Few may know this, but my Lola is a pyromaniac.

Everyday, many locals burn piles of compost in the late afternoon. Sometimes the smoke from my neighbor’s burn pile drifts into my living room window and chokes me out of the house. I once asked a local why they burn their piles instead of letting them decompose, and she just kind of shrugged her shoulders and said that they like to burn the compost to ashes before they put it on the rice paddies. This method results in smoky, acrid skies almost every evening and—as with all air pollution—hauntingly beautiful sunsets.

One of those hauntingly beautiful sunsets that I just mentioned

But I think the Ifugao passion for compost burning goes deeper. I often find Lola (my host grandmother) crouched along the road side starting little fires almost every evening. I don’t think there’s any reason for her to start a fire; I just think she enjoys it. But sometimes even she can get out of hand.

The other day as I walked up from the market, I noticed a compost fire next to the road that seemed bigger than usual. The flames had caught a small patch of the hillside on fire; the small shrub tree and dry plants above the burn pile cracked and smoldered. My first thought was: Someone needs to put out that fire before it spreads. My second thought was: Who started this fire? They should be the one to put it out.

And then I saw Lola. She stood over next to a friend’s house pointing at the fire and talking to a neighbor with an expression of concern. I walked up to her and she looked at me with dismay.

“It’s all my fault!” she said, her face drawn, and then she started laughing.

“You started that fire?” I said, laughing with her. “Can I take a picture with you in it?”

“No,” she said, still laughing, “because then maybe they’ll send me to prison!” After a pause she added, “We need to put the fire out before it catches the electric wire near the church.”

This picture doesn't quite capture the potential devastation...

Suddenly, everything became a lot more urgent. We ran up a set of stairs on the hillside to get a better look at the fire from above. She pointed out an electric wire that ran near her Evangelical church, and we realized we needed to put out the fire—fast. I thought about running back to the house, but she said we should go up to the pastor’s house and see if he had water there. Lola amazed me as she ran up those stairs—she’s 82 and more fit than most elders I’ve ever seen in the U.S.

We got to the top of the staircase, walked around back, and found the pastor reading the paper. He got up, surprised to see my unfamiliar (white) face, and shook my hand. He asked why Lola had never brought her to meet him before and I knew that this could turn into a “let’s get Jennie to come to church” moment real fast if we weren’t careful.

“The hillside’s on fire,” I blurted. The pastor nodded his head, as if this were to be expected.

“No, I mean, really on fire. We need water!” He nodded his head again, smiled, and invited us in for coffee.

Finally Lola shouted in Ifugao and I made some expression that finally conveyed the urgency of the matter. He finally got it and ran out the room to the bathroom behind the building. Seconds later he ran back carrying a large red plastic bucket.

“Where is it?” he said, panting with effort. We ran down the steps and stood over the fire. Fortunately, it had burned itself out mostly by the time we arrived.

“I thought there was a really big fire!” The pastor said, “You had me so afraid!” He scooped out the water from his plastic bucket and poured it onto the remaining flames, engulfing us in a billow of smoke and ashes. Lola and I looked over at what remained of our emergency.

“Well, it was big before,” Lola, said with a smile. “I was very afraid it would catch the church on fire,” she said.

The three of us stood on the steps in silence for a moment. Then the pastor turned to me and asked why he’d never met me before, and why I’d never been to church. I smiled at him and began to back down the steps, telling him it was a pleasure to meet him, but that I actually had to go.

“Can I take a picture of you two?” I asked. The two of them smiled and nodded. I ran down the steps and took my camera out, grateful for the change of subject. I stood below, aiming my camera, and laughed as Lola the pyro waved to me from above.

Lola and the pastor

Banaue Publacion--the heart of town

In some ways I feel like I am leaving just when I finally feel at home in Banaue. Perhaps I’ve been more open and engaged since I know I’m leaving soon and my time is limited. I’ve got to make the most of my time here. But really, since I’ve been back from my Easter retreat in Manila I feel like things have changed somehow. I think it’s me that’s changed, but it feels like it’s everything around me.

The family next door has seven kids. John John and Marty are two, and the other five are either students or work in Manila area. They’re all really successful and attend or attended one of the top schools in the country—University of the Philippines. Almost all of them came home for a period of time after Easter for their summer break (summer is from April to June in the Philippines). The house suddenly had all these lively college students and professionals and we’d sit around after dinner, chat, and play games. We watched movies downstairs huddled around Adam’s computer DVD player, grabbing fistfuls of homemade popcorn as we sat in the dark. It’s been really fun hanging out next door and I’ve been joining the family for lunch as well as dinner everyday. I just stopped caring so much about making my own meals exactly the way I like them.

I’m not sure what happened. I still feel good about my decision to go home early, but I also recognize with some regret that I went through the worst already. Adam and several of the Peace Corps volunteers feel like it took them almost a year to get comfortable in their sites and that the homesickness was extremely hard for them. All the barriers—cultural, language, age—get in the way and make it tough to feel like you can be yourself in the beginning.

After awhile, you just can’t hold up a pretense anymore; it’s just too exhausting. And there’s no point in being sad and lonely all the time either—that’s exhausting too. I don’t know—I think I just stopped resisting so much. I just decided to relax and smile and be myself. I know some of the language now, I know people, and I feel like I can walk around town and people know who I am—kids shout out to me in Ifugao, not English. I yell back to them in Ifugao too and they laugh. I don’t know what changed for me; maybe I just needed time. Maybe I just needed to move beyond myself.

Now I think about leaving and I feel sad. I know I’ll miss my family and I’ll miss the locals here whom I’ve connected with. I’ll miss the way people reach out to me, want to get to know me—how they care. In Denver I have a hard time finding people to hang out with—everyone’s so busy, so wrapped in their own world, and I work so much I get exhausted and don’t have energy. I hope to change that when I return, but some of it is just inherent in our culture. I will miss the community here, I realize, even though I initially resisted it. So many people came together to help me, to guide me; I will miss them. I can see that I feel at home here now, right before I’m about to leave.

It’s kind of wonderful actually—a nice way to end my time here. It’s a redemption of sorts: for the Banaue in my mind, and for the way I see myself. Finally, my heart opened up and let this place in.

I’ve lived in Mayne’s house since mid-January; she and her husband rent it out as an investment property. They also own a small bakery in town that makes the best brownies in town—she was able to save up money for both when she worked abroad in Italy for a few years.

I often pick up sweet treats at the bakery to take to the family for desert. The other day I decided to go by and visit her since I’m moving out at the end of the month. We sat on her pink flowered couch with the t.v. on and a bible open on a stool near my legs. She and her family are Jehovah’s witnesses—there are pictures and needle points that mention Jehovah all over my house.

I told her I was going to stay on a bee farm for eleven days. She liked the idea. “Do you think beekeeping is something they could do here?” she asked.

“Yeah, especially with the vegetable farming that’s done around here. Rice doesn’t need it—it self pollinates, but vegetables mostly need bees for pollination.”

She considered it. “But aren’t bees dangerous?”

I don’t know how bees got such a bad reputation—yes, they can sting if provoked, and if someone’s allergic it can be a certain problem. But the fact is, breathing in leaded gasoline and diesel is far more dangerous and no one complains about that.

“Wouldn’t it be great if there was a local beekeeper?” I asked, “They could sell authentic honey here—it could be Eighth Wonder honey or something like that.” We both laughed at the overused name, but then again, why not?

I bought honey here in town once. I was so excited to find it that I put it in everything—on breakfast cereal, in my tea. I used up about three quarters of the honey and then for some reason, it got extremely thick and I couldn’t scrape it out of its fluted glass jar. I was kind of frustrated and thought maybe the honey had hardened because it was so cold. For a month I tried to melt it in hot water, tried to scrape it out with a knife, but I couldn’t reach it. I wasn’t sure what was wrong. Finally, one day I decided to buy some more honey at a local store.

I asked the shopkeeper how much the honey was on the back shelf. She pursed her lips together. “One hundred fifty,” she said, about three dollars. “But you shouldn’t buy it.”

“Why?”

“Because it is not pure,” she said. “Some of it is honey, but then they add sugar to make more.” It dawned on me why my honey had hardened. It was pretty much pure sugar at the bottom. No wonder it wouldn’t melt. I asked where to get the pure honey and she said it was only available in the lowlands or in Manila, though sometimes people would come to the Saturday market and sell it here, but that was rare.
Mayne asked me to share what I found out about beekeeping at the Bee Farm. She was really interested. We started talking about other business ideas I’d had. I mentioned a yogurt shop up in Sagada, a place Matt and I visited together. People always talked about the amazing yogurt in Sagada—it is rare to find any yogurt in the provinces. The exciting thing about it is that it’s a much tastier and local alternative to the lactobacilli drink served everywhere in the Philippines: Yakult.

“I have Yakult sometimes,” Mayne laughed, “but I like yogurt much better. It’s just hard to find it here. I wonder how we could get the locals interested in it.”

I told her that it started as a tourist investment in Sagada but that now the locals liked to buy it too.

