Damage Control

All of these pictures are of Dumaguete

My fourth reflection.

Last night I slept in a small, windowless room with teal-colored walls and no air conditioning.  Before going to bed I soaked my pajamas in cold water from the shower, but within an hour or so the moisture evaporated and I was left sweating on top of the covers.  The room smelled strongly of cockroach repellent.  The fan only circulated hot air.  It was my first evening in Dumaguete, a small town on the island of Negros in the south of the Philippines, and as I lay prone and tried to avoid all movement I realized for the first time just how oppressive poverty can be.

Just kidding!  I did, though, have plenty of time to trace the series of decisions that had led me there.

My internship requires me to conduct research in three cities around the Philippines.  I get to select the locations, so after carefully considering a wide array of factors (size, relative rate of poverty, proximity to rural areas, local political climate, weather patterns, presence of support staff, access to day trips, pretty pictures of Google) I settled on Tacloban, a small town on the island of Leyte near where Imelda Marcos was born.  I would stay there from late June to mid-July.

Unfortunately, I failed to consult a calendar before arriving.  On June 29^th Tacloban hosts a body-painting festival so large and so important that the entire region shudders to a halt for a week as everyone pours into the city in order to honor their culture and occupy hotel rooms.  Arriving in Tacloban on Thursday, my research partner and I learned that every single affordable place in town was fully booked for the week.  Even if we did find somewhere to stay, the local staff told us, it was unlikely that we would get any work done.  On Friday night I found myself in the alarming position of having no research prospects and, soon, no roof over my head.     

Times like this can be discouraging.  I begin to feel very much like a college student without his friends and family; travelling begins to resemble a long obstacle course that I have set up for myself.  Facing my own failure to plan well, it strikes me how nice it is to hang around in the USA and do my homework.

But then again, what if a good traveller isn’t someone who plans everything perfectly, but rather someone who responds well to sudden changes?  I like to think that this is true.  Mainly, it redeems me.  Beyond that, I think that flexibility really is important.  I constantly become more and more aware of how impossible it is to prepare for every possible setback that can happen to a traveller.  Foresight alone has its limits; flexibility can fill in the gaps.

In Tacloban I reached the limits of my foresight.  My relocation to Dumaguete was an eleventh hour effort to salvage some research time, and so far it hasn’t turned out that badly.   My night in the teal-colored sauna-dungeon, though not great, wasn’t dismal either, and this morning I found myself some new digs with air conditioning and cable TV (!!!!).  This morning I explored the city.  It’s a funky little town on the edge of a bay, complete with mossy Spanish ruins and a nice, wide boardwalk.  I’m hesitantly optimistic about the next few weeks.  And if things don’t work out, there are more cities only a boat ride away.