Run away to the mountains and learn how to feel alive.

I rose early on a Saturday morning, the previous night’s beer still swilling in my stomach and slowing my rational thinking. I mumbled and fumbled clattering my things together into a suitable bag, cursing the early hour, while the rest of the house lay still. We hitched a ride to the main road, leaving behind any creature comforts and ready for a weekend in the mountains. We waited at the side of the road the sun creeping up behind us, bag slung over my shoulder, eyelids heavy. Ate Des was her usual bouncy self. I, It’s safe to say was not. I had not been awake long enough to join in her energy for life and all hour hyperactivity. Which normally, would have me ready to scream murder, but she carries this same sweetness and maternal instinct that makes it impossible to be mad with her. She ushered me into the back of a jeepny that had pulled over in front of us. It had a few spaces left to squeeze into, after bumping past knees and narrowly avoiding concussion. Early morning jeeps bring sleepy heads propped up on weary arms, all hoping the traffic is slow, so as to enjoy the shade and flit into light slumber. Before making their way to whatever low paid job requires them to get up so hellishly early. We jumped out at Talisay, welcomed by two of the ladies from the fishing village I stayed in the most; one of which, Indang, had taken me in to her family whether I liked it or not. She mothered me and fed me within an inch of my life. It did not bother me; she had a heart of gold and always had me in stitches. I couldn’t think of a better lady to have as a temporary modra. The other; Ate Bebeth, who I had major respect for, her constant hard work for the community but with a very humble and by all means bold manner. She had invited me to stay in her house the house she grew up in as a child way up in the mountains. We disappeared to behind the market, meeting sisters of Bebeth, her husband and children. All of which welcomed me in that warm hospitable way even though I had met them a thousand times before. The journey was as ever, a lot of waiting around, there was only one jeepny a day that made the trek up to the top of the mountain and it wouldn’t leave until it was near full. So for the three hours we had spare I wandered into small bakeries, indulging in fresh bread and glass bottles of mountain dew, occasionally heading back to the jeep to shelter from the growing heat of the morning, sharing jokes and stories. Entertaining Indang’s boys, as they clambered over my legs and told me funny little stories, without trying I kept them laughing in a way I never knew I could.

The jeep finally made way, disappearing away from familiar territory and into the wilderness. We were soon off the beaten track and being thrown about all over the place but it was worth it. Out of the low side windows was lush green rainforest for miles, the sun making everything glisten. I felt like the luckiest man alive just to witness its growing beauty. The higher we got, occasionally we would hit tiny villages. The bamboo houses batched together but so significant to my year. Four or five of these houses would pass the window and then the view would return to rolling green hills. We arrived close to the top and this was it we were here. “Where?” I exclaimed, convinced there was nothing around and we had stopped in the middle of nowhere. “Just a little walk na.” Was the response, I clutched my bag and followed until we came upon a beaten muddy basketball court and a volley ball net. From there led a long path lined with the same bamboo houses so indigenous to the province but so perfect in their simplicity. Some with windows filled with brightly wrapped sweets and snacks. The small sari-sari stores always reliable for drinks and single serve everything. One side of the road was lined with houses the other a sugar cane field taller than me and ready to be harvested. We reached Bebeth’s house and were greeted by a large family. They all piled out of this wonderful small wooden creation they called home. I remember thinking “where are they all coming from?” It was like seeing the clown car at the circus but smiled it off. This was the norm I fully expected it. The house was incredible. It was entirely bamboo, had only two light bulbs and an old 1960’s black and white TV. The whole houses energy needs came from two charged car batteries and that was that, that was life up in the mountain. It felt like a million miles from anywhere. It was perfect.

We spent most of that first day, enjoying the cool of the mountain and getting hyperactive off massive amounts of fruit the kids kept brining into the house. It was an endless supply of fresh pineapple, mangoes, coconut and jack fruit. It became one of those afternoons where, we laughed so hard over the tiniest things, Indang’s wild laughter setting me off even more until I was reduced to tears. I felt so close with everyone, I was truly a part of lives and they didn’t even have to think twice about it anymore. As the sun set, the sky ablaze in orange, we stood at the point where the mountain began to cut away. We looked down on the city we had escaped, as the tiny lights of home flicked on one by one. When the sun was fully settled, I looked up to a sky of thousands of stars. I had never even known it was possible to see so many, I counted myself lucky on each and every one. When it came time, we retired back to get some sleep. The next day would be a long and exciting one. They had prepared one of the three small bedrooms for me. A curtain partitioning and a solid wooden bed with bamboo slats; The water bed they called it. I just thought this was some personal ironic family joke, as it was nothing like sleeping on a bed of water. Unfortunately, it was more than just irony. The water bed so aptly got its name as every time there is a monsoon (which at this time was very regular) the person sleeping in the water bed got very very wet. Barely asleep, I awoke to the splashing on my face and couldn’t help but laugh finally fully understanding the joke but still praying the rain died down soon.

