Sometimes A Great Notion: Part 2 - First Day:Manila

"Those who visit foreign nations, but associate only with their own country-men, change their climate, but not their customs. They see new meridians, but the same men; and with heads as empty as their pockets, return home with traveled bodies, but untraveled minds"
~ Charles Caleb Colton


"In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes of mice and men go oft awry"
~ Robert Burns

We arrived in Manila just before midnight and found ourselves disembarking at the old International terminal, the same terminal I had left from 28 years earlier. We were told the "new" terminal was closed, but not why. But we went through Customs, our papers stamped and got our luggage in what seemed like just a few minutes, despite the large number of "Balikbayan boxes". In reality it took us about an hour, I guess the excitement of being back made time go fast.

Balikbayan is a term that refers to Filipinos returning to their homeland (there are 11 million who reside and work in countries all over the world). They return bearing "pasalubong" (gifts) in large boxes.

Suitcases in hand we turned and there was Manong Tony, looking much the same as he did the last time I saw him back in '75. He had been like a big brother to me when I was little, and when my two youngest brothers were born he took over some of the responsibilities that had formerly been the sole domain of our housekeeper Auring, like taking me to the movies. After college, he went on to attend seminary and had become a minister. Now we discovered he was a Chaplain in the Philippine Air Force with the rank of Lt. Colonel. He currently was attached to the PSG, the equivalent of the US Secret Service.

After hugs and introductions, we took our luggage and headed for the parking lot. It was warm and muggy, and we started sweating immediately. Our noses were assaulted by the blended, sour odor of diesel fuel exhaust, sewage and uncollected garbage. The Step-Mom exclaimed at the stench, but for me, the old familiar smells were stirring the memories and resurrecting feelings long forgotten: home. I'm home.

I was reminded of the movie Kelly's Heroes, where two soldiers from rural Texas are covered with the contents of an outhouse. Upon being told they stink, Don Rickles comments "kind of reminds you of home, don't it" whereupon one of the soldiers replies "you know it kind of does"

Tony loaded us up, Dad up front and the Step-Mom, Maureen and I crammed in the back, and drove us to the old UCCP Mission Guest House in the area of Metro Manila called Malate. Tony was trying to convince Dad to have us stay with him, but the Step-Mom insisted on a hotel and the Guest House (now called Shalom Center) was the compromise. I wanted to see and experience the old sights and places, and the Guest House was an important part of our pilgrimage.

The city was still very active at 1:00 a.m. and traffic was heavy. Most of the time our driver just drove through the red lights, simultaneously depressing the accelerator and his horn as we approached an intersection. We had no idea whether the drivers in the on-coming traffic were going to stop or not, so it was rather exciting. But the honking must have been a well known signal because it all seemed to work out. When we were forced to stop at a traffic light, a small boy or two would come up to our car and press their faces close to the glass, looking so pathetic, begging for money. The driver would give them some cash and they scurried away. It made Maureen cry and I realized this was an aspect of our trip that I had not anticipated.

The drive from the airport that used to take twenty minutes now took just over an hour. We got to the Guest House to find that the beautiful turn-of-the century two story guest house had been replaced by a modern tall building. We checked in, not knowing what other changes to expect after all these years. But the room was cool and clean, the sheets crisp and white, the water hot and refreshing. We cleaned up and crawled into bed, and were soon fast asleep.

We awoke just a few hours later to the sounds of vendors in the street selling taho, a custardy dish made from tofu, sago pearls and assorted fruit or syrups of your choice. We tried to go back to sleep but we hadn't adjusted to the change in time zone yet. To be honest, I was too excited to go back to sleep.

So, we got up and went downstairs and took some pictures on the street out front and then went through the lobby and out the back door.

There, behind the new tower were two of the original guest houses still standing, looking rather forlorn and uncomfortable. This was one of the things I wanted to see again. Slightly modified, but still mostly the same, there was the house where we lived our first few months in the Philippines.

It was strange and wonderful, the memories of my childhood came rushing back, of daily sounds, smells, and rituals. Of warm, yet still comfortable mornings, the relative quiet before the hustle and bustle of the city gearing up for another busy day of commerce. The hot afternoons when the city would suddenly go silent, the only sound was the wings of the cicadas humming.

Back inside, I asked at the front desk about changing some dollars for pesos and the clerk said they could arrange for a money changer to come by a little later. Dad and the stepmother were still in bed and we were enjoying the break in the Tagalog lessons, so we went to see about getting some breakfast without them.

