The humidity of the tropical climate makes my hair frizzy, and its volume increases to about twice its original size. But I don’t mind the heat very much. What’s truly annoying is the army of mosquitoes attacking at all times. They are attracted to the sweetness of my American blood, as my mom used to say. She would immediately cover mosquito bites with calamine lotion to relieve my itching. The large pink spots are clearly visible on the skin, otherwise kissed by the sun, in photographs of me as a child in the Philippines. Wide, toothless smiles - I looked like a mime who didn’t have time to do proper makeup.

Our days were divided into three main places: my mother’s and father’s respective cities, and then there was Metro Manila. We would go there every five years, staying each time for just two weeks.

I retraced my steps years later when I was in college. I developed an independent study project in Economics that gave me an excuse for what was essentially a vacation abroad. Without consistent academic supervision during the trip, my independent study project was ill-defined and never completed, but it served its purpose. I got to explore a land that was completely foreign to me, despite looking exactly like its inhabitants. Under the guise of “research,” I had permission to ask probing questions about the locals’ lives, including my own family.

At that time, the country’s biggest export was human capital. Young people who could work as professionals in the Philippines preferred to go abroad to work as nurses, domestic helpers, babysitters, or members of major cruise lines. I wanted to better understand this decision to leave the Philippines. Was it for the money, or were there other factors at play?

My questions were casual but stealthy. My interviewees were surprisingly frank in their conversations with me, and each of their stories was unique and touching. Maybe they suspected that I would later rush to my room to record their answers in my notebooks, but I doubt it. I doubt they realized I was memorizing what they were saying, as well as how they openly described the disappointments and failures of their lives. These always stemmed from complications with their loved ones who promised to return home after saving enough money abroad. The next question was, “How do you define ‘enough’?” In the end, I decided that writing what I had learned would be betraying their trust. I hadn’t asked for their permission to share their stories.

***

My father’s parents were rice farmers. Both of them have passed away, but I managed to spend time with them as a child when they lived in the United States. After a few years of idleness, they decided that their quality of life would be better in the Philippines. That’s where I saw them for the last time when they were still in their eighties.

I traveled from Manila to Tayug in a rented car with a driver because there was a fear that I would be kidnapped for ransom if I were left to navigate public transportation on my own. Upon arrival, my grandparents put me to work immediately. I had to spread the palay (unhusked rice) on the ground for drying. I raked the grains until they formed a thin layer of rice kernels, only to see them soaked by a rain shower, forcing me to start over. It was the rainy season, so this was a waste of time, but as a guest, there wasn’t much else for me to do, so I didn’t mind doing it.

The pace of life was slow. Frequent power outages meant stifling heat. They could afford a generator, but they didn’t have one. I sat there, drenched in sweat, with a fan directed right at me, wishing for the blades to start turning.

My grandparents’ English was not bad, considering the number of years they hadn’t needed to use it. We didn’t talk much. My grandfather was a very lively man; we communicated through changes in vocal tones and body language. Instead, with my grandmother, I would sit quietly on the veranda while she smoked cloves. She knew a trick: she would rotate the stick 180 degrees without using her hands, so that the ashes spread onto her tongue. Then, she would turn the stick another 180 degrees to exhale the next puff, accompanied by a side-spit. I don’t know why she did it, but it was fascinating to watch. She carefully chose her words, speaking to me in a hushed voice in my ear, imparting advice on the ways of the world, which I hadn’t asked for.