It's kind of weird being back in San Diego. Dad and Jon picked mom and me up from the LA airport yesterday morning, and while driving on the 405 South, I felt the lanes were too wide, the highway too empty of cars, the scattered skyscrapers amid burnt summer hills like Eiffel Towers.
When mom and I first arrived in Manila, the capital of the Philippines, it was 11 pm two weeks ago and we were greeted by Lolo and mom's friend Chacha. Chacha's husband Freddie drove us to Kamuning in Quezon City, where my grandparents live.
The car ride, and the first few days before dad and Jon arrived, were difficult because everyone spoke in Tagalog. Eventually, I picked up on some words and phrases:
"talaga?"- is it true?
"sandali lang"- just a minute
"dito"- here
"salamat po"- thank you sir/ma'am
"masarap"- this tastes real good
I said "masarap" many times. My grandparents and their katulongs (servants) had a meal prepared for us when we arrived at their house at 1 am. Some days, they'd prepare five meals. The food included longganisa, or sausage (which my roommate Jonathan introduced to me the Saturday of finals week), fried chicken, pancit, lechon, and rice. Coke Zero was present at every meal. Of course I ate mangoes, the sweetest and juiciest mangoes I'd ever slurped. The bananas were half the size of bananas we eat in the U.S., but three times as sweet. One day I tried a new fruit, atis, which is the size and color of a dirty tennis ball, except surrounded with ridges like the end of an artichoke. It breaks like bread and each ridge is a cream surrounding a black seed like a grownup watermelon seed. The cream tastes like a sweet pear with the texture of a banana. I said "masarap" many, many times.
Throughout the two weeks, my stomach was full, and so was my mind. The streets of Manila and Quezon City are so crowded. While some pedestrians gather on the sidewalk, others sift between vehicles. During the ride from the airport, one man knocked on our window, stared in through the tinted glass, and quickly walked on. Chacha explained that some people reach through windows to steal purses and other valuables. Through the windows my eyes were magnetized to billboard photographs of men and women and words, like in Times Square except without the flashy lights. The models looked dim and hollow, like ghosts. Beneath them were old houses and commercial buildings, with rusty tin roofs shaped like cardboard. I saw only two stop signs during my time in Manila. Honking cars, buses, motorized tricycles, and jeepneys fight for space on the road. It's like the 5 South at the end of a workday, but even on city streets.
The streets were so full that it seemed to me people needed refuge. And I think for many, that refuge is the local mall. In the hot and humid Philippines, malls provide comfort because they are air conditioned. But I wouldn't say they're really refuge; at Greenhills Mall, we got lost several times among rows of booths selling thousands of bags, thousands of flip flops, thousands of cell phones, thousands of necklaces and earrings. People would call out, "Sir, cellphone sir," and my eyes would dart back and forth between sellers, shoppers, shop signs, and souveniers.
About a week into our trip, the Philippines started to feel a tiny bit like home. Maybe because I was born there, lived there a couple years, and met family there. But it was weird because I've grown up in San Diego, which also feels like home. I felt a little like Desmond in the episode "The Constant" in the TV show "Lost." He sporadically travels back and forth between space and time, and unless he makes contact with a constant--someone he loves dearly in both worlds--he will die.
I think one constant between the U.S. and the Philippines was my mom. I was able to see her in her homeland, which showed me new things about her. We were also able to talk about things on my mind. Another constant was God. I tried to read the Bible, and we worshiped with my mom's church, Kamuning Bible Christian Fellowship. Sometimes, though, praying to God was difficult. I often wondered if God had left me. But when I called out to God from dark valleys, even when I could not put my pain into words, he heard me.
The pinnacle of our time in the Philippines was on July 4, when we celebrated Lolo and Lola's 50th wedding anniversary. Lolo called it a "Jubilee" celebration. We sang music and prayed and thanked God and I'm sure "masarap" was often said. Along with our parents, the cousins--Jon and Heidi, Ezekiel and Hayley, and Helsa and I--waltzed and cha cha cha'd.
I was thankful to know my grandparents a little better. I saw that Lola has a caring heart. One evening, someone was disappointed because I no longer remembered the piano pieces I used to play. He didn't understand how I could forget how to play, but Lola reasoned to him in Tagalog. I knew she was saying something like, "Josh is telling the truth. If you don't play the piano for a while, it's easy to forget how to play."
And I also saw that Lolo can be playful. One night, when we were sightseeing in Bohol (Lolo's island of birth), we rode a ferry down a river. Near the end of the trip, the ferry stopped by a dock to watch about 40 Filipinas and some boys with ukeleles sing songs and dance. At one point, a woman invited people to come on the platform to give donations and pose for pictures.
"Josh, you go now," Lolo told me.
"No way."
So Lolo got up and walked off the ferry onto the deck, dancing to the donations box, and then, out of nowhere, picked up a huge stick and began pounding it into a dirt pit along with the other women.