The days of a multi-course American style meal served family style at long tables covered in white tablecloths were long gone. In the old days, breakfast was preceded by a reading from the Upper Room, followed by several relevant Bible passages and a prayer. Then eggs, sometimes fried, sometimes scrambled or wonder of wonders boiled eggs perched on little white egg cups. Fruit, toast, bacon or sausage and juice would round out the meal.

The Shalom Center now had a cafeteria and served traditional Filipino foods. I steered Maureen towards a breakfast of coffee, mango juice, rice, fried eggs and little red sausages called longaniza and was gratified to find that she really enjoyed it. The coffee came in little packets with the creamer already mixed in and you just poured it into a cup of hot water. She was a little suspicious of it at first, but happily discovered that it was quite delicious. We lingered for awhile after eating, sipping our coffee and slowly adjusting to our new surroundings.

After breakfast we went down to the lobby to meet the money exchanger, running into our "travel companions" as we exited the cafeteria. I suggested to Dad that he take the opportunity to change some dollars to pesos but he brushed it off.

Prior to our trip I had spent many hours on line updating myself on the Philippines, reading travel tips and advice, newspaper articles and consular warnings. The country that we had known so well had greatly changed, but Dad still thought that he knew it all, certainly much better than I.

When we got to the lobby Tony was there and helped us change some money with the money changer while we waited for the parents. They appeared a little while later, and Dad promptly announced that he needed to change some dollars! Too late, the money changer had already left. The step mother needed some sun glasses too, so it was decided we would head over to SM Mall after lunch at Tony's home. We grabbed some of our luggage to store at his home and headed out to fight the traffic once again.

We arrived at the base and the guard cheerfully waved us through. Tony gave us a quick tour around the base and stopped first to let Maureen pick a Kalachuchi blossom, then to let us have some photo ops with the impressive residence across the river.

We kind of felt like we were breaking some rules: You usually don't see this side of the official residence, nor can you normally get this close. But we reminded ourselves that this was the Philippines and things are a little more relaxed here.

The parsonage was attached to the back of the Base Chapel. We arrived at Tony's home and met some of his family. Two of his daughters were at work and we would meet them later. His wife, Beth, was the daughter of old family friends and excused herself to prepare lunch while Tony gave us a tour of the Chapel and his gardens. Orchids, flowers, fruit trees were everywhere. I had forgotten how lush the tropics can be.

Here is Tony and the parents. Dad is trying to figure out how to use the video camera (he shot hours of the sky, the ground or the interior of the car).

Then we were ushered in for lunch. It was an excellent meal that included fried fish, rice, a shrimp, beef and vegetable stir fry, green beans, mangoes, bananas, grapes and suman. They even cooked up a few pieces of whole dried fish called Tuyo just for me.

Dried fish is made by heavily salting fresh whole or split fish, which then are dried in the sun. To prepare them you simply heat a little oil in a skillet and fry them up. The oil reconstitutes the flesh and they emit a very strong odor. Most Americans find the smell horrific, but it always makes my mouth water. For almost thirty years I had been dreaming of this moment, the taste of tuyo and rice filling my mouth.

After lunch, Tony and Dad sat down to discuss the itinerary. Our original plans had been to go from Manila to the island of Leyte for a week, then back to Manila and on to the mountains of Baguio with a side trip to Sagada. Dad immediately changed things up by saying he wanted to go to Baguio first and then Leyte. I tried to explain that we had reservations made at hotels in Baguio and Leyte, that people had taken time off from work to see us and that we couldn't just change things up but he refused to listen.

What I didn't realize then was that he was apprehensive about going back to Leyte. He was afraid that, at best, no one would even remember him. So we changed our plans, which meant we now had to go buy tickets to Baguio and hope we could find rooms.

So first we went to get 4 plane tickets to Baguio. Dad did his knick knack paddy whack dance (slapping each pocket in turn) and said he left his credit card at the hotel. Apparently he had only brought dollars to exchange into pesos. So I had to pay for all the tickets.

Then we headed over to SM Mall. Traffic was miserable and it took us forever to get there. I was totally amazed at the congestion of the city. We were even more shocked at the total disregard for traffic signals, the large number of cars trying to fit into a finite number of lanes. Navigating the ever changing maze was like some crazy dance, a game of "chicken" to see who would yield first. At some point Tony determined that we were headed the wrong direction and began to slowly work his way from the far left lane all the way over to the far right lane. Once there we thought he was going to pull in on a side street and head back the other direction. Instead, tooting his horn and putting on his left blinker he executed a wide turn. Cutting across about six or seven lanes of traffic and into the lanes heading the opposite way, smiling and waving as vehicles would stop just inches from our car. It was a gut wrenching experience, but two things were evident to us, there was no road rage, no cussing or angry gestures. With so many people (around 21 million in the Greater Manila area) rubbing elbows, it was essential that decorum be maintained. So, despite the congestion, people kept their cool.

