Bohol: My Work: Part 1

I got one night back in Manila from Cebu to pack up my stuff, and flew into Tagbilaran’s airport almost 12 hours after I touched down.

Background on Tagbilaran, my new home:

Tagbilaran is in the South of Bohol, right across this little straight between it and the large island of Panglao right off Bohol. It is the provincial capital of Bohol, and by far the largest city on the island; in fact, it’s the only city. It has the airport, and the biggest boat terminal; it had the only malls and cinemas; it had the bus and jeepney stations to everywhere else on the island; heck, there was even wifi here.

It’s basically the one place on Bohol that is continually connected to life off of the island-most of the rest of the island is sleepy small towns, beautiful beaches, a few resorts, the attractions I talked about before, and lots and lots and lots of isolated, tiny villages and towns that speak little English, where everyone else knew each other, and everyone farmed. It was country; it was a bit like being back in the American south, to tell you the truth.

But, just because Tagbilaran had a museum, a few malls, a movie theater, and (this is the real sign of a city in the Philippines) a MCDONALDS did not mean I was in Vegas. A few blocks away from the two main town squares in every direction was rice fields. Right across the bridges on Panglao was sleepy countryside, with a few resorts sitting on top of the hills, gleaming down on the bright blue waters of the strait.

The UCCP church, at whose offices I was sleeping, was on a hill overlooking the strait as well. There were perhaps 75 people at the services I went to (though, of course, more people went to the Boholano service than the English one). They showed two movies in the cinemas, and after I saw Thor 2 and Captain Phillips twice each, I really didn’t want to see them again. This was a city of 90,000, but it was really just a large town-everyone pretty much knew each other, the streets were quiet all hours of the day, and as soon as the sun was down, all the businesses were closed and most of the people were at home.

I arrived with almost no information from Cobbie. I had a woman’s first name, and was told this “Juvy” would recognize me at the airport and have a sign with my name on it (snazzy!). But, of course, I had to wonder what would happen if we missed each other, as when I stepped out of the airport, I was mobbed by 20 or so middle-aged Filipino guys wanting to know if I needed a ride.

As pretty much the only American on the flight, I was a target, and the pedicab drivers always think that the American guy wearing a t-shirt, flip-flops, and a week of disheveled facial hair has lots of money to spend and are easily taken advantage of. I am routinely charged triple what native Filipinos are charged in transportation where there is no fixed price, and its almost comical when I start bargaining and the drivers realize that Im not some American high roller but am making 40 bucks a week or so and im not spending it all on a pedicab ride, thank you very much.

Luckily, since I was about a head taller than the guys surrounding me, Juvy was able to recognize me, beat the guys back, and introduce herself to me, as well as to the girl with her. She picked one of the guys out of the crowd, and after a quick conversation in Boholano (which by the way is a subdialect of Bisaya aka Cebuano), we got in the back of the guy’s car and were off to my new home.

My living arrangements:

I stayed at what I think was the headquarters of the conference (aka presbytery) of Bohol? Im still not sure, since I never really got a full explanation of what the building was, but it’s rear overlooked the strait and Panglao island really close to the UCCP church. There was an office with AC and wifi and plugs, and then a sort of living room/dining area, a voluminous kitchen that looked more like a small auditorium or play practice area, and a water pump out back with a couple of CRs (bathrooms) which had a few glorified squattie potties and which were basically outside.

There also were a couple of rooms full of bunk beds on the ground floor (and apparently one upstairs for the women?), and I was told to pick a bed and set up shop. There was no AC, a weak rotating fan, and two windows, both opaque and curtained, one open to the street noises right outside and one open to the kitchen area.

My first night, I slept with these older men from Silliman University in Dumaguete, I think from the Medical Center. They occupied the rest of the beds in my room, and were all very nice-I asked if they knew Cobbie, and, typically, they did. I also was given zero information about what I was doing, when we started, or any schedule of any sort. The guys told me that I could join them tomorrow, that they were going to this town and I could come with them at 6:30 am.

That sounded a little early to me, but I had no control or anything, and was eager to get out there and help whenever, so I said sure, and set my alarm for (sigh) 5 AM. Meanwhile, it was 10, and I was tired after doing some relief: I had helped to pack these relief bags for the next day that night, but in doing so, one of the girls who was helping gave up her seat and her job and just sat in the corner…so I felt kind of awkward. The relief packages were just orange juice and chocolate crackers-it seemed like it was just junk food snacks, not really help for hungry families or anything, but whatever, I didn’t control what food was available.

