I sat uncomfortably on this grey, hard, cold metal bench chair. Chrissy, my 6 year old daughter, toyed with her purple stuffed friend Barney, sat across me. I looked around the airport lounge. People were buzzing around: a family pushed their carts full of boxes and luggage rushed to the check-in counter , a young man fiddled with his MP3 player, a man in business suit attire sipped coffee on a corner and an overhead sound system paged someone to check in. Few yards away, a huge white 747 airbus plane was parked on the tarmac. My heart was pounding. My hands were clammy. My throat felt dry. I waited ten long agonizing years for this day to come. I could not fathom my feelings: I felt scared, uncertain, apprehensive, ecstatic and joyful at the same time. I’ve always wondered if my native country, Philippines, has changed at all since I left it. I imagined there would be newer infrastructures, taller buildings, bigger highways, improved government system, and its people are as charming as their homeland. I envision my home province Cebu, one of the 7,000 plus islands to be one of the beautiful and lovely places to live in the country. I have returned to my roots and heritage and embrace my culture to show my daughter and experience how life is in Cebu.
After a grueling 14 hour non-stop flight, the airbus touched down on the tarmac. We were finally in the Philippines. There were more tall big buildings with gray tinted mirror windows, new housing structures made with stone and bricks and acres of green foliage sprawled across the land. As we got off the plane, I could feel the hot, muggy and humid weather, sweat seeping thru my clothes. It felt like 110 degrees Fahrenheit; it probably was only 90. My daughter exclaimed “It's too hot mommy! I want to go back home.” Half a block away, my mom, dad, sister, cousin and aunt waved. My sister and aunt rushed to us, we hugged and kissed each other. I could see my father put on a straight face, he blinked his eyes several times to contain his feelings and hold off his tears. My mom with her bow legged legs and limped walked, approached us slowly. Tears ran down her chubby cheeks. The big smile on her face made the trip worthwhile. Choking back my tears, I hugged my parents tightly. That moment I said a prayer to God, thankful that this day has come.
We rode off on a public jeepney. I sat on the front seat with Chrissy next to me. I noted that some of the streets have not changed. It needed road work, there were pot holes and broken cement on the highways. This was going to be a very bumpy ride. As the driver drove along the road, other jeepneys were zooming past thru us. I had to contain myself verbally and not shout out expletives. The cars next to ours were only a few inches from where we were. My family behind me just chuckled and assured me; my mom said, “that’s how everyone drives around here...” Black smoke were bellowing underneath the car’s exhaust pipes. I covered my daughter’s face with cloth while I coughed up the inhaled nasty smoke. It was bumper to bumper traffic. We were trailing other cars end to end. The streets were filled with smog. There were quite a few traffic officers nearby yet they did not enforce nor ticketed the drivers. Public transportation regulation has not changed a bit in Cebu. After an hour drive, we have arrived at the village. My parents home, a 25-year old house with its yellow paint peeling off from the walls, is a 1200 square foot abode: it has three bedrooms, one bath, a living room, kitchen, porch and carport and a small front garden; it houses 13 members of my family. It surely is a tight quarter for everyone to fit in. This is almost the same scenario a visitor will see in every household. Though the cost of living is cheap, only two or three persons are working out of its ten members.
That morning, heavy rain poured down on our tin roof house. It sounded like slits of tiny rocks dropping on metal. I could scent the plants and fresh flowers as they got drenched from the rain. In less than five minutes, flash floods swelled up on our street. I could hear thunder crackled over our house. I called my daughter out from the house. Along with her was Nena, my mother and Gemma, my sister with her four-year old son, Justin. I stood on a corner , my left hand held a purple umbrella; the other hand with a Kodak video camera. Chrissy wore her neon floral two-piece swimsuit, she ran up and down the street. She played in ankle deep gray and muddy water, jumped and splashed water all around her. A few feet from her were wooden sticks, leaves, trash and garbage loitered at a distance. The drainage was clogged. I saw myself in my daughter’s eyes as I recalled growing up in this neighborhood for 20 years that I’ve always felt freedom and free-spirited every time I played in the rain. Without regards to health risks, playing in the rain was utmost fun I could remember. Yet, in reality there is truly a lack of public awareness on trash disposal and maintenance of drainage system. This has been a social problem throughout the country for decades. The government have taken measures to improve sanitation. Yet, some people would not change their ways; they are indifferent to their surroundings and don’t adhere to cleanliness. I believe this won’t change at all.
Later that afternoon, we went outside the house. I’m sitting out by the garden ledge holding ice water, behind me is a 25-year old Mango tree, its shrubbery leaves shielded me from the hot scorching sun. There was hardly any breeze in the air. My daughter at a distance rode a bike. She shrieked, giggled and laughed with her cousin. To my left is my mother, in her red floral house dress sitting on a small stool, fanning herself with a “pay-pay”, a bunch of dried leaves woven to shape into a fan. My dad, Nemesio, a 69-year old man with black matted and streaks of silver hair and lots of wrinkles on his face sat a few feet from me. With his gold brimmed eyeglasses perched on his nose, he read intently the local newspaper. I looked at him. My sister once told me that it takes longer for him to complete his tasks. He sometimes don’t finish the work because of body aches. My family have very poor healthcare, they have no insurance whatsoever. Everything has to be paid in cash out of pocket. I heard at times no matter how sick they get, they had to weather thru their illness without medical care due to limited finances. In front of us were six young men in their early teens playing basketball, dressed in raggedy shirts and shorts and wore flip-flops. They had fun and camaraderie. I reflected that overall, though money maybe scarce; companionship, love and happiness is the key to their contentment in life. What counts the most is being together as a family - the foundation in every home. Being alive and well is the key to one’s happiness and that is something I’ll always miss from Cebu - my home.
