This is Part 2 of 2. Click here to view Part 1.

One time, I woke up from an afternoon nap, and I went downstairs and found the den full of ladies in red dresses with plates and drinks in their hands. I took it they were from the school next door. Auntie Maricon must be having some kind of potluck that day and invited the teachers over. My mom was talking with a woman near the dining table, and this woman began to ask the same questions Auntie Maricon asked when I first got here. I responded accordingly to every question, and she said “You can become an actor here, it’s easy because you’re Filipino and from the States and you speak English.” I know, I thought to myself, it’s so easy to become an actor here– then a romantic masturbation-worthy teen sensation, and if old enough, an actor slash meta-politician, too.

When we had another sunny day, Auntie Maricon took my mom to the salon. So, while both of them went inside, Elmer and I waited in the car. I sat in the back relaxing with the window rolled down, and a little girl in a squalid dress popped out of nowhere, as if God timed it perfectly to insert her existence right when I rolled down my window. She held up a string of garlic and spoke in a lamenting tone, puppy-facing her plea perhaps to make me buy that garlic. Of course, even though she spoke in Tagalog, her cute approach brought out the care bear in me, but I had no money to spare. The garlic could’ve been good for anti-vampirical purposes. After all, the Philippines is a Pandora’s box of ghost stories, voodoo, black magic, monsters, gnomes, and other paranormal scary stuff. I know, I never heard anything about vampires there, but still.

Then everything got even more confusing and weird when a pack of kiddie peddling ninjas jumped us, all of them grieving to sell me things. So now our vehicle became a haggling maelstrom. And just where was Elmer? Sleeping, swooned off into the astral realms. I feared the kids may crawl into the car next, so I tapped Elmer on the head to bring him back and pointed at the kids. Elmer saw the madness outside our car, and first thing he did was say “Hoy!” which silenced them in an instant. Not just any “hoy,” but the kind of commandeering hoy as if he just told a cadre of soldiers to shut it or get court-martialed. I rolled up my window when I saw their attention directed at Elmer. I couldn’t understand what Elmer said, but after a short chat, the kids miraculously disbanded and split. “What did you tell them?” I asked.

“I said we already had some,” he replied. I didn’t ask what, but they were gone, so it didn’t matter.

After the salon, we rolled up to SM SouthMall to shop around. One striking revelation is that extra-extra-large shirts and wide waist jeans are a rare commodity, and the only sizes that had fit snuggly with my husky build back then. And in the food court, once you’re done eating at a table, and no matter what you leave behind, they bus it for you. Imagine my surprise; in the States, you had better take a bullet for the team and clean up after yourself, for it was the American way. Another oddity is the catchy promo phrase “Buy one, Take one.” The phrase actually confused the holy ghost out of me: if I buy one, of course I’m gonna take it home with me; I’m not gonna waste money and leave it. Then I later figured it was probably short for “Buy one, get one free.” I had to get used to everyone’s staring and gawking everywhere I went, though. They must have an intuition for Filipino Americans. It’s impossible to wander undetected from their Fil-Am radar or to dodge their Fil-Am optic sensory capabilities. Simply impossible. One snuff of foreign pheromones–from a distance or through the walls– and they know it’s not from around here.

We went to a Jollibee restaurant, also in SouthMall, I think. And as I sat down eating a jolly good tray of food, I felt some eyes trying to pierce the aura of my comfort zone. I turned around and found a couple’s eyes glued onto me like epoxy. I turned the other way resuming my graceful Zen posture, allowing the couple some moments of downtime to recuperate. As I turned around again, those eyes still stared hard and deep. They even had time to look at each other and say a few things, then look at me again — and I’m there looking straight at them. I just turned around, finished up what I had, and left. How invigorating, I’ve never been stared at so hard before.

