehydrated-beef-jerky-style of interment is reserved only for the most revered members of society, and requires the family of the deceased to sacrifice 20 pigs and 60 chickens in order to appease the gods. If one does not possess high status within the tribe, or they don't have the required number of livestock for sacrifice, they are buried in the ground unceremoniously without a coffin. Some coffins hanging from the cliff are nearly 2,000 years old.
Moving on from the coffins, we soon came across a creek that required a shoe-wetting crossing, then found a steep hill with a length of irrigation pipe running along the trail, which looked quite inviting as a rope to pull oneself up the hill with. After going first up the hill, Felix discovered that the irrigation pipe actually was intended to be used a rope, as it was anchored to a rock at the top and too damaged to be used for irrigation. Leave it to the Filipinos to be the ultimate recyclers. A couple hours later our group found the highway, which is were the trail terminates, thereby avoiding a fate warned of in the guidebook which said "some tourists who enter Echo Valley for a leisurely day hike return hours later covered in mud with pine needles and thorns sticking out of their hair." A visit to a nearby waterfall, with a refreshing dip into the cold water, rounded out the day. The following day had us planning to visit a big waterfall a 20 minute jeep ride from town. After catching a jeep to the trail head and guide-hiring center, we were informed that the big waterfall was closed: some kind of local holiday. Now, I have the utmost respect for local cultures and traditions. What I don't have respect for, is when, before departing in the jeepney, we informed the Sagada tourist center that we were headed for the big water fall. No mention of a holiday. Also, when boarding the jeepney we informed the driver that we intended to visit the big waterfall and he mentioned nothing about the falls being closed. Frustrating to say the least. We all managed to salvage the day by visiting the entrance and exit of the caves I had toured (no one in the group was interested in the physically demanding, claustrophobic cave tour). That night we roasted marshmallows and potatoes over a camp fire at the hostel, sharing our fun with a large group of Easter Europeans (mostly Serbs, Bosnians, and Hungarians) who had arrived in Sagada that day.
The next day Dotan, Noa, and I said goodbye to Felix, Birgit, Rotem, and Lior and we hopped on a jeep for a one-hour ride to Bontoc. Bontoc is a slightly bigger town, much busier and crowded than Sagada. Our sole purpose for spending an afternoon in Bontoc was to visit the Bontoc museum, which we had heard was among the best in the Philippines. It was a nice place, with the small display on the local headhunting tradition (complete with grisly photos) being both fascinating and disturbing. After the museum the three of us haggled and bargained with a private van, a jeepney, and a bus for transportation to the final destination of Banaue. The bus won out, not because of price, but because of comfort. We were off to the iconic town of Banaue, with its world famous rice terraces, for some epic trekking and scenery.
Here's my requisite gripe for this post. In the Philippines, not only is personal space non-existent, but carelessly bumping into people is an accepted part of everyday life. It still shocks me when I'll be walking down the sidewalk and people will be nudging and bumping me left and right. When I first experienced this I suspected I was being pick-pocketed. But because I keep nothing in my pockets, and because the offenders run the gamut from young to old and poor to affluent, I realized that it is, in fact, just a normal occurrence. I can handle the bumping when I'm walking, but when I'm sitting down at a restaurant or internet cafe and little children are constantly smacking in to my chair it gets irritating. It's hard to concentrate on writing a blog post when every 10 seconds a small kid comes blasting past my chair with no effort to avoid said chair. The kid's elbows, shoulders, and head will strike me and/or the chair and a small flame of annoyance flairs up inside of me.
While I'm discussing blogging, I'll expound on the complaint to describe the environment of the average internet cafe. Most families in the Philippines simply cannot afford a computer. It's way beyond their daily budget when most people I've met say they earn an average of $10 per day. But the internet cafe fills the technological gap. Every small town has at least one, and big cities like Baguio have one on nearly every block. However, these places are not calm and serene, filled with people doing homework, researching interesting topics, or looking up basketball scores. No, internet cafes are crammed with young boys, aged 5 to 15, playing any number of video games. Most are playing World of Warcraft, others play first-person-shooters. And they're playing online. Each kid is competing against the other kids around him, so the shouting, taunting, gloating is almost always at a fever pitch. Add to this equation about five additional kids standing at each computer, watching the action on screen and voicing their opinions and dissents on strategy and tactics. You get the picture. Here sits a quiet, mild-mannered American guy reading the news, learning about the death of Kim Jong-Il or reading the latest developments in the GOP race, while around him the world is swirling like a hurricane as gaming-obsessed kids are engrossed in fantasy combat with their peers. I'm reminded of the Seinfeld episode where Frank Costanza throws up his hands in exasperation and declares "Serenity now!". That's how I feel sometimes.
