My Summer Vacation, Part II: Food and Stuff

[I made an edit to my last post. Apparently, the video I had didn't embed, and I didn't notice until Trisha pointed it out to me. I've put a link in the text.]

On one of my days off (it’s always a working vacation), before Typhoon Glenda hit, I went to the Yummy Eats 2014 food festival. I went primarily to pick up handcrafted, thick-cut bacon from Mad Meats, but once you have a bag of meat, there’s a tendency to start a collection. After all, what good is meat if you don’t have cheese? And what good is cheese if you don’t have artisanal crackers? And so on. I didn’t get a lot of good pictures from the festival, but the following are the ones I thought were worth sharing.

Cream Cheeses

Cream cheeses flavors with herbs and garlic. Very good, but we forgot about them and left the jars I bought in the Philippines.

Pouf!

Pouf! Marshmallow Creme. It came in three flavors: original, Oreo, and cookies and cream. I tried the latter, and it was delicious, but I didn’t think I could transport a jar of it safely back to Malaysia in my baggage.

Chicharrones

Chicharrones. Deep fried pork rinds (pork skin). Absolutely delicious.

Game of Thrones Cake

A Game of Thrones cake!

There were many more booths, one with a lasagna that I loved, but alas, I left my festival guide behind, and can’t remember the names of the vendors.

As always, the food in the Philippines was ridiculously good across the board.

Stay tuned for Part III, in which I drop some helpful tips for not being “that person” on an airplane.

My Summer Vacation, Part I: My First Typhoon

Now that family time is winding down, I thought I’d get back on the horse, writing-wise, and share a few moments from the last two weeks in the Philippines. I’m also going to call the 60-Day Blogging Challenge a loss. I didn’t write every day for 60 days, and even though those days were at the end, when things got super busy, it’s a bit late to ret-con the whole thing as a hiatus. I got close, though, so that’s something. Anyway, enough wallowing.

My First Typhoon

As some people may know, The Philippines got hit with a mid-size typhoon, which, according to most accounts could have been a lot worse.

Here’s a video I took of the winds outside.

The power had gone out, and I was trying to work, using a mobile WiFi device, but service was spotty, especially as cell towers went down, or when flying debris battered them into a wiry pulp. During one service outage, I took the above video, and then, when I’d moved upstairs, I snapped the following picture as one tree began to disintegrate.

Breaking Apart

 

The damage in this particular neighborhood was light: missing roof tiles and shingles, several downed trees, and a couple crushed fences. But a quick excursion into the city proved that the storm had been somewhat stronger than first thought.

Busted Windows

Windows in a nearby high-rise were blown out, and the roof of a hotel (not pictured) was partially destroyed. At one point during the early hours of the storm, something oblong and orange flew by, caromed off the upper wall of the house, and disappeared down the road. I’m almost certain we were hit by a mango, though there remain skeptics. It is possible, nay likely, that those windows fell victim to other such projectiles.

Collapse

Due to the high volume of such storms, the city has taken to having billboards that can roll up and be stored on site. If the advertisement isn’t stowed in time, it can act like a sail and pull the whole structure down with it. Of course, some of these frames are old, have been through several storms already, and are ripe for the picking.

Tree Down

 

Trees like the above and below littered the streets, both in Manila proper and especially in the suburbs, where larger trees caught the wind and toppled over, often taking street signs and chunks of the sidewalk or road with them.

 Another Tree Down, Angle 2 Another Tree Down, Angle 1

 As soon as the winds had died down, reconstruction and debris clearing began, but it turns out, some of the funds going toward disaster recovery are held up due to investigations into corruption and pork-barrel politics. Oops.

Stay tuned for Part II, the lighter, fluffier side of this trip.

Back in the Philippines

I’ve been a little remiss about getting the last few days of the 60-Day Blogging Challenge wrapped up. I should have started earlier, so that the last days of it weren’t a scramble of international travel and family business. Oh well. I’ll try to get the last posts banged out over the next few days.

My future daughter-in-law had her baptism today, something that was, for me, a first. I went to Catholic high school, and have been to full and half Catholic marriages, but am not myself Catholic, and have never been to a real live baptism of a real live baby. Aside from the baptizee soiling herself upon application of the appropriate fluids (I bet the priest would have regretted talking about how the child should be naked as a symbol of rebirth, had the parents opted to go that route), the event was about as smooth as could be expected, which, if you don’t know what to expect, is a rather odd thing to say–but here we are.

The next day or so should be somewhat busy, what with our engagement party and related festivities, so updates may be brief, but they will be forthcoming, even if I am not.

Also, I needed to get this out of my <span style=”font-family: baptismal;”>system</span>.