Next, we made our way into a SM department store. Two young men stood behind a table demonstrating a security device, like a portable siren, where if someone harassed you, you pressed a button that howled a shrill shattering noise, alerting anyone who had the ears to hear. I moved away from the table to avoid being deafened. One of the men flaunting these flung his arms distinctly and spoke in a slightly chiming tone. I walked past the table, and I felt again another pair of unauthorized eyes. I glanced at the same guy–obviously gay as I figured– who was undeniably staring and studying me. So the usual routine: look away, let them come to their senses, then look again. When I turned to him, he smiled at me the most suspicious and unmistakable of all smiles; a smile, nay, a definite smirk that signaled a carnal desire for the same sex; a smile overshadowing the fear that he wanted a piece of my yet juvenescent masculinity.

The nerve! Just who did this guy think he was? I vamoosed and teleported the hell outta there!

Sometime in the middle of July, we visited the Hidden Valley Springs in Laguna. My mom, siblings, Uncle Bhoy, and Auntie Maricon would be part of the troupe that day. A tour guide took us strolling, and when we entered the forest, we heard the clear and wryly stereotypical jungle ambience, with the sounds of parrots, insects, and river streamlets. We crossed lantern-guided paths and bridges, some with wooden railing, some with bamboo, and these crossed over the soft babbling streams. Long bamboo tubes stuck out into the paths with dripping spring water. Some of the ferns and ancient verdure obstructed the paths throughout the forest, and a few spooky gargantuan trees and their roots cut through the paths, as if unshackling itself from the earth. The myriad species of plants tinge in a manifold of verdant tints and shades, some reds, and some with a flower or two, all flourishing in repose and designed by it’s natural architect.

We passed through grass huts and cabanas and through lily pools sprinkled green. Past the soda pools, the path narrowed and zigzagged, and the further we walked, the louder the sound of rushing water became. My mom told me to say “bari bari,” something that signals to gnomes that lest they want to be stomped on, they should move and make way. Humans can’t see them, so we holler “bari bari.”

We descended into a chasm and looking over the railing, the water rushed and laved through the rocks. I had a glossy colored brochure of the resort showing the chasm and its pristine waters. But on that day, the water was a light milky gray. Not so inviting. They said when it rains it creates a runoff of dirt and debris into the chasm’s waters, hence the gray. Everyone meticulously scaled the walls, jumping from rock to rock. Drapes of wet vines and moss languished over the walls with trickling and showering water, all the way to the end of the chasm, where the water above sashayed and cascaded before spilling as a waterfall.

The tour guide said they shot a scene of Jurassic Park here, too.

I jumped onto the furthest rock before finally sitting down, and I swathed the water with my hand thinking – thinking how it would be like to go rafting down the river. Not with an inflatable raft, but a barbarian’s raft roped together with wood. To get lost and speed downstream and hitting the stray jagged rocks and eventually catapulting down another deep chasm.

We arrived back at the soda pools. Nobody claimed space, save for a gruff Latino and a young mestiza belle sitting on his lap, who looked more like a servant than a lover, just from seeing her sullen face. The Latino donned gold rings and a chain necklace and a hairy chest, and I thought, Columbian druglord, no doubt. But they chilled over near the restrooms where we couldn’t see them. I jumped and nestled under the baby waterfalls to massage my shoulders. Uncle Bhoy stood next to me, freezing for an instant and flexing his muscles for the camera. Then he gracefully hovered his palms over the water imitating a majestic martial arts scene before wiggling his body in the cheesiest way.

For the rest of the day, we soaked ourselves and swam in the pools, drank the pool water, and basked in the sun. The cumulus scattered the sunny skies, where a few stray rain clouds would gift us with showers or sprinkles even when the sun blazed the forest. Before leaving, we visited a wishing well and gathered around with coins in our hand. I threw my coin in last, wishing I’d take my sweetheart here one day.

This is Part 1 of 2. Click here for Part 2.

The airport looked like a megalithic bathroom, with the janitorial-fresh aroma, pale yellow tiled walls, and green steeped corridors. We headed into the front lobbies near the baggage checkpoints and ticket counters where my mom scoured the proximity for her brother, Uncle Bhoy. I walked around nonchalantly nearby, leaving the search up to mom, or until Uncle Bhoy could spot us. Ten years passed since our last visit to the Philippines; I just turned six then, and I vaguely remembered or recognized anything here; all the places, people – even the faces of my relatives were difficult memories to rekindle.