Anyway, I sat in bed reading, while the guys kept the light blaring and kept talking and laughing long into the night. I figured that since we were leaving so early, they would go to bed early like I was trying to do, but I have since learned that Filipinos simply do not need as much sleep as I do. At least, its FAR less than 8 hours a night. From my roommates in Manila, to the Tac-ans in Mindanao, to the group I stayed with in Leyte, to even Cobbie and Dessa, going to bed late and waking up super early is just a thing that everyone does in the Philippines.

My theory lies in the enormous consumption of coffee here: seriously, most Filipinos have 5-6 cups a day, and almost everyone has it even at 10 and 11 at night. One guy told me it helped him sleep better. If I had coffee at 11 PM, I would be awake until lunch the next day, and would then crash for the rest of the afternoon. Coffee and I just are not great friends, digestively, energywise, and dependencewise, so maybe that’s why I always feel like the most tired guy in the room and the one who’s sleeping most, but I just can’t do coffee.

Anyway, I was trying to go to sleep with these noises all around me and this light literally directly in my eyes while I was reading. Eventually I gave up and rolled over, but I can distinctly remember saying “finally!” to myself when the lights were turned off around 1:30. I remember too waking up at 5, then 5:10, and then at 5:20, and then at 5:30, and gradually convincing myself that I didn’t need a shower after a short sweaty night’s sleep. I finally climbed out of bed when one of the guys from my room, who had already been awake and showered (and must have fallen asleep after 1:30 because I heard his voice as I drifted off to sleep talking to his friends), poked his head in to wake up everyone else and tell them breakfast was ready.

There were about 6 or so guys that lived at this house, cooked meals, and washed everything, from clothes to the dirty dishes. They lived in the other bunk bed room, a fact I learned both from observing them retreating back to their living quarters late at night and from the bumps and loud talking and laughing from the other side of an apparently VERY thin wall. At the beginning of my stay, I thought that they were fellow relief workers, but I learned as my stay lengthened that they were just a bunch of nice guys that made food for everyone and would be my largely non-English-speaking housemates for my two week stay.

Because of these guys, though, every meal was a Thanksgiving style feast, usually with 20 or so people spread across the two long benches. As is customary in the Philippines, rice, fried fish, soups, and an assortment of vegetables were served in great quantities for every meal of every day. From breakfast at 6:30 AM to dinner just after sunset, I could expect a plentiful, healthy, FREE, and delicious meal from these guys; the only problem was, each meal was identical, and even the nicest meal can get old after having it 10 times in a row.

All the same, during our delicious, frantic, and bustling meal, with Bisayan being spoken rapidly and lots of laughing, I went and grabbed my stuff and we all met outside at a small collection of vehicles on the busy main road of Tagbilaran. I didn’t know what to bring, so I did the boy scout thing and brought my backpack and anything I thought I might possibly need for a day out doing relief work.

The guys from Silliman beckoned to me and told me to squeeze into their already overfull truck, which was started and was almost pulling away; like the last chopper out of Saigon, I rushed over and crammed myself in next to these guys I met only last night, and our (thankfully) airconditioned pickup zoomed away.

I was ready for us to head into some kind of refugee camp, but after about 2 turns and maybe 3 minutes, our truck came to a stop outside of a collection of buildings and a sign that said “Bohol University”.

Puzzled, I got out with the very unpuzzled Silliman guys, who chatted with the security guard at the mostly empty university (I think it was Saturday) and walked in, again beckoning me to follow them. Still confused, I grabbed an iced green tea at the cantina area while we waited inside the school grounds on some benches. What we waited for, I’m still not sure, but I talked with one of the guys, and he just said we were waiting for some people.

Cobbie and Dessa had told us that one of the things we should be ready for in the Philippines was to “hurry up and wait”. This was a perfect example of that. I had been roused from a terrible night’s sleep at 5:40 or so, with it still dark outside, and with food on the table. I had been rushed outside and barely made it into the overfull truck, thinking that I almost was left behind for the day.

Then, for about an hour (luckily I remembered my book), the guys from Silliman and a few other helpers from another car sat and stood in this University, which seemed to be a meeting place for our relief caravan. I wondered again why we had to wake up so early and rush through all of this only to wait for an hour for the other people to arrive, but, as I still wasn’t sure what was going on, I just leaned into it, found some shade, and read my book while I had some tea.

After that hour or so, Juvy, who I had not know was there, waived her hands at me to come over to her, and told me (again, as if the shuttle was leaving earth during the apocalypse) to climb into another truck, quickly. Again, I rushed over and got into a nice AC’d pickup with a roomy back seat, said hi to the guy driving and the lady I was sitting next to…and then waited for half an hour again, for what I assumed was more people. Hurry up and wait.