That's all for now. I hope everyone is doing well in their parts of the world. And I hope everyone had a very Merry Christmas. Take care!
Pat
After exploring the caves I met two Israeli women who asked me what my plans were during my remaining time in Sagada. I informed them that my plan was to hike through the Echo Valley the following day. We had small talk about our travels and local restaurants before they left to get situated in the hostel and explore the town. Unbeknownst to me, these two Israelis (Rotem and Lior) met a German couple in town, and, after the Germans asked them of their plans, Rotem and Lior said "We're going hiking tomorrow with an American guy. He doesn't know it yet, but we are going with him." Later that night when I saw Rotem she told me about the Germans and we agreed on a time to meet in the morning. So the next day Rotem, Lior and I met up with Felix and Birgit (the Germans who currently live in Zurich), and headed out of town for some hiking. Rotem mentioned that a third Israeli woman she had met would be joining us, and we waited for Noa outside her hostel. Noa's husband Dotan was ill, so he would stay back, recuperating in bed. The six of us found the start of the trail and headed into the valley. After getting lost a few times we found the famous hanging coffins of Sagada. Local tribes prefer to stuff their dead into small wooden coffins and hang them from cliffs, rather than burying them in the ground. This sort of dehydrated-beef-jerky-style of interment is reserved only for the most revered members of society, and requires the family of the deceased to sacrifice 20 pigs and 60 chickens in order to appease the gods. If one does not possess high status within the tribe, or they don't have the required number of livestock for sacrifice, they are buried in the ground unceremoniously without a coffin. Some coffins hanging from the cliff are nearly 2,000 years old.
Moving on from the coffins, we soon came across a creek that required a shoe-wetting crossing, then found a steep hill with a length of irrigation pipe running along the trail, which looked quite inviting as a rope to pull oneself up the hill with. After going first up the hill, Felix discovered that the irrigation pipe actually was intended to be used a rope, as it was anchored to a rock at the top and too damaged to be used for irrigation. Leave it to the Filipinos to be the ultimate recyclers. A couple hours later our group found the highway, which is were the trail terminates, thereby avoiding a fate warned of in the guidebook which said "some tourists who enter Echo Valley for a leisurely day hike return hours later covered in mud with pine needles and thorns sticking out of their hair." A visit to a nearby waterfall, with a refreshing dip into the cold water, rounded out the day. The following day had us planning to visit a big waterfall a 20 minute jeep ride from town. After catching a jeep to the trail head and guide-hiring center, we were informed that the big waterfall was closed: some kind of local holiday. Now, I have the utmost respect for local cultures and traditions. What I don't have respect for, is when, before departing in the jeepney, we informed the Sagada tourist center that we were headed for the big water fall. No mention of a holiday. Also, when boarding the jeepney we informed the driver that we intended to visit the big waterfall and he mentioned nothing about the falls being closed. Frustrating to say the least. We all managed to salvage the day by visiting the entrance and exit of the caves I had toured (no one in the group was interested in the physically demanding, claustrophobic cave tour). That night we roasted marshmallows and potatoes over a camp fire at the hostel, sharing our fun with a large group of Easter Europeans (mostly Serbs, Bosnians, and Hungarians) who had arrived in Sagada that day.
The next day Dotan, Noa, and I said goodbye to Felix, Birgit, Rotem, and Lior and we hopped on a jeep for a one-hour ride to Bontoc. Bontoc is a slightly bigger town, much busier and crowded than Sagada. Our sole purpose for spending an afternoon in Bontoc was to visit the Bontoc museum, which we had heard was among the best in the Philippines. It was a nice place, with the small display on the local headhunting tradition (complete with grisly photos) being both fascinating and disturbing. After the museum the three of us haggled and bargained with a private van, a jeepney, and a bus for transportation to the final destination of Banaue. The bus won out, not because of price, but because of comfort. We were off to the iconic town of Banaue, with its world famous rice terraces, for some epic trekking and scenery.