“Yeah, the tourists like wheat bread too,” she said. “They always ask if I have whole wheat bread, but I don’t have any whole wheat flour—it’s so hard to get it here. I don’t know where to find it. And the locals don’t like wheat bread either,” she said.

I told her that maybe if they saw how the tourists liked it, and if they could educate people about the health benefits, people might switch over. I have started to see whole wheat bread take off in Manila, so perhaps it won’t be long before the interest spreads.

“It would be so great if different restaurants could specialize in different foods, you know? Like maybe one restaurant could have the best banana pancakes in town, or another one could have smoothies, or something.”

Mayne laughed. “Yeah, but you know the problem? Once one place makes something unique, all the other shops in town copy them. That’s why you go into the souvenir shops and all the items look the same.”

“And why the restaurants have all the same items on the menu, huh? Why is that, no one wants to compete or something?”

She shrugged. We talked about how capitalism is a new thing to Banaue—people are used to looking out for each other, not competing. If someone is hungry, someone else feeds him. Suddenly their culture has become stratified and individualistic. And while there are benefits to it—the opportunity for individual expression and specialization as well as profit—those benefits might be hard to get to with societal barriers like they have here.

We talked about Banaue in the past too—how the streets used to be lined with pitcher plants; she and her friends would tip the flowers back and drink the water out of them. She said there used to be a big children’s park downtown and she and her sisters would swing on the playground. There were hardly any streets and the town was so quiet her friends could clap their hands from the school far down the hill to get her attention. She painted a picture of a Banaue that was quiet, beautiful, green—peaceful. Much different from now.
I mentioned that Sagada had a meeting to decide how they would develop. The locals and business leaders attended and helped shape the community growth. Was something like that possible in Banaue?

“The problem is that people are used to doing their own thing,” she said. “They come up with rules for awhile, but then no one follows them. It would take someone really strict to make it last.”

I wondered about this—it sort of seemed hopeless, like herding a bunch of cats. Banaue’s development is spinning out of control—buildings are put up haphazardly, the heart of the town and the streets that lead away from it are getting increasingly overrun, unattractive, noisy and somewhat unsafe. I don’t like being in the town all that much, and most tourists I meet don’t want to stay for long either. There isn’t much to do after one day except go visit other towns like Batad, and there aren’t any great restaurants or notable lodges that offer something special or unique. The town is noisy and somewhat uncomfortable—people spit betel nut in the streets, litter everywhere, and men constantly hang about the side streets and stare at you. Most tourists I meet are eager to get onto the next place. But it’s tragic to me because I know the people here and they are so kind. And there are many wonderful places to visit if you know where to go.

It made me really think about development—how can you beautify a place if the people don’t know how to make it happen themselves? I have all these ideas, but who am I to say anything since I’m not from this place and I’m not sticking around? Do I have a right to get involved, or should I just hint at ideas and see if any take root and grow? I feel so useless on some levels here because I offer so little except some observations. But it makes me think about what I can give, what my interests are. It’s also a real wake up call—the most effective change happens when people can commit to a place or region for an extended period of time.

I’m not sure what it will take to help Banaue develop more thoughtfully, but I hope they figure it out somehow. In some ways it breaks my heart to just walk away, but I’m not sure I have another answer right now.

I walked off the night bus to Banaue and into the bright sun after a nine hour bus ride and about three hours of sleep. I wasn’t sure what to expect since I left last week, the day they found Julia’s body. Would the tour guides ask me if I wanted to go to Batad, the place where Julia died? Were they already taking tourists there again so soon? Would any of them recognize me?

“Where you going, ma’am?” One of the guides asked with a smile. “Batad?” he asked.

I shook my head; an angry shock must have flickered over my face for an instant. I had hoped he wouldn’t ask me, especially with such seeming disdain. Adam and had gotten frustrated by the little laughs people gave, though we knew they just weren’t comfortable expressing their emotions—especially the men.

I spoke in Ifugao, partly to surprise him. I told him I wanted to go to the publacion where the restaurants were. I just wanted breakfast. He smiled and laughed at my Ifgugao, impressed, then nodded to his tricycle and I got in. We sped down the street, past other tricycles and shops, and we ended up in the town center.

I handed him some coins. “No,” said, “Nevermind.” I insisted. “No, it’s no problem.”
I reached out to him and handed them again. “Thanks,” I said, “but we have to support each other.” I didn’t really know what that meant; I just wanted him to take the money since he deserved it. But his gesture was so kind, I didn’t know what to say.

I walked into a popular restaurant, not sure I wanted to see anyone I knew. Within minutes, my friend, a young tour guide named Mark, walked up to me. He didn’t even say hello.

“Jen, did you hear the news?” he said, “We found out the suspect isn’t actually Ifugao, he’s from Abra (a town in a different province). He just married a local Ifugao woman, but the name isn’t even Ifugao. And they say he’s in Baguio now, so they will probably find him in a day or two.”

I hadn’t heard this info and I didn’t entirely believe it, but I knew why he’d say something like that. Later I’d hear he was from another town, Benguet, but then Auntie Lourdes would insist he was from Banaue. I wondered people didn’t want to accept that the murderer was one of their own—so many people were ashamed of him. I didn’t press the issue.

We sat down and talked at the table over breakfast. Mark explained how bad Julia’s death has been for local tourism. “My friends hardly make any money as tour guides anymore,” he says, “This town is going broke. All our tourists are canceling, and this is supposed to be high season.” He shook his head. I figured it would affect the local economy but I wasn’t sure how badly.

“You know, it might be tough for awhile,” I said, “but it will be okay again eventually.”

“Yeah,” he said, “there are already people coming who haven’t heard of Julia at all. They are on vacation and they don’t read the news or watch the t.v. so they don’t know. They are fine going to Batad.”

I understood this, but thought they were foolish. Maybe I was just overreacting. I wondered if the guides told them what happened, or if they just stayed silent about it. “Yeah,” Mark continued, “I’ve just been telling them that he’s in Baguio and he’s not a local.”

Unfortunately, as good hearted as I knew Mark was, I doubted that is information was true.

“What do the locals think?” I asked.

He shook his head again. “They want to punish him our way,” he said, and made a chopping gesture with his hand. “They chop off his body bit by bit till they get to his neck.”

“What? While he’s still alive?” I say, disgusted.

He nods. “Yeah, you start with the hands and feet and chop away at his arms and legs slowly till you get to his neck. That’s the old punishment for murder here.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit brutal?” I say. “You need to let the police handle this—they need to take him to court and he needs a trial.” I feel a bit naïve as I say it, but I still believed it was better than this vigilantism. I was so tired of it.

“Well, if the locals find him first, that’s how they’ll do it,” he said with a shrug.

“But he could be innocent,” I said, “And they’ll want to question him too, to get the story.” But something deeper bothered me. “But besides that, you have to be really careful of the image you’re sending right now. The whole world has their eye on the Ifugao, and if you do that you’ll just look brutal and uncivilized. No one will ever want to come here.”

“Oh don’t worry,” he leaned forward, still rather flippant. “They’ll do it in a hidden place so no one can see. Like a forest or something.” He paused. “You know, there’s a rape in Sagada (a popular tourist destination) every year. But the media never reports on that. Just Banaue—it’s like they hate us or something.”

I shook my head, disturbed. I really liked Mark, a young guide who’s been very westernized by over ten years of guiding, but is still very passionate and loyal to his culture. He’s been one of the locals who looked out for me the most. But this was hard to hear. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to judge people because of it. I knew Mark was young and passionate, and sometimes prone to exaggeration. Maybe the method he described wasn’t even true.

Later that morning I went to visit another friend, Susan, a Filipina who owns one of my favorite restaurants and lodging houses. We sat down with her laundry woman, an Ifugao, and I asked about the punishment that Mark had described.

The laundry woman nodded. “Yes, it’s true,” she said. When I asked her what they used it for, she said, “Murder, stealing, rape.”

“Do they do it in a forest?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Oh no, they do it in public.” She turned around and pointed to the public square in another part of town. “Like there—they do it in the town square.”

Susan nodded in agreement. “Yeah, they do it in public so people will be afraid and never do what that man did.”

I shuddered. “Well, I hope they don’t do that to this man. He needs a fair trial and finding him will help solve what happened. That what they hope anyway.”

Susan frowned, “If he hasn’t killed himself already.”

“He needs the electric chair,” the Ifugao woman said.

“No, that’s too sudden,” Susan said, frowning again. “I think they should chop him so he can really know the pain that he has caused.” I looked at Susan, surprised. Her family was from the region, but she now lived part time at the hotel and part-time in Manila. I hadn’t expected that vengeance from her, that level of brutality.

I left the restaurant, not sure what to think. I wandered through the market place where numerous women who recognized me chatted with me about Julia, about how sad they were. A few crowded around and asked if I knew her; they listened to my description of her memorial and my time in Manila. One woman said that seeing me made her sad because I reminded her of Julia. I didn’t know what to say to all of them, so I mostly listened or put a hand on their shoulders. Their tender grief was such a respite after the previous talk—I didn’t even want to ask about their thoughts on what kind of treatment the murderer deserved.