The Morning came too soon. My hips were bruised from sleeping on the wood but it was a feeling I was accustomed too. Indang came and started shaking me in large comical movements. She was the only person who could wake me up in such a way and be able to make me laugh it off. Her wild laughter and knowing smile instantly calmed any morning grumpiness I carried within my nature. All I was told was, to bring clothes for swimming and my coffee was getting cold. I took it down in one and collected my things. I was then told to leave my slippers (flip flops) behind and that we would be going hiking. This seemed all the more reason to bring some kind of foot protection, even if it was only half an inch of worn rubber. It’s safe to say I was no natural at native barefoot hiking. Not even pretending to be a hobbit gave me any extra skills as I had hoped it might. I slipped and fell on various occasions, much to everyone’s amusement but I kept up. It was a hard trek over a path barely ever walked. I followed the 5 and 6 year old kids scramble over rocks and tried to follow making it look far more difficult. We wandered through dazzling rainforest that came alive with the sound of thousands of bugs and wild creatures. As we neared the destination I took a sharp intake of breath, as I found myself in a place I thought could only ever exist in books. This incredible valley of rock and vegation, I felt like we were the only people to have ever been here and that we were great explorers. It was an overwhelming feeling I hadn’t felt since childhood but one, it became apparent I missed quite dearly. There was a river of fresh spring water that stopped at a small pool perfectly big enough to swim a length in. With no time to stop and sit down, we jumped into the cold water and there we stayed until the sun began to set, swimming, laughing, being free. The boys wandered off and came back with banana trunks, lashed them together and set them afloat in the water for the little kids. If and when we got a look in, the rest of us would float around on them and absorb the clean air fresh water and heat of the afternoon sun. Lunch was a stew of different wild fruits and shrimp that everyone expertly found around the valley. I watched them go to work and sat in amazement of these skills I had never even thought twice about, knowing exactly what was good and the best way to get it down. We ate the stew and rice with a coconut full of fresh coco milk on the side, framed by mountains and shaded under banana leaves. It was the closest to heaven I have ever come.

Safely back at the house, after short naps, we wandered down to play volleyball. Soon I had attracted the whole village. As they stood on by staring at me in amazement (it’s safe to say not for my volleyball skills, as there are none.) The girlish giggles, the male banter and welcoming uneasy smiles, it is incredibly humbling to be treated as a celebrity purely for the colour of your skin. The fact was, I was the first white foreigner to ever come up this far into the mountain, let alone stay in the village for two nights. It’s a feeling I have never quite been able to get used too. I’m not a big fan of massive amounts of attention and I seem to get it everywhere I go but this was different. This was far more innocent. Most retreated in shyness, but some of the bolder kids came and spoke to me in little English they knew. I was more than happy to oblige them. As the sun faded behind the surrounding hills, and it became too dark to play, we settled back at the house. That last night was like nothing else. We drank local rum with slices of pineapple while Bebeth’s father plucked Spanish riffs and sang old native songs with everyone singing along, for hours and hours that felt like mere minutes. The kids in a long row, as the black and white TV flicked and lit up their innocent faces. It was not an easy life but certainly a peaceful one. I was a million miles from home but felt as if I belonged. I had found my peace and right when I needed it the most.