Here's my requisite gripe for this post. In the Philippines, not only is personal space non-existent, but carelessly bumping into people is an accepted part of everyday life. It still shocks me when I'll be walking down the sidewalk and people will be nudging and bumping me left and right. When I first experienced this I suspected I was being pick-pocketed. But because I keep nothing in my pockets, and because the offenders run the gamut from young to old and poor to affluent, I realized that it is, in fact, just a normal occurrence. I can handle the bumping when I'm walking, but when I'm sitting down at a restaurant or internet cafe and little children are constantly smacking in to my chair it gets irritating. It's hard to concentrate on writing a blog post when every 10 seconds a small kid comes blasting past my chair with no effort to avoid said chair. The kid's elbows, shoulders, and head will strike me and/or the chair and a small flame of annoyance flairs up inside of me.
While I'm discussing blogging, I'll expound on the complaint to describe the environment of the average internet cafe. Most families in the Philippines simply cannot afford a computer. It's way beyond their daily budget when most people I've met say they earn an average of $10 per day. But the internet cafe fills the technological gap. Every small town has at least one, and big cities like Baguio have one on nearly every block. However, these places are not calm and serene, filled with people doing homework, researching interesting topics, or looking up basketball scores. No, internet cafes are crammed with young boys, aged 5 to 15, playing any number of video games. Most are playing World of Warcraft, others play first-person-shooters. And they're playing online. Each kid is competing against the other kids around him, so the shouting, taunting, gloating is almost always at a fever pitch. Add to this equation about five additional kids standing at each computer, watching the action on screen and voicing their opinions and dissents on strategy and tactics. You get the picture. Here sits a quiet, mild-mannered American guy reading the news, learning about the death of Kim Jong-Il or reading the latest developments in the GOP race, while around him the world is swirling like a hurricane as gaming-obsessed kids are engrossed in fantasy combat with their peers. I'm reminded of the Seinfeld episode where Frank Costanza throws up his hands in exasperation and declares "Serenity now!". That's how I feel sometimes.
That's all for now. I hope everyone is doing well in their parts of the world. And I hope everyone had a very Merry Christmas. Take care!
Pat
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Big Man, Little Cave
First, apologies that I haven't written in so long. I think most people, with most projects they've undertaken, go through phases where they're very productive and phases where they aren't so productive. I've been doing things but just haven't had the motivation to sit down and write about them. So, without further delay:
Let me say that I am utterly wiped out. This morning I went on a cave tour. For more than three hours I climbed up cave formations, scurried across giant boulders, threaded myself through extremely narrow openings, climbed down cave formations, swam through underground rivers, slid around on my butt, crawled on all-fours, and bonked my head no more than two times during the whole ordeal. Despite the physical exhaustion that I'm feeling right now, the cave tour was definitely worth the time and money and I'd do it again in a heart beat (albeit with a few days' recovery). My companions on the tour were three nice Filipinos from Manila who took a vacation together up here in Sagada. The fifth member of our group was Igon-ay, a local man who served as cave guide and bearer of light (he carried a gas lantern for us to see). Fortunately for me, I wasn't quite too big for some areas of this cave, although one time I came very close to getting stuck. As the title of this blog alludes, there were several areas where the 6'7" American guy had to resort to moves that resembled a circus contortionist. However, other areas of the cave were cavernous and awe-inspiring. And water. Water was everywhere. From cascades that seemed to come out of the ceiling to swift streams slowly carving out patterns in the boulders to a large deep pool where one could take a dip and shock the system with a surprisingly low water temperature at the same time. I loved it. What I will not be loving, however, is tomorrow. I anticipate the onset of a medial condition known as "acute muscle soreness". I'll most likely be sitting down, reading my book, and drinking tea most of the day tomorrow.
Before Sagada I had the opportunity to meet up with Jema in Baguio after finding out via facebook that we'd just happen to be in the same place at the same time. We spent a couple of days hanging out together and spending time with some of Jema's friends (and my friends now, I guess) who live in the area. Highlights included a meal of rice and dog meat (dog meat is bland and quite greasy, though surprisingly tender), sampling a myriad of other Filipino dishes (stuff I was always scared to try because, quite frankly, it's difficult to tell what's actually in the dish), and driving 1 hour down to the coast to visit a resort/casino complex (no gambling for me). Jema and I will rendezvous again on the 23rd and spend Christmas in Baguio before flying to the Visayas, which is a huge island group in the middle of the country. I'm looking forward to some island fun in the sun.
