Costa Rica Travel Surf Expat blog for Norm Schriever

Juneteenth is a vital part of American history that we all should commemorate

6/16/2020

Update: On June 15th, 2021, Juneteenth was declared an official federal holiday, a historic victory for the recognition of the plight of Black American history and racial equality. Please read on for some background info and context about the national holiday from a blog I wrote this time last year.

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June 19th is an important date in American history, commonly known as Juneteenth. This cause for celebration marks the de facto independence day for African American slaves in the United States more than 150 years ago.

It was June 19, 1865, when US General Gordon Granger rode into Galveston, Texas, and shared the news that enslaved African Americans were now free.

That date still stands as a grand reason for celebration every year, often called Freedom Day or Emancipation Day. Every June 19th in communities across the U.S. there are parades, pageants, festivals, concerts, plenty of traditional food, and lots of cultural and historical education, all in the name of freedom.

But wait, wasn't slavery abolished in 1863 in the United States, two and a half years before General Granger rode into Galveston? That's correct, as Abraham Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863, officially freed the slaves.

However, for many enslaved populations around the United States, nothing changed with Lincoln's historical document in Washington. That included 250,000 African American slaves in Texas who had no idea they'd been freed at all. Slave owners and those who were profiting certainly weren't in a rush to inform them or encourage their independence.

Of course, news traveled slowly in those days, and messages only disseminated by mail carrier. In fact, it took more than two months for Confederate soldiers in Texas to hear that General Lee had surrendered on April 9, 1865!

But that doesn’t explain the two-and-a-half-year delay between the Emancipation Proclamation and the actual granting of those freedoms to enslaved populations. There were purposeful delays, blatant defiance of the new law, and even an account that the first messenger was murdered to prevent the news from reaching Texas.

Most likely, Texas' slave owners delayed the news reaching their plantations so they could eke out another cotton harvest or two.

Either way, the Emancipation Proclamation just wasn’t practically enforceable in “rebel” states right after the Civil War, which ended in 1865.

That is, until the Union government sent a top General to Texas to make sure the new law was heeded. That's exactly what happened when General Granger rode there and publicly read General Order No. 3, which stated:

"The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free. This involves an absolute equality of personal rights and rights of property between former masters and slaves, and the connection heretofore existing between them becomes that between employer and hired labor. The freedmen are advised to remain quietly at their present homes and work for wages. They are informed that they will not be allowed to collect at military posts and that they will not be supported in idleness either there or elsewhere."

But it took months for the news to circulate across the state and from plantation to plantation, and longer for slave owners to comply.

Being granted freedom didn’t mean that people were free, of course, and with no money or resources, many stayed on to become indentured servants with meager pay. But most wanted to be anywhere except Texas, so they left for northern regions en masse or tried to reunite with family, called “the scatter.”

In many cases, General Granger’s troops had to enforce the new order with military action. There are reports of outlaw plantations in Texas not actually freeing their slaves until 1868, almost three years later. Even with the law on their side in theory, many former slaves were beaten, lynched, and murdered as they tried to leave their plantations or the state.

After a few years had gone by, African Americans in the south still had few rights and equal protections under the law. For that reason, it was extremely difficult for these citizens to openly celebrate the seminal June 19thdate of their freedom every year.

In the 1870s, a group of former slaves collected $800 and purchased 10 acres of land in Houston, establishing “Emancipation Park” where they could celebrate the new Juneteenth holiday safely. That park remained the only public park and swimming pool open to African Americans in Houston until the 1950s.

As the decades went by and slavery tragically turned into the Jim Crow era of segregation, Juneteenth celebrations usually were kept away from the public eye for fear of safety and racial mobs.

But that changed in the 1960s, when civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. planned his Poor People’s March for June 19th, purposely coinciding with Juneteenth, and an annual holiday was born.

But Juneteenth was still (and is still) largely ignored by non-black communities. Texas was actually the first state to declare Juneteenth a holiday in 1980, but few states followed. California only declared Juneteenth a state holiday in 2002.

In fact, Juneteenth is still not a federal holiday in the United States, which I find shocking.

When Barack Obama was a Senator, he co-sponsored a bill that sought to make Juneteenth a national holiday, but it didn’t pass, and it still didn’t go through when he was President.

Still, there are plenty of grassroots supporters, such as Opal Lee, a 93-year-old woman who started walking from state to state to raise awareness for Juneteenth when she was a relatively young 90.

It just goes to show that the call for justice and the strength of the human spirit will always stand tall!

-Norm :-)

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Loving vs. USA ♥️

6/10/2020

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When love was a crime in the US

Mildred and Richard Loving were woken up abruptly in the early morning hours of July 11, 1958.

Someone was in their bedroom, standing menacingly over the bed. The couple, sharing their marital bed in their own home in Central Point, Virginia, reached for their clothing, at first thinking the interloper was a burglar.

“Get up!” the voice barked, training a powerful flashlight in their eyes. “Y'all both under arrest.”

“What did we do?” Richard protested, shielding his wife.

The officer explained the crime they were being charged with and ordered them to dress and get out of bed. But Richard and Mildred explained that it all must be a big mistake. She pointed to their marriage certificate, hanging in a frame on the wall.

“That ain’t valid in Virginia!” the officer spat, marching them out of their house in handcuffs and placing them in a waiting squad car.

The young couple was transported down to the local station, where they were booked and charged with Sections 20-58 and 20–59 of the Virginia Code and thrown in the same cells that were used to house hardened criminals.

They soon found out that the police raided their home in those early morning hours based on an anonymous tip. Hurling insults and racial epitaphs at them, they learned that the police hoped to catch them in the act of having sex, since that would have brought additional criminal charges.

So, what was the Lovings’ crime?

They were married and happened to be an interracial couple.

Since Richard was white and Mildred was “colored” as it was called in those days – a mix of black and Native American - that was enough for the police to lock them up in Virginia.

In fact, Section 20-58 of the Virginia Code made it a crime for couples of different races to be married (referred to as ‘miscegenation’) out of state and then return to Virginia.

And Section 20–59 classified miscegenation as a felony offense, which came of a prison sentence of one to five years.

Richard + Mildred; young and in love

Mildred Delores Loving was born July 22, 1939 there in Virginia. Ironically, there may be some confusion as to her racial origins.

During her drawn-out legal nightmare, she identified as African American (or black or “colored” in those days).

But the night she was arrested, she told the police that she was “Indian” and later on, claimed to be Indian-Rappahannock. However, she may have denied being partially black to try to deflect the charges, since the intent of these laws left over from the Jim Crow era was to separate African Americans and whites.

We do know that she was a soft-spoken, gentle, and a pretty woman, growing up in the same small Virginia community of Caroline County where she eventually met her husband, Richard Loving.

Richard, born October 29, 1933, came from a family that owned seven slaves according to the 1830 census, and his grandfather, T. P. Farmer, fought for the Confederates in the Civil War.

But in their small community, there was more racial harmony and mixing than we might guess.

“There’s just a few people that live in this community,” Richard described, who looked like the typical young southern white in those days with a blond crew cut. “A few white and a few colored. And as I grew up, and as they grew up, we all helped one another. It was all, as I say, mixed together to start with and just kept goin’ that way.”

In fact, Richard's father was a loyal 25-year employee of one of the wealthiest black men in the U.S. at the time, and a lot of Richard’s best friends were black or racially mixed, including Mildred’s older brothers.

Either way, Richard and Mildred met in high school and quickly fell in love, becoming inseparable. When Mildred became pregnant at the age of 18, Richard even moved into her family home.

Knowing full well that it was illegal for them to marry in Caroline County due to Virginia's Racial Integrity Act, the young couple traveled to Washington, D.C. where they could legally marry.

They came back to Virginia several times to visit family in Central Point, and it was during one of those visits in 1958 when the police barged into their bedroom in the wee hours and arrested them.

Good ‘ole fashioned southern racism

The racial climate in Virginia was all-too-typical in those days. In fact, out of all 50 states, only nine did nothave a law against interracial marriage at some point. And by the 1950s, the majority of U.S. states (and every single state in the south) had a law against miscegenation.

There had been laws against racial mixing or marriage all the way back to the colonial era, which were renewed during Jim Crow. Most of the laws focused on keeping black men away from white women. The rape of black women by white slave owners or men was commonplace, leading to the "one drop of blood" rule (if someone had even one drop of African American blood, they were considered black in the eyes of the law).

But those laws were far less barbaric than trial-by-mob, as black men were frequently attacked or lynched for even talking to a white woman.

The law and courts held no refuge nor justice. The case of Pace v. Alabama in 1883 went all the way to the Supreme Court, where an Alabama law against anti-miscegenation was deemed fully constitutional.

And in 1888, the Supreme Court ruled that states had the legal authority to prohibit or regulate marriage based on race.

