Trips to the Philippines have always tested my physical limits and this was to be no different. My stomach is no match for the strange food and beverages found in those parts and my skin is even less prepared. However, it's always an adventure, full of memories to last a lifetime. Of friendly people who do so much with so little. The Philippines is a place where people really talk to each other. For them life is full of conversation, song, and laughter. In western society, conversation is losing importance. At work, we use voice-mail and e-mail and plant ourselves in front of a computer screen for eight hours a day. In the evening, we return to an empty house and try to reach out to friends and relatives over the phone, but usually we only reach an answering machine.

Lyn, her brothers Randy and Joel, her father, and three little ones.

In the Philippines, homes are rarely empty. Children, parents, grandparents, in-laws, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends and sometimes neighbors fill them. And they may all be talking, singing, or laughing at the same time. Everyone is welcomed, everyone is loved. Small children are constantly being fawned over. They are constantly being held and/or played with by both adults and older children.

In the "province", where my wife Lyn is from, there are no phones, e-mails or faxes. Nor are there restaurants, stores (as we know them), movie theaters, or gas stations. To rent a video cassette, all you have to do is catch a crowded jeepney (their bus, which stops by Tubas about once every hour during the day) and ride it to Gumaca (the nearest major town) which is an hour away. One I rode had 35 people packed inside along with more people and additional baggage on top. It is at least half a days journey.

Jeepney & tricycles roar by promoting the school reunion that day.

Most people in America seem to think that poverty equates to misery. If you are poor, you cannot be happy. The time I spent in Tubas shows this is not the case. The people there do not have material wealth, yet they are happy. Life is not shopping, not going out and buying the latest electronic gadget. For them, it's family and friends. It's laughing, talking, and singing the hours away. Americans think that these people would do anything to be a part of the American way of life. The truth is they are happy just where they are if they can support themselves. I have known of Filipinos who came to America for a visit and were miserable. Though they may speak English, a vacation here can be like a sentence in solitary confinement. They would be like a fish out of water. All of our modern conveniences would mean nothing to them, because they would be without their social environment.

I envy their sociable ways. I never acquired such skills. I lived alone for eighteen years and endured many lonely times. I still have a hard time carrying on a conversation and I am not comfortable around large groups of people. How different it would be if I had grown up a Filipino.

I grabbed the vomit bag from the pocket in front of my seat, while my stomach was jumping around more than the plane. At least it took my mind off my broken foot. I laid the bag on my lap, hoping not to need it. I wondered - should my guts explode, could I get the bag up quick enough? Could I seal the bag tightly around my mouth to prevent anything from splashing out? On the other hand, could I blow a hole in the bag, thereby spewing a foul smelling stomach stew over my pants, the seat, and the carpet? Only ten and a half hours were left in this twelve hour flight. It would be like spending a night in a garbage can.

I had often wondered what it would be like to be on one of those flights when somebody looses their cookies. The same foul smelling air is circulated and re-circulated throughout the cabin for the rest of the flight. Could it cause somebody else to get queasy? Could it cause a chain reaction? You hear about so many horror stories on trips; I hope this wouldn't be one of them.

If only I hadn't eaten so much. If I hadn't tried any of those strange looking concoctions on the hourderve plate. If only I had held off a little longer before having a drink. If only I had a cast iron stomach like my wife. Why was my body so frail? Although I was pretty sure of the answer, I still asked the flight attendant for some Alka-Seltzer. She said they used to carry it. A few minutes later she came back with a sheet of paper listing the contents of their medicine cabinet. Out of about ten items, I recognized few and none that I thought would repair my stomach.

The dangers of athletics...

a fractured foot!

Fortunately, awhile later I was able to return my attention to my foot. At least it wasn't throbbing. If that happened, I would have to take the shoe and sock off and I didn't think I would be able to get them back on. There were still over 9 hours left to go for the flight. I pictured myself hobbling around in thongs outside of the airport on one of those damp, bone-chilling San Francisco days. There was another reason I didn't want to unveil my foot. No, I wasn't concerned about shocking everyone else. Rather, I didn't want to see it myself. I could feel my shoe tightening on my foot, but as long as it wasn't throbbing, it couldn't be getting too big.

How bad did it have to get before gangrene set in? Thoughts of taking a hack saw to my foot danced through my head. Still my swollen left foot looked nothing like my right foot did sixteen years ago. Then the entire foot was ablaze in blue, purple, and yellow. I was young and ignorant at the time. I didn't worry about that foot, but I was worried about this foot. It had been three days since I turned my ankle down in Tubas. I wanted medical care back in the states, but it was taking a long time to get back there.

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