It was a lot to take in—so much emotion from a people that hardly expressed their emotions at all. Everyone seemed extra kind to me for some reason—perhaps I had just returned refreshed and happy to be back and my outlook was better. Or perhaps they just wanted to be kinder to foreigners, to overcompensate somehow, even unconsciously. I think it was me though, and my change of mind.

However kind everyone seemed though—I was still haunted by the image of their torture. It made me grateful for our justice system, even with its flaws. I found myself struggling: part of me wanted the Ifugao to retain the purity of their culture, and another part of me thought it might be better if they continued to evolve into a more civilized culture. I saw right through my own hypocrisy and wasn’t sure what to think. When it comes down to it, who determines what practices and values remain, and which get left behind?

It was hot that day, Saturday—the day of Julia’s memorial. I walked along the waterfront, between rows of palms stretching over the concrete and the hot air blew over the bay with sigh. A woman stood under a yellow umbrella against a pole, unmoving. She glanced at me and then back to the water, her body still and rigid. A young man, thin in his oversized tank top, draped over his watermelon cart, his skin dry and tight against his bones. A woman napped, curled on her side in the shade of an empty ticket booth, on a board placed between two chairs. I walked past the ice cream man, who played the jingle on his stand.

“What’s your name?” he asked me, “What’s your name?” I just smiled and walk past.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Julia. It began a week earlier in Banaue when I was about to go browse the market in the publacion. An Ifugao woman leaned over from her second floor perch and squinted at me. “Are you in the Peace Corps? Do you know Julia? She is missing.”

What started with a simple question turned into posters, helicopters, calls from the media, and conversations with police captains. What started as a slight concern: “Oh, she’s probably just trekking—won’t she be embarrassed when she comes out from her trek and sees they’re all looking for her?” turned into a deep fear—the kind that kept me up every night, wondering.

And then, on April 18th—on a bus with Adam and a group of farmers on a field trip—we found out. Adam told me when I woke up from a nap. He sat in front of me and pushed his seat back. He reached his arm through the gap and held my hand as I looked at him, stunned, and then cried. We sat there, holding hands and grieving as the bus pushed through the valley heat, as the farmers chatted around us, unaware. Ordinarily we wouldn’t even touch in front of them; they’d assume we were having an affair. But that day, we didn’t care. We’d lost her—we lost Julia.

I went to the memorial for a few reasons. Like many others attended, I never knew her personally. But in the days before they found her, one of her friends found my blog and contacted me for information. I started talking to the police captain to give them news that the media couldn’t. And somehow, through her friends, through the articles I read about her, she became a vivid person to me. She was a writer in New York and an independent woman. I related to her—in fact, I’d hiked in Batad—where her body was found—once by myself before. It could have been me. I wanted to do anything to help somehow—her family, her friends, anything. I felt so awful.

But mostly I wanted to know who she was, what she gave, how she interacted with others. I hoped the memorial would offer a more complete picture of Julia, of her life.

They held the memorial in embassy ballroom. There was a red carpet down the middle of the room, and rows of chairs on either side. There were hundreds of us there, Filipinos and Americans; some people lined up against the back wall when the chairs run out. Many of the Peace Corps volunteers wore a strand of fresh sampaguitas—the Philippine national flower. I wished I could have one of my own.

The memorial began with a prayer, followed with a speech from the Ambassador, Kristie Kenney. Ms. Kenney cried as she admited she didn’t know Julia personally, but got to know her through her work, through reading and hearing about her through other PCVs. In her opinion, Julia’s example showed that PCVs can really touch lives and make a difference. “Let us not lose the spirit of compassion, kindness, and cheer that defined Julia,” she said, “and let today be not just a mourning of her loss, but a celebration of her life.” She ended with a statement from George Bush, who offered his condolences as well.

The memorial continued with a speech from a representative of the government, who shared their grief and promised to bring justice to Julia. And then Alvin Huff, a PCV in the Bicol region got up. He was tall, black, and broad shouldered. He stood before the podium, cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and then launched into a beautiful rendition of Amazing Grace.

I don’t know what it is about that song; it’s used in almost every funeral I have been to. It seems like it would have to get old, but somehow, it’s fresh every time. Maybe that’s what’s so amazing about it. For many of us, it probably transports us to some funeral at another time when that song was sung; it connects so many loved ones who have passed on. It reminded me of my mother, a woman who also left the planet far too early at forty-nine. We all stood there, listening to Alvin sing through the varied choruses, his voice trembling at points, yet still strong, deep and clear. I didn’t think Julia was Christian, and I wondered what she thought about the song, but the content didn’t even matter. Alvin was so beautiful that the moment vibrated. It was the emotion behind the song that mattered, that moved us all.

After Alvin finished, several PCVs got up to share some thoughts about her. One of her close friends, Kelly, a woman around 25 years old, got up to the podium and shared, her voice shaking. She talked about how she and Julia became like close siblings and that Julia used to call her Boonso, or youngest sibling, and she called Julia Ate. Then she shared a story about when she and Julia went snorkeling together, a story she felt captured Julia’s spirit.

“Of course we had brought our Peace Corps issued life vests with us,” she said, and the room burst into laughter—apparently all PCVs are issued life vests at the beginning of their service and told they must wear them when they’re on a boat. Kelly laughed again, “But we hadn’t put the life vests on. They were still in the boat. It wasn’t a big deal till we noticed that the boat started to get farther and farther away. It wasn’t a huge emergency, the island wasn’t that far away if it came to it, but we were getting a little nervous. Anyway, the driver of the boat threw us a jacket—but only one. We were in the water, thinking: ‘Great! Thanks for that one life jacket!’

“We tried to get creative,” Kelly continued, “we put the life jacket over our both our heads, but that didn’t work.” The audience laughed again. “Then,” Kelly’s voice choked, “Julia said, ‘Boonso, you just take the lifejacket, and I’ll hold onto you.”

Kelly started crying. “That’s just the kind of person Julia was, she’d give you the only life vest.”
The stories continued. Julia’s host sister cried as she spoke about how Julia had touched her life. At first we all laughed because when she went up to the podium we could hardly see more than her forehead, and so she had to come up to the front and speak into a microphone.

And then the singing continued. Two young women, Jen Austin and Kate Kochersberger read a blog of Julia’s about singing in the Philippines. In one part, Julia wrote: “In the Philippines, singing is done everywhere and every event gives you an excuse to sing. It's not unusual to ride a jeepney, cheek to cheek, and have the 20 passengers break out into song in unison to whatever is on the radio at the moment. Last year, when a popular singer, Nina, had a hit "Love Moves (in Mysterious Ways)," there wasn't a mouth on the jeepney that was silent. Including mine!”

Her blog talked about a videoke session she had with some PCVs and how she sang her favorite Tagalog song, “Pagdating ng Panahon” (At the Right Time). The two girls then walked to the front of the room with a microphone and, while the music played, sang Julia’s favorite song. At first, their voice shook, and they smiled nervously to each other and tried not to laugh. But as they continued, they strengthened, and eventually as the song wound to its climax, the two held the mike to their faces with passion and belted out the refrain. The audience cheered and the girls smiled, blushed and sang their hearts out. We all clapped and cheered for them at the end. It was a perfect match to the quote at the end of Julia’s blog about singing in the Philippines: “Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.”—Voltaire.

Another volunteer shared about a time when he was upset, and he vented about his homesickness and frustrations to Julia for a half an hour, and Julia just came over and put her hand on his shoulder. “That’s just the kind of person she was,” he said, as his voice cracked and he cried, “She just knew exactly the right thing to say or do for someone.”

A woman stood and read a poem by Mary Oliver, Sleeping in the Forest. She wondered if perhaps this was what Julia felt during her last moments.

Sleeping in the Forest

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

The stories and poems and letters continued. Some were funny and lively—people writing to Julia as if she were in the room with us. Others just stood in front of the podium, crying and talking about what Julia meant to them. We heard about the projects Julia had completed at site, including her eco-center and her book project for the local library, and we heard about the many people she had inspired. Many of us stood around later amazed at the work she’d done in such a short period of time. Other volunteers said things like, “Man, it makes me feel like I’ve done nothing at my site!”

At one point, an Ifugao got up to speak, Manong Paul, the secretary to the governor who helped head the search party for Julia. He stood up and talked about how difficult it was for an Ifugao to come to this event. “When someone is killed in our culture,” he said, “You cannot show yourself because you are either part of the family, or you are the perpetrators. We have received a lot of texts and emails from people all over the Philippines condemning us, telling me how horrible we are. But we were asked to join the memorial and so we came down to express our deep sadness for her loss.”

It was intense to hear him speak, since I’d gotten so close to the Ifugao people and I couldn’t imagine what kind of treatment they were getting. So many people already looked down on the Ifugao—saying that they were uncivilized betel nut chewers. It saddened me to think of how this would affect tourism and travel to their region. It was hard to hear him say that, but then I was also so proud that he had the courage to come and be present at Julia’s memorial.

