Transfers

       I'm sure the story of my triumphant return to Tuguegarao City has in one way or another, made its way to all of you by now. I am happier right now than I have been on my whole mission, and that is saying something.. And here's a taste of why I am feeling so unexplainably happy (cue transition...)

       It was Thursday, January 24th at the butt crack of dawn when I loaded my impossibly heavy suitcases into the back of a van, for the third time on my mission. After explaining that, yes, "all those bags are mine, the luggage of one person" and receiving looks that the load would be much more fit for seven prissy women, the trunk was shut, and we rode down roads that I used to walk on every day- for what was presumably the last time. For me, that is one of the weirder parts of being a missionary- you literally throw everything you have- your whole soul- or as we Mormons would say "your whole heart, might, mind and strength" into a town. You get to know its streets and alleys, the people, where the most vicious dogs are, and what tindahans sell the energy drinks I like (read: "addicted to") for 10 Pesos instead of 12, only to leave it all behind with 48 hours notice.You cross your fingers that your next Zone Leaders will be as nice as the ones you left behind, that the people in your next ward will feed you, that your companion won't be a freak. I also had the additional, albeit small worry of just how close I would be to white people things (McDonald's, supermarkets, etc) for my weaker moments when eating rice 3 times a day sounds a little more depressing than usual. All this normal transfer day stress was amplified by the fact that I would be training a new missionary. And not knowing what country he would be from. A foreigner meant that I would have to deal with that whole "adjustment period" read: constant complaining about how difficult it is to live in another country, in front of people that are from that country. And then the whole inferiority complex "WHY CAN'T I SPEAK PERFECT TAGALOG MY FIRST STEP OFF THE PLANE?!?!?" Yeah, not a huge fan of angst. But it also meant that if I wanted to eat mashed potatoes, I wouldn't have to do so alone. A Filipino was less tricky, had much less of a chance of being a straight-laced, self-righteous windbag, and came pre-wired with the language. But there was still the chance that he would be brimming with bitter, jealousy induced racism toward people from First World countries. All options carefully weighed (you would NOT want to see inside my head) I crossed my fingers for a Pinoy. Needless to say, I was rockin' a few stress zits.... 

         After a 3 hour van ride through beautiful mountains and shockingly lame plains that I desperately hoped I wouldn't be assigned to, I found myself sitting in a pew at the Cauayan City chapel, dressed in my slimmest, whitest, "meeting shirt" that I was trying not to sweat through the pits of. The newbies filed in, looking as pale and clammy and nervous as ever, and us vets headed to the back of the room.One by one, our pictures popped up on the Power Point with our new places and new companions, some met with thunderous applause, and others with palpable silence at the portending doom. The pews were beginning to fill up again, and the number of missionaries in the back was growing more scant with each passing slide.. And I was still there. And zone by zone, my options were thinning, and my chances looked pretty bad. And then, to put it bluntly, God did me a solid: "and there was a pull out (removal of both missionaries from an area) in Tuguegarao Ward 4, so the new missionaries there will be Elder Dixon, opening an area for the second time and his new companion, fresh from the MTC..." Yeah, not gonna lie, they had me at Tuguegarao. Didn't even care who my kid (missionary term for "trainee") was, even if he was terrible I would still be in my favorite place. I was way too busy firing my "finger pistols" in the air like a champ.

          But as it turns out, my kid is pretty awesome. His name is Elder Talines and he is suuuuuuper nice. As I do with all people, I instantly judged his appearance and behavior with reckless abandon. He's a handsome little nugget, so I figured I can convince him to wear skinny ties. Personality wise, he was completely exhausted and looked not unlike an addict, so I spared him my wrath until he was refreshed enough to speak properly. Then we both started the 3 hour van ride to my old stomping grounds, in which Elder Talines floated between sleep and wakefulness, occasionally asking me "if we were there yet," (just like a REAL kid!!!) to which I would laugh at his face and say "noooooooooo not even close." But we eventually did arrive, and the Zone Leaders escorted us to our house, at which point my jaw needed to be scraped off the ground. It's definitely smaller than my mansion in my last area, but it is also much less decrepit, and I can describe it as "really nice" without having to add the tasteless modifier "for a Third World country." And then the absolute icing on this whole giant cake was the area book, (the record of the work of past missionaries) which was complete with instructive sticky notes and names of people ready to be baptized. So yeah. Couldn't get much better. The best part of all of this is that, because I am training, I am guaranteed to be here until May. (Fires finger pistols into the air.)

         So yeah, I've been smiling a lot lately. And it's not even at the stupid things other people do. I have definitely recognized God's love for all of us. If I were to put it in slang, again, you could say that He really "has my back." I can't really think of a better way to put it. My English is rapidly deteriorating. I am looking forward to using all of these blessings to further the Lord's work, which will be fueled by the sweet, sugary energy of the Dunkin Donuts that is located seven minutes from my home.

A Christmas Portrait

        I've left you good people in the dark for two weeks about just what Christmas is like on a series of tropical islands 10,000 miles away from Madison Avenue, and further still from the North Pole. It was the first Christmas in which Santa Claus was conspicuously absent, and one on which I bloated myself not with honey glazed hams and hearty stews, but with rice and things that go on top of rice. Me and all the other ex-pats had been choking down the idea of a Christmas away from home since Thanksgiving, which, to our alarm, slid right under the radar of Philippine holidays. We've all heard the songs, and we all know what's up: "for the holidays, you can't beat 'home sweet home'." But surely someone as adventurous as I could embrace the idea of an exotic Christmas is the seas of the Orient, something Columbus would have crapped himself over. And I learned a lot, let me tell you, through my observance of Christmas in the Philis. These observations are of varying degrees of importance, but all the experiences added up to a season I will never forget- in a way that is not the least bit harrowing, and only slightly melancholy. 

