Contrasts
Text by Paige Whitney, ETA 2017–19Photos by Melissa Kukowski, ETA 2017–19 This past winter marked the first of my ventures into Southeast Asia. I chowed down on delicious food from many nationalities in Singapore, and was happily blinded by pastel buildings and neon lights in Hong Kong—but the biggest surprises came in the Philippines. Melissa (a fellow ETA) and I spent most of our time in the Philippines in Manila, the country’s capital. We drifted around to huge shopping malls, and traipsed through Intramuros (the old Spanish quarters), Rizal Park, and Binondo, the world’s oldest Chinatown. While our Airbnb was a beautiful condominium with multiple pools in Makati, Binondo was my first real in-person glimpse of the poverty segregated to districts of Metro Manila. Through a back alley, crates of crowing chickens stacked precariously close to a bridge over a small river’s edge decorated the whimsical scene as we walked past throngs of children playing and little puppies teetering beside them. The children’s eyes smiled as one young boy innocently called out to me, calling me “beautiful,” as his friends laughed in embarrassment. On the main roads, the feeling was different. The air felt thicker and heavier on the sidewalks as we walked by men welding and soldering car parts. Later, while sitting in an air-conditioned cafe with an iced coffee to recharge, I could feel and even see the black layer of grease that had collected on my arms as I walked by. While these distinctions showed in every area of Philippines we visited (despite our small sample size of only two places of the many islands), Boracay—which was the most highly anticipated portion of our week-long travel plan in the Philippines—was where the class divide became starkly clear. The island did not disappoint (because it was the most beautiful place I have ever been in my life) but it did surprise me. Boracay is a very small island—you have to take a ferry from the larger island that houses the airport to reach it—of under four square miles. It had been closed for six months in 2018 to recover from environmental damage sustained from massive over-tourism. The effects of that consciousness and the seriousness of the cleanup job were clear in the paper bags used at the convenience store, the paper straws used in buko (Filipino coconut) and shakes alike, the “environmental tax” being most of the ferry fee, and the crystal clear blue water. To even enter Boracay, you must show proof of your hotel booking on the island or be sponsored by a resident of the island. We stayed at a “local home” through Airbnb (which is technically a workaround of the entry to the island), a humble little apartment accompanied by curious pet kittens and water warmed only by the rays of the sun. We truly were in the thick of an authentic neighborhood – roosters crowing at any hour of the day or night, babies crying, fires burning in barrels in the plaza where teenage boys played basketball late at night, and the scent of dinner lingering in the air. Yet a five-minute walk brought us to almost a different world—the beachfront. The number of suntanned foreigners was staggering, the countless restaurants selling overpriced food catered to a westerner’s palate, the luxury hotels and spa advertisements rampant—was I really still on the same island? How did the line get drawn so harshly and quickly between the wealthy foreigner-centric beach and the borderline impoverished neighborhood we were staying in? The next day, we ventured further into town in hopes of finding beach towels. The remaining efforts to redo the infrastructure of the island were all about—power lines leeching energy and hanging dangerously low, large portions of sidewalks just dug up, and new sewer piping laying exposed in the sun. The taxi drivers of the island—mainly motorbikes—continually called to us: “Hi ma’am! Beach? Only 30 pisos [about $0.60]! Yes quick ride, beautiful beach!” They seemed just as confused to see us within their neighborhood as we were in trying to find the towels. It’s difficult to talk about these topics without spreading caucasian pity on the situation or without sounding emotionless, but my experience in Boracay was eye-opening. Of course, it was the “tropical vacation” that I always wanted to have, but it showed me more than just beauty in delving into those streets beyond the beachfront. I learned to be aware of my privilege, needing to consider how lucky I am with my opportunities and economic faculty, but also hoping that some of that wealth that Boracay gains through tourism will be given back to their local communities, and not just go toward making the beachfront fancier. Seeing that divide up close really hit home, as well as left me hoping that the larger powers will check themselves and distribute their successes to all those on this tropical paradise.