Later, after the director of the Peace Corps read a letter from Julia’s family, he expressed that no one had any enmity towards the Ifugao, and that they’re a wonderful people. He asked Manong Paul and the men that came with him to stand so we could applaud them for their efforts to find Julia. One by one we clapped and cheered, and the sound grew like a wave as our appreciation turned into a standing ovation.

And then we saw the slideshow—which might have been my favorite part. A PCV had put together a collection of pictures from Julia’s time at her site. We saw her teaching yoga to local youths, hanging out with friends, attending conferences, and smiling, smiling, smiling. She was so radiant, so joyful. That came across more than anything.

As I sat through the memorial, what struck me most was how human Julia was. She wasn’t perfect—she struggled, she had her hard days, she wanted to go home, she missed the city. Yet, the choices she made to help others, to push through her homesickness and give to the people around her; that’s what struck me most. I sat there, amazed by her life and I thought: What have I done? What have I given? How can I change the way I interact with my site? I’m no Peace Corps volunteer, but I’m a writer and a human and I know I’m capable of being more kind and compassionate. Am I doing that enough?

As I circled the room, chatting with people at the end of the memorial, we talked about this, how Julia had inspired us to do and be more. I loved that Julia loved pedicures and fine dining and yet taught yoga to the locals. I loved her enthusiasm and optimism. I have those qualities myself, but these first couple months were so hard that I didn’t give as much as I wish I had. I wish I had done more to let the local people know how much I cared about them. I wish I had done more. But one thing Julia reminded me of is that it’s never too late to begin.

I walked home after the memorial by myself. It was dark, the day had cooled, and the empty waterfront now slowly crowded with people. I didn’t want to look at anybody, didn’t know what to think. I just wanted to figure out what Julia’s sudden presence in my life meant for me, and I wondered if it might take awhile to figure that all out.

As I walked along the sidewalk, something caught me eye—one of the white flower necklaces many of the memorial attendees had worn. It was a string of sampaguitas, placed on a cement block just a ways from the embassy. I picked it up, joyful, and grasped it in my hands. I held it to my face and inhaled its sweet fragrance, the soft petals pressed against my palms and lips. I stood there smiling, holding the wilting necklace in my hands like a gift as the cars honked, as people walked by, as the city life continued all around me.

When I heard the helicopters, I knew that something was wrong. I hadn’t heard a plane or a helicopter overhead since I left Denver. I knew they must be looking for Julia, and the helicopters weren’t a good sign.

Julia Campbell, a 40 year-old Peace Corps Volunteer in the Philippines, has been missing in my research site of Banaue since April 8th. As of this writing, it’s April 17th; she’s been missing for 10 days.

A few days ago, Adam and I went to the helicopter pad up near Banaue Hotel to see if we could get some information. We headed up the road, past a car full of Philippine National Policemen (PNP) and headed for the man who looked the most official. He stood near the concrete landing pad in his uniform, his hair smooth and gelled, his clothes crisp and tucked in. Around us, children in loose tee shirts and baggy shorts screamed and played on the landing pad—one of the few flat surfaces in Banaue besides the school grounds.

Adam spoke to the officer in Ifugao and told him he was the local Peace Corps volunteer. The officer relaxed a bit and shared some information with us: Julia was last seen in Batad, one of my favorite hiking spots. She arrived at the visitors’ center after hiking in and introduced herself to several locals. Apparently she’d made reservations for the next night (April 9th) on the Autobus to go to Manila, but never showed.

They had the Philippine military, the National Police and Embassy forces out looking for her. They were hiking the common trails—the waterfall trail and trekking trail between several villages, and they were searching the villages as well. If she was just on a trek or staying with a village family, surely she’d be found. If she was injured, or worse, it would be more difficult. The hillsides are steep and jungle-thick. It would be easy for her to remain hidden under the forest cover indefinitely.

Adam and I turned to each other and I could see the pain on his face. “I just wish there was something I could do,” he said. “I want to go out there on those trails and help find her.”

We both knew they wouldn’t want him in the way, but I had the same urge myself. She was in our territory and somehow we felt responsible, we wanted to help solve the problem. As much as I dislike how Americans get special treatment, how American life often seems more valuable than a Filipino’s, I did feel a connection to her—the choices she made, the confidence she had in her ability to navigate the countryside without a guide—I would have done all the same things in her shoes. She could have easily been me.

“Have you looked in all the local’s houses?” Adam asked. “Peace Corps volunteers like to meet the locals and stay with them; that’s what they do.”

“No, it’s different,” the officer said. “You speak Ifugao and she speaks another dialect. She wouldn’t have done that.”

Adam and I looked at each other—we knew that he was wrong.

“But when you live here for a long time,” I said, “You get comfortable. Even when I hardly spoke Ifugao, I hiked without a guide, and might have stayed with a family if they let me. She has lived here for two years now so she feels very comfortable wherever she is.”

The officer nodded his head. Still, we all knew that if she was alive in a village, word of mouth would ensure that they’d find out soon.

As we spoke, the helicopters circled in the sky around us. One of them headed for the landing pad. The children all yelled and ran away, their hair and clothes whipping around them. The officers around us stood behind their vehicle. At first I looked directly at the helicopter as it got closer, mesmerized by the way it tossed the plants and bushes around us, by the way it tossed the trash into the air. A man even stood next to me with his video camera, taping the event. But then it felt as if a sudden tornado had descended and the wind hit with such a force that I went and hid behind the vehicle too, shielding my eyes as my hair lashed my face. Something that powerful, I thought, should be able to find Julia, right?

An American man stepped off the helicopter and walked toward the officers, shielding his eyes. His face was taut—I knew he was probably in charge of the rescue operation, at least until the official in Washington arrived in a few days. I couldn’t imagine the responsibility he felt—to the woman, to her family, to the Embassy, to the country. The world was breathing down his neck and I could see it. I thought about Julia’s family, her friends in the Peace Corps and back home, and what they must be going through. My heart ached for them.

But all around us, life went on as usual while the search continued. Some of the locals knew about what happened, but others had no idea. Earlier that day, we talked to the head of the tricycle association and he expressed his deep concerns for her.

“I just hope no one did anything bad to her,” he said, referring to a possible abduction or worse. “You know, we love Americans here—so many of our people live in that country and we have a close connection. And we are really grateful for our Peace Corps volunteers. We just have to hope and pray that she’s alright,” he said, shaking his head.

“No,” Adam said, “We have to do much more than that.”

But the kids—their bodies pressed to the walls as they shielded themselves from the wind—they had no idea what was going on. To them, this was a moment with a helicopter; a rare event. After the American official stepped away and walked towards the officer, the helicopter flew away again in a torrent of wind and dust. The landing pad was clear for a moment, but as soon as I could look again, as soon as the dust had settled, the children were out there again, playing and laughing on the cement in the afternoon sun.

Picture of Julia Campell

Anyone who has seen Ms. Campbell anytime after April 8, or who may have information on her movements or current location, should call Mr. John Borja, Safety and Security Officer of the Peace Corps - Philippines at 0920-900-5270, or contact the U.S. Embassy in Manila at (02)-528-6300.

Rice.

It makes Rice Crispies and Rice Crispy Treats, Uncle Ben’s Cream of Rice, Rice flour, rice coffee, rice vinegar, rice bran, rice soap, rice noodles, rice beer and wine, rice milk, rice paper, and rice straw which makes shoes, flip-flops, and straw bags.

In some Asian countries, such as Japan, burning twisted rice straw rope is believed to purify a room or area.

Charcoal made from rice hulls is used in Korean barbeque.

In China, school children buy steamed rice desserts during their lunch break.

Geishas sometimes wear rice panicles as ornaments.

A rice straw “dragon” is used as a habitat for silk worms making cocoons.

Balinese rub rice paste on their feet to alleviate headaches and sore muscles.

Rice straw rope is wrapped around plants to protect them from severe weather. Insects lay their eggs on the straw which is then burned in spring—non-chemical pesticide management.

Mats made of rice straw are sold in Nepal, Kathmandu.

Rice is the popular grain used in most brands of beer.

Puffed rice kernels are snacks in Madras, India.

Cakes made from rice flour are popular in Balinesian markets.

I found this display in the rice museum located at the International Rice and Research Institute (I.R.R.I.) in Los Banos, a town about a one and a half hour drive from Manila. Until my time there, I really had no concept of how rice is such an integral part of Asian life. As an American I grew up eating a lot of wheat, but I’ve never seen wheat honored or used in quite this way—made into purifying sticks used in rituals, into clothing and shoes. And I never understood quite how vital rice is to billions of people. What’s it like to eat the same staple at every meal, breakfast, lunch, and dinner? I don’t think many Westerners (without Asian heritage) fully understand that.

