Walking into the tiny terminal of Surigao Airport, I imagined a chorus of greetings awaiting me. There, I envisioned, would stand a gaggle of family and friends yelling my name and throwing flowers, accompanied perhaps by a flashbulb or two.
It had, after all, been four weeks since they’d seen me during my annual pilgrimage to America. Surely, I thought, their mood would reflect the joyfulness of my return in this most joyful of seasons.
Instead, there was utter silence as I waited for my luggage. Hmm, I thought, maybe the guards didn’t let them in. Even in the parking lot, though, there lurked a deafening dearth of din. Then I spotted a familiar car in the distance, manned by my sister-in-law tapping nonchalantly on her phone. Ah, but in the backseat sat my four-year-old daughter and her little cousin. And the smiles they gave me made the world sing.
“Hi Daddy,” my sweet little girl said. “I missed you! I love you!”
And that was all I needed for sustenance until we got home. Where the real world suddenly intruded. Reading the headlines, I noticed the usual stories about the vice president threatening to kill the president while massive flames engulfed Manila and dengue fever converged on Cavite.
Then the lights went out.
It’s called a brownout. Anyone living in the Philippines knows what I’m talking about. You’re having dinner with friends about to make a point that, you’re convinced, will finally reveal you to be the genius you truly are. Or, better, sitting on the potty reading the Sunday paper just about to flush. Or, as in my case, about to retire for some much-needed sleep.
When suddenly everything goes dark. And, worse, hot. Plus, in our house where the water flow depends on electric pumps, parchingly dry. The most tolerable type of brownouts, naturally, are the ones in when the entire power grid goes down. You look out your window, see that all your neighbors are with you in darkness, and somehow feel comforted.
Then there’s the other kind, like this one. The kind where you look out the window and realize that everyone’s got electricity except you. And that you’re about to suffer a very long, dark, hot, dry, and lonely night. One most likely devoid of sleep. Or dreams. Or expectations, save the certainty that when the sun finally comes up again, you’ll be incurring major expenses to recover that interior lighting, air conditioning, moisture, and, well, let’s just call it a piece of the peace of mind you deserve.
Fortunately, our go-to neighborhood electrician—a guy we call Jhun Jhun—managed to re-jigger our power system in fairly quick order to where everything came right back on. Until the next brownout and the one after that, both of which arrived during my first week back home.
Oh, but then the tropical rain came pouring down, rhythmically battering the roof like a squad of jungle drummers. It felt familiar and soothing, a sensation I’ve experienced often during the wet season here in the Philippines just nearing its end as I lay jet-lagged in my bed. It made me feel tucked in and safe, with no reason in the world to ever leave again. And that’s when I knew I was right where I belonged.
Which reminds me of a poem I came across recently in a collection compiled by Isabelle Bryne, though it’s unclear whether she also wrote it:
The Comforts of Home
A welcome sight, a familiar sound,
Memories within the walls abound,
The creaky floors, the faded paint,
The musty scent, the windowpane,
Each detail tells a story true,
Of days gone by, of a life we knew,
The warmth of home, a comforting hug,
A feeling that cannot be bought or plugged,
So let us cherish this sacred space,
A sanctuary, a familiar grace,
For it’s here we truly feel alive,
Where love and memories forever thrive.
All I can say is, I guess I’ve arrived.
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David Haldane is an American journalist and author with homes in Southern California and Northern Mindanao. His latest book, A Tooth in My Popsicle and Other Ebullient Essays on Becoming Filipino, is available on Amazon. This essay appears weekly in The Manila Times.
