4:45am. Wake up. Rub eyes groggily. Sluggishly go to the bathroom. Splash water on my face. Wake up.
Another day, another running meditation.
Near daily, I go running around the temple grounds to get my exercise. I wake up at 4:45am, before our morning chants start at 6:30am, to give me more of that Discipline and routine I’m lacking in my normal day-to-day life. Running has always been a love/hate relationship, but its the best form of meditation that I have. When I’m running, I am present. My senses are in tune to the air I breathe; the wind against my face. My mind wanders, but I observe it. Ideas are sprung when I run. Blog entries. Poems. Stories. The what is the meaning of my life-ness (if you figure that one out, tell me).
5:00am. Church bells. Light and soothing in the crisp, morning air. Dancing upon the morning hustle of waking in the heart of Bacolod city. The temple isn’t outcast in mountains, outside of civilization; it is a part of it, and our four month “seclusion” isn’t so strict after all. Once a week, having opportunities to outreach or volunteer in the community, or an outdoor excursion for a session of meditation. But I digress. Back to running…
I am barefoot now. I’ve taken up barefoot running. Easing into it in steps. Short sessions and then back to flip-flops. Proper tennis shoes are overrated. I don’t know how Zen this is, but it’s one more kinesthetic experience. My sense of touch heightened as I feel the cool concrete beneath my feet. It’s not that bad. The concrete is fairly smooth but there are little rocks I can’t see in my blurred, near-sighted vision, giving me sensational surprises beneath my sensitive feet. As I run the stretch of the the temple grounds nearing the back of the monastery, an animal scutters away to hide, surprised by the sound of someone coming. I think it’s a lizard, or maybe it’s a rat. It scutters every morning and scares me as much as I scare it.
Barefoot Running?
Barefoot running has been growing a subculture following by some running enthusiasts. Some naturalists think that due to our evolutionary hunter/gatherer past, humans were meant to run barefoot. The mechanics of running are completely changed without the aide of footwear. Barefoot runners tend to strike their foot to the ground at the balls of their feet, or the middle of the foot, causing less collision force and impact compared to the heel-to-toe strike with cushioned shoes. Because of this, some experts say barefoot running can help prevent injuries because it actually causes less strain on your feet.
Barefoot Running and Zen?
From a Buddhist perspective, barefoot running could be considered to heighten your sense awareness and thus bring you more forcefully into the present moment. There’s a simplicity to going barefoot; walking or running. Each step on the ground is like your brain calling you to attention. “Now! now! now!” You feel each sensation more forcefully and you have to work on overdrive just to keep up with each new sensory perception. The benefit of this is you probably won’t have any time to worry about the future or any current day-to-day stress. Just feel, move and react.
The simplicity and minimalism that comes with barefoot running is another concept in conjunction with Zen. Running is already a cheap sport, because you don’t need much equipment other than footwear, which could cost anywhere from $20 to over $100+. But what if you got rid of running shoes altogether? One less thing to worry about buying while simplifying your life. The childlike innocence of barefoot running might bring memories of running around barefoot in the fields. Bringing you back to childlike awareness is like the concept of beginner’s mind. You don’t have to run for sport, because you’re an athlete. Run because its fun, because you like what it feels like to run barefoot in the grass or on a sandy beach.
Being childlike is considered a good thing in Eastern philosophy. People should learn the value of play; knowing life shouldn’t be taken so seriously. The non-conformity of barefoot running might be a huge deterrent for most people. I won’t lie. It’s a lot easier to be non-conformist when you’re inside temple grounds in a third world country than it is in your average American suburban neighborhood. Every once in awhile though, it’s good to shake things up. I’ve learned to embrace my non-conformity because I know that I wouldn’t have it any other way.