The nights when the power is out

Walking into the guarded subdivision, that lies as a sanctuary, after months living day by day in danger. I’m often met by a sudden shift to complete darkness. It takes twenty minutes to walk from the road, to the house I am so kindly allowed to take refuge in. I arrived at the guard house when the beacon died and I was met by complete stillness. I cautiously take small steps trying to find my way home. The sky coming to life with thousands of tiny lights that have never shined so bright. I stare up as I walk, trying hard not to loose myself from the set path. Counting stars and loosing count as soon as I have started. Pretending I have a giant pin and striking the sky letting through new tiny lights. A little game to play to pass the time. I pass dark empty windows, that slowly one by one flicker with the orange light of a naked flame. It takes longer to get home, but I dont mind I love to listen to the silence, until it is broken by wildlife or a distant murmer of life on the outside. I feel no fear I know all the things that scare me are outside and still illuminated. Right now im safe within my dark little world. Step by step easing my way home to smiling candle lit faces.

Turning the corner, there stands the house. I enjoy the nights when the power is out. Everyone leaves the house, in hope of the odd cool breeze. They sit on the grass talking and laughing waiting to get back to the lives they were leading. It is as if times stops and we remember all the important things. We have recently gotten into the habit (when our world stops dead.) Of groping in the dark for blankets and escaping to the cool grass of the garden. Laying out the blankets and taking small adventures to get beer. Lying and drinking. Star gazing and laughing. Time stopped but we go on living. Taking the time to remember; all the little things that have been filling our days. Feeling grateful to each other for sharing it together.

Sometimes when the power comes back on we go in and turn it back off. We play pretend not wanting to give up the moment we have made. Forever Longing for the utopia we create when time stops. We lay for hours or until the beer runs out. Laughing and remembering That these are the moments that keep us sane and give us hope when life chooses not to go your way. We live in a world of people who feel so independant. They all move so fast but when the power stops, the worlds batteries run low and the earth lies still. We realize how much we need each other And the moments of nothingness to remind us how much we have.

5 Deaths In 2 Weeks is Bad for my mental health

Its strange. In my life before, especially growing up in England. Death was always a subject avoided. Before I came here I had only ever attended one funeral, and that was of my grandpops. To whom I was incredibly close, I remember crying the whole way through and for months after. Now that I am here, I have been to over 20 funerals. In the last 2 weeks, I have had five people either I knew quite well, or were close to people very close to me, be taken away. Death is natural and is accepted here, there is no great mourning, no wailing or gnashing of teeth. The life of the person is enjoyed and it is a culture I have grown accustemed too. It does put a whole new perspective on the whole process, death may be the end but it is the end of what we all hope to be completely fuffilled lives. Although the last two weeks, it has not been so easy to see things this way. I have grown used to peering into the coffin at the wake, mumbling my apologies to myself and quiet hopes of a fuffilled life. Seeing an old witherd face looking back, a face that looks as if it has lived if not always a perfect and easy life but still a long and prosperous one none the less. Looking around a room full of the people of whom he has given life or have had the chance to be a part of his life. If only it were the same for the last two wakes. I saw no wrinkles no withered signs of full life. Young faces barely older than mine with no signs of endless age old wisdom, but merely the hope that is lost on the life they could of had. Looking around the room. I see not one person brought into the world by the two young men lying at rest. Just alot that shared life with him, like myself. Those who enjoyed all the moments they had, however few they may have been. They were enjoyed.

This is part of the life I chose and i would not give it back for anything. Although sometimes it is hard to get a grip on what life is giving me. I struggle, I never claimed to be a super hero, saving the world. I’m just doing my bit however I can. I am but mere mortal. I cant help but break down and cry, when I think there will be one less person to say hello too. As is life it comes and it goes. The important thing, is is too enjoy the parts in between. Most importantly; Too fill those parts with people for whom you love and love you. It is for that very reason, I have been to so many funerals this year. I have filled my life, with the most incredible people and taken all their problems as my own. Which may at times seem foolish, but in the end its all just too rewarding and perfect for words. When talking to junior about all this, I mumbled “I dont know how to cope. I have never had this many people die on me before.” He simply smiled and said “Thats because your family has never been this big before.” It was true. Though I may have lost more than I would like in the last two weeks. I still have so many left. To pick me up and work through everything together. Exactly as what we are. As a family.

If all it costs me is my mental health.

Then its a price I’m willing to pay.

All the best people were

stark raving mad anyway.