Making Time for Wonder
By Amelia Wagner, ETA 2018–19 Be aware of wonder. Live a balanced life—learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and plan and work every day some. — Robert Fulghum The salty breeze tousled my hair as Carlee, a fellow ETA, and I sat on the dock, our feet dangling off the edge, looking out onto the blue sparkling eddies and coves of the rocky shore. It was towards the end of our trip in Yeosu. We had woken earlier that morning in hopes of going to Geumodo Island (금오도) National Park only to find that the first and only ferry had left several hours earlier. Having planned well the day before and seen all that we wanted to around town, we made the impromptu decision to take a bus along the southern coast. Our plan was to visit a small beach and grab some lunch before leaving. After the bus dropped us off in the tiny town, we meandered our way down winding back alleys and found ourselves at a cove where lines of pretty blue boats bobbed in the gentle waves. Sitting together on the dock, we absorbed the sun’s rays. Around lunchtime we began to get hungry and, as the town was too small to support a convenience store let alone a restaurant, we decided to head back to the city in search of seafood pancakes (해물전). Catching a bus again on our way back, we passed Manseongni Black Sand Beach (만성리 검은 모래해변), a more populated area with open restaurants. Thinking we might find some 해물전, we made the spontaneous, and somewhat reckless, decision to jump off seconds before the bus doors closed. Immediately we realized we had made a mistake; none of the restaurants served 해물전. Instead, we discovered a delightful bowl of mixed rice and raw fish (회비빔밥); a more than fair substitute. After lunch, we still had several hours before our train and decided to take a stroll along the beach. The smell of burning smoke mingled with the salty breeze drew our attention to a group of twenty or so older women and a monk. Slightly removed from the tourists, they were gathered around a decorated table. Curious, we watched as one of the women stepped forward, burning paper in hand, and quickly threw it into the waves. She then bowed, her hands pressed loosely together by her chest. One by one the women approached the shore and threw their burning offerings into the sea. A gust of wind caught one of the papers, causing it to flutter back to shore. It tumbled near the edge, leading a woman on a chase down the beach to retrieve her fallen prayer. She quickly scooped it up and extinguished it in the lapping waves. The black sand ground into my feet as Carlee and I watched—bemused—as the wind played tricks on the group, blowing their prayers away from the water. After their papers had all been extinguished, the women gathered in prayer before cleaning up, chatting cordially, and passing out oranges. Out of pure luck, in this little coastal town, we had stumbled upon a traditional ceremony. A ceremony that was so localized that even Google couldn’t tell us its name. We were fortunate enough to get a glimpse into that tradition and one small aspect of these women’s lives. Throughout my travels, I have come to recognize the importance of striking a balance between spontaneity and planning. Our mistake at the ferry station, our rigorous planning the day before, and our impromptu decision to get off the bus had all led us to chance upon this ceremony on a small little beach on the coast of South Korea. While detailed plans are important in traveling to stay within budget, see the sights, and enjoy all the city has to offer, you will miss precious opportunities if you don’t allow yourself room to travel outside of your detailed plan. Planning gets you places; but by taking risks and setting aside time to be spontaneous, you can create opportunities for adventure and unique experiences. The practice of balancing rigidity with flexibility is not restricted to travel. While it is important to keep a schedule in everyday life, it’s equally as important to create opportunities to go on mini adventures. Explore a new section of town or take a different route home. This will allow you to not only accomplish your goal but also enjoy yourself along the way. As with most things in life, balance is key.
Article Fourteen
By Aki Camargo, ETA 2018–19 After peeling the straps of velcro off my sandals, I placed my bare feet on the inviting red carpet. It was just as fuzzy as I had expected. Almost like I was entering a friend’s dorm room, I carefully maneuvered my way around the neatly placed furniture. On the top of the table was a pile of fake bank notes stacked on top of each other, written in an accented roman script that struck a vague familiarity. Next to these bills was an iPad glued onto the plastic table, running a video of how to fold them into what looked like miniature boats. A man approached me. Take a seat. Make yourself at home. Phuong Ngo’s interactive performance, Article 14.1, illustrates a poignant message through the simple yet radical act of collective action. As a creative from Melbourne, Ngo invites museumgoers to help fold 10,000 paper boats, paying homage to the Vietnamese refugees who fled the Vietnam War almost 50 years ago. The exhibit resembled a dorm room, I soon realized, because Ngo would make this corner his temporary home. The Australian-Vietnamese artist would live in this exhibit for ten days. He would wake up, fold boats, eat a pile of saltines for his meals, and repeat. Ten days—the same number of days it took his parents to cross the South Pacific on boats, fleeing persecution and seeking a new life. After I finished folding my first boat, I chuckled in embarrassment. My feeble attempt reminded me of the many paper cranes I used to fold as a middle schooler in Japan. 1000 paper cranes—a gesture of commemoration for those who lost their lives from the nuclear bomb in Hiroshima. Each crane, folded as a means to grant a wish, served as a call for peace and dignity for all. A similar universal call for humanity is evident in Ngo’s performance, named after Article 14.1 in the UN Declaration of Human Rights: “Everyone has the right to seek and to enjoy in other countries asylum from persecution.” Like the Japanese cranes, Ngo’s boats remind us of the bravery of every refugee. These fragile vessels carried humans—fathers, mothers, children – whose livelihoods were stripped from them, as they fled war and violence. I folded my fifth boat, feeling slightly ashamed for not folding enough. But I did recognize the urgency of Ngo’s message. Article 14.1 underscored the unbound sacrifice of migrants, as they embarked on a new life to a foreign land. What does it mean to incorporate activism into art? To Ngo, they are one in the same. Article 14.1 reflects his personal yet provocative approach to process generational trauma and sacrifice. As a child of Vietnamese refugees, he embarked on this artistic endeavor to interrogate how refugees are deeply embedded in Australian society, but may not necessarily be visible. Whether it is entering Australia through the treacherous waters of the Pacific Ocean, or the United States through the precarious deserts of the Rio Grande, refugees and migrants are intimately weaved into the fabric of our nations, narratives and societies. 14.1 urges museumgoers to respect the lives of migrants. They are doctors, janitors, teachers and artists. Even if that means folding 10,000 boats, 14.1 honors each and every one of them.