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.

Big Boy Jail

I had been invited to go and visit some friends of junior who were now residing in Quezon city jail, feeling brave after escaping the juvenile prison and still having all my limbs. I thought how hard could it be? I was not prepared for what i saw that day.

We road a jeep away from empire hill the part of Payatas B we were currently staying. We crammed ourselves into a jeep that would just get us as far as the highway. Passing all the Junk shops overflowing with rotting garbage and the dirty faces that worked inside them occasionally pulling my t shirt over my nose when the smell got too foul. The everyday trip made to get out of the place not even the police will venture into and that i proudly call home. A long hot bus ride sitting between an old lady with incredibly bony elbows and a man with live fowl in his lap took us outside a police station. Jumping off myself and junior met the Tito nick and his daughter a friend of mine who were there to visit juniors cousin. We all entered together junior giving descriptions of what to write in the book and had already instructed to bring nothing but enough money to get there and back. So with empty pockets i was searched and patted down three times by three separate men all with mean scowls. Stamped and laughed at they jeered me up a set of stairs until i was in a cage looking down on a large basketball court covered with tattooed bodies some with wife-beaters some just shirtless. Junior led with Tito nick close behind me and his daughter between us all stepping carefully down a caged set of stairs i had to duck to get through the bars at the bottom and as my foot hit the hot concrete of that basketball court i knew i wasn't in Kansas anymore. Every eye was on me as i took the long walk inside. Quezon city jail is made up of five sections each with 1000 convicts each of these sections is like one big fraternity any man steps outside of his section he is dead. I rapidly noticed there were no guards anymore, we had left the last one at the foot of the barred staircase. We entered the section of which all of our friends were staying, it was tiny, the rooms were all open and i brushed shoulders with rapists murders and drug lords all giving me toothless grins from there painted faces. We sat on a bench in the middle i could see into every room and every man in here was just stacked on top of the other, just like in the graveyard. The boys came out and after a lot of hugs and handshaking, we sat surrounded by inmates. They spoke for hours i listened intently nervously looking around me but trying hard not to make eye contact with anyone. They told stories from being inside and of the outside lives that got them there. I could do nothing but to cling to the edge of the bench dumbfounded and listen. After the boys had there catching up and were told how everyone was back home they invited us to see there room. nodding and following too scared to do anything else we went to the end squeezed down through a narrow alley of bunk beds and their in inhabitants until we entered a small room ducking to get in there was one bed a small cooker a clatter of few personal possession that were deemed allowed and posters of ladies advertising cheap rum with no clothes on. It was barely the size of a cupboard and yet i was told five persons slept in there and they pointed to various areas where everyone slept i tried hard to use my imagination to deem it even remotely possible but my imagination failed me. The boys began to banter and after two hours of being inside i finally began to relax mostly because i was still alive. We stepped back out to the larger area of the boys section full of bodies we sat back on our bench to say the goodbyes. A huge guy walked passed his shaven head gleaming and a big gold necklace sitting pretty around his neck, my friend squealed excitedly she recognized him and asked her brother if he was who she thought he was. He was a famous Filipino rapper who was now serving time for three accounts of murder, "he is my idol" she whispered I laughed saying "there is seriously something wrong with you did you not hear your brother say what he is here for" she looked at me coyly saying "I know" we laughed but it was soon stopped by stern disapproving looks and i went back to staring at the floor not making eye contact. As we left back through the caged maze having said our goodbyes we got back to the main entrance the guards at the door looked at each other and laughed as one passed 20 pesos to the other "he made it out alive" one guard said and they both laughed. I was glad to know the people who were being payed to protect me were doing such a sterling job but was not disgruntled and left smiling at the adrenaline buzz of surving a visit to 5000 murders, rapists and what became more apparent people with no money or home who the government deemed easier to deal with inside a jail they had no control over. I have no delusion that i was lucky to be in one piece and all i can say is Quezon city jail makes wormwood scrubs look like a nursery.

