"Looking back" is a bowl of hot soup and paying forward can be size 4 or 5.

It all started a few years back with  my sister Elvie’s noble idea.  She wanted to start a feeding program at the Santo Cristo Elementary School, which most of us attended; it is located  in the barrio where we were born, in the province of Nueva Ecija, Central Plains of Luzon.  My family has a strong connection to the school – our Inay, (mom) or Ninang (godmother) to Elvie and our cousins was the first principal of the school.

I have memories of playing under the pomelo tree with a huge bell hanging over my head. That bell is rung to herald the start of classes.  In my child’s mind, the ringing reverberates in the whole province of Nueva Ecija.  I attended “pre-school,” “kinder” “saling-pusa or saling- cat” (I was in the class but I was not graded)  and first grade in this school.  I was a kid whose interest was not easily contained so I would ask to be excused to chase dragonflies in the open fields behind the administration building.  My Inay would embarrass me and my sister EM by taking us out of the classroom to be fed a bowl of rice porridge in the hallway, sometime there would be rice cakes and a glass of water.  We would still be wiping our lips as we head back to the classroom! I was told by both my sisters, and my former classmate who is now a teacher at the school,  that when the kindergarten teacher was out, that I, all of five or six years at that time, would teach the class.  My parents moved to Manila where I continued my education until I left in 1975.

At some point , I decided to join the feeding program.  The team of principal and teachers picked the most needy kids from all grades and came up with 35-37 kids.  Each week, the teachers use the funds we donate and incorporate the harvest from the school vegetable garden into the meal preparation.  They cook lunch and serve to these needy kids.  There is now a total of three regular sponsors and others who give a one- time contribution allow for a fourth lunch for the kids. 

Last December, they sent me photos of the kids taken during a Christmas spaghetti lunch I sponsored. I also decided to distribute goody bags.  The wisdom of the principal prevailed and instead of toys, the kids got a t-shirt each.  When I examined the photos, I noticed that some kids were wearing flip-flops that seemed too big for their tiny feet. Ergo, I decided to give tennis shoes to the kids during my visit to the Philippines in January.  The children were made to trace their feet, write their name on it. My nieces Nerry and Joy facilitated the procurement of the shoes.  Fast forward to Monday, January 28, 2013.  My niece MaryJane drove us to Nueva Ecija.  It was a three hour drive going  through the provinces of Bulacan and Pampanga.  The scenery is much more pleasing and relaxing the farther away from Manila one gets. The Arayat Mountain was at attention and the sun was out and beaming.

We grabbed a quick bite of the lunch the brother sister team of Willy and Nery prepared and then we rushed to the school.  They have homes in our ancestral land in the barrio.  Always good to walk on the grounds where my parents and ancestors walked on; where the stately santol tree watches over us and where the mango trees of my ancestors bear witness to the family history. 

The kids were called and I got to see the faces of the little ones. We started to distribute each of the shoes, calling each by  name.  I gave each kid a hug—all of them smelled clean; looked  groomed; but oh so skinny.  Some of them are 14 years of age,  but it was rather obvious that malnutrition stunted their growth.  Most have 3-6-8 siblings and are children of poor farmers.  They were shy but grateful.  My attention was caught by a pretty but very pale girl. Her eyes downcast and I did not see her smile throughout the whole time, even when she was handed her "package."  I learned later that Lyka is an orphan, taken in by her poor peasant grandparents.  I asked her how old she was, "Porteen po."  I asked her what grade she is in "Grade One po."  I gave her a hug. 

We spent the next hour conversing with the teachers and the principal, discussing the kids’ life stories and partaking of their hospitality of ripe mangoes and steamed sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves. We left feeling good for the kids.  Some of the kids lingered behind trees and under the canopy inspected their loot – a pair of shoes, socks, toothbrush, toothpaste.  We did not give away cell phones, computers, money. What we gave away is a gesture of kindness, hopefully a lasting thought that kindness can come from strangers.   

