That Stank

I don't think this smell will ever wash off.

I just took a shower, in preparation of a dinner at a mall in Dumaguete, Negros Oriental, the Philippines. The mall is just like any mall in America, with a food court, bookstores, huge department stores, a movie theater, an apple store, etc. Most things cost exactly the same there as they would in America, and many of the products are things I could find in America as well, such as the Ray Ban knockoffs I bought or the Champions League soccer ball, each costing about as much as they would in the states.

Even so, the smell will not leave my nostrils. 

It is said that smell is the sense strongest linked to memory. Like if I smelled fish frying, I might remember my time spent on beautiful Apo Island a few days ago. We took a little boat out to the remote spit of rock, covered in white sand and palm trees. An island with no running water or electricity, Apo Island boasts some of the best scuba sights in the area. We snorkeled with sea turtles, schools of colorful fish, and different urchins and sea plants, all in water a deep, unforgettable turquoise blue. We ate freshly caught fish prepared by a lady who sold t-shirts to tourists like us, explaining that on a good day she made 300 picos, the equivalent of 7 US dollars, to support her 6 children. 

But the smell of today lingers in my memory more than the smell of Apo Island.

Not the smell we encountered earlier today, as our language teacher led us to the public market to test our skills at the local dialect, Bisaya. Armed with a series of tasks and a puny amount of words we had just learned to say, we ventured into the tightly packed stalls full of food, flip flops, and flat-bill hats. We went to the fruit market, which was a jumble of citrusy smells, not altogether unpleasant though very confused and cacophonous, like the tuning of an orchestra before a show. Next we were off to the hot food area, where the aromas of sticky rice and warm chocolate (a tasty, popular, and very local combination) elbowed the other strong scents out of the way. The meat and fish markets were...interesting, filled with fresh raw protein, some of which was being cut from the animal before our very eyes. The intense smell of the ocean mixed with the heavy fishy smell and full meaty smell assaulted our nostrils as we asked what the local names for pig snouts were. 

And yet, even with these smelling experiences, some stronger than others, the memorable smell of the giant trash dump on the edge of town continues to not only linger, but swim to the surface. Our site coordinator drove us over there around 3 in the afternoon, and with the hot Filipino sun beating down, I smelled the stench of trash all of a sudden. With trees screening the dump, I waited for the trash smell to evaporate as we kept driving, as so often happens in Dumaguete as we speed past a myriad of different stores, each with different scents. However, when we pulled over to the side of the road and saw the dump, I realized that the smell would not go away, and in fact would get more pungent.

One of my immediate reactions was how to capture this. Pictures and videos can convey so much of what an experience is like, and are vital (and useful) to sharing an overseas adventure with others. I pulled out my camera, only to realize that what I wanted to share most of all was the stench, constantly there, slapping you in the face, bad enough to make you want to turn your head away at all times. And this was from across the street in the parking lot. I realized that there is no way to capture this, to plug my camera in and put this smell into this blog. 

The only way I can find to describe it is "the stench of poverty". It sounds kind of corny, like a Michael Moore documentary or a sensationalizing book. But no one would, could, should have to ever be driven to walk purposefully closer to this stench every day, pick up as much trash as possible, and sort it, barehanded, wearing only flip-flops, for 60 hours a week. One woman we met was in her 20s and had a 5 year-old child with her, the child's face stuck shyly in a big-eyed stare. The usual workers made upwards of 100 pisos a day (about $2.25), and they were described as "members"; this lady missed the member list, and was forced to sort through the members' leftover trash in case they missed anything. In order to feed her and her child, she came every single day just to look through this already sorted trash to try to make any money, and you can bet it was less than $2.25 a day.

There were countless hovels there, full of people who not only worked there everyday, but lived on top of a trash dump in order to be competitive in their work. My first question was "How?" and then "Why?". I went past sad and angry to inspired. This is a reality, sad and true, but feeling bad for these people, these real-life survivors, would not accomplish anything. Today, my heart hardened, but I feel truly that my work here, our work here, whatever it may be, is about making this country and this world better to live in. I wanted to put a smile on that girl's face.

And so, the stench of poverty lingers on on me, and I'm not sure if it will ever wash off.