When we finally arrived we were stopped by guards at the parking garage who cheerfully checked the trunk and under the car for bombs. After we parked, there was another security check, this time for us. We were told that we were not allowed to take pictures inside the mall, but I surreptitiously took a few blurry shots. There were no malls in the Philippines when we had lived there last, and Maureen was impressed at the number of employees (four or five smartly dressed young women in every department) and how friendly and helpful they were.

Dad and Tony went to exchange some dollars to pesos while the Step-mom, Maureen and I did some shopping. Maureen had left her swim suit back in the States, and I thought I'd pick up an embroidered short sleeve shirt. The Step-Mom went to go buy some sunglasses. The exchange rate currently was floating around 56 pesos to one dollar. For some reason this was very confusing to the parents and I wasn't sure why. Dad had done some mission work in Nepal, Central and South America, they both had worked in Africa, so they had relatively recent experience with varying exchange rates. Maureen got her suit, I got my shirt and we wandered over to see how the Step-Mom was doing. She was having trouble picking a pair but finally decided on a stylish black framed designer branded pair. Dad and Tony came up and she said "these are only $10 dollars". Maureen looked at the tag labeled 5,600 pesos and said uh no, they are around $100. The Step-Mom looked annoyed and insisted she was correct and purchased them anyway. Leaving the mall she had an indignant whispered conversation with Dad and after some calculations on a piece of paper the sunglasses were carefully remanded to her luggage for the remainder of our trip, as they too valuable to wear.

After the mall we headed over to the American Cemetery. This again took forever due to the heavy traffic. We had intended to do some sight-seeing but it now seemed rather late to get started. I was beginning to worry about how much time we would waste everyday just trying to get to the places we wanted to see.

When we got there it was just after 5 pm, it was raining and they were closing for the day. But Tony showed them his official I.D. and they just waved us in.

The rain suddenly stopped and the sun tried to peak out. It was serene and beautiful.

Administered by the American Battle Monuments Commission it covers about 152 acres and has 17, 206 graves and an additional 36,282 names inscribed on limestone columns of those missing in action. We walked around for an hour and then it started raining again so we decided to go.

Tony decided it was time to get something to eat and stopped off at McDonalds. After crossing the ocean to get here it was not our first choice but he was driving and our host, so we went along with it. We parked right in front and Tony paid some street kids to watch his car. A guard armed with a shot-gun opened the door for us and we trooped in.

This turned out to be an interesting experience because the McDonalds in the Philippines are nothing like the ones back in the States. For one thing rice comes with the meals and french fries are a special side order. Salisbury steak, Spaghetti and fried chicken are also on the menu. We tried these "new" items and found them to be pretty good!

The Step-mom went to use the restroom and came out shortly and said there is no toilet paper in there. Maureen pulled some out of her travel bag and handed it to her. She seemed most annoyed that we were so prepared.

I can't help it, a decade of living in a rural area of the Philippines, plus being a Boy Scout who was taught to "be prepared", I find my self always thinking of contingencies. Before we had left I had advised her to get some travel "tp" to bring with her, because like when they were in Africa, it is something that is not always provided or available.

We had an early flight to Baguio the next morning, jet lag had finally caught up to us and we were worn out, so Tony took us back the Guest House. We showered and Maureen took a little time to write down the experiences we had so far in her journal. Another day of firsts for her!

A Day in Manila from Waldo Wanders on Vimeo.

100 Years Gone By: A Baguio Tribute

"You.
You.
You are still a whisper on my lips.
A feeling at my fingertips,
That's pulling at my skin.

You leave me when I'm at my worst.
Feeling as if I've been cursed,
Bitter cold within.

Days go by and still I think of you.
Days when I couldn't live my life without you.
Days go by and still I think of you.
Days when I couldn't live my life without you.
Without you...
Without you"

Always

Sometimes A Great Notion: Part 1 - Plans

"The past is funny ... it never seems to let things lie, finished. It never seems to stay in place as it should"
~ Ken Kesey

"There are some things that can't be the truth even if they did happen"
~ Ken Kesey

Sometime around the advent of the new millennium my father began voicing the desire to return to the Philippines. I didn't think too much of it at first, it was not like he needed my permission to go. I simply said "you should go" and left it at that. Over the next few years he returned to the subject frequently. I didn't know what the problem was, buy a ticket and go. But he seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. This from a guy who left school and home to travel a 100o miles to west Texas to help round up a herd of wild mustangs, put them on rail cars where they were transported to Galveston, then on to a ship and across the ocean to Greece. This from a guy who quit his job and moved his family across the ocean to live and work in the Philippines. This from a guy who over the previous 25 years had visited, lived and worked in rural Mexico, South America, Africa, Nepal, Egypt and had taken several trips to Europe. Often times I wouldn't even know he was out of the country, calling the house week after week with no answer. Finally I learned to call around to his various siblings where I would learn of his whereabouts.