Here's my gripe for the day: cockroaches. They are everywhere. Not everywhere as in "blanketing the floor like fresh-fallen snow". Rather more like "I see at least one-a-day crawl out from a hole in the wall". I know what you're thinking: Well, seeing one-per-day isn't exactly "everywhere". But for a guy from Wyoming who had never seen a cockroach until traveling outside the US at the age of 22, seeing cockroaches everyday counts as "everywhere" in my book. The kicker is this: the locals don't seem to mind. I was eating in a restaurant recently when I spied a rather large cockroach moving across the floor. A waitress happened to be passing the table so I pointed it out to her. She nodded her head and said "oh" and continued walking towards the kitchen. Only after she returned from the kitchen did she make a feeble attempt to look under some chairs. By that time, though, the bug had done a disappearing act back into its hidy-hole somewhere. I know I may sound like an affluent westerner by complaining about a common third-world annoyance, but I believe everyone here could do without the cockroaches.
Stray dogs are everywhere. As mentioned earlier, I had the opportunity to try dog meat (some of you may be questioning my use of the word "opportunity"). That experience, combined with seeing stray dogs all over the streets (Jema recounted a story to me when a local told her that "every dog you see will be eaten eventually"), can possibly change a person's overall thoughts about canines. While dogs are usually viewed solely as lovable pets, often known as "man's best friend", another description has been added to the list: lunch. I've always known that some cultures eat dogs, and that some Americans in the early history of our country did the same, but I've never seen it nor experienced it until coming to the Philippines. To my knowledge, dog meat was something eaten by primitive bush tribes, not city-dwellers with growling stomachs. The meat is served in most eateries here, although discretely, because technically its against the law to serve it. Let me be clear by saying that I only ate the dog meat as a cultural experience, and won't eat it again. It's greasy, the chunks of meat are tiny, and all the dogs I see on the street (that end up on the plate) are emaciated strays. Give me a chicken leg or T-bone and I'll dig in. However, this brings up a good question. Why have we westerners pegged the title of "edible" onto some animals and not others. How is a chicken more suitable to be eaten for dinner, shake-n-bake style, than so many other animals? For someone who grew up eating wild game, I can see how animals other than the big three (beef, chicken, and pork) could also make a delicious meal. I'm sure residents of the Bayou, whom I've hard regularly dine on alligator, would agree with me.
That's all for today. I hope everyone is doing well in other parts of the world. Take care!
Pat
Let me say that I am utterly wiped out. This morning I went on a cave tour. For more than three hours I climbed up cave formations, scurried across giant boulders, threaded myself through extremely narrow openings, climbed down cave formations, swam through underground rivers, slid around on my butt, crawled on all-fours, and bonked my head no more than two times during the whole ordeal. Despite the physical exhaustion that I'm feeling right now, the cave tour was definitely worth the time and money and I'd do it again in a heart beat (albeit with a few days' recovery). My companions on the tour were three nice Filipinos from Manila who took a vacation together up here in Sagada. The fifth member of our group was Igon-ay, a local man who served as cave guide and bearer of light (he carried a gas lantern for us to see). Fortunately for me, I wasn't quite too big for some areas of this cave, although one time I came very close to getting stuck. As the title of this blog alludes, there were several areas where the 6'7" American guy had to resort to moves that resembled a circus contortionist. However, other areas of the cave were cavernous and awe-inspiring. And water. Water was everywhere. From cascades that seemed to come out of the ceiling to swift streams slowly carving out patterns in the boulders to a large deep pool where one could take a dip and shock the system with a surprisingly low water temperature at the same time. I loved it. What I will not be loving, however, is tomorrow. I anticipate the onset of a medial condition known as "acute muscle soreness". I'll most likely be sitting down, reading my book, and drinking tea most of the day tomorrow.
Before Sagada I had the opportunity to meet up with Jema in Baguio after finding out via facebook that we'd just happen to be in the same place at the same time. We spent a couple of days hanging out together and spending time with some of Jema's friends (and my friends now, I guess) who live in the area. Highlights included a meal of rice and dog meat (dog meat is bland and quite greasy, though surprisingly tender), sampling a myriad of other Filipino dishes (stuff I was always scared to try because, quite frankly, it's difficult to tell what's actually in the dish), and driving 1 hour down to the coast to visit a resort/casino complex (no gambling for me). Jema and I will rendezvous again on the 23rd and spend Christmas in Baguio before flying to the Visayas, which is a huge island group in the middle of the country. I'm looking forward to some island fun in the sun.
