Costa Rica Travel Surf Expat blog for Norm Schriever

Your May 2019 Postcard: Norm Writes

5/12/2019

“Oh, you’re a writer? Wow. That’s impressive!” she said in her thick Filipino accent.

I stood a little taller, puffed out my chest a bit, and started calculating the odds that she was a sapiosexual.

“Yes, I am a writer,” I said, smiling at her.

“That’s so cool,” she said, visibly excited. “And dangerous!”

Dangerous? I never thought of writing as dangerous. I did get a nasty paper cut once but soldiered through it.

“What do you ride?” she asked.

“I write books, blogs…”

“Do you ride motorcycles?” she asked.

“What?”

“Do you ride horses? Do you race them?”

“No, I’m a W-R-I-T-E-R,” I explained. “Not a rider.”

But she was already scanning the room for someone with a speedier vocation.

The rider/writer thing actually happens more often than you may think here in the Philippines, so I’ve started scribbling in the air as I tell them what I do, instead of revving the throttle on my imaginary motorcycle.

It’s also a perfect metaphor for my career.

It’s been a journey cleanly stripped of any “success,” accolades, or financial gain, like a fish down to the bones. In fact, my chosen life as a rider…err a writer…has been filled with solitude, sacrifice, and a lot of fudging hard work.

Most days, I ask myself, “Why the hell did I give up a job making tens of thousands of dollars a month for this?!” Why on earth am I fighting it out on the scrapheap of society while every Instagram marketing punk is raking in the dough?

I’ve even called writing my “beautiful failure” before.

But when I get over my daily freak-out, I realize that I wouldn’t change a thing. Being a writer has granted me plenty of amazing new friends and opportunities, a creative outlet that’s given life new meaning above just paying bills, and, perhaps the most valuable thing of all, freedom.
The friendships, laughter, and deep conversations – with people near and far - have been invaluable, and worth more than gold to me.

So, when it all starts to feel like I’m the piano player on the Titanic, I remind myself that I have a rare opportunity to make a difference in the world through my writing and outreach. Through my words, I can impact a positive change.

I must confess that when I started this crazy ride (not write) in 2011, I had less than altruistic goals. In fact, I had visions of grandeur floating through my head. I was moving to Costa Rica, eschewing my worldly goods, fast toys, and high-paying career in California. On the beaches of Tamarindo there, I would write my first book, which would be a smash hit because…well, because I wrote it, of course.

I’m not kidding – I really thought that’s how it works!

Let me tell you in my own words, from this passage I wrote in my second book, South of Normal in 2012 as I contemplated success and fame:

“I’d daydreamed about that for hours while I should have been writing.

Most likely it won’t happen—there are over 2,000,000 books published every year, and even the established authors with big publishers have a tough time making a living at it.

BUT...let’s just fantasize for a second and say that lightning strikes and my book hit it big. Here’s how I see the whole thing going down:

Have you ever heard people say that when they get rich or famous, they won’t change? Or. lottery winners who keep their jobs and remain the average Joe?

Not me. I’m going to turn into a completely self-absorbed asshole!

The moment I sign with a publisher, I’m going to morph into a totally different person, leaving behind everyone who’s been good to me.

Let’s just say that my first book hits it big and does end up on the New York Time’s Bestseller list. The critics will probably call me “Raw and refreshing, with prose as smooth as a $50 cigar. The best underground American writer since Bukowski.”

The royalty checks will start coming in faster than I can take them to the bank. I’m going to start wearing leather pants, put product in my severely-thinning hair, and don gaudy fur coats while walking down the street. Actually, I won’t walk anywhere, but hire someone to drive me around in my Bentley.

It’s important to me that when I get famous, I forget all of my old friends. Every chance I get I’ll “Big Time” the compadres who supported me through thick and thin. I’ll hire two super model assistants to screen my calls, until even my mom can’t get through.

I’ll buy a mansion in the hills and decorate it all in white leather. I’ll have a huge “N” tiled onto the floor of my massive swimming pool. I’ll buy a rare white-striped tiger cub that I’ll walk around on a diamond-studded leash and develop a huge coke habit.
My old friends and family will shake their heads and try to talk to me about their concern for my behavior, but that will just incite one of my tantrums where I curse them out and throw escargot and fire the super models and have them all forcibly removed from my estate.

Then, my next book will come out, but the critics will turn on me. They’ll call it “self-indulged drivel, a soggy excuse for literature,” and publicly question whether I plagiarized the first one.

By then, my spending habits of $20,000 a day will be impossible to maintain. I’ll have to return the Bentley and donate the white tiger to the Los Angeles zoo. The pressure of my poor-me existence will be so overwhelming that I’ll snort twice as much coke and start brushing my teeth with Jack Daniels. My finances will go into a tailspin and even the mansion will be up for sale. But, all of the potential buyers will be named Justin or Kanye or Ahmed, so no one will want an “N” pool.

Soon, the bank will foreclose. All of those fair-weather friends will disappear when I can’t afford limousines and VIP bottle service anymore. I won’t be able to sleep, little Norm won’t work right, and, worst of all, I’ll suffer from a horrible case of writer’s block.

I’ll lose it all and be resigned to the life of an average drunken bum, sleeping under my fur coat in the dumpster behind a vacant Borders. I’ll live off discarded McDonald’s French fries and rant and rave to anyone I pass how I used to be a somebody.

Eventually, my true friends will hunt me down and drag me out of there and set up an intervention at the local Olive Garden. I’ll have a complete emotional breakdown, realizing the error of my ways, and vow to never be an a-hole again.

My mom will take me home and tuck me into the twin bed in her guest room, where I’ll sleep for three days straight. Over the months, I’ll clean out my body and rebuild my constitution, until I’m gulping down raw eggs and doing one-handed pull-ups in her basement...and writing again.

The ensuing book, “White Tiger Dumpster Fries: My Life from A-hole to Amen,” (Random House, June 2016) will be such a testament to the resiliency of the human spirit that it will shoot me right back to the top.

“Bravo, a fete de accompli! Our generations Siddhartha!” the critics will applaud.

But this time, I’ll donate all of my royalty checks to children’s charities. I’ll be invited to the Ellen show, taking public transport to the studio, and we’ll laugh and hug like old friends, even doing a little victory dance together before the commercial break.

But I haven’t put a lot of thought into it or anything...”

No, White Tiger Dumpster Fries never came out, and I never did more than sell a few hundred copies (at best) of a few self-published books over the years.

But I’ve still managed to eke out a living writing blogs, websites, reviews, and all sorts of marketing content for companies and entrepreneurs. I estimate that I’ve written almost 5,000 blogs or other forms of content since 2011 – each one nearly 1,000 words!

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working as a ghost writer on other peoples’ books, too. In total, I have my fingerprints all over more than a dozen books available on Amazon.com and Apple Books right now, and each and every one of them is special to me, whether or not my name is on it.

I’ve advised on a series sheet for a TV pilot, co-wrote a book about legendary martial artist Judd Reid, was chief blogger for Marijuana Weekly, did the marketing for a pro soccer team, got to write about Fantasy Football for a couple of years, got paid to write travel reviews for a great site called AllWorld.com, and even got to blog about bondage and S&M for a product website for a while.

The subject matter, too, ranges from fascinating to mundane to just plain random, but I’m always up for the challenge.

However, most of my work deals with topics that aren’t quite as sexy, like dentistry, taxes, credit scoring, and I even had to write all of the content for a huge website about ice fishing.

I appreciate all of the work, but I assure you that life as a writer is a lot more ice fishing than it is bondage!

I have no idea where this all will lead me, but I’ll keep forging ahead, because one thing I’ve learned is that you only lose if you quit.

And I’m more all-in than ever.

As the calendar now starts flipping towards the 10-year anniversary of when I left the United States and decided to start anew as an author, I find myself prone to reflection – and nostalgia. I’m looking forward to putting together my next travel memoir in time for a 2021 release, with all of the crazy, remarkable, and insightful experiences from life abroad.

It will be called simply, “Less.”

Until then, when someone asks me what I do for a living, I can just point to my wrist and say, “Norm Writes.”

-Norm :-)
NormWrites.com

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Your April 2019 Postcard from Norm: Things I now consider normal.

4/23/2019

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I was at a wedding in Sacramento, Ca last fall (don’t worry – it wasn’t my own) when I ran into an old friend in the mortgage business who I hadn’t seen in years. As everyone else danced, drank, and ate lemon chicken/halibut/or New York strip around us, Brent pulled me aside, intensely interested in my life abroad.

“Where did you live?”
“How much is your rent?”
“What was my favorite country?”
“Do you speak other languages?’
“How do you handle work?”
“Is it safe?”
“Are you going to live there forever?”

The questions went on and on, which I appreciated because this was someone who I really respect and he chose to sequester me in a room full of more exciting options.

I realized that, although I’m pretty boring in my own eyes, my daily existence is anything but to a lot of my friends and family who live a world away.

So, for this month’s postcard, I started reflecting on the word “normal.”

Of course, much of what’s considered typical, average, and unremarkable in my life is actually pretty b-a-n-a-n-a-s to a lot of you.

On that note, I decided to make a list of things that I now consider normal and don’t even give a second thought to anymore, but would make some people – like Brent – say “Whoaaa, really?”

Some things on this may apply to other places I’ve lived in the world over the last decade, like Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Vietnam, and Cambodia. But it’s weighed heavily towards the Philippines where I live now, which is unique (ok, bat-shit crazy!) in its own way.

I was going to document them all here, but after making a list of about 70 such “normal” phenomenon and still counting, I realized it has to be an ongoing series.

So, without further ado, let’s have a little fun. Welcome to my bonkers/perfectly normal world!

A pet goat on a motorbike.
This photo was taken in the small seaside city of Dumaguete where I lived for over a year, and the “Goat Guy” was a resident. He treated his pet goat like a dog and trained him well, so he’d come with him everywhere - even jumping on his motor bike and holding on while they rode around.

I’ve seen plenty of exotic pets, like snakes, parakeets and more. But in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, there was an American lady in her 70s who walked a small orangutan around everywhere hand-in-hand. Rumor has it that she used to be a star in the adult film industry in the 1960s before going down south permanently.

Sports as bad as their teeth
The entire WORLD positively worships soccer (football), rugby, cricket, and all of those UK-based sports. Everywhere I go, I have to deal with soccer or weird Australian Rules “footie” on the TV (sorry, Judd-O and Clint!). I’m not even joking when I say that one of the reasons why I decided to settle in the Philippines instead of Thailand or other neighboring coutnries is because of the love and obsession with NBA basketball here.

This is one of the rare times when you’ll hear me say that the U.S.A. is number 1!!! (In sports.)

Bathrooms are straight-up nasty
In most countries in the Developing World, public bathrooms are positively nasty. In fact, you may encounter little more than a whole in the ground, a bucket, and a water spigot on the wall.

If you want to know how civilized any country is, just take a look a random sampling of bus station bathrooms.

By now, I’m well-prepared, and carry around an emergency hygiene kit in my backpack, including hand sanitizer, wet wipes, bug spray, Axe spray deodorant (to crop dust over others, or myself), Chapstick, tissues, bubble gum, and a stack of Starbucks napkins to use in case of emergency.