These are the thoughts running through my mind as I meditate on a barefoot running session…
I can barely sleep on the night before my travel to Negros island in the Philippines. My life is about to change dramatically, unlike I have ever known it before. 5am and I’m up. Was I ever really sleeping? My family packs me a lunch of spam sandwich stacked with three slices of bread instead of two in Philippine’s most charming white “Wonder” bread. They must think the extra slice will fill me up better, but I don’t eat it. One of the most hated processed meats in the States is a common meal: SPAM. Siao Pao (Chinese steamed bun with meat filling) makes its way into the plastic lunch bag. Two fresh eggs from the chickens my uncle owns, and three tangerines. I know this will be the last time I eat meat again for the next four months. Maybe longer. Who knows if I’ll keep this up?
The ride is surprisingly easy, but long. A simple one hour bus ride to Cebu City followed by a two hour bus ride to the Toledo docks where a ferry boat boards land transportation and people to the neighboring island, another two hour fare. Transportation in the Philippines isn’t fast, and after the ferry lands, we’re faced with another two hour adventure across Negros’ mountainous terrain along the windiest roads I have ever been on. At least we have air conditioner. The bus slowly lugs along up and around and up and around, with no railing along cliffs and barely a shoulder outlooking my right side window. The dizzying, ear-shifting altitude is worth it as we near lush green rice fields; one of the prettiest sites I’ve seen in the Philippines yet.
My travel companion, Beau and I discuss our histories, past relationships, non-conformism. We’re different and we know it. That’s why we’re here, I guess. Looking for different experiences. Looking for questions. Looking for answers. Wondering what truth is. The parallels in our lives intersect in this moment and we’ve got synchronicity. I assume that’s what binds us all together in the next coming months.
A Chinese woman comes to pick us up from the bus station not long after our final arrival. We’re whisked away in an air conditioned van with two female monks, an older Chinese woman, and a young man in his early twenties, Dave, who has helped coordinate and gather all the students to the program. Six plus hours of straight travel and I am tired. It’s dinnertime and I graciously accept my first vegetarian meal. Noodles, rice and a leafy soup. Four straight months of this vegetarianism and Chan (Zen) Buddhist lifestyle. The world is a trip.
I eagerly bite into a vibrant looking baby carrot floating in the soup. I love carrots and this one tastes especially feisty. So feisty that its burning my mouth and making my eyes water. In my tired, post-trip daze, I had eaten a red jalepeño! For someone who hates spicy food and tries to avoid it whenever possible, this was my first experience with a red pepper. They told us one of the cultural customs here at the temple is to finish everything on your plate, so make sure you dish out exactly what you need. I graciously tried to swallow down the pepper and offered a grimaced smile while I grabbed for my glass of water. My first day and I was already getting a Buddhist lesson: mindfulness. Be mindful of the food you eat and put into your mouth. Know that a carrot is actually a carrot, and not a pepper. A tired body is no excuse for a tired mind.
I had head lice once, in grade school. You know, when people normally get it like how kids normally get chicken pox. I remember we went through a whole school inspection, with those special fine combs, and it was official. I had lice. When you’re a kid, it’s not quite so bad because you have an excuse. You’re a kid, and you have no care in the world. Lice may be gross, but so are boogers, and you eat them. Mom did all the things you’re supposed to do. Wash all my sheets and bedding. Pillowcases. Clothing. Being a kid didn’t make me immune to the embarrassment and shame, but it wasn’t so bad.
Twenty some years later I am back in the Philippines. It was my first or second week here when I was hanging out with my cousin, aged 8, and suckered into staying the night with her to sleep in their room instead of the guest room that was set up for me in the other house next door. It’s not so bad. They have air conditioner, and the guest room does not. Just a small fan that does nothing because every morning I still wake up covered in sweat. It is so hot here, and I am not used to this heat…
My cousin, and her mom all sleep in the same bed. It was big enough for one more person, but suffice it to say, it was a bit of a snug sleeping experience with my 8 year old cousin in the middle.
You can see where this story is going. I didn’t know it then until a week later. But both my cousins have lice, and so do practically all my kid cousins. Yeah. There’s a bit of a lice problem in the Philippines. They joked that I am a real Pinay (Filipina) now that I have lice. Apparently, lots of the females get it. Look who’s proud to be Pinay now? I mean. It’s embarrassing. I’m not too happy that I have a lice problem. My aunt sat combing through my hair and dozens of these tiny bugs came crawling onto the white shirt she had laid over her lap. The big mother lice were black, and fat with my blood. The babies are still white or beige in color and not so big. It’s strange to think a whole city of parasites live on my head. I mean, no wonder I’ve been so itchy. But I’ve been in denial.