The Old Chicken Boys

There are a group of old boys who all hang around outside the tejol's tending to there chickens and fighting cocks. They have tattoo's of cockerels on their arms and come home with a tidy wad of cash when they ave struck luck at the fights. When they are not tending to their chickens or off making them fight, they are at the tejol's. They sit around and watch pirated dvd's of the eagles and sing loudly. I always knew when they were having a get together, you can hear them before anything else. They sit around and fill the house with smoke and drink big slugs of cheap whiskey. This all goes on like clockwork every couple of weeks and always ends with them stumbling back to their houses and been well asleep by 4 in the afternoon. I am often invited to join but decline with the feeling i could never keep up. Heavy drinking is a part of poverty, its not a happy matter and there is no such thing as a quiet social drink. It is always heavy. It is an escape, we all know that alcohol can make you forget problems, but in this case it only creates more. Alcohol is the fuel of fights on bank holidays and the distinct lack of money that can make families go hungry at times. It has the same danger and forbidden quality that intrigues the youth world over, but it is and escape that takes them no where but to hang around with the wrong crowds. It sounds like the kind of thing your parents say to scare you, but here its real. The old chicken boy's mean no harm they sit and they smoke, they give banter and sing loudly to the eagles. They are just a percentage caught up in a forgotten world.

All Souls Day

The first of November is all souls day, it is a Filipino tradition to go and spend this day with there family who are no longer on he earth. I had been invited by Juniors family to go with them, back to the grave i had carefully painted and made presentable a few days before. I accepted the cemetery had intrigued me, ironically it had been full of so much life and carried so many stories. Also this was an honour, making me feel even more like i had been brought into the family. It was the hottest day i had felt in a long time, and i struggled as we walked up the hill to catch a jeep. I went with the first wave of Tejol's, this would be the first of many, they are a catholic family after all. I went with Juniors brother, his cousin and there mothers. It was the same trip only this time the streets of the small town we jumped off to were heaving with people. The walked carrying bags, umbrellas, tents and blankets, it felt more like i was on my way to a festival, but then in a way i guess i was.

We walked down the same familiar road, still lined with the women and children selling their candles, this time joined by more selling flowers. Surrounded by families all walking with the same purpose, we reached the basketball court that before had seemed so vast and empty this time full of stalls selling food and drink. Stalls filled with cheap plastic toys to keep the children entertained, the air full of the smells of a hundred different foods. We reached the cemetery that days before had seemed so solemn and peaceful, was now full of laughter and music. There were not hundreds of families all come to weep and mourn, they had come to celebrate to commemorate the hundreds of lives lost. The passageways that had seemed vast and lonely, were now full of people crouched on the floor, some now two narrow to walk down with out stepping on people. Vendors wandered making business with the hordes, selling single cigarettes, sweets and ice cream. We found ourselves at the Tejol camp, the family already setting up a table of food inches away from other large families here to do the same. No one carried a frown everyone was smiling, we ate and drank as one by one the sons lit the candles for their father. It was the same all over the cemetery i wandered again this time welcomed by what felt like a thousand smiles and curious looks. What was the white guy doing in the poor peoples cemetery? This question was not hostile but curiously excited. As i sat with the family and they joked with a guitar being passed around and songs sung, my eyes wandered to stones that didn't have the same white gleam of the walls i was confined too, they towered higher over the maze i was at the heart of. I set off intrigued and trying to find where they lay, i walked to the far wall. Finding no route to them other than up, i walked back slightly disappointed, not willing to feel the wrath of the caretakers broom. I came back joining the family again, perching on a small stool that might as well of had me sitting on the ground. My eyes were fixed on those old overgrown stones, wanting for no real reason that made sense, too see what they were. By pure coincidence junior then came and asked if i wished to see the old cemetery, suddenly it made sense, and i jumped up a little too eagerly than one should, when visiting a place where people are laid to rest.

The old cemetery didn't have the same neat rows and columns, but piles of stones all precariously built up much higher and not painted a crisp white but wearing the old weathered stone they had been placed with. The passageways were even narrower here some so narrow it would be an impossible task to squeeze through. It was like a lost world, i struggle to find the words to describe it. It was a maze more complex then the newer cemetery. You could easily get lost for days within its crumbling walls. We passed empty mausoleums cramped and some which looked very much abandoned and forgotten, all surrounded by the towers that seemed to stretch for miles towards the skies, the bodies all piled on top of each other.