Security that's omnipresent
Every single store, apartment building, office, restaurant, pharmacy, and coffee shop has an armed security guard on duty – if not more than one. Sometimes, they carry rusty pistols older than they are.

But, most of the times here in the Philippines, they’re toting 12-gauge shotguns or semi-automatic AR15s – and they ain’t afraid to use them, as robberies are/would be common. I don’t even really notice it anymore – except maybe when a guard is eating lunch and Burger King and his rifle is on the table, pointed right at me.

A funny thing is that the security guards here are super friendly to me, calling me “sir” and even saluting me as I pass by. Since I have a shaved head and in decent shape, they all assume I’m in the U.S. military and want to show their respect!

Typhoons, volcanos and earthquakes, oh my!
The Philippines is as cursed with natural disasters as it is blessed with natural beauty. On the Pacific “Ring of Fire” chain, it is home to hundreds of active volcanos, including Mt. Pinatubo which erupted in 1991 and devastated the surrounding countryside, killing tens of thousands and forcing the evacuation of a massive U.S. military base here.
Since I’ve lived here, I’ve been caught in the largest typhoon ever to make landfall (Haiyan), been stranded by other typhoons, and caught in a landslide.

BREAKING: No bullshit – about twenty minutes after I started writing this, I was in a park working out when suddenly, thousands of people starting spilling into the streets, evacuating from the surrounding office buildings and high-rise apartments. I quickly discovered that we’d had a 6.3 magnitude earthquake – not insignificant.

Update: we just had another one – of 6.5 magnitude – in Samar today.

In many Equatorial and tropical parts of the world, these natural disasters are the norm, and locals show amazing resilience.

Skin whitening
A good part of the world's population are obsessed with having lighter skin.

That’s incredibly sad and ridiculous but true. There are many reasons for this, but it’s directly tied into the cultural norms and preferences in many countries that were colonized by the Europeans and, in some cases, Americans. The deeply rooted effects include a power dynamic and social stratification that’s directly correlated to how light your skin is.

People with darker skin tend to be more indigenous and less mixed with European blood, as well as known for being manual laborers and those who traditionally work in agriculture or out in the sun.

Skin whitening is most popular in Asia, with Japan and Korea make up a huge part of the demand, as its perfectly normal for me to see travelers from the country walking around like lily-white ghosts reminiscent of Michael Jackson later in life, covered head to toe against the sun even when swimming. Creepy. Globally, the skin whitening industry is expected to bring in about $7.8 billion dollars this year alone and rise to $8.95 billion within a few years.

But, no one is more concerned with the lightness of their skin and spends more on these products than Filipinos. Girls who are darker get teased and bullied mercilessly, called skin shaming. There are less social, educational, employment, business, and even marriage opportunities for them just because of their skin color (which I think is perfectly beautiful!). But it’s not just women who are obsessed with lighter skin. In one Philippines study, more than 25% of all young male university students were regularly using a skin whitening product!

This misguided standard of beauty is blatant is everywhere in daily advertising and media, and all of the celebrities, actors, and models are all unnaturally white.

Everywhere you turn, you’ll see lightening cremes, lotions, soaps, pills, sprays, even surgeries. (I can’t even find aftershave for sale that doesn’t have skin whitening additives, so I have to bring it back form the U.S. with me!). It also gives rise to a host of shadowy practices and downright quackery performed by unlicensed medical professionals or scam artists. Friends of mine had someone come to their hotel room to administer an IV with a “special” formula that was guaranteed to lighten their complexion, only to get them violently ill for days.

The United States has their own complex and polarizing racial dynamic, but it’s important to understand that’s not the only “normal” throughout the world.

Rice is life!
A good portion of the world lives on rice, and that’s no exaggeration. It’s also definitely true in Southeast Asia and the Philippines where they say, “Rice is life.” For some unknown reason, they LOVE rice! To me, it’s completely tasteless except for whatever you serve it with, but they literally eat rice for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even have sweet and sticky rice for dessert.

It goes to hilarious lengths, like when people check into hotels carrying their own rice cooker. When you ask Filipinos what they had for their meal, they’ll just say, “rice.” Upon asking them if that’s all they ate, they’ll answer, “No, we had fish/chicken/spaghetti, etc. too.” But to them, the highlight of the meal is the rice – not the steak haha.

Rice also serves as an efficient way to feed billions of people, as it grows year-round, is ecologically self-sustaining, and takes advantages of moist and flood-prone climates.

Counterfeits-R-Us
Outside of the U.S., counterfeiting is HUGE business, supplementing the GDP of entire world economies, like in China or North Korea.

In Thailand, I have access to an incredible market of counterfeit goods like designer purses and bags, clothing, perfumes and colognes, and every electronic gadget you could think of. Quality varies from Chinese rip-offs that will break after one use (or sooner) to solid merchandise that is actually built in the same factories and with the same materials as the real thing.

I know of one store that’s like heaven to me, as it has high-quality versions of vintage Nike basketball sneakers. From Air Force Ones to every generation of Jordan’s, they’re all for sale at only 1,000 Baht - $30. I was ready to drop about $300 in there but the kick in the balls is that they only have up to size 10 – another thing that’s “normal in Southeast Asia. Grrrrr!

People don’t like the American government but they generally really like Americans
I get slapped around on social media for being overly critical of the U.S., but I can say with confidence that the myth of the Ugly American is pretty much dead. Instead, American people who travel abroad, whether for tourism or to live, are generally perceived as polite, caring, kind, fair-mannered, and generous.

They like us, especially compared to the rude and demeaning behavior exhibit regularly by people of other nations.

An uproarious sense of humor
Around the world, I’ve found that most people are gregarious, playful, cleverly humorous, and even hilarious. Of course, that humor translates differently in different cultures, but, to me, the Philippines is the funniest county on earth.

The whole daily experience here consists of joking, teasing, mocking, smiling and laughing, all to a sing-song cadence that makes each day entertaining. Filipinos are also masteries of imitation and mimicry, so songs, skits, joke telling, and other forms of dramatics are the essence of socialization.

All of this humor also serves a practical purpose, as humor is a big part of how people can cope with the harsh realities of poverty, natural disasters, tough living and working conditions, and other extreme stressors.

For those of you who know me, I’m a sh*t-talking, wise-ass at heart, so the Philippines is the perfect stage for my funny (that’s highly debatable) antics, too.

Of course, sometimes, their humor isn't intentional as they have a less than substantial grip on the English language and wear the shirts to prove it!).

Check out these funniest t-shirts I've seen in Asia that have become normal to me!

That's all for this month, folks!

Look for many more of these things that I now find normal in future monthly postcards, and thanks for reading and sharing!

Your abnormal friend,

Norm :-)

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Your March 2019 Postcard from Norm: Why don't they clean up the clothes in the photo? A case study in social change.

3/26/2019

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Last year, I posted this photo taken on the island of Boracay, a tropical paradise that has been voted the top island in the world several times. However, I wasn't on the idyllic white beach that's spotted with luxury resorts and sun-worshiping tourists, but the "local" side of the island (actually, right across the narrow seaway that separates them) when I took it.

On a "walkabout" one day, I stumbled upon on this seaside hamlet where I saw crumbling hovels, flooded mangrove swamps, and a whole lot of poverty along the battered shore.

I snapped a photo, which I posted on social media with this caption:

"Wandered into a poor fishing community in Caticlan directly across from #Boracay. I saw all of these clothes in the water and at first, thought they were doing laundry (but that would make no sense in sea water, of course).

But one of the ladies told me that those were just the discarded garments that washed up from Boracay — basura, or trash."

To me, it wasn't a big deal, as I see this kind of thing every day here in the Philippines. So, I was surprised by the wave of outspoken opinions, condemnations, and even outrage that followed.

Scott, a UK expat living in the Philippines, commented, “Why aren't they picking them out of the water?”             

Voytec from Nicaragua commented, “‪I know there is a problem with education and culture, but for me, they are just dumb and too lazy to pick it up. We have the same here in Nica.”

But it wasn’t just foreigners that were perplexed, as Filipina Alijane expressed her disbelief with, “Why is this!?”

Bray, scuba diving tour guide in the islands, followed that with, “No one has the initiative to pick it up?!”
  
On it went, but only one or two people tried to paint these villagers in a different light and float a reason why it was, if not right, then understandable. My old high school friend Barbara from the U.S. offered, “‪Maybe their island dump is already full of other people’s trash? If it happens often, they may just get tired of looking for places or ways to dispose of it.”

Again – no one is “wrong” in this discourse, but it fascinated me that this one photo could evoke such strong opinions. So, I wanted to dig deeper into the issue not from an environmental perspective, but a cultural one.

Some things to put it in context:

To start, do you notice how we always condemn the end user or last person on the daisy chain? For instance, NO ONE seemed sympathetic that these people were the victims of such pollution. Someone else manufactured the cheap clothing (probably China), creating even more pollution in the process, someone else purchased them, shipped them, sold them, wore them, etc. Ultimately, someone else threw them out – in a landfill, on the side of the road, or, as is too often the case here, right in a local creek or waterway that serves as a big trash receptacle and eventually washes into the ocean.

The people in the photo – poor locals living in shanties and surviving on a few dollars a day – were complicit with none of those actions, yet everyone blames them because the waste happened to wash up in their "backyard."

If these poor fishermen and their families did go through and pick all of the clothing that washed ashore, where would they put it? There isn't waste management in this tiny village (a trash truck would never make it through their impossibly-narrow sand paths!) and no dump nearby.

For people who spend most of their time eking out a meager existence, trash is a part of life and the backdrop to their surroundings and always has been.

And if they did take the time to collect everything, wouldn't it just ash up again tomorrow? Why should these impoverished locals take the initiative to clean up after rich tourists from the other side of the island (Boracay).

Do we hold up to our own scrutiny?

Conversely, show these same humble villagers a photo (or headline) about Flint, Michigan, and they'll be twice as shocked and perplexed why the wealthiest country in the world doesn’t even
provide clean, poison-free water to its citizens.

Superimpose this scenario onto your own lives, and we might not hold well under our own scrutiny. Do you clean up trash that isn't yours? I'm sure you would if someone littered in your front yard, but these people don't own the beach (or the land their huts stand on).

When was the last time you went to a public park and started picking up trash? Or a pile of trash that sat at the end of your street?

I try to do my part, but I'm guilty of this too, of course – selective indifference.
I just walked by a discarded soda can and a pile of cigarette butts on the way to a coffee shop to write this.

It's hard to save the world on an empty stomach – Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs

There's another, more clinical way to look at this one snapshot – or any social issue on a larger scale: through the prism of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.

In summary, this psychological theory states that if people are hustling daily just to eat, keep a roof over their heads, or stay safe, then we can't expect them to be "self-actualized." That's a fancy way of saying that they're concerned with more lofty precepts like the Greater Good, personal development, the meaning of life, etc.

This is a perfect real-life example of that theory as, to the people in the photo, there’s no tangible benefit to picking up the clothing and trash (unless Philippines’ Pesos start washing up!).