I finally broke that denial the other night when I was itching playing with my hair and found a beige colored bug on my finger. Horrified, I Google image searched “lice” to confirm that was the bug I was staring at right in front of me. The next morning, in quiet, dejected shame, I told them.
Ng kikitan ko sa koto ang akong buhok. I probably butchered that, and I had to ask them what past tense of “to find” was. But basically “I found lice in my hair.” Lice. Koto. What. The. Hell?
I wondered if lice could survive in things like beards and pubic hair. I wondered if, after scratching my head, and masturbating, I might have acquired lice down there. Then I tried to remember if it felt itchy down there and I haven’t noticed it. Disgusting. Denial. Good thing I shave, right?
Living amongst the people in different cultures has its ups and downs. For me, living in a third world country meant catching lice for a second time. Hey, it’s all part of the travel charm. You gotta roll with the punches. And sometimes that means getting infectious diseases, or getting deported, or having to renew your passport because you know you want to stay longer than a year (and by you, I mean me), or who knows what.
This is how I roll.
I am leaving in less than six days for the Zen monastery. While the experience is not monastic training, and shaving our heads is not required, I had asked if I could choose to do it anyway. I’ve been wanting to shave my head since I was 19 and all punk rock anti-establishment. I was too chicken then. And my head shape is flat. So much for rejecting status-quo, in my green colored pixie short hair and spikes that made me look kind of like a dyke. But I mean, I’m bisexual so I guess that means I’m half-dyke. I don’t care.
I can’t think of a better time to shave my head than when I have a lice problemand I am going to live monastically for four months of total seclusion at a monastery where monks really do shave their head and I won’t be around the public. That’s perfect, right? They told me it’s inappropriate for girls to shave their head but I saw a girl monk with her head shaved so I call bull shit. In any event, I’m going to try to convince them to shave my head because of my lice problem, OR I’m going to have my aunt who owns a hair salon do it the day before I leave for the monastery. Once I make up my mind on something, I don’t let go.
That’s why I’m here now, in the Philippines, and that’s why I’m finally going to shave my head.
It was your average cold, windy winter’s day in Central Oregon. Temperatures being in their 40s, I donned on my zip-up hoodie, jeans, t-shirt and flip-flops across the street to the local health foods market. Living in the heart of downtown, a block radius away from a sushi restaurant, Greek restaurant, local coffee shop, health foods store, consignment shops, and a swanky billiards bar is just one of many reasons I miss this place.
While browsing the aisles, one woman glanced and smiled at me, motioning my bundled up attire with flip-flops fashion. Probably not the smartest thing to wear in winter. The thing is, I’m Asian, and I wear flip-flops. This is probably more evidence that I should move to California (which is my goal, eventually, actually), but right now, I’m in this magical land of unicorns and trumpet songs. OK, that’s a lie. But I’m in this magical land of the Philippines, where everyone is considerably happy. And they do everything in flip-flops.
There’s something freeing about wearing flip-flops or open toed sandals (they’re called slippers here). Much like my state-of-mind, my feet are happy to roam near naked in a free-spirited manner. In flip-flops, my feet can breathe. In flip-flops, my feet are happy.
I’m not making the case that flip-flops = happiness (or maybe I am?), but all I’m saying is this is everyday footwear and people do everything from jogging, and playing tennis in them. “Rubber” shoes (aka, tennis shoes) are worn during sport activity but a considerable amount of people still wear flip-flops when they ride bicycles, play tennis (actually, the real fad is badminton), dance or go running. Or, maybe it’s just me.