We went back to the safety of the new cemetery, where we sat around talking until the sun fell deep in the sky, and it began to get dark. We left by the candlelight of hundreds of memorials, we left the party of the souls. When we returned to Payatas the sun was fully set, as we walked back down weary from a long day in the sun. Each house had a candle in the door way i looked on curiously this was soon explained, they were there too keep the bad spirits out of the house. The streets had an eerie flickering orange glow, thousands of candles lined the outside of the houses all down the streets. I walked back to the house saying my goodbyes to the family, guided by the orange glow. I lit a candle and placed it at my door way just in case.

Painting Graves

We awoke early on a Thursday morning, the Payatas air thick and stifled as ever, filled with the sound of the vendors calling there calls. I sat on my stoop and watched the customers be enticed from there beds, to buy fresh hot bread or balut. I sat and watched through half open weary eyes, clinging to my cup of coffee from a packet, in fear that without it i slump backwards back to slumber. My body disliked being up so early but the vendors left me no choice. Jnr slipped passed me, i was too tired to ask where he was going, so just sat and waited searching for the bottom of my mug. He returned To find me still sat in the same position, he carried two small tins of paint and a brush, I looked on curiously. He asked if i "wanted to go with him" which just made me more puzzled, "where?" i asked. He responded and so we set off, this Thursday would be the day we would go to paint the gold on his fathers gravestone.

It would be me and two of juniors cousins, the two of which i am good friends with, both have a wicked sense of humor, which gave me the feeling this would not be a completely solemn day. We were also joined by our roommate who went to paint a friends grave. So we rode stuffed into a jeepny it was 20 minutes to a town i had never ventured to before, I rode with wide eyed excitement, the same excitement i get from seeing a new place. We jumped off and walked the streets in the heat of the morning, I followed staring into the obscure shops and old fashioned barbers. They soon ran out as we turned off, slowly nearing the white slabs in the distance, we passed women and children selling candles laid out on blankets on the roadside. Carefully crossing a basket ball game, i found my self in the perimeters of the cemetery, walking through narrow passageways the walls of which all four souls high. Four Plaques ran in neat columns all along the walls until it twisted off into a maze, the names of mothers, brothers, sons and daughters. As we walked i scanned the 9ft Rows staring at the names and dates, So many children, So many graves for those who had hardly had a chance to live. We abruptly arrived at a cross road within the maze and off to one side I saw the name a blaze upon marble "Rafael Tejol." We stood and stared up he lay in the third storey , I crouched as Jnr pulled out sand paper struggling to reach high enough to clean down the stone, I came and took his place having enough reach to manage although not by much. I was soon relieved as Mak Juniors cousin, arrived with what can only be described as a ladder, though as ever far from conventional.

We took it in turns to carefully line the engraved name and motif with gold paint. When one person was not painting, the rest of us sat perched on the edge of empty tombs. We spoke for the hours we there, they shared stories of juniors father and joked smiling not mourning but remembering the good times. Occasionally i wonder through the maze and stare at more names, My attention is broken, when i see kids scramble up on top of the 9ft labyrinth, they run and jump the gaps as if the graveyard were a playground. A man of 75 appears shouting for them to get down, he carries a large broom which he waves menacingly, the children just giggle and continue to sprint and jump. Then this elderly man walks to the front of the memorial and with the dexterity only seen from the early morning showings of childhood cartoons, scales the wall and begins a chase, broom at the ready. I presume he is the caretaker and that these little chases, run routine for everyday life, they both looked much too experienced for it not to be.

As I ventured back through the maze, to try and find the boys. I found a family gathered, all looking towards the same plaque. I bowed my head in respect, but I couldn't help but look towards it too. I wish i hadn't, He had only died a couple of weeks ago, and he was only five. My heart sank and sat heavy in my stomach, I found it hard to breathe. I walked back in a daze, I was not concentrating on where i was going, I was just walking. I looked to the people I passed noticing them more, so many mothers walked with their children trailing behind them. Children that are growing up without a father, and it was at this point i completely realised how much i took my parents for granted. Being here has shown me, what its like to be without them, Even though they are still on the earth. I owe them too much, suddenly i felt like that child being dragged behind his mother. To stand in front a wall that represented his past, held the memories of security and safety.