At the moment, we are  addressing the immediate need for nutritious meals and clothing for the kids.  They do not need toys; they have the sun and the rain and the garden and each other and their loving teachers to interact with. However, they need to know that others care about them and they need colors that they can put on paper to paint their thoughts and hopes and dreams. That means I will be sending crayons and papers.  If you read this and you and I socialize in person, bring a box of crayons next time we see each other, along with a coloring book (CVS, Thrift Store, Dollar Store –partly used is fine).  I will send them a box of the goodies; you will make a tiny heart swell with joy!

Epilogue: I left funds to get Lyka a medical examination, some clothes, vitamins, etc. We will invite her to help with my niece's Nery's flower garden, a pretext for her to earn a stipend. If this works out, Lyka, in my view can become a teacher or an engineer....I have opened my heart and other places to give a chance to a shy little orphan, who at 14 must know and has all the reason to know that her opportunies are nil to nothin without a fairy godmother to pave the way...

 This was my first grade graduation photo, I finished at the top of my class with a ribbon that said, "First Honor" - take note of my new dress made by my sister Linda, shoes cleaned and spit shined by my brother Rev. Ernie and my socks, trying to hide my bird legs.  Oh, and my handkerchief! My Dad pinned my ribbon onstage and later on, he had to deal with the "Intelligent but very talkative in class." or "Very, very, very, talkative in class," ADHD-hello?

 

Sojourn at the Golden Triangle with Two Dancing Angels

 

Bangkok, Thailand is charming and hot in more ways than one, and the most beautiful women gracing their fashion magazines may possibly be  lady boys.  It is a third gender that the Thais embrace and I embrace that about them. The Thais are fashionable, friendly, and beautiful. There is a spirituality that cannot be ignored.

Bangkok is an improved and much cleaner Manila, reminded me of Singapore, only the latter is much cleaner and has hawkers’  pavilions whereas the Thais sell their Bourdainesque foods along the sidewalks.  We ventured out into the weekend market.  This was the main  reason I wanted to return to Bangkok. I wanted two boat-shaped bowls .  I saw them first in our favorite Kuning-Kuning Thai restaurant in Amsterdam and the owner told us where we can buy them.  He gave me a piggy shaped platter.  That was four years ago.  Last weekend, I became the owner of two of those boat bowls I covet plus some. I spent a king’s ransom for them.  If you figure that I paid $5 for each bowl  plus airfare, hotel , and meals - there you have it.  I need to will these bowls to a deserving future daughter-in-law.

What did we do—we pampered ourselves with foot massages and body massages daily.  In one of these places,  a statuesque beauty with eyes so beautiful I have not seen any  as stunning, and with cheekbones for which I would gladly borrow from my 401K account to get some,  did my HB’s foot massage. I could not keep my eyes off  her and she would  shyly smile at me for obviously gawking at her. The Thais are always smiling, they must go to sleep with a smile.  The next day, I found out from her colleague that she is a lady boy.  I was envious of her  beauty, lady boy or not.

We hired a private guide named Lian who came in safari shorts and shirt, carrying a monk’s prayer beads as big as marbles.  He spoke Thai, English, and French.  He looked like a monk taking a sabbatical with all his “meditation phrases” inked on his arms.  I felt safe travelling with my private monk.  I felt like he was a man of peace, without the Ghandi costume.  He was to to take us to the Golden Triangle, where Thailand meets  Laos and Burma. These are border towns.  We took a boat to Laos. 

Laos has the most number of fake Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Guess, Coach purses that I have seen in my lifetime.  One pavilion was filled with antiques (or reproductions-seriously, is it possible to find an antique lamp in every stall with the same design?) but a pavilion half the size of a football field is filled with purses.  They apparently come from neighboring China. The Chinese come to play in the Laotian Casinos and shop for Chinese made knock-offs.  I have to say, the casino looks, despite my misgivings, an elegant structure amidst the woods.  The Communists has something to say about self-restraint. 

The most staggering sight for me was the little kids by the dock who were begging.   I was starving by the time I decided that the only thing I wanted here were little souvenir type Laotian dolls for our Christmas tree. I saw a vendor grilling some tiny sweet yams. My Asian-American sensibility told me just in case  I have forgotten, that this is not a rich country.  This yam will be discarded in the States, they were spindly and slim as my ring fingers. However, they were cooked over charcoal so I was sure I could eat it without a problem until the young girl at the dock approached me.  I did not have any coins to give her but then she pointed to my miserably skinny yam and I realized she was hungry.  I gave my grilled spindly, skinny, miserably tiny yams to her.  HB handed me some Thai bills and I gave them to the kids and much to my sadness, they started hitting each other to fight for what amounted to fifty cents for each of the four kids.