My workout “routine” consists of jogging around the family compound (we have a fairly big yard), doing sprints, plyometrics and circuit exercises. All while wearing flip-flops. One particular sunny day (oh wait, it’s always sunny), I even “rock climbed” with my flip-flops on. That was the day they got stuck in the crevice of the rock and I broke my flip-flop trying to get it out. I have memories of running in my flip-flops as hard as I can, breaking the thong and running bear foot without losing my momentum. What can I say, I’m rough and tumble.
The interview was just a formality. I knew I had been accepted to the Zen retreat before I came. Evidenced by the fact that the guy I talked to on the phone said there have been about 7 applicants so far… and 15 positions. It went like this:
Facebook stalking a fellow traveler friend, seeing his status update linked to a Lonely Planet thread regarding a Zen Buddhist retreat in Bacolod and Manila, Philippines to learn Mandarin language, meditation and a Buddhist way of life.
Realizing I’m in the Philippines and I could DO this thing. Realizing the deadline for applying is March 15th and holyshit It’s March 12th. Should I DO it? Oh my god, I’m really going to apply to live like a… monk? What the hell have I been smoking? Why does this sound completely bad ass?? What If I don’t get in? What if I DO?? SCARY! I mean, in a good way. In that “this-is-Floreta-watch-her-grow” sort of way. Or possibly the “I-am-Floreta-hear-me-roar” sort of way. I can’t believe I’m filling out the application. ACK ACK ACK!!! My mind exploding with excitement. My stomach churning with anxiousness.
Turning my 500 word or less essay to “give us a background of yourself” into a blog post because I like to kill two birds with one stone. Thinking, damn my application is looking pretty strong because my resume kind of kicks ass. Because I am awesome. Sending out my application through e-mail in the wee hours.
Getting a call the next morning to ask if I could join an interview session at the Cebu temple that afternoon. Doing cartwheels in my head and amazed by how fast everything seems to be moving. Agreeing to meet at 12:30PM which later turns into meeting at 1:00PM. Which later turns into asking my family if I can go to this interview which later turns into my cousin volunteering to come which later turns into her eight year old daughter and boyfriend coming.
Getting lectured about how things are scams in the Philippines. How people are bad and just want your money. How this temple is in the swindler area. How this is a huge scam. How I shouldn’t go. Smiling and nodding and thinking bitch, don’t TELL me about scams when I’ve been to the land of them: India. How it’s my decision, but really it’s not because they’re pressuring me not to go. Oh the pressure! Why does everything have to be so complicated here? Why haven’t we left yet when it’s 1PM? Amazed by how slow everything seems to be moving. How I shouldn’t worry because this is Filipino time. It’s OK to be late. I guess since they’re local they know best and I have no power to make my own decision. Being asked “What’s my decision?” a million times when my DECISION is to go to this interview to make an informed decision before putting it off as a scam. Going to my room to cry, calm myself with my prayer beads, accepting that it looks like I’m not going and that I’m a prisoner here.
Finally going. Finally arriving… at the wrong place. My cousin’s boyfriend looking mad. Being asked “what’s my decision?” for the millionth time. Nope, still hasn’t changed. My cousin’s daughter saying never mind going because it’s bad. Frustration. Realizing Filipino time means I am under other people’s time frames whether I like it or not, and maybe I won’t make it, again. Finally arriving in Filipino time fashion; two 1/2 hours late. I ask them questions. I throw in my Buddhist key words to let them know I’m not a complete novice. Words like Impermanence! Mindfulness! Mala prayer beads! Right intention! Zazen (breathe meditation)! Knowing I have impressed them and that I am going to be a good student.
THIS is how crazy it is.
My Buddhist singing bowl and mala prayer beads
The retreat starts March 30th and ends July 31st. I still need to give them my official “yes” but at this point, there’s no doubt in my mind that this is my next journey, and adventure. During this time, I will have limited internet access of one hour a week which means limited, or no blogging.