I found the boys again, I answered the questions of my disappearance with "I went for a walk." I smiled and climbed up the ladder next to Mak and took my turn painting the gold around the name of the man, that junior had lost and with losing him lost the security. I had become ever closer to junior he was my brother now, it did not feel strange to be there, of course it was still a complete honour, but i didn't feel out of place. I had been let in as part of the family. It took at least four hours, before we left proud of ourselves and smiling. The conversations, painting and laughter drew us all closer. As we walked out across the vast now empty basketball court and back down the narrow road, Junior turned with a smile and said "He would of been happy with this." I could feel we were all content in the fact we had won juniors fathers approval, even if he was no longer here to say it himself.

Police and Theives

Christmas came early, I got a parcel from home, mostly more letter clothes but also my Christmas present. It was a video camera as i had asked for one because there had already been too many times I had wanted permanently documented in history. The camera arrived full of home videos which I sat watching with a smile this being the closest i had been to my parents in months. I showed it to junior pointed out my dog, the place I used to work, and were we used to drink. After this i went and stashed the camera in my bag i had left a lot of valuable things back at the house in Negros, for fear they might up and leave. So i wrapped it in clothes and stashed it at the bottom of my bag. A week passed when i returned to it, it was juniors birthday and i thought this a perfect opportunity to take some videos so that he could remember becoming an old man forever. For an hour we took every item of clothing out of my bag moved everything in the house until i had to bitterly admit it had been stolen. I wouldn't admit it for ages determined it had been my own stupidity but there was no way. I had put it in my bag and not touched it since but someone else had. Its Not impossible to break into our house the windows are made of wood and locked each with a single nail into the window sill. The door is often left open during the day its too hot to keep it shut let alone too dark. Although there is always someone in the house often they will be sleeping when we are out the door is locked with a padlock so common it probably isn't much of a mission to find a key similar.

Everyone took it really hard, harder than me in fact, But i felt determined not to ruin juniors birthday and reassure everyone there was nothing more that could be done today. No one took it harder than junior i felt so guilty like i had ruined his birthday. I took all our friends (19 in total) out for lunch to a restaurant thats a personal favorite of junior, Mang Inaasal we often take trips there and he is always convinced that everyone wants to go there for there birthday. So i took the hint and we ate barbeque chicken and had a rice eating comp. I should probably mention the reason Mang Inaasal is such a favorite is because it offer unlimited rice. Which to Filipinos is like a religious sacrament, so i had 20 happy fillipino's as we had a few more join all for just over 20 pound.

We got back home and after what I like to call "rice belly comatose" i woke up refreshed and made an attempt at the police station. I wont describe the situation it was too frustrating but lets just say the police were about as useful as a hooker in a monestry. It was fairly safe to assume i wouldn't be seeing my camera again, at least not with there help.

The evening rolled in I felt bitter but did my best not to show it, I kept a brave face for junior. I knew he was wearing one too. Though it didn't stop the festivities usually i don't encourage juniors drinking like a beer or two but nothing heavy. This time though Tito nick invited us to his to celebrate the birthday of his nephew at his house. This seemed to consist of Karaoke, the boys, nuts and cheap whiskey with a tang juice chaser. I stopped early on to try and remain some composure and not be thrown into the rumor mill head first. Drinking problems are rife I encounter drunks almost everyday here and usually its not there birthday, i began to feel concerned junior might of drunk to much. though in hindsight he was nothing compared to some of the levels i had been in the past he didn't drink regularly and i wanted to keep it that way. We staggered home laughing, but as soon as we got to the house his mood changed. We had not been inside 5 minutes when he started to cry, i knew why. He sat crying into my leg hair as i soothed him gently telling him there was nothing he could of done. He sobbed and turned to me saying "i made a promise to your mother i would protect you. I shouldn't of let this happen." to which i solemnly replied "but im still here im not dead it was only a camera" "if i found who done this i will punch them" he said it so fiercely and it was a side of my brother i had never seen before. I made him a cup of coffee while he paced the room whilst he said he hurt me. I replied with more soothing tones my father had taught me and did my best to calm him. we sat on the floor him still crying quietly. Out of no where He began punching the wall next us i grabbed his arm and struggled with his strength but kept him restrained he turned his face to me and i smiled "you silly bugger" where all the words i could think to conjour "dont do that mate it really hurts in the morning."

