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Reverse remittance

The global financial crisis seem to have had a lower impact in South Asia or South East Asia where countries were growing. The Philippines have not been immune from the recession in two ways: reduced economic expansion and incomes for people at home and reduced remittances from overseas where the many Filipinos work and had their jobs threatened by the crisis.

One example is of Filipinos who work in the Middle East employed as home staff or in hotels and resorts.  These jobs have also been threatened by the recession as the number of tourists diminished. What this means is that many Filipino working in the Middle East have been made redundant and were facing therefore the prospect of having to return home.

The led their families back home to start a reverse remittance flow as they started to send money to their relatives overseas and allow them to look for a new job as the economy recovers and jobs become available again.

Many of the Filipino workers have been living overseas for long time. I remember a flight from Hong Kong to Manila sitting next to a Filipino couple with three kids and all of them talking Italian to each other. The links with families back home is the safety net against difficult times. The link serves also as safety net to be used to cope with difficult times overseas and not to loose the possibility of finding a better paid work there.

R - Running

There was a man in his early forties who liked to run . Running was very important for him and he loved it. He often joked with his friends that if one day he would not be able to run anymore he would then probably die. He used to run alone. Partly because he travelled a lot of for work , partly because he had just relocated in a new country and did make the step to search for a runners’ club yet.

Now and then while running he would think how nice it would be to run with a group of  friends.  Speak about the day. Gossiping a a bit about others. Testing our fitness by increasing the pace in the last kilometer or so. Then go back home with a nice feeling of tiredness. He would think about this but he would continue to procrastinate and not go to enquiry about running clubs in the new town where he had just moved with his family.

In the end, he thought, it is nice also to run alone. That one hour or so, every second day was really his time, only his. He used to feel a pang of guilt by going for his runs when the kids where small and leave his wife alone with them. For many years he would rush his last kilometers and stop at six, even though he would have wished to run eight.

This feeling of guilt would of course not emerge in his runs while overseas for work. he would then go to the usual track in Van Phuc in Hanoi, Orchid bay in Dar es Salaam, or in London from Waterloo along South bank, to the Tate Modern, across the Thames on the Millennium bridge and turn back just in front of St Paul.

These runs were also the time for thoughts and ideas. It had happened in the past that while running he would come up with the right title for an article. The right  incipit of a chapter of a book. The correct adjective to define the emotion and mood of a one character in a book.

Lately, however, he found himself thinking about something he felt he had to say to his wife but could not pun into words. He felt an anxiety that came form nowhere and that he could not translate into words.  Not even running, which had helped him with his books and writings seemed to work. He would find himself immersed in several conversations at the same time but too fast to be put into words. there were more emotional conversations with himself. Yes he felt that he owed an explanation, but could not find the way to start or the right word.

One evening, the track and field was quite empty due to the rain in the afternoon. The track had few potholes and small frogs jumped here and there between the white lines on the red surface of the track.  At one point he seemed to get it: ‘Yes, know I know what is going on.’ and for some seconds he felt a new energy in his legs driven by a sense of relief. he had found the right words, a story made of feelings and emotions which flowed almost logically in his mind. he had planned a 8k run, but cut it short to 6k in order not too loose his words. Jumped on the bicycle and rode back home. Reached the intersection near his house. Saw the  outdoor lights on. Lights in the living room. Opened the gate and head the voice of one of his daughters: ‘Papa’ is back’. Then the front door opened and  she ran out to hug him. She hugged him as strongly as she could and he did the same. The he stood up. Took her on his lap and entered the house. Looked around and heard that his wife and their other daughters were in the shower. They had all already eaten. His daughter asked him if she could watch TV, to which he said yes. He then sat  at the table to have his dinner. He looked into the various pots and took some rice on his plate. His wife came into the room. their other daughters sat also in front of the TV. ‘How was your run?’ He looked at her but did not feel anymore that certainty that was with him until the gate. The words which were so clear in his minds until few minutes earlier had disappeared in that inexplicable flow of emotions which was within him and which he did not know where did it come from.

Arrival in Tortola, Caribdean sea

'I want my arrival to be a celebration of the past 25 years not, as someone asked recently, "will it give you closure"? What? Closure? That infers I somehow regret or lament the past 25 years. Absolutely not. Were it not for the accident, I would not have met Elaine, had Timothy or had such a wonderful life so, closure? No. Celebration? Yes. And any tears will be tears of joy not tears of regret or sadness. Life is too short to worry about what "might have been" or waiting for some "miracle cure" for Spinal Cord injury, there's a magnificent world out there and I'm both honoured and humbled to have had the opportunity to put together this great project; the Atlantic was everything I had hoped it would be and just as I remembered it from all those years ago.'

