Thankfully some Filipinos have a sense of humor similar to my own, otherwise we’d all be in trouble. Weeks ago I had fermented a jug of pineapple hooch only getting around to sharing it last evening (this batch ended up sour, too). When surrounded by Ilocano speakers I am usually content to simply listen to the talk around me (contrary to my attitude with English). While watching with my ears, the conversation eventually turned into an exchange of Ilocano puns. They were funny enough (the ones I understood in any case), though I’m sure that the English equivalents could measure success in attrition won laughs and rolled eyes. That a good half of the puns incorporated English and Tagalog words, not only Ilocano, is a testament to the polyglottous nature of this island nation.

Let’s attempt a simple transliteration: The English words “spade” and “speed” have similar sounds which are greatly enhanced depending upon your pronunciation. So, what then does “spade” mean to an Ilocano? A fast shovel (Napartak ti palla). Ho. He. Ho, ouch my side! I’m thankful to find fodder for rolled eyes and grudging laughs. Why? Bad humor has thus been validated and vindicated, by virtue of the newfound cross-cultural truth of funny unfunniness, from all groans and cries weak jokes have ever received! I count myself among the newly justified and righteous adherents of slapstick comedy and indecipherable smiles. Don’t understand? You haven’t yet been indoctrinated.

(I will say that a darker undercurrent of humor exists…the kind that laughs when someone falls off a jeepney or what not. These laughs are not sanctioned by the church of funny unfunniness; do not be mislead. Those programs of videotaped mishaps and accidents could garner quite a following in the barrio…)

The Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year, passed by three days ago (the internet has been unavailable from that time up till now…). The sun has been rising at 5:30 AM and setting around 6:30 PM, and for the last month I have enjoyed the longer days. The sunsets have been especially pretty as of late – all sorts of oranges and reds, bouncing off the corrugated rooftops, making even the river stand still (last night the river reflected a solitary patch of icy blue back to the sky, offset by the black of the riverbed). The sky to the northeast often brings intimations of rain, while the southwest sits awash in layered clouds.

The evening is my favorite time of the day. I love the bats catching bugs against the darkening sky (though the enjoyment eludes me while they fly into eyes while riding bike…) and the mountains falling into shadow. All things seem to slow down, take on a more leisurely tone, soften, blend until eventually the darkness equalizes everything. I find morning to be the polar opposite – the day sharpens people and events until anonymity is gone, everything is plain, mystery is lost. Maybe sleep lessens my ability to welcome the break of the day – as it stands, I’ll stick with the night.

Projects. There isn’t much to report here – for every step forward it seems that two are taken backwards. This can’t go on ad infinitum, but there is little evidence of the trend reversing. Even by telling community members of my “vacation” a noticeable change in attitude or effort has not been effected. That statement was not completely true. Through the lens of frustration and disappointment it is often difficult to see the glass as half full. Certain folks have been incredibly helpful and as befuddled as I at our apparent difficulties – when not everyone is on board, it is difficult to accomplish tasks.

Current Reading: The Freedom of the Hills by the Mountaineers and Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie. It’s a bit strange to read about mountain climbing, crampons, and crevasse
rescue technique when there isn’t a snowflake in sight (sightings have been reported, but remain unsubstantiated), but that’s what I’m doing! Two years away from snow is quite enough, this is for sure.

Salman Rushdie can write. His characters are incredibly lucid and real – I’ve found myself thinking of them as actual people rather than inhabitants of an imaginary world. His narrative is also quite striking, moving throughout temporal boundaries like air, making connections between characters and events that weave through time in quite unexpected and surprising ways. The protagonist, Saleem Sinai, fluidly shifts between hero and anti-hero being in turns pitiful, acquiescent, beautiful, and ugly. His sensitive and volatile nature is meant to reflect the contradictory forces and desires that wage war within us all. There are times where Sinai waxes Whitman (“To understand me, you must swallow the world”) and wanes self-recrimination (as he claims responsibility for the death of Nehru). Terribly imaginative and original – story of the 1001 gifted children born on the eve of partition between India and Pakistan; and their purpose? To fail.

GMA is president, but voices are already being raised in opposition. Better luck next time, FPJ – then again, maybe this was all part of the script...