Here's my gripe for the day: cockroaches. They are everywhere. Not everywhere as in "blanketing the floor like fresh-fallen snow". Rather more like "I see at least one-a-day crawl out from a hole in the wall". I know what you're thinking: Well, seeing one-per-day isn't exactly "everywhere". But for a guy from Wyoming who had never seen a cockroach until traveling outside the US at the age of 22, seeing cockroaches everyday counts as "everywhere" in my book. The kicker is this: the locals don't seem to mind. I was eating in a restaurant recently when I spied a rather large cockroach moving across the floor. A waitress happened to be passing the table so I pointed it out to her. She nodded her head and said "oh" and continued walking towards the kitchen. Only after she returned from the kitchen did she make a feeble attempt to look under some chairs. By that time, though, the bug had done a disappearing act back into its hidy-hole somewhere. I know I may sound like an affluent westerner by complaining about a common third-world annoyance, but I believe everyone here could do without the cockroaches.
Stray dogs are everywhere. As mentioned earlier, I had the opportunity to try dog meat (some of you may be questioning my use of the word "opportunity"). That experience, combined with seeing stray dogs all over the streets (Jema recounted a story to me when a local told her that "every dog you see will be eaten eventually"), can possibly change a person's overall thoughts about canines. While dogs are usually viewed solely as lovable pets, often known as "man's best friend", another description has been added to the list: lunch. I've always known that some cultures eat dogs, and that some Americans in the early history of our country did the same, but I've never seen it nor experienced it until coming to the Philippines. To my knowledge, dog meat was something eaten by primitive bush tribes, not city-dwellers with growling stomachs. The meat is served in most eateries here, although discretely, because technically its against the law to serve it. Let me be clear by saying that I only ate the dog meat as a cultural experience, and won't eat it again. It's greasy, the chunks of meat are tiny, and all the dogs I see on the street (that end up on the plate) are emaciated strays. Give me a chicken leg or T-bone and I'll dig in. However, this brings up a good question. Why have we westerners pegged the title of "edible" onto some animals and not others. How is a chicken more suitable to be eaten for dinner, shake-n-bake style, than so many other animals? For someone who grew up eating wild game, I can see how animals other than the big three (beef, chicken, and pork) could also make a delicious meal. I'm sure residents of the Bayou, whom I've hard regularly dine on alligator, would agree with me.
That's all for today. I hope everyone is doing well in other parts of the world. Take care!
Pat
Monday, December 5, 2011
"Check Please" and Chicken Bones
In order to familiarize myself with Filipino culture I consult my guidebook quite frequently. It explains important things about how to act in day-to-day life that come in handy to smooth-over most situations, such as checking into a hotel, ordering food, or, let's just say for example, asking for the bill in a restaurant. It's this last one that had me hung up for a while.
The guidebook described the usual Filipino way to ask for the bill as "get the attention of your server and extend your thumb and index fingers in the shape of a rectangle". So, after finishing my meal at my first restaurant outing, I raised my right hand in the air and extended my thumb and index finger and curled up the other three fingers to get them out of the way. I positioned the two aforementioned fingers parallel to each other to make a rough three-sided rectangle shape, much like if I was about to pick up a small object by pinching it. You can imagine my surprise when the waitress looked at me in confusion and came over to see what I was gesturing for. Hello? Isn't this the normal way to ask for the bill? When she walked up to me I put my hand down and said "may I have the bill, please?" Again, a blank stare. It took a few more tries until she said something to the affect of "oh, you want the beel." Yes, sorry. Not the bill, but the beel. Again, there's the small variance in pronunciation that can make a huge difference. I was slightly annoyed that my guidebook had given me false advice, but chose to put this particular episode behind me. A few days later, at another restaurant, I decided to give the fingers-in-rectangle-shape another try. But again, the waiter didn't understand what I wanted. Come on people, doesn't this mean BILL. I wanted to open up my guidebook and point to the paragraph and say "Look, it says it right here". In the following couple of weeks I repeatedly tried to use the rectangle-finger method to ask for the bill, only to get the waiter come rushing over asking me what I needed. Dang it! I need the bill! My frustration was building. I began to think that maybe this method had fallen out of fashion. After all, the guidebook was published in 2009. Maybe in the last two years the rectangle-finger method has been banned, outlawed. Am I committing some sort of faux pas by flashing this gesture which was perfectly socially acceptable two years ago but is now considered the equivalent of flipping the bird? Should I expose my ignorance and ask the nearest stranger why the heck I get confused looks when I execute the recommend rectangle-finger method? I was so confused.