Is it a matter of edu-ma-cation or poverty?

So, are they just uneducated and that's the problem?

While there may be a correlation between a lack of education, poverty, and litter or blight, we can’t attribute that to causation – and it doesn’t tell the whole story. Wealthier or educated people may be more ecologically conscious on the whole (just an assumption), but they don’t necessarily pick up the trash and clean up themselves – they pay for others to do it most of the time.

Additionally, there are a whole lot of CEOs and politicians that went to Ivy League schools who are choosing to do the wrong thing and pollute our world just to squeeze out a few extra dollars.

The Broken Windows Theory

But we can take clues from something called The Broken Windows Theory, a sociological study that earned its merits by helping transform New York City from a cesspool of crime, filth, and community hopelessness in the 1980s into the (relatively) safe and shining example of a major city it is today.

Broken Windows Theory was an academic concept introduced by Stanford University researchers, James Q. Wilson and George Kelling in 1982. It proposed that even minor "disorder and incivility” within a community opened the floodgates for more serious crime.

Wilson and Kelling's theory was based on a study where they placed two identical cars in two vastly different neighborhoods – one in the South Bronx and the other in a nice area in California. While the car in the Bronx was quickly broken into, had its tires stolen, etc., the abandoned car in California stood undisturbed.

That is, until the research team came back to the Cali car and intentionally broke one of its windows and then, left it again.

What happened next laid the groundwork for their theory, as the previously-untouched car was quickly vandalized and broken into, too. This reinforced (if not proved) their assumption that when people see and experience minor transgressions that are obviously tolerated or unpunished, far more chaos will ensue - and escalate.

The Broken Windows Theory became the premise for sweeping change in New York City under Police Commissioner William Bratton from 1990-1992, when he ordered a massive crack-down on impropriety in the Big Apple’s notorious subway system, including swarms of visible police and a zero-tolerance policy on relatively minor infractions like panhandling, graffiti, turnstile jumping, drinking in public, urination, and more.

They also took their efforts to the streets and trains above, where they cleaned cleared the sidewalks of petty drug pushers, prostitutes, beggars, solicitors, unlicensed vendors, and scam artists like those who jumped out and started washing your window at traffic lights.

Of course, many questioned the common sense behind this all-out war against PETTY crime, since muggings, murders, major drug deals, rapes, and serious theft was rampant. But the Broken Windows Theory proved sound and the transformation to the city was nothing short of miraculous.

In fact, by the time Bratton resigned as Police Commissioner in 1996, not only were the subways, sidewalks, and street corners safe and civil once again, but major felonies were down 40 percent and the homicide rate was cut in half!

It turns out that social depravity – no matter how seemingly minute – was such a slippery slope that the whole city inadvertently snowballed down it.

Can government fix our environmental problems?

Of course, the United States is one of the biggest offenders when it comes to consuming non-renewable natural resources, creating greenhouse glasses, and producing waste. What’s even scarier is that many politicians on one particular side the aisle still don’t even acknowledge climate change or the environmental disaster we've created.

But this problem won’t be solved by regulations and policies alone (although those are sorely needed), as governments are usually just the tail that wags the dog.

For instance, the island of Boracay – the #1 tourist destination here in the Philippines - was recently shut down for six months when Philippines President Rodrigo Duterte observed it had turned into a "cesspool" and ordered it cleaned up.

With Boracay closed for an environmental overhaul, thousands of locals making a humble living as taxi drivers, waitresses, tour guides, and clerks lost their only source of wages. Many of them were barely making it to begin with and sending money back home to support their families.

Still, despite the hunger, hard times, and uncertainty they faced over those six months, they supported the cleanup for the most part. These brave unwitting activists championed the cause, taking pride in their island that would soon be one of the cleanest in the world.

Once Boracay reopened as a textbook example of conservation in action (and a stern warning to offenders), others took notice. More islands and communities started "cleaning up their act" proactively, worried the government would come in and shut them down, but also because they now realized the potential for change.

A matter of culture

We are largely products of our environment and adopt the norms, mores, and expectations that are placed upon us – a base anthropological definition of culture. Without getting into the whole debate about nature vs. nurture (go watch Eddie Murphy’s Trading Placesto learn about that!), people in any society, neighborhood, tribe, or even family will conform to the culture of that group.

So, in order to clean up the beach in that photo…and this part of the world…and our entire globe eventually, we have to initiate a culture shift, first.

We have to make it unacceptable to litter, pollute, deface, vandalize, and harm our planet. And there needs to be social status and affirmation awarded to those who do act as agents for change.

So where does that culture change start?

Any true solution will come from people, as we basically need to “make it cool” to care about the environment. Expectations need to be raised and universally adopted. Children need to be taught to love, respect, and care for the world we live in, and, in many cases, children need to teach their parents, too.

Consciousness is the start of that, and already there’s a small glimpse of hope as environmental action is the #1 political concern for Millennials in the United States.

I also see the early days of a massive culture shift here in the Philippineshumble environs, too.

In Dumaguete, where I used to live, I saw patrons implore their favorite local restaurants to start using metal straws instead of plastic ones (cleverly labeled 'Straw Shaming').

On the idyllic little island of Siquijor (rumored to be haunted and rife with witches!), a few of my local friends started organizing clean-up days at their beaches, invite tourists to join in. These became fun, must-attend events, and they even cooked big feasts for the volunteers.

The photos, stories, and friendships returned home with these tourists, and beach cleanups became almost a bucket-list item for conscious travelers.

Tour guides, dive masters, and locals started to push back when people did litter or violate conservation standards, spreading their messages through social media and word of mouth alike.

One by one, municipalities are cutting down or eliminating their consumption of single-use plastics, too. Electric vehicles are slowly but surely popping up on the roads.

When I traveled to the incredibly wild and remote island of Batanes last year, far in the northern sea, I was dazzled by how the locals kept their island spotless and organized when it came to waste and recycling, despite a stark lack of resources, education, and technology.

From remote islands to Manila Bay to mainstream media

Here in the Philippines, the movement is growing organically, picking up steam at a faster rate than I ever anticipated.

Recently, Manila Bay, a toxic stew of plastics, trash, chemicals, and other waste, became the cause célèbre when thousands of volunteers - especially youth – mobilized to pick up trash and start the long road to rehabilitation.

On my birthday in February, I met two really cool Filipina sisters at a bar. Chatting over (many) drinks together, they told me that they had a clean-up event to attend early the next morning, shattered my preconceived notions. (And gaining my respect when they actually made it there, despite the hangovers!)

These new friends even travel (on their own time and dime) to outside of Manila on the weekends, volunteering to clean up the beaches there, too.

Bolstered by media coverage and social media sharing, the concept has mushroomed into a movement. Don’t get me wrong – these micro-efforts probably haven’t even amounted to more than a drop in the bucket, and we need to magnify that effort by 1,000 – no, 10,000 – to see the real impact.

But regular people – and particularly Filipino youth - are starting to feel empowered. They realize that they can immediately and directly affect their surroundings in positive ways without waiting for the government, politicians, corporations, or even each other to sign off.

This momentum (and measured progress) will continue to grow until we reach a Tipping Point, as author and social statistician Malcolm Gladwell calls it.

Thanks to these small sparks that ignite a blaze of consciousness, the culture of how we treat our Mother Earth will truly have changed.

At that point, we might look back at the photo in this postcard and think not, “Why didn’t THEY clean it up?” but, “Why didn’t WE clean it up?”

-Norm :-)

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Your February 2019 postcard from Norm: Moving to the Thrilla in Manila!

2/20/2019

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I was here before, way back in 1999, an experience that left me remarking that Manila was one of the absolute worst cities on earth, like a bomb went off where a civilization once stood, and the jungle was starting to take it back.

The traffic was so thick and choking that even when I headed in a taxi to a local mall, the driver suffering a nervous breakdown after three hours of inching and pushing through only five kilometers of local streets, declaring that he was giving up in favor of a new profession after turning around to deposit me at my hotel.

Back then, I would have put the odds at one-in-hell-no that I’d end up actually living in Manila, and even a few years ago, the capital city of the Philippines was a place to be suffered as I passed through, but no place to call home.

And yet, in an ironic twist of fate, it’s Manila that I now call home.

So, why the hell did I choose to move here?

So much has changed in Manila over those 20 years, and so much hasn’t. Today, I wanted to break down a peek into my new life in “The Thrilla” as I call it, referencing the third and final super-fight between Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier here in 1975.

The traffic is even worse, if you can believe it, and has come to define the Manila experience for so many. That’s the first thing people will respond if you mention Manila anywhere in the country (followed by the pollution and then the crime), and it’s so bad that people refer to it as if it’s a catastrophic act of nature like a typhoon or an earthquake, as in “we have a Traffic” today.

Rush Hour is its own fang-bearing hungry animal and dictates most life choices in Manila. For instance, the drive from my neighborhood to central Makati, which is only 5 km as the crow flies and walkable if you didn't mind breaking a serious sweat, may take two hours at 5 pm but then only 20 minutes at 9 pm.

I'll get back to that soon, but there are other changes. The megacity has also become "mega-er" (turning Spell-Check off), mushrooming to over 30 million people (no one really knows and it's certainly impossible to count in the endless slums), making it one of the largest metropolitan areas in the world!

It's also one of the most densely populated – or even the top by some estimates.

For instance, Manhattan has a population density of 26,403 people per square mile (10,194/km²), but Manila dwarfs that with 38,000 people per square mile (14,500/ km²).

They’ve actually long-ago broken Manila into sixteen sub-cities, like Makati (the international business and Red Light district), Quezon (where the Thrilla in Manila fight was held), Pasay (where the airport is located), and Taguig, where I live.

In my perfect world, I live on a white sand beach on some tropical island – and I’ve tried. However, the lack of Wi-Fi, modern infrastructure, etc. make it impossible.

So, my best bet is to have a cool and comfortable home base where I can work my ass off, get shit done, and enjoy the modern conveniences, but then bounce out to the airport every time the mood strikes to go find that white-sand beach or the next natural adventure.

Manila checks the box on several of the criteria I look for in that home base:

Food
I would characterize food in the Philippines as…how can I put this delicately?...a mix between prison gruel and refried dog chow – only far less healthy. It really is that bad in most places, where everything is pork or meat-based, deep-fried, doused in sugar or MSG powder called “’Sarap, or soaked in oil.

It’s SO hard to eat healthy here, and a travesty that you can find a good variety of fresh fruit but almost no vegetables. The food can even be downright unhygienic in many places and make you sick. But Manila has countless restaurants with better quality grub and more options.

It’s still not easy to eat healthy in Manila, and definitely not cheap, but at least it’s possible not to blow up to 400 lbs. or contract Scurvy while living here.

Arts and Culture
To me, a fulfilled life means plenty of art, culture, music, and the dynamism of ideas around me, and Manila offers that in spades. From vibrant street art to gallery showings, funk and fun cultural experiences, museums, and music all around you in all its forms, Manila allows my best creative self to feel inspired.

