Green and Seaweed-Flavored...

I often need to visit the marketplace in Taytay in the early evenings to buy odds and ends, print and copy (provided there isn't a brown-out, which is the local variety of a power outage), load my internet stick...but really, most of this is to get small change to pay Z's husband, the trike driver.  I'm usually ravenous after a long day in the field, but I usually exercise self-control and don't buy any junk food snacks (can't spoil my appetite for a delicious Casa Rosa dinner, and I usually abhor super junky snacks).  Usually.

Taytay Marketplace, early evening

One night last week, I rushed to the market when I got back, hoping to beat the brown-outs that have been happening semi-regularly in the evenings so that I could print out draft research endorsement forms for one of the barangay captains to sign the next day.  This would be my third attempt.  Made it to the main market hall...up the stairs...oh good, my preferred printing shop (lowest prices AND the friendliest guy, Arnel) was open..."Magandang gabi, kumusta ka?  Pwede akong mag-print?"  "Mabuti, pwedeng-pwede."  I handed Arnel the jump drive and leaned back in the chair he always offered me, relaxed, and jauntily thought, "FINALLY, I'm going to get this printed!" He turned back to the computer and reached down to insert the jump drive, and....darkness.  Brown-out!  Startled cries and gasps followed a millisecond of silence, and quickly snowballed into a jumble of flashlight beams, footsteps running around, chattering, laughing, groans...including mine.  "Sorry, maam," said Arnel.  "Sayang!  OK, salamat," I said, resigned to yet another delay in my long journey to get official research endorsements.

I headed over to the New Rainbow Store (I suppose one would call it the "Costco" of Taytay, though it's tiny by supermarket standards) which has its own generator, which seemed even more bustling than usual.  Its claustrophobic, narrow aisles were filled with people who lingered and did not care about the clumsy Americana trying to gently pass by.  I wasn't sure what I wanted, but I needed change for the trike ride the next day.

Picked out some Energen packets for 5:30 am breakfasts (a discovery from this trip: instant hot cereal drinks also taste ok if you use cold water because you don't have your own stove to heat water up...).  

A 2-gallon bottle of water.  Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate!

Ooooh, chocolate with 5 different features (crispy rice bits, milk chocolate coating, caramel, and I forget what the other 2 were)?  Hmmm...I haven't had a chocolate bar since San Diego...yes please!

And then I saw it...tucked away in a small shelf...a can of seaweed-flavored Pringles.  There were sparks.  I gazed upon it, and the Pringles man smiled back at me from a bright green background.  The chips pictured on the can were green - intriguing.  The picture of seaweed on the can gleamed.  I hadn't had seaweed-flavored chips since I was a field assistant in Thailand, way back in 2006.  Come to think of it, it had been a while since I'd eaten Pringles...years, maybe.  This was coming home with me.

As I walked back to Casa Rosa in the dark, struggling with the hefty water and my bags (I refuse to take a trike the 150m from the market to Casa Rosa on principle), I realized how hungry I was.  I put everything down and dove into the Pringles...wow.  Delicious. 

OK, Tara na.  I picked up my bag and purse and water bottle, juggling them awkwardly in such a way that I had ready access to the Pringles can.  Oh man, so delicious!  I just had to stop and put everything down again so I could shove mini-towers of Pringles into my mouth.  Perhaps I was more uninhibited than usual, since it was so dark on the street.  Surely, no one could see me as I hunched over the can by my pile of things, rapidly chomping away, spewing green flakes everywhere.

That's when I heard a jolly laugh behind me.  I turned around, mid-bite - an old man had just walked out of the door that I'd stopped by.  At least, I hope he'd just walked out - who knows, he might have been there the whole time.  "Sarap!" he said (delicious) with a huge smile, and raised his glass in a toast.  Oh man...I thought my current gluttony was my secret and mine alone.  But he didn't seem to be judging me.

"Masarap na masarap!" I merrily replied as I raised the Pringles can in response. After a moment's hesitation, I continued to pig out.