Eventually, with the back of the pickup crammed full of four people, the AC on full blast, and Duncan still confused about what we were doing, where we were going, etc., we pulled away from the University. There were two giggly college-age girls from Mindanao there, who told me I should visit their hometown of Cagayan De Oro, and one older lady, who spoke little English, but, all in all, it was a car full of laughter and excitement for a day of relief work.

Juvy was in the front, and now that she was in a car with me, I was able to ask the salient questions of what we were doing, where we were going, and details about the earthquake. She said that she was afraid I was lost, or was picked up by strangers and taken somewhere earlier when I rode with the Silliman guys.

There has been a lot of worry from my local friends of abduction on different islands, but, after the worst thing that happened to me in 6 months was my wallet was stolen on a bus, my anxiety about such things has faded away.

After a couple of hours stuffed in the truck, with various parts of my body falling asleep, we turn off the main road (there are no highways in Bohol, only unmarked two lane roads) and go down this fairly unfinished gravel road. It is one lane, and up and down some pretty steep hills, and every few hundred feet we can see giant rocks that were displaced from hills during the quake. I am glad we are in a pickup.

We finally reach a small hillside village. I marvel at the local church that passes us on the right. It looks like those pictures of buildings that were bombed in wars. It’s a skeleton of steel, with a roof still standing, but there are holes in the roof, and there is only one wall left supporting the structure, the rest being reduced to the large blocks of rubble that surround the now open air church.

After meeting some people in the barangay hall and parking in the village square/basketball court, we drive back up the hill to the church, local villagers waving all the while. As we get out, and I volunteer to carry the relief goods, there is a lot of gawking directly at me from the locals. This is always awkward for me, but apparently never for them-I am probably the only white or American person they have ever seen.

The inside of the church has all the pews lined up and filled with kids of all ages. Most of the kids are staring at me, but, being less shy than their older counterparts, they ask for hi-fives and the girls ask what my name is while they giggle. Because most people can’t pronounce “Duncan” very easily, I usually go with Frank, but this time I say Dirk Nowitski, Power Forward for the Dallas Mavericks.

Seeing their eyes go big, I say

“Just kidding, just kidding, no, no, I am not actually Dirk Nowitski. I’m Lebron James, of course.”

I continue to get giggles and stares from the kids (who finally were convinced I was Tony Parker) and adults alike as we unpack the goods and start sorting them. Some of the people in the other car, who apparently all know each other and came together from Mindanao, are chatting the whole time, and some chat with me, ask me questions, and kind of jokingly make fun of me for the attention the locals are giving me.

Our morning is spent pretty satisfactorily sorting out food. We give the kids their orange juice and chocolate (part of this balanced breakfast), and since they eat it with gusto, I assume they are probably not used to free food, especially not since the earthquake, or at least anything with sugar in it…and then I realize that they might just be kids, in which case they are just wolfing down the sugar because they like sugar.

As this is happening, the other half of the people are measuring out certain amounts of rice, toiletries, canned goods, fish, the whole nine. I start helping the group, and, as one, we move some of the pews around, and start stacking the bags and checking the contents.

This is the first time in a while that I have felt that I am helping out in a meaningful way. I am rushing around, packing goods, moving bags, counting, checking, and chatting with my fellow workers from Mindanao. After about a half hour, we had finished packing all the packages, and a fair-sized crowd had made their way up the little hill to the little church, bringing people of all ages. As we set up the packages for distribution, the people had filled the remaining pews, and it was almost like a packing play, as our stage was set and our audience seated.

Hot, sweaty, and with little bits of rice on my hands, I was told to grab a seat and rest since my work was done. Though it was only a half hour of moving stuff around, it was rewarding stuff, and I could see the hopeful, anxious, and (typically Filipino) friendly looks on the faces of the locals. I was offered the same snacks that they had given the kids. I refused a few times, then saw that they had a ton extra and that the rest of the workers were taking them, so I grabbed one myself and thankfully crammed the chocolate and orange juice into my mouth.

It was around then that Juvy came up, almost physically grabbing me and pulling me away, and said it was time to go. I looked at her bewilderedly, thinking that I was spending the day there distributing the goods. I at least had assumed that I would be with the same group of Mindanao-based workers, and was surprised when we hopped back into the black pickup truck (where the blessed A/C greeted my hot face with wondrous whimsy) and drove off without the other workers.

I asked Juvy where we were going, what we were doing, what was going on, etc., and she, as the organizer of the work, apparently had to go check on all the sites to make sure that they were doing alright and helping however she could. I, as her unofficial guest/worker, was to accompany her wherever and whenever she went anywhere. So, once again, we were off to what I hoped was another good site to help more people.