I turned to find my mom talking to my husky uncle Bhoy. He had dark skin like his brothers, in contrast to his pale sisters. He had a cheesy grin that hinted his jocular and frolicking spirit. His stomach bulged slightly over his belt, and if I were to slap it, it would feel tough and rebound. I knew he was healthy and kickin’.

As we stepped outside to wait for our ride, a blast of tropical heat hit us, and we could see the platoons of jeepneys and trikes parading the roads even on a hot summer night. The sparks of déjà vu and nostalgia spun again as I smelt the odor of car exhaust. A red mini-van came for us, and as we stepped inside, a rush of A/C goodness swept our skin. I quickly pointed out my Auntie Maricon sitting inside, obviously thinner than what she looked in photos years ago. A young girl sat in the back, who I’ve guessed to be my cousin Michelle, all grown up, thirteen years old, just like my sister. I couldn’t identify the driver, though, another dark-skinned fellow who wore a formal button shirt and bore the most ordinary of hairdos conceivable. Still couldn’t recognize him even after reeling through my memories, even referencing photos from home didn’t help. His facial features resembled none of my mom’s or uncle’s or auntie’s and he surely didn’t say much, either.

Auntie Maricon told him to head over someplace else, maybe a restaurant, at least that’s what I picked up from the dialogue; my Tagalog is whimsical at best, and I possess a weak vocabulary and a draft-up of conventional pocket slang and crude cuss phrases. When my mom confirmed that auntie wanted to grab us something quick to eat before heading home, I threw my hands up in supplication. Finally, I thought, real food! I got tired toiling the long flights eating meager servings of fish, snacking on dry peanuts, salty crackers – and then peanuts again. Auntie ordered us some sub sandwiches and a few drinks. Good enough, I told myself, and it beats the airline’s pseudo-food.

After the yum-yums, we ascended into the freeway towards Muntinlupa City. The nightly sights of resplendent glass malls and billboards and luminous light shows of the Philippine metropolis never escape me. Neither does the rhapsody of retreating overseas, to take up adventurism and leave the orthodoxy of school, society, and obligation in blissful abandon. Even though I scoped out a few untidy roads, tawdry buildings and haphazard heaps of garbage, my sojourn instilled peace.

We descended off-ramp somewhere, and the metropolis faded behind us as we drove past small repair stands, grocery shops, and market boutiques. The streets still lit up, full of people and peddlers walking around. We arrived in front of a gate, beside what looked liked an office building, towering only a few stories. A large circular emblem decked the top, but I couldn’t read the words emblazoned around it. Outside, the gate slid open, and a security officer in white uniform and black slacks walked out. He confirmed and gestured our driver to continue past the gate down a narrow alley. I didn’t recall seeing security guards here before. Or maybe I just forgot about them. The alley led into a huge dark gym and onto a second gate, where another security guard opened for us and let us through. I could tell it was a gym because both ends had roof-bound basketball hoops. I thought the chockablocked buildings had crunched in my relative’s house, robbing them of space and forcing them to weave through tight spaces. We even had to cut through a gym.

At last, we parked in the driveway in front of the house. It looked like a stunted miniature chateau. A separate roof and several large palm trees hung over the driveway, as well as a halogen lamp that lit up most of the yard. The concrete walls and Victorian metal fences surrounded and enclosed the house and yard, cloistering it from the rest of the world. A security guard in blue sat in a plastic picnic chair with a radio beside him. That’s number three, I thought, and I imagined another contingent lined up along the walls. Auntie is obviously paying these guys — or whatever firm they’re from – just to be here; and then that thing with driving inside a gym. Then I remembered the balikbayan boxes we sent. On the address field, my mom would always write: Tepaurel Compound.

