Nabuklod

I’ve always had “okay” immersion experiences in grade school and high school, so I didn’t want to expect much going into my senior immersion. At the same time however, it had been almost four years since my last stay-in immersion and in those four years I knew that I had significantly matured. I was also fresh from philosophy of religion class where we talked about Levinas and I was also recently exposed to some social activities in school. So on that early Friday morning in Bellarmine Hall, I was hoping that my senior immersion experience would be meaningful.

After almost an hour passed since my arrival, we were finally off to our area. We were off to live with the Aetas. Talking about my trip with my family a few nights before, they all threw warnings of the savagery that I would experience in the Aeta community. Of course, they were all joking, but their remarks were evident of how we lowlanders understand the Aetas.

Nearing our destination, after crossing a lahar stricken river, I started to see faces of little dark people through the window of our jeep. My initial reaction was that of surprise. I knew that we were going to be staying with the Aetas, but I never really saw myself interacting with them. It was the same way that some people always know that there are poor people, but they never really know what their lives are like. They just label them as such, and let them be. I believe that was very true for me at that time.

As we encountered more and more of the dark faced people, I began to feel a bit frightened. I don’t know why, but I worried that I may not be able to last an entire three days with these people. My worries were eventually muffled by the enthusiasm in the faces of some of my other co-passengers. After a few more meters, the jeep stopped and we went down to meet our foster families.

We were welcomed by a very warm crowd. There were so many children running around. Some kids would come up to us and stare blankly at our faces. They stood there with their open mouths, dirty clothes, and snotty faces. I didn’t know how to react. I had to force a smile on my face so that I wouldn’t look anything other than happy to see them. I wanted them to see me smiling, even if inside I didn’t know what I was feeling. I guess I was just overwhelmed and I didn’t know how to react. I was in a state of shock to see so many of them. We stood around the mini-plaza for a while because our formator was taking some time to pair us up with our families. As we all stood there, my doubts, worries, and hesitation slowly disappeared. I guess I was getting used to them already. Pretty soon, my smile didn’t have to be forced and I was trying to play with some of the children. After a while, I and my partner were introduced to our foster mother and we proceeded to our foster home.

The village seemed very familiar to me for some reason. It reminded me of paintings I used to see when I was a kid. It was a pleasant little community on a mountain. I had to get used to the terrain for a while, but got the hang of it soon. The houses were very open and were close to each other. There were no set boundaries for their property. The kids were running around everywhere, and incidentally so were the animals. Just thinking about the village makes me feel homey. There is warmth in that place that I can’t compare to anything else. When we got to our house, we unpacked our things, and talked to our mother for a while.

Our mother had eight children, two of which were living with us in the house. Both her children, their husbands, and their children lived in the house. One of them had nine kids, while the other had a modest five. Our mother told us that she was fortunate that almost all her kids were girls, because as a rule, the family of the husband has to give gifts to the family of her wife every now and then.

Our house had cement walls and half of it had cement floors as well. My partner openly expressed his delight to me because of the house that he was able to pick. We had the impression that our family was probably one of the better off families in the place. But eventually I would find out that appearances are deceiving.

My first amazing experience happened when we were offered food by our mother. We saw her get some rice, some beans (patani), and some water. I was waiting for more food when I realized that we were only going to eat rice and beans for lunch. Of course, I couldn’t complain so we had our lunch. It was actually my first time to try patani so I was amused by the whole experience. In the middle of our meal, our mother noticed that we weren’t touching the soy sauce and fish sauce on the table and offered us some. We declined the offer because we were happy with our meal and didn’t need any condiments to go with it. It took us until dinner time, when only had rice to eat, to realize that the soy sauce wasn’t meant to be a condiment, but rather an ulam. In the succeeding days, we’d experience various combinations of patani and rice. For someone who doesn’t like eating rice, the entire weekend was an experience for me. I often complain when I don’t get the food I want. My foster family didn’t really have any options. They ate what was available for them.

During our whole stay, we spent a considerable amount of time thinking, which is a more positive way of saying that we weren’t doing anything. Of course, we’d help with the house chores and talk to our families whenever we could, but there was just so much time to burn that we always catch ourselves just thinking.

The day was so long there. The minutes would go by like hours. And at one point, I was thinking to myself how much I couldn’t stand not doing anything here in Manila. There’s always something for me to do. Technology and the immense amount of information available always give me options on what to do. I often find myself weighing what I should do next. But in Nabuklod, life was just so simple and the days were so long.

Another immediately noticeable thing (obvious actually) for me was their not having electricity. As the sunlight faded and the darkness embraced the village, I sat with my partner once again stunned and at a loss for words. I thought to myself how many times I complained about a thirty minute blackout. I thought about how many light switches we had at home and how these seemingly small things allow me to move freely around the house. We sat in the darkness of the mountain and we couldn’t move. I didn’t want to go anywhere because I couldn’t see where I was going. We had flashlights and lamps and everything, but it just wasn’t the same.