Mahjong

In preparation for our upcoming trip to the Philippines, my fiancee and I are teaching my parents how to play mahjong. It’s a fairly straightforward game, even though its rules can change slightly, depending on where you’re playing. The general idea is to win by having four groups of three and a pair. The groups of three must be of the same suit (Balls, Sticks, Characters, etc) and can either be a run of consecutive numbers or three of a kind. There are exceptions and wild-ish tiles, like the Winds, of course, but their use follows the general set of rules. It’s a little like poker, gin, and Go Fish all rolled into one, and played with thumb-size tiles instead of cards.

Theoretically, this is an easy game to learn, once you memorize the Chinese numbers. Little did I know how difficult it would be to differentiate balls from sticks. My parents are artists, but the ball and stick thing is a huge hurdle. We’re working on it, though. Also confusing are the Chinese characters, particularly for the Winds, which to the Western eye can look very much the same at a quick glance. Past that, though, it’s just like any other game–symbols and strategy.

My mother, against whom it took me many years to defeat in Scrabble, has now begun aggressively cleaning up. I’m beginning to think she is only pretending not to know what the difference is between balls and sticks.

We got sharked.

Boot

I have possessions, some small, some large, but nearly all of them are transitory. Electronics get worn out and become obsolete. A favorite pen will eventually run out of ink or fall apart. Chairs, no matter how comfy, get left behind during a move. And while other men might have Super Bowl rings or family heirlooms, I don’t have any such jewelry. Even my collection of physical books–you know, the paper kind–are giving way to electronic copies. It doesn’t mean I don’t treasure the ones I keep, but the knowledge within them is a far, far greater prize than the medium.

One thing that I have brought with me from place to place for almost a decade is a photograph. It’s not of me or of any place I’ve been. It’s neither a professional shot nor an amateur Polaroid. The picture is of a boot kicking out a car window, sole front and center, and cubes of shattered safety glass exploding out past the focal point in a glittering bubble. Inside the car, one can just barely make out my father’s face, shrouded in shadow. It’s a perfect line of motion, frozen. I bring it everywhere with me partially because it’s a conversation starter. What is this? Why? Who? What’s the story, man?

Well, what is the story? The car belonged to my parents’ friend, Charles, and the window had had a crack and needed to be replaced. Item number one on the to-do list was take the old window out. Of course, why gently remove a piece of glass if you can smash it–and why boot out the rear passenger window of a Volkswagen if you don’t plan on making an art project out of it?

For the longest time, I had assumed that my mother, not Charles, had been on the other end of the camera. The car is a Volkswagen Beetle, and I know we used to have a blue one when I was very small. I called it the Bu Bo-baxen. I am a marginally better conversationalist now.

But this is the other reason I have kept the photo for as long as I have. It’s a constant reminder of the malleability of memories. Even a photograph requires context. Without knowing who took the picture, when they took it, where they were, and why, it’s just a pretty picture. Some photographs include all this information in the picture. Wedding photos, for example, are a special kind of archiving; this happened to these two people in this place, at this time of day, and with these emotions. They’re the kinds of photos you can instantly understand when walking into someone else’s home. Ah, you say to yourself. Married, two kids, wealthy enough to have this kind of wedding, but not insane millionaires… and on and on. It’s the Darmok of our lives. Dick and Jane in Hawaii. Dick and Jane holding hands. Jane in her white gown. The happy couple, their feet in the sand. These kinds of photos are the most logical way of compressing tons of sensory and emotional information into an easy-to-transport package.

The same applies to the kind of moment captured in the photo I take with me from place to place, only with an important difference. As art, Jack in the Volkswagen, his boot through the window, is, to everyone but Jack (and possibly Charles, his eyes shielded), an almost entirely subjective experience. You can get the straight story from him, or you can get an interpretation from Emmett, his hands gesticulating. Sooner or later, however, the story will be lost, and all that will remain is the photo, compressed data awaiting extraction. The car, its window exploding.

Not to make too much of it, but go back in time and ask Leonardo about the real dope on the Mona Lisa, and he might have something to say. Now, though, we have the Mona Lisa Smile, which each of us interprets according to whatever bits and bytes of information our minds need in order to fill in the gaps during data extraction. It’s the same concept as Jurassic Park, where they used frog DNA to fill in the missing chunks of dinosaur code–only with an slightly smaller probability of horrible death.

That incompleteness is what makes the photo so valuable. It’s neither data that can be compressed further nor knowledge that can be learned. It’s neither purely in the domain of memory, nor is it purely art. The image remains, but the story, known to me now, still mingles with the memory of the story I’d created for it. Understanding the picture, for now, means understanding its changed nature, and means understanding who has it and why. The photograph remains in a wonderful little gray area, a node in the network of how I understand the world. My existence, in relation to the object, puts a lot of weight on it, perhaps unfairly. But once I’m gone, it is free once again to be just an object until someone else comes along and weighs it down again.

For Day 20

Monkey Search: Concluded

My parents have come into town to see where I live and to visit in general, and today, we went out to the Batu Caves. The last time I went, I was not able to get inside because of the massive, cutlery-bedazzled crowd, but this morning, we went super early and arrived before most of the other tourists, so we had a more-or-less peaceful outing, and had the run of the place.

Batu Caves is still an active Hindu temple, so while services were ongoing, I tried to remain as unobtrusive as a tall, camera-wielding white guy can be. But there was work to be done. Monkeys had so far eluded me, save a brief glance during a jungle hike, so I was on a mission to document the local monkey population. Turns out, they can get a bit aggressive. We already knew this going in, but it was still kind of surprising to see how fast they descended on the temple once people began to arrive in quantity. The general guideline is that they will steal or attempt to steal anything not strapped to your body, so food and cameras should be secured. Because they are a menace (or at least can be), some of the locals took to throwing rocks at the monkeys climbing down the cave walls. I interpret it as a show of dominance, since none of the rocks seemed to be aimed to maim, and because the rock throwing petered out once the monkeys outnumbered the humans.

The arrival of the monkeys also brought out bunches of bananas and coconut husks, which the occasional service-goer would hand out to the small, agile creatures. Monkeys love bananas. No joke.

Also milling around the caves was a litter of small puppies, wrestling each other and greeting guests as they arrived. They approached us fearlessly and immediately began tugging on our shoelaces. I must have walked a good twenty paces, tiny, excited puppies hanging off my shoes. It was adorable, but we couldn’t help but feel a little heartbroken, knowing that they are unlikely to find a loving home. I worry more about a monkey getting ahold of one, but more than anything, I try not to think about it.

Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t post some of the pictures I took. Yes, most of the pictures are of or contain monkeys, but I’ve included the puppy pictures, too.

Batu Caves 1

At the top of the long stairs.

 

Batu Caves Interior 1

Just past the main temple. More stairs.

Cave Monkey

Monkey #1

Pondering Monkey

Monkey #2

Batu Caves Interior 2

An alternate entrance, if you have wings.

Cave Puppies

Puppies!

Batu Caves Exterior

On the edge of the cave exterior. I’m still trying to figure out how they got out there with the statues.

Roof Monkey

Not Monkey #2, but the next decent-quality picture I got.

Fence Monkeys

Just a couple of monkeys hanging out on the fence.

Monkey Thinking

Deep thoughts on a Friday morning.

For Day 19

Points of View

Day 18

Sensitive child. That’s what I’ve heard about me. I’d sit on the porch, eating apple slices and watching the squirrels grab fallen acorns off the lawn, or bury them there for later. They spring from one spot to another in a series of perfectly semi-circular arcs, and then come to a stop, sniffing the air, heads darting around before bouncing away to the next spot. I’d take a sip of lemonade and watch a couple of the bushy-tailed creatures chase each other around the trunk of the big oak tree. Eventually, my gaze would settle on a squirrel, gray with tawny streaks, that sits and gnaws on an unidentifiable piece of something it holds in its tiny paws. The longer I watch, the more I focus on its delicate features: the joints in its arms, the black expressionless eyes, the teeth.

As if undressing the squirrel with my eyes, my mind starts at its teeth and peels back its skin in a rotten black slough. Paws become rigid, and curl up like dried oak leaves. The bones in those delicate joints jut through a matted mass of fur. The eyes now convey only surprise and horror. Feeling ill, I retreat back into the house, leaving the cool spring breeze behind.

In the bathroom, I lean my head against the mirror and stare down into the sink, not because I’m going to be sick, but because it beats looking at anything living. If I look at myself, I’ll only end up deconstructing my own features to match those of the squirrel, who had long ago hopped away in search of more food. If I look up now, I’ll be looking directly into my own eyes. I’ll see the fibrous sunburst of my irises not as a part of me, but just as a part–an object removed from context, ultimately flawed and perishable.

I can jump off the roof, crash my bicycle, and test the perishability of the context, but woe unto me should I focus on the minute for even a minute. Big cuts will bleed, staining clothes beyond the purview of ice and soda water, and thorns will sit in a fleshy pincushion, waiting to be plucked out, but these things are right and good. They are life itself. It’s the uneven fingernail scratching the skin–a subtle reminder that below the fragile covering are bones just awaiting a good bleaching in the sun–which makes the spine tingle and the mind spiral into oblivion.