umbrella thief

Someone pinched my umbrella. As in they stole it, they thieved it. They snatched it.

I left it at work on a day when it started out raining and ended up sunny. Typical Vancouver. I left it in the umbrella stand, and I come back three days later and it was gone.

I have to admit I’ve stolen umbrellas before. Well, not stolen, but “borrowed”. I suppose. I’ll go to the same coffee shop more than once a week and if that umbrella isn’t gone by the end of the week and it’s pouring rain outside, you better believe I’m gonna take that umbrella.

I guess I can’t be mad then that someone took mine. What goes around comes around, n’est pas? The only thing is that I loved that umbrella. My boyfriend (who wasn’t my boyfriend at the time) had bought it for me before he left for Montreal for three months. On the inside was a picture of my favourite building in the city: The Marine Building on Hastings Street. That umbrella has seen many a good rainfall. And it has kept me dry in the wettest of days. I just hope it goes to someone who needs it and who will appreciate it. Somehow I doubt it, but I guess if i’m contributing to keeping someone dry when they have nothing to protect them I’m okay with it.

I just really loved that umbrella.

currently on the look out for…

I’m currently on the lookout for a good sleeveless utility jackets. I’ve seen one a few months ago, but with spring coming I want one to wear over sweaters and jeans to add a little something something.

Can someone please tell Club Monaco to bring this jem back???

meditation 17

Meditation #17 By John Donne From Devotions upon Emergent Occasions (1623),

XVII: Nunc Lento Sonitu Dicunt, Morieris (Now this bell, tolling softly for another, says to me, Thou must die.)

Perchance, he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness.

There was a contention as far as a suit (in which both piety and dignity, religion and estimation, were mingled), which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first in the morning; and it was determined, that they should ring first that rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in that application, that it might be ours as well as his, whose indeed it is.

The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that this occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world?

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbours. Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did, for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current money, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell, that tells me of his affliction, digs out and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another’s danger I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.

the coconut farm

The path was rocky and we drove through the forest of palm trees and ferns up to the farm. The bugs were hungry and every once in awhile we gave each other a slap so we wouldn’t be devoured by Philippine mosquitoes. Apparently the Deet just wasn’t cutting it.

I listened to the story of the old mayor from the back seat. Cathy’s uncle was the mayor of the town of Bontoc and he had a big influence on the town. The road was rocky and bumpy as usual. I held onto the door handle tight so I wouldn’t be thrown from my seat. Wearing seatbelts was uncommon.

The truck crawled through the path and to my left emerged the sight of a beautiful rice field. Layer upon layer of swampy water stretched the field and little green plants poked up through the water. I saw a man in a rice hat and barefeet trudding around in the water shoveling mud, and another man sitting on the fence of the hut, just sitting and waiting in the heat. We stopped at the hut and got out of the car. The ground was damp and I was only wearing my chinelas, the heavy ones that fling mud onto my calves when I walk. They joke that I need mudflaps whenever I wear them, and I saw people looking at my legs speckled with mud from the ground when we were in the market back in the town.

An older man with a cane was standing on the porch of the empty hut. He was wearing khaki pants with a belt and brown leather sandles. He wore a striped polo shirt, and thick glasses. His eyes were small but gentle and when he saw us his face lit up in happiness. He looked like a sweet man. His niece walked up to him took his hand and brought it to her forehead in a blessing. His nephews followed. I was introduced to “Uncle Augustin” as the mestiza friend, and I clumsily blessed him as well. He suffered a stroke a few years back so his hand didn’t work as it should. We had to bend low and stoop to reach his hand. He walked slowly with his cane and welcomed us to his farm.

The field spanned outwards towards another field of palm trees. We could hear the birds, but I don’t know what kind. To the right the field swooped up and there were a group of palm trees and men climbing them in bare feet and loose pants. To our left was the road we came up on and it bordered the rice field. There were huts on the side of the road and bamboo shoots that acted as gutters and pails of water where the water from the gutters had gathered after the rain fall. We talked with Uncle Augustin and then he gestured towards a group of palm trees up the hill. We walked up quickly, trying to stay clear of the mosquitoes. I could feel them prick my skin and then the swelling after. I tried not to itch them.

We walked a few meters up the hill and stopped at the palm trees. We looked out over the field and breathed in the hot air. Everything was so green and full and beautiful. I had never seen anything like it. Standing on top of that hill I felt like I was me and that I was doing exactly what I should be doing. For the first time in my life I felt like I was Filipino.

I looked up and saw the leaves of a palm tree shaking. There was a man picking coconuts. He would chop them down with a machete-type knife and drop them to the damp ground with a loud “THUMP”. I looked up again and saw that I had been standing under where a cluster of coconuts had grown and I moved. People get taken to the hospital after getting hit in the head with a falling coconut.