We continued our trip to Burma, stopping at the Opium Museum along the way.  I bought a bell.  I believe that I ward off bad energy when I ring a bell.  And at this point in life, I need plenty of bells!  We got to the immigration booth.  Now, the Thai think I am Thai and the Burmese must just think I am a freak.  I am much taller than anyone of them, I did not speak Thai and I looked out of place.  After we visited a few temples -where young men and women with red, and pink and blonde hair hang out in front of the Buddha,  and where they  look at me with curiosity, the look turning into a smile when they hear me talking to the white guy and the guide in English-  we took a stroll under the blazing afternoon sun.  The merciless Lian  dismissed the tuk-tuks (tricycles, only more beefed up) and took us on a walking tour.  The roads are dusty.  One entrepreneur was selling gasoline from a makeshift wood counter by the street. The gasoline is contained in empty soda or vinegar bottles.  Apparently, this is the Burmese way and we were not allowed to photograph anyone.  We went through a village where the women tried to sell some hand-made coin purses to me. Not knowing a common language gave me an excuse to look clueless, pretending that I did not know what they wanted from me.  I just wanted to get out of there so that my heart does not break. Then,  Lian the Guide and the Merciless, took us through the street market.

HB has repeatedly stated that I should not be shocked by poverty, muck, or the disgusting wetness and smell of a wet market.  He expects that a woman born and raised in the Philippines must not flinch as “You must be used to this when you were a little girl.”   Here in Burma, I witnessed chicken guts being taken out by hand from the pile of chicken cadavers that were literally on the sidewalk of a muck laden water under the bridge and a woman going through the bag of the disgusting gut mess to scavenge.  I could only imagine this scene in a Clare Danes movie where she would state afterwards with her lady boy beauty,  "That country where we shot the film is a roach infested hell" (which she characterized the Philippines once).   I could not fast forward to the next scene and lady boy  Danes has clearly moved on to be a maniacal Homeland Security pretend agent. 

Anyway, I made a sidelong glance and then pretended not to see the filth.  When I became silent,  afraid that this market would eat me alive, feeling that I was going to be sick and yet telling myself to  snap out of it-this is their reality and I will be on my own in a few minutes, HB started to say, “Oh but you should be used to this…”  I was cross and under my breath stated, “Excuse me, but I never went to the market as a little girl and I have not seen chickens being gutted by the freaking sidewalk!”  “But you must have gone to the markets and haggled when you were a little girl?”  “I am sorry to disappoint you but I was a school girl, not a market girl."  Likewise, is it okay for me to assume that "Anyone born in the USA is an arrogant know-it-all bastard?" 

Where I spent time as a little girl, my Inay (auntie Mom) had a huge poultry farm and I got to eat plenty of chickens I was afraid I would grow wings. I never saw how it got to be fried or become adobo.  First they are flying like mad and the next thing I know, it is in my bowl of arroz caldo. (rice porridge).  Haggling?  I am loathe to even try because I fail miserably.  Ironically, in my contracts negotiations class, my professor warned my classmates to stay away from me, “She will sell your mother to you and you will think you got the best value.”  I start with a position that I do not need the stuff but I always feel like I should buy to add to the economy of the locale.

