all i want, really, is peace. wherever, whenever.
it's that simple.
diarios de maletaall i want, really, is peace. wherever, whenever. it's that simple. Roam.
Sometime in 2006, I caught this song by the B-52's as the main theme behind an Animal Planet promo (unfortunately, I still cannot find a clip) and it stuck. Yes, the song certainly added to my romantic daydreams of working on wildlife conservation efforts in Africa or South America or Australia. Well, 6 years hence I am still far away from all those places. But if I were to have an anthem, this would be it. And glancing back at the past 5 years, I think I have had a pretty fair share of roaming about. And it has been one hell of a ride.
So, about India."No Worry. Come, come."
In Kozhikode in Northern Kerala, at the crack of dawn, I stumbled into a small decent-looking hotel and straight to the concierge. I was ravenous and exhausted from a rough 5-hour bus ride from Mysore. All I wanted was a decent meal --paratha, dossa, idli, anything, anywhere within 20 metres. It was the crack of dawn, the hotel kitchen and restaurant was not open until some 2 hours later. The tall man behind the front desk informed me of this with a polite apologetic look on his face. Disappointed and hungry, I thanked him and retreated. He suddenly raised a hand, stopping me, then beckoned quickly. I followed him to the closed hotel kitchen, which he opened, wordlessly gestured for me to wait in the restaurant, and in 15 minutes I had toast, butter, jam and freshly brewed coffee in front of me.
I love how everything, anything, can be arranged in this country. (Was what I tweeted, oh hipster me) I think one of the things that struck the most and implanted itself in my heart forever was the easy openness of people in India. Traversing from north to south, jumping from bus to bus, landing in random cities, navigating a system of organised chaos, constant negotiating. This was how I met and experienced India, albeit not long or far enough. And amidst all the haphazardness and frenzy and occassional scamming mishaps, were people who helped, welcomed, received me, so openly and effortlessly that even I would have the urge to remind them that I was still just a stranger. In fact, at some point I did, and the response I got was a quizzical look and a jumbled mumble that sounded like, "You are now part of family, what are you talking about?"
On that same day, still in Northern Kerala, I found myself adopted by a family. Yes, a family. Complete strangers, booked in that same hotel for the long weekend and ready to tour around Wayanand for a day trip. The kind man from the concierge had asked them if they would let me, a lone traveller not even booked into the hotel, join them. Without much fuss or drilling (save for the standard "where are you from?") I hopped into a van and found myself on a roadtrip. At the risk of sounding cheesy, on that same afternoon, I knew this was the highlight of my entire trip. No majestic sights and altitudes such as The Himalayas and the Taj Mahal. Just a day of driving around tea estates and coffee farms, meeting the farmers themselves, some kulfi, jokes and laughs with the kids, feeling like a kid again. Before the day tour ended, we were welcomed into the home of one coffee farmer and his wife offered us some snacks and the standard good ol' masala chai. The day began with me hungry and disoriented in an unfamiliar city, and ended with friends I would remember forever. And a long hot shower and the first really good horizontal sleep in 4 days. This was how I ended my few weeks in India. Well, not quite, it ended in Bangalore and equally received and welcomed by a group that were strangers for 5 minutes and with whom spent the last seconds of 2011 and first of 2012. And this was pretty much how the entire trip began. In my first three days upon arriving in India, from Delhi to Chandigarh, I was welcomed and offered a bed and food and even chapatti lessons and words of wisdom from a Punjabi mother (but that's for another post). Yes, I might be generalising and wrapping up a summation of all my pleasant encounters from those 2-3 weeks wandering about a foreign country. I could quickly assume that all this was based on a certain bias of debunked notions and expectations. I am from a country supposedly known for its culture of warm hospitality and generousity especially to foreigners (our history more than tourism reports is main proof). Yet I was (and still am) overwhelmed by the constant response I experienced, from bus to bus, city to city, start to end. So, about my strong emotional and nostalgic reference to all things India: how could I not? India = Open doors, open kitchens, open hearts.
At today's mobile office..
Nest: Return to past livesReturn to work = return to a much loved family (www.livingasiachannel.com) = return to on-the-go-jetsetting-work = return to living in hotels Yeah, about 5 years ago this was my life. In between, I sought stability whilst thinking I needed structure in tandem with exploring horizons. 5 years hence, here I am again. A day upon arriving in my motherland, I flew off to the island of Cebu for an impromptu assignment. Okay, so this isn't quite about celebrating ultra comfortable and luxe accommodations (though after roughing it out in my recent travels, I surely appreciate it more now). I still stand by my attestment some 5-6 years ago that I hate(d) living in hotels. In retrospect, I reckon it was being confined (because of work) which I disliked. This is about coming full circle and acknowleding, embracing, a way of life and work that fits. It always did. *Note: Cebu is an island in the Visayas region where my country's colonial history began. This is where the Portuguese/pseudo-Spaniard lost his way and parked his boats. It has been a week of many happy returns. Home is where my stomach is
If these are foreign to you, Google doesn't lie. So good to be home. Farewell Shenanies
Three weeks worth of "goodbyes" "adios" "catch ups" "a bientots" "cheerios". Thank you, my crazy friends. What would Singabore be without you.
Dhanyawad, Nepal.
For about a week, we lived on a mountain. Somewhere in Dhading in Nepal. I had never been to Nepal before nor had I stayed on a mountain for more than 32 hours. It was not as "Into The Wild" as Bukidnon, or as random and haphazard as the India escapades. This one was planned with an itinerary and a large group. It had a primary purpose, which certainly did not involve being a tourist in luxury or over-indulging in curiousity. We were there for a brief teaching program for the village children, like a knowledge enrichment thing for their holiday break. 