So why should taking a trip to the Philippines be so difficult? Sometime in early 2003 he was talking about it, again, and fed up I said "quit talking about it and just go!".
I'll go if you go

I was totally taken aback. Never in my entire life had he ever expressed needing my help with anything. I didn't know what to say.
I'll go if you go

Up to that point I had never even considered going back, at least not after all these years. There was a time in the late 70's and early 80's when I thought of returning often. But now, nearly 27 years since I had last been there I was rather ambivalent about it. All of the people I had remained in contact with were stateside now, I assumed that the majority of my schoolmates were here as well too. Sure, there were places I'd like to see, foods I'd like to taste again, but I wasn't sure what other motivations there were for me to go. If I wanted to go to a beach, I could go to Mexico for a fraction of the price.

I was married, we were settled into our lives, two out of three kids graduated, we had jobs and pets to attend to. More importantly, the thought of being trapped with my Dad for an extended period of time was not very appealing. Since my marriage, our relationship had slowly improved, but some things don't change and at times it was tenuous at best. Dad had an expression he liked to repeat every time we came to visit:
"Company is like fish, after three days they start to stink"

This was his way of letting us know he didn't want us around too long and certainly was mutually true of our relationship. By the second day I was always ready to leave. I couldn't imagine being stuck with him on a plane for 24 hours, let alone a few weeks. I let the subject drop, but then he brought it up again a month or so later. And again a few weeks after that. And again the next month. He had seized on this idea and wouldn't let it go.

I'll go if you go

My boss was from the Philippines originally, and made the pilgrimage back to see his parents and siblings once a year. I mentioned my father's desire to go back, half thinking that perhaps he could be my dad's travel companion the next time he went. We discussed cost, safety, things to do and see, the best time of year to travel.

Then my father received a letter from Tony Ngoho, one of our former "students" inviting him to come visit. Back when we lived in the Philippines, my mother had come up with an idea of putting a few deserving kids through college. She started with one, and by the time we left eight years later the number had grown to around thirty. A nurse herself, most of the students were in the local nursing program, some pursued BAs, others got their BS degrees, a few went to seminary after college, of which Tony was one. Of all the students who lived with us over the years, Tony was most like family, more like an older brother to me.
I'll go if you go

Slowly, the idea percolated, the desire to return began to outweigh the disadvantages. I thought of bringing my wife, I had always wanted to show her the places I so often talked about. So it was that, in the summer of 2003, having become confused from all the Texas heat, forgetting in an instant all the misery I had gone through over the last 45 years, I finally caved in to my father's request.

Things quickly fell apart from there. The original plan had been for just the two of us to go, the stepmother had no interest in going to the Philippines. Then I modified it to include my wife, and when the stepmother found out that she was going she decided she would go too. This is not what I had envisioned, I had figured that two against one would make the situation manageable, but now, two against two, we were clearly outnumbered. This should have been my first red flag that things were not going to go well. Still, I thought, it shouldn't be too bad, we'll let the old fogies do their own thing and we will go off and have our own adventures. How bad could it be?

So I reluctantly purchased four tickets and contacted a friend in the Philippines to secure reservations for us in February of the coming year. This should have been my second red flag: why was I buying the tickets?

Dad wrote Tony and together we made an itinerary. You would think after growing up with the guy I would have remembered how easily sidetracked the old cuss could get. This should have been my third red flag; Dad never sticks to the plan. My wife and I scheduled vacation time, applied for passports and waited. Mine was a simple renewal and came back quickly, but this was her first passport and weeks went by, the departure date loomed. She was beginning to panic, then, just a few days before we were scheduled to leave it arrived! It was time to go.

In February of 2005 we boarded a plane for Detroit where we would meet up with Dad and the Stepmother. There we would board another flight bound for the Philippines. We checked in and waited, and waited. Boarding was announced and still no sign of them. We had their tickets and just as we were about to go up to the counter, here they come wandering over. They had gone to get something to eat and didn't hear the boarding announcement.