I wandered through the rice museum in between interviews. There were displays of all the different tools used to harvest rice—especially ones used in the past, an entire corner of the museum dedicated to insects—both “pests” and beneficial ones as well. There was an Ifugao display, where they had a miniature version of the Native Ifugao hut and a video of an Ifugao ritual that looped continuously. I could hear the drumming and chanting coming from the hut while I wandered through another display—the one that had all the foods, the drinks, and even the clothes that rice was found in. There were many things I didn’t think of, and many items that I consumed a lot myself. Wandering through the display felt like a ritual itself as the Ifugao priests drummed in the background.

I.R.R.I.’s mission and purpose belie the depth of work they do. Essentially, their mission is to “reduce poverty and hunger, improve the health of rice farmers and consumers, and ensure that rice production is environmentally sustainable.”

They work closely with rice-producing and consuming countries to produce rice varieties that get requested by national organizations. For example, if the farmers in a region of the Philippines need a rice variety with certain characteristics, they tell I.R.R.I. and I.R.R.I tries to make it. They also conduct volumes of research and provide training and education for people helping rice farmers. They are a nonprofit organization, funded by sources all over the world.

I came to I.R.R.I. for many reasons. One of them because I knew they had engineered several rice varieties that did poorly in this region, destroyed the soil, and also created a dependency among the farmers for engineered rice. Because they’d destroyed the soil, the farmers couldn’t return to their native varieties with their picky soil needs.

But I.R.R.I. also engineers all the rice that grows in the world—unless it’s a heritage variety that is native to the region, or a variety engineered for profit by a company like Dupont or Monsanto. But they also have something incredible and unique: a seed bank that contains thousands of native rice seeds from around the world. Countries send in their native rice seeds to preserve in case something happens to the species. It’s an incredible service to the world.

My time at the rice museum served as a good precedent for the rest of my time at I.R.R.I. In rice based cultures, rice is sacred. I needed to understand that before I continued my research. I needed to understand that before I could even begin to understand the Ifugao.

This little saying at the Rice Museum helped put it into perspective for me:

Rice is Life.

For people in rice cultures,
Rice means just about everything
That is important:
Birth, Death,
Wealth, Power,
Strength, Fertility,
Virility, Vitality—

Life itself.

Chat with Duncan Macintosh--Part 1

Rice Terraces in Batad

There’s a crisis heading for the Philippines and genetic scientists are scrambling to avert it. In 2004, when China really began its economic boom, they imported rice for the first time in 50 years. They only imported 1% of their rice—which doesn’t sound like much—but for a country of 1,300,000,000 people, that’s enough rice for 13,000,000 million people, or 10% of the world’s rice needs.

According to Duncan Macintosh at the International Rice and Research Institute (I.R.R.I.) that single act changed the whole rice market. Beijing gave one million in subsidies to farmers just to keep them growing rice. He said the global market heard this “giant sucking sound”—China coming into the market.

Why does this matter? It’s not a good time for China to need rice for an extra thirteen million people. Rice stocks are at a thirty year low because of countries like China and India which have had five years of falling rice production. As individuals in the country get wealthier, farmers get more income from outside sources and leave farming behind. Rice farmers are diversifying into other farming markets. Agricultural land is being used for parkland or development, and there is less water available in general. Also, as China and India import more rice, Vietnam and Thailand are pulling back their exports, stockpiling essentially, which reduces the rice on the market and raises the price.

Some of this is good news; it indicates that developing nations are pulling themselves out of poverty. But these recent developments terrify countries like Indonesia and the Philippines. The combination of thirteen million new mouths on the market and low rice stocks means that the market price of rice is set to double in about two years. And while China—now booming economically—can afford that, the Philippines can’t.

“If they don’t achieve self sufficiency in China, they can afford to buy all the rice they need,” Duncan said. “But the Philippines can’t afford to compete with China. That’s why they support any GMO rice they can—especially higher yielding varieties. They just cannot compete with India and China.”

“Indonesia, one of the worlds biggest rice importers, spends about 20-30 million USD importing rice. They spend 2 million USD on GMO research. If they could become self sufficient through GMO and not have to import, it’s a pretty persuasive argument to spend more on new technologies.”

Only Japan and Korea are wealthy enough to subsidize their own farmers. Governments have to keep prices down, otherwise people will rebel. “If I was in the government right now,” he said, “I would feel this enormous pressure. If you can’t ensure your people are fed, what good are you?”

It’s not as if Philippine farmers are less productive than their Asian counterparts. In fact they’re four times more productive than Thai farmers per hectare, and they use fewer pesticides.

The problem is that they’re an island, just like Indonesia and Japan. All of these countries have been importing for decades. The Philippines has four million hectares of rice growing over 7000 islands, while Thailand has nine million all in one section of the country. When all the rice is grown in one place, transport, irrigation, and fertilizer are much cheaper, and there’s just more land to farm in general.

“We’re always asking ourselves, ‘What can we do to solve the problems of small scale farmers?’”

That’s where biotech rice comes in.

Chat with Duncan Macintosh, Part 2

What is biotech rice anyway? There are a lot of terms that get thrown around: genetically modified rice (GM), hybrids, biotech, etc. and I, and many others, get confused. I asked Duncan to clarify it for me.

There are four types of rice:

1. Traditional rice varieties: These have been developed in a specific region over long periods of time. They have great aroma and taste, lousy disease resistance, and don’t respond to fertilizer (the application of fertilizer produces more leaves, not grains). The Ifugao tinawon, grown only in these rice terraces, is one example.

2. Modern high yielding varieties: These were obtained through traditional plant breeding. Some of these include short stemmed varieties, varieties that respond to fertilizer (application produces more grains, not leaves), and many have built in pest and disease resistance. This also includes varieties that have been created by precision breeding, where genetic markers from one rice variety are bred with the other in a lab.

3. Hybrid Varieties: This is when two different varieties are bred to make a new variety. These highly respected varieties produce new seeds every year and farmers love them because they give a fantastic yield. Unfortunately these varieties are also going to uneducated farmers who don’t know what they’re doing with them. Governments purchase these varieties and give them to farmers because they have a pressure for self-sufficiency. Unfortunately, here in Ifugao for example, the government pushed the high yielding variety and it destroyed the soil.

4. Genetically modified rice: defined as rice with genes from another species (such as Golden Rice, with genes from a daffodil, or rice bred with pesticide genes from Monsanto). This rice is the most controversial—while it can provide a service on one level, the effects of their genetic mutations on the ecosystem and on our bodies are unknown.

So, to clarify, biotech rice is anything that involves the movement of genes, any work done at the genetic level. Greenpeace supports a form of bio-tech called precision breeding, which falls under the “modern high yielding” category. Interspecies breeding is fine with them. GM rice however, they are strictly against—as am I.

I did have a bone to pick with Duncan. I mentioned what happened in the 70’s when I.R.R.I. created a hybrid rice variety, the highly touted RI-8 or “Miracle Rice.” Phil Rice marketed it like crazy up here; introduced it to the farmers with all sorts of promises, and then it tore up the soil and didn’t yield much at all. It also tasted bad and didn’t have an aroma at all.

“Our process has changed a lot in the last forty years,” he said. “Back then, they just developed a new variety and practically threw it over the fence. When the RI-8 variety was developed, the systems were really underdeveloped. They didn’t have rice researchers to do the adaptive work that we do now. Now the process is a never-ending consultation with farmers who talk to Phil Rice about their problems, then Phil Rice talks to us.”

“No one talks about new varieties anymore; they talk about characteristics. You can make varieties with characteristics like flood tolerant rice, for example. The work we do now is much more subtle.”

Now I.R.R.I. has a bit of a damaged reputation to fix. They’ve got to recover from their own past mistakes, as well as separate themselves from corporations like Monsanto. They’ve realized that their previous top down mentality didn’t work.

“Farmers will always come back to us on quality. You can’t just focus on yield and production—they want rice that tastes good too.”

Monarchs--One of the possible victims of Genetic Engineering

I can’t help but respond to my interview with Dr. Gerard Barry.

It’s hard to debate biotechnologists who claim that their main interest is to feed the starving. For example, an article on the Monsanto website responded to Patagonia’s recent alert to its customers. Patagonia, an ecologically minded clothing company, stated that genetic engineering was “a dark threat to all that is wild” and encouraged its customers to “go organic”.

In response, Monsanto released an article touting the many benefits of biotechnology, some of which I agree are very important, end then bombasted Patagonia and supporters of organic farming in general. The article ended with this comment: “Ask those who demagogue the issue of biotechnology: How many vitamin A-deficient, blind children will you allow to achieve your objective? How many iron-deficient women must die in childbirth so you can sell outdoor gear to the “environmentally conscious”? How many more lives will you sacrifice for your “cause”?”

It’s hard to have a discussion when someone throws that comment at you—if you take issue with bioengineered foods, do you inherently wish death upon millions of people? Of course not. In fact, many people who question or are against genetic engineering want to save lives as well—the consequences of allowing GE foods into our ecosystem and bodies are unknown. It’s possible that we could severely damage our ecosystem and our bodies as a result and kill more people and organisms than we can possibly imagine. Many people don’t understand the interconnectedness of the food web and the consequences of putting something deadly at the bottom of the food chain. We have no idea what will happen as it works its way up.