Our escape Pt1

With the thought of death still pounding softly in my head. I spent a lot of Friday sitting reflecting, trying to ignore the warm patches that moistened my cheeks. Everything is made better as the sun slowly sets and evening creeps in. The van arrives and with it brings 12 of the people I hold closest. One of which my ‘Ate,’ my big sister who has just got back from manila bounding in with her usual unbelievable energy and bright smile. They bring in sleeping mats, pillows, a guitar, three large cool boxes full of fish from a day of hard work and a crate of beer. I suddenly know they are all I need to get right in my mind again. They will pick me up and set me back on my way, as we venture off on our get away.

The First few hours are filled with excited hurrying about the house. Some cooking in the kitchen, while others preparing and setting everything to make the weekend perfect. As soon as everything has wound down and everyone is well fed, we retire to the comfort of the porch table and slowly take down lugs of beer laughing. The more beer that’s drunk, the more we laugh and begin to talk of fond memories shared together. I go soft and sentimental realizing how much i am going to miss all of them. They have all been a crucial part of my time here and excepted me as family sharing time with me. This would not be where the memories stop, the weekend would bring some of the best memories and more laughter. Most of all hope right when i thought there was none. As the beer ran dry we parted for the few hours sleep we could manage, before an early start. Setting out on the road was to be our escape. As we walked inside the boys turned to me saying; “We will make this weekend good for you josh, because this is our last chance for a big party. We owe you so much and this is our way to say thank you. We don’t have much but we give all we can.” I was overwhelmed and completely touched. It was sad but true but I felt no sadness only excitement of our greatest adventure. The overwhelming feeling of gratitude towards everything they did for me for those very reasons.

The morning did not bring much but a weary head and a hangover. I scrambled for my bag picking up a pillow piling into the van with everyone else. All as heavy lidded and sleepy headed. I crawled onto the floor of the van and crawled in a ball falling asleep dreading the 6 hour drive but secretly smiling inside knowing what was to come.

RIP

Yesterday brought the safe return of my Kuya, my best friend and brother. Junior and I have been travelling and working together for the last 10 months. The last three weeks were the first time we had been apart through out my time here. It felt strange not having him around to laugh endlessly with watch old kung fu movies with followed by conversations of how he is going to become Bruce lee and frequent talks about our hopeful yet failing love lives. He stayed in manila for the election and reading stories of rioting and death from previous elections i opted a safer option. Though my head still full of worry for his safety which he would wave away with texts saying; “Dont worry I always look after myself Im your big brother that’s my job.” It was true, he had very quickly become protective over me and I appreciated it to no end. Besides who am i to argue with someone who thinks they are going to be like Bruce Lee?

The excitement of being reunited soon passed. He came bearing sad news from home. Our friend had been shot down five minutes from our house, two nights before for pocket change. He lived in one of the narrow streets that ran behind our house. He would often come and sit out on the stoop with us, on the nights he was not working. He was riddled with bullets walking home from work. The saddest thing is he will get no special mention, I doubt if he will make the news. It is also doubtful the men who did this would even be caught. He will just become another statistic of wasted life in the town that no one dares go. Another reason for the rich too look down from their large houses and say “oh isn’t poverty terrible.” Junior graphically explained how Raymar stood up for himself but was ended by a shot to the neck, a shot to the head and a shotgun to the back all for less than bus fare. The police never came, deemed it a lost cause. His younger brother only a year younger than me went out after the men who shot down his brother but it was already too late. I dread to think what would have happened if his brother had found them. His wirey 17 year old frame being far from bullet proof and only in his mind was he invincible, wrought with thoughts of vengeance. I sat shaking, tears streaming down my cheek. Knowing that when I returned to Payatas the place I called home and I went around to see how everyone was. There would be one less person receiving me with a smile and one less person to fill me in with stories of our time apart. One less person to school me in basketball and one less person to welcome me home. As i think on it now i don’t even remember saying goodbye. Missing the chance, not possibly knowing it could be the last. So here it is; Goodbye Raymar our memories shall forever live on.

Sometimes I feel like

Im in over my head.

Perhaps its just time

to tuck into bed,

Longing for a kiss

on the cheek, goodnight.

Thinking perhaps I have

reached my peak, tonight.

There was only ever

so much i could do.

Forever biting off way

more than i could chew.

A penny for my thoughts

sadly wont suffice.

A lack of sleep

becoming, my only Sacrafice.

I put myself in

way over my head.

For a greater cause

to those rarely fed.

Looked down upon

Are those easily forgotten

Left under the bridge

the souls left to go rotten.

