Catching a Moment - A Foreigner Among Foreigners

trishlim12 — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 13:13:15 GMT

I climbed out of the water and into the bangka, dripping salt water on the wooden floorboards as I deposited my snorkeling gear into a blue plastic basket. A boatman sat off the port quarter, flipping a big, fat fish on a small grill balanced on one of the outrigger booms.

The smoke wafted across the clear turquoise waters, over the heads of four pale-skinned swimmers who either sat on or hung unto the bamboo outrigger while gulping down beer from amber-tinted bottles.

I shivered as a light breeze gently rocked the bangka and hurriedly wrapped myself in a white towel. An Irish couple, Gus and Edel, were sharing a cigarette on the prow, basking in the warmth of the sun with beer bottles in hand. “This is the life, eh?” a jolly-faced Gus called out.

I grinned and nodded in agreement, taking in the healthy green hues of the seven islands that surrounded us, and the waves that lapped playfully against the boat. The small, protected sanctuary called Siete Pecados was a sight to behold. More so underneath, where bright corals spread out on the seabed and multi-colored fish swam in abundance within inches of my outstretched hand.

Gus lifted the lid of a large blue cooler, revealing a stash of San Miguel beer bottles. He popped one open and handed it to me with a cajoling smile. It was in the middle of the day, hardly noon – not the most usual time to drink alcoholic beverages. Nevertheless, the swig of cold beer down my thirsty throat was refreshing.

The rest of our companions had retired from the waters and sat on the benches that lined both sides of the bangka. They were an interesting bunch: Dan was from England, Jaime and Lucky were from New Zealand and Carly was from Wales. On the way to the sanctuary, blonde and blue-eyed Carly had told me that most of them quit their jobs so they could travel. I told them I had done the same.

Edel, who had a small cut on her right forearm from a sharp coral, lifted her beer bottle with a bright smile and proposed a toast.

“Sláinte!”

The boatman started up the engine. He had switched the fish for a chop of marinated pork and the smell of grilled meat filled the air. We raised and clinked our San Miguel bottles, uttering the Irish word for “Cheers!” as the boat sped over the sparkling waters towards our next destination.

This is the life.

My Scholarship entry - Seeing the world through other eyes

trishlim12 — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 13:36:00 GMT

The jeepney comes to a halt. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and lift my head to find five bearded faces glaring back. The sun’s harsh rays fall directly from above, intensifying the ruthless expressions on the disembodied heads that hang from a wooden frame.

The centurion masks are a riot of colors and textures. A playful mix of black, red and white feathers spring from their helmets. Intricate carvings adorn the gold visors and hinged cheek pieces. A faint shade of red tinges the skin-toned faces, while long, thick lashes outline big, piercing eyes.

A small work shed stands on a grassy knoll behind the display. I find him amidst disassembled tricycles and scattered car parts. His table is strewn with crafting tools, paintbrushes, feathers, and empty cans. Three bright masks sit in the middle, awaiting the final touches from their maker.

Refine Janda had been preparing months in advance for Holy Week. In the heart-shaped island of Marinduque, men don centurion masks, called “morion,” and parade them across towns as a Lenten sacrifice. He had been crafting them for 20 years now.

A calloused hand reaches behind the table to retrieve a crude, gray face carved painstakingly from the wood of a dapdap tree. No two masks are alike, he tells me. I ask if he ever leaves his shop to watch the parade. The age-lined face breaks into a smile. Of course, it’s part of his yearly ritual; nothing brings him more joy than to see his masks come to life.

On the way back, I settle into a silent reverie. Outside, lush green fields speckled with trees extend far into the horizon. Warm air kisses my face as we pass the verdant scenery. In the town, I see the angry centurions, in the full regalia of Roman soldiers, marching on under the unforgiving heat of the sun.

As they trudge past me, I notice how each one is remarkably different from the others. Refine was right – no two masks are alike; each one is as unique as the maker intended.

In Transit

Catching a Moment - A Foreigner Among Foreigners

My Scholarship entry - Seeing the world through other eyes