It did He woke up the next day very sheepishly, he had redecorated the toilet bowl a few times in the night. He came and quietly apologized i laughed and threw my arm around him saying "i think we should stick to a couple beers from no on. Happy birthday brother" he smiled nervously. I did my best to not make him feel embarrassed, we spoke soberly bout how there was nothing either of us could of done. Once he finally seemed content we sat and had a coffee and vowed not to bring the night of his 24th birthday up. At least not for a little while.

Hey Joe Pt 2

So im starting to get pretty used to people stopping and staring at me. To the guys who shout things out or the fact that every time someone asks my age the conversation goes like this "how old are you joe?" "18" "18?! but your so big!" "no im lying im really 47 and a half" which usually leaves them with a confused expression and me a clean get away. While i was staying in Payatas I used to take this long walk to urban which is kind of the place go for the market, barbers, to bid on live animals or avoid a dodgey looking resto-bar. The walk iss only made longer by two mammoth hills and the fact you have to keep changing sides where the path disappears into nothingness. You rarely see cars come down here even though technically it is a road although you will pretty much definitely need new suspension once you make it to your destination. Sometimes there will be a brave guy on a scooter who carefully makes his way past you at a speed so slow he might of well just walked you can guarantee this guy said his prayers before he left the house.

I always meet the same interesting characters on this walk and we always have the same conversation. there is the guy who always shouts "hey joe whats your name?" to which i reply of course my real name josh yet i always get the response "hey Joe" perhaps my mother gave me the wrong name i really am starting to wonder. Several other 'Cano' comments shouted at me I walk up to my last regular face. He is an old boy who sits outside his store and always gets up when he see's me coming. He shakes my hand saying "Come in joe how's life in japan" to which i was kindly decline and say "i have places to be but next time." So every time we play this scene as if it was the first. I have no clue why he thinks im Japanese unless he thinks he is living in Japan right now. Either way its fairly safe to say he is not all there, when we play our scene but i always leave him laughing away.

I got to urban for a haircut my grand-pops would of been proud of. For 35pence i got a "smart" haircut cut-throat razor shave finished by a nice shoulder massage. It was like a gentleman's barber from 1960's east London. To complete the full effect the sweet sounds of 'knock on wood by Sam and Dave' played out in the background. I left this time portal and went to fetch dinner from the market to take back to the house and use my culinary skills over a gas cooker.

A slice of everyday life for me here. Beyond all the horror stories there are a lot of quirky days off like this too.

Giving

Today was the day I met a woman who has 7 children and lives in an underpass. Today i gave smiles to 23 children as well as onlooking mothers, brothers, uncles and grandmothers. when all there smiles had been washed away. I met a woman who was desperate for money but settled for juice and crackers.

I had been given the task along with 20 other friends from Payatas to go out and give back to the people. Do something for someone who really needed it for people we didn't know but were struggling. The daunting task of going out and meeting people who didn't share the same language struck. I would have to mumble my way through the little Tagalog i did know and hand gesture the rest. Thankfully the girls saved me they had become like sisters to me. They were the only 6 girls of the team set up to give back to the community. Though they all in one of the poorest slums they were all giving back.