In Virginia, that was codified in 1924 with the Act to Preserve Racial Integrity, with violators facing a prison sentence of one to five years in the state penitentiary.

By the time the Lovings were pulled out of their bed and arrested, 16 states still had anti-miscegenation laws on their books – most of them in the south.

From jail to a Kennedy’s help

Sitting in jail and with no resources or recourse to fight the charges, the Lovings both pleaded guilty on January 6, 1959. Their crime was officially documented as "cohabiting as man and wife, against the peace and dignity of the Commonwealth.”

Per the Act to Preserve Racial Integrity, they were sentenced to one year in state prison, but the sentence was suspended when they agreed to leave the state of Virginia and not return.

Happy to evade a prison term but sad to leave the community and people they grew up with, the Lovings fled to the District of Columbia, settling into a D.C. ghetto. They were poor but lived in peace, and raised their three children, Sidney, Donald, and Peggy, there.

But they had increasing financial difficulties and missed their home and families. When one of their sons was struck by a car in the streets of D.C. (he lived and recovered), a frustrated Mildred wrote a letter to the young Attorney General of the United States, who she thought may be sympathetic. In the letter, she documented the Lovings' plight.

She never expected to receive a reply, but she did hear back from that Attorney General - Robert F. Kennedy. Of course, Robert’s brother had been the progressive President John F. Kennedy, Jr, who had been assassinated a few years earlier in 1963.

Robert Kennedy connected Mildred with the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), who agreed to take on her case.

All the way to the steps of the Supreme Court

The ACLU assigned two volunteer attorneys, Bernard S. Cohen and Philip J. Hirschkop, to the Lovings' case. They filed a motion to vacate the criminal judgments in Virginia’s Caroline County Circuit Court, stating that the Act to Preserve Racial Integrity violated the Fourteenth Amendment's Equal Protection Clause.

After nearly a year of waiting with no progress, the pair of ACLU attorneys filed a class-action suit in the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Virginia.

After hearing the case, Judge Leon M. Bazile ruled against the Lovings, including this statement:

“Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.”

The ACLU appealed Judge Bazile’s decision in the Virginia Supreme Court on the grounds that it violated the constitution. However, in 1965, Justice Harry L. Carrico wrote an opinion for the court that upheld the constitutional legality of anti-miscegenation laws.

Finally, the Lovings and the ACLU appealed the decision to the U.S. Supreme Court, Loving v. Virginia, 388 U.S. 1. While Mildred and Richard were not in attendance as their lawyers made oral arguments on their behalf, Bernard S. Cohen passed on a message from Richard Loving: "Tell the Court I love my wife, and it is just unfair that I can't live with her in Virginia."

On June 12, 1967, the United States Supreme Court came back with their ruling. With a unanimous 9-0 vote, the highest court in the land overturned the Virginia criminal conviction and deemed anti-miscegenation laws unconstitutional.

The Supreme Court opinion, written by Chief Justice Earl Warren, struck down any laws regulating interracial marriage since they violated Equal Protection and Due Process Clauses of the Fourteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

Life after their landmark case

At least on a federal level, it was no longer illegal for racially-mixed men and women to marry, thanks to the Lovings and their attorneys.

The landmark case was one of the most significant civil rights wins to date in the United States, at a time when civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated the very next year.

I wish I could tell you that the Supreme Court ruling changed things, rooting out racism in U.S. society, but we know that's not the case. Despite the Supreme Court ruling, many states resisted, begrudgingly changing their laws against interracial marriage – if at all.

In fact, Alabama was the last state to accept the Loving vs. Virginia ruling, not removing its anti-miscegenation laws until 2000.

That’s not a typo; it was still technically illegal for people of different races to marry in Alabama only 20 short years ago.

The Loving legacy

In the movies, the courageous defendants stand proudly in the Supreme Court alongside their lawyers. But in real life, it rarely works that way.

Instead, the Lovings lived on a quiet farm in Virginia during much of the prolonged legal battle, trying to stay out of sight (to avoid the media as well as a safety precaution). But after the Supreme Court decision, they moved the family back to Central Point, where Richard built a small house and they raised their children in relative peace.

In 1975, Richard was killed when he was hit by a drunk driver while driving in Caroline County, Virginia. He was only 41.

Mildred was in the car with him and lost her right eye in the accident but lived. She passed in 2008 of pneumonia in her home in Central Point at the age of 68.

We’re not sure if Richard and Mildred fully realized the societal and cultural shift they’d started. Over the decades, their story has been the subject of several songs and three movies, including Loving, which debuted at the 2016 Cannes Film Festival.

Their case also served as a precedent for other civil rights cases since, including Obergefell v. Hodges, a landmark 2015 Supreme Court decision that lifted restrictions on same-sex marriage.

In 2014, Mildred was honored posthumously as one of "Virginia’s Women in History,” and in 2017, a historical marker was dedicated to her in front of the building that formerly housed the Virginia Supreme Court of Appeals.

Making the term ‘interracial” obsolete

Back in the 1960s, 0.4% of all U.S. marriages were between interracial couples. By 1980, that number had increased to 3.2% of all marriages, and then to 8.4% in 2010.

Today, about 19% of all newlywed marriages are between interracial couples, or almost 1 in every 5.

By 2050, there will be so many multi-racial people that the vast majority of marriages could be considered interracial, although we probably won't even bother keeping track of that statistic anymore.

To recognize the sacrifice and plight of Richard, Mildred, and many others like them, June 12th – the day of their Supreme Court decision - has been designated Loving Day in the United States.

-Norm :-)

P.S. Thank you for sharing so we can try to spread some positivity and understanding.

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This blog is dedicated to my old friend, Kyle McGee, who taught me so much.

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10 Things to feel ridiculously, gleefully, unabashedly hopeful about

4/17/2020

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Whoa.

That’s the feeling we get every time we turn on the news or check social media these days, as things seem to keep getting worse.

It’s hard NOT to feel down, depressed, and despondent during these unprecedented times, with millions of people sick, thousands dying, and the whole economy shut down.

There seems to be no quick solution or even solid answers, and it sure feels like the average person has been left to his or her own devices.

It’s all too much.

Then again, in those rare occasions that I'm able to throw the covers off and actually get out of bed, put down my third bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch (note: I highly recommend it), or stop walking in circles around the house like a zombie, I realize that maybe things aren’t completely hopeless.

In fact, the sun is shining. I’m blessed to still have a roof over my head and food on the table, and the ability to control my own destiny, no matter how difficult that task may seem.

As usual, things may not be quite as bad as they seem.

I can hit you with rosy platitudes like “It’s always darkest before the dawn,” or even start singing “Don’t worry; be happy,” but I’m not going to minimize what we’re up against (and you don’t want to hear my singing!).

Furthermore, intangibles and Trumpian double-speak do us no good at this point. We need some real and substantial cornerstones that make us feel optimistic about coming days.

So, here are 10 things to feel ridiculously, gleefully, unabashedly hopeful about:

1. Animal shelters are emptying That's great news if you're a pet lover, as people are adopting and rescuing dogs, cats, and other lovable critters at a record rate. In fact, some dog shelters have posted videos lately, showing that they're completely empty! It turns out, we all want a lovable four-legged friend at home to keep us company.

(My dog, Pupperoni, is patiently waiting for me to return to the Philippines or I'd adopt five more here in Connecticut!)

2. The words ‘neighbor’ and ‘community’ mean something again
During good times, we were all a little guilty of fortifying ourselves in our McMansions and going about our own business.

But now, people are more interested in helping, supporting, and just getting to know those around them again. We're sitting on our front porches and saying hi, making meals for seniors, and giving away things we used to try to sell. Young people, especially, are stepping up and showing character.

Isn’t it ironic that we’re more isolated than ever but feel a new sense of communal and civic pride?

3. Mom-n-Pop businesses are getting love
I don’t know about you, but I’m loving the rejuvenated relationship we have with local restaurants, Mom-n-Pop stores, and neighborhood businesses that are still operating. It seems like we appreciate them more than ever, and we’re actively supporting them with our dollars, (our stomachs), and by spreading the word.

Think about when this is over; will you head to Chilis or Bed, Bath, and Beyond?! No! You’ll run to a local or Mom-n-Pop business to eat, drink, and shop to your heart’s content!

4. In some ways, we're becoming more human
As we traverse this storm of suffering with no relief in sight, I've noticed that people are becoming more human again. I liken it to the days after 9/11, when everyone waved and said hello, held the door open for each other, and generally remembered that we share the planet with others.

In fact, charity donations and volunteerism have skyrocketed already during this crisis, a heartwarming trend I expect to continue.

5. We have time again
Are we finally stopping to smell the roses? Looks like it, as we finally have a moment to pause, breathe, and not be rushed every minute of every day.