The jumbo jet was packed, mostly with Filipinos, a smattering of Japanese and Koreans; we were among the handful of Caucasians. Looking out over a sea of dark heads from our seats near the rear of the jet, my father commented on how many Filipinos were on our flight. Standing up to see what he was talking about, the stepmother said with her megaphone voice:

How can you tell? They all look alike to me... Now, Do all Filipinos have black hair?

Four hundred heads turned around to see who was addressing them. Mortified, we slid down in our chairs and hid our faces. My father tried to distract her, getting her to sit back down by saying he is going to teach her a few Tagalog words, starting with the word for "thank you":
Dad: Salamat
Stepmon: Sayluhmet
Dad: Salamat
Stepmom: Sayloomet
Dad: Sa. la. mahht.
Stepmom: Say. lay. met.
Dad: Salamat ...

That was when my wife and I realized that we had made a horrible mistake. But it was too late, the doors were closed and we were rolling down the runway. Their loud voices penetrated our earphones and drowned out both music and movie.
Dad: Salamat
Stepmon: Sayluhmet
Dad: Salamat
Stepmom: Sayloomet
Dad: Sa. la. mahht.
Stepmom: Say. lay. met.
Dad: Salamat ...

My wife looked like she wanted to scream, she turned to me and mimed stabbing herself with a knife. Their "conversation" continued on until the flight attendants arrived to ask what we wanted to drink, and then picked right back up again til we got our meals. It was going to be a long flight.

From Detroit we headed north into Canada, the pilot commenting on the cities as we passed over them. Looking out over the snowy landscape below the stepmom turns to my dad and says:
What is that white stuff on the ground?
"Snow" my dad says. She is quiet awhile, pondering this bit of information.
But, does it snow in Canada?

Heads turn again. Oh my God. She was a schoolteacher for thirty years. We pretend we are asleep.

After listening to the same word being repeated for 20 hours, we finally landed in Nagoya, Japan. We disembarked so they could clean the plane, lemmings in an endless queue: out the door, up flights of stairs, down long halls only to find that our destination was the restrooms! For the men it was a fairly quick and painless procedure, but entirely different for the women. My wife found herself in a slow moving line, eventually ending up before a row of stalls. The woman in the stall directly in front of her seemed to be having some difficulty, bumping and banging against the door. Finally, the door opened and to my wife's horror there was no toilet, only a metal framed hole in the floor! Fortunately, the stall next to it became available and it did have a toilet, so she scurried into it before someone else could claim it!

Leaving the restrooms we re-queued and snaked our way back to the plane. Back on board we happily discovered that our surly flight attendants have been replaced with a bevy of laughing, smiling, cheerful Filipino attendants. Their mood was infectious and soon we were all smiling and chatting with our seatmates. Maybe it was just getting a break from our long flight, maybe it was knowing that soon we would be there, but that last leg of journey went by in no time at all.

Part 52: Lost Horizon

"... you can't subject a mere boy to... years of intense physical and emotional stress without tearing something to tatters. People would say, I suppose, that he came through without a scratch. But the scratches were there - on the inside."
We sat for a long time in silence ...
Do you think he will ever find it?"

- from Lost Horizon by James Hilton

I was hurriedly cramming all my worldly belongings into my footlocker and suitcase for the summer. Five years worth of school magazines, yearbooks and newspapers, old scripts, a few school books and novels, left over school supplies, a photo album, sheets, blankets and clothing.

In a small air force flight bag I packed the bare minimum of clothing I would need to get me back to America. I planned to buy all the clothing I needed while I was there and much more. I had been busy compiling a list of things I wanted to pick up including gifts for my friends.

A month earlier, in April, my parents and brothers flew to the U.S. for a four month furlough. I would be joining them now that school was out and I was excited to be heading back to the States for a short visit. I was looking forward to doing some sight seeing, eating American food and visiting the relatives. If I had time I hoped to see some of my friends from Brent who now lived in the U.S. and had made tentative plans to see my girlfriend in North Carolina while she was on furlough too.

I had got my bundle of exit papers from the local PC commandant, paid the appropriate fees and document stamps on my exit visa. Then I went to the Mission Board offices and picked up my ticket and passport. The treasurer handed me my documents, then pulled a dusty cash box from a drawer. Fumbling with the key, it groaned in protest at being opened, the lid snapping shut on his hand several times as he tried to extract a single ancient bill from its interior. Scrooge gripped it tightly in his hand for a few moments, stretching out his arm and retracting it several times before finally handing it to me. I looked at him in disgust and amazement. A measly five bucks "travel money" to get me back to the states.