Words from the blog of Geoff Holt  who arrived today to the Caribdean after sailing across the  Atlantic Ocean from the UK.

Well done Geoff. Drams do become true.

a story

D - Dream

My name is Abioseh. I was born in Gboko, Nigeria, in 2001.  My father was a pastor in a local church. My mother was working in a laundry shop part time as she had also to take care of me and my four brothers and sisters. If I look back at my childhood I remember that we lived always in the same house next to the church where my father worked.  My memories are mainly linked to my mother taking care of us by an assigning after school various chores to me and my sister who were the eldest. Fetch water from the well. Sweep the front  go the house up to the road. Fetch the meat and vegetable at the market.

I had a dream back then and remember the day I decided to become a pilot.  I was playing football with my friends in the dusty field behind the church. The usual late afternoon match just before the sunset.  I remember seeing often planes flying high above our town and leaving behind a long white tail that would  then disappear into the blue of the sky.  But that one day something changed. I heard the faint noise of the plane then saw the small silver dot flying high above us and stop playing. For a moment I found myself in an own world where the soccer field, the friends and their shouts and screams were blurred. I looked up and knew that I was to become a pilot. I just knew it.

Some years later my father received an invitation from a church in England to attend a one month retreat on the art and meaning of the communication with God. As the seminar was quite long the organizers allowed him to bring also his family. That would be my first flight somewhere though by then I had memorized  airplanes models. I knew the differences of the Airbus A340 series. I knew by heart how many passengers could fit in a A380.

We flew to London via Frankfurt and I was so happy that my first flight has a stop over and would actually be made of two flights. I remember landing at Heathrow and the plane slowly taxiing to the assigned gate. I was looking outside the windows and would shout to my father, who was sitting on on the other side of the aisle: ‘Look Baba, a Qantas A380!’. ‘Baba a British Airways 747 is being pulled to an hangar, it is huge!’ . Look Baba, the A340 of South African Airlines is being pulled back and a man is walking next to it with headphones and and a long cable attached to the fuselage to communicate with the cockpit!’.

When our plane reached the gate passengers stood up to get their bags and things from the overhead lockers. I stood up as well holding the cartoon box wit the helicopters model which my father bought me at Frankfurt. It felt the most precious things in the world to me.

We were the last to leave the plane with all our hand luggage and my father giving instructions to all of us including my mother. I went first. I remember that when we reached the entrance of the plane  I saw that the cockpit door was open and the captain was standing in front of it. For few seconds I could glimpse behind him the mosaic of lights, indicators and instruments.  All of a sudden, I heard his voice asking me: ‘Do you want to have a closer look?’. I could not believe what I heard. Turned to my father who smiled to me and made a sign with his head to go ahead. I entered the cockpit as I would enter a sacred place. The captain started to explain the function of some instruments but I could hardly hear his voice. This all lasted just few minutes. I then asked if I could take a picture and the captain said ’Sure, go ahead’.

And here I ma sitting in this room looking at the wall the picture that my father took of me and the captain in the cockpit of my second flight. It is hanging in a simple wooden frame which has lost its brown color with the years. I look very proud. I am older now but can recognize the same expression in my eyes and the same smile. Those have not changed. 

‘Baba, I am a pilot now. It is a pity you did not live long enough to see it but you knew I had a dream and always helped me with that. That why I am thankful to you’. I whisper these words to the picture as well as to to myself. Hearing my voice makes me I stand up. I look at myself in the picture for few seconds and then walk towards the door to join the family and relatives who have come for the ceremony. I entered this room not knowing what I would say in my good bye speech. Now I know. So I open the door and join the others.

Rain & Wind

T - Taxi

It is dark outside the windows of the yellow cab from Ninoy Aquino airport to the Makati district in Manila. I usually have to stay one night here before catching the flight to Dumaguete early in the morning. This time I did not find a room in the hotel where I usually to stay. So I browsed the web to look for a different one and found this London Inn.

