daniel bowman simon

Deaf Can Dance

I began writing about the deaf youth camp I attended last week in Garcia-Hernandez, Bohol. Garcia-Hernandez is a blessed place. The coast provides fish and a beautiful seascape. Then there are mountains, covered in lush green vegetation. The mountains supply a constant flow of fresh potable water. In between there are lovely rice patties, providing the staple of any Filipino breakfast/lunch/dinner table. There were deaf campers from Iloilo, Dumaguete, Cebu, Davao, Zamboanga, and of course Tagbilaran. But it sounded like a book report, so I decided to throw together a photo gallery with captions instead. Youth Deaf Camp 2004

By the way, I just read a most phenomenal book called The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down about an epileptic Hmong girl and the cultural clashes her parents and doctors struggled through. I recommend it to everyone. (I'll spare you the book report.)

Oh and today at 12:53pm Chicago Time, I turn 24. In my honor, everyone in Tagbilaran is slaughtering a pig. I don't approve. (Actually, pigs are consumed like it's a job during fiesta, which occurs here May 1. Nobody knows it's my birthday.)

Down Under

This past week has definitely been one to put my immune system to the test. I won’t divulge just how late we stayed out dancing on the lawn (with a makeshift soundsystem) after our swearing in ceremony. Fortunately, we had Tuesday free, until 6pm, when our supervisors’ conference began with a nice dinner. And wouldn’t you know it, everyone was eager beaver to hit the fine town of Tagbilaran once again.

It has been hard to find time to put any of it down on “paper.” Suffice to say, since thirty-seven of the forty-one 263ers sallied forth from Bohol to their appointed rounds in the past five days, there were many a despidida to attend. And since nagpuyo ko sa Bohol sa sulod sa duha ka tuig, (I am happily stuck on Bohol for the next two years) I hit nearly all of them. Still doesn’t feel like “The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Have.” (The toughest job I ever had was computerizing the patient records of a dentist office…I memorized all the zip codes of Long Island that summer, but I’ve since purged that info to make room for Cebuano.)

Alright, I’ll try to just focus on one activity which occurred in the midst of despidida season. Bohol has some of the best diving in The Philippines or maybe even the world. Some 263ers just got their open water certifications, having spent many Sundays in a pool, pretending to dive. Finally they finished, and Friday was an official vacation day, so at 8am, a dozen of us met in front of the Bohol Quality Mall (not really a mall, but if you call it a mall, teenagers will want to hang out there) and hired a big jeepney to deliver us across the bridge to Bohol Divers on Panglao Island.

The dive site was off Balicasag, an even smaller island of the Bohol Marine Triangle, 6km southwest of Panglao. The area has been designated a marine sanctuary (meaning no more funny business) and the results are stupendous. The infamous Holger Horn – the revered German instructor for the 263 certification -- was our divemaster, and briefed us on the situation. The current was strong, and for many of us it would be our first current dive, but he felt we could handle it. Suited up and flipped off the side of the boat into the water.

Then it was time to submerge. Down down down everyone went, except me. I was stuck at the top. I couldn’t figure out how to get the BCG to function. The last time I dove was when I got my own open water certification, in Thailand, two summers ago. I could see Holger signaling to me to get my butt down there, but I was stranded, and freaking out. Holger is the type who has no patience for stupidity or unpreparedness.

Thankfully, Holgar’s assistant, a nice Swiss guy called Olivier resurfaced to help me get down. One meter, two meters, three meters down, my ears feeling more and more ready to explode. So back up to sea level with Olivier, who reminded me that to equalize I needed to clamp my nose and breathe out. OK, all set and back down. Oh, man, was the current rough. We were hugging the reef, without coming too close. (A little damage can take decades for nature to repair.) Felt like being at conveyor belt sushi, all sorts of fish going by, make your choice quick or it’s gone. Kinda nice not having to worry about exerting energy swimming, but ain’t no time to process, look closer, make funny faces at the fish. At one point, heard weird noises emanating from Olivier, turned around to see a school of about sixty barracuda, including an albino towards the rear, all perfectly aligned, gliding by. One was albino. For those of you keeping track, our max. depth was 24m, with a visibility of 10-15m. The water was 28 Celsius, and we were down for 46 minutes (minus my time at the top.)

So back up to the surface, where I thought Holger would be waiting for me, to twist my neck, rip out all but three of my teeth, and send me back into the water, where I could wash up on the shores of Jones Beach, and maybe my mother could identify me through dental records. But he didn’t say a word.