The next morning I caught a Korean Airlines 747 out of Manila to Seoul, then on to Los Angeles. It was a long flight with a lousy movie and I had plenty of time to think. I thought about my five years at Brent; I thought about my senior year ahead, planning and dreaming of the things I would do. Slave Day, Senior Skip Day, Prom and Graduation; now my name would hang in the Gym along with the names of my classmates.

The plane was delayed in Seoul and by the time we got to L.A. I had missed my connecting flight to Chicago. There were quite a few stranded kids at LAX and we spent the night in the terminal playing cards. In the morning while waiting for my flight the elderly couple who had been sitting next to me on the flight asked if I had spent the night in the airport and had I had anything to eat. I guess I looked hungry - I hadn't eaten since the day before but didn't want to seem like I was looking for a hand out. They wouldn't take no for answer and bought me breakfast.

When I got to Chicago I was surprised to see my mom's sister and her husband waiting at the arrival gate. They bought me a steak, we drank wine and they peppered me with questions. I hadn't seen them for years and happily recounted my adventures at Brent and my plans for my Senior year. Then on to Iowa in a inter-state commuter turbo prop. The plane circled the little airport, preparing to land, I watched the buildings below.

Then it hit me all of a sudden, from deep within me I knew with the utmost certainty; I would never go back to the Philippines again. The empty pit within me was a chasm that could never be filled. Then the wheels touched the ground and the plane came to a stop. Walking across the tarmac I searched the crowd for my family; I found confirmation on my parents faces. That was it. The adventure was over.

I never got to say farewell to the family who raised me, to my friends, my city, my school, my home.

"You sheltered me from harm
Kept me warm, kept me warm
You gave my life to me
Set me free, set me free
The finest years I ever knew
Were all the years I had with you

You taught me how to love
What it's of, what it's of
You never said too much
But still you showed the way
And I knew from watching you
Nobody else could ever know
The part of me that can't let go

I would give anything I own
Give up my life, my heart, my home
I would give everything I own
Just to have you back again"

- from a song by Bread

I never got to look for the little boy lying in his hole in the comote field, to tell him it's safe to come home.

I think he lies there still.

Waiting.

I'm sorry.

I love you.

Goodbye.

Part 51: The Last Waltz

"I will remember you and hold on to the
fine time that we knew, sing a memory or two, when there's nothin' left to do"

~ from "Love's in Vain" by Jimmie Spheeris

"The Devon faculty had never before experienced a student who combined a calm ignorance of the rules with a winning urge to be good, who seemed to love the school truly and deeply..."
~ from A Separate Peace by John Knowles

"What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind..."

~ William Wordsworth

Those were sweet, blissful days. I had fallen from grace, wandered in the desert, was lost and then found. I was humbled and found redemption.

The school year was swiftly coming to an end and I didn't see it coming. I didn't see the signs or learn from past events. I didn't remember that all good things must end, that "some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them".




Jaime and I had a lot on our plates that spring. End of the year term papers, a play and we were busy trying to get the yearbook finalized in time to get it off to the printer.

Aah, the Ganza. Blood, sweat and tears. Lots of artistic disagreements, lots of shouting, lots of compromises. We had many a late night, drank gallons of coffee and smoked cartons of cigarettes. Cutting and pasting, banging away at the typewriter, digging through submitted photos, poetry and art. Jaime was the editor and you could see his hand all over it. Maybe a little of mine too, but it was hard to tell, we thought so much alike.

This year's edition reflected his anxiety and ambivalence about Brent, about leaving the Philippines. But this yearbook also reflected the tension and uncertainty amongst the students, staff and faculty. Unions, petitions and lawsuits; the Headmaster and a few teachers were facing legal proceedings. Brent was at a crossroads, a very different school from the school we arrived at five years earlier.

The one constant was the Campus, changing yet unchanged over the last 67 years. So, instead of doing the traditional dedication to a faculty or staff member, we made our dedication to the Brent Campus. Our staff photographers took pictures of Amos, Ogilby, Binsted, Weiser, Richardson, Hamilton, the Old Infirmary and the New Dorm. Pages were filled with photos of the Neutral, the soccer field, the gym, tennis courts and the Valley. Maybe it was his way of saying goodbye to each and every building, tree and place that had touched and shaped our lives. This Ganza was his eulogy.





