Welcome to the Jungle, Small Town Girl

Welcome to the Jungle, Small Town Girl

On my first night in Tigman Village I barked like a wild dog.

Delirious from 36 hours of travel, and desperate for a drink of drinkable water, I stumbled into streets that were poorly marked, if at all. The volunteer headquarters had shut down hours ago. I skipped dinner because I wasn’t ready for people at that hour. Truthfully, I hadn’t been ready for people for 18 months. I wouldn’t be for another 24. And anyway it was just another thing on a long list of things I couldn’t find.

All the little carts or odd little “food” stands that sold tiny candies and fish flavored “potato” chips along with some sort of beverages that I’d seen earlier were shuttered. The darkness – real darkness like I’d never seen – didn’t help. Except when it came to seeing the stars. The stars.

“I will see you again. I love you. I have to show my girls strength right now. Remember, we are all made of stardust.” I squeezed her barely squeezable hand and kissed her forehead. Then left. I knew that she’d wait for me to say good-bye.  

And then there were the stray dogs who had been growing into a larger and larger pack behind me the entire god-damn time.

I suppose as their mark I should have become more afraid.  They closed in as they sensed my multiple fears.  But most of my fears had little to do with their scrawny haunches.

How could the people I love the most just abandon me and my girls so easily? Especially when we needed them most?

Why wouldn’t the people I loved most let me help until it was really too late?

Why did the people who I helped find it so easy to hate me and pretend I never helped?

As the pack got bigger, they barked louder and bolder. I could hear them licking their chops. These mutts had no idea the kind of rage I was packing. I was even more thirsty, not to mention more tired from all the walking around. More frustrated because no one was around to help and my phone didn’t work yet.

Plus, I’m from the Steel Valley of Pittsburgh. My dad always told me that you never get caught looking and always go down swinging.

So I turned around and ran right at these mongrels. I barked and howled and screamed weird shit in a deep voice and stomped at them like my body and voice were weapons.

These dogs weren’t defending their homes or their owners or families. They were just being bullies.

And I hate that shit.

They couldn’t hurt me any more than I already hurt. I was close to losing the two people who knew me the best but still loved me the most. And these chumps were just the first gauntlet. I planned to push and punish myself as far as possible for failing her, for failing my girls, and for failing myself.

My offensive worked. Maybe it was adrenaline, but I just kept running until I ran out of street. I found myself under a light. When I turned to my right, with my hands on my knees, panting – ha – like a dog - I saw the bridge that went over the pond to my hut.

When I opened the door, I put my empty water bottle down on the metal desk along with my backpack. I set up photos of my two daughters and decided that I would let the lizards stay in hopes that we would forge an alliance against the bugs.

That first night I had a bit of a nervous breakdown about my living quarters in spite pf my exhaustion.  I’m just glad that I was 47 and not 27 expecting what was promised. Either way, no one really cared. It wasn’t their style.

I certainly wasn’t going to use the weird hose and bucket in the bathroom for cleaning anything other than my feet. I would eventually figure out where to poop and how to clean it up because the toilet wasn’t really a toilet. But I made the mistake of brushing my teeth with the water in the sink, which made the whole toilet issue much much more complicated and gross the next day. No one told me where to puke. Naturally, I started with the fire ant hills at the foot of my hut.

Showering outside with cold recycled rainwater in plain view of the world became my favorite part of every day. So much so I did it twice a day. No one wanted to see a perimenopausal woman naked so it wasn’t a thing.  I’d eventually spray every inch of my place for sea lice daily, have all of my clothes that I wore near the beach laundered, and sleep in sleeping bag on top of the bed, which I’d pull into the middle of the room.

I set nothing on the floor and let nothing touch the windows or walls. 

It wasn’t that I’d spent a lot of money on these accommodations. Thankfully. And frankly they were just slightly less offensive than the camping fiasco my husband put me through in 2012. But I did spend a small fortune on the flight and that’s probably 40% of the reason why I’m likely getting divorced.

But for the first time in two years it did not take long for sleep to find me.

****

I loved the sunrise, but only for those two weeks. The roosters crowed at 4:00 a.m. Actually they crowed all day and night. I would rise every day by 5:15. The sky-blue iridescent light on the water. The soft lavender and warm browns of shells. The peach, butter, and silver sky. If there is a God, and she is an artist, this had to be her color palette.

