Day 180 - Family, Ghosts, and Unusual Passengers

Pig in a poke is one thing. Pig in a sidecar, however? Another thing entirely. And not all that uncommon. In addition to Jeepneys, the other main form of transportation in the Phils is the tricycle. The tricycle is sort of like the Indian Auto or Tuk-Tuk, though closer to its motorbike roots than its Indian cousins. A skillful tricycle driver can carry a dozen passengers carefully balanced on a board across the trike, livestock, sacks of coconut - you name it, it can be loaded into, onto, or across a trike.

But I get ahead of myself. We arrived in Zamboanga at 6:30 AM, where a round of Cz's aunties, uncles, cousins, and even a few nephews were waiting. With food of course. We ate a huge breakfast, and then went to buy flowers and candles for a round of visiting family graves.

One of the first stops was the grave of Cz's father. Cz's dad died when he was very small - not quite four years old. I knew this fact, but it wasn't until reading the dates that I realised that he had died only a few years older than Cz is now. Cz's mom was left a widow at our age (late twenties, early thirties) with a four year old and an infant. Even so, she continued on with her life, made her way to the States, and eventually remarried. There's something to be said for the strength of that generation. In a strange coincidence of dates, Cz's father passed away exactly three days after I was born.

After leaving flowers and candles at the graves of uncles, lolos, and cousins, we began our next round of visiting the living relatives. It seemed we stopped at every house in Zamboanga, and at every house were asked, in this order.

1. How long have you been married?

2. Do you have a baby.

3. Well, why not?/ Well, when?

At least we haven't gotten the occasional response of some Indian ladies.

(with a pointed look at Cz's crotch.) Is something WRONG?

It was all very warm and loving, though, if a bit overwhelming. My immediate family is tiny. Though on my father's side there is a sizable clan, we aren't in contact with them as group very often. Having so much family is a bit of a culture shock for me. One of my favourites was a particularly spry Lola who wanted us to stay so she could take us to the community hall and teach us ballroom dancing.

Cz's mom seems very happy to be in the middle of so much family - and in the middle so much family lobbying for her to become a grandma. This is her second trip to the Philippines in one year - an unusual, but happy circumstance. The pressure is on to come back in a few years a grandmother.

Somewhere in the midst of all the visiting, we stopped by a shrine. No one seems to remember exactly what miracle happened here, but it was important enough that lots of people were around lighting candles and saying prayers. We followed suit, placing a candle each on the already laden grate.

By evening, it was time to catch the fast ferry to Basilan. If that name sounds familiar, it's because it's the part of the Philippines most likely to make the news for kidnappings or beheadings. It's also the part of the Philippines that Cz's mom is from, and where she still has family.

We arrived at the Zamboanga ferry dock only to discover that the evening fast boat wasn't running, and that we would have to take the standard ferry. After a little searching, we found our boat and climbed on board. I ducked between the curtain and the window to watch the sea go by. Cz's mom was probably relieved by this - so long as I was behind the curtain (lots of other people were doing the same thing), no one could see that I was a foreigner. Before too long, we were across the bay, and pulling into the harbour at Basilan. The entrance to the harbour was flanked by mangroves, and dotted with small houses on stilts. The harbour itself bustled with activity, but we had no trouble spotting Cz's Uncle T, and were soon whisked first to his office at the bank, and then to his home.

No terrorist encounters at all. Not even as much staring as in some parts of rural India and Nepal.