Each member of the Senior class got their own individual page and they spent a lot of time working on them, carefully crafting their last words and testaments. We finally got the last one and we submitted our almost finished product to the printer, happy, yet slightly unsatisfied, a bittersweet moment. A week later we had the printer's proof back for us to check for errors or to make any last minute corrections. In an unusual turn of events, the Headmaster insisted that he see and sign off on this blueline before it was released to print. He didn't like some of the captions, in particular one next to his photo in his Halloween costume that said "Old Nick". He made some corrections and returned it to us, ordering the Ganza adviser, Mrs Sheffer, to make sure that his changes were made. This really rankled us, especially Jaime. We made some corrections of our own, fixing typos here and there and then Jaime, in a bold move, restored the original caption to the photo. Anarchy! His final act of rebellion.

It had been a rainless, hot spring and as the months progressed it continued to get dryer. The Neutral turned a rusty brown, most of the grass on the soccer field was dead or dying, brown patches of bare dirt dotted the field.

Field Day was a hot, dusty affair. I didn't much care who won the competitions, I was just trying to spend as much time with my girlfriend, in a few days she would be leaving on furlough with her parents for the summer. It was a day for hanging out between events with her and my friends. When the last event was completed, the last award handed out, we piled on the bus to head over to John Hay to take showers. Brent had no water.














From the earliest days of the founding of the city, Baguio has had a water problem. Despite having some of the highest annual rainfall of any city, collecting and storing water for the dry season had never been seriously implemented. In the 1930s, Mayor Halsema had worked hard to improve the water works, by the time WWII came it was adequate for the population of 50,000. In the late 60's and early 70's the population increased dramatically, once again the water resources for Baguio were over extended. Part of the problem came from the burgeoning number of tourists who came during the dry months, easily doubling the number of people living in Baguio.

In 1976, the lack of rain turned into a drought, water rationing was now in effect throughout the city. Downtown Baguio was a grimy mess, the rain that normally washed the streets and sidewalks clean, now just a distant memory. Fires were a real problem as there was no water for the Fire Department to use. The river that flowed past Asin Hot Springs became a tiny creek. Back at Brent the situation was grim, the water tower and cisterns ran dry. The Boys dorm reeked from unflushed toilets, the boys reeked from want of showers.

Only the local US Airbase had a steady flow of water. Over the years the military commanders and planners of Camp John Hay had continuously improved and supplemented their water storage and collection system; they now supplied Brent with potable water for drinking and for the kitchen to cook and wash dishes with. Brent had 50 gallon drums of water of dubious quality trucked in for flushing toilets in the Administration Office, Ogilby Hall and the girls dorm. My friends and I went to John Hay almost every day now, to shower at a friends home and use the "facilities".

With Field Day out of the way, we focused our attention to the last play of the year, "Flower Drum Song", a musical being directed by Mrs Viduya. It is a story of the struggle of assimilation, maintaining cultural identity and the struggle between the older and younger generations. Sammy Fong, a nightclub owner, is about to enter into an arranged marriage with illegal immigrant Mei Li. But Sammy is in love with club dancer/singer Linda Low, who is romancing Wang Ta, son of a wealthy Chinese businessman. Mei Li falls in love with Wang Ta, but is honor bound to fulfill her contract. It was a convoluted plot, but a lot of fun to produce.



Most of my classmates were in the play, Beth Wagner was Mei Li, Paul Bautista was Wang Ta and Paul's sister Margie was Linda Low. Jaime had the role of Sammy, Dayne Florence was the father of Mei Lei and I had a minor role as a slightly deaf, dirty old uncle. About half of the cast was Caucasian, which in a play about Chinese Americans can be problematic. But the blond haired kids dyed their hair black, and with some make up it didn't look too rediculous.

The Junior class was busy preparing for the Junior-Senior Prom. As class president I found myself making most of the decisions, but I tried to delegate where and when I could. A couple of classmates were looking for a band, others were in charge of decorations and setting up. The class treasurer and I went to look at various venues for the prom; we went from restaurant to club, sampled the menus and worried about parking. Finally, one of the kids whose father worked for VOA was able to negotiate us a good price at the John Hay Main Club. With the money we saved I ordered 12 dozen long stem red roses which would be handed out to the girls when they arrived (for those slackers who were too cheap to get their dates flowers).

The only thing I hadn't done yet was get a date for the prom. Jaime was going to go by himself and then asked Flo Lusk to go. I too had been tempted to go by myself, but then I decided to ask Lisa Marks, one of my girlfriend's friends, so she could go. I warned her that I would be busy making sure things were running smoothly and that this was just a "friends only" kind of date. My friend Jack was taking our buddy Vic Horne's sister Tracey and Vic was taking Pam Johnson; Dayne Florence was taking Jasminda Salapong.

