Kulture Kaiwa

I stare at the mix of concrete and tin buildings dotting the winding roads, desperately trying to recognize a marker for our destination. Everything looks familiar, each muddy edge with concrete rubble, every low hanging tree leaf big enough to cocoon a grown adult, but admittedly I couldn’t pick out which lot was ours. It’s not until we’re walking through the narrow passage between neighboring dwellings where I can both see and smell the steady stream trickling down the trough that encircles my Grandparent’s house in Media Once that everything falls into place.

The water has made it’s way here from further up the mountain only to carry lolly wrappers and warm piss from little male residents to wastelands below. I look up to see cousins, aunties and uncles waving with welcome arms to the visiting foreigners.

Taking Up Space

My brother Liam and I haven’t slept at our Lolo’s house since we were little kids. Eventually we grew too big and took up too much space to stay there so we took to staying at hotels and doing day trips to the family home. Being older now and wanting to spend more quality time with the family we rarely get to see, we decided to take up space for just one night. Staying in our cousins bedroom I truly felt like a little kid again – banging nails into the wall to drape our old mosquito net over mattresses dressed with fireman print and Sydney Swans bedding from our childhood that had been sent over in balikbayan boxes.

Life in the mountains is very different to life back home in Perth. There’s a strange sense of freedom in the simplicity of this place and, coupled with the presence of family, I could feel the tension in my aching shoulders release like hot breath that’s been blown into a balloon. It was a simple joy of time together reminiscent of when you’re in high school, jumping in a car and on motorbikes to roam around town with only the stress of returning home at an appropriate time looming over your head.

We intrude on a popular date spot, clambering up a steep sandy path, grabbing branches and kids arms to avoid anyone slipping back down, to view the valleys below leading out and down to the ocean. My cousins are a lot more fearless than I am, skillfully galloping back down the hill with ease while I steady myself by getting as low to the ground as I can in fear of one wrong slide of my shoe. It’s a giggle fest as we analyze everyone’s methods of getting back down, avoiding any ass to ground contact.

Raining Coconuts

Piled on top of each other in the back seat of the car, we bounce up and around as we make our way up the mountain’s dirt tracks. Suddenly the kids are yelling in delight ‘Beach! Beach!’ My cousin sees the confusion on my face turn into laughter as we reach an opening with flowing water sloshing through mud that they refer to as the “dirty beach”. We’re on our way to her partners’ house at the top of the mountain along a road that is ruled by stray dogs claiming warm dirt spots as cars navigate their way around them.

When we arrive there’s a basketball court full of locals hollering hello’s to little Matteo as he grabs my hand, eager to show me his dad’s house. Before I know it he’s legging it down the path yelling ‘Papa’ leaving me behind to take in my surroundings. The dusk air is warm but not as thick as it was below and all around me is trees and sky. The others catch up and while I’m staring off at the beautiful jungle I notice a splash of red and blue making its way up one of the coconut trees. It’s my cousin’s partner swiftly alternating hands and feet to shuffle his way to the top before chopping down it’s bounty to make loud thuds on the earth below. My brother and I sip happily away, the fresh coconuts tasting sweet but with a warm and slightly fizzy feel to the liquid. We say our salamat’s and goodbye’s as coconuts get piled in with the bodies in the car to head back to the house.

A Communal Wash

It had been a week since we arrived in the Philippines and we were running low on undies. I realized I’d never seen my family do the washing at the house before, I’d only seen the aftermath of clothes hanging on lines in the front yard. I’m amazed when we make our way up the road, clothes and tubs in hand with the whole family in tow, to the communal washing ‘tub’. It’s basically a big concrete basin the size of a fancy bathtub that’s flowing with fresh water from high up in the mountains. I didn’t know how inadequate my hand washing skills were until that day. Cousin Devine is assisting me to fill our buckets with fresh water and sachets of detergent then goes on to expertly squish and squelch the clothes in such a consistent manner that it’s clear she has a well practiced technique. I try my best to copy her method but no matter how hard I try I can’t make that same motion or noise. At this point neighbors are poking out heads to see what all the commotion is about and I feel several pairs of eyes on me as I struggle to balance my 5ft 8 body on the tiny plastic kids chair that’s been given to me. It must have been a sight to see.

Back at the house, it’s time for what my parents refer to as a ‘Filipino shower’. Clothes hanging safe and dry against the door handle, I brace myself for the surprisingly cold water that I’m about to scoop from the bucket on the bathroom floor to clean off the sweat and dirt of the day. There’s new sweat clinging to my skin as soon as I’m dry and dressed, partly from the humidity, mostly from the fear of what is coming next.

Don’t Look!

My cousins have been kind enough to venture out in the night to buy us a famous Filipino delicacy that up until now I had managed to avoid: Balut. If you’re unfamiliar with the snack, Balut is a fertilized duck egg that gets cooked at different stages of the embryos development, some containing a thick yolk and subtle body parts, others a full head, beak and even feathers to boot. I observe the method of consumption, cracking the top of my own egg and peeling away shell to reveal a tiny head with eyes closed as if resting inside. I’ve immediately made a mistake. They say that balut is eaten in the dark so that the consumer can enjoy the nutritious treat without having to look at it and face the dilemma I’ve now found myself in. Staring at the tiny head with eyes shut as if sleeping peacefully, I can’t bring myself to take a bite. I sprinkle on the vinegar and salt, take a deep breath, and gingerly sip at the juices on top. I actually don’t mind the taste, but my mind has formed a barrier that takes a few minutes for me to hurdle myself over. I’m told I have to slurp the head in one go and swallow it like a drink. Liam is already finishing off his last bite while I’m breathing heavily trying to work myself up to take my first. I find the smallest bit of courage in the pit of my stomach and sink my teeth in, trying not to picture the little eyes I’ve just been staring at, and following it up with a big cup of water to help it go down. In fear of throwing up, I surrender the rest of my egg to cousin Bernie and accept that I gave it my best go.

Classic Filipino Treats

The following morning starts with a hearty breakfast of rice, eggs (regular chicken ones, thank heavens) and sweet sausages accompanied with a classic 3-in-1 instant coffee (a sachet of coffee, powdered milk and sugar). The days out here in the mountains are relentlessly hot and we spend most of the morning lazing around in close proximity to the ceiling and floor fans. There’s also a lot of dust in the mountains, and with the help of the fans cycling the air into my sinuses, my allergies have taken over. My nose begins to run like a tap and I can barely keep my eyes open, so I take some antihistamines before laying back in bed for a few hours, the rest of the family terrified that they’ve poisoned me with the balut from the previous night.

I wake to mum walking through the door, also struggling with some allergies of her own – I truly am my mother’s daughter. We head back downstairs to join in the feast of rice and lechon manok. My Aunty has also made delicious refreshments of calamansi juice and a drink using the fresh coconuts we had harvested. It’s a concoction of coconut flesh, coconut juice and condensed milk that’s both delicious and hydrating. We spend the remainder of the afternoon sipping away and snacking on boiled peanuts and bibingka that a neighbor had made and was selling to all the nearby houses.

After my morning ailment I’m now feeling completely relaxed – at home in a place that’s more than 4000kms away from my actual home in Perth. I feel accepted in this place. I look and speak different to everyone else, but I share the same blood, the same values. This tiny, open place in the mountains reminds me to relish in life’s simple pleasures, realize what truly matters, and never take what I have for granted.