Uncle Augustin’s son spoke to the man in Visayan after he had climbed down the tree. The man nodded in agreement and made his way back up. They had cut little divets into the tree for stepping and they would wrap their strong arms around it to shimmy themselves up to the top. The man got to the top and cut down four or five coconuts. They fell to the ground: “thump, thump, thump, thump”, “thump”.

A second man took the coconuts and cut off the tops just so there was a hole big enough to drink out of. The group of us held our coconuts and put or lips to the openings. The coconut milk was slightly sweet and very thick. It had a slight sourness to it. We drank and drank. I drank like there was nothing left in the world to drink. There must have been at least a litre of coconut milk in each fruit. The man then cut the coconuts open so we all had halves. He brought out spoons and we each took one. The coconut meat was slippery and tender. It had a slight sweetness as well and was very filling. As we ate and drank and I could feel the mosquitoes having their meal as well, but I didn’t care as much. I tried to eat and drink the whole coconut because I didn’t want the men’s work to go to waste. When we finished eating the fruit we took our empty coconuts, yelled “Salamat Po’” into the field and threw our coconuts into a bush to become part of the earth once more.

We sighed wiped our mouths and hands on our hankerchiefs, thanked the men and made our way back down to the pick up truck. On the way there was a small puppy and a little family watching close by. A mother was carrying her small daughter and another child was standing near their mother looking shy and curious. We said “hello” and smiled and they nodded and smiled back.

We got back to the truck and thanked Uncle Augustin for letting us drink and eat his coconuts. Three people hopped in the cab of the pick up and I got back into the back seat. We drove back down the path as I wiped mud from the backs of my legs and scratched the spots where the mosquitoes had bit.

Hanginan

We woke up 4am, it was still dark out and the roosters had not yet begun to crow, and the pigs had not yet begun to be slaughtered. The air was thick with sleep and humidity. The fans were blowing cool stale air into my lungs. We rolled out of bed without speaking and put our hiking clothes on. I opted for a pair of denim shorts, thick socks, a white t-shirt, and running shoes. I packed my cloth backpack with bug spray, sunscreen, a bottle of water, my camera and some pesos. We made our way downstairs and had a quiet breakfast. I can’t remember what but it must have been pan de sal, cocoa jelly and instant coffee – a Philippine staple.

We all packed into the truck; I sat in the backseat with three others and two more piled in the back cab of the pick up. We drove for fourty minutes, stopped at a local bakery and picked up more pan de sal for the road, and we kept on driving. We came to the hike and drove through a neighbourhood sprinkled with palm trees, we drove through the trees, careful not to hit any of them.

We got out of the truck and stretched a bit, reapplied the bugspray, and went on our way.

The beginning was steep with many loose rocks and some water falling down the hillside. A local man on a motorbike came riding down the hill, we stepped to the side to let him through. Fifteen minutes went by and we came to a clearing. We looked down and saw some of the town through the thick ferns and trees. The bay was deep blue as in twilight, but the sun was rising and not setting, I suppose we call that dusk. We snapped a few pictures and kept hiking.

The day was getting warmer and thick. It was like walking through syrup, the sweat was beginning and my lungs were getting heavy. After eating all that pork and brandy for the past week, it was no surprise I was slow and cumbersome. We came to a shack and a bench where we sat and rested. Someone had written on the bench in a black pen their email address and in Visayan “email me for drugs”. Of what kind of drugs I was not sure.

We kept walking with the mountainside levelling out and then inclining again. We started passing by huts with children and dogs outside. Locals cooking over makeshift barbeques and selling little trinkets and snacks. One hut we passed by, a girl was outside with a small knife and was asking us for money. She followed us a little way and I could hear her behind us saying “ma’am, ma’am”, until we walked far enough away we could not hear her and her brother.

We came to another clearing on the mountain where we could look over the town of Maasin. It was all green from above. We saw burning in the trees up ahead and it was explained to us that they were making Tooba, a local alcoholic drink that comes from a coconut.

We were all sweating by now, but the pathway had begun to pass through the small town that lives on top of the mountain. Little girls and boys wearing their flip flops and school uniforms were making their way down the mountain to go to school. They stared at us and then kept on walking.

We reached a set of concrete stairs that looked worn in and slippery. A statue of Jesus carrying a cross motivated us to keep hiking. After three more flights of stairs we were on the top of the mountain, in the small town where local people were sleeping in hammocks, gathering water and bathing in buckets.

At the very top of mountain was a cathedral. A small, humble cathedral, but my favourite one of the whole trip. We bought candles to light, and entered the cathedral. As we entered the clouds broke outside and it started to rain. This was the heaviest rain I had seen so far, but it was cozy and dry inside the cathedral. While I sat listening to the rain on the roof, I looked up and saw the ceiling painted in images of Mary and Jesus and other religious figures I was unable to name. I sat in the second pew and thought, reflected on the walk we took to get up there and the people who live on top of that mountain. It was quiet and peaceful and in my heart I felt calm. I thought of my faith and my experience in the Philippines and how I would be changed when I arrived back in Vancouver. I thought of my family and of love. At that moment I felt like I was home.