Sure, we're bored, but our family dinners have become longer, we're talking to friends and family more than ever (even if it's virtually), and we're dusting off long-forgotten hobbies and passions. We're taking bike rides, doing yoga, learning (online) and reading, and taking walks with our kids every sunset. There may not be too many silver linings to these challenging times, but the fact that we can hit pause on the world for a moment is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

6. People are getting their priorities straight
Although what’s to come will be extremely painful, we also are recalibrating our priorities, which will have a positive effect for the rest of our lives. All of a sudden, we are filled with appreciation just to have a hot meal, the chance to talk to an old friend, or when we get to hug our family safely every night. And just being healthy for another day feels like an enormous blessing.

Maybe we needed a little wake-up call?

Well, this is it, and many of us are already listening, focusing on simplifying our lives and living with newfound gratitude.

7. Nature is our saving grace!
My anxiety (ok, abject panic!) often rises to a boiling point when I stay inside to work, watch the news, or scroll through social media. Then, I step outside, and everything feels better.

Even a few minutes out in my backyard or at the local park reminds me that some of the best things in life are the fresh air (allergy season notwithstanding), blue skies, blooming flowers, and wild animals.

Many of us are lucky enough to experience nature in one way or another, and the planet even seems to be healing itself a little with less pollution and more space for wildlife to roam again.

A lot of people around the world (more US people will start doing this if they're smart) are even starting to plant home gardens and grow their own food. Clean energy may even become more sustainable through all this. Hell, maybe there is just a spark of hope for the planet?

8. We have a new appreciation for the little people (who, it turns out, were never little at all!)
We'll look back at these dark days and remember the heroes, new leaders, and regular people who exhibited remarkable courage and sacrifice. We all have a new appreciation for teachers, police officers, first responders, doctors and nurses, bus drivers, grocery store workers, social workers, and all sorts of other extraordinary humans that sometimes go unappreciated.

I'm sure you've seen the videos of New Yorkers applauding and cheering their local healthcare workers during the nightly 7 pm shift change. I propose that we keep that tradition alive after this is all over – and expand it to show love and respect for a whole lot more "little people" who are huge in our lives.

9. Change is coming
Just a few weeks ago, the world we live in now would be inconceivable.

(Would you ever imagine that you're required to wear a mask when walking into a bank?!)

Absolutely everything has changed, and we're still trying to wrap our collective psyche around that.

There will be pain and suffering to come; there's no avoiding it. But this grandest of transformations will also bring a chance to reinvent just about every aspect of our society - and even the human experience. We are blessed and cursed with the responsibility of rebuilding our world, and no one knows exactly what that look like except that it will be new.

Change is inevitable as it is imminent. It's now the age of rebirth for activists, artists, healers, designers, dreamers, teachers, empaths, environmentalists, inventors, underdogs, outcasts, leaders, and, especially the youth, as we've turned this world into a fuster cluck and it's time to let the next

The meek may just inherit the earth, after all...and I'm hopeful that they'll take far better care of it than we ever did.

10. People are ready to start living again
Psychologists outline a process that we go through whenever we suffer a grave loss or tragedy, with stages from shock to denial, anger, bargaining, depression, reconciliation, and then, acceptance.

I don't know about you, but I think they're missing a couple of stages like, "Wearing the same sweatpants for 72 hours" and "Drinking wine at 10 am while holding a full conversation with the mailbox."

But there will be an eighth stage at the end of all this: Ready.

People will be ready:
Ready to work.
Ready to rebuild.
Ready to experience.
Ready to learn.
Ready to heal.
Ready to give.
Ready to connect.
Ready to love without censor or fear.

Very soon, we’ll be ready to LIVE again!

That alone is something to feel incredibly hopeful about, and I think it’s coming sooner than we may realize.

Trust me when I tell you; You’ll want to be around for the dancing in the streets after these dark days are over!

-Norm :-)

PS If you found this helpful or uplifting at all, can you please do me a favor and share it on social media? Thanks a billion!

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Taal Volcano Erupts

1/15/2020

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A while back, I told you about a remarkable place - the Taal Volcano here in the Philippines. Located only an hour or two from the main city of Manila, the Taal Volcano is crazy cool as it’s located on an island (Luzon), in a volcanic lake (Taal Lake) on a smaller island (Taal Island), with it’s own water-filled volcanic crater with yet another tiny island in the center of its inhospitable waters! Crazy!

After hiking up Taal Volcano with my girlfriend, Joy, last summer, I documented the history of Taal, including its notable eruptions as recently as the 1980s.

Well, I had no idea that Taal would blow its lid again, but that’s exactly what happened about a week ago. It was a big one.

Sadly, tens or even hundreds of thousands of people had to be evacuated from in and around Taal, and there have been human casualties as well as many animals left behind on the island.The volcanic cloud from the series of eruptions reached as far as Manila, where cars were blanketed with soot and ash.

So, in this postcard, I not only cover our experience hiking up to the peak of Taal Volcano (which, admittedly, seems sort of petty considering the eruption), but, most importantly, our connection with our guide for the trip, Fatima.

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We started out with a 20-minute, impossibly twisty ride down the cliffside, following switchbacks through the jungle on a good government road. Sweating and nauseas by the time we got to the bottom, the air temperature was easily 20 degrees warmer than at the top of the cliff above, causing us to move over into the shade - and it was only 8:30 in the morning. We bought emergency sunglasses from one of the vendors and went to the “official tourist office” – a single desk with a handwritten sign inside someone’s living room.

The only two passengers on our narrow outrigger canoe, we sped across the morning-glass lake until we soon pulled up on the shore, a stack of tires our only dock.

Various tour guides and touts milled about but they weren’t overly aggressive since there’s a strict number system to make sure everyone gets work in the proper order – and everyone gets fed. Our guide was #24, a young woman who couldn’t have been more than 20 years old, dressed conservatively in long pants and a shirt, donning a blue scarf to protect her from the sun.

Even though most of the tourists opt to ride a horse up to the top to avoid the hot, arduous climb, we told her that we wanted to make the hike, earning the view. Sweating in the jungle heat and unsferable humidity, we followed a path that led us on a zippering journey up towards the volcano.

“My name is Fatima,” she confided before covering her shy grin with her hand, turning to Joy, to talk in their native Tagolog. “Sorry, my English isn’t good.”

But it was excellent, I assured her, and we all chatted and joked as we made the climb, silence only befalling us when we crossed areas with cover from the tree canopy, the sun sapping any conversation.

On the way up, we passed a party of hikers that were going at a more deliberate pace, including an older woman.

“I’m 80 years old!” she proclaimed proudly when we said hello, and we encouraged her that she was doing great.

Our only relief came at a lookout near the top, where a group of locals lounged on rough plank board benches under the shade of a palopa roof. They halfheartedly offered us bracelets and statuetes made with lava stone, but didn’t seem to mind when we politely declined, since I smiled at them and showed respect by saying, “Salamat po.”

I did buy coconuts for all of us, including Fatima and one for the 80-year-old woman, who was visibly waning in the sun as she tried to make the last push. After they split open the top of our cocnuts with a machete, revealing cold fresh water we could sip out of a straw, I carried one down the path to the older woman, who was being supported by her son and daughters now.

She thanked me, drank, and kept on.

Our only bad vibe came when two tourists – I’m guessing they were from Singapore or something – were protesting when asked to pay a 50 Peso fee to go further. I gently reminded the guy that he was being a complete dick because it’s only one dollar and these people are literally living in dirt just trying to get by.

He just kept hemming and hawing while his friend vaped. What a d-bag.

I snapped a few photos, guzzled my coconut water, and signaled to Fatima that we should keep going before we got too comfortable. The crucible of the volcano was only 1,000 meters away now, but the rest of the way was even more steep with no shade cover at all.

That last leg was impossibly hot, but it was worth it when we reached the ridge of wild grass and red rocks that descended down into the crater lake on the other side. It was a steep drop, and the path along the rim of the volcano was only a foot wide at best, with no ropes, guard rails, or nets below.

I wondered out loud how many tourists had slipped and fallen to their untimely demise, and if that’s why they asked us to pay up front?

The 360-degree view was spectacular - something I won’t even try to describe. My only disappointment was they weren’t still golfing from the volcano’s edge. The first time I’d been up here to the Taal, only a year and a half ago, they were renting golf clubs and selling balls for $50 Pesos ($1) a piece here, which serious Korean tourists drove or chipped off of the ridge down into the crater lake, aiming for the tine, far-away island like they were trying to hit a hole-in-one.

But I wasn’t mad that there was “wala golf” – or no golf – since the government had shut down the practice for ecological reasons.

Soon, after a few more photos and taking in the panorama, we started down. But I asked Fatima if we could go a different way. The Spanish Trail, called Daang Kastila in the native tongue, was more direct because it lacked all of the switchbacks, but was also far steeper and completely exposed to the sun.