The light bulb moment came one day when I was eating at a pizza place. I had long since abandoned all attempts at using the rectangle-finger method and was now just saying the world "beel" whenever the server got within earshot. I had finished eating a delicious pepperoni pizza and was ready to leave when I looked over and saw a man at a nearby table getting the server's attention. To the untrained eye it appeared he was setting up a make-shift goal post so someone could kick an almond-sized football through his hands. To my fully trained eye, however, all the confusing and perplexing situations of the past came flooding out of my brain and an energizing enlightenment took over. OHHHHH! You don't make the rectangle with one hand. You make "L" shapes with the thumb and index fingers on each hand, then touch the thumb tips together! OHHHHH! Ha ha ha. That's why all those servers never had a clue that I was asking for the bill. All this time I was showing them a hand gesture that makes absolutely no sense. They probably thought I had a hand cramp or something. I was excited to try it out for myself. I poised myself to flash the correct sign, and after catching the attention of my waitress I confidently showed her the correct hand signal. She knew exactly what I was saying. Phew! And I didn't even have to say "beel".
I'm currently staying at a hostel in Baguio where I've stayed before. This place is nice and clean, with a small restaurant on the first floor as an added bonus. I eat there a lot because the prices are modest and some of the food is good. Because I've been thoroughly unimpressed with Filipino food I usually order the Chicken Curry from the menu. This dish is good except for one thing: the chunks of chicken have small bones in them. I've found it difficult to eat the chicken pieces because of the small bones, mainly because of the fact that Filipinos never provide a knife at the place setting (try cutting chicken with a spoon). This usually means half the chicken ends up being thrown away. One time I picked up each small piece of chicken individually and ate it using my fingers. The huge downside was I wasted about 40 paper napkins in the process. So...tonight I asked the waitress if I could get the chicken curry without the chicken. The dish usually comes with assorted vegetables accompanying the chicken. To save the hassle of having to cut bones out with a spoon or pull small bones out of my mouth after every other bite, I wanted to have just a vegetable curry. Should be simple. However, when I asked if I could have the chicken curry with no chicken and possibly extra vegetables, the waitress proceeded to name off every vegetable that's in the dish. Eggplant, potato, bell-pepper, carrot, etc. Ummm...no. Sorry, but I'm trying to ask for no chicken. I want only vegetables. Blank stares. I then inexplicably resorted to Spanish: solamente vegetables por favor. That did nothing to help me. Not only do Filipinos not understand a lick of Spanish, but their English isn't as good as most people will want you to believe (side note: I know this makes me sound like an ignorant western tourist who expects everyone to understand MY language and see no reason for me whatsoever to make an effort to understand theirs). After going back and forth with "please no chicken, only vegetables" and "Sir, it has eggplant, potato, etc, etc", I finally decided to scrap the idea and said "I'll just have the chicken curry, please". As I waited for my meal to come I realized in horror that perhaps in all the confusion the waitress had misconstrued my request and will bring me a dish with only chicken, no vegetables. Damn. What will I do then? My irrational fear was proved wrong when the dish came out with a heaping plate of chicken and vegetables in curry sauce with steaming rice. It was very good. And, as usual, I was pulling small bones out of my mouth the whole meal.
Well, that's all for now. I hope every one is having a great time in other parts of the world. Take care!