Up before 5, ready by dawn, herding and teaching kids before 7. At this ungodly hour, they were already busting with energy. Some of them had walked/climbed several kilometres from their homes. We felt responsible (or proper) to make the travel worth their time. 
Black tea in stainless steel cups, steamed vegetables with masala and cumin, Dal Bhat -- promptly served at 9, 12, 6. Darkness at 7, asleep before 9. 
There was a system, a natural order, a flowing rythm. Disconnected from technology, the internet, mobile communications, even electricity -- it is true what people say about how this restores some sort of balance. Without yearning nor extreme detachment, there was simply freedom. There was nothing else to do but interact and connect and communicate. And in a society devoid of superficialities or worldly distractions, conversations could run endless. Language barriers were easily (okay, not so easily) broken and crossed. To treat each encounter with a smile and physical signs of respect (Namaste/ Namastar) could smoothly be followed by "Kasto Cha?" (How are you?) and so on. Perhaps what struck me the most was the sincerity, openness and confidence of people. With both children and adults, I noticed very minimal (almost lacking of) defensiveness or forms of insecurity that is quite common in cross-cultural encounters. And I think the absence of such eased the attempts at interaction and connection, both ways. It is easy to romanticise such a setting and experience. I cannot proclaim that I haven't. All I know is it reminded me of an ideal world, where everything is uncomplicated yet necessary. Where loneliness and isolation are alien concepts, though your nearest neighbour's house is probably 50 metres away. All I know is it felt right, every bit of it. So, thank you, Nepal. For reminding me of the important things and the insignificance of misanthropy. Tik Cha. :)
Sandstorms of the metaphysical sort
- Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
Rarely do I post other people's thoughts and works here (that's what the other place is for), but these boldened paragraphs at the start of Haruki Murakami's bestseller couldn't be more apt.
At the risk of sounding self-indulgent, I noticed a small pattern in my life. Well, the last couple of years in my life. One quarter of each year, usually the first, I do undergo some sort of sandstorm. Call it what you will. Each time, an immensely emotionally challenging and exhausting one, inevitably resulting to a catharsis. It is triggered by a single specific event, but evidently a conglomeration of surmounting events and trials. And at the end of each "sandstorm", I do wonder how I had been able to manage. Or realise that it was not as collosal as it might have seemed. Or that the past ones were nothing in comparison. Or that there is just so much more going on in the world for my little problem to bear any significance. (I find that last one often relieving)
But one thing is indeed certain: it doesn't matter how big or small a feat it was. It molds you into something different. It might break you, into a million pieces, and turn your insides out. But you will come out of it, eventually. You have to. And you won't be the same, never.
And oddly enough, you will notice that the rest of the world isn't either.
*****
For some of those that can't seem to just take things as they are and extract its significance (you know, of just being) and must question and demand how or why does any of this even matter: the answer is I DON'T KNOW.
But I do know, that for as long as I am actually experiencing anything likened to a sandstorm (and conscious of it) -- this is me being alive, and that's as good as it gets. Forget profundity. If you feel hungry, or thirsty, or tired -- that's you being and feeling alive as well.
Okay, that's enough philosophy for the day.
Remembering Ondoy.Browsing through an old blog, I came across a post I wrote almost 3 years ago. This was written in light of the typhoon Ketsana (locally known in the Philippines as Ondoy), which reaked havoc and severe damage all over Metro Manila. This was one of the rare instances that the country's capital was badly damaged by a typhoon; it is usually the neighbouring coastal areas and provinces (the Visayas islands, the Quezon region) that are destroyed almost each and every time. Nobody predicted this one, not even the guys that were supposed to. This was me 3 years ago, writing to nobody in particular, reeling from the experience of being right smack in the eye of the storm, realising that maybe I could've also died that day but more overwhelmed by the kindness and positive spirit I saw from the hundreds (or thousands) of other fellow Filipinos marching on the streets with me. Barefoot with broken umbrellas but never, ever their spirit.
********* 16 September 2009 I came out of my French class to find N.Garcia Street (formerly Reposo) flowing like a river. Without a clue if the rain would cease, we waited it out for over an hour. Eventually we all decided to make a run for it. Plowing through the muddy water, we reached Buendia only to find it deserted. Not a single car, cab, or jeep. It was eerie. And in desperate times you do find strangers converging in such public spaces, whereas under normal circumstances we would give each other no more than a mere glance, brushing past each other as we rush through the human traffic, impatience thick in the air. We all asked one another what was happening. Some shared status reports, informing us that there was no accessible public transportation until some kilometers away. Some offered directions and passage ways to curb the inconvenience. We shared umbrellas and shelter space under roofs and sheds. Then we all went our own ways and walked. And walked. And walked. And walked.For me it was a total of 13 kilometres. That wasn't the plan, but that was pretty much the only way I could transport myself anywhere. It also clearly portrayed my impatience. My impatience and dread of being stuck. Walking nonstop until my feet bled seemed a far less arduous feat than sitting in traffic for 10 hours. Honestly my heart goes out for those in this unfortunate situation. Vehicles were in a standstill for over 12 hours and many had to leave their card, marching along EDSA like a pilgrimage. I couldn't blame them for being frustrated and hot headed, to say the least. But noticing most, something struck me though: people didn't cease being kind, pleasant and helpful. Throughout the stretch, people were still smiling, sharing their umbrellas, and cracking jokes about their broken ones or lost shoes.
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