Roaring empty tummys

The sound of a statistic.

How can leaving them in pain

not seem so sadistic?

Sleep Shall not come

My demons won’t allow it.

My heart running slow

no love left to power it.

Now stuck on the other

side of the water.

I rarely have the

strength to exit my quarter.

Fearful of the dread

that the night may bring.

Grateful are the dead

who will suffer no king.

By the sea....

After long weeks in manila I get low. When I come back to the province, I feel the luckiest man alive, to have my friends who take me off to their quiet fishing village. The place, where the money is sparse but the smiles are in abundance. They remind me how good life can be and they don’t even realize. Always welcomed with choruses of “Kuya Josh” by children who come and wrap themselves around my legs. Refusing to let go, until I have swung each upside down and left them all a giggling heap on the sandy floor. I am fed and mothered within an inch of my life by all the ladies of the village. They teach me how to cook on small coal burners with children dangling from my neck. We recline in the comfort of the Bamboo hut escaping the heat of the summer. Strumming battered guitars and singing songs until the sun makes nothing but rippling orange light off the water.

When night falls and the tide is slowly easing away from the shore, the boys take me out fishing under the moonlight. We take each fragile step through the mud, the sea brushing my ankles as we fill the night with innocent laughter. The lights of home slowly fade to glowing pinholes. There is nothing but us, the moonlight on the water and all the life under our feet. We walk until we find crabs or water deep enough for fish, the boys laugh as I jump In fear of attack from tiny fish. My inexperience their favorite joke but each in turn patiently show me how its done. After hours of laughter and elbow deep in salty water, I have caught small fish by hand and wrestled with crabs the size of my head. Enough for us to have a large net full of life asking to be eaten. We salivate on the walk back thoughts and coversation filled with cooking the creatures that caused our net to buldge. The lights of home still burned and slowly grew as we got closer.

We sat around the water pump, the laughter never dying as we washed our bounty. Looking upon the smiling faces of the boys who took pride in having me there at the weekend. I felt myself filled with genuine happiness something that i knew would never be the same back home. Thoughts are often plagued by having to come home and all the things i will leave behind. Even Manila beyond the gangs, the rape, the murder, the drugs, the desperation. There is still so much happiness and so much hope. So much good within the people who are constantly told they should be miserable because they are poor and live in danger.

Simple things bring the biggest joys, I may not be changing the world but I AM changing lives and having mine changed a million times over.

These lines from a notebook.

I stare at the clock on my phone as the numbers slowly shift towards midnight, junior still not entering our small house in Payatas. My mind cannot help but be filled with the worst, as it flits towards the stories he had told me of his friend who was shot down on his door step walking home. Through the wooden windows I hear the distant familiar sound of gunshot's the same as it had been every night for the last 3 days. The morning bringing news of death, close to friends home. My mind flits to those friends out of contact without a phone and the warzone ever raging so close to their sanctuary of home. It flits to the boys I met walking to a friend’s house, standing either side of the road throwing up gang signs and letting out their jeers to the white boy brave enough to live day to day in the place forever crying for help in its narrow dangerous streets. The place the police will never go and you have to pay triple to get taxi even close. Their young adolescent bodies already covered in everlasting identity of the brotherhood they belong too. The stories they had told of being paid to kill since the age of thirteen. Escaping the justice system like every other system that overlooks them. They show off each tattoo on their young bodies and explain significance each more and more somber. I feel nothing but desperation for these boys. They were of course young and felt invincible, a feeling I knew all too well when I was the same age, but as I have grown I have learnt how this could not be any less true. They were caught in the attraction of a brotherhood and having money. But at the cost of lives their and own others just like them. The likes of which who lived less than 15 minutes away and could be found just as easily. They told me of broken families and various reasons for not making it to school. They would never have a future unless someone made a change for them,this a thought that ran through my head with the force of a ten tonne truck standing nervously talking too them. Even through their cockiness and naïve belief of invincibility, they were all lost boys that past days sitting in groups and acting the way they feel a gangster should from what they have picked up on from American culture. Only the nights were very real. The nights filled with hazy intoxication and on those fateful few days a rain of bullets any of which could end them before they have even started. Already living the life of murder, drugs and gang rape I sadly reflect on my own childhood and how different everything was. I am plagued with guilt.