Just as I was mid-chomp on the "one last chip" before resuming my journey back to Casa Rosa, Jean, the girl who I usually get copies from, walked by - pretty, neat, dainty...quite a juxtaposition from me - grimy, wrinkled clothes, wild hair, chowing my way through a can of Pringles.  "Miss Tara...where are you going?"  "Um, sa Casa Rosa.  Gusto mong Pringles? (Would you like Pringles?)".  "Ah...no, thank you. Have a good evening! I am going home."

Soon after that, I finally managed to put the can away and walk home, past the basketball court (where there seems to be a game every evening) and up the steep stone steps (wow, the water bottle was starting to get heavy); picked up my key from the ever-friendly Casa Rosa staff ("Magandang gabi, kumusta ka? Pwede akong mahiram ang susi?"); opened the door to my little cottage home, startling the crew of geckos who share it with me .  After a shower, I went to the restaurant all clean, a delicate floral scent emanating from my just-laundered clothes and my nicely-brushed, freshly-washed hair, feeling fresh and cleansed and healthy.  I primly ordered a small veggie salad and green tea after exchanging pleasantries with the Casa Rosa staff.  Good Tara.  Such a lady.  I would throw away the rest of the Pringles before I put any more of that junk in my body, which is a temple.

But that can of Pringles was still 1/3 full, and it sat in my room, biding its time, knowing that it would tempt me to further excess until it was all gone...the Pringles always win. Especially the seaweed-flavored ones.

N.B. the chocolate was, in a word, disappointing.  Perhaps they should have focused on 1 feature and done it well instead of spreading themselves thin on 5.

I love tomorrow

On Friday, the dolphins put on a great show for us - we stumbled upon a group engaged in mating behavior, exuberantly showing off their flippers, spyhopping, jumping.  It's as if they knew we had a guest: Ryan, the local Peace Corps volunteer who is working on marine conservation of coral reefs in Taytay Bay, decided to hop on over to Malampaya Sound with us for the day. E and Z were excited to have him; he's a very well-liked figure in these parts, fluent in Tagalog, very friendly, and involved with the local community beyond his defined Peace Corps duties.

Leaving Brgy Banbanan. That is Mt. Capuas, which I will climb someday.

Despite our beloved guest and playful dolphins, however, I could sense that our little group was feeling a little down, as if influenced by the sullen clouds that hung from the sky.  Z in particular seemed discouraged about the sorry state of Malampaya Sound's environment - a feeling I could empathize with. As we approached our fishing village for the day, we spotted fishers using illegal fishing gear, which E (more happy-go-lucky than Z) just shook his head at, while Z. became visibly upset.  "I hate them. They don't care for other people in the Sound."  It's rare for her to be negative like that, and I became a little concerned.

I encountered a downside of having two former government employees working for me: they were recognized in fishing communities as being affiliated with fishing regulation enforcement, and E had actually been involved in the detainment of illegal fishers in the village we were visiting that day.  We decided that he should steer clear of that part of the village, and that Z would take care of the interviews there.  After her first interview, she found E and me and said, "I don't want to interview those people. It makes me angry."  Because I'm coming back next year and can get those interviews, and because she seemed so upset, I didn't push the issue.

Every interview of Z's that I sat in on, I could see her become sad and upset whenever the fishers talked of how Malampaya Sound is a shadow of the thriving, productive ecosystem it used to be.  "Sayang talaga!" ("Such a shame!") she would mutter as she recorded their answers. As we walked from one house to the next, she said, "Tara, it makes me so sad.  But I don't want to mind their problems, I need to focus on my own problems.  But it's so sad."  (Though she's making money as my field assistant now, she's stressed about her family's financial prospects after I leave).

I could tell that E was feeling somewhat apathetic, and Z was clearly out of sorts - uncharacteristic for both of them.  So I decided to modify the plan for Saturday - to skip the fisher interviews and just have a fun morning of dolphin watching.  That way, Z's son and husband could join; Z's husband is the tricycle driver that I hire to take us to Agpay, the boat departure point, and her son, D, is an adorable 4-year old who often joins us on our tricycle trips and plaintively asks "sama ako?" ("Can I come with you?") when the time comes for Z and me to board the boat, his huge eyes wide open.  Ryan was hooked on the dolphins, and asked if he could join again.  It promised to be a full, fun boat!