We had no real plan but i suggested we get some juice, sweets, crackers etc and find street kids. Eager at this idea we stormed round a convenience store each of us leaving with a sack of juice and foods. As we went looking for people to share our time with the thought occurred that even though i had only been here for a couple months i had already got used to passing so many people with desperation in there eyes. It didn't take long before we met a woman whose clothes were torn beyond repair and looked like her only. We gave her crackers but she was unsatisfied and asked for money. She soon realized we weren't giving cash handouts and her eyes met the box in my hand. If She couldn't have money she would settle for juice so i gave here three cartons and she stormed off barely giving me time to give her a straw. I watched her leave with a smile a wild look in her eye and an apparent thirst for juice. We carried on walking down the road we found ourselves on without any real direction. We soon found ourselves at a bus stop instantly i noticed a woman who stood holding a baby in front of a box full of single cigarettes and mints. Customers would come and go throwing the correct change for there item in the box as she rocked the baby back and forth. She had the face of someone who had been aged by rough nights sleep and sickness. The girls had seen her too and we moved towards her as they started conversation i got translation for the words i didn't pick up. As we talked me through eager translation we gave her juice and occasionally some more foods. One of the girls took the baby and gave the mother a rest if only for a little while. She told us she had seven children and lived down in the underpass around the corner. At this moment all the air left my body i stood shocked realizing that all the juice jelly sweets and crackers in the world could not help this woman. all the horrible things she must have seen and lived in order to have seven children living in a tunnel. The men that must of been her life made me feel ashamed to be one of the same gender. Though she stood and seemed content in the fact we had shared our time with her. Though it was short and soon i found myself following the girls in a daze they told me she had no husband and she came her from the province for a better life. It was a story similar to many others bright lights big city. But for this lady fear nights in dark tunnels.

i felt determined now to keep going continuing along the same road we got to a bridge. I could see from a distance the houses built underneath they were precariously built up wards made of scrap metal and wood some baring large banners serving as a fourth wall flying the flag of battered corporate advertisements that no longer served there original purpose. As we neared closer to the start of the bridge we passed a young man sitting on the verge we maneuvered around him trying not to be ploughed by three lanes of fast traffic. He was the kind of young man i feared i didn't wish to make eye contact so only glanced at him long enough to see the familiar large white rubbish collecting bags. I set foot on the bridge and peered over the edge for sign of life. I saw rubble. Carnage left by mother nature a few weeks before. Worn down river banks and murky brown waters. We made it clear why we were there and soon children appeared and took the sweets and juice. The grubby faces shining with smiles far from white. Once i had successfully surrounded my self with grateful children and mothers onlooking with pleased curiosity. i looked back the way we had come to see the girls had gone back to the young man whom i avoided for fear of probably in my own irrational mind being shot.

When i came closer it became apparent he was much younger than i had thought. He could only of been about 14 and as he saw me approach he did not pull out a gun and blow me away. He smiled, i felt stupid i sat punching a juice with a straw and handed it to him. We shook hands as the girls introduced me to him and then another kid who must of been a couple years younger. They were from Litex the part of payatas that sorts all the rubbish before it makes its way to the dump. They were out collecting but had taken the afternoon off to go swimming. To go swimming in the same murky waters i had just peered into and known the chance of seeing my reflection was pretty slim. I probably would have been lucky to leave those waters alive but this is where they would spend there free time.

More Kids began to appear word had traveled fast soon we had 23 congregated on the grassy verge of the road. This left us standing infront of them our ankles victim to the manila traffic. We had them singing songs and playing little games the space would allow us the singing grew louder and louder as they grew more excited. It took a good 45 minutes before the juice and candy ran out and the songs stopped. one by one they came and said thank you as they ran back and disappeared under the bridge. We were no longer The spectacle and entertainment for those who were stopped in traffic at our little roadside show.

We walked back smiling more than the kids which was an achievement in its self. we had reached out to the children of Ondoy and though the weeks have passed the destruction hasn't it still sits heavy under that bridge. I leave that bridge content that at least we were the highlight of the day. We brought back the smiles that had been washed away and gave hope to the ones who were passed and forgotten.

Conversations With My Father

The only times I could ever properly speak with my pops would be when i couldn't handle things on my own anymore. He would always know when this time was and gently but assertively ask the questions he needed to know for me to open up. This would often take place when the house was empty and with me sitting at the top of the stairs peering through the banister at him in a chair below. He would pass on his wise learnings and tell me stories that always seem to make the most sense. For those hours i would sit talking on the stairs i would always think how foolish i had been not to take my place on the third stair from the top and start this conversation before things got to where they were. Even On my first travels east when i was just out of school my father took the opportunity for these talks this was when i needed them most. Beyond the work i did at only 16 the immersion amongst the poor and the learning from a different culture i also learnt a lot from my father. He gave me a level head and gave explanation to all my confusions or concerns.