While shaving your head is not required, I think I will anyway because I’ve always wanted to do it at least once (it’s on my bucket list) but have always been too chicken. The last time I thought of doing this I was aged 20 and into punk rock and death metal. Funny how “non-conformity” can come in all shapes and sizes, but end up with the same principals within the same person. I can’t think of a better time and place to shave my head than in a four month temple stay of seclusion and limited stimuli to the outside world (I am told that people visit the temple on occasion as it is open to the public). I have always been fascinated with androgyny and feel I can pull off the “androgynous” look well. I wonder if I can pull off a shaved head; proving you can be bald AND beautiful as a woman. I will take pictures because if I don’t, then it didn’t happen! What an appropriate time to shave my head and practice depravity in the form of non-attachment to physical beauty and, hair. If not a celebration of bald beauty, then it is a celebration of the non-attachment towards beauty. And a great way to solve my non-confirmed lice problem. There, I said it. I MAY have lice! My head itches all day and I slept in the same bed as my two cousins the first week I was here… Back before I knew they both had lice!
During this time, I will practice depravity in many other ways including the personal decision not to masturbate for the duration of the stay (four months of no p0rn, WHAT!?!). However, I see nothing wrong with writing erotica in my journal – despite Zen concepts being the absence of (desire, emotions, detachement, etc.) – and hope that the depravity of masturbation will help satiate my imagination. Because there is nothing wrong with mind sexcapades, even if that happens to be in a temple! Because I hold sexuality in a high regard of spirituality, and because they are both connected.
So remember when I said I “wasn’t Buddhist enough”? Through a delightfully random and last minute turn of events, I have the opportunity to join a four month retreat to study Zen, practice meditation, learn Mandarin Chinese, garden, cook and eat all vegetarian, and generally live a minimalistic, simple way of life. This will be four months of seclusion at a Buddhist temple, all expenses paid for during the program, monthly allowance money given to up to 15 applicants, and an amazing chance of a lifetime for personal growth! The only expense would be my transportation to and from the retreat.
It’s funny how the universe provides when I have a “problem”.
Problem #1: “I’m not Buddhist enough!”
In high school, I began to think about philosophies which aligned to Buddhist thought prior to having read anything about Buddhism. One of my friends even remarked, upon a discussion we had, that I was talking about concepts she was reading about in a book by the Dalai Lama. That was one high compliment, and then, another friend I met likened me to a Bodhisattva (Enlightened being that chooses to reincarnate to help others through their journey to Nirvana. Basically, a teacher, helper and giver.). While I’m far from being Enlightened, or even a sage, both compliments have really stood out to me throughout the years. Although my philosophies naturally align with Buddhism, I choose not to label myself as Buddhist because I simply don’t feel “Buddhist enough”. I’d much prefer taking concepts of Buddhism and Christianity and what have you and apply them to my life in constructive ways. The focus is in living a good life, rather than a good Buddhist life. Despite all this, I could certainly learn more about Buddhism because my grasp of the philosophy is basic, at best. When I say I’m not “Buddhist enough”, days later, the Universe (or you know, the internet) provides me a solution.
Problem #2: My family
As a Westerner, and as an American, it has been a complete culture shock and frustrating to realize that I can not do anything or go anywhere by myself. Every decision isn’t my own decision, but a family made one. If at age 26, my family disapproves of an activity, I am not allowed to do it…
I’m the solitary panda. I’m used to hopping on a bus, or the subway by myself. Walking down the streets of Portland in Old Town, Burnside, Skidmore… the “Bad” side of town without worry. Always keeping on my toes, and my wits about me (a lesson learned through martial arts training), but still not worried nonetheless. I came here to learn about “community” and “family values”. I know that. But the stimuli has been overwhelming at best. For someone solitary, not “getting” family values in my normal life, an only child, and (as much as I hate to say) a somewhat spoiled American, this is unreasonably ridiculous and bizarre. I feel like I’m 16 again, and a rebellious 16 year old at that! If my family doesn’t “approve” of this retreat because it’s different than Catholicism, they can NOT stop me. I’m the outsider looking in and a traveler. I love my family but I have been looking for a way “out” to experience more of the Philippines islands, to travel. It’s funny that my solution for “getting out” is by signing in to a monastery where I will have four months seclusion at two Buddhist temples and no allowance for “going out” and roaming outside the quarters. Despite the intensity, and strict code to simplicity and routine, I think it will be an amazing experience!