It’s interesting that Monsanto is so concerned with blind children and iron-deficient women in childbirth, when they have created numerous toxins whose health hazards are notorious around the world.

Let’s take one, Agent Orange—the highly controversial herbicide and defoliant used in the Vietnam War in the U.S. military’s herbicidal warfare program. Agent Orange was a mix of two herbicides created in England and used there and in the U.S. as herbicides as early as 1946. It only affected broad leafed plants, so planes could spray the herbicide over a field of wheat and it would kill the weeds, not the crop itself.

It was later discovered that a dioxin (2,4,5-T) was produced in the manufacturing of Agent Orange (and the other varieties also used during the way) that was later classified by the National Toxicology program as a human carcinogen. frequently associated with soft-tissue sarcoma, Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, Hodgkin's disease and chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL). 2,4,5-T has since been banned for use in the US and many other countries. It is consistently under investigation as to whether or not Agent Orange causes significantly dangerous levels of dioxin in the affected areas.

As for pesticides (many of which are produced by Monsanto)—they don’t simply wash off in the kitchen sink. Again, that kind of thinking does not consider the interconnectedness of an ecosystem. Even if pesticides “just washed off” a vegetable and didn’t harm the consumer, that pesticide still came into contact with the soil, with groundwater, with insects and other animal and plant life. It was touched by the farm laborers who applied it or worked in the fields where it was applied.

Pesticides and fertilizers also contaminate our water—from ground water which we drink, to run off that eventually ends up in rivers, lakes, and oceans. Excessive nitrogen (from feces in fertilizers) and phosphorous have numerous side effects not only on water ecosystems but on humans too. Nitrogen has reportedly caused “blue babies” as low levels of nitrogen can cause sickness and death in babies under six months of age. In water ecosystems, increasing the phosphorus supply tends to encourage the growth of cyanobacteria (which can fix their own nitrogen). Such “algal blooms” can be toxic to fauna, farm animals and humans. In short, I disagree that pesticides have no side effects.

The genetic engineering debate is more complicated. I think Patagonia’s blanket statement that genetic engineering is a “dark threat to all that is wild” is a bit overdramatic. There are different breeding techniques that fall under “genetic engineering” and some are less questionable than others. According to an official at I.R.R.I., Greenpeace actually supports the interspecies breeding done at I.R.R.I.—it’s simply an acceleration of the breeding process where scientists apply a characteristic of one rice species to a more popular one. So, there might be a wild rice which is flood tolerant but doesn’t produce edible rice grains. The scientist might modify an existing edible variety and add the flood tolerant gene.

Transgenic modification is another matter. Golden Rice, a transgenic rice bred with a daffodil gene to get Vitamin A, has been touted as the rice for the poor. Many of the I.R.R.I. staff are very behind it.

However, there are also many claims against it. According several reports, children and women would have to consume extremely large quantities of the rice to make it at all viable—a woman would have to consume 16lbs., and a child about 12lbs. a day, which they could get the same vitamin A from two carrots and a mango, or some golden sweet potatoes.

Secondly, there are numerous concerns about the effects of transgenic crops in the ecosystem. For example, pesticide resistant engineer crops allow large amounts of pesticides to get sprayed without affecting the plant. That, however, does affect the plants around them.
For example, there have been reports that monarch butterfly colonies are decreasing.

According to an article in the Star Tribune: “...one factor in the decline in the number of egg-carrying plants [of monarch butterflies] could be the growing use of herbicide-tolerant soybeans, which are genetically engineered to permit larger amounts of weed-killing chemicals to be applied without hurting the crop. This method may have increased the spraying of herbicides and thereby the destruction of milkweed, which can be common in farm fields.” Milkweed is the plant that monarchs typically lay their eggs on.

The concerns are too numerous to go into here, but the point is that GE companies (not including I.R.R.I., a nonprofit) often act as if they have the moral high ground when it comes to debate about GE foods. They frequently attempt to push GE into countries without labeling (since they know consumers are less likely to buy their product if it’s labeled GE).
Monsanto even makes claims that it values corporate transparency. In fact, a new Monsanto pledge states that they: “commit to an ongoing dialogue with interested parties to understand the issues and concerns related to this technology.”

And yet their response to those who question and to those who ask for debate and dialogue to continue before seeds are haphazardly planted is to label their opponents as “fear mongers” and anti-human rights.

The fact is, we need to dialogue about these technologies. Corporations aren’t the only ones who have a say in this debate—we all need to take part in it. Corporations like Monsanto act as if their actions have no recourse on the rest of the planet, but they do. We have every right to demand that they honor our needs and concerns as consumers, and more importantly as a democratic population that has every right to exercise control over its corporations.
I acknowledge that the green revolution saved millions of lives. I also think technology is incredible and necessary, and I totally support its use in our lives. That said; we must be very careful. Messing with our food supply can have damaging effects that we can’t even comprehend right now. Acting out of desperation is never a good option.

Lastly, I’ve seen first hand what happens when Westerns come into a developing country with the belief that they know how to solve all of their problems. The best solutions allow dialogue and debate. It’s also essential that more money gets channeled into small scale, local projects like Yunus’ microfinance movement—solutions that respect the intelligence of the local people and empowers them to create solutions for themselves. That is an approach that gives dignity to people in developing country, though it may not provide the large financial rewards that many of these large GE corporations are after.

Chat with Duncan Macintosh--Part 3

Native Tinawon

Duncan and I talked about what can be done to preserve the traditional rice varieties, like the tinawon in the Ifugao region.

“You know,” he begins, “there’s been a recent discussion: is rice like wine? There’s this winemaker called Beaujolais Nouveau in France and they’ve made a business making the freshest wine around—it’s a marketing gimmick. Instead of aging it, they bottle the wine and sell it immediately all over the world. It’s all about marketing and entrepreneurial skill.”

“What if you took that idea and multiplied it all over the world? Wine lovers talk about how the unique soil and climactic condition creates the wine variety. What about rice boutiques? What if rice were marketed the same way?”

I told him about a business in the U.S. that is exporting the Ifugao tinawon and selling it as a boutique rice there.

“That’s great, but if you really want longevity in the market,” Duncan said, “you’ve got to sell it to the affluent middle class in Asia. Get it known there where you have tens of millions of rice critics—people that really know rice and eat it with every meal. They’re sick of the same old rice they’ve always eaten and they want something new. That’s where you’ve got to market it.”

It made me happy to know that I had been spending time watching a business doing just that, though their market is mostly American. He is right though—the ideal people to go after are the nouveau riche in China—an up and coming force that might be eating up all the rice, but potentially able to save the native varieties as well.

When I first met Dr. Gerard Barry, I assumed we resided in two different camps. He has a long history inventing and marketing products for Monsanto, a genetic engineering company whose practices have long been questionable to me. He set his tone clearly when I walked in the room.

“So, you’re researching in Banaue?” He asked. “I hear they have a rat problem there.” He leaned back in his chair. “What they need is a really good rodenticide.”

I only had a short amount of time with him, so I let the comment slide. I didn’t want to get into an ideological debate—I wanted to understand his point of view without arguing mine. That said, I’ve always been a big proponent of organic agriculture, and very against current farming methodologies that have destroyed top soil and required pesticides and fertilizers which result in human poisoning (both to consumers and farm laborers), water toxicity, and the destruction of plants, insects, and the life that depends on them. In my opinion, rodenticide was not what they needed in Banaue.

Dr. Barry continued to speak. “You know people out there ludicrously believe that weeds are part of agriculture? You’re having this problem up there in Banaue where the place has become a tourist destination, but the farmers are starving. You can’t eat the scenery, right? But people think the poor should always pay the burden of maintaining the aesthetics.”

In contrast to Dr. Barry, I was taught and believe that weeds are indeed a part of agriculture. A Canadian study suggests that if farmers leave 30 percent of their land fallow (uncultivated—which would include “weeds”), they will increase their yields. The wild land provides habitat for native pollinators which improve pollination and increase the number of seeds. But perhaps Monsanto would argue that pollinators are not part of agriculture either.

He continued. “You know, the organic movement is a marketing scam. There is no actual benefit to organic food. Organic is not even pesticide free. Farmers use copper sulfate, which is a fungicide. There’s a huge amount of hypocrisy here—it doesn’t matter what pesticide you use, it’ll wash off when you rinse it.” (Read my response to this comment here: )

He continued. “The problem with organic farming is that the premium is creamed off by the supermarket. The organic industry can’t make money in Europe, so they want to get subsidized by the government. Well, that will bring the price down for the other farmers. That will get rid of whatever premium farmers are making in Africa and give it to the Europeans.

“I have nothing against organic food, if people want to pay the price for it. What I am against is closing options for others.”

I asked Dr. Barry how Monsanto differed from I.R.R.I. “They’re really no different, aside from the fact that one’s a business and the other a nonprofit. We (at I.R.R.I.) work on products that a company would not be paid for, while Monsanto would work on products that they’d be paid for. Essentially, the private sector (companies like Monsanto) develops a product and takes it to delivery. I.R.R.I. hands off to a national organization like PhilRice who cultivates enough to plant a crop and then sell it to farmers.”