Modernism and intellectualism
While you're always aware that you live in an overcrowded, poor Developing Country, Manila is also home to the majority of international businesses in the nation, as well as the country's middle class or elite, a higher education level for the average person, plus plenty of movers and shakers. So, you get a fantastic mix of different cultures, languages, and modern attitudes, a far cry from the traditional and conservative societal norms that can be confusing and constricting.

Social scene
I did love a lot of aspects of Dumaguete, but the social scene was not one of them. Manila, on the other hand, is the big city, and there is never a lack of cool things to do or interesting people to meet. Of course, the bar and nightlife scene is insane and borders on Bacchanalian at certain places, but I’m way too old, hardworking, and tired for all of that craziness.

Instead, I enjoy the array of more chill lounges, cocktail bars with old school hip hop, and beer joints with live bands.

Here's a video I shot entering a seemingly-normal 7-11 store that turns into an upscale nightclub called Bank Bar once you walk through the Employees Only door.

There are also endless festivals, fairs, concerts, events, night markets, and places just to hang out and drink coffee while mixing and mingling. I can get used to this once I change my inner workaholic/hermit ways and get out and about more.

Parks and green spaces
I lived in the Philippines' seconds largest city, Cebu, before, but was shocked and disappointed to find a total lack of any parks. Manila, however, despite being much larger and crazier, has some nice public parks and outdoor plazas that are actually clean, safe, etc. I'm a huge fan of public parks to chill, read, workout, or enjoy nature, so that was a must-have before I decided to move to Manila.

Health and fitness
Speaking of recreation areas, I also love the active workout scene in the city, as there are some nice, modern gyms and such. I found a modern, clean and convenient Golds Gym only two blocks from my house and got a killer deal by prepaying for a year.

There are also a few boxing and martial arts studios in the area, but the one in my neighborhood, Fight Factory, is super expensive. Luckily, I live right near the Philippines Army base and they have a recreation center, so I can walk 15 minutes over there and get in a boxing or Muay Thai workout for only 70 Pesos - $1.50 or so.

Airport
There are plenty of cities or island throughout the Philippines with their own airports, but outside of Cebu, Clark (about 120km north of Manila) or Manila. Itself, there are very few direct flights. When I lived in Dumaguete here in the Philippines over the last year and a half, I loved their little local airport but had to fly to Cebu first before grabbing a connection, which usually meant getting a hotel and staying overnight, etc.

But from Manila’s NAIA airport, which is only about 5km from my apartment (a 20 minute to two-hour drive!), I can hit every single airport in the Philippines. In fact, I travel as often as possible since airfares are also ludicrously underpriced, running $30 to $80 one-way or so to fly anywhere in the country. From Manila, I can also jump all over Asia on cheap direct flights, and there are non-stop flights to San Francisco or even New York City.

Comfort and convenience
I'm not talking about luxuries, but just being able to buy things, get better healthcare, and basic amenities. In Manila, it’s not hard to find air conditioning and bathrooms [they call them Comfort Rooms] with toilet paper and soap. And while it’s still alarming how few establishments have serviceable Wi-Fi, it’s always possible to connect somewhere.

It’s not just about convenience, but safety. You’ll also find a startling discrepancy between wealth and abject urban poverty, with tens of millions of people living in slums and shanties among unimaginable squalor, while the robust upper class of Philippines’ society does business in glass skyscrapers, eats at fancy restaurants, and shops at luxury U.S. and European stores.

I never need to be reminded that I am incredibly fortunate have it better than most people on the planet, and bearing witness daily to the poverty, homelessness, and gritty living conditions in Manila will always keep me humble and appreciative.

Even the average educated or service worker with a "good" job still has to commute several hours each day via crowded Jeepneys and buses, endure long work shifts, often during the night in call centers or the BPO industry, and just scrape by as they try to support their extended family or children - who often live back in the province. This environment creates unfathomable stress, isolation, and even hopelessness for so many, and I have a whole lot of respect for these folks and I'm proud to have a few of them friends.

As you now understand, the specific area you live in Manila is so crucial to the quality of your life. The little red dot on the big map I now call home is at Morgan Executive Suites, Florence Way, McKinley Hill, Fort Bonifacio, Taguig….in Manila.

I was introduced to the McKinley Hill enclave by my good local friend, Laarni, who used to in the same apartment building where I now reside. It's a small community consisting of call centers, high-rise condo towers, a few international schools, and a mall.

But it’s also one of the safest and cleanest areas in Manila because it sits next to the whole national military complex, conjoined with the massive Philippines army base, and then Airforce, Navy, etc. in a row.

My studio apartment is simple but functional, as has a rare view. It encompasses 34 square meters, which is roomy by Manila standards but only as big as three prison cells stacked together.

The apartment came furnished with a solid bed, green couch that I never sit on, and a kitchen table that's uncomfortable to sit at that serves as my workstation. I'm slowly by surely filling out the place and making it livable, although I do need to add an electric burner because I don't have a stove or even a microwave as yet.

But it does offer a view of the pristine jungle and a big pond that serve as training areas for the Army base next door, and that full natural panorama from my window is invaluable in this concrete jungle.

When my neighbor and friend, Laarni, moved to Australia shortly after I moved in, she was kind enough to donate all of her kitchen stuff, house plants (I've only killed one of them so far), and even a guitar, which I don't know how to play but sure makes a nice prop.

My building also has a lobby that looks pretty luxurious, air-tight security, a gym that’s good enough to throw a few dumbbells around or take a treadmill jog when you don’t feel like venturing out, and not one but two small swimming pools on the rooftop.

But a nice apartment building and a mall does not an existence make, and the main benefit of McKinley Hill its proximity to Bonifacio Global City and then, Makati a few kilometers further, two of the most desirable areas in Manila.

McKinley Hills features a small shopping mall called the Venice Grand Canal Mall, and the whole structure is supposed to mimic being in Italy, including an ornate canal running through the center made to look like Venice, complete with gondola boats with oarsmen in black striped shirts, Italian opera music piping throughout.

Cheesy? Yes. But it actually looks pretty damn cool, attracting horses of selfie snappers from all over Manila.

It’s at the Venice Grand Canal Mall, not even two blocks from my apartment, that I’ve found my gym, supermarket, barber shop, and a lineup of five or more coffee shops that I frequent.

(The only reason I considered a move to a place that looks like a 2050 post-apocalyptic Big Apple on steroids is because I don’t have to commute to every day since I can work from home, a coffee shop, waiting at the airport, or anyplace that I can open my laptop and may have Wi-Fi.)

I absolutely love the Bonifacio Global City (BGC) area that’s only a 15-minute walk from my hood (I’m thinking of getting one of those electric scooters, which make it easy to tool around and you don’t even have to park), but the rents there are insane.

This is the part where you’ll think that I’ve been in the sun too long, because these rents will sound low to you, but consider that this is for a comically-small studio or one-bedroom apartment in a relatively-poor Developing Country.

In BGC, that same studio starts at 35,000 Pesos ($750) per month and one-bedrooms probably average 50,000 or so ($1,000). Most people who live there are either making huge salaries from their foreign national companies or even have their housing allowance paid for by the company, but that number is far out of reach for even most professional Filipinos (call centers and Business Outsource Processing – BPOs- are the major employers here).

I’m a notorious cheap-ass, so I refuse to pay that much for rent abroad, even though I could make it work. Instead, I was happy to find a studio for 20,000 per month – or $400, which is still a steal for my area. I was able to negotiate an even better price of $340 monthly by prepaying for the whole year!

Anyways, you don’t want to listen to me bitch and whine about the prices here (and I could go on all day if I get started), but I just barely sneak into Manila’s elite neighborhoods based on my budget.

And I find BGC to be unmistakably DOPE!

If I just dropped you there, you seriously would think you're in the business district of Miami or San Diego or something. It's a well-planned community in an otherwise urban snake pit, and home to a whole lot of high-dollar international business people, corporate expats, and well-to-do Filipinos.

In BGC, you can walk past a Ferrari and Bentley auto dealership on your way to get a decent salad, two things that are virtually impossible anywhere else in the Philippines! The area even features a spotlessly clean outdoor jogging trail called the Green Belt (very rare in the Philippines), and a massive golf course in its midst.

BGC is defined by High Street, a stunningly-nice outdoor plaza that extends about six city blocks, lined with two stories of upscale cafes, restaurants, shops, and boutiques and filled in with green areas, sculptures, fountains, pop-up food kiosks, and even concert and event stages, decked out to the nines for every holiday.

Needless to say, I've slightly upgraded my regular attire of flip flops, board shorts, and a basketball jersey, and I actually find myself putting on jeans or a shirt with buttons now and then (gasp!).

I can seriously just go hang out at High Street all day, getting a coffee or meal at the Canadian-owned St. Louis coffee shop and restaurant as I people watch. One evening every week, I'll go drink Dark & Stormies and listen to old school hip hop at the secret bar located in the back of the California-inspired Pinks Hot Dogs (no, it's not a gay bar – I swear!).

I already feel that my foray into Manila will be worth it based on the friendships I've formed, old and new.

I ‘ve connected with some really cool folks here, like a California-born hip hop DJ named Mark Afrika, a professional basketball player in the Philippines league, an old friend who retired from his orthopedic surgery practice in San Francisco to open up a microbrewery in Manila (Bruddah Brewing), and Dead Aim Amy, a Canadian gal who's a professional boxer who also teaches little girls from the slums how to box as a way to boost their self-esteem.

Ironically, I find that people are more open to meet and converse here, once you get past the big-city guardedness. Just in my dozen weeks in Manila so far, I've struck up random acquaintances with a guy named Pancake who's an online sneaker dealer, a model I met at the airport, a buddy from Saudi Arabia who's a student here, two sisters who volunteer to clean up Manila Bay in their downtime, and many more eager and interested Filipinos or foreigners of substance.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s still a crazy place that can chew you up and spit you out if you’re not careful and thick-skinned, but there’s no shortage of people, places, and things to sate my intellectual curiosity here in Manila, helping me feel connected to a greater community and passionate about my small, inconsequential time on this planet.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but Manila is now home.

The Thrilla!

-Norm :-)

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4 Epic reasons to visit Asia this year!

2/19/2019

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From time to time, I feature a guest post by a great travel writer, young aspiring writer, or someone who offers fantastic content. Today, I'd like to introduce you to this guest post by Cassandra Dacy, who shares her article, 4 Epic Reasons to Visit Asia. Please welcome her and give her guest blog some love!

-Norm. :-)

With its 48 countries that are steeped in a rich history and colorful cultures, it is no surprise that Asia is the second-most visited continent in the world according to a report generated by HotelPro. Studies have indicated that traveling is of great benefit, making you an overall happier and healthier person. While these are indeed impressive advantages there are a host of other reasons why you should visit the world’s largest continent this year. From delectable traditional cuisine and affordable, easy travel to immense natural beauty and rich, diverse cultures, Asia should undoubtedly be on your bucket list of places to visit in the year to come.