It is good to point out that none of these problems are really problematic. With a little perspective shift, they become different things entirely, and always an opportunity for learning and growth.
My first dose of zen came about in book form. The same friend who had likened me to a Bodhisattva recommended me what is now one of my favorite books: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values. If the title in itself is a handful, wait until you read the book! I first picked it up my freshman year of college. It was by happenstance that my friend and I decided to randomly wander into an old local bookstore. The kind of old bookstore with a cat, and woman with the “librarian” look. Sure, maybe Zen and the Art of.. is relatively popular and no one wanted this tattered used thing, but there it was when I wasn’t even searching! Immediately, I bought it and read 300+ pages of thick philosophy in under a week; loving every page! This book floored me, changed me, and made me feel alive.
Never, in a million years, would I think that I would ever get a chance to join a monastery, or even feel interested in such a thing. In just about two weeks, I will have a little more Zen in my life. I can’t think of a better way to feel so Alive. I look forward to every (present) moment.
A Brief History Lesson
The Philippines was colonized by Spain in the 16th century. In 1565, the first Spanish settlement to the Philippines began with Miguel López de Legazpi’s expedition, establishing the first permanent San Miguel settlement in the island of Cebu (perhaps why modern day Philippines produces San Miguel beer, and the San Miguel company currently produces Philippines’ most popular beer of choice, Red Horse). One of Spain’s main goals was to spread Christianity to the islands and thus why Catholicism is the predominant religion of the Philippines, and the third largest Catholic nation in the world, preceding Brazil and Mexico.
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We ascend the steps towards the majestic Catholic church and I past the angel statues. I wonder about things like angels and if they even exist. And then I realize that they do exist; in our minds. Candles are lit everywhere in remembrance of loved ones who have passed. The ritual, as I stare at the flickering flames, is something foreign to me. As my family hands me a candle, I try not to look completely clueless. When in Rome…
I find an empty candle spot and light it using another candle’s flame nearby. I say a silent prayer for my lola (grandma) who died of ovarian cancer after I visited the summer of my freshman year of high school. You don’t just forget things like that. How happy she looked when she greeted me, everyday. As if she hadn’t just seen me the day before. The way she would always wake me up and say “good morning my pretty little rose bud”. The way her smile lit up the room with her young-at-heart youthfulness. She never let on that she was hurting, when the cancer spread. She always looked so happy to see me…
I made the sign of the cross like a good little Catholic girl. But I haven’t been Catholic since I was 10 and stopped going to church. Like my lost language, my lost religion, now since foreign to me, is something I sometimes wish I were a part of. Guilty that I’m not. Sometimes, I feel like I’m dishonoring my heritage by not being Catholic, but then I remember that Catholicism is borrowed from Spain’s culture, and then I don’t feel so bad. I’m only as pinoy (Filipino) as the blood rushing through my veins. But I know I am an outsider here, in my own homeland, and I don’t want to make it even more obvious by telling my family I’m not Catholic. (When in Rome…)
These days, I align much more closely with Buddhism. But even I feel disassociated from the label because I don’t feel I’m a very good Buddhist. I hardly meditate. I eat meat. I kill bugs. I don’t live in the present moment most the time. Which brings me back to Catholicism. I can’t escape that good old Catholic Guilt. Guilty that I am not Catholic, like every other Filipino, it seems. I’m not “Buddhist enough”, and I’m not “Catholic enough”, so I can’t be bound in boxes.
There are remnants in me. This Catholic birth. Even though the religion seems so strange, and Lent hasn’t carried over to my yearly life rituals, I can’t escape the guilt.
I am a free-spirit and a freethinker. I am independent. All my life, I have been a rebel, a heretic, in more ways than one. I have called God (Personified) a fairy as fake as Santa Claus and then believed in a higher force that I eventually felt comfortable enough calling “God”. It’s a struggle to be different, and non-traditional. To dare to explore the world when everyone is telling me I should be settling down, have a boyfriend. I did that for five years and it didn’t work for me; even had my own house and dog. Sans the wedding ring (thank God), I was as “settled” as they get. I knew I was too free-spirited to be bound in boxes.