There were no other tourists or even locals on this route, as all traffic had long been diverted to the other, more amenable and cooler path. The only signs of habitation were wooden crosses along the way, erected to recreate the 12 stations going back to the first Spanish friars who had settled this island in the 1500s.

As we reached the bottom in no time, I was feeling proud of my decision to lead us down this shorter trail…until I realized that we were still a couple kilometers from the main beach where our boat driver was waiting.

It was a straight shot on a semi-paved road only wide enough for two horses or motorbikes at the same time because there were no cars on the island as far as I’d seen. But that meant walking in direct sun as we were getting closer to the most sizzling part of the day. I chugged as much water as possible but still started swaying and seeing blurred from the heat, something I’ve actually grown accustomed to out here in extreme temps.

But it was well worth it because we got to walk through several local hamlets – just a few shacks or one-room concrete bungalows at best, stationed in dark sand and dust. We said hi to the friendly, curious locals we passed.

Soon, we passed several young guys sitting in the shade of a tree, drinking shots out of a bottle. They called me over and asked if I wanted a shot, full well thinking I’d just keep walking.

Well, I didn’t want to be rude! So, I went over and took my medicine like a man…a warm shot of Ginebra gin at 11 in the morning, but they did have a pineapple juice chaser.

Along the hour-long walk, Fatima confessed to us that she’d actually never taken that Spanish Trail in her year as a tour guide, so she was thankful that she was learnig soemthign from us! Enlivened that we were interested in her, her life, and her family, she welcomed us to her home when we passed by her four-house village, too.

We all took a break in the shade of the front porch as she collected a pitcher of cold water from inside. This was a big deal for her, and she glowed with pride to have two genuine new friends spend time at her house.

Remarking that my travel companion was so beautiful, she offered that she once wanted to be a model, too, through sugar cane-worn teeth and still-young, radiant face.

But then, she got pregnant with her island boyfriend, so now the priority was just putting food on the table, and being a tour guide earned her 250 Pesos each trip - $5.

So, her three trips per week earned her about $60 per month as a total income. Wow.

We thanked her for her hospitality and I put the water glass to my lips and pretended to drink, pouring out half of the water on the ground when she wasn’t looking. Since there’s no way it was filtered water, it could actually be dangerous for me to drink with a delicate foreign stomach, but I didn’t want to offend her by not drinking. It worked like a charm and she had no idea.

We continued walking and passed a smattering of school kids coming home from their half day in class, wearing mismatched uniforms based on what they could afford. Fatima explained that there were so many kids on the island but only a few teachers, so they had to break the school days in half so every kid would at least get some education daily.

The kids walked with us and some were shy, hiding behind their big sister or big brother, while others ran out for high fives or even asked our names with big smiles.

Soon, we reached our boat, and collected our boatman, who was napping under a tree.

We thanked Fatima, gave her a tip equivalent to one week’s work, and took down the number to her cracked, ancient cell phone, promising to visit her when we came back or send others coming to Taal to her.

“When you come back, you can stay in my house overnight!” she offered, a little sad that we were departing.

***
Little did we know that Fatima would be on our minds and in our prayers again so soon.

When we first heard the news of Taal’s eruption and saw the powerful and horrifying, yet somehow beautiful, photos, our thoughts went immediately to our guide and friend, Fatima

But before I could even propose that we try to check on her, Joy had already texted Fatima and heard back. She was ok, but they had been evacuated not to safety on the “mainland” of Tagaytay or Batangas, well-off communities that surrounded the lake, but to a different island on Taal Lake.

There, they were stuck, as heavy rains made travel on the simple dirt roads impossible. Fatima told us that already, three jeepneys (simple passenger vehicles) had tried to navigate the treacherous, muddy roads but turned over and gone off the steep edge, killing 14 people total.

Sadly, that wasn’t even in the news here in the Philippines. The people living on Taal and in these communities are also the poorest of the poor, so they often don’t have a voice.

But we were happy to hear that Fatima was still ok, and we offered to help her any way we could. Within a day or two, she was able to get off the island and make it to the mainland, where she settled into an evacuation center.

One of her family members defied the evacuation order and took a small boat back to Taal island to try and rescue their horses left there and check if anything was left of their little home.

This is what they found...

It's hard to believe that's the same happy, green place we visited.

Joy arranged for Fatima to receive a humble donation from us to help her family get through these tough times, and she managed to access it through a money wiring service that operates there.

Here is the video of Fatima and her family saying thank you. Of course we’d do this to help any friend, but seeing them safe and so appreciative makes it all worth it!

I'll tell Fatima that you said hi, and see you next month with a new postcard!

Your friend,

Norm :-)

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20 Images that changed the world.

1/12/2020

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The first photograph that we know of was taken around 1826 or 1827 in the Burgundy region of France, when Joseph Nicéphore Niépce documented the scenery from a window at Niépce's estate using a paper coated with silver chloride, that became dark in the places where it was exposed to light.

Since then, humankind's ability to capture real life on film - and now, digitally - has changed our world.

These days, smart phones are omniscient and easily document what we see around us in real-time. Thanks to the popularity of social media platforms like Instagram, we took more photos last year than in the entire course of history before combined! Let that sink in!

But that wasn't always the case. One iconic photograph splashed across our morning newspapers, nightly newscasts, or on the cover of National Geographic, as the case may be, had a profound impact on how we perceived our lives and drew meaning.

I wanted to share some of the most iconic and world-changing photographs in the modern era, whether they illuminated seminal world events, the dawn of a new age, phenomenon the world had never seen before, or just exposed our humanity.

Enjoy these 20 images that changed the world!

"Tank Man" protester in Tienamen Square, Beijing,China
This 1989 photo by journalist Jeff Widener captures one lone, unidentified civilian protestor standing his ground in front of a column of tanks. He was never seen again, but this image remains as the perfect symbol of human bravery in the face of the technological war machine.

"Tank Man" protester in Tienamen Square, Beijing China. This 1989 photo by journalist Jeff Widener captures one lone, unidentified civilian protestor standing his ground in front of a column of tanks. He was never seen again, but this image remains as the perfect symbol of human bravery in the face of the technological war machine.

Brave student barred from entering high school amid segregation
This iconic photo captures 15-year-old Elizabeth Eckford, an African American student in Arkansas, trying to enter Little Rock's Central High in 1957 while fellow students scream and harass her.

Eckford was one of the "Little Rock Nine," the first black students to attend a racially segregated (white) high school after the Supreme Court case, Brown v. Board of Education constitutionally guaranteed integration in schools, ruling against "separate but equal" segregation practices.

On this day of September 4th,, Eckford was denied access to the school by the Arkansas National Guard in defiance of a Supreme Court ruling. In fact, the actual pig-headed Governor of Arkansas blocked her entry into the school that morning.

When she was turned away, Eckford had to make her way through an angry mob of white students and protestors who threatened to lynch her. To escape the mob, the girl ran into a bus stop, where she broke down and couldn't stop crying.

A sympathetic reporter named Benjamin Fine, thinking about his own 15-year-old daughter, sat next to Elizabeth and comforted her, telling her not to let them see her cry. Another white woman, Grace Lorch, also offered Elizabeth protection and escorted her safely onto a city bus.

For the next two weeks, the Arkansas Nine studied at home. Even after President Eisenhower requested the students be granted access, they were blocked by the Governor, National Guard, and thousands of protestors.

Finally, President Eisenhower assumed control of the National Guard and set up a military escort to accompany the students into the building. On September 23, 1957, Eckford and the Arkansa Nine finale were able to enter the high school.

It wasn't easy, and the Central High actually shut down the next year, but Eckford did graduate high school and went on to earn a BS in History from Central State University in Ohio. She was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal for her courage and significant moment in history.

Second plane hits the Towers on 9/11
American Airlines flight 11 crashes into the North Tower of the World Trade Center the morning of September 11, 2001, confirming for a terrified public that the first airplane collision was not an accident, but a terrorist attack.

Migrant Mother, 1936.
This photo of a 32-year old California farmworker, taken by Dorothea Lange, is considered to show the face of the Great Depression. This mother of 7 children had just sold her tent and the tires off her broken down car for food, as the whole family was living on foraged vegetables and wild birds.

The world is introduced to Apple
A 1977 advertisement for the Apple II personal computer, which revolutionized the concept of aesthetics and ease of use in computers that sparked the personal computing phenomenon.

These innovations in computing and eventually, music tech and smart phones, changed our world by ushering in the dawn of the Digital Age.

First flight
The Wright Brothers first in flight, 1903. On December 17 in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, two bicycle mechanic brothers changed history by going airborne for 12 seconds.

Earthrise
Taken from the moon on Christmas Eve of 1968, either by Frank Borman or Bill Anders of the Apollo 8 mission. It was called “the most influential environmental photograph ever taken,” by adventure photographer Galen Rowell.