1. The food is amazing
If you are a self-proclaimed foodie seeking out new culinary adventures in 2019, Asia will definitely become one of your new favorite destinations in the world. There is nowhere else in the world that you will be able to sample such a diverse range of food as on the Asian continent. It does not matter where you choose to go, you will always be met with a delicious array of traditional foods that are bound to blow your mind. If you find yourself in South Korea, Kimchi (salted & fermented pickled vegetables in a chili paste) should be at the top of your list of things to try. The same applies to the tom yum goong (spicy hot & sour soup) in Thailand, and dim sum (dumplings) in Hong Kong. You don’t have to stick to dining in fancy restaurants either as you can grab some delicious grub from one of the countless reputable street food vendors that can be found in all larger cities.

2. It is affordable and accessible
Asia is undoubtedly one of the easiest destinations to get to in the world in 2019. As long as you have all your documentation in order, including your passport and travel insurance, you will be able to enjoy a stress-free entry in the various countries on the continent. Tourism offices are plentiful, providing useful information that will make finding your feet in a foreign country a lot less stressful. Apart from being accessible, Asia as a whole is also very affordable. For as little as $35 a day you can live quite comfortably as long as you don’t splurge on food and drinks.

3. The natural scenery is spectacular
While Asia leads the world as far as digital transformation is concerned, it is also home to some of the most beautiful natural wonders in the entire world. Whether you made a New Year’s resolution that entails you taking a complete break from the hustle and bustle of life in the city, or simply want more balance in your life, visiting Asia this year could give you a whole new perspective of the world. When looking to bask in the sheer splendor of some of Mother Nature’s most remarkable offerings, consider paying a visit to the beaches of Thailand, the summit of Mount Fiji, the Bunaken Marine Park in Indonesia, and Palawan in the Philippines.

4. You can learn a lot from the rich culture
The merging of cultures across Asia is something that needs to be experienced first-hand in order to truly understand it. Apart from making up 60% of the entire world’s population, Asia has also been the birthplace of a number of religions, lifestyles, language, and traditions. If you are looking to get acquainted with some of the most vibrant, diverse, and interesting people in the world you have to add Asia to your travel itinerary this year. For the best cultural experiences, choose destinations such as Angkor Thom in Cambodia, Halong Bay in Vietnam, and Yogyakarta in Indonesia.
If you haven’t planned your trip to Asia yet, what are you waiting for? It doesn’t matter if you are a first-time or seasoned traveller when you visit Asia, you will be met with hospitality and life-changing experiences unlike anything you have ever experienced.

Enjoy your EPIC trip to Asia and contact us if you need more information!

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Your January 2019 Postcard from Norm: Surviving the Judd Reid Fight Camp

1/25/2019

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Sorry that my postcard is a little late this month, but I just got back from a trip to Thailand where I spent three memorable weeks. But instead of lounging by the pool, sightseeing at the Buddhist temples, and drinking beer bars all night like most tourists to the Kingdom of Siam, I had one singular agenda on my trip:

Survive the Judd Reid Fight Camp.

In fact, this was my third time attending the annual Kyokushin Karate camp hosted by the legendary martial artist (and one of my best friends), Australian Judd Reid, as well as Sensei Dean Booth.

I met Judd – or, Shihan Reid as I respectfully refer to him throughout the camp – through a serious of fortuitous circumstances starting in 2014. One of my best traveling buddies from Melbourne, Clint G da Monsta, introduced me to an interesting cat named Anton Cavka who had just produced a unique martial arts documentary and was looking to promote it.

I was writing for the Huffington Post at the time and happened to be visiting Phnom Penh, Cambodia at the same time as Cavka, so we met at 7 am at an end-of-the-world bar called The Pickled Parrot, and got along famously from there.

That’s when I first heard of Judd Reid and his successful undertaking of the 100-man fight, or real-life kumite, as he was only the 19th person in history to do so.

Soon, I met Judd in Thailand, became buds, trained (and drank a few beers) together, and I even helped him co-write a book about his early training in Japan and the 100-man fight, entitled The Young Lions.

Tragically, Anton passed away before the book was finished, so when Shihan Reid was nice enough to invite me to his first karate fight camp in Thailand in 2015, I said “yes” even though I was in piss-poor shape and had never practiced Kyokushin Karate before.

Since then, I’ve aimed to go every year (I wanted to do it last year and actually was in Thailand for the camp, but the alien tapeworm that took over my insides had other plans), silently dedicating my effort to Anton’s memory, thinking of him often as we train.

This year, I thought I was in better shape going in, starting my training months earlier at Apex Krav Maga and SoulCraft Jiu-Jitsu back in Connecticut when I visited the States. I ramped up my workouts through December when I returned to Manila, knowing the magnitude of what I was about to undertake all too well.

But with no dojo to workout in or even a training partner, I considered hiring a Filipino just to help toughen me up for the camp.

Job Opening:
Looking for someone to punch me in the stomach and kick me in the legs repeatedly.
Must be clean, discreet, and single (no wedding rings when you punch me.) Southpaws need not apply.
Three days a week is ideal; job will pay by the bruise or until I yell the safe word, which is “MORE."

Instead, I found a small local gym called The Fight Factory where they put me through rounds of pad work and smacked me around a bit, as well as sprinting up a hill near my condo.

However, as usual, I was completely humbled by the camp, although I escaped without a significant injury this time – a minor miracle. (A torn Achilles, broken ribs, dislocated elbow, broken fingers, and a lot of bruises to my pride were the casualties of past camps!)

The camp is “only” six days but there are three workout sessions per day, each one cumulatively harder thanks to your exhaustion, lack of sleep (I barely slept four hours a night because everything hurt and my adrenaline wouldn’t subside, even when I desperately needed rest), mounting injuries, and such.

The whole purpose is to completely shock your body, forcing you far out of your comfort zone, all while ramping up the intensity to an 11 on a scale of 1-10.

You can either be comfortable or you can grow - but not both.

Around day two, my mind already screamed “NO MORE!” as a litany of self-doubts and excuses came calling. How could I possibly survive the entire camp, I wondered before every single session?

While the other athletes in the camp had a considerable edge in skill, technique, and the ability to withstand blows since they all trained regularly at their Kyokushin dojos back home, I did possess a few distinct advantages.

Most of them had to travel extremely long distances from places like Canada, Europe, and Australia, so they were coping with jet lag, the time change, and a new climate, while Southeast Asia was already “home” to me.

I also came prepared, purchasing a little coffee maker for my hotel room and fortified with packs of Red Bull, oatmeal, almonds, and Tylenol to keep my tired old bones going.

However, I had to keep working during the camp, which means I awoke at 4 am every morning to send emails and write blogs before heading downstairs for the first workout at about 5:30 am, or “O-dark-thirty” as they say in the military.

The first session started promptly at 5:45 am, everyone half-asleep and stretching in the pitch black on the hotel's back lawn, dressed black Muay Thai-style shorts, black camp t-shirts, and sneakers (ok, “runners” or “trainers” for the rest of you!)

After a quick shower, we convened downstairs for breakfast, as we ate every meal together, Uchi Deshi (live-in student) style. Once “brekkie” was over, that only left us about 90 minutes or less for the next session.

But the next training session came up way too fast, as we met at 1030 am in a hotel conference room that was cordoned off and converted into a fully functioning dojo for us. There were rubberized mats spread across the floor, mitts, pads, and kick shields lined up, banners with traditional Japanese writing, and posters with quotes by the martial art’s legendary founder, Sosai Masutatsu Oyama.

We wore our crisp white gi's for that second session, which usually entailed lessons on technique, punch and kick combinations solo and with a partner, and a mashup of pushups, sit-ups, squats, jumping jacks, and burpees in between. We even enjoyed forays into wrestling, jiu-jitsu, street self-defense, and full speed jumping break falls, as Shihan Reid pays little consideration to labels and definitions within the martial arts, instead promoting whatever is most effective.

After another group gathering for lunch, we had the longest break of the day – about three hours – before the final afternoon session at 4 pm.

The training started in the dojo, where we work on drills as a group or with partners before lining up to spar every other member of the camp.

I used that time productively, dancing around like a boxer as I tried not to get killed, blocking the occasional kick with my head and absorbing a ridiculous amount of punishment to my legs (my shins still smart a week and a half later!).

The late afternoon sessions often ended up on the beach, where we had some of the hardest training of the day. It was well worth the pain and perseverance when we slowed down to practice katas, then knelt in formation along the edge of where the waves lapped the sand, focusing in a meditative state as the sun fell towards the horizon before us.

At dinner, I tried my best to sit up straight without keeling over with fatigue. A good meal always helped, and I enjoyed the comraderie as we joked around, exchanged snippets of our lives back home, and “took the piss” out of the others’ nationalities and dialects.

For instance, we hotly debated the word thong (the word for flip flops in Australia) and which side of the road was "correct" to drive on. But as the sole U.S. representative, I was thoroughly outnumbered, and took it as a huge complimnt when I heard comments such as, “You’re the first American I've met that I actually like!”

After dinner, we might head across the street for a massage or to visit the laundry, but most spare moments were spent trying to rest up for the next morning, when we did it all over again.

Each session lasted an hour and a half to two hours and resulted in us drenched in sweat, soaked in sea water, covered head to toe in sand, grass, or dirt, and sometimes even splattered with a little blood.

But we were always smiling ear to ear, enlivened that we’d survived one more spirited day training at the toughest karate camp in the world.

-Norm :-)

***
A lot of my friends are into martial arts, fitness enthusiasts, or know of Judd Reid by now. So, in next month's postcard, I'll break down the nuts and bolts of the actual physical activity and training we engaged in over the course of the camp, as well as the elemental nature, discipline, and honor of Kyokushin Karate, which has definitely changed my life for the better.

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Goodbye and Diyos mamahes, Batanes.

12/18/2018

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Eventually, I made it off the island of Batanes.

Of course I did, since I’m writing this to you now, several months later from my safe and comfy confines on the mainland in Manila.

But that wasn’t always a foregone conclusion – at least, in my mind.

Yet, almost a week after arriving and being stranded by not one but two typhoons, I would hop on a sturdy twin-propeller airplane and pray with the rest of the passengers as the clouds rushed to overtake the morning sun. It was a brief respite, the only time it hadn’t been too windy and rainy for airplanes to take off or land.

Each morning, the hordes of stranded travelers would start queuing up at the airport at 4 am, waiting for the doors to open so we could jockey for a spot on the first flight out at 10am.

And each morning, they were canceled as the crowd, exhausted, disheveled, and increasingly concerned, letting out a collective groan when the loudspeaker announced the bad news. Some people cried. After a while, they were all familiar faces, just wearing different dirty laundry, placing their bags in line instead of standing so they could go sit somewhere comfortable or try to sleep.

They knew that their chances of being stranded there through "The Big One" were increasing dramatically every day. Aside from the smaller typhoon that had hit the island a few days before, a super typhoon was rolling in – one that was supposed to be the worst of the year and bring catastrophic damage to Batanes.

I’d grumble as I shuffled back outside, too, grabbing the same trike driver to my same hotel, where they handed me the key to my same room. The hotel was still empty except for one other couple, and I found the personal effects I meant to leave behind waiting for me, neatly lined up by the understanding staff.

