Up until now, the Philippines have been something of a palm-tree fringed paradise extravaganza - with the occasional Timotei-esque waterfall thrown in for variety. Recently, however, I travelled up to Northern Luzon: land of mummies, rice terraces, and hanging coffins. Not only is the concept of hanging a coffin from a cliff-face somewhat bizarre, but the fact they have this practice in China as well is just darn random. China and the Philippines? Much of a link? You'd be surprised. Historically, the Chinese have been trading here for hundreds of years - and in fact, you'll find remote tribal families up in the north who have some practically priceless Ming vase kicking around that has been with them for generations.
I peeled back layers of history, found the links, talked with everyone who would talk back to me (which is pretty much everybody over here, as the Filipinos are fans of practising their English and telling their story to anybody who will listen with an attentive ear). I remember when I used to say how pointless and dull History seemed to be, courtesy of the manner in which it is taught in schools in the UK. All subjects are separate entities, nothing related across the curriculum. But that is a rant for another occasion... or rather, a return to my regular ranting about education practices in the world.
In trying to figure out where I go from here - we're talking literally and mentally, for the record - I recall some of the conversations I had. One with a guy who works as a tricycle driver in Bontoc, who had been at work from 6am until 9pm every day of the week for the past two months and was heading for his first day off: the fiesta in Sagada, to compete in the basketball tournament. And the old lady who is the wife of deceased photographer Masferre , who sat and talked for nearly an hour about her incredible life. They are people who have travelled little but are by no means ignorant of the rest of the world, and some of the people who are most settled in their lives. Which leads me to questioning why I'm rushing around like something of a lunatic at times, intent on seeing the whole world. It isn't making me more content, exactly.
Stress. Why am I always stressed? I guess some people are just disposed to worry about anything and everything. Methinks I do take it to a whole new level occasionally. I'm not even remotely content in my own skin or with any aspect of my life right now, if I think about it. The idle westerner's arrogant cry to the world. 'Do what makes you happy' is such a trite and yet accurate comment - the problem is figuring out what makes one happy. I'm not entirely sure that the moments when I'll have smiled and laughed more than others are necessarily the happiest; they are rather fleeting glimpses of merriment and a pleasant easiness. What defines happiness? I'm thinking if I could feel content with my situation in life then that would be it for me, having a break from the chaotic world we hurtle about in without stopping to think where we are going.
I'll let you know if I ever decide anything. In the meantime, I'll create equally as dire blog postings, barely comprehensible reams of drivel that worryingly indicate the meanderings of my mind to a pretty accurate degree. I don't have a clue, I fully acknowledge this. But where the hell does one start looking for a clue?
Saw this on a tombstone in Sagada last week and rather liked the idea:
'What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for the others and the world remains and is immortal.' (Albert Pine)
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