Jolo, Dumaguete a reprise

16 May 1997. Every night when I lie to sleep the fetid air assails me. I left the bowl of dust for the sea of garbage. Cellophane is going to gobble this whole town down.

Maimona says: I love like fire. My husband raped me when my parents were away. It’s because he loved me so much. Olive smiles: Im a ref. Cool. I throw away the bad things I keep the good.

Sheena: I am a rock. Hard. Hard. I have no friends except Farisha. She’s a tomboy. Together we scrounge the streets and fight men.

Mimi: I am a sunflower. Bright, bright, bright. I say Hi! to the sun. Say Goodnight to the night. And Bow. Bow.

Eleven years. My memory of Jolo was one of romance. I am devastated. In all those eleven years, the town has sunk down; only the garbage has piled up. I should write Jack. And tell Fatima: Here, the town you were so jealous of you don’t want us around. Can you embrace it? Embrace it.

18 may 1997. At the boat, aircon department. The lady tells me the bed belongs to her. She hunches and sprawls her legs her whole body saying this is mine mine mine keep off keep off. It isn’t greed. Just unhappiness. By and by an old man gently pushes me out of his cot. Sibug kaw, Indah. I expostulate, in choppy Tausug, telling him that I don’t like upper decks because I don’t like to sleep right in front of the TV the screen glaring at me it hurts my eyes. I feel stupid, irrational: like, in this shithole am I arguing for such a little thing? But how readily he agrees. The rest of the trip he sits there with his son glued to the TV, forgetting about me.

Humped over on my cot my hands in my belly a man asks: Maita kaw, Indah? My God, he knows I am Bisaya, but he only sees me as he sees: something in pain. They’re not at all like people I used to know in another country.

Morning at baliwasan grande: A clean well-lighted place. Is this relief I feel? I can’t wash Takut-Takut off me.

24 may 1997. Back in Takut-Takut and back to this pit. I happen to love the baby and didn’t feel for once like bashing its head against the wall. But I have this urge to push the door shut each time Mike threatens to show his face at the door to check on me saying Hi, trying, ever trying, to be nice. Mohay. That little woman with so much strength.

I feel sapped. All my energy drained out of me by all the noise all the clamoring needs the filth the despair around me. The stench of human habitation. I can’t stand it. The house Mohay is going to live in… incredible. Okay. Okay. So I am old. All my youth’s strength gone out of me gone into this sewers known as Takut-Takut.

25 may 1997. It’s no wonder the Tausug girls in Silliman are that deadly indifferent to talk of country. No language for struggle. Don’t care about Misuari and his bullshit. I can’t write. I can’t think. It’s not amoy basura, it stinks of godshit. Tinaehan ng gobyerno? Ng Diyos? And Saliya just said today she can’t bear the smell of fake leather it makes her sick she's going to faint. I can’t tell her I can’t bear the stench of everything else I could eat leather.

I need a cup of strong coffee. But there’s no coffee. No. There is, but no water to wash the spoon with. Okay there is water but there is no hot water. There is hot water, but it’s for the baby. Goodness. What am I to do? What am I doing here? Did I jump from the frying fan to the fire? Again?

Dear Zeny, You and Malik deserve a medal each for valor. You know what was my first thought after snugly settling in Takut-Takut? Arson. My second thought? Fatima. And that she should be here. My third thought? To flee! To hell with it all. Bahala kang Zenaydaha ka. Bahala kang Rolaysa ka. Bahala kang Mohaya ka. Mogradweyt ko, mogradweyt ko, uy. Lupad balik paDumaguete. Suffer Tim. Suffer Mr and Mrs Kelso. Suffer everything.