In the Philippines my life has been dominated by two near-diametrically opposed places – town and country. Similarities exist between the town and country but these shared traits are not what strike me day in and out – that space is reserved for their essential differences. The discrepancies require of me either a steeling against, or a relaxing into, every coming and going; both actions require great effort and focus to occur smoothly.
A kind of purgatory exists between town and country, one that moves with the river’s depth. Some days purgatory lies at the head of the dump where bankeros pilot their boats across a wide channel – during dry months it exists wherever my feet first enter the verdant water, beginning the wade across. This is the place where, as each new crop is sown, I watch the forest behind my house burn and the diesel and trash fueled fog of town fades behind (or rears ahead of) me.
Here I watch the bats catch dinner when the sun falls below the mountains. I rarely linger and almost never pass this way during the day; trips to town are the providence of cool mornings, not the afternoon. It is here where I alternately wash the city from my mind and brace myself for the onslaught of noise and discomfort invariably found in town. My mind, like matter, can only occupy one space at one time. By crossing the river I am afforded a long moment to ease between each world; something, without which, I would be loath to move at all.
Town is where my office lies – where the market, mail, and internet may be enjoyed (or cursed, depending on the day). It is where I must go to attend meetings, visit various offices, and develop film. Town is necessary, but it is not pleasant. In town my worst qualities most consistently appear. Impatience, anger, condescension, intransigence – and for these reasons I avoid leaving the barangay. Yet I do come to town often; each time brings challenges so old I am surprised at the intensity and difficulty they present. Never once have I been allowed the luxury of simply moving about my business unmolested; always observed, evaluated, and categorized. This scrutiny has bred a kind of personal hypersensitivity to my obvious differences; in this I have no envy for celebrity, and all respect for privacy.
In town the places I frequent become safe houses. In these places I am known. My preferences noted, remembered, and repeated (a definite example of “white-privilage”), “Tofu today? These bananas/mangos/tomatoes are fresh! Internet? Stamps?” So too are the homes and businesses of friends. In these buildings my name is known and novelty is shed; all other time in town is spent moving between these locations.
The country is, mostly, an extended safe house – a place where I can know and am known. It was not always this way and momentarily reverts with each new place visited or new person encountered. Because fewer people reside in the country I was quickly absorbed into the lives and landscape. Of the fact that I am other there is no doubt and it remains the unbridgeable gap. I could live here a hundred years and would always be other. In relation to my outsider status the difference between here and town is that people have observed, evaluated, and categorized me into their lives – I am no longer novel and require no further superficial study. The constant state of city novelty disallows my assimilation there – here my continued presence has overshadowed my newness and erased it.
And so these two places, and the zone between, have assumed their roles in my life. The necessary evil, the breather, and my comfort zone. These cookie cutter descriptions do not hold or imply the all of anyplace, but represent the rough categories they occupy in my mind. Even in challenge there is beauty, and the preferred location tarnished by unexpected difficulties. Always and everywhere one must remember and appreciate what is positive; and ready themselves for things otherwise.
A kind of purgatory exists between town and country, one that moves with the river’s depth. Some days purgatory lies at the head of the dump where bankeros pilot their boats across a wide channel – during dry months it exists wherever my feet first enter the verdant water, beginning the wade across. This is the place where, as each new crop is sown, I watch the forest behind my house burn and the diesel and trash fueled fog of town fades behind (or rears ahead of) me.
Here I watch the bats catch dinner when the sun falls below the mountains. I rarely linger and almost never pass this way during the day; trips to town are the providence of cool mornings, not the afternoon. It is here where I alternately wash the city from my mind and brace myself for the onslaught of noise and discomfort invariably found in town. My mind, like matter, can only occupy one space at one time. By crossing the river I am afforded a long moment to ease between each world; something, without which, I would be loath to move at all.
Town is where my office lies – where the market, mail, and internet may be enjoyed (or cursed, depending on the day). It is where I must go to attend meetings, visit various offices, and develop film. Town is necessary, but it is not pleasant. In town my worst qualities most consistently appear. Impatience, anger, condescension, intransigence – and for these reasons I avoid leaving the barangay. Yet I do come to town often; each time brings challenges so old I am surprised at the intensity and difficulty they present. Never once have I been allowed the luxury of simply moving about my business unmolested; always observed, evaluated, and categorized. This scrutiny has bred a kind of personal hypersensitivity to my obvious differences; in this I have no envy for celebrity, and all respect for privacy.
In town the places I frequent become safe houses. In these places I am known. My preferences noted, remembered, and repeated (a definite example of “white-privilage”), “Tofu today? These bananas/mangos/tomatoes are fresh! Internet? Stamps?” So too are the homes and businesses of friends. In these buildings my name is known and novelty is shed; all other time in town is spent moving between these locations.
The country is, mostly, an extended safe house – a place where I can know and am known. It was not always this way and momentarily reverts with each new place visited or new person encountered. Because fewer people reside in the country I was quickly absorbed into the lives and landscape. Of the fact that I am other there is no doubt and it remains the unbridgeable gap. I could live here a hundred years and would always be other. In relation to my outsider status the difference between here and town is that people have observed, evaluated, and categorized me into their lives – I am no longer novel and require no further superficial study. The constant state of city novelty disallows my assimilation there – here my continued presence has overshadowed my newness and erased it.
And so these two places, and the zone between, have assumed their roles in my life. The necessary evil, the breather, and my comfort zone. These cookie cutter descriptions do not hold or imply the all of anyplace, but represent the rough categories they occupy in my mind. Even in challenge there is beauty, and the preferred location tarnished by unexpected difficulties. Always and everywhere one must remember and appreciate what is positive; and ready themselves for things otherwise.
posted by peter at 22:44
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