Buddhist monk sets himself on fire in protest, Vietnam.
In 1963, Thich Quang Duc, a Buddhist priest in Southern Vietnam, doused himself with gasoline and set himself on fire to protest the government's abuse and torture of priests. He never made a move or uttered a sound as he burned to death.

I want my MTV
Music Television's first on-screen logo, signifying a musical renaissance in which culture and art would drive the innovation of technology, not the other way around.

DNA strands finally photographed
DNA has been depicted with renderings and images nice 1953, when James Watson and Francis Crick first mapped DNA's famous double helix formation.

But not until very recently has technology allowed is to take an actual photo of DNA, this image, thanks to Enzo di Fabrizio, a researcher at the University of Genoa in Italy. He found a way to photograph strands of DNA through an electron microscope.

The US proves to the world that Cuba has Soviet missiles, 1962
The Cuban Missile Crisis comes to a heated standoff in the United Nations session, October 22, 1962.

In this photo U.S. ambassador Adlai Stevenson points to a photo of Soviet missile sites in Cuba, offering incontrovertible proof that they existed. The U.S. and Soviet Union narrowly avoided a full scale nuclear war.

How Life Begins, 1965.
This was the first time an embryo was photographed inside the human body, taken by Lennart Nilsson with the endescope.

It led to a firestorm of controversy over the origins of life and abortion that still rages on today.

The US drops The Bomb and ends the war
A-bomb dropped on Nagasaki, Japan in 1945, as taken by the U.S. air force.

The mushroom cloud-producing atomic bomb killed 80,000 people and forced the surrender of the Japanese military, ending WWII in the Pacific Theater.

"The Afghan Girl."
A portrait of a 12-year old Afghan refugee living in Pakistan during the Soviet occupation, taken by Steve McCurry, appearing on the famous 1985 cover of National Geographic Magazine.

She was identified in 2002 as Sharbat Gula and became the face of struggle of refugees all over the world, and this photo was often called the "Afghan Mona Lisa."

Execution of VietCong soldier
The Vietnam war was the first military action in U.S. history where journalists had direct access to soldiers and combat, often traveling around with soldiers and killed in action, themselves.

The results was shocking images like this, taken by Eddie Adams February 1, 1968 when a police captain summarily executes a captured VietCong soldier on the street by shooting him in the head. The photo made the front page of the New York Times, and created an outrage against the senselessness of the war that sparked protests.

After Vietnam, journalists were placed on restrictions where they could go and what they could photograph in combat.

Young JFK Jr. plays under his father's desk
This famous photo, taken in 1962 by Alan Stanley Tretick of Life Magazine, depicts President John F Kennedy at work at the Resolute desk in the Oval Office of the White House, while his son, Jon Jr. plays underneath.

JFK Jr. was the first child born to an active President, but his father was assassinated less than a year after this photo was taken.

The Berlin Wall falls
On November 11, 1989, East German border guards demolished a section of the Berlin Wall to create a crossing point between east and west. West Berliners started tearing down the Berlin Wall on November 9, 1989, signifying the end of Soviet Bloc in Europe and soon the fall of communism.

The wall, also called the Iron Curtain, divided free West Germany from oppressed East Germany for 28 years, since August 13, 1961.

Raise a fist for Black Power at the Olympics
It was a far different time in America, but so much was the same. 1968 at the Mexico City Olympics, US athletes Tommie Smith and John Carlos stood during the medal ceremony after winning gold and silver, respectively.

In an act of solidarity for the Black Power movement and civil rights strife in their home country, these men raised their fists skyward for all the world to see.

V-J Day in Times Square, August 14, 1945
When Japan surrendered and World War II was won, Americans were ready to celebrate. On that very day, photographer Alfred Eisenstaedt captured a Navy sailor kissing a woman in a white dress in the middle of Times Square in New York City, which became the symbol for post-war jubilance and hope.

The Beatles' Abbey Road album cover, 1969
This iconic image of the band crossing Abbey Road in London would guild their 11th studio album, and last recording before disbanding in 1970, the end of the British Invasion.

The album, their top-selling ever, was met with critical acclaim and swirled in controversy, some people theorizing that it was a big staged metaphor for Paul McCartney's death.

None the less, the image of the four Beatles crossing the road over a piano key-like crosswalk has been one of the most replicated and imitated album covers ever.

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The Last Wave: Mike Boyum's final days in Siargao, the Philippines

12/10/2019

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This is part 3 of a 3-part series on the life and legend of surfer Mike Boyum.

You can read part one and part two here.
***

One morning in late 1988, as islanders hung Christmas decorations in the village square, a wild-eyed American strolled into General Luna carrying a battered surfboard.

He, introduced himself as “Max Walker.”

The late Mayor Jaime Rusillion remembers it well since there weren’t many foreigners and surfing was nonexistent. Mayor Rusillon even started calling the man “Mad Max” after the popular Mel Gibson flick, and the name stuck.

Mad Max asked the mayor’s permission to make camp on a palm-lined outcropping of beach called Tuason Point in the Catangnan region.

There were no stores, eateries, electricity, or, even other people around Mad Max’s new home, and it was a good 3-kilometer hike just to get to the dusty fishing village of General Luna.

But the solitude was just fine for Mad Max, as he preferred to stay out of sight. The man who called himself Max Walker also had different motivation for living on Tuason Point: it was only steps away from the best reef break he’d ever seen.

By some accounts, he was the first person to ever surf in that spot, which would later be dubbed “Cloud Nine” and achieve world fame among surfers and travelers alike. However, I read somewhere that he first heard of the surf break from Tony Arruza and Steve Jones, American and Aussie surfers who first found Siargao in 1980 and called it "Jacking Horse."

But the old school Siargao expats I talked to never heard those names, and claim that Max Walker identified first the reef break from marine charts, as he was apt to do.

Either way, Cloud Nine is a “hollow and heavy right-hand barrel; for experience riders only.” (I put that in quotes because I’m not a surfer and don’t know jack-shit above waves except that they’re wet and I like jumping in them!)

I do know that it’s located on the southeastern coast of the Philippines island of Siargao, where I now live. In fact, my little green house on Purok 1 (Road 1) is probably only a hundred meters from where the solo, mysterious American surfer first made his presence known.

The island of Siargao is on the eastern-most edge of the Philippines’ 7,600+ islands (making it the second-largest archipalego in the world). Due east of Siargao you’ll find the Philippine Deep in the Marianna Trench, the lowest point on earth; a 34,000 under-sea chasm that is deeper than Mount Everest is tall. This seemingly-bottomless trench leads to unique wave conditions where they gain energy and blast right for the coast, colliding with off-shore reefs to create perfect, impossibly long barrels.

In fact, Cloud Nine is now considered one of the five toughest reef breaks in the world and Surf Magazine named it as one of the ten best waves in the world. (It’s also called ‘Crowd Nine’ because of its touristy appeal.)

Although he probably “discovered” Cloud Nine from a surf perspective, he arrived at the start of the worst period for surfing Siargao’s waves, as January to April bring consistent onshore winds from the northeast, enveloping the island in monsoon rains.

Tasked with filling his long, lonely days with more than surfing, Mad Max turned introspective. He was already an avid fitness fanatic, maintaining a macrobiotic diet and regularly fasting. Settled into his secluded hut while rain poured around him for weeks, he underwent another such fast that was supposed to last 40 days.

He’d completed 40-day fasts before, so took the necessary safety precautions. Max arranged for a well-respected local to come check on him periodically, making sure he was ok and providing water or a squeeze of lemon juice.

However, during his final fast here in Siargao, the man who was supposed to come to check on Max couldn’t get there until the 46th day because of a big storm.

By then, Max Walker had grown so weak that his body just gave out. They say he passed away on June 14, 1989 – his 43rd birthday and the 43rd day of the fast.

Of course, John Michael “Mike” Boyum also died on June 14, 1989, as the two men were one in the same.

But the locals, including Mayor Ramillio, only found out Boyum’s true identity upon his death. Ramillo was smart enough to know that “Max Walker” was an alias (it was actually the name of a popular cartoon character at the time).

He probably also realized why Boyum was on the run and hiding out in Siargao, as the Hawaiian authorities (and, more importantly, the Maui Mob) were still looking for him.

But General Luna’s mayor also wasn’t one to pry in the young American’s affairs, and genuinely considered the man a friend.

(Mayor Rusillon passed away on April 26, 2019, considered a beloved hero and "The Godfather of Philippines Surfing.")

However, Mayor Ramillio had no idea just how famous (and notorious) Boyum was until surfers and fans started showing up in Siargao, too, paying tribute to the surf icon’s death…and also riding the waves that were fast becoming legendary.

Tuason Point continued to gain attention – both as a shrine to Boyum/Walker and an epic surf break.

A few years later, Surf Magazine came to do an expose on Siargao along with pro surfers like Taylor Know and Evan Slater. One of their photographers, an American named John S, Callahan, thought the waves there looked like the Cloud Nine chocolate bar that is still popular in the Philippines.