I wasn’t playing around anymore, and proactively booked four flights over the next four days just in case one of them managed to get out. To pass the time, I walked around the main town of Basco in the rain – just a dot on a map itself – and bought pizza for the nice gals working at the hotel, who taught me to say thank you in their indigenous Ivatan language – “Diyos mamahes,” or “Thank you God.”

As the plane lifted off, banking dramatically to avoid the steep mountains overlooking Basco and head out over the vast and windswept sea that separated Batanes from the mainland, the passengers cheered, prayed, and hugged each other. I closed my eyes, the rattle of the propellers comforting, feeling the sun on my face as I recalled one of the best moments of my life I’d just experienced on the island…

“Where to next?” I asked my driver, hoping he would say that we were turning back. I was more than a little concerned, as the wind had to be approaching 50 mph and the rain fell even harder.

Out this far, I didn’t see anyone except a smattering of local inhabitants. Most (sane) tourists were comfortably bunkered down in their hotels in Basco, staying indoors as they watched news reports that were growing increasingly dire. A Super Typhoon rushed towards the island on a certain collision course.

That sounded like the perfect day to go on a tour of the island to me, as I’d rather face the elements that spend another day in my Spartan hotel room watching my clothes not dry.

But this had quickly escalated past “uncomfortable yet adventurous” to “Whoa, sh*t just got real."

I could even sense the urgency of my guide, as the road was abandoned past the village, with only open highway along the coastline as we raced against the storm…

"We go into the mountains now," he answered, kick-starting the motorcycle, eager to get rolling before I was even entirely on board. I realized that he wasn't going to cancel our tour no matter what conditions we faced, as he was desperate for the $18 fee since it was the rainy season and there were few tourists.

Before I could voice my reservation that we should err on the side of caution and assure him that I was happy to pay-in-full, only five minutes outside of the village, we ran into a bigger problem.

Grrrrrcrackkkkkkhoooshhhhhhh...there was a sound like none other I'd ever heard, as if an epic thunderclap rang out from beneath the hillside to our left.

I turned to look at a wall of earth rushing down at us.

Of all the things I worry about while traveling and living abroad – Dengue and Malaria, robbers and kidnappers, hurricanes and cold-hearted temptresses, I’d never even considered a landslide.

But there it was, clicking in my mind within a split second as a river of mud, rock, earth, and water dislodged from the slope, snapping trees and shrubs with hardly a crackle and picking up bowling ball-sized boulders as it channeled at us.

It came fast. There was no time to do anything, even as I saw it and registered what was going on. The only reaction my driver had was to hit the brakes – which was the right move since it was barreling right towards us.

And then, it hit, sprawling across the highway that had been pristine a split second earlier, slowed only by a stone wall standing on the far side, smashing the stones and mortar in two like it was a toothpick, and then settled. It was quiet.

The landslide had enveloped us and our trike, too, so most of the wheels were submerged in earth. But we had mercifully avoided the worst of it, as my trusty driver's reaction to hit the brakes kept us out of the main funnel. Only five feet more, and the part that crushed a stone wall in two would have slammed into us directly.

I realized then that my GoPro was still on for some of it, but the few images that were salvageable don't come near to doing it justice.

We looked at each other in stunned amazement, and that split second felt like 10 minutes. My memory of the next few minutes is blurred, but I do remember stepping out of the trike, first with one flip flop that got sucked into the mud, and then, barefoot with my other step.

Taking cues from my driver, I realized that we weren’t out of harm’s way yet. In fact, we were smack dab in the path of calamity, with our trike rendered incapacitated wheels-deep in mud and the hillside loosened to the point where a second washout was highly likely.

Without saying a word, we both hopped to action, jumping out and rocking the trike back and forth until the wheels were cleared so we could spin it around and half carry/half wheel it back a few feet, where only shallow mud and stones littered the highway's surface. From there, we could easily roll it a few feet more, wipe our brows, and take in the scene.

Still in shock but resplendent that we’d escaped unharmed, we made our way back to the hamlet only a few minutes away, as the road forward was now impassable.

I was slightly relieved that we'd both agreed upon canceling the rest of the tour, as we’d be much safer back in Basco. Heading back through the hamlet, we barely slowed long enough to tell a few passersby's what happened and warn them that the road ahead was out.

Ten minutes outside of town in the other direction, we stopped abruptly behind a truck and another motorcyclist. I craned my neck only to see that another landslide had covered the road in a thick layer of mud and rocks.

Several motorists on the other side of the landslide fifty feet away shrugged and turned around, while others sat there and tried to calculate if there was a way to get through. There wasn’t.

This was the only road back to Basco – to safety from the screaming wind and driving rain, but we were forced to turn back towards the hamlet, boxed in between two landslides.

Luckily, my driver, who was soaked to the bone and shivering like a puppy dog by now since he probably weighed all of 130 lbs., knew someone in that community who might help us, his Uncle Joey. We came upon a storefront on the main road with a balcony and apartment overtop, and he called out.

A well-built, smiling man in his late 20s came out and after hearing our story in rapid-fire Ivatan, eagerly brought us up to his apartment, where he brought out two dry shirts and cups of coffee.

Thanking him profusely, I squeezed into the too-small shirt and muzzled the mug of hot coffee to warm up my hands, giving my windbreaker to the driver.

Uncle Joey was born and raised right there but had made it over to Saudi Arabia for a few years to work construction, which allowed him to build this store and apartment for his family when he returned, as well as start his own little construction company.

The three of us watched as police and local service workers clamored back and forth with trucks and shovels.

“It will only be about half an hour before they clear the road, so you can go back,” Uncle Joey said. After the coffee was done, he even brought out beers (at 11 am in the middle of a typhoon) to keep spirits up and provide liquid courage for our eventual journey.

Boy did he like to talk, and we basically exchanged life stories in that half hour…and then hour…and then hour-and-a-half wait.

I must admit that I was a little impatient, as if I relied on the local sense of timing and urgency, we would be content just to sit there and chat and drink beers all night.

But every time someone came back to the hamlet, on a bicycle, motorbike, or just a farmer pulling his cow by a rope so that he could keep it in his house during the storm, they said the same thing: the road was not clear.

There was no way I wanted to spend the night there in that hamlet to ride out the storm, so I talked them into venturing out from our dry (if not warm) shelter and figuring something else out. My driver would leave his trike here in the hamlet, which he could pick up the next day or whenever it was possible again - the trike was just too wide and clumsy to navigate the narrow and muddy conditions. Instead, Uncle Joey would drive us on his much sturdier motorcycle with off-road tires.

Taking me first, Uncle Joey drove to the second landslide we'd encountered on the way back to Basco. However, not only was it not clear yet, but it didn't even look like it had been touched.

To his credit, he came up with an ingenious – yet risky – strategy. One by one, he’d drive us to the edge of this landslide.

From there, I’d have to get off and walk across on foot. On the other side, I’d look for a motorcycle, car, or truck that was turning back towards Basco and hitch a ride with them. Although the plan sounded a little indefinite, it was better than sitting and waiting all day (and probably night) in the hamlet.

I got off the bike, thanked Uncle Joey for his hospitality, took off my flip flops and started making my way across the landslide. It was treacherous going since the mud was two feet deep in places and you sank right in, stepping on rocks and sharp sticks as you went. But my biggest concern was that the eroded hillside spilled more of its contents onto the same pile, which could be a serious problem or even deadly if I was stuck in the middle of it.

I tried to double-time it across the landslide but there was only one speed, and rushing just made me fall, so it took me a few minutes to cross, adrenaline pumping and covered in mud when I reached the other side.

Joey was headed back to get the driver, so I looked for a motorist I could hitch a ride with but saw none. I started walking.

I had the coastal highway completely to myself, and soon I found out why; after walking for only fifteen minutes or so, I came across another landslide.

Again, I took off my flip flops and braced myself and double-timed it across before more debris might rumble off the hillside at me. There must have been several landslides along the snaking 20km or so coastal road to Basco because I didn’t see one car, bike, or person along the way now.

I didn’t even know if my driver and Joey were coming back, or if they decided to wait it out. I just knew that safety was ahead in Basco, and I better get there quick as the sky continued to darken and spiral in a preternatural fury.

Resigned now that I might have to walk most of the way to town, I took off my flip flops for good this time, put them in my waterproof SCUBA dive bag slung across my shoulder, tightened the drawstring on my shorts, and started running.

The rain whipped my eyes, stinging them nearly shut. Pebbles, sticks, and wind-swept debris scuffed my feet with each step.

The drone footage of my consciousness zoomed in, and then out.

I was lost.

On a small, exposed island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and South China Sea, about as far across the world as you can go without falling off and disappearing.

No idea where to go except in one direction following that road.

Not one single person around me.

Running in the middle of a typhoon, soaking wet and barefoot along the yellow line in the middle of a vast highway,

Dancing armies of palm trees and muddy green hills on one side of me,

The ocean boiling violently on the other; a giant’s teapot forgotten on the stove, threatening to swallow the island and every insignificant soul upon it.

But there was no fear; only exaltation, like a man struck twice by lightning wakes up every morning after.

I was no longer cold, but every hair on my body stood up. I’m no runner, but each time I met the pavement, I sprung back up, surprised by the surge of energy that coursed through my body.

I saw it all so clearly. The gears of time slowed until there was only that moment.

There was only one more step; one more breath.

I was alive.
ALIVE!

I left out a wolf howl from deep within me and quickened my pace, still, breathing in the chaos and exhaling calm, the closest thing to nirvana I’ve ever known.

It didn’t last long enough.

Although I was determined to hoof it back to Basco if needed, after climbing through mudslides and running on the abandoned highway only for about half an hour, a motorbike came up behind me. It was my friends – Uncle Joey and the driver – who greeted me warmly, as the path was cleared enough for them to navigate through.

It still was an adventure getting “home” to Basco that day, with lots of hitchhiking, paying a few coins for trikes and jeepneys to take us as far as they could, waiting outside bars and local shacks as they readied themselves, passing harrowing roads littered with boulders and cascaded with dangerous waterfalls, and plenty of shivering.

But, eventually, I did make it back, and a lukewarm shower, a change of clothes, and a hot meal never felt so good. And I'll carry with me always the feeling I had on that road that day – and the ultimate lesson I learned in Batanes; that even in this day and age, there are still places on this earth where you can be wild and free.

“Diyos mamahes,” Batanes.

Norm :-)

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Your November 2018 Postcard from Norm: Introducing Lifted International.

11/11/2018

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This month, I wanted to share a new endeavor that’s near and dear to my heart: Lifted International.

A few years back, I was hanging with some good friends at a music festival called Outside Lands in California when we got into a deep conversation. We all realized that we were blessed and doing well, but really wanted to give back in some way to make it all mean something.

We each had several distinct advantages, but also limitations. For instance, one of my friends, the CEO of a music technology company, had money to donate, but little time to vet charities and make sure his funds were going to good use.

Another buddy had professional experience managing non-profit organizations, and our wonderful friend from South Africa was a whiz with growing small businesses, as well as adding a unique cultural (and female!) perspective to the group.