I decided to make the most of my only free day before the work began and explored the very narrow beach in front of the huts and got in touch with the ocean. In my small life, the big ocean seemed to fix everything: blistered skin, bruised egos, broken hearts. I begged the ocean every time I saw it to fix at least some part of me.

I walked.

A million tiny hermit crabs began the day in pool halfway up the beach, with water whisking many down to the shore break. I wondered if some might get stuck there later.

I picked up many empty glass liquor bottles, tangled fishing nets, and lots of candy wrappers. Supposed that it didn’t hurt to start the easiest part of my job early.

At 7:00 am I headed to the volunteer headquarters where they had the best eggs I’d ever eaten for breakfast. They were (likely) straight from the hens prancing around and making a lot of noise. Those eggs would be my only meal almost every day. I awkwardly tried to introduced myself to very attractive people half my age and then let the kids get back to their scrolling. It didn’t matter because the only people I saw were the dudes.

When I glanced at my phone, I realized that it still wasn’t working (as promised by the pushy people at the airport) and I fell into a deep panic. There was no way I could be disconnected to my family given all that was going on with my sister.

 I just started running down what looked like a road that led somewhere until a really old man picked me up on a motorcycle. I didn’t hesitate to hop on back of his bike when he said he’d take me to this corner where I could catch a bus to big marketplace.

The bus began to pull away just as we pulled up, so I hauled ass and did my best crazy white girl flailing to make it stop. And it did. Salamat po! Salamat po! Salamat!

It was a hot and bumpy 25-minute ride.

The only thing that got my mind off of my pressing phone issue, my blistered feet, and my dying family, oddly enough, was Jon Bon Jovi. After the third song, I realized what was going on. The bus driver was intentionally playing the entire Bon Jovi discography. It blared from the speakers of the bus so loudly that it likely entertained every vendor and person on the street along the way.

“I’ve walked these streets. A loaded six-string on my back. I’m playin’ for keeps. ‘Cause I might not make it back.”

I searched the faces of the people on the bus and off the bus looking for, I don’t know what. I knew that American music was very popular, but a whole Bon Jovi discography?

When I got off of the bus, I made my way to the “phone store” and ran into two cockroaches the size of kittens that sent me quickly out of the store with a shitty deal. After all that travel, my phone worked for exactly 12.5 hours.  But I’ll never forget that ride and the Bon Jovi.

****

The next morning when it came time for the work to begin, I realized that I wasn’t just 25 years older than everyone, I was the only female on the “environmental” team. Our primary mission was to work with local civil society organization leaders to help build up the critical mangrove forest coves, among other things. It was important to use local guides so that we did not do any damage and to ensure that we planted the new trees in useful places.

 All of the other women chose to work in the elementary school.

When we began our work as the environmental team, I realized why.

****

Our day began with a half-mile walk to the mangrove swamp and it was already above 90 degrees. I wore tall rain boots, long-sleeved running gear, a hat, and a wet cloth around my neck. All of which were covered in Deep Woods Off. The tawny young boys wore shorts and muscle shirts. And no bug spray. They would regret these decisions.

We eventually got to the “Death Bridge,” a name that preceded everyone about to cross it. The Death Bridge consisted of two six-inch tenuously tethered wooden planks that bounced when we walked across them to get to the swamps, jungle, and mangrove forest. Who knew what lurked in the swift-moving, muddy waters just four feet below. But I know that the possibilities alone scared the tawny boys just as much as they scared me.

If we survived the Bridge, we’d trek along a path with tall grass on either side as the jungle crept up in a real way on all sides. All I could hear, every single day was Axl Rose saying, “You know where you are…you in the jungle baby…you’re gonna die!!!” And eventually we’d become emerged deep into the tangled roots of the mangrove forests. Each of us was expected to manage the literal jungle gym of mangrove tree roots and piles of unstable mud littered with evil, poisonous, weaponized critters.

At the same time we had to gather propagules, which were the long candle-like carriers of the mangrove tree seeds that fall from the trees into the water. They expected us to plunge our hands into equally dangerous shallow waters to grab between 80 and 100 stalks each morning. I was lucky to get 70 useable ones usually. On my first day, indignant AF after several slips into muddy bogs, I only got 43. I thought our local crew leader was such a witch. She did not care about my personal tragedies or that I was covered in black mud. To her, I was there to do a job and I was sucking at it. And she was right. I should have better understood the culture and stopped blubbering every time I saw a god-damn butterfly.