“I named the break after the local no-melt chocolate bars,” says Callahan. “Going into town after lunch for a warm Coke and a Cloud 9 was the highlight of our day.

When the Surf Magazine piece was released, the secret was out: “Cloud Nine” was a new mecca for surfers around the world.

Today, it’s still a surf haven, and rapidly becoming one of the coolest (in my estimation) and best (according to various travel magazines) islands in the world, yet alone Southeast Asia.

And what of Mike Boyum?

Passing away while on a self-imposed fast was just one version of his death.

Another account puts his death in April of that year. Still another says he drowned while surfing right out in front of his home on Tuason Point, his surfboard washing up but his body never recovered. Still more people suspect that the Hawaiian mob finally caught up to him, extracting revenge before leaving him for dead somewhere deep in Siargao’s mangrove swamps.

Then again, we can’t give much credence to those rumors, as spreading gossip, or chismis, is an artform in the Philippines.

I’ve even heard whispers that Boyum carefully staged his own death to throw off the mob, and is still alive and hiding out on Siargao somewhere, doing his business on the outskirts of General Luna before disappearing back into the jungle.

But to indulge that fantasy would be irresponsible. People who were friendly with Boyum confirm that he did pass away from a fast. One local source says that he saw Boyum’s body buried in an unmarked cemetary plot, right along where Tourist Road stands today, thousands of surfers and vacationers passing by every year, unaware that they’re on hallowed ground.

No matter which version you believe (or want to believe), Mike Boyum’s death was never made official and no death certificate exists.

I guess some legends never die.

-Norm :-)

P.S. An abridged version of this perspective on Mike Boyum's final days in Siargao will be published in BeSiargao Magazine.

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Cocaine Surfboards & Maui Mafia: The legend of Mike Boyum continues

11/10/2019

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In part one of this three-part series documenting the made-for-Hollywood life of surfer Mike Boyum, we left Mike struggling to keep his G-Land surf camp in Indonesia. Now, we’ll continue with his legendary story.

***

No one can ride a single wave forever. Most surfers last little more than 10-20 seconds on their board. In fact, out of an hour on the water, the average surfer is paddling for more than 35 minutes of that time and waiting in the lineup for another 20 minutes or so. Therefore, only about 8% of their time is spent actually surfing a wave – about 290 seconds, even on a good day.

No matter how epic the ride or high the thrill, nothing lasts forever. And the tide had gone out for Mike Boyum in Indonesia.

His larger-than-life reputation as G-Land’s founder had grown quickly as surfers from all over the world came to spend time at his camp – and fork over a hefty fee to do so.

But success attracts a lot of the wrong kind of attention in developing countries, and soon, the local officials who once gladly granted him use of the abandoned beach demanded a bigger piece of the pie. (As well as quite a few shakedowns and threats by locals and police alike, if my experience is accurate.)

Burning down his camp’s nipa huts and tree houses, Boyum was forced to relinquish control of his G-Land surf camp (eventually, an Indo local surfer took over and it’s still thriving today).

However, there was another pressing reason to flee G-Land, as became the target of numerous drug investigations by Indonesian authorities.

In the late 1960s, drugs were synonymous with the exploding counter-culture movement, including the music scene with festivals like Woodstock, protesting the Vietnam War, and, yes, surfing.

Marijuana was everywhere, hundreds of thousands of young, shell-shocked troops came back from Vietnam addicted to heroin and opium, and psychedelics were on every college campus, with Timothy Leary encouraging the youth to "Turn on, tune in, and drop out.”

Hell, it was the CIA who first started experimenting with LSD in an attempt to make “super” soldiers, and it wasn’t even illegal until 1968 and considered a Schedule I controlled substance until the 1970s.

Surfers were no exception, and one notable LSD smuggling operation out of Orange County, California included rainbow surfboards as the smuggling vessel of choice.

The big backlash came around 1969, when local police and federal law enforcement alike cracked down on the rampant drug use and looked to tame the long haired “hippies” that threatened the decent way of life.

Anyways, a few of these surfers ended up in Indonesia, as I mentioned, and guys like Peter McCabe, Jeff Chitty, ad Gerry Lopez were nearly as essential to establishing G-Land as Mike Boyum. Some of them funded their nomadic surf lifestyles by hollowing out the fins of their surfboards and filling them with plastic bags filled with heroin, hash, or Bolivian cocaine before sealing them up again.

Mike Boyum was disillusioned and heartbroken from his experience in Indonesia. Every penny (Indo money) he’d earned over the year stolen from him; he was forced to leave G-Land with nothing but the shirt on his back.

At rock bottom, Mike started riding that dark wave and smuggling drugs, something that would come to define – and doom – his remaining days.

However, this is where fact takes a detour from the simple narrative again.

A friend of Mike’s I interviewed for this article told me that Mike never smuggled drugs until he’d been forced out of his surf camp. In fact, Mike had been relatively anti-drug, as he saw heroin addiction mess up a lot of his fellow surfer friends and snuff out otherwise promising lives. Boyum even used G-Land as a place to help addicted and strung-out surfers and others, as they could exercise, eat healthy, and be at one with nature while detoxing.

Mike “just wasn’t good at it [smuggling],” his old friend suggests, memories playing in his head like home movies, his cautious words revealing that he wished people knew the generous, always smiling, larger-than-life Mike that he was cool with.

It seems that while just about everything Mike touched turned to gold with legitimate business ventures, the criminal underworld just wasn’t for him.

The beginning of his very long end may have come on one such illicit operation in 1984. It was then that Mike Boyum was arrested Noumea, New Caledonia (a French-colonized island east of Australia) along with Peter MCCabe and Jeff Chitty, as the three tried to smuggle half a kilo of Bolivian Marching Powder into Australia.

Boyum and Chitty managed to smuggle two kilos of coke from Brazil to Jakarta in a suitcase. Then, about half a kilo of the cocaine was packed into condoms that Chitty swallowed before boarding his flight to Noumea, where McCabe and Boyum were waiting for him.

It was there they planned on recovering the cocaine from Chitty and packing it into hollowed-out surfboard fins before someone else took the boards to Australia.

However, they didn’t get that far.

Chitty was confronted by customs agents upon landing in Noumea, who suspected him of carrying drugs internally (we’ll never know if they were just singling him out because he was a hippy surfer, or they actually had a tip because someone dropped dime on him).

Pressed by the aggressive agents, Chitty tried to keep his cool, but he knew he was fucked when they said they were taking him to the hospital to be x-rayed. But, improbably, they suddenly decided to let him go, telling him to “get your English arse out of here.”

Sweating and rattled, Chitty couldn’t believe his luck, but he was free to go. He recounted the whole story when he met up with McCabe and Boyum in their hotel. To celebrate their good fortune (and, coming monetary fortune), the three wild-men hit the town for a night out drinking.

When they got back to their hotel at 3am, they were snorting lines of their own product when police knocked on their door.

Note: I assume the police let Chitty go just so they could follow him to find the source or his buyers, but I have no evidence of this.

The police kicked in the door and arrested McCabe and Chitty on the spot. Boyum, however, scrambled out the hotel’s bathroom window before they could get him. Despite a massive manhunt conducted by local police and military, he evaded capture for a whole two weeks, hiding in the jungle and living off the land!

Quickly ingratiated into the dark underbelly of the local surf scene, Mike got tight with members of the Maui mafia, presumably doing some sort of deals with them.

But he made an epically-fatal choice when he made off with one million dollars of their money, as it’s widely reported – a shit-ton of dough back in the 1980s.

Ripping off the Maui mob is bad for your health, and Boyum was now running out of options – or places to hide. By then, he’d been red flagged by just about every airline and international agency, so he didn’t stand a chance when he tried to extend his career as a drug smuggler posing as a surfer.

I’m told he kept getting arrested, evading capture, fleeing, and hopping from country to country to try and evade arrest again. He got back to Asia and we do know he spent time in Thailand, but that was probably too obvious to his Hawaiian mobster friends.

On the run, without friends he could trust, looking over his shoulder with every unfamiliar face and jumping at every backfiring motorcycle, the life on the lam didn’t suit Boyum.

They only finally caught him by dropping a net on him from a helicopter, it’s reported. However, according to a friend of his who served as a source for this article, a more accurate version of events was that Mike was just exhausted so he stopped running one day so it could all be over.

McCabe did 18 months in a New Caledonian jail for that one after being sentenced to three years; Chitty got the same sentence. Boyum was slapped with a four-year prison sentence because he also eluded police, according to my information, and did all four years in jail, roughly account for the years between 1984 and 1988.

However, I couldn’t find any account of his time in prison or any details of his life during those years.

It’s also worth mentioning that Chitty and McCabe continued with the drug trafficking vocation, eventually serving 8 and 14 years in Australian prisons, respectively.