Uncle Mysterious opened the sliding doors and then the wooden double doors to the house, helping alongside the security guard to unload baggage from the van. I went inside the house with everyone else. A living room combined with the dining room and hall, so the whole house resembled a ballroom with a ceiling topped at the second floor. I called this the den, but it really should be called a super den since it was so huge to actually ride a bike and run laps around. The dining area of the hall connected with a large kitchen and doorway to the sides of the house. A couple oriental sofas sat in different areas of the den. Two flights of stairs led to the second floor hallway with bedrooms for my uncle’s and auntie’s families, and not to forget my lola, or my grandma, who also lived here. The windows in the house, except for the air-conditioned rooms, were barred and had no glass, so sometimes it would be unbearable to lounge around in the den during the daytime.

We sat down together at a long dining table for a reunion, catching up with everyone, wondering how everyone’s lives had been since parting almost a decade ago. Most of my cousins who used to be toddlers or elementary school kids were now either middle or high school students. When my mom mentioned my name, Auntie Maricon bum-rushed me with the questions: How old are you? What do you want to do when you go to college? And the classic, most anticipated one: Got a girlfriend?

They prepared a bedroom for us upstairs: a well-ventilated air conditioned room with softly painted sky-blue walls and slicked wooden floors, equipped with a T.V. and bathroom with a showerhead. Can’t forget the showerhead. I didn’t want to mess with boiling a bucket of water and using a tabo to take my baths. Not this time. There were two beds placed adjacent to the wall with one for each to sleep on, but those left were driven to sleep on a floor mattress. Not too damning, but at night a few curious cockroaches did sweep across the floor sometimes. Some of my cousins and uncles still hung around downstairs picking through the balikbayan cargo we brought, packed with Vienna sausages and Spam and clothes and magazines and American electronics – but they really should be indulging in the imports from their neo-digital neighbors in Japan.

The night looked young, but I was tired and exhausted. Frontiers await to be explored, and my heart ached for the caprice of adventure. I jumped on one of the beds, and it didn’t take long before my senses drifted, and fell sound asleep.

I woke up around 10:30 AM like I usually do back in the States. I expected to be still jet-lagged from our arrival and therefore irritable and churlish. But the jet lag actually helped sync my body to the Philippines’ time zone. No one else lay around the room, so I stepped out into the den to check on everyone. Outside, obviously a beautiful sunny day, a perfect time for a wanderluster, and not to mention, it must be hot and humid and sticky and a perfect day for mosquitoes and flies to latch on to anything fleshy that moved. What’s more, they alerted all nearby residents of stray malaria-carrying mosquitoes in our area. Whenever bite marks appeared on my skin, I could only hope that the Universe was on my side.

Walking downstairs, I picked up on a fried sweet and sugary aroma. That told me something: Spam. It had to be Spam. Senses were already in a seethe and berserked for an ultimate breakfast. My mom and Auntie Maricon were sitting down at the dining table talking, already done eating, and they beckoned me over.

Elsie, their maid, cooked a feast every morning. On the table, platters of sunny-side up eggs, sausages, hotdogs, sweet pork, fried rice, fried tilapia, and Spam, with a luau of fresh fruit on the side. And not to mention, the canisters of Nido and Milo, with maybe a bomb shelter surplus somewhere in the back of the kitchen. Uncle Mysterious walked through the front door carrying a Jollibee box. Jollibee is a fast food franchise in the Philippines. I don’t think he likes Elsie’s cooking, I thought. Then my mom said it wasn’t his, but for Michael, Michelle’s brother. Michael eschews homemade breakfast, and no true breakfast exists unless it’s a jolly good, bloody hell of a breakfast from Jollibee. It’s hard to negotiate with him sometimes, my Auntie Maricon said. Not that he’s spoiled, but that he had Down Syndrome. And Uncle Mysterious isn’t even a relative– he’s simply their driver, Elmer. There I was thinking he was my uncle and about to give the guy brotherly intimate man hugs, and he’s only someone they hired for a job.