Dr. Barry is also intimately involved with Golden Rice—a highly controversial rice variety originally invented by two scientists in the private sector. The rice, according the Golden Rice website (www.goldenrice.org) “has been genetically engineered to contain beta-carotene and other carotenoids in the endosperm (the edible part of the grain). This gives the grains a golden color, as opposed to regular white rice, which is practically devoid of carotenoids. When the rice is consumed, some carotenoids are converted in the body into vitamin A.”



White Rice vs. Golden Rice

Golden rice is produced by splicing three foreign genes, two from the daffodil and one from a bacterium, into japonica rice, a variety adapted for temperate climates. This kind of engineering is not interspecies genetic engineering—which is more like an accelerated breeding process—but cross species, or transgenic, engineering that would never happen naturally. A few years ago, the inventors of Golden Rice released the news onto the market that they’d created rice for the impoverished. However, it got so tied up in patent laws that any country that wanted to use it would have had to pay a hefty sum, which defeated the purpose. Faced with a lot of bad press, the inventors handed it over to the public commons—I.R.R.I.—so that the rice could be developed and distributed by the nonprofit sector.

Critics have been very upset about the rice getting out into the ecosystem on a large scale, as the consequences of transgenic species on the eco-system are not currently known. Proponents of the rice argue that the nutrients may help alleviate life threatening diseases among the desperately impoverished who can’t afford to get the nutrients from their natural sources.

It’s also been argued that a woman would have to eat 16 lbs of cooked rice, a child would have to eat 12lbs., in order to meet their daily Vitamin A requirements because the rice actually contains so little Vitamin A. In contrast, they could get those requirements from two tablespoons of yellow potatoes, half a cup of green leafy vegetables, or two thirds of a mango. They argue that money should be channeled into programs that teach locals to grow small-scale farms and public education programs. Unfortunately, there’s so much propaganda everywhere it’s hard to know who to trust, and what will actually be successful.

Dr. Barry has been a huge proponent, organizer, and spokesperson for the transgenic rice.
Now Dr. Barry and his associates face the challenge of testing the rice in the field and getting it accepted by the public. He doesn’t understand the public’s resistance to the rice testing. “Golden Rice is not a private sector product and you can’t make money on it,” Dr. Barry says, “It’s agriculture in the service of human health and nutrition. Our question is: How many deaths or days of sickness can we relieve?”

“Critics argue that people should get the Vitamin A from sweet potatoes or carrots, or that they should get them from canned goods even. But we’re trying to serve the people who can only afford a handful of rice a day, the people for whom that’s not even an option. It’s not the only option, and there are other options, but this is one of them.”

Dr. Barry also shared with me that he co-created Roundup Ready, the leading herbicide on the market today. Monsanto not only created Roundup Ready, but also Roundup Ready genetically modified plants which are resistant to glyphosate—the active ingredient. Roundup ready, like many Monsanto products, has been controversial; there are some concerns about weed resistance (since many insects and weeds evolve resistance to chemicals over time), but the main concern is its affect on mammalian fertility—including humans. Knowing this, and having long encouraged gardeners to use alternatives to Roundup ready since little is known about how it affects groundwater and the ecosystem in general, I continued to feel uncertain how to respond to Dr. Barry.

I asked him how working at I.R.R.I. differed from Monsanto—since he went from a high profile executive position to working for a nonprofit. This fact has also stirred up quite a bit of controversy—many people question his role at I.R.R.I.—especially his involvement with the Golden Rice.

Listening to Dr. Barry though, his motives seem clear. “Now I work with people who feed someone or save someone’s life, rather than their own budget,” he says. “You have an amazing set of allies when you’re not trying to sell a pesticide or herbicide. I deal with people whose goals are to reduce the amount of sick kids in the world. Now that’s someone you work with easily.”

I left Dr. Barry’s after a little over a half hour, totally confused. I walked in against transgenic species and walked out feeling like if I was against transgenics, I somehow condemned millions of people to starvation. It took me a few weeks to sort through my thoughts and feelings on what is an intensely complex issue. It’s too easy to just say: we shouldn’t mess with rice, leave it alone. It’s also too easy to discount all the critics of GMO foods and their ecological concerns. I wasn’t sure what to think about Dr. Barry—a man who stands for many things that I’m against ecologically, but who, like me, wants to feed the starving masses.

Asipulo Rice Terraces

When I arrived at the International Rice and Research Institute, (I.R.R.I.), I met with the visitor coordinator to figure out who I should interview during my time there. The coordinator mentioned several people, two of whom really intrigued me: a man who used to work with Greenpeace, and another who recently worked for Monsanto—one of the largest genetic engineering and pesticide producing companies in the world. I requested to speak with both of them. I thought their different backgrounds and perspectives would prove interesting.

I meet first with Marco Van Den Berg, the head of Information Technology Services at I.R.R.I.

“Would you like to speak inside or outside?” he asks as we shake hands. I’m not short, but Marco towers over me—a tall, built, man from the Netherlands with a deep voice and an accent that I struggle not to adopt. He leads me outside and we walk along the well manicured I.R.R.I. grounds and settled in a nipa hut.

I ask Marco a bit about his history with Greenpeace. He tells me that he worked there as an internet technician. However, though he agreed with many of their principles, he emphasized that he did not agree with all of them. Now at I.R.R.I., he helps create systems that record rice “parental” information and their performance records. When I.R.R.I. scientists research a certain kind of rice variety, they detail information about it: how it responds to high stress, cold, bad weather, etc. This helps researchers match parent varieties with other ones to create hybrids, or even just an original variety with a trait of another—such as an ability to grow in salty soil, for example. His branch of I.R.R.I. creates technologies that make this information available to the public.

“All of our products are licensed under the Creative Commons license,” he says, “We don’t sell any of our products for commercial purposes.” He continues, “Profit is not a dirty word, it’s just that we’re focused on making sure the farmer can make a decent living and we get grants from outside resources to do so.”

He explains that I.R.R.I. gives their products to national organizations like PhilRice, which sells rice to farmers in the Philippines. PhilRice researches what varieties or traits farmers need, communicates that to I.R.R.I., and then I.R.R.I. makes the variety and gives it to PhilRice who in turn gets it to the farmers. That’s the simple version of the process—and it happens all over the world, not just here in the Philippines.

Yet, it’s not just I.R.R.I. that interests me—I’m curious about Marco’s background with Greenpeace and how it plays out here at an organization that uses genetic engineering.

Here we get into trickier waters. Marco explains that the definition for genetic engineering differs, depending on who you talk to.

“Cloning is not genetic engineering,” he says, “though it’s considered genetic engineering by Greenpeace. I don’t agree with human cloning,” he says, “but we often clone rice species here for research; it’s considered non-traditional reproduction.”

I.R.R.I. also does what’s called, “application of genetic markers.” Essentially it’s when researchers take two existing rice varieties and apply a genetic trait from one to the other. For example, they might take a popular rice variety like jasmine rice and add a trait from a wild rice such as a resistance to a certain mold, or an ability to grow a thick stock so the rice won’t blow over so easily in the wind.

“You’re not introducing a new plant species,” he points out. “You keep one species and add traits of another. It’s what plant breeders have been doing for years,” he says, “We’re just accelerating the breeding process.”

Marco adds that I.R.R.I. is extremely careful: they follow a strict set of procedures and rules and spend large amounts of money to make sure the research is done correctly, with respect to the environment. Unfortunately, they’re still not entirely sure about the implications to the environment that their research might entail.

I bring up organic farming and its popularity in the U.S.

“The approach to organic food is elitist,” Marco says, “If we were to globally switch to organic food, the total food production would decline. It’s great to advocate for places like Whole Foods, but (Westerners) have a choice—their income is totally incomparable (to people in developing countries). We’re talking about people that can hardly afford rice, let alone organic vegetables.

“Greenpeace advocates sustainable agriculture, but sustainability means you reach a level where you can sustain everyone first—we haven’t done that yet. We may very well have surpassed the population level with which we can sustain the population on traditional varieties alone.”

“The Green Revolution,” he continues, “averted some horrific famines, which people often forget in controversy about the rice varieties and pesticides that were developed during that time too.”

“It sounds like over population is a huge part of the problem,” I say. Then I joke, “Maybe they could put birth control pills in the rice.”

He laughs. “Of course, population is a big part of the issue, and it wouldn’t be that hard to make a rice variety like that. But that’s not where I.R.R.I. gets involved. Our mission is to feed people and get them out of poverty—we’re not going to engage the debate about family size. Countries can do that for themselves.”

“But isn’t there the possibility that the rice can cross pollinate,” I asked, “and contaminate other species?”

“Rice typically self pollinates, like wheat. But it’s not 100% certain—chance cross pollinations over history created some of the varieties we eat now. So, we know there is a chance that our genetically modified varieties might cross pollinate. We try to avoid that as much as possible, but there’s still that risk.