It’s like taking the red pill or blue pill. All my life, I’ve felt guilty for not believing in God, and then guilty for not having a religion. Guilty for not fitting the American Dream. Despite the challenges, I wouldn’t have it any other way, even if I could banish this guilt away by being more conventional. Challenge is what keeps the process (life) interesting. And when I think of that–that I am living life exactly the way I’m meant to, and trusting my heart and intuition–the guilt goes away.
This post is part of Lilu’s awesomely bad TMI Thursdays. Click her link for more good stories.
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So in the Philippines, there is a delicacy called balut that is a fertilized duck egg with embryo. That is to say: baby duck fetus. Say it with me one more time, boys and girls!
BABY DUCK FETUS!
Like, zOMG!!!1
How the heck do you EAT that thing!? I show you how in three easy steps! Look below for answers! Keep in mind that everyone was watching me as I made this video (and by everyone I mean my tito, tita (uncle, aunt) neighbor boy, cousins and a girl that works with my family), and it was a little embarrassing but what can I say, I have no shame! And I’m a good sport. Now, who wants to hire me for the Amazing Race? Which may or may not have anything to do with this video, because I’m unfamiliar with the format of the show (I don’t watch much TV, ok? Even in America.) and have no idea if they eat gross things as part of their challenges but I know it has to do with foreign cultures, and that’s kind of cool, and terrifying.
Third time’s the charm, right!? *bats eyelashes*
Or, I’m just charming?
So, what was my secret in swallowing this thing? Most people would probably try to think of their favorite food and how yummy it is to get past the mental block. Nope. Not me. I think of the grossest thing possible. Something I enjoy swallowing that I have on rare occasion (balut IS a delicacy after all!). I think of swallowing cum. Male semen. Cum in my mouth. Swallow!
Lets look at the similarities shall we?
Both are excellent sources of protein. Who needs a protein shake when you have _________? [Fill in the blank with BALUT or CUM]
Both have interesting textures. Just get OVER it!
Both are swallowed, and not chewed. Technically, you can chew balut, but I swallow!
The appreciation for both cum and balut is very subjective. Both are an acquired taste!
There’s a whole technique for eating it. I’ve likely made up my own technique but… That’s what she said!
Both are gross, but satisfying! Seriously. I love me some cum in my mouth. Oops, did I type that out loud? At least I know I’m not a lesbian. I love cock too much.
For the record, my family does not eat balut. So the fact that I did, and on more than one occasion, really tickled them! All the weird faces I was making as I stared into the poor bird’s face and made gross faces at the clearly distinct skeletal vertebrae… lets just say they were laughing in front of my face and NOT behind my back!
In all seriousness, I DID think of cum to get past the mental road block. I think it’s the only way I could have swallowed that shit. It’s the grossest thing I could think of; but I LOVE it!
I wonder what boys would think if I chased their stuff with Coke? That’s what I want to know!
“The Cui klan is quiet, but strong,” my tita (aunt) said to me.
Up until now, I hadn’t ever considered that my personality traits had to do with a family unit as a whole, and not just me, as an individual. This quiet confidence I have, that embodies my introverted nature, embodies my family heritage too? Who would have known. I didn’t realize such a thing could be a familial trait. But it’s true. My family here are small, quiet people. But strong. Just like my family has a handful of talented artists, so too do I.
This “quiet confidence” that I have that everything will work out? It’s embedded in generations. I like that. It makes me smile, and nod like the rolling of the hills.
In America, it’s so easy to forget where you came from. Not only is it a young, “melting pot” nation, it is also built on a model of Independence because of it. American’s rugged independence is so embedded in my world view that going back to my roots, to Asia, has got me so surprised to realize I am a part of something. I am a part of the Cui klan, and the Cui klan is strong. I am strong. It makes me proud to think that I am made up of a collective family tree, ancestry and heritage. It sounds so silly to write that as if it’s some big revelation, but I really do forget sometimes, so far removed from this place. Never mind the fact that half of my family history is a complete mystery to me. I never met my biological dad.
