Vacation, All I Ever Wanted?

      The question is usually posed just as I have stuffed an entire sleeve of crackers into my mouth at the same time, right smack in the middle of my favorite Filipino tradition, meriyenda. It usually comes towards the end of the typical "get to know you" conversation, and in English, would go a little something like this: "So, what's your guys' vacation like? You get to go home for a couple of months at the end of a year or what?" Anyone who has served or is currently serving a 2 year or 18 month mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints knows why, at this point, I am trying not to spew my 'Rebisco' crumbs all over the living room in a fit of spontaneous laughter. "Vacation?! What the freak is that?!" It's a very reasonable question for Filipinos, since a great number of them have worked abroad, and almost everyone knows someone who is working in another country. They go mop floors for an oil tycoon in Saudi Arabia (careful to do their rosaries in secret, mind you), or dote upon the children of anal retentive factory owners in Hong Kong, get a couple of months vacation, and then come home, double the size of their house, and buy smartphones for all of their children. The idea that I would leave a place like the United States of America, be separated from my family and friends for two years, and work 16 hours a day for no pay seems ridiculous to them. And can I be honest with you, my dear friends and faithful readers, and say that I have had my weaker moments when the very same prospect seems just as preposterous to me? Well this week, in a very strange and twisted way, I got exactly what I secretly and guiltily wished for.
        On Wednesday afternoon, we got a text from the Elder Lasay (one of my Zone Leaders) asking if Elder Talines and I would mind to come and work in their area that evening, because Elder Wooden (Lasay's companion) was sick. I am slightly ashamed to publicly admit that I refused, because we have a KILLER dinner appointment every Wednesday. Every week, Sister Banzali cooks sizzling heaps of my favorite Filipino dish, sisig, and I gobble it down like nobody's business. So I was reluctant, and not knowing the gravity of Elder Wooden's illness, MIND YOU, graciously (if tactlessly) refused. She made dinakdakan as well, so I have to say I made the right choice.... I figured Elder Wooden probably had the runs or a slight fever or something, and would be just fine. And I stuffed my face like a champ. When I awoke on Thursday morning, however, I had a rare pang of conscience.. So I grabbed the phone and texted Lasay to inquire about Wooden's condition. I was informed that he was "dito sa hospital, St. Paul, at pakidala n'yo ang Mcdo breakfast kabsat, gutom na kami dito talaga!!!" So, just like that, I had a friend who was in the hospital, and three more who were very hungry. And nothing is worse to a Pinoy than being hungry. So I got Elder Talines up to speed, and we rushed to McDonald's, and then to St. Paul's Hospital, the fanciest hospital in all of Tuguegarao. And to my more faithful readers, yes, it was much nicer than Peoples' Hosptial #2 in China. An obnoxious guard at the reception informed us that St. Paul's was an "environmentally friendly" hospital, and would we kindly take our fast food out of the convenient plastic bags and precariously balance it on various parts of our body up three flights of stairs, like complete idiots. I wanted to say something about the probably dozens of garbage fires burning in the immediate vicinity, but my name tag automatically identifies me as a representative of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and does wonders for me when it comes to biting my tongue. We arrived at Room 3004 to see Elder Wooden, an incredibly healthy, physically fit, indefatigable missionary debilitated on a hospital bed with an IV in his hand. It was real weird. So I dislodged the rice packs from my elbow crevice and immediately started asking questions. He may have been laid up, but Wooden's relaxed attitude and optimistic spirit were both still fully intact. No one had any idea what was wrong with him, but he was having excruciating migraines, rashes and whatnot, and I won't go into medical symptoms in a blog, cause that's all kindsa gross. Suffice it to say, he was feeling terribly, and no one quite knew why. Elder Cruz and Elder Dulaca had stayed the night in the hospital with him, but were too busy devouring their Mcdo breakfast to contribute any information. So it was determined that Elder Talines and I would relieve Dulaca and Cruz, and take their places at the hospital. All Elders, with the exception of Wooden, of course, had very clearly slept in awkward positions on the floor for incredibly short amounts of time.
        Nurses of various attractiveness came and went, drawing blood, and bringing terrible food, but no news, good or bad. This went on for the rest of the morning and the better part of the afternoon. I was the official English to Tagalog translator, holding a cell phone in each hand, one to keep in touch with Sister Carlos and the doctors at St. Luke's in Manila, and the other was pretty much to inform Elder Berends of all the crazy exciting hospital stuff that was happening. The four of us eventually realized how bored we were, and also that it was the peak of NBA season, and with a simple request to President Carlos that was immediately approved (complete with a "thanks for asking," might I add) we were moved to Room 3015, which was equipped with a glow-in-the-dark crucifix, and....A TELEVISION. My non-Mormon chums may at this point be wondering what the blast is so cool about a TV, or why on Earth we had to ask some strange man called "President" whether we could watch television. Well, along with a litany of other rules, all designed to help us focus on our work at hand, television is forbidden for missionaries. For those that think this is strict or strange, you're preaching to the choir. But to tell you the truth, there is great wisdom in it. When I was teaching English in China, I discovered the wonders of pirated DVDs that could be had for a whim, and I bought them like they were going out of style. I'd take my stash to my apartment, shove it in a laptop, lie on my bed, and veg. After seven hours of Seinfeld, I would look up at the ceiling and wonder why the blast there was a filthy Cold War era table fan bolted right next to an exposed fluorescent lightbulb. And then I would rub my eyes and remember that I was in China, literally living out my dream of living abroad. Pangs of guilt swept me every time. On a mission, the work is not only important, but in our view, it is crucial. So complete focus is required. That's why I can't watch TV. Or Skype you, or get on Facebook, or email on a day besides Monday, etc. But today, the proverbial forbidden fruit was plucked from the tree and handed to us, in the form of a remote, 93 channels, and literally nothing else to do. And the four of us, tentatively at first, but itching with curiosity nonetheless,  gobbled it up. We spent hours on the Basketball Channel, game after game after game, which was awesome at first. But after awhile, even the most die hard sports fans had grown bored (which meant that I was over it about 2 hours before that). Reluctantly, Elder Lasay and I peeled ourselves from the room and went to get Mcdo takeout for the second time that day. We had the foresight to stop at the nurse's desk (with melting McFlurries precariously perched on our index fingers) and ask just where the blast Elder Wooden's test results were that we should have had, like, nine hours ago. A male nurse nonchalantly handed us a piece of paper that indicated Elder Wooden, the extremely kind, perfectly obedient, unconquerably optimistic missionary, (who was, may I add, going home in three weeks) tested positive for typhoid fever. We were shocked. We walked into the room, and were greeted by an excited Elder Wooden, clueless to the exotic disease currently destroying his insides. "Hey! Guys! Just this once..... Look! AMERICAN IDOL!" We managed a weak chuckle, set the food down, and left the room, talking in Tagalog in hushed whispers in the hallway. We also intensified our conversation with Sister Carlos, who told us to do whatever we had to do to get him the best possible care as quickly as possible. We had a lot of phone calls with Sister Carlos, who gave us info from the Manila doctor, and that information was translated into Tagalog and relayed to a nurse, who then relayed it to Wooden's attending physician, who quickly grew weary of taking advice from a snooty White doctor in Manila, and stopped taking our calls. Sister Carlos told us not to tell Wooden about the typhoid, but just to take everything in stride for the time. Elder Lasay and I walked down the stairs, past the environment police, and out into the hospital parking lot, sitting down to catch our breath on the edge of a fountain bearing a statue of St. Paul, complete with a sword. We talked about Elder Wooden, and had the age old conversation of just why on Earth bad things happen to good people. Even us Mormon missionaries were unable to come up with an answer. All we could do was scratch our heads, wait, and do the best we could to make sure Wooden got better. And in three weeks. We also determined to tell him the bad news, but were both afraid to do it.
         We gathered our courage and went upstairs again, to find Wooden fast asleep. This spared us the trouble of telling him the bad news, but obviously did nothing to put our minds at rest. We watched a bit more TV, knowing that it would be 4 months for Lasay, 7 for me, and like 22 for my comp. We talked and joked a little bit, and then gave up on being awake. After that, we knelt, individually, in prayer. Wooden's health was our primary concern. It was comforting to know that President and Sister Carlos were doing the same thing, as well as a few other missionaries that had been kept in the loop on Wooden's condition. Then I folded my shirt into a crude pillow, wrapped myself in a sheet, and spent the night rolling from one uncomfortable position to the other on a cold tile floor.