          Christmas is a highly anticipated day in the Philippines. The festivities begin on September 1st, which, while wildly premature, is excusable in a country absent of seasons. It makes sense that Filipinos would love Christmas, since much of Christmas tradition revolves around time spent with family. Family is everything here. While all us missionaries (not to mention soldiers and overseas workers) knew that this holiday of all holidays would be spent in the absence of loved ones, those of us who are in the Philippines knew that we were in for the legendary hospitality that now seems natural. Appointments were set with promises of food. And we could count on a lot of love and understanding too, especially from the many people here who have relatives that are working abroad from Saudi Arabia to Canada. A Christmas made possible by calling cards and Western Union and Skype is a reality for a lot of people here. I learned that duck blows turkey out of the water in terms of taste, and will strongly advocate its presence at my family's 2013 Christmas dinner... (Yes, that is a hint.) I learned that even parties in churches should include impossibly gigantic sound systems, and that it is still funny to watch people dance Gangam Style four and even five times in a row, and that by the sixth time, it is only slightly annoying. I knew I could count on President and Sister Carlos to take care of us too, and they did just that- with a giant Christmas party they threw in Cauayan City- a party at which I volunteered to have an assortment of items taped to my body until I looked like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. The white elephant gift exchange at the said party left me a bit puzzled, when I received a cookbook containing Filipino dishes, many of which I will never, ever be able to make in my nitpicky homeland, unless I become very, very good friends with a butcher. It's recipes are also written in frustratingly deep, 1970's Tagalog that confused even the natives. 

         And before we knew it, it was Christmas Eve. 

Thanks to a generous grant I had recently received from the Tom & Melissa Dixon Foundation for Spendthrifty Sons Abroad, my companion and I were able to go buy pizza in a neighboring town. Thanks to my discount card, we enjoyed the unparalleled privilege of Buy One Get One Free Pizza* (*with a horrifying litany of terms and conditions). This meant that, yes, we each had a pizza to ourselves. I had devoured (classily) Greenwich's 7 Cheese OVERLOAD Pizza!!! when Elder Badol sheepishly bequeathed to me his last slice. I was feeling like quite the culinary conqueror, but slightly daunted by the prospect of a ninth slice of pizza, I commenced some pre-gluttony stretches. As I was thusly engaged, a wake up call slid into my periphery. It came in the form of a skinny, dirt covered boy leaning up against the big glass door near our table. He was, interestingly enough, not looking into the restaurant, as is customary, but out into the street. I know how corny it sounds to say that time froze, but that's sort of what happened. I looked around the restaurant, and there we were- Asia's uppercrust and a handful of white people, gorging ourselves on heavily processed "Italian food." Christmas music was playing, something about the gifts we could all expect Santa to be bringing us later that night, and there, right outside the door was dirty, barefooted reality- begging for food on Christmas Eve. Needless to say, I pushed open the door and gave him the last slice. The kid looked up at me, said nothing, and sort of melted into the crowd. That is something I can't ever forget, and is surely a solid motivator for a future full of Christmases more devoted to service. I woke up right at 6:30 a.m. on Christmas morning, knowing that none of Apple's latest offerings awaited me, that I would descend no staircase to a family gathered around a tree. And that allowed other, more important things to take precedence in my mind, like watching my family read Luke Ch. 2 over Skype, and remembering the cause of all the Christmas hooplah. 

           And then it was December 26th.

My undisputed least favorite day of the year. Yeah, it usually means using a few gift cards, wearing my new clothes and breaking in the iWhatever I'd wanted since September, but all that covers up the fact that it is 364 days until Christmas! And even though my Christmas here was remarkably different, I still found myself reflecting on how quickly the holidays had slipped through my fingers, and resolved to really soak them in next year (yeah, we'll see.) But I found myself taking down the tacky, incredibly hazardous Chinese Christmas lights I had duct taped to my wall a month before, and started the process of moving on. Then Elder Badol and I donned our ties and went to work on the eerily empty streets until we noticed a pattern. Turns out, much of the town was occupied with their rented videoke machines and a week's salary in booze. Thus began the slowest week of my mission so far. The only thing that broke up the monotony was when, on December 29th, three small birds entered our home through the open balcony door. This especially garnered the excitement and interest of Elder Badol, who began frenetically chasing the birds around our house. Two evaded him, but he managed to capture one. I had been in the corner, fruitlessly trying to capture the birds photographically. I helped him out with what I thought was the next step, clearing a path to the balcony door. Badol seemed to have something else in mind, and instantly slid it shut, explaining that he fully intended to keep this bird. Intrigued, and feeling unusually diplomatic, I presented him with the age old parental question- "and what exactly do you intend to feed this bird, young man?" (or it's Tagalog equivalent..) Almost instantly came the irksome reply "bigas" (uncooked rice) offered in such a tone that indicated such birds wouldn't contemplate eating anything else. Although I refuse to accept the factuality that sparrows subsist on rice, I played along and fetched the dang bird a handful of rice that I gingerly distributed in manageable, strategically placed portions at various perchable locations throughout the bedroom. The bird blatantly denied my offerings, and proceeded instead to fly repeatedly into a wall until he had thoroughly traumatized himself. Then he hid behind our armoire, likely consigning himself to a lonesome death. So with Badol's consent, I let him out. And we continued soaking up life's little quirks until December 31st came around and gave us something new to celebrate.