The Philippines is both foreign and familiar to me all at once. The dialect is familiar but foreign, as I still grasp hard to understand the language and my surroundings. I am slowly picking up words and what I call communicating in “three-year-old sentences”. I had a full on, legitimately Filipino conversation with a neighbor boy on Facebook for about 10 minutes and was proud of myself that if I couldn’t form sentences out of my mouth, where my brain synapses are still much too slow, at least I could type them out. I’m learning and that’s all that matters.
Being a part of the Cui Klan in a foreign culture, yet, my culture, is confusing at best. I blend in too easily here. I’m not a Westerner, or a Foreigner, but legitimately a Filipina. People assume I speak the Cebuano dialect and then I am found out when they realize I don’t. They assume I am Catholic and so I say a little prayer and make the sign of the cross like a good little Catholic girl should. Everything about it is foreign, including the religion. It’s equal parts sad as it is fascinating to me. Sometimes, I wish I could be that good little Catholic girl, but I know my spirituality is better off beyond boxes and statues and communions and churches.
I have a quiet confidence, and I got it from my family. I have an artistic touch and I got it from my family. It’s all here, in plain site. My family, like me, no longer practice their art in the traditional way, but they have transferred their creativity in other ways. Through cooking amazing meals, and through starting their own hair salon. And, through writing. A quiet confidence that things will happen naturally when they’re meant to, and meant to be.
The following post is my entry to win a free two-week all expenses paid trip to Costa Rica. Sponsored by Nomadic Matt and Gap Adventures. Click here to enter or read the details.
Why do you want this trip, and what do you hope to get out of it?
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The cacophonous sounds of horn honks greet me as we navigate through the streets of Jaipur by tuk tuk, a three-wheeled auto rickshaw. They speak to each other with machinery. The intersections jam together with cars, motorcycles and rickshaws all trying to cross at once, in this tunnel vision of mufflers and wheels. I hold my breathe as the driver navigates his way across.
So this is India.
The gateway to my travels.
With its hustle and bustle and street haggling tricks, India is no doubt a cultural challenge for even the most seasoned traveler. Yet India is my first major travel adventure and my gateway to Asia. India, with its rich history and cultural treasures. India, with its poverty and caste systems that I witnessed through volunteering at a slum school. India, one of those things you can’t really describe, but just have to experience for yourself.
I’m here in Asia, now residing in the Philippines with my family, in hopes of traveling to other Asian countries. In hopes of (re)learning Filipino. In hopes of finding a direction for my life and career.
I’ve got the travel bug and the only thing I wonder is why hasn’t this happened sooner?
Six years ago, I told my tita (aunt) that I wanted to travel by myself next time I visit the Philippines and here I am. In college, during my Indian art history course, I told myself it’d be the first country I’d visit (outside of the Philippines, which doesn’t count since I was born here) and there I was. In high school, I told myself I would see a Metallica concert at least once in my life and a year later, I dated someone who happened to be obsessed with them and there we were, making out amidst the hordes of people in the crowd while over-the-top pyrotechnics lit up the stage.
I’m no prophet, but without even meaning to, I get what I want. Things work out. I had long since forgotten my comment to tita until she brought it up recently. A simple awe and wish to see India as a college student came true in only 5 years after graduation. And this calm assurance that I will see Metallica happened after randomly meeting someone who would soon become my lover.
A trip to Costa Rica would be exactly what I want at this exact time in my life. Sometimes, I feel like I’m cool for traveling and living in my home country for a year, and other times, I feel like a loser. It’s this ruse of put togetherness that I don’t feel I quite have. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with my life, and no one to call my love, so here I am. Single and living life to my fullest.
Blogging through Costa Rica, in essence, travel blogging and photography, are exactly what I want to get into based on my fused interests and the skills I offer. If India is the gateway to my travels, Costa Rica would be the gateway to what the hell I’m going to do with my life. A great portfolio piece. And a proud face for environmental and sustainable tourism.