Trying to keep an accurate head count so we could order enough food, I was surprised to find a few of my classmates had not RSVP'd yet. I asked one of them if he was going and did he have a date. He said he wanted to ask one of our classmates. Maybe it was my recently restored self confidence, maybe it was the inner peace I felt, but I was emboldened. Not thinking how it might appear I said Do you want me to ask her for you? He said he did, so I sought her out right after our next class and asked her point blank Do you want to go to the Prom with him?
She did, and her response gave him the courage to approach her himself. This would be the first time going to a dance for both of them.

Finally it was prom night. I had to get there early to help set up. The night was a blur, every time I turned around someone was asking me something and I hurried here and there, checking on this, checking on that. Some of the day students had arrived in their own cars and naturally had smuggled in alcoholic beverages. Every now and then two or three would wander out to have a "smoke" or "get some air". I didn't have time, I was getting pulled in all directions. I didn't even get to finish my dinner. Finally, I collared the class vice-president and told him he would have to deal with the questions for the rest of the night. I found my date and we danced and I even made it out to the parking lot.

Because of Martial Law there was a curfew, those who were not planning to stay had to leave early, but the majority of the guests stayed and danced all night. Just before dawn things began to break up, I made my final rounds, then headed back to Brent with Jaime and our dates. We caught a cab and they dropped us off at the bottom of Brent Road, from there we walked up to the school. Out of the mist on the road in front of us, two figures slowly grew in size and then we recognized them, it was Mr Keddie and Mr Spitzer. They were leaving school early, trying to stay one step ahead of the law, they were headed to Manila to catch a plane out of the country.

Then one sunny day it was Graduation. The Gym was packed with parents, students and relatives. Pomp and Circumstance began playing and the Seniors filed out with me leading the procession up the aisle. Our class advisor Ms Estacio whispered loudly "What's he doing! He's not a Senior!" Apparently after decades of teaching at Brent she had forgotten the long standing tradition of having the Junior class president escort the seniors to the stage. At the foot of the steps I turned and stood to one side, congratulating the seniors as they filed past going up the stairs. There were speeches and awards, the senior class sang "To Each His Own". They called the names and handed out the diplomas. Then it was over and the recessional began. The Seniors posed for pictures with family and relatives and took their last class picture. I worked my way through the happy crowd, congratulating my jubilant friends, meeting their parents. There at the back of the gym was Jaime and his family and as I approached them I was overwhelmed with grief.

Up to that moment the significance of this graduation had been hidden from me, locked away in some remote area of my heart and brain. Jaime was leaving. For five years we had ate, slept, fought and laughed together. Brent had molded and shaped us and we had grown and changed together. We shared a million memories and experiences. He knew what I was thinking and I knew how he felt. So different and yet so alike. We had the same friends, we liked the same girls. We felt the same rage, the same joy. We had made choices over the years based not on the facts of the choice itself but on our friendship. As much as two friends could be, we were joined at the hip. He protected my front, I watched his back.

We were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday. He was Phineas: intelligent, athletic, boisterous and charismatic, a magnet that drew everyone towards him, there did not seem to be anything he couldn't do. We all shined brighter around him. I was Gene: quiet and introverted, yet around him I grew more confident, more outgoing. Because he was naturally assertive, I was often accused of being his "tuta", a puppet, but they didn't know us very well. There was a lot more give and take than they would ever know. They didn't know that when he was his most self-assured and adamant, inside he was tormented by self-doubt and feelings of inferiority; that when I backed his play I bolstered his self-confidence as well as mine.

It seemed we had always been together, that we had always been friends. Because of this, it never occurred to me that there might come a day when he would leave me behind. I guess I thought we would live and die together. I stretched out my arm to shake the hand of the conquering hero. If he had maintained his composure I could have made it through unscathed, but the look on his face told me everything. Time to back his play one last time. The enormity of it engulfed me and the tears began to flow, then to gush.

It wasn't a graduation, it was a funeral.

"To each his own it's plain to see
To walk alone you have to be
It's all for you and all for me - You'll see
I'm gonna miss you, yes, I will
No matter who you are,
I'll love you still
For my life is my conscience, the seeds I sow
I just wanted to let you know.
Familiar faces that I've seen
Turnin' red and turnin' green
They just got caught with writing on their sleeve
I guess I'll leave
I'm gonna miss you, yes, I will
No matter who you are, I'll love you still
Will you cancel my papers and lock the door?
'Cause I ain't gonna be 'round no more
Will I make it through the summer,
Breaking ties with the old and new?
Losing one just gains another
There is nothing I can do
I'm gonna miss you, yes, I will
No matter who you are I'll love you still
For my life is my conscience, the seeds I sow
And I just wanted to let you know"
~ To Each His Own by America