We recruited one of my childhood homies who was already active in philanthropy on a high level and had a certain celebrity, and our Lifted team was complete.

Oh, and me? I guess I added an intimate knowledge of the communities we were aiming to help, since I lived in impoverished countries such as Nicaragua, Cambodia, the Philippines, etc. and traveled extensively. I was to be the “boots on the ground,” so to speak.

As we started the long and arduous process of forming a non-profit (there are A LOT of hoops to jump through!), we had to clarify our vision.

Who would we try to help with Lifted? And what was the best way to really make a difference in the world?

We wrestled with this decision.

After all, there are SO many causes that need our attention. Do we work to eradicate homelessness? Crusade against domestic abuse? Find a cure for cancer? Or, is our environment the most pressing need of all?

Furthermore, do we give $100 to one charity or $1 to 100 charities?

And is it really rational to “help those at home first?” instead of strangers on the other side of the world, or is that just small-minded, provincial thinking?

Drawing on personal experience, reading numerous biographies of great men and women, and doing copious research into the nature and function of philanthropic aid, a common theme emerged:

The best way to help any society is by empowering its women.

Furthermore, all research pointed to the fact that providing education for children, and especially girls, was the #1 most effective way of improving the conditions of any community.

Get poor and at-risk girls in school – and keep them there – and the positive changes that ensure are simply magical.

Just look at Malala Yousafzai, the 15-year-old Pakistani girl who was forbidden by the Taliban to attend school but defied them. She was shot point blank in the face but still wouldn’t relinquish her chance at an education, and went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize and become a global inspiration.

We now had out mission: to empower impoverished youth worldwide.

Intrinsic in that key word – ‘empower,’ education was first and foremost.

But, in desperately poor countries and areas, it’s not as simple as paying for a child to go to school. In many cases, the family resists the idea wholeheartedly, since you are taking a pair of hands out of the workforce when kids go to school, and every penny is needed every day just to feed them.

Furthermore, most schools aren’t really free worldwide, as they have to pay for books, supplies, uniforms, transportation, some food while they are at school, and even sometimes have to bribe the teachers just so they’ll show up!

So, we have to take a wholistic approach to getting these kids in school, including family and community awareness and support and a whole lot of logistics.

Therefore, we added to Lifted’s mission that we’d work to foster the conditions necessary for safe, happy, and healthy childhoods that lead to positive and productive adults, enlivening communities.

We certainly felt like we were now on the right path, but how would Lifted be different? How would it be better and more effective than the innumerable charities that were already in existence?

After all, I’ve seen a whole lot of shady non-profits out there that pocket an obscene amount of money only to see the majority of it doled out for CEO and employee salaries, fancy offices, and 5-star “business” trips.

Even when you donate to legitimate, well-established charities (which shall remain nameless), only 90, 70, or 50% of your funds actually go to the people and cause you’re trying to help. The rest goes to administrative, operational, and marketing costs.

But, with Lifted International, 100% of your donations go directly to the children and communities we're helping – every time!

We can do that because we keep our overhead extremely low and pay all of our administrative, marketing, and operation costs out of our own pockets.

Once the ink was dry and Lifted International was officially a 501c3 non-profit, we also took our time choosing the first projects we’d undertake.

Saving the world is a lot more complex than you must think, and simply throwing money at people without structure and accountability is not a formula for long term life-changing transformations.

We’re also not interested in “ego projects,” as I call them, where charities will undergo flashy yet impractical and unsustainable missions just to get their name plastered on a school or a well and the great photo ops it presents.

The great news is that Lifted has found some great programs and people to invest in.

We help Makara, a gifted and hard-working girl who lives at the CIO Orphanage in Cambodia go to school, girls rescued from sex trafficking and taught job skills at the wonderful Connecting Hands Café, and sponsor five children living in the slums of Manila, where their father wakes up at 3 am to work as a trash collector just so they can get an education.

Today, I welcome you to meet a few of these folks, and find out some more about Lifted International.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you; for reading this; for caring; and, if you deem us worthy, for offering your support.

-Norm.

Liftedint.org

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Your October 2018 postcard from Norm: Batanes reveals her true nature

10/26/2018

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Last month, I started sharing my experience in Batanes with you, the furthest northern island in the Philippines archipelago of 7,500 islands. In fact, the wild, rugged, and gaspingly beautiful Batanes is so far isolated out where the South China Sea meets the Pacific that it’s only 120 miles from Taiwan – closer to that nation than its own capital city of Manila.

My postcard for September was littered with photos of rolling green hills, impossibly blue skies, and sun-flecked seas. However, you won’t be seeing much sunshine in this month’s postcard.

That’s because after my very first afternoon touring the northern portion of the island after touching down, the weather turned abruptly. I woke up Saturday morning and went out onto the back balcony of my lodge, which overlooked the ocean, and was met by ominous gray skies, stirring winds, and stinging rain. Suddenly, Batanes was far more inhospitable.

The sunshine was the anomaly, not the rain, I found out after speaking with the two pleasant staff who served my breakfast in no hurry at all. In fact, the monsoon season wraps from about late May or June all the way through to January or so, leaving only a precious few months for bright sun.

The island is perpetually battered by storms and bad weather, and the hearty and steadfast folk who live there can only survive by forming a fragile connection with the soil, the seas, and each other.

Until recently, just about every Ivatan (the island’s indigenous inhabitants) made a living as a fisherman or a farmer, as the volcanic soil is particularly fertile for growing garlic, various sweet potatoes, and a dark green fern for greens, as well as grazing cattle.

The sea offered endless abundance, their canoes coming back mid-morning with so many massive fish, their hulls dipped with the weight.

That’s changed over the years, as the backbreaking work and extreme risk make life as a fisherman less appealing. These days, the youth aren’t eager to learn the traditional “Kalusan” work songs, chanted in the fields or while rowing, as well as how to tie a knot or how to track and net schools of flying fish. When they are old enough, the young adults usually leave for the mainland cities and never come back.
Tourism has become a better source of income for the locals and Ivatans over the past decade.

It dawned on me…so THAT’S why I found such cheap airline tickets to Batanes, as I only paid 7,000 Pesos roundtrip when they normally went for 10-18k each way. And THAT’S why I hadn’t seen any other patrons in my lodge, which probably had thirty rooms. I looked around…I was the only one sitting in the basement restaurant.

“How many people are staying here?” I asked the waitress, who also doubled as the front desk clerk, and the night watchman, when she emerged from the kitchen, singing.

“Right now?” she scanned the empty restaurant. “Two. Just you and another nice couple from Manila.”

Uh oh.

“We’re supposed to get a big group coming in on Wednesday’s plane, but I don’t know if they’ll come in because of the typhoon.”

She took my plate of pancake crumbs, still humming her tune.

“Ty…did you say typhoon? There’s a typhoon?”

“Yes, we have a low-pressure system coming in,” she said looking up at the lone television playing weather reports from the mainland.

“When is it supposed to hit?” I asked, the pancakes suddenly like lead in my stomach.

“Which one?”

“The typhoon,” I answered.

“Yes, which one?”

“Wait, there’s more than one?!”

Indeed, I found out that there were not one but two typhoons rolling into, over and through Batanes, a smaller one the next day... and a big one later that week.

The rest of that day, I decided to take advantage of the incessant rain and relax in my room, getting some work done and watching movies. Maybe it would get sunny later that afternoon?

It didn't, so I did go out to walk around, exploring the seaside hamlet that passed as the biggest community on the island, containing around 8,000 of the 18,000 total residents. I even navigated the sharp rocky beach and took a swim that afternoon before chowing down on a huge dish of fresh seafood curry at the best restaurant I could find in town, which was located at their lone gas station.

Sunday morning, despite my high hopes, it was raining even harder. The endless horizon wasn’t even visible anymore, as a slate gray wall of rain blew sideways across the ocean, slamming into the town.

I made a decision sitting at breakfast, where I was still the only one since all of the flights into Batanes had been canceled: the show must go on. The rain would probably never stop while I was there, and I was going crazy of boredom sitting in my room watching my clothes dry.

So, I arranged a tour that day to go see the southern portion of the island, since I had already traveled around the north on my first (sunny) day.

The hotel staff and tour guide didn’t pause to question my decision, of course, since the storm was just a typical day for them. The driver, too, really needed the 1,000 Pesos – or $18 for the day-long tour, as that may have been all he earned for a week, or a month.

But, instead of the shelter of a comfy van like the bigger hotels offered (and the richer tourists hired), we would embark on our soggy and windblown adventure on a trike, which is a motorcycle with a little sitting cage as its sidecar, totally open and exposed to the elements.

I didn't even try to put on rain gear because I knew it would do no good, wearing board shorts, flip-flops (they call them "Canellas") and a basketball jersey under my windbreaker.

The driver, a skinny native with bad naval tattoos who looked to be around 50 but I found out was 35, was even more ill-prepared, wearing jeans, a cotton tank top, a fake gold chain and sunglasses beneath his weathered baseball cap.

We set out into the squall along the main coastal highway, which was nearly empty. Within minutes, we were both soaked to the skin, and gave up on trying to stay dry as the rain pushed our trike off course.

There were a few locals on the road, as no simple storm would stop them. But they did look at me curiously, as there were no other tourists to be seen. Our first stop was the Mahato Port, which is an inlet inside a man-made seawall constructed to provide shelter from storms to passing boats.

The view was so bizarre and beautiful, it was surreal. Where the hell was I?! It looked like a portion of the Great Wall of China had been wedged between two sheer cliffs, cutting off the angry waves that would have easily carried us out to a grave at sea if not for the barrier. We lowered our heads and traversed a path that led along the cliff face, up the sea wall, and onto the rolling hills overlooking the port, where the wind was really picking up. With an elevated glimpse far up the coastline, I could see no signs of life save for a lone lighthouse in the distance.

We continued on with some urgency now, as our journey into the storm seemed untenable – to me, at least. But it wasn’t a long ride to the site of the oldest structure on the islands, a stone hut made out of limestone and crushed coral with a cogon grass thatched roof.

The roof had been replaced many times, of course, but the hut was built in 1877, just referred to as the “House of Estrella” or the “House of Dakay” after Jose “Dakay” Estrella, the man who inherited it from family.

While you may think that 1877 isn’t so impressive as the oldest building in Batanes, keep in mind that the island is continuously hammered by storms and even typhoons of near-Biblical proportions, like Typhoon Meranti (known as ‘Ferdie' locally) in 2016 that nearly wiped the island off the map, or an 8.3-magnitude earthquake in 1918 that leveled just about every structure on the island – except this one stone hut.

Our next stop was the Honesty Café, which I was excited to visit. I’d heard of this unique little coffee shop, where patrons came in and served themselves to coffee, tea, and baked goods, leaving their payment in a cash box, working on the honor system.

The Honesty Café was started by a local school teacher, Elena Castaño-Gabilo, who set up this little café decade earlier when she retired. However, soon after opening it, she was pulled away when helping on her family’s farm became the priority.

But Elena didn't want to shut down her new café, so she prepared coffee and food and left it on the table before she left for work every day. Along with the unmonitored sustenance, she placed a sign, simply asking anyone who wandered in to please be honest with their payment. She’d come back at noon to check on the place, only to find that the café not only wasn’t robbed, but the cash box was full.