I feel constantly compelled to reach out to them to take them to a safe place, even only for a few hours. I invite them down to the center to play basketball. With the games finished and usually resulting in me having circles ran around me. Bottles of coke and whatever the afternoon bbq’s have to offer are shared accompanied by laughter and stories. It is only a start but brings peace of mind to know they are are in that time and the knowledge that I may be able to get through to them help them towards a better life away from it all. Encouraging them to only speak in English which just induces coin American of thug life. It’s a start. They could have a future that didn't leave them forgotten and just another statistic of youth that were deemed hopeless and left to kill each other everyone deserved a slice of the same.

I moved out to my stoop looking out for Junior and breath in the thick stifled air in hope it would clear my mind. It didn't. Only reminded me of the man who had stopped to talk the week before as i sat in the same place though this time without my brothers. It had been one of these brothers who had lived the life of those boys and knew all the faces who hadn't been so fortunate. He called out to a man walking quickly with his hat pulled down low, shifty eyes sent in our direction skeptical and defensive. He came and spoke with an old friend, showed off new bullet wounds and told their stories none of which were fairy tales. The thoughts and memories became too much so i went back into the house hoping he would return soon knowing i would not sleep until he did.

As junior walks through the door with a smile completely puzzled to my worried look I let it fade and smile never able to share my worries of a world he is already far more used to than I.

A Sisters Soul.

The day my parents left me for the second time on the other side of the world, i was crammed into the back of a Jeepny with about twenty people to whom i owe my life. My brothers and sisters in soul. My parents got out at the petrol station, we rolled away back down the Quezon city highway to my small humble home in Payatas. The following was an emotional scribble in my notebook. I thought a lot about leaving it at that, But now i have decided these are the rawest emotions i have felt and they should be shared.

Soul; The immaterial entity that is identified with consciousness, mind and personality.

I was meant to have an older sister. Ella would of been her name, She would of been there to fight my battles, until I grew big enough to wrestle her to the ground and strike fear into the boys she brought home. With time i naturally would of grown protective over her. Worrying when she wouldn't return home, not yet able to understand the tears shed over her early heartbreaks.

My sister, if she had been given the chance, would of been beautiful. A fact Which undoubtedly would of driven me wild. The unbearable thought of her being gawped over, as the the intellectual rebellious heroin my father would of made her. Still With the soft caring and understanding of my mother. I do not regret the way life has been given to me. Although there are times, when i cant help but wonder what life would of been like with Ella around. Always there to warn me of the traps and pitfalls of girls i should of just avoided all along. My parents always eager for me to learn from my own mistakes but always there to pick up the pieces without so much as an 'I told you so.' Which if Ella had grown the way I imagine her too she would of been more than happy to give me that coined phrase.

Ella had always been told to me simply as the name i would of been given if i was a girl, it wasn't until i was 15 and going through similar situations only much too young, That i learnt more of the story. The thought of being the only One had settled in long before then and i knew no different. Although sometimes I could see the glint in my mothers eye, knowing we would never have the same bond they would of had. I often felt guilty growing up in my "awkward" years. I could never speak to my mother about the things that sunk me to my lowest. She gave me no reason to ever feel this way beyond my own subconscious presumptions and reservations of guilt. Always so caring and warm, she would start to cry if i got even so much as a well in my eye. When I was smaller she would kiss my tear stained cheeks and spit out exclaiming "they have gotten so salty!" This would receive a giggle of approval from me and with it the problem would float away. I often feel selfish to Have been the only one of that felt that love and share those tenderest of moments. I'm sure now If my mother had her eldest daughter, they would cry and wail, cleansing their souls until they sparkled again. Something I could never do, I saw too much hurt behind her tears.

My Father was always hard on me, though he had a soft touch, he would never lay a finger on me. I, like most other boys though sadly not all, viewed my father as a kind of hero, as if he knew no wrong words to say and he could never be broken. Never showing fear or distress, it wasn't until he had to say goodbye to me for a year and he was to leave his son on the other side of the world that i saw him cry. A dawning realization and relief that he was still human, not only that but that he was proud. He had always wanted the best for me. I knew that. Although somewhere along the line hormones made it difficult to believe at times i still always knew it to be the truth. He put ideas into my head, that he wanted me to make my own. To create my own opinions and believe in them wholeheartedly. Whenever I was lost I would find my way to the 7th step of our staircase, where he would be waiting for me through the banisters in his big leather chair. we would talk for hours about everything. It was rare for me to admit that i had allowed myself to get lost. But, on these rare occasions when i was totally out of my depth, he would always know everything i needed. I would always think then why it had taken me so long. With Ella i know he would of done the same, only with a slight air of protectiveness but always wanting her to learn her own lessons. To be free and wild but always at home in heart, ready to come back and spill all. In return be rewarded with those those perfectly worded home truths of our Pops. That is of course if i wasn't already filling our space on the stair.