Following his spotty post-jail timeline, we do know that Mike Boyum headed back stateside once he was free to leave New Caledonia. There’s a story that places him in New York City, too, where he was hanging out with old school surfer and friend, Ricky Rasmussen.

Unfortunately, Rasmussen’s heroin problem had grown from bad to worse and he was a full-on junkie by then.

Sitting in the back of a taxi cab, the driver turned around and shot him in the head, as the story goes – perhaps retribution for a heroin deal gone south.

After that, Boyum didn’t last long in New York, and we hear about him living in Hawaii, where he got into even bigger trouble.

Soon ingratiated into the dark underbelly of the local surf scene, Mike got tight with members of the Maui mafia, presumably doing some sort of deal with them. But, he made an epically-fatal choice when he made off with one million dollars of their money, as it’s commonly reported – a shit-ton of dough back in the 1980s.

Sometimes referred to as The Company or The Syndicate, no matter what you call them, ripping off Maui heavy-hitters is bad for your health. And Boyum was now running out of options – or places to hide.

By then, he’d been red flagged by just about every airline and international agency, so he didn’t stand a chance when he tried to extend his career as a drug smuggler posing as a surfer.

I’m told he kept getting arrested, evading capture, fleeing, and hopping from country to country to try and evade arrest again. He got back to Asia and we do know he spent time in Thailand, but that was probably too obvious to his Hawaiian mobster friends.

On the run, without friends he could trust, looking over his shoulder with every unfamiliar face and jumping at every backfiring motorcycle, the life on the lam didn’t suit Boyum.

Still a surfer at heart; perhaps longing for those simpler, pure days when he first discovered G-Land with his brother, Boyum needed to find a place that was virtually unknown, where he could really hide out.

It was then that Mike Boyum took out a ripped and faded world map, scanning for the ideal place for someone who wanted to get lost, his finger stopping on a little-known country called The Philippines.

And it’s there that his story takes an even more unpredictable turn…and comes to its tragic last act.

-Norm :-)

***
Subscribe to this blog and stay tuned for part 3 of Mike Boyum’s life story coming next month.

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From G-Land to Siargao: The Legend of Surfer Mike Boyum

10/23/2019

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From G-Land to Siargao: The Legend of Surfer Mike Boyum

Mike Boyum

As the twin-prop plane buzzed and swooped low over the Indonesian coastline, Mike Boyum sat with his face nearly pressed against the glass. But he wasn’t just looking for nice white beaches or majestic jungle vistas like most travelers. No, he was carefully analyzing every reef, wave, and break along the coastline from a thousand feet in the air.

Then, he spotted it – an impossibly long, smooth left breaking wave far below, a surfer’s paradise like nothing he’d ever seen. Bill frantically asked everyone sitting around him as well as the stewardess, and he was told they were somewhere over a bay and village called Grajagan in West Java, Indonesia.

He told his brother about it once they reunited on the ground in Kuta, and got Mike excited enough to take a journey out to try and find the epic wave. After an arduous journey, they arrived at the Plengkung Beachheadland across the bay from Grajagan village just in time to witness a majestic sunset over the Indian Ocean, as well as one of the most perfect barrels human eyes had ever seen.

That’s one version of how they discovered Grajagan, or G-Land, as they started calling it. And while it may have been romanticized over the decades of retelling, like much of Mike Boyum’s life story, it may not be entirely accurate.

Another account is that his brother, Bill, already knew about the place, and enlisted younger brother Mike’s help to get there and start surfing once he arrived in Indonesia with surf boards, as they were impossible to get locally.

Together with a friend named Bob Laverty, they traveled out to G-Land for the first time to show Mike before returning back to Kuta.

(Tragically, a day after they came back from that first G-Land excursion, Laverty drowned while surfing, his board – but never his body – washing up on shore.)

***

G-Land

Bill Boyum

Mike Boyum surfing

Mike Boyum grew up in the United States in the 1950s, the son of a disciplinarian Navy Pilot. Perhaps that planted the seed for both his rebellious spirit and his love of traveling to exotic places for daring adventures, two things that would come to define his life.

“My brother Mike and I spent our youth traveling because of our father’s Navy career,” writes Bill Boyum in his 2002 ‘Letter from G-Land.’ “Our focus in life became finding a place we could call home, or a ‘power spot’ as my brother’s favorite author, Carlos Castaneda wrote in his novels.”

The Boyums lived the typical transitory life of a military family, as Bill Boyum muses in ‘Letter from G-Land’:
“Join the Navy and see the world.”
“You were in the Navy?”
“Nope. But the Navy is in me.”

The family was stationed in Southern California in the early 1960s – the perfect time to be a surfer, as the wave-riding sport was just burgeoning in Hawaii and Cali and the iconic surf movie Endless Summer exposed a wide world of undiscovered waves,

It was also the time for The Summer of Love, teenage rebellion, and books like Jack Kerouac’s On the Road that challenged societal norms, encouraging youth to question authority and make their own way in the world. It was also the time for drugs – a whole lot of them, and that went hand-in-hand with surfing and being a youth at the time.

After dropping out of college in the mid 1960s, Boyum, traveling all the way across the world to bop around Tahiti, Fiji, Australia, and New Zealand, surfing whenever he could. By 1969, he followed his brother, Mike, to Bali, Indonesia, and that’s where his story really starts.

Bill only knew that he could find his brother in a remote fishing village called Kuta outside Bali. It was there the elder Boyum had settled, followed rumors of a place with perfect white-sand beaches, temperate waters, consistent offshore wind every day, and great, cheap food – all perquisites for any true surfer.

Unique geographic and marine conditions make for the perfect waves at G-Land.

But, although the conditions were perfect, there was one thing that Mike was missing: a surfboard. In fact, there were none available in Bali, as the locals didn’t surf yet and the fraternity of surfers trotting the globe was few. So, Mike asked if Bill could bring a few surf boards along on his flight, so he gladly wrapped them up and threw them on the plane’s cargo hold.

***
Whichever version of events you believe about how Mike and Bill came onto G-Land, they definitely resolved to start surfing those waves.

Just getting there was no easy feat, as they had to ride their motorbikes for nearly two days to the entrance of the Natural Reserve of Alas Purwo. There, they ditched the bikes and go on foot, hiking for two days through jungle that is rumored to be vexed with spirits and demons, as well as plenty of real-life Java tigers, wild boar, Komodo dragon, and a whole lot of poisonous snakes.

When they wanted to return to G-Land, the Boyums and friends took local buses and hitchhiked until they arrived at Grajagan Village where the river met the ocean, and then they had to walk about 20 km up the beach carrying their surfboards, food, and all of their supplies. They even had to bring in their own fresh water supplies, and they set out old sails to catch more water when it rained.

It was well worth it, as G-Land is now considered the best left wave in the world. Although it’s in tropical Java, the waves from the Indian Ocean there actually originate with swirling low pressure systems in Antarctica, thousands of kilometers away.

Of course, back then, the different sections of the beach and reef breaks didn’t have well-known names like “Money-Trees,” “Kongs,” and the legendary “Speedies,” with up to 20-foot wave faces (Hawaiian scale) and single barrels they could ride for up to several hundred meters. The Boyums and friends didn’t realize at first that G-Land was best surf at high tide so the week after a full moon was insane, or that there was a “key-hole” within the shallow and unforgiving reef where it was easiest to paddle out. But they would learn that all – and much more – over the ensuing years surfing G-Land.

A view of the G-Land break

The reef at G-Land is pretty inhospitable and the waves are definitely not for beginning surfers!

To speed up the long journey out there and make it easier to bring supplies, they soon commandeered an old motorboat. One by one, other famous surfers like Peter McCabe and the legendary Gerry Lopez were invited and became G-Land stalwarts.

At first, they set up a makeshift camp, but soon, could stay for weeks and even months thanks to elevated bamboo tree houses (so the snakes, boars, and tigers couldn’t get ‘em at night), a cooking shack, and latrines dug in the bush. They had the whole beach to themselves, with not a single human being in sight other than some local kids to help them out, they caught fish, ate fruit, and traded for whatever else they needed, burning what little trash they had and surfing to their heart’s content.

Mike and the guys hanging out at G-Land

When the pouring rains came down ceaselessly during monsoon season, they knew their surfing was done for the year, and they packed up and headed back to “civilization” in Bali.

Eagerly coming back after a few months when the rains had stopped and the winds were offshore again, their camp was still intact, like it was frozen in time.

Bamboo platforms built into the trees to keep critters and animals away. They were all burnt down at the end of every season so the rats would't nest and infest them, and rebuilding the structures was actually one of the smallest costs to run G-Land.

They kept living and surfing at G-Land for three more years. The smooth-talking and big-thinking Mike Boyum even talked the local Indonesian authorities into granting him permission to open a more formal surf station there, starting with a few tree house and nipa huts that they rented out to others for $10-$15 per night.