The thought of a store that works on the honor system isn’t so far-fetched when you consider that she lived in a tiny community of a couple hundred people where everyone knew each other. Likewise, Ivatan society is exceptionally egalitarian, emphasizing the respect of nature and each other. Elders are highly revered, and discrimination based on race, skin color, or even sexual orientation is virtually nonexistent. Everyone working in concert with each other and the land, and symbols such as thunderbolts, waves, the sun, wind, and earthquakes are powerful talismans in their artwork.

So, the Honesty Café grew in popularity over the years, and when tourists caught wind of such a place, it took on a new (and highly profitable) life of its own. We all want to live in a world where such a place still exists!

When I visited the simple limestone structure, the café had become a favorite for visitors, and the original owner’s grandchildren poked their heads in to sweep up and restock the coffee. But it was still an honor system for paying, even though there were plenty of signs offering gentle reminders to do the right thing like, “The Lord is my security guard” and “This store is too small for dishonest people.”

After my water-logged driver and warmed up with a hot cup of instant coffee and a few cookies, I even went behind the counter and washed and dried our dishes before we headed back out, overpaying into the cash box just because I love the concept so much.

Our two-person caravan carried on as the road led us to an even more remote part of the island, the storm picking up in intensity around us. Soon, we reached Itbud, a cluster of houses so small that it’s classified as a “populated place,” not even a village. Officially, Itbud now is home to 482 residents, a huge jump from 2010, when there were only 463 people living there.

They were all making preparations, busy carrying rope or plywood back and forth along the road, leading their cows to shelter, and stocking up on provisions. Even their one school was let out early when the church bell rang.

The flock of wild kids, still dressed in their uniforms, ran gleefully to the bridge that spanned a river that led from the hills to the sea. They lined up, standing on their tiptoes to look over the railing, entertained by the rising waters as their concerned parents called them back, only to be ignored.

I walked over and checked it out, too, and already the river was a bull rush of churning brown water, mud, branches, and anything else it picked up along the way, including the parts of a few houses, as the water was frighteningly close to overflowing its channel and submerging a few structures already, if not the entire bridge. This was just after a couple day’s worth of rain, I reminded myself.

“Where to next?” I asked my driver, hoping he would say that we were turning back. I was more than a little concerned at this point, as the wind had to be approaching 50 mph and the rain kept fell even harder, improbably.

“We go into the mountains now,” he answered, kick-starting the motorcycle, eager to get rolling before I was even fully on board. I realized that he wasn’t going to cancel our tour no matter what conditions we faced, as he was desperate for the $18 fee, although just a pittance to me.

Before I could voice my reservation that we should err on the side of caution and assure him that I was happy to pay in full, only five minutes outside of the village along the two-lane main road, we ran into a bigger problem.

With a mighty rumble, the hillside dislodged, and a wall of mud and water came rushing down at us.

-Norm :-)

P.S. I'll tell ya all about it next month!

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Your September 2018 Postcard from Norm: Breathtaking Batanes

9/16/2018

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I’d often heard about it, but no one I knew had actually been there. It was spoken of like some secret mystical place, even though it’s still part of the Philippines.

Batanes.

The furthest north of all the Philippines islands, when you stand on the coast of Batanes, every one of the archipelago’s 7,500 islands are at your back!

It’s also so isolated, mercilessly sitting in the middle of the China Sea where it meets the endless Pacific,that it’s closer to Taiwan than the mainland of its own country.

The rare photos were nothing short of spectacular, too, revealing rolling green hills that were so bright they were almost neon, and stern blue seas that were less playful than the clear turquoise waters you see in most of the country’s shores, and iconic landmarks like a volcano, a lone lighthouse standing sentry on its shore, and the ruins of a cobblestoned church.

Batanes looks like you took the Scottish coast, mixed it with Nova Scotia, and sprinkled in some Lake Tahoe in Northern California – all in the tropical Philippines.

So, I was ecstatic when I found a special on flights there this early September, as plane tickets to get to Batanes’ lone airport are usually ridiculously expensive. (It escaped my attention that I was flying there in the middle of the typhoon season, and that’s why tickets were so cheap!)

Flying on a twin prop Bombardier, the aircraft rumbling and shaking as it rambled through the cloud fields as big as small cities on our way true north, I felt like my progress was being tracked on an old map like in an Indiana Jones film.

But putting this bird on the ground would prove no easy task, as the pilot had to pass the island, pull a sharp 180 and swoop down and then, drop in quickly once he cleared the dormant green volcano and touch down on a short runway, not unlike landing on an aircraft carrier. But even with the jarring, slam-the-brakes 2G landing, I had to let out a laugh. I was finally in Batanes.

It was brilliant from the moment I descended the stairs from the trusty old Bombardier, with blooming red flowers and the volcanos stern green peek greeting us.

I had arranged a stay at the Batanes Seaside Resort – a place I took a gander on based on the photos on the booking site, and a smiling local woman was waiting for me with a single name written on her sign: Sir Norm Schriever.

She welcomed me, and we walked outside, where we got in a van and drove the approximately five blocks and two minutes to the hotel. As the driver helped me with my bag, the woman got out quickly and ran inside.

When I walked into the lobby, she was slipping behind the front desk just in time to say “Welcome to the Batanes Seaside Resort.”
She was the hotel’s only employee at the time!

I was tired from a super early wakeup call and traveling, so all I wanted to do was take a siesta. But the weather was so nice I thought it would be a waste not to take advantage of the afternoon, so I asked them to book a trike (a motorcycle taxi with a sidecar) tour of the north part of the island.

It's a good thing that I did because the rest of my stay in Batanes it was rainy and storming!

That first afternoon, the underpowered trike chugged up the hills and along the weaving coastline, stopping at several scenic vantage points (I won’t try to describe them – the photos will say it all!)

Some of the highlights included the Japanese or Dipnaysupuan Tunnels.

When WWII first broke out in the Asian theater, Japan quickly invaded Batanes to take advantage of its strategic location. The local villagers and fisherman offered no resistance, and the Japanese troops forced men, women, and children to dig a series of tunnels into a hillside overlooking the ocean and countryside. The tunnels were meant to serve as a lookout for invading troops by air or by sea, and also as a bunker for the Emperor's forces to hide out if necessary. There were five exits and entrances in the hill, and several interior chambers including a stone stairway down to a natural water reservoir.

We also visited Cafe du Tukon, which sat nestled in one of the prettiest landscapes I've ever seen, reminiscent of the Italian countryside. But the café and its impeccably manicured gardens and meandering paths are not just for show, as they highlight the cultural heritage of the Ivatan, the indigenous islands that have lived in harmony with the sometimes inhospitable land and sea for centuries.

Aside from the breathtaking vistas, the café operates as a farm-to-fork local cooperative for farmers and fishermen, as well as artists and other local merchants.

I would have returned to that café daily, but the local proprietor's daughter, Polly, told me that they were closing down for a few days for team building exercises, a common practice in the Philippines to both reward employees and foster trust and cooperation among them.

At one point, our trike stuttered, coughed and quit - right on the steepest part of the hill. I got out and tried to help by pushing, but it wasn't just a matter of our underpowered motorcycle but also the fact that my driver had forgotten to fill up his gas tank. Oops.

Towards the end of the afternoon, as the sun dropped to the vast horizon and the shadows grew long on the hills of Batanes, turning them from emerald green to black, our last stop was the Light House of Basco, one of three such guideposts for seafarers crossing the endless Pacific or stormy South China Sea.

I climbed the 66-foot circular staircases to the top, where I had a magnificent view of the surrounding Naidi Hills, the town of Basco, a few preserved Ivatan stone dwellings, and, of course, the sea.

So, I jogged up the incline in flip flops, arriving at the top panting, sweaty, dirty, and thoroughly happy. Luckily, all of the drivers know each other and help one another, and he transferred some fuel from another trike into a Coke bottle, and then we walked it back down to our stranded motorcycle and were soon on our way.

My second day there, I woke up to starkly different weather, with gray skies, stinging winds and rain. I took the day to catch up on work but also managed to venture out and explore the town of Basco, strolling with no particular destination in mind, turning down smaller and smaller side streets, and smiling and saying hello to the enthusiastic locals while snapping photos of the mundane elements of their daily lives, which were remarkable to me.

For instance, I learned that Basco (which is home to 8,000 of the island’s total 18,000 residents!) has the only gas station on the entire island of Batanes, a Petron with two pumps. That gas station is such a famous landmark that it's also home to the best restaurant in town (in my humble and limited opinion). There, I could dine on freshly caught seafood and even lobster for strangely low prices, while all other foodstuffs that had to be imported from the mainland were more pricey.

Some of Basco's infrastructure was uncharacteristically pristine, like the park and municipal buildings in the center of the town proper, or the Science High School, which was decorated with all the pomp and circumstance you'd expect at a top-flight Philippines university.

There was also very little litter (a big problem across the country and anywhere in Southeast Asia), clearly marked and organized recycling centers spread about, colorful public service announcements painted on rocks or signs hung on trees, and a trim, fit police force that carried no guns.

I stopped to snap a photo of a yellow and black marker that read simply “K 0000 BO,” as Bosco was the exact latitudinal starting point of the entire Philippines.

But there was also evidence of a more rustic existence, like the fact that there was no Wi-Fi. Like, on the whole island. Incredibly, the entire population communicates with the mainland and the outside world only through their cell phones.

At first, I panicked when they told me that since I have to work daily online. But my worst fears of being fired unilaterally were assuaged when they helped me buy a local SIM card and sign up for cell service, which functioned slowly but adequately as a hotspot for my computer – as long as the weather was good.

A few of the homes were extraordinary, in so much as you can take sturdy concrete shells designed to withstand the harshest weather and erosion and dress them up to like an English country manor. But most of the inhabitants of Bosco lived in simple and useful little abodes, with wooden or even metal shutters ready to be drawn against the elements. However, the starkness of their purpose didn't stop the residents from decorating and painting them whimsically, with colorful murals, flowering vines or gardens, and sunny décor.

The church in town was adorned with blue and white bunting that flapped in the breeze, and most people bought their goods from sari-sari stores (sort of like tiny neighborhood bodegas) that were so small and tightly packed that I had to squeeze through sideways so not to knock over a rack of eggs or shelf of rum bottles.

While the yard dogs barked fiercely as I approached, the people of Bosco were almost universally smiling, loved to chit-chat, and even invited me over to try some of their food.

The only one who wasn't agreeable when I walked by were two fisherman's' sons, who chopped massive dorado, amberjack, and flying fish on a wooden stand by the road, pulled so recently from the ocean that the fish’s eyes still looked startled by their newfound predicament.

No, this two fisherman kin never broke their stern frown and squinting eyes when I walked by, and only nodded disapprovingly when I said hi.

Maybe they knew something the rest of us didn’t and, like the fish that were now headless, they knew the stakes. A storm was coming.

And it was a big one.

-Norm :-)

***
Stay tuned for part two of this postcard about Batanes next month.

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