 At this point, I will digress to share an anecdote.  My nieces and I went to the Greenhills’ Tiangge and I got separated from them along with my other niece Jewel. I asked a vendor how much a pair of coral earrings was and she said, “P300.” I said, “Pwedeng P200?”(Will you sell it for P200?) trying to haggle on my own.  She said, “Ay…hindi mam.” (Ay…no, ma’am)  I said, “Ay, alam ko nga,” and I winced. “Kaya wag na lang…” (I do know you can’t,  so it is ok I won’t buy it anymore) I was embarrassed that I even tried and I started to leave her in peace.  She was taken aback by my reaction that she and Jewel started laughing! Then she said, “Mam, hindi ka pala marunong.  Halika, bigay ko na sa iyo.” (Ma’am you clearly do not know how,  so come back and I will give it to you at the price you want.)  I ended up buying three pairs of earrings plus a necklace and a bracelet.  I told her, “Don’t give me a price expecting me to haggle with you. I don’t know how to do that so be honest and I will pay.”  In Thailand, I saw a benjarong bowl for B300. I said, “I want to buy this bowl.” The vendor said, “Okay, madam, I give you for B260, ok?”  Wow, that was unexpected.  Of course, HB has to always remind me that I was still a loser.  “The guy made money off of you; he bought that for $2 and sold it to you for $5.  I swear, there is no winning when you are travelling with someone who haggles for recreation and then gives up when I would remind him, “That vendor is supporting a family, give him/her a break. “ “Tip that foot massage lady well, she is smiling and she has a son to raise.”  There goes a $30 tip.

The Burmese are friendly. At the passport control office, the agent went through my passport, looking at the entry/departure stamps and then back at me.  “Ah, Philippine but living in the USA, been to so many countries.”  He smiles so I took advantage of his friendliness to ask “May I use your bathroom?”  Thank God for bureaucrats, the bathroom was relatively clean, hidden by a ruffled curtain from the public.”  “Yes, madam, surely.” The Burmese are poor.   Nonetheless, no one can choose the circumstances of his birth and as I continued to gaze at the very spartan surroundings, I realized I could have been one of them. I could have been born here but by the grace of God, I was born in yet another poor country, but one whose people value and assert the right to democracy and education, with a  citizenry that asserts its mandate with people power.  I tried to wipe out the dire possibilities in my mind.

We negotiated the very narrow aisles under the oppressive heat and smell of dried and fermenting fish.  We stopped and bought an intricately beautiful wood carving depicting what I thought were South Asian dancers.The gallery owner said they are angels.  I thought angels are a Christian thing but now I realize even the Burmese have angels, and they dance.  I cannot see to wait for the angels to grace my living room.

After a couple of hours, I was back in the comfort of our air conditioned car;  as we traveled back to Chiang Rai, we stopped at a restaurant called Cabbages and Condoms. The restaurant has amazing food but more amazing is that it is a non-profit social entity. It uses its profits in educating and preventing STD and unplanned parenthood.  At the end of the meal, the patrons can get free condoms, “Thai size or International Size.” 

Then, Lian the guide had to take a phone call.  When he was done, he apologized and told us it was from his  Chineses lady friend.  He asked us what to do with her- she asked him to marry her, showing him a picture of a baby suckling milk.  I laughed.  He said, “She wants me to have baby with her! What you think?”  He told us that he has custody of a 7-year old daughter from a previous marriage.  He met this 43-year old  lady during one of his meditation retreats. We are being asked to decide a life!  As I got out of the car, he earnestly asked me “Madam, do you think I should marry and have a baby with the lady?” I said, “You marry her  if you love each other. Then you ask her to love your daughter like she is her own.  You do not need a baby at this point in your lives. It is too dangerous at her age, you can lose her and the baby too.”  He smiled with his betel-chewing brown stained teeth.  The driver was grinning, a modern metro Thai young man who clearly just wanted to help out his brother’s tour company so he decided to drive today so he can buy whisky at the border.

Lian extended his tattooed arm towards me, shook my hand and said, “I like your advice.  Yes, surely I ask her that. Thank you very much, merci.  Sawasdeeka.” He put his hands together and bowed as in prayer. I did the same.  “Sawasdee.”  He asked, “You have child?” “Yes, we have a son.” I did not have time to tell Lian that my husband met me and my son when my baby was all of six years and he loves my son as his own; that having a child is destiny and can come in different ways.  As it should always be, loving and raising a child transcends race, religion, circumstances, gender orientation, and borders.

I am a citizen of the world, Asian by birth, Malay-Indonesian with a splash of Spanish blood, and American by beliefs.  I am culturally inclusive, I take the good and do away with the bad.  At the end of the day, I am grateful for having the opportunity to meet people of different cultures and background. They make me a better person, open to possibilities, and thankful for my existence.