The traffic is not too bad today but we still proceed slowly. I take my mobile phone out of the bag and dial my wife number.  ‘Hi’, I say. ‘Yes. Arrived, The trip was not too long. How are things home?’, I ask.  I hear it is all ok. The week when I was away went fast also for her and the girls. Good. In the back of my mind I always send a thank you as every time I leave I hope they will be safe and nothing bad will happen while I am away. It is just a split second, but it is in me every time I leave and come back.

‘I am in the taxi. No, I do not go to the usual hotel because it was fully booked. I go to a new one I found in the internet. Yes, tomorrow I will be there at 8 in the morning. Bye. Ciao’.

I look through the windscreen. We are in a queue. I see that the taxi driver is looking at me through the mirror. ‘First time in Manila?’. ‘No’, I say, ‘I often stop here on my way to Dumaguete’.  ‘Many bars where you are staying, you know’, he says, ‘do you need a girl?’ he asks looking at me in the mirror with eyes checking if I am the right kind of customer.

‘I just spoke with my wife on the phone, so not interested thank you.’ I reply. ‘Your wife Filipino?'' , he asks in the same way as all the taxi drivers I met so far in this town. ‘No, she is from Europe. We are both from Europe. I come from Italy. She comes from Finland.’  ‘Ok sir, sorry for asking’, he replies. ‘No problem. No problem’. ‘Do you have kids,?’ he asks as to change subject. ‘Yes’, two daughters. Five and three years old. And you?. ‘I have also two daughters, six and four. Almost the same age as yours.’

I look outside again and think about the offer and wonder how much would a woman actually cost. I can see he glances at me now and then as the car moves still slowly. ‘How much would on night be?’ I ask. he looks in the mirror with the hopeful expression of recognizing the change of mind which many customer may have had in his taxi before. ‘One night is 4000 Pesos’, he says. I make a quick calculation, about 85 USD. He may get 50% or more of that. So not much left for the girl. ‘You never been with a Filipino woman, sir?’. ‘No, I did not’, I reply. ‘They are very good. Young. Beautiful. You will like.’  ‘And what about the hotel, can they come to my room?’, I ask. ‘No problem with hotel, sirs’ They just come up to your room’.

‘So what about two girls. How much would it be with two girls’?, I ask. He makes a quick calculation and says 6000 Pesos, kind of one and half person in the end. As he mention the price we enter the red lights district where my hotel is located. Bars have pink or red flashing neon light signs saying: Flamingo, Domino, Le Club, etc. Girls with super mini skirts sitting on high chairs, legs crossed, and impossible high hills. Young girls dressed in simple tops, long smooth black hairs falling on their small shoulders and back. I think about the girls my taxi driver may call, sitting somewhere looking at a TV programme. Answering the phone. Asking if the I, the customer, am a foreigner, young? old? Whether the price is the same as usual. The address of the hotel. Putting a condom in the bag. Getting dressed. Make up. Leaving a small room apartment to come to my hotel. Reach it by car. Meeting the taxi driver downstairs. receiving the agreed money and entering the hotel lobby. Taking the lift up to the 21st floor. Both girls not saying a word but looking at each other maybe wondering who will open them the door. Walking the long corridor to the door of my room. Stopping in front of it and hesitating few seconds looking at each other before ringing the bell.  ‘Hi’, I say when I open the door with a the embarrassed smile that always accompany this words with strangers. ‘Hi’, they say together . ‘Please come in’, and they walk in screening the room.

The taxi stops and my thoughts with it.  A man in a hotel uniform opens the door of the cab, ‘Welcome to the London Inn, sir’. I see the lobby of the hotel. Lights on. People sitting in the lobby somebody talking at the reception.  The taxi driver tells me it is 350 Pesos for the ride and I hand him 400. ‘Thank you’, I say. ‘thank you, sir,’, he smiles. I step out of the taxi, feel the humid heat of Makati, and walk into the lobby.

The next morning it is very early when I leave to the airport. A new taxi is here to pick me up. The clubs and bars are closing. Soon will be day break. As I enter the taxi, I look up at the back of one club on the other side of the street. A girls hurries down a a metal stair from a back yard door. She wears a simple t-shirt with a girlish Kitty print on it, cotton bermuda and flip flops. Her long black hairs are still wet.

As the taxi leaves in the direction of EDSA and the airport, I think how young she looks in her day time clothes. Tonight she will be back in the high hill shoes and mini skirt and I wonder whether she can split her life in the same way she does with her clothes.

... from Dumaguete to Kitee