            When we "woke up" the next morning, it seemed as though Wooden's condition had improved, and he informed us that his head was feeling a lot better. Due mostly to the fact that he wasn't in the fetal position in obvious pain, we believed him, and a second typhoid test was run. The nurses, likely having overheard our   conversations in the fully tiled, extremely echoey hallway the night before, were unusually attentive. And then the doctor, to her eternal credit, licked her wounds of offense and came around to offer the first good news of the past couple of days: Wooden's second round of tests had come back negative, for typhoid, dengue fever, everything. She wrote off the whole ordeal as a virus and authorized Wooden's same day release. For the first time since the night before, we were all able to breathe. I'm going to try to not be cheesy as I explain what I consider to be a small miracle. Most may say that medicine deserves the credit. Others would chalk it up to the religious icon on our wall. And I have to say that faith did help. Our prayers for Wooden's recovery were wholehearted, but Wooden's prayers for his own recovery had the incredible power of being backed up with two years of wholly devoted service to God. His prayer was one offered from a faithful servant, who could speak confidently with his Father in Heaven, knowing that he had not once, in two years, taken a vacation. His devotion is a great example to me and to the rest of us, and helps to silently remind me that two years is not such a long time, and that I will never regret devoting myself to Someone who has given everything to me. "For every thing there is a season"- and this is the time to work. Yes there was a brief, blissful window of time where I got to sleep on the ground with a bunch of my friends in a strange place, and feel the power of holding a television remote, and it was fun, but that's not why I came to the Philippines. Day after day, I have the far greater privilege of seeing the hand of God change my life and the lives of others. And that beats the crap out of Seinfeld.

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.