As a former gymnast, I was crushing these mangrove roots from the start, but that first day, as soon as I looked left, right, up, or down I let out an involuntary scream, followed by a “sorry, again.” I hate me some critters.

Something I try to tell my daughters as they are growing into their bodies and minds is that no matter how talented or smart or strong you are, or even think you are, the only way to get better is to accept challenges that make you a little scared or that make you work. And then make you work harder. And that force you to learn new things. Or test you in ways you’ve never been tested before. It will be frustrating and hard but what’s the alternative?

“Hello, I’m just doing the same easy shit everyone else is doing.”

Yes, I say “shit” to my daughters. We also listen to gangster rap, so “shit” is the least of it.

Some of my more cheeky mates would toss things behind me knowing my fear of being attacked by a phantom crocodile just to see me lose my footing or my bag of seeds.

But truthfully, one slip or misstep could land you waist-deep in black mud or water or both. Then your head immediately goes to the saltwater crocodiles, snakes, and colorful crabs. Meanwhile, my head was there at “death bridge.” Alas, my animal rolodex also included scorpions the size of your foot, poisonous centipedes, and spiders who could also attack you while you’re monkeying around on the roots. Oh – and mosquitoes.

****

Not for nothing I wanted to push every limit and feel every fear and experience every kind of pain I could imagine before I lost her. Because losing her had to be the worst thing coming. But when I would walk back to my hut, the island kept trying to chase pain and death from my mind with all of its life. Hens huddled with their broods in the brush. A water buffalo rising out of the tall grass scaring the shit out of me. Goats. A baby goat that tried to be friends with me. It was nothing to see a couple of cows on the side of the road completely untethered. A lot of cats. And of course, the dogs. And the puppies. I think they smelled me before they saw me and I swear I never had problem with a dog after that first night. And everywhere I walked, I would see so many butterflies. I would cry and sing “Mariposa” from the Disney movie Encanto every day. I used to tell my little girls that butterflies were our favorite people who died coming back to visit us.

“She's a butterfly, or the warmth in the sand

That the summer day leaves behind

To ease the uneasiness

That some nights can bring your sweet mind”

****

In the afternoons, if the tide cooperated, we would plant the propagules. It felt like a reward compared to the morning. If the tide did not, we would walk to a local farm and help the farmer dig irrigation ditches. I felt embarrassed by my technique with the giant hoe. But it was satisfying to see the water eventually make its way to your part of the ditch. Afterward, the farmer would take a machete and hack apart ripe coconuts and then pop straws in them for us to drink. I’d never tasted coconut water before, but on those days I don’t think anything could have tasted better. I used most of the water from my reusable bottle up quickly and saved the last bit to dump on my head under my baseball hat.

****

I came to slowly realize that it might be OK if I was not completely miserable and tortured for the entirety of my stay on Palawan. Some days after work I would swim with the local children who would find me among “the boys” when we emerged from the swamps or the farms. They’d hug me and walk me home.  They loved looking at photos of my two girls.

On the last Thursday of the two weeks, which was karaoke night, I decided I would do one more thing that terrified me. I would sing. Alone. Not before a certain number vodka and pineapple juice cocktails. But still, I had no idea what these kids who were half my age would even want to hear.  I trusted my gut and went with my hometown, Steel Valley anthem by the band Journey.

I’ve known all the words since I was born.

I’ve sung it with every one of my brothers and sisters. I’ve sung it with all of my friends.

After all, whether I’m on the island of Palawan in the Philippines, or in Boston, MA, or New York, NY, or Washington, DC, or in Munhall, PA, I will always be just a smalltown girl. Living in a lonely world.

What I did not realize was that the kids sitting around the table, who weren’t even born when the song was released, from Spain, New Zealand, Italy, Austria, Australia, Scotland, England, Germany, and the Netherlands, and all the staffers from the Philippines, all loved the song too. And felt connected to each other and to me within the first few notes.

By the first “Don’t Stop Believing” chorus, the entire group, from all over the world, sung along with me on their feet, and it couldn’t have been sweeter.

Every day the island reminded me of how beautiful and menacing and fragile and capable and tragic and worthy our world and its people are. And maybe I am too.  

Hold on to that feeling.