They both would of taught her how to care, the way they did me. To never want to hurt and always understand. To give hope and make a difference no matter how big or how small we would of been looked over with pride from the two people i owe all things. I know now they are proud because i took all the training we both would of got and used every part of it. Gave away myself for a year of selflessness on the other side of the world for something I really cared about. Spending my time with people Who need it and most importantly cherish it. Now half way through they come to visit. They meet the people who have taken me as their family. My brothers and sisters with whom i share that same willing to care and understand for people even when they themselves have so little. Now my parents look to them as their children. I don't feel jealous, it fills me with a warmth. The guilt has slipped away, because i know now That Ellas soul lives on within all of them. I have the kin i had long lived without, and my parents all their children.If only in soul but then no other way would be so perfectly complete.

They come from places you dont wanna go

An hour back in the most dangerous resort in manila (it certainly Is no Butlins but at least the entertainment and the company is better) he decided it was time for a haircut. He and his big brother not by blood but certainly by soul, walked the broken streets up to the market were you could get a neat haircut, close shave finished with a hard massage all for pennies. Standing outside the barbers, his shorts showing off the ink set into his leg that he was so proud of. It attracted the attention of some young boys, their shirts three sizes to big and the walk that had an air of arrogance that said, they could not be touched. "Hey Joe what you doing?" one said in his best faux American accent. He replied in his best attempt at native tongue much to their shock and amusement. Watching the eyes pry over his left leg, he asked them if they liked his tattoo? Apparently they did, as within seconds they were pulling up shirts and closing fists to reveal theirs. The 6ft 3 English boy stood with a smile at these young boys they, so eager to please and seem like real men. They asked him why he was here, he got into the usual stories of working with the youth there and living in empire. "Empire?" they said with caution. "Our rivals are from empire. Are you in a gang Joe?" I said I wasn't but I knew plenty of people who were. Not to feel outdone they went on to tell me about their gang, they had joined last year when they were 14 and one was 15. As if we had known each other all our lives they spoke about how hard it was, they had no real families of there own, so looked to it as brother hood "where we come from if you aint in a gang your dead" the large boy said who seemed the eldest and wisest knowing that the gangs were not something to show off about but a way of life, The younger still caught up in the O.G lifestyle feeling like tupac. The statement from the younger proved this perfectly "and it keeps our pockets fat." But these boys would never have t shirts made of their faces. They would live short lives, either finished by drugs or the violence that had brushed up against them, leaving scars that of which they were also eager to show him. what they would have was a lot of people they looked too as older brothers who would use them to do the dirty work. The law changed last year; that a young man cannot be charged for murder until he is over 16. The consequence; bloody thirsty thirteen year old's who think the money will solve everything. As well as a lot of older brothers, who would be more than happy to make them believe so. He left a head full of concerns of what the nightfall had in store for the lost boys, and if he might ever see them again.