Now Without my father here to guide me through my rants, concerns and confusions. Without him here to assure me my doubts of faith are rational and without him here to teach me how to turn those doubts into positive actions. With the man Who i thought could never say a wrong word when it came to these talks on the other side of the world. It is with me to find the answers for myself to grow up and begin to learn all the things my father had already learnt. To become an adult In the hope tat one day i could then teach my own troubled thoughtful children. To understand myself i must understand other people.

The concept scares me beyond my wits but fear is but another concept i must learn from and control. Whilst still appearing fearless to those who look to me for warmth and protection. I am far from being a father yet but i have already met kids with no dads no fearless warrior to wipe there tears and plaster there scraped knees. Kids who long for someone to give them hope and already they are looking to me. Without realizing it i have become my father not in every sense im still young and reckless but the more I learn the more this is controlled too. i am not yet a father. I am a Kuya to many but still protected by most i am looked upon for comfort and it is comfort i have been willing to give. In turn i learn more how to control my own qualms.

My father passed on his knowledge of life and now im sharing what ever i can with the people who need me. At times it seems to many but others it seems not enough when they give back in love and protection or a knowing smile that sets me to sleep.

This coming year has already put me at my lowest but without the wise advice my father taught me and taught me to learn for myself i wouldn't be able to pick myself up and take tomorrow as another day.

baby vandals

I was woken up by a text at half 6 in the morning telling me to get up dressed in long trousers and to come to the youth center. I grumbled and swore dragging my self under the mosquito net and crawling to the small wardrobe like washroom readied my self for my freezing cold bath from a bucket. I left the sleeping Kuya's and trudged up to the youth center to be met by absolutely no one. I swore again and walked back down the hill carrying the same air and grace i usually have at this time of the morning. I got half way down the hill before i had a phone call explaining what was going on. This was the morning I spent in the Quezon city juvenile detention center.

I sat sweating in my long trousers longing to be in shorts as i was crammed in for two long jeepny rides. The thing about jeepnys is they take the amount of people you should have as a limit and then throw in an extra four so you get the pleasure of sitting on some old dears lap for part of the journey or stuck under someones arm pit. Though this didn't bother me too much my mind was busy panicking that i was going to be eaten alive by 15 year old murders. I was absolutely terrified this made that trip to the fair seem harmless i had never been to a prison let alone a prison in a city where poverty and over population is at phenomenal as is the rate of crime. I walked silently down a long road after we jumped off the jeep and followed the group nervously.

We arrived at a building amongst others the downstairs was some kind of child welfare office and then there was a set of stairs with bars over them i presumed this was the place unless the child welfare office had a lot of problems with people stealing there staplers. The stairs took us to a narrow corridor where we were instantly frisked and had our personal belongings taken (by the guards not the inmates.) then one by one were sent through another barred door Into a large room full of youths the walls where made up of communal cells which looked unbelievably over crowded. The room we were in was kind of a multi purpose it had nothing in it but a black board and some wooden benches although it felt cluttered by the presence of young toothless tattooed faces through bars. There were 25 young men who had been allowed to take part in the workshop. I felt guilty as we met them and i nervously shook there hands constantly being watched by the faces behind the bars.

Once i started to relax i started to realize that behind the missing teeth scarred faces and gang tattoo's these were lost 15 year old boys who had no other escape but gang lifestyle. during our sharing they spoke of there love for there mothers and how they were given no other options when it came to gang life. There family's would be starving and often they had no real father figure so they fell into the trap of gangs as a way to make money and have an escape. We played games with them and i wished i could of had one of those outer body experiences when you step out and look at what our doing . Playing silly games with young convicts who in some cases had killed people.

Once the games and the sharing had finished the time had passed and our visiting time was up. I shook nearly every hand as it eagerly flew in my direction. I learnt a lot form these boys but i felt sorry for them they had no chance at life and most of them were lost and scared. I was glad at least they would be safe there but my thoughts will always go to there families as there struggles continue but now without a son.

I have a whole lot of catching up to do

so over the next couple days ill be transferring all the stuff i have on paper up here
i hadnt really had the energy to di it since i got back from manila but ill start to make a crack at it.