Back down, this time with a little more weight on my weight belt (buoyancy was an added pain in the ____ the first time around.) This time the current was gone, and I was back with my appointed dive buddy, Tommy Schultz, who was having all sorts of fun with his new underwater Canon Elph digital. He was trying to get close-ups of funky coral life. I have no idea what most were called, but there were definitely many vibrant, photogenic nudibranches (sea slugs) and funny-looking batfishes enjoying the sanctuary. Also, some yellow-tailed tuna came to say hi. Unfortunately, our 45-minute dive ran out
Cuz my lungs were eating up the air, and my tank just about ran out after 31 minutes. This time I thought it was Tommy who’d destroy me. But he’s a good guy who wouldn’t do that, and it was kind of his fault anyway. He was the one who wanted to stay down at 21 meters for so long, and the lungs work harder the deeper you go.

Tommy came over on Saturday night, for a nice farewll dinner, and to show us some of his dive pix. Papa became nostalgic. Back in his youth, he was a fisherman, going down as far as five or six meters (without amenities such as ogxyen and wetsuit.) He showed us the googles he used to use. Imagine kids goggles, but with a piece of string instead of elastic, and cracked lenses. He knows now that scouting for the dynamite fisherman was a bad thing to do, and it breaks his heart to know that some fishermen are still using destructive techniques to bring home a few fish.

Just today, I received a text message (yes, we all have cell phones here, for which Peace Corps gives us an allowance…they are vital for communication as landlines are scarce) from a fellow diver and 263er: “So im at this YEC (youth environmental camp) and so far i have head ten dynamite fishing explosions and they have a sea turtle in a pound. Yeah environment”

So despite the partying, the diving, and the mall, The Philippines has many challenges that I am excited to help the locals tackle. It’s will be a challenge for me to keep it all in perspecitive, trying to live amongst the locals at the local level while still enjoying myself and treating myself to some of the many spectacular sights to see here in The Philippines.

Tomorrow, I will join mama’s deaf students and other deaf from all over the Visayan region of the Philippines for a four-night camping/hiking/sightseeing trip through Bohol. I’m sure some good stories will come out of it.

Finally!

Finally! After more than two months of grueling “Pre-Service Training,” we were sworn in as bona fide Peace Corps Volunteers, Philippines Group 263. The festivities were meant to begin at 6:30pm sharp, but as we’ve experienced time and time again here, nothing ever starts on time. Excuse the corniness, but what was sharp was us. Many of the males sported a barong, which is lightweight Filipino formalwear. Apparently the one I bought is suitable for a wedding. One of the female volunteers wore a stunning orange dress sewn that very day by her host mother.

And Dumadag Farm itself had never looked better. Tiki torches were abundant, a fruit table with a towering fountain, and plenty of theme-appropriate Dugong centerpieces. (Yes, that dawdling, dull endangered species of the sea somehow became the 263 mascot. We even took up a pool to adopt a real live dugong as a group.) Papa remarked it was as if we had entered the center of the jungle. I must admit I was a bit taken aback at all the splendor and glory. We’re just here to help out and fit in with our communities, and what do you know, the biggest party is in our honor. And we haven’t even gotten started on our tasks yet.

Things got started off with a fine rendition of Lupang Hinirang, the Filipino national anthem, and then a lackluster Star Spangled Banner. We were all called up on stage and the forty-one of us who first came together on a chilly day in San Francisco, took the oath in unison. ‘Tis a strange oath, including a bit about promising to defend the US from its enemies, both domestic and international. I’m sworn to it now.

After the oath, the U.S. Embassy Chargé d’Affaires Joseph Mussomeli, whom we met in Manila early Feb got up and started his keynote speech “This is terrible. You’re all gonna stand there through my whole speech? Go back to your seats…I don’t trust 41 Peace Corps volunteers behind my back anyway.” He went on to tell us we needed to take national anthem singing lessons from our Filipino counterparts. Then, on a rare serious note, he asserted his opinion that dollar for dollar, the Peace Corps is the best use of U.S. Taxpayer dollars.

The next speaker was the lame duck mayor of Tagbilaran (3 three-year terms is all you get) who humorously welcomed the chargee as Mr. Mussolini. And then a last minute stand in for the governor, who told us he hopes Peace Corps will still be in The Philippines in one-hundred years. Actually, the way I see it, what we are trying to accomplish is our own obsolescence. The day that The Philippines tells us they don’t need us anymore is the day we can fly out onto a huge naval vessel in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and bask in the sun under a “Mission Accomplished” banner, if you know what I mean.