So, the next morning, we set off.  The wind was stronger than I would have liked, and by the time we got to the center of the sound, we were at Beaufort Sea State 2 - which is a problem because these dolphins surface low to the water, and any peaks greatly increase the difficulty of spotting them.  The lighting was also tricky.  Time passed by, and our boat chugged along.  1 hour, 2 hours, nothing. My eyes started to play tricks on me - logs with dorsal-fin shaped bumps bobbed up and down, and the wind occasionally carried a spray of water that just might have been a dolphin spitting water (these guys do that, really cool).  I always focus deeply when I'm searching for dolphins, but it felt like I was searching more diligently than usual because of our guests.

Finally, E spotted one, and after a while, I also saw it, though no one else did – surfacing rapidly, showing only its tail, with long intervals between surfacing.  We gave up on that one.  Disheartened, we made our way toward the Protected Area Office, where we would end our search.  I felt so bad that our guests weren’t going to see dolphins.  I desperately scanned the waters.  The glare off the water strained my eyes, and I was exhausted.  Finally, saw a hint of something dark pop up and back down.  And again, but higher this time.  As I leaned over to ask E if he'd seen it, I spotted the smooth muscles of an Irrawaddy back arc out of the water: yep, dolphin!  Finally!

We had a nice interaction – a relatively small group (maybe 5), but they came close to the boat, surfacing nicely, puffing air out loudly.  One came within 1 meter of the outrigger.  D was delighted, laughing and clapping.  Everyone was delighted, with our normally taciturn boatman calling "Winnie! Winnie!" (a local fisher named Winnie is nicknamed "lampasut", the local name for Irrawaddies...his wife thought it was hilarious when we interviewed him about his interactions with lampasut).  D joined in, with his musical little-boy voice calling "Winnie...the Pooh!"  I was so tired that I had a hard time getting good photos, but everyone helped point out dolphins for me, gleefully exclaiming: “Dolphin at 1 o’clock! 2 o’clock!” and joking "Anong oras na?" ("What time is it?").  Even D joined in: “5 minutes!”

That's a happy boat

After hanging out with the dolphins for a while, we cruised over to the Protected Area Office - a sturdy building right on the edge of the water in the village of Old Guinlo - in high spirits.  D had fun looking through the binoculars (he seemed to prefer looking through them the “wrong” way).

Future marine biologist???

We gave Ryan a tour of the office, with a gang of local kids merrily following him around.   E and Z, remembering that I had told them that I love coconuts, prepared a treat for all of us - E had brought 4 coconuts and Z had brought condensed milk.   They made a sweet coconut drink in the cool, damp PAO kitchen, hacking open the young coconuts with a machete, draining them into a large jug, scraping out the meat, and mixing it all with condensed milk. I amused the kids who clustered around the kitchen door by taking pictures of them (they were fascinated by the fancy camera) and showing them photos of the dolphins.  

We sipped away at our refreshing drinks on the balcony, mellow from a long, hot, sunny morning.  I listened to E, Z, and Ryan chatter away in Tagalog; Z's husband and the boatman relaxed quietly; D rolled around his chair; and I sat on the balcony railing, leaning back against a post with my eyes closed, occasionally opening them to gaze out over Malampaya Sound - the now-calm, mirror-like water punctuated by bamboo fishing structures and colorful bangkas.  We sluggishly sauntered down to the boat, wading through the bathtub-warm water in the shade of a solitary mangrove tree.  I fell asleep during the brief ride back to Agpay, lulled by the loud chugging of the motor and the view of the almost luminous water reflecting the brilliant sky and the gently undulating green slopes of forest that surrounded us.  Everyone was tired, but happy.  A pretty good day.

I mused over how considerate it was of E and Z to conspire to make the coconut drink, and I remembered the confusion that had ensued when I tried to tell them earlier in the week that I loved coconuts: "Gustong-gusto kong bukas!", which means "I love tomorrow!".  What I meant was, "Gustong-gusto kong buko."  But after this day, I could tell that our little team was back in good spirits, filled with the kind of energy that would prompt one to optimistically exclaim, "I love tomorrow!"