The legend of G-Land grew among surfers from all over the world, and the camp became quite a commercial endeavor. By the end of 1977, surfers from around the world came and paid an astronomical $50-$100 per night or even $1,000 per week to stay there and surf in the rustic yet uncrowded elements, and the camp was cashing-in $250,000 per year!

G-Land wasn't just the world's first surf camp, but a fitness camp, health and nutrition lab, and even a detox center at times.

Of course, all of that money brings the wrong kind of attention.

“But much of this was my doing. The surf camp was a great idea but we should have known that something so spectacular was impossible to keep secret. I look back on it with a mixture of pride and sadness,” wrote Bill Boyum in 2002 about the eventual commercialization of G-Land.

The Indonesian authorities who had once granted Boyum permission to start a little surf camp wanted a piece of the action. And then, a bigger piece of the action.

I’m not sure if it was the police, local politicians, regional authorities, or just strong-arm thugs who put the pressure on Mike, but sometimes in these developing countries, they can all be one in the same.

Mike at G-Land

G-Land as you approach by boat

But in the end, an enraged Boyum wouldn’t concede to these Indonesian bribe solicitors. Instead, in an act of ultimate defiance, he set fire to all the nipa huts and tree houses they’d meticulously erected, burning down the camp, willing to kill his dream before someone else took it away.

While this is accurate, I found out that they actually burned the nipa huts and bamboo tree houses in G-Land at the end of every season to prevent rat infestation, rebuilding them at the start of the next surf season when they came back. So, this may have been less an act of arson than one of frustration and just ending the season early. Mike was less spiteful and more spiritually wounded by what happened, according to a mutual friend.

Forced out of the G-Land, his surf camp and every penny (or Indonesian rupiah) he’d earned over the years taken from him, Mike left the country heartbroken and jaded, with nothing but the shirt on his back.

Soon after, Boyum relinquished control of G-Land to a local Indo surfer, Bobby Radiasa, who built it up into a legitimate surf resort of the decades, and it still stands today.

But this story isn’t just about G-Land, nor is it only about surfing, because Mike Boyum started doing what plenty of other surfers did in the 1970s to fund their round-the-world adventures: he trafficked drugs.

And this is also where the story really gets crazy, with twists and turns out of a Hollywood movie, eventually leading him to the exact paradise island where I’m living now in the Philippines: Siargao.

***
This is just part 1 of 3 of this series documenting the legend of surfer Mike Boyum. Stick around for the rest, coming soon.

-Norm :-)

P.S. I'm not a surfer, nor do I pretend to be "in the know" or part of Mike Boyum's life in any way. I'm just a curious dude living on Siargao in the Philippines who wants to honor his contributions and pay tribute to his remarkable life, good and bad. If I got anything wrong or you have an issue with something I said, PLEASE contact me and set me straight - I welcome it!

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Your September 2019 Postcard from Norm: 10 More things I now consider normal!

9/18/2019

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A few months back, I shared ten things that I now consider normal as part of an ongoing series (although some would argue that the last thing I’m qualified to write about is normalcy!).

So, to celebrate the variety diversity, randomness, and abject craziness of life abroad, here are ten more things I now consider normal:

1. Soft rock (still) rules!
Soft rock was, at best, an unfortunate stain on the U.S. music scene in the 1970s and early 80s. If we listen to soft rock songs by Air Supply (Lost in Love), Christopher Cross (Ride Like the Wind), or REO Speedwagon (I Can't Fight This Feeling), they either serve as nostalgia or make us cringe with their milquetoast creepiness. That era is as dead as disco (or dead-er!), never to be heard from again…or is it?

In the Philippines, the soft rock scene is still booming, and I hear all of these 'oldies-but-softies every single day. But the soft rock playlist isn't just reserved for elevators and malls (that's the Bruno Mars playlist). Instead, you’ll find them in the background in everyday life, and guys, especially love them!

With a Red Horse beer in hand and a karaoke mic in the other, they’ll howl out Extreme ( More than Words), Phil Collins (In the Air Tonight), or Bryan Adams (Everything I Do).

In fact, the thugiest thugs will belt out a ballad along with the radio, and taxi drivers, in particular, are enamored with soft rock. So, bring on the Styx, Hall and Oates, Toto, Chicago, Kansas, Boston (boy, there were a lot of bands named after places!), and the immortal (unfortunately) Kenny Loggins! They’re all alive and well in the Philippines.

You’ll find dozens of complete strangers singing along to “I’ll be Your Hero” from the Karate Kid II soundtrack, and when “Faithfully” by Journey hits the airwaves, it’s cause for a national celebration!

2. There’s no personal space (get off of me, sucker!)
About 70% of the world’s population lives within a 1,000-mile radius of Southeast Asia, and the Philippines also has some of the most densely packed metropolitan areas in the world. We're all stacked on top of each other, and the space I have to live, breath, walk, and operate in would be unimaginable claustrophobic to most westerners (including me!).

Unlike in the U.S. or the west, your personal space is not a given right. People press up against you standing in line, cut right in front of you while walking, and buses are packed so tight that you literally sometimes can't find space to put your two feet on the floor (assuming you didn't get a seat, which is filled by about three people).

There’s also no consideration for boundaries. No one cares. It leads to some bizarre and hilarious situations.

For instance, you may get bullied by a little grandmother who pushes you right out of the way as you’re standing in line at the grocery store, go into the men’s bathroom only to find (thoroughly unimpressed) female custodians working amidst all of the half-pants'd men, and a creepy strange dude may walk up and start massaging you at any given moment! That's not even to mention the traffic, which is so bonkers that you have to see it to believe it.

“Get in where ya fit in!” should be the slogan here!

3. A different relationship with food
I could write a whole book on the relationship with food in SE Asia. It seems that everyone is always eating 24-7, and no one is counting calories or talking about “non-fat,” “gluten-free, or “organic.” Yet, they’re still head-scratchingly lean while I'm the chubby guy giving out health advice. Go figure!

Check out the normal size of Wendy's French Fries here and you can see the portion control is a big part of that equation.

In Southeast Asia, Rice is the daily staple. In fact, rice is life” is the popular saying, and they eat it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even sweet/sticky rice for dessert!.

They don’t really make sandwiches like in the U.S., and cheese isn’t on everything. Nor do they have many salads in the western sense.

Milk doesn't need to be refrigerated (because it's not pasteurized), but red wine is served out of the fridge (because of the high air temperature).

By the way, it’s called a “ref” in the Philippines because they’re not interested in spelling out or saying the full “refrigerator,” as they do with many words.

Condiments are all mysterious, only available upon request, and doled out in liquid-gold portions.

Oh, and one more thing – don’t ask for a “napkin” in a restaurant because that refers to a sanitary napkin. You need a “tissue” instead.

4. The whole world is shit-faced drunk (except me)
In the U.S., we think we have a vibrant party scene, but it doesn’t even hold a candle to the level of boozing that goes on in other nations, especially poor and tropical countries.

Young people, especially, drink every single night, but that extends to people in their 20s and 30s, and even middle-aged people are day drinking and sitting around guzzling cheap spirits and singing karaoke. And they don't stop at 2 am, but routinely go until 5 or 6 am!

At this age, I'm a big lightweight, getting pleasantly buzzed after three beers and ready to call it a night. So, just about everyone – man, woman, and child, can drink me under the table in SE Asia. I've seen plenty of 90-lbs. females who could drink 20 shots of tequila in a night when I'm soused after just one! I still have no idea how they do it.

5. And very caffeinated (including me)
Coffee is also a huge cultural phenomenon abroad, with about 10x more coffee shops than I see in the U.S. They act as de facto gathering spots, community centers, mobile offices, entertainment venues, and a clean, safe, air-conditioned refuge from the wild world outside.

Coffee is such a big deal that there are even whole nightclubs based around coffee to plenty of cafes with pristine outdoor gardens and koi ponds, to plenty of street vendors selling joltingly-strong and sugared ice coffees from their carts.

You’ll find international franchises like Starbucks, Canada’s Tim Hortons, and Australia’s Bo’s Coffee, but also local S.E. Asian brands like Amazon [coffee], Tom n' Toms, Gloria Jeans, and a million little local cafes.

There’s also a huge milk tea and bubble tea trend going on from Korea that people go absolutely nuts for, lining up for hours just to buy one. I don’t get it!

6. The “Pink Price” – there’s a separate foreigner economy
Being a foreigner has its advantages, but it also makes you a target when it comes to anything that has to do with money or finances. That’s because locals will attempt to charge you more since you are a foreigner.

Sometimes, this is blatant, like a sign on the wall in Cambodia that says haircuts are a certain price for Khmer (Cambodian) people (written in their language), but way more expensive for foreigners (written in English). Or, a boat ride, the entrance admission to a beