The past two days have been quite eventful.

Part of my independent research is studying the services and history of GABRIELA, non-profit women’s organization here in the Philippines who take up every issue from legal sexual abuse cases to helping women organize for rallies and empowering women to run in public office.

On Friday, I went to a Public Forum which featured the mother of a sexually assaulted teenager speak about her experiences and the struggle of the family since the incident. The young Filipina, working in Okinawa, Japan, was assaulted by a US American solider and Gabriela is putting pressure on all three governments (US, Japan, and the Philippines) to bring justice to this young girl who was 17 at the time of the assault.

To listen to the weeping mother was, to put it lightly, heart-wrenching. The face of a mother, in so much pain, truly reflects the trauma of her daughter or son, i observed. Most of it was in Tagalog, so I recorded much of it and had it translated later. That took up my Friday afternoon.

Friday evening, Josie and I went an “Italian” sort of restaurant where I ordered a vegetarian pizza. This says a lot for me when I write that I didn’t eat a lot of it because it was too greasy. That for me is like saying I turned down the cup of rice because it was too white. It just doesn’t happen, but alas, anything is possible these days and the pizza was just too much to handle. I missed good ol’ US thick crust pizza with just enough grease to make you feel guilty but not enough to make you hurl. Ahh, the comforts of home.

Saturday morning Josie and I decided to check out a sports complex that we had heard about. A five pesos fee, we entered to find an outdoor track that looked pretty decent for light jogging. When I saw that Josie was wearing pants, I offhandedly asked her if she had lost her mind. It was so hot out and it was not yet the afternoon. We got in approximately 10 minutes of walking and another 7 minutes of straight running before we sought shelter. My forearms looked like I dunked them in a bucket of water. I spied a man jogging in the stands and at first guffawed over his decision, but the more I studied his technique – running the stairs in the shade, the more I came to appreciate his genius.

So, I ran the stairs instead. While the heat was still crazy, it makes a critical difference to not be in the path of the sun’s rage. Even a custodial staff member commented to me to not wear tank tops to avoid being burned. Oh, foolish me.

After our morning of unusual exercise, we were picked up by my cousin Paolo, a litigation lawyer, who wanted to show me my Dad’s old stomping undergrad grounds. My eyes were tearing up as I walked the campus of the University of Santo Tomas as I imagined my Dad walking as a young man. I was not yet a thought in his brain as he walked the pathways and ate the street vendor’s food.

One of Paolo’s best friends is a faculty member in Philosophy, Carl. A kind and soft-spoken man, Carl was intent on showing us around. We waited for him for nearly two hours for his class to end, a detail that Paolo kindly forget to tell me. In the non-AC hallways, I nearly laid down on the ground, I was so tired. Instead, I found an empty classroom with AC and fell into the chair, resting my head on the desk and wondering how my Dad survived the heat here. If he could do it, so can I.

We went to dinner and ate some Philippine cuisine which was washed down with pineapple soda, a first for me. As we ate our feast and I declined a San Miguel beer, the Philippine beer of choice, Carl asked how we were adjusting to the temperature. I offered a weak smile and said, “It’s been…ok.” I decided to skip the whole tearful wimpy confession that I have problems with prolonged exposure to non-AC conditions. He told us that even for native Filipinos it’s too hot during the summer months. He explained that one of his students collapsed that day in class because of the heat and another got a bloody nose.

As horrific as this sounds, I felt relieved that I was not the only one facing struggle with the climate.

As I fought for the bill and was defeated, Carl asks one of the most odd questions, “Do you like movies?”

Who doesn’t?

He explained the piracy culture of Southeast Asia and was eager to show us where we could get cheap movies. Josie and I thought it sounded like an adventure so we decided to give it a whirl.

We take a jeepney and Paolo begins his advisory speech on keeping all my bags in front of me. Sometimes I feel like I’m going into a battle ground when people speak so seriously about guarding your possessions. As we jump off the back of the jeepney, I feel like a soldier jumping from a plane and into unknown terrain.

We are in Quiapo [kee-yah-po].

It is night time – about 9pm, misting, and dark. There are vendors covering every corner and people running in between them carrying and selling every imaginable item the earth has to offer. I saw fruits I could not identify or name, wheelbarrows of cooking fire, MP3 players, and fans. There are hundreds of people pushing, shoving, selling, MOVING in every direction. Carl holds onto my elbow and gently guides wide-eyed me through the allies and streets.

We enter a building that looks unoccupied and I wonder if I am in a Lethal Weapon movie. The escalator isn’t working and as we climb the stairs I look at Josie as if I were saying, “We’re getting DVDs, right?!” It looked like the shadiest operation every.
We turn a few narrow corners and as I am convincing myself that everything is fine and there is no DVD/Drug Lord of the Philippines waiting for me. Suddenly, a mass of colorful DVDs fills my eyesight.

From Grey’s Anatomy seasons to movies that I swore are not even RELEASED yet, every imagineable cinematic and televised event was represented. They offer three DVDs for 100 pesos, a little over $2. One of the workers is asking me what I want and I keep saying the same, “Hinde ko po alam.” I DON’T KNOW. I DON’T KNOW. I must have looked the biggest sweating, nervous, indecisive freak to hit this joint.