The poso was another memorable thing for me. I’ve seen water pumps before and I know that I’ve used one before, but my reintroduction to the poso is worth mentioning. Like most other things in that place, it made me realize how much I don’t give thanks that we have water at home. Yes, I have experienced not having water at times, but there are always ways to get water. Water pumps eventually dry up. And when they do, the Aetas have to travel really far just to get water. Most of the time, it is also the kids who get water. There was a water pump right outside our house so every now and then I’d get to see some kids getting water. There was this one time when I saw this kid who was probably around twelve (though you can never really tell what age the kids are because they look small for their age) who had to carry two big drums of water on both hands and had a third carried on her back, harnessed to her head by a piece of fabric. She didn’t live near our house so she had to trouble quite a distance to get home. Often times, I don’t clean the car when my mom tells me to do so.

There were many times when we helped our family crack dried patani sacks. It seemed like a simple enough activity, but to spend so much time to crack so many dried sacks is something else. They sell their patani to a vendor from the city at ten pesos per can. The price of patani in Manila is three times more than what they sell it for. They gather patani, let them dry, crack them, and sell them. They do this almost everyday. During the rainy season, they substitute ampalaya for patani. When they sell the patani, they use the money to buy rice. And that’s what they eat, patani and rice. I’ve heard of a hand-to-mouth living before, but I’ve never actually experienced it.

There are similarities between my life here and my life in the mountains, but the differences are so far apart. There are things in my life that I don’t even consider to be luxuries. I’m always hoping to get a brand new gadget, a better looking car, and more clothes. When I don’t get the things I want, I think to myself that we’re not really that well off. I mean, my friends have these things so why don’t I?

Life in Nabuklod was so simple. There can be many things to complain about, but the people there are all right with everything. I was all right with everything while I was there. It only dawns upon me now that I could live a life that simple. I could, but being thrown back into my reality, I can’t help but look away.

When I look back at my three days in Nabuklod, I feel happy. I miss them. And I don’t understand how I can not be willing to let go of my lifestyle when I can honestly say that I felt okay with my family in the mountains. Neither can I dare to say that I have a better life then they do. During our stay there, I heard some people saw how much they felt pity for the Aetas. I don’t think that’s right. They don’t deserve our pity. They’re perfectly happy the way their lives are going. It’s also not like they don’t hope for a better life. They do. I am actually amazed at how our foster mother sent some of her children to school. One of her daughters is actually going to graduate this year and plans to become a teacher. I mean, they’re not hopeless. I also didn’t agree that we should just give them money. They do need money, but if you give them money, it’s like you’re spoon feeding them. There are better things that we can do for them.

One of the worst things that I found out during my trip was their discrimination against themselves. It’s one thing to be discriminated against, but once you accept that discrimination as real, you’re pulling down your self-perception too much. Our formator told us that the Aetas don’t even consider themselves Filipino. They call outsiders “mga Pilipino”. They think that it must be such an honor to be Filipino and they believe that they can only become Filipino in another life. If they only knew that their bloodline was probably the first race to occupy the country, they would be very proud.

Sunday morning, we packed out bags and gave them our tokens. I didn’t eat lunch anymore because I couldn’t stand another meal of just rice. Before we went up to our meeting place, I took one last look around. I knew I was going to miss the place, but I also couldn’t wait to get home.

Our lives are very different, but we are basically the same. I remember the initial fright I got when I first got to their community and I remember how we talk about love in class. It’s a good feeling to know that I know what the Aetas are really like. It feels good to know that I’m not pre-judging them, that I actually spent time with them, and that I understand there problems and the injustices done to them. I feel good about all these things, because it is so easy for people like me to ignore the poor and the marginalized. It’s actually easier to forget about the marginalized.

I am grateful in many ways because I was able to have my immersion in a tribal community. It’s one thing to be poor and not have basic necessities, it’s another to be in that state and have no one willing to listen to you. The Aetas are an ethnic minority. The government could care less about them because they produce such few votes. The unats who live closet to the Aetas don’t really care about them and oftentimes exploit them. I feel good that there are people from Manila, Ateneans at that, who know about their condition and will not allow them to just be forgotten.

I hope that the high I got from my immersion will last through my lifetime. I hope that I can visit them soon. I hope that I can keep on telling my friends about those three days in Nabuklod so that they would try to understand the Aetas before passing judgment on them. I hope that the marginalized won’t be such a distant concept, but rather a reality that people understand and fight for.

I am forever thankful to God for the experiences in my senior immersion.