I LOVE where I live. I can't tell you where it is, only how our lives unroll there. Located about 50 km from Manila, it is like a hidden jewel, almost choked by towering trees. The blue of the sky and the green of thick grass define the living space that we share with flowers and fruit trees, and the occasional garden snake or bayawak from the river on the edge of the property. Not many people know about this gem of a place, so the few residents who live here flop around, enjoying such ample elbow room that we do not even have to see or talk to anyone unless we deliberately go out of our way for company. Yet, our houses are not enclosed in forbidding 6-foot high walls. Instead, they are fully visible from the street, squat on their spacious lawns, as if with open arms to welcome anyone who wants to drop by. When I hear that it is close to 40 degrees in Manila, I thank the Lord for the cool breeze and the faithful rain that never fail to drive down the temperature.

This is my playground, where I do what I please, walk where I want, not worried about potholes and other annoyances. When I take my walk in the morning, I am concerned only about how much melanin my skin would absorb. It's an inexpensive concert hall, where I listen to birds and insects and frog sounds and mother-child exchanges. This is my study, a place where I cherish the monastic silence that allows me to find the words to express my thoughts. It's where I worry about a son on the other side of an ocean and from whom I daily wait to get word. It's also a classroom where I learn local history and political science from natives and long-time residents. They have recited to me the few important family names I should know, names I have seen repeated over and over on the signboards identifying stores, gas stations, banks, health clinics and schools in town. Many of the same names belong to those who move in the local corridors of power, from the barangay and municipal halls to the civic  organizations and even the parish church.

Sometimes, it's a theater where I hear soft words, gossip, music, loud laughter and harsh rebukes that tell stories equal to the funniest comedies and the saddest tragedies on any of the world's biggest stages. The tales run the gamut of wives who yo-yo between lover and husband, jealous husbands who beat up on wives, couples who barely talk to each other, teenagers asserting their newfound independence, sons who smoke and drink and refuse to go to school, employees who gamble, womanize, steal and loaf on their jobs, and maids who tartly talk back to their employers. Yet there are also fathers and mothers who are working hard to earn enough for their children's education, hoping that their children's lives would be better than theirs, and that the children would become titled professionals earning higher salaries and the respect of the villagers.

It's a botanical laboratory where I re-learn the names of plants and flowers I only saw through a microscope in my biology class many years ago. The fertile soil and the abundant water supply allow me to experiment with various kinds of herbs, vegetables and flowers. This is where I experience intense pleasure in seeing the first leaves coming out of the ground from the seeds that I have sown or from a sapling that I have stuck into the ground.

For the first time, I am also finding out the names of the treasures from the sea that we enjoy eating. Thanks to the patience of my suki who has introduced me to the rich variety of Philippine fish, I have  learned what tanigue looks like, as well as albacora, maya-maya, tuna, talakitok, samaral, pampano. I have become re-acquainted with tilapia and the galunggong that was a staple in my childhood. I am beginning to understand what chefs mean when they say that the fish is fresh. Every night at dinner, my husband and I would marvel at the variety of the fish that we eat and their freshness. My suki has shown me where to pinch a crab to see whether it's worth its weight in peso and how to dig into the tub of water for the newer pieces of tofu. Another suki has whispered that I should always opt for the talakitok fillets with the white, rather than the dark skin. From one shrimp vendor, I got inside information about how much shrimp costs at the beach when vendors haggle with fishermen at the pre-dawn bulungan, when fishermen are just unloading their catch. She knows making tawad is not my forte.

Here I am re-learning my culture, after having lived in another for the past 30 years where frank communication is necessary to survive. Here where pakikisama and utang na loob dominate social relations, I am learning to shed the luxury of individuality, independence and privacy. It still surprises me when I hear someone tell me what I had said the day before. It had gone the rounds and returned! Often I will realize too late that I had bared my hand in some casual conversation and had become vulnerable to all sorts of offers, with no defenses to call on for protection. I am still trying to live down the Filipino's barnacle-like stereotype of the balikbayan as someone who has plenty of cash. Because of this I am prey to all kinds of pleas for loans or requests for a "bale" at all hours of the day and any day of the week. The workers in the neighborhood think that I always have cash on hand and that I could always dispense any amount when they ask. There is also the tendency to think of you as the ideal ninang at a  wedding or a christening, or the mucho sponsor for the village basketball team. So far, I have gracefully been able to excuse myself but I do not know how long I can hold out. One skill I have not yet mastered is how to guess how much to pay for a service I have requested. The "kayo na po ang bahala" still stumps me and frustrates me no end, as I try to compute the amount that I consider to be fair. Inevitably, I would find out I either paid too much or not enough because I was using rates based on services as performed and paid for in the US.

Life on my street reminds me of what the anthropologist Robert Redfield observed among the villagers in a Mexican village that he studied in the 1950s. He showed that contrary to our perception that village life is all peace and love, in fact a village is rife with jealousy. Stories I hear confirm the same phenomenon here. A manicurist who was doing my nails and I were discussing the death of a rice merchant who was shot by one of the store workers. I was expressing my regrets over the incident and was sympathizing with the merchant's family. I thought the manicurist would agree with my sentiments. Instead, I was surprised when she said, "Don't be misled. I heard that the merchant was not a kind person. Some people said they saw it coming."

Still, I would not exchange my street for any other, not even for a suite at Laguna Estates. I missed life in the probinsiya when I left 30 years ago. Now, I can pick up where I left off.

© 2005-2006 Violeta P. Hughes-Davis
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