After breakfast, I changed clothes, and then I waited outside for Uncle Bhoy who wanted to take me touring the school next door where two of my cousins attended, Richard and Raymund. We entered past the gym where a bunch of school boys in uniform were playing basketball. The gym belonged to the Muntinlupa Cosmopolitan School, Uncle Bhoy said, a private school. The school opened in ’97, and the higher we ascended the floors, the more incomplete it looked, since they were still adding and subtracting materials from places, building more rooms, painting, renovating. As we walked further into the school, he pointed out the shop near the front entrance where snacks and goodies and supplies were sold. I saw Raymund in there sitting with some of his female friends, but decided to leave him be for the meantime. Uncle Bhoy said Auntie Maricon had an office here opposite of the shop. “She works here?” I asked, “Well, what does she do?”

“She’s the president of the school.” He replied.

His answer floored me. Then he continued, saying he was a civil engineer, responsible for the school’s blueprints and construction, meaning he built the place. Again, floored. Then he explained how Auntie Maricon and her husband leased, I think, warehouses near the compound to overseas companies who desired to do business in the country, hence all the security guards patrolling 24/7. Floored again. Then Raymund sprang up and ran over to me: “You know, my friend thinks you’re cute. I think she has a crush on you. Want to go talk to her?” Already being lulled into a busty high school girl’s romantic fantasy on my first day there? Floored, yet again.

“Raymund, not now, I’m busy!”

“Later, then?”

“Yeah, later,” meaning sometime in the eternity of never. I knew he would badger me later on, so I thought up different venues of escape: Jump over building? Dive roll out the window? Or, just hope he doesn’t see me and run like hell out the exit? I returned back home safely with Uncle Bhoy, but Raymund eventually besieged me at night about his female friend and her apparent lickerish temptation to get to know me. He interrogated me then relayed the answers back to her the next day. Sweet Jesus.

Myles is a Halfway Contributing Writer

The Hmong were trapped within endless eras of wars and merciless persecution throughout their recorded history which expands more than 4000 years with its roots in China. Around 2700 B.C., when the Hmong established the San-Miao Kingdom, they were nearly exterminated by the expanding Chinese in a brutal military campaign. The San-Miao kingdom crumbled marking the last time the Hmong would ever strongly unite as a people. For the next few centuries, the Hmong in China would experience campaigns of subjugation and the disintegration of their culture from the expanding Chinese empire, banning the Hmong’s written language and forcing them to assimilate. This ensured that the Hmong would never rise again.

Many Hmong clans migrated to Laos settling in within the myriad of other minorities. When the French occupied Laos in 1893, the Hmong observed that life amongst the foreign occupiers was generally peaceful and that the discrimination and hostility usually perpetrated by the lowland Lao and Vietnamese was nonexistent. This led the Hmong to accept the colonial French, who were revered for their education, technology and security. Their continued presence in Laos would more likely improve the Hmong’s stature leading them into a better future. This belief would unite the French and Hmong against the future Japanese aggressors.

The French temporarily lost control of French Indochina when Japan invaded in 1940. Yet it wasn’t long until the French and Hmong would collaborate a secret resistance in northern Laos to liberate French Indochina. During the Japanese occupation, the Hmong helped destroy supply lines and bridges, ambush patrols and convoys, even help misplaced French colonials escape and relocate into safe territory. The French in the secret resistance praised the Hmong’s awesome capabilities in guerilla warfare and sabotage, instilling the Hmong’s identity as brave and formidable warriors.

In 1945, news of the sudden Japanese surrender overseas spread throughout Indochina. Among the confusion, the rising Viet Minh which was led by the communist revolutionary Ho Chi Minh, took advantage of the events declaring the new Democratic Republic of Vietnam. In Laos, a schism would emerge: while the royal Lao king desired a return of the French, the Lao Issara, an anti-French movement, struggled for a totally independent Laos state. Lao Prince Souphanouvong, a leader of the Lao Issara, initiated a convention together with Hanoi, North Vietnam, giving the Viet Minh’s military advisors unprecedented power in Laos. To the secret French-Hmong resistance, the Viet Minh’s motives were clear: they wanted control of Laos. The resistance, led by French commando Maurice Gauthier and Hmong chieftain Lyfong Touby, recruited and trained many Hmong to participate in the movement — this time defending their homeland against the Viet Minh. Over time, they were able to stall the infiltration and ultimately retake control of provinces and towns controlled by the Viet Minh.