Homeless in Cebu

Rating:	★★★★★
Category:	Other

my first-ever published essay in Sun.Star, which came out as a Crossline in August or September 2000. this is the one that got me my first assignment in Weekend, and then Lifestyle....and the rest is history. my thanks to Orly for forcing me to write this :)

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My college roomie was ecstatic. I had been told just 3 days before to fly to her beloved Cebu for a project meeting. I had applied at the project 3 months before, and told to wait for my contract to be finalized. After bumming for so long, I jumped at the chance to finally get involved.

It wasn’t my first time in Cebu. But it was going to be my first job. I nervously met my future Canadian colleagues, got introduced to the staff, and toured around the office. At lunch, I found myself the only Filipino at a table with Canadians all talking about home. Being shy around strangers, and foreigners at that, I mostly smiled my Filipino-meets-kanô smile the whole time, with the occasional requisite nod.

Talking to the Filipino staff wasn’t a relief either. Though Cebuano is common in Mindanao, we speak Tagalog at home. I had to constantly catch myself with usa and isa, and tika and kita.

The meeting—my reason for being there—was 4 hours of project-specific terms I couldn’t follow. I didn’t know until after that I had just sat through my first day of work. And then I was told: I would be spending my first 6 months in Cebu, so could I please get my things in Davao and start work as soon as possible?

Lost is how I felt that night. I liked the thought of living far from home, but anxieties crowded my mind. I had no experience looking for my own place. What if I had to spend weekends alone in a godforsaken dorm? What if I ended up eating only Singles meals for the next 6 months??

I figured the only way to allay my fears was to face them. The next day, I set out to look up rooms for rent in the local classifieds. I listed the promising ones, ruling out places beyond the vicinity of the office and my budget. I also ruled out ads that said “guaranteed safe parking”—anyone who can afford safe parking must obviously be able to afford a car.

My boss tasked the utility guy to help with my geography. I had no street map. All I had to depend on were my new pair of heels and a bad sense of direction. Not that any amount of good direction sense would have helped. Cebu’s streets tend to sprout from each other in the wildest directions. A warning to those in like predicament: do not assume that roads here run parallel or perpendicular to each other as in usual cities. You just might end up on the other side of town.

The best way to find your way around is to walk and discover where each street leads. And walk I did. My strategy was to knock on every door that had a plywood “Room for Rent” sign hanging on it. I got an introduction to the intricate slums of Cebu, while checking out some of the places I found in the classifieds. I even followed a sign leading to a seamy dorm beside a nightclub. Some rooms looked like closets with beds stored in them. One had a bathroom 20m away. I imagined myself on a typical morning, walking back to my room in a tapis, like a TF star. I didn’t want that!

So what did I want? Having no experience in this, I didn’t really know. Except that it should be cheap, near the office, and something my mother wouldn’t be horrified to see. I was losing hope. It looked like I would have to starve in a nice room, or eat well and do a bad remake of a TF scene every morning. I was tired and hungry. There was only one place left on my list. So I went and dragged myself to it.

It turned out to be a very short walk from the office. A daschund in a shirt greeted me when I entered. Dogs are always a good judge of the owner’s character. The room overlooked a garden with a bench and an old mango tree. And I could afford it! After all that I’d seen, this was heaven.

So I live here now. Every morning, like an annoying alarm, the dogs’ barking wakes me long before I should be up for work. In the evenings, I hear the matrona next door screaming at the maids and her dog, and then crooning praises to her fat, black cat who—surprise!— just learned to climb the tree next to my window.

But whining daschunds and crabby matronas aside, this is still my space. My very own. At least for the next 6 months. No noisy neighbors, no gloomy day can take that away from me.