“But, feeding the people is urgent. I’m not willing to allow major famines or a major loss of life because there’s a slight possibility for cross pollination. Rice is the center of life in Asia—and most Westerners have a hard time understanding that.”

He continued, “I’ve met some real right wingers in Greenpeace too—people who are against any kind of genetic engineering. It’s like that life boat theory. If there are too many people in the lifeboat, who do you kick out? What do we do, leave only white people in the boat?”

Holy Week is the most important religious period for many Filipinos. The entire city of Manila shuts down for Maudy Thursday and Good Friday, and many people go on vacation, make pilgrimages, and have family gatherings over the weekend.

There's also an interesting event that happens at Cutud, a town in the Pampanga province—located on the mainland of Luzon. It's a reenactment of Jesus' crucifixion--by doing the real thing with local Filipinos.

Thousands of locals and tourists gathered this year to see the fifteen men and one woman who crucified themselves voluntarily. They spent the day self-flagellating, praying, and carrying the cross. The annual event ended with actual crucifixions—where real nails are driven into their hands and feet and the cross is mounted with the person on it. However, the people only hang for a few minutes—as long as they choose to stay up there—rather than a few days.

Each person does it for their own reason—most of which include penitence for sins. National Geographic interviewed one man, Rolando Ocampo—a carpenter. Years ago, when his wife and child hovered near death after her delivery, he promised that if they survived he would crucify himself on Good Friday. They survived, and now each year Ocampo puts on his crown of thorns and joins his community for a crucifixion.

See a short video of Ocampo and the event here: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2007/04/070405-jesus-video.html

National Geographic asked Ocampo: How do you endure the agony?

Ocampo said, “From the time I undress and I lie on the cross, it's like Christ takes over my body.”

There are many protests to it—largely from the Church which would prefer less violent acts of faith, and frowns on flagellation as well. I don't entirely know what to think about it. It kind of disturbs me that people would believe that level of pain and suffering is necessary to purify themselves or have a spiritual experience. But then sometimes when I’m out here, lonely as hell and miserable, missing everyone I love because I believe in what I’m doing out here—I wonder if I’m so far off.

What are your thoughts?

For another article and more pictures, check out this BBC site: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/1901095.stm

Sunset on the Manila Bay--Easter Sunday

Today is Easter Sunday.

I spent the last couple days in Manila entirely alone at my friend’s house. Matt left on Monday morning, so the loneliness is more palpable, my heart is more open and tender than it was before he got here. To pass the time, I’ve wandered around my section of Manila, watched a bunch of DVDs, written, read, and had a lot of different emotions.

Anyone who has spent a lot of time alone or lived abroad for an extended period of time (especially in a non-Western culture) knows this loneliness. It’s astonishing in some ways, exhausting, disturbing, and interesting—all at the same time. This place is so different from what I know. And there’s an exoticism about travel that makes that exciting at first—everything is new, interesting, bright and strange. Yet, the newness wears off at some point and you’re left with something very different from yourself, something you can’t entirely relate to, something you can only engage with so much and the rest of the time you can only observe. I will never be Filipino, obviously, and for that reason I’ll always be an outsider. I feel that often: Outside.

I’ve often read that the way we perceive the world outside us reflects what’s within. I have really come to understand this during my time here. In the last four days I have watched myself have a myriad of different experiences. Four days ago for example, I sat at the edge of the Manila Bay waterfront, on a wall. I watched a plastic bag—fully expanded—float about a foot under the sea water. It stayed there, suspended in the murky brown. I smelled the rot in the water—the stench from the polluted rivers that fed into the Bay. I felt the push of people around me, all strangers, and I clutched my purse to my ribs. I walked around and I saw young mothers with too many children, all proof of the overpopulation that cripples this country.

I saw the trash, I felt overwhelmed by the people selling me watches, the ten cabs that slowed down to pick me up as I crossed the streets within blocks of my home, the children grabbing at my shirt for money, the peddlers trying to sell me silver coins, the men that laughed and leered at me as I walked by. They told me that they loved me, that I’m beautiful. All they see is a white face, a traveler. That’s all I am to them—a ghost. Some days, that’s how I feel here—transparent, barely there. I feel angry at the government and the people for not taking care of themselves and that anger helps me feel more alive. Some days, I hate it here.

But then yesterday and today I felt different. When people beg, I smile; sometimes I give them something like the green mangoes I gave to two little girls yesterday because I didn’t need them as much as they did. It feels good to give in little ways. It doesn’t solve anything, I know that, but does that always matter? I start laughing when people ask me to buy something. “I don’t need a watch!” I say and laugh aloud. Or when they tell me I’m beautiful, I’ll say, “Thanks, so are you!” The murky ocean water now shimmers with the setting sunlight. I laugh at the playful young children and smile at their young mothers today. Today though I am a foot taller than almost everyone, I feel more a part of this place, just another person strolling down the waterfront.

Yet, this too will change. I know I’ll have other bad days. I think the difference is I realize I’m controlling it somehow, that my emotions cloud my experience. I try not to take it so seriously and see it for what it is. It’s me, reflected in a million different ways, seeing what I wish to see. And I know that. I may not be able to control it, but at least I know what it is.

Cities can shape you if you’re not careful. This can be a good thing—can create a sense of identity, while also helping you adapt the skills you need to survive. But it can also make you cold—there’s so much to take in, so many people, that you have to shut off parts of yourself so you’re not perpetually overwhelmed.

I think it started happening to me without my awareness, and that got dangerous. Every Filipino smile meant it wanted something; every man walking behind me at night might take my purse. Every tattered child would beg from me; every impoverished grandmother meant sad eyes and worn hands beseeching me for food. It’s exhausting, and if you’re not careful the poverty can make you cold, can make you shut down emotionally. On some level you have to do this—it’s too much at times. But it becomes a habit, a well established habit, and that coldness begins to breakdown compassion that’s necessary for a warm human heart.

It started happening to me, but I won’t let it. I can’t let myself feel as much as I often do—I feel too much. I am so sensitive and if I felt the wild injustice of all the poverty here, if I allowed myself to give all my money away to beggars it would accomplish nothing. I must keep myself in check. I hope I’ve found some kind of compromise that works—just enough openness to remember to see these people are human, that they are victims of a system, but that I can’t save them all. It’s tragic, but at least it lets me feel alive and open to this place without breaking my spirit. And that, in itself is a kind of resurrection.

The Motorbike Diaries: Part 1—On the Road

On one of our days on Panglao Island—a small island just off the coast of the larger island of Bohol, Matt and I rented a motorbike and decided to go for a day tour into Bohol’s interior. Our mission: to see the Chocolate Hills and the Philippine Tarsier (and to have lots of fun).

Check out Matt on the motorbike



We had no helmets, signed no waiver forms. Some guy at the farm loaned us his little motorbike and the two of us perched on it feeling a little like we were riding a toy. I’ve only ridden a motorbike in Thailand and in the Philippines and there is something immensely freeing about it. One of the things is that it’s the only time I’ve been in control of my transportation while abroad. On a motorbike you don’t have to ride with anyone else, you can go exactly where you want to go, and have an adventure without having anyone tell you what to do or where to go.

Secondly, we had to navigate for ourselves instead of being led, and that always helps me get to know a place more intimately, to feel more connected to it and aware. Thirdly, it’s just damn fun to speed along, fully exposed to the elements, to the sunshine and wind. I love biking and it’s like that—only faster. Though I still would never own a motorcycle in the States, I can see now why it’s so appealing.

Matt and I on our bike:



So, we set off at a safe pace with Matt in the front and me on the back with my arms wrapped around his waist. We navigated through the town, stopping every once in awhile to ask for directions. All I had was my little map that showed us the main roads. We finally got out of the town and started driving through more rural countryside—harvested rice fields, tall coconut palms, and small houses with little stores where people sat in the shade, staring at us as we drove past. It took us about an hour to get to our first stop: the Tarsier Sanctuary in Corella, and then another hour or so to get to Carmen, the site of the Chocolate Hills.

Here's a map of the island:

It was great to get a chance to view the countryside there, to see how the farms are laid out. At first, I saw all these dried up rice fields with short, sheared stalks. I kind of worried and thought all the terraces had been abandoned or something, but we later realized they’d just been recently harvested.

Recently harvested rice fields

At one point on our journey we reached the peak of a pass we had to pass through to descend into the valley that housed the Chocolate Hills. We watched the forest get more dense and thick and felt a cool breeze—a welcome respite from the beating sun. We later discovered a sign that said a local school had entirely replanted the mahogany forest some time ago to help heal the area. We got out and one point and walked around. Some of the leaves fell from the forest all around us, bright yellow, as the branches shivered against each other above us. It was a beautiful site—a forest, replanted by the locals. It made us both happy to see another example of what’s possible when people decide to give back to the land.

The forest:

There were only two downsides to our motorbike trip: my butt got so sore from six hours on a vibrating bike seat. I know, it’s crass, but it’s true. Secondly, I got a nasty burn from briefly touching my calf to the exhaust. Two weeks later and it’s still healing. I have to say though—it was worth it.