Pat
The guidebook described the usual Filipino way to ask for the bill as "get the attention of your server and extend your thumb and index fingers in the shape of a rectangle". So, after finishing my meal at my first restaurant outing, I raised my right hand in the air and extended my thumb and index finger and curled up the other three fingers to get them out of the way. I positioned the two aforementioned fingers parallel to each other to make a rough three-sided rectangle shape, much like if I was about to pick up a small object by pinching it. You can imagine my surprise when the waitress looked at me in confusion and came over to see what I was gesturing for. Hello? Isn't this the normal way to ask for the bill? When she walked up to me I put my hand down and said "may I have the bill, please?" Again, a blank stare. It took a few more tries until she said something to the affect of "oh, you want the beel." Yes, sorry. Not the bill, but the beel. Again, there's the small variance in pronunciation that can make a huge difference. I was slightly annoyed that my guidebook had given me false advice, but chose to put this particular episode behind me. A few days later, at another restaurant, I decided to give the fingers-in-rectangle-shape another try. But again, the waiter didn't understand what I wanted. Come on people, doesn't this mean BILL. I wanted to open up my guidebook and point to the paragraph and say "Look, it says it right here". In the following couple of weeks I repeatedly tried to use the rectangle-finger method to ask for the bill, only to get the waiter come rushing over asking me what I needed. Dang it! I need the bill! My frustration was building. I began to think that maybe this method had fallen out of fashion. After all, the guidebook was published in 2009. Maybe in the last two years the rectangle-finger method has been banned, outlawed. Am I committing some sort of faux pas by flashing this gesture which was perfectly socially acceptable two years ago but is now considered the equivalent of flipping the bird? Should I expose my ignorance and ask the nearest stranger why the heck I get confused looks when I execute the recommend rectangle-finger method? I was so confused.
The light bulb moment came one day when I was eating at a pizza place. I had long since abandoned all attempts at using the rectangle-finger method and was now just saying the world "beel" whenever the server got within earshot. I had finished eating a delicious pepperoni pizza and was ready to leave when I looked over and saw a man at a nearby table getting the server's attention. To the untrained eye it appeared he was setting up a make-shift goal post so someone could kick an almond-sized football through his hands. To my fully trained eye, however, all the confusing and perplexing situations of the past came flooding out of my brain and an energizing enlightenment took over. OHHHHH! You don't make the rectangle with one hand. You make "L" shapes with the thumb and index fingers on each hand, then touch the thumb tips together! OHHHHH! Ha ha ha. That's why all those servers never had a clue that I was asking for the bill. All this time I was showing them a hand gesture that makes absolutely no sense. They probably thought I had a hand cramp or something. I was excited to try it out for myself. I poised myself to flash the correct sign, and after catching the attention of my waitress I confidently showed her the correct hand signal. She knew exactly what I was saying. Phew! And I didn't even have to say "beel".
I'm currently staying at a hostel in Baguio where I've stayed before. This place is nice and clean, with a small restaurant on the first floor as an added bonus. I eat there a lot because the prices are modest and some of the food is good. Because I've been thoroughly unimpressed with Filipino food I usually order the Chicken Curry from the menu. This dish is good except for one thing: the chunks of chicken have small bones in them. I've found it difficult to eat the chicken pieces because of the small bones, mainly because of the fact that Filipinos never provide a knife at the place setting (try cutting chicken with a spoon). This usually means half the chicken ends up being thrown away. One time I picked up each small piece of chicken individually and ate it using my fingers. The huge downside was I wasted about 40 paper napkins in the process. So...tonight I asked the waitress if I could get the chicken curry without the chicken. The dish usually comes with assorted vegetables accompanying the chicken. To save the hassle of having to cut bones out with a spoon or pull small bones out of my mouth after every other bite, I wanted to have just a vegetable curry. Should be simple. However, when I asked if I could have the chicken curry with no chicken and possibly extra vegetables, the waitress proceeded to name off every vegetable that's in the dish. Eggplant, potato, bell-pepper, carrot, etc. Ummm...no. Sorry, but I'm trying to ask for no chicken. I want only vegetables. Blank stares. I then inexplicably resorted to Spanish: solamente vegetables por favor. That did nothing to help me. Not only do Filipinos not understand a lick of Spanish, but their English isn't as good as most people will want you to believe (side note: I know this makes me sound like an ignorant western tourist who expects everyone to understand MY language and see no reason for me whatsoever to make an effort to understand theirs). After going back and forth with "please no chicken, only vegetables" and "Sir, it has eggplant, potato, etc, etc", I finally decided to scrap the idea and said "I'll just have the chicken curry, please". As I waited for my meal to come I realized in horror that perhaps in all the confusion the waitress had misconstrued my request and will bring me a dish with only chicken, no vegetables. Damn. What will I do then? My irrational fear was proved wrong when the dish came out with a heaping plate of chicken and vegetables in curry sauce with steaming rice. It was very good. And, as usual, I was pulling small bones out of my mouth the whole meal.
Well, that's all for now. I hope every one is having a great time in other parts of the world. Take care!
Pat
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