Some nights later, he sat in the dark corner of a night swimming session, just outside of the city. With his family of youth whom held the most shining souls amidst the tarnish and rubble of urban decay at its worst. It can become easy to be desensitized by Payatas. Surronded by youth who had so much hope, committed to making a better life not only for themselves, but for their whole community. It becomes easy to forget there is still so much suffering and so much violence. All with no justice, the police too scared to go there and a council security who would be found at a bar, taking big lugs of whiskey in the times they were needed most.
The sounds of splashing, cheers and excited laughter floated through each of the dark huts until it reached his. Across from him sat one of his closest brothers, a brother it had been so long since he had seen. Everyday when his brother had not appeared he had thought the worst, but now here he was. They sat both clutching the necks of a strong Filipino beer, smoke creating a dull haze between them. The young man stared through a fence where the perimeter stopped leaning his head on the mesh looking down towards a distant camp fire next to the river. "You know what that is?" the brother asked him signaling towards the flames that had his eyes fixed. "Its a fraternity haze. When gangs introduce new members they take them to somewhere like that and well..." he stopped. Fearing he was just struggling with his English the boy encouraged him that it was okay to talk Tagalog he would be able to work it out. The brother smiled politely and shook his head "no its not that... you don't want to know, what they do." He poured beer straight in his mouth taking large gulps, followed by a long drag. As he spoke the smoke billowed out with each word, almost distracting from what he said "before you know i was in a gang." The boy nodded, he had not known but somewhat suspected. "Before i did a lot of stupid things." The English eyes looked to him reassuringly his pale face gleaming in the dull light "but that was just the past right?" the boy said trying to conjure a convincing smile. There was no reply, Brother leaned over and picked up the Marlboro box, sitting dead on the table in front of them. Pulling out the silver paper, he made a few very concise folds and rips. The pale face sat watching in bewilderment taking long hits from the neck of his bottle. Waiting for some kind of explanation eventually it came.
"You know what this is?"
"it looks like a pipe" he replied trying not to seem completely ignorant. "Yeah 'brud a temporary pipe...this is our secret okay? Everyone knows I still smoke this but I don't sell, I don't push. Just one in the morning and one at night." He was justifying himself, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggy practically filled with bud. Curiosity got the better of the young man and he asked "how much did you have to pay for a bag like that." "15 pesos" was the reply he smiled knowing it was not what was expected. They laughed "Back home thats like 30 pence. In London a bag like that would cost you like 25 pou- 3000 pesos...that's crazy man." "The pushers here they are desperate. They know they cant charge high prices no one would buy. They need that money. they need it usually to feed their kids. There are expensive drugs. Bad drugs I used to use them but that was before...you know..?" he stopped failing to think of the word. The boy went through a list of bad drugs until he was stopped by "yes! thats it!... Heroin I was an addict before Josh. Im telling you this, because I trust you and I know you care about me and about my family. You know my family? my daughter? When she was born I wasn't around. I was in rehab. I wanted to sort myself out for her. The first time i saw her she cried. She wouldn't come near me, wouldn't believe i was her father. The drugs weren't nice but they were an escape, I have done five robberies and three hold ups before in my life. I remember one time, when i was younger, I had no house I was high on drugs. I went out and slept under a bench. I had no where else to stay. I stayed there from 7pm to 7 am. When i went into rehab my father was dying, he died 2 months into my rehab." The boy, had never felt more like a boy in his life. So small and ignorant, never to of felt the same hurt this man had growing up. "I'm sorr-rry" he said almost silently. "No its okay like you said it is the past. Now I have two beautiful daughters and a wife who loves me. I still have friends who do things like that. Are in gangs. They say to me here take this money, but i wont because i know where it has come from and I don't want a part of that anymore. My brother's are in prison now... but just because they are stupid. Some of my friends are dead. I remember a few years ago, one of my friends was doing lots of robberies. People didn't like that. So they wanted to kill him, they came down to my house and they said 'where is he?, where is he?' I said I didn't know. I stayed in my house that night and about midnight I woke up to gunshots. In the morning I found my friend dead...head shot." The boy sat, as his brother, his protector. The man who always seemed so happy and constantly had him laughing. Raced through the facts of his life a mile a minute. All with a slight wry smile, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "You know the shooting on Christmas eve? And on new years eve?" He said he did and that he remembered how horrible it was thinking about a family without their son at Christmas. So close to somewhere he had been only a few hours before, still only a 15 minute walk from where he was then, laughing and having fun. "My friends they were there. Some died. Some did the killing that is there life. They don't get holidays." Taking the last few hit's from his temporary pipe. He pushed it through the mesh, wincing and coughing."Let's go back and have some fun" he said with a smile that said so much; That i know i can trust you, that I know you understand and that I know you want to help. The response didn't come, it went unsaid they both knew. So with that they finished up the beer, composed themselves.His brother, his Kuya leading back to the source of the laughter and happiness. Leaving the sadness of an unforgettable past, in the dark corner of a swimming resort. The boy who had now been there for 7 months was starting to feel as if he was one of them. He had certainly made to feel so. He knew that there were somethings he could never understand or change, but he would always do his best to make the futures better, no matter what it took.