After dinner there was some lighthearted gimcrackery. A witty fellow PCV called Kevin organized the duGong show. I was enlisted mere minutes prior to my act, which I called “Underwater Melody.” I handed the Chargé the “Executive Dugong,” explaining that I was about to perform a number for him in an effort to make up for the dismal Star Spangled. I got very wet gargling the first verse of our war-themed anthem, before I choked and was duGonged the heck out of there. I doubt I’ll dare set foot in the U.S. Embassy ever again.

Then came a wonderful acoustic guitar quartet of PCVs Tommy and Eric, Jun Reputana and son. Jun Reputana is a member of a dying breed. A craftsman, who builds some of the most beautiful guitars I’ve ever seen, using local resources such as jackfruit wood and seashells as a decorative inlay. His skills he has inherited from his father, and he is passing them on to his sons. His factory is his front yard. He is an honest, soft-spoken man, who meets deadlines. He charges his same low price to Americans as he does to Filipinos, because he is delighted that people are playing his guitars, instead of those coming off an assembly line. The “labor of love” is not a part of assembly line manufacturing. Apparently, it was hard to coerce Jun to perform. He was shy to perform in front of distinguished guests, but he churned out twenty guitars for PCVs in the past two months, so with some insisting from his adoring customers, he came, and brought down the house.

Then things were stepped up a notch, with the Dugong theme song led by Tommy, a rambunctious number, with a constant refrain “Dugong, Dugong, Dugong, Dugong…” The all-star jam made me nostalgic for my hometown heroes, those fun, underwear wearing Dufus folk.

And then it was time for a speech by Kim and me, regarding the goals and aspirations of 263. It was kind of boring, not because we don’t have goals and aspirations, but because we are so sick and tired of talking about them, we just want to get out in the field and get to work.

Soon enough, the formal part of the evening was done with, and the local hip-hop cover band H2O (bearing no relation to the New York Hardcore outfit) was presented to us as a gift from the Dumadag family. We did some coconut bowling, attacked our dugong piñata, reprised the dugong song, as well as the dirty dugong anthem, and danced, danced, danced until 4am.

It’s good to be in the Peace Corps Philippines. Thanks Mom and Dad.

Of cocks, swine, and canine

It used to be I could not go back to sleep once the roosters began their pre-dawn cockadoodledooing. What a difference two months makes. Don’t get me wrong, they’re still loud and obnoxious, but I’ve made a conscious decision to not allow those guys to steal away an hour of my sleep. I’ve worked out a system wherein I just work them into my dreams.

I still haven’t figured out how to handle the pigs squealing. There is no melody to their racket. And the darn things try to grab my wet shirts off the clothesline, and the other day I came home and one was choking on a plastic bag. Still, I wish lechon baboy (rotisserie pig) was not the “National Dish.” Come May 1, Tagbilaran City fiesta, many a pink thing will experience an untimely demise. Squealing will be rampant that day. I might sleep with earplugs for the occasion.

Then there are dogs. We have Bingo for a pet – he is twelve or thirteen, nobody quite remembers. But there are many strays. dogs can be very loud when they want to. I am still a little frightened when the strays bark at me (have been ever since a German Shepard chomped on my behind when I was five.) My friend Corey has pointed out to me that if you bend over as if to pick up a stone or some other projectile, the dog will cower and pick on someone his own size. Anyway, I’ve been vaccinated for pre-exposure rabies.

There you have it, the animal orchestra of The Philippines consists of cocks, swine, and canine. And if you count sputtering trikes as animals, well then you can include them too.

Ambet, my Business Advising for Youth Development technical trainer, left our training a few days early to be with his wife when she delivered their first child, Juan (born around 2am Friday.) Ambet is one of fourteen children, though at age 26 he’s already outlived his four elder siblings. One of my favorite moments on our trip to Dumaguete last week was at an orphanage. Ocelie, one of my co-trainees was reading Corduroy to the kids. Ambet’s mind was elsewhere. See, there was an infant there, and Ambet picked her up, bounced her around and make faces with her – getting some last minute practice in. I hereby nominate Ambet to the International Dad Hall of Fame.

On Sunday, I helped mama and papa paint the window frames. I’m not known for coloring within the lines. Which meant yesterday I had to clean up all the paint that I smeared on the glass. Only after an hour sweating in the blistering sun did I remember that putting tape around the edges is a great way to avoid the consequences of being messy.