Yesterday was the first rain of the hot hot summer season. It came unexpectedly in the early afternoon, sky darkened and excitingly ominous. “Uulan,” said Ate Ner matter-of-factly. It will rain. And sure enough, after a moment or two to consider the possibility, the rain arrived in thick, fast drops, surprising children and mothers who had been buying rice and coffee from sari-sari stores. The children stripped to their shorts and ran, shrieking and giggling, through quickly developing puddles of wet dirt and sewage build-up, the magic of the first rain most evident in their gleeful play. The air smelled fragrant, of summer roses and orchids, and steam from the wet cement rose in oily tufts just as I remember from rainy days back home. It smelled like childhood memories.
I awoke early this morning, before 7:00 even, to the sound of clothes being scrubbed, swish squish swish, in my neighbors’ laundry basin. I pulled my body from the mattress to a still-cool morning, though I knew better than to let that fool me. Yesterday’s rain still lingered on the trees, illuminating their perfume. I was reminded of May and early June Elementary mornings, walking to the bus stop, dew still grasping the blades of grass and the smell of summer morning energizing my body. This morning smelled like my childhood.
One oftentimes unspoken reason that Americans join Peace Corps is to reconnect with an environment we feel we have lost. We have become jaded by our fast-paced goal-oriented lifestyles, and see Peace Corps as an opportunity to relive the simple times we left behind when we “grew up,” where all it took was a rain puddle to light up our day. We desire to be a “part” of nature once again, and see nothing more natural (although some would not hesitate to say primitive) than living in a mud and dung hut in the middle of an African desert.
Yet my connection to the natural world around me still feels limited to these early mornings and yesterdays rainstorm. My life here, despite living sandwiched between serene rice fields, despite watching jackfruit, langka, grow huge from the tree just inches from my bedroom window, despite the sounds of hand-washing laundry and fresh eggs sizzling on a wood-burning stove, my life here is still overwhelmed by my American influence. Take for example, a recent discovery on progress.
It has taken me 20 months, over a year and a half, to finally feel as if I have solid accomplishments here in the Philippines. It was however, and sadly enough, an annual report (not some poignant moment with a poor, abandoned child or a breakthrough discussion with a Filipino counterpart) that allowed this realization. Quite simply, it was a count that did it. And I counted, 40 activities completed in the 2010 fiscal year. Of those, I had participated in 28, and had helped to create or develop over 20 activities. The number spoke loud, proud, and quantitatively, American-ly clear.
I felt an enormous swell of pride yesterday in this discovery. Today, I feel a tinge of disappointment that it took something so concrete, so measurable, and of course so American, to give me that true feeling of satisfaction. Shouldn’t I feel just as satisfied with my life when I wake up to a beautiful morning in the Philippines or walk down the dirt road in the pouring rain? We come to reconnect with nature, but this American nature always seems to win out in the end.
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