As I stand there, I make one decision, Ok, I’m foregoing my speech on piracy laws. They might find that a bit offensive.

I run my hands over the movies and wonder if I should maybe buy something for my parents. I ask Carl if he can suggest a nice Filipino movie. He asks what kind of movies my folks prefer and I tell him what my mom always says about Filipino movies, “The story doesn’t matter, as long as it has good scenery. It’s just nice to see glimpses of home.”

So I tell him that.

He hands me a movie, Green Paradise and says the scenery is amazing with waterfalls, beaches, and panoramic landscape shots. Great, I’ll buy that one. He looks a bit timid in giving it to me and turns a little red (from the heat, I wonder, but no, from embarrassment). He says, “Like any movies there are some objectionable racy scenes with…you know….I don’t want your parents to get the wrong idea that I suggested this movie.”

Nice thought, i tell him, but we’re grown-ups. I say, I think they’ll be able to handle it as long as I tell them beforehand there’s some R-ratedness thrown in there.

He hands it to me, satisfied with his warning.

I look at the casing with a woman’s face on the cover. Mhm, looks harmless enough. I flip it over and there are three images, all of them the same woman, all in lingerie or in bikini wear and in submissive positions.

Oh dear.

Paolo, unaware of my uneasy dilemma, does his usual overgenerous gesture and grabs it from me to pay for it. I try to grab it back and he sticks it in the saleswoman’s hands and states, “She wants this one.”

The bikini and lingerie images seem like they are glowing in neon green in her hands and I try to look nonchalantly at the ceiling. It’s a normal movie, but you certainly wouldn’t guess that from the cover.

She takes one look at it and looks at me. She’s probably thinking that this indecisive, weird, sweating customer is even more questionable now. In a store full of Disney, Fox series shows, and Gossip Girl Season One options, I am purchasing the shadiest movie in the history of Philippine cinema.

Hey, I’m getting it for the scenery.

That sounds convincing.

Appropriately, they show me the church right afterward and insists on taking my picture by every stature of Jesus Christ there is. Jesus on the cross, Jesus carrying the cross, Jesus resurrecting – “Lisa! Let’s take your picture by this Jesus!” While I am a woman of faith and spirituality, it was getting a bit much for me, especially with so many other people kneeling, praying fervently, whispering at the feet of Jesus their troubles and gratitude and I am there with my family and SLR, taking pictures with Jesus like it’s graduation day.

We pray for a little while and then step out of the church.

It is dark, but there are people milling everywhere, and Paolo says he wants to show me everything and everyone outside. He points out the fortune tellers and herbalists and the Mosque across the street from the Catholic church. Oh, well then, I say, I’m glad we’re all getting along as I pass the women with cards, candles, and voodoo sticks and strain my neck to see the Mosque.

Carl asks if I want anything – flowers, candles, food, drink, spells, or good fortune.

I kindly decline and watch a little boy play in the puddles of rain.

Carl explains that much of the people there are homeless and sleep right where they sell. As we descend the steps into another part of Quiapo, I see a family eating rice off of a piece of plastic laid out on the concrete. Another elderly woman sleeping on the stairs and countless vendors simply lying down to sleep for the night.

Paolo explodes, “Pick your numbers!” and directs me to another store.

Whhhaaatt?

They rush me to a lottery store and explain I could win millions by tomorrow. I wonder what Nick would think if I returned home with millions in the bank. I choose my numbers 41, 32, 27, 28, 13. They give me my receipt back. It reads I chose 41, 27, 28, 29, 32. Uh, ok.

Carl is excited, “Let’s go to a casino!”

An image of Nick shaking his head at me and my compulsive ways flashes in my mind, along with an image of the home we just bought, along with a red flag the size of Montana glowing above those two images.

Again, I kindly decline and site my compulsive personality and sheer love of winning.

We look for a taxi and as it takes forever, Paolo confesses his contempt for Quiapo, “You know who Nick Joaquin is?”

Sure, I say, he’s one of the most prolific Philippine writers and is one of the gems, if not the crowning jewel, of the literary scene in this country.

Paolo spits out, “Nick Joaquin said that Quiapo is the armpit of the Philippines.”

Oh, awesome! I say, at least I can say I’ve been to the armpit!

Suddenly, Paolo breaks out into a run directly into traffic and I briefly wonder if his Quiapo loathing drove him to suicide because of the madness of the city proved too much. No, I notice he is in a footrace with another man for one of the few empty taxies. I am open-mouth, gaping at the site at two grown men racing down the street in full traffic and they arrive at the same time. Paolo opens the driver side door and whatever he said convinced him to choose him as he waved us over in victory.

Resting my head in the taxi and needing for the day to end, Paolo yells, “We need a better end to the night than Quiapo. Let’s go to Starbucks!”

So my night ended with a vanilla steamer made all wrong, but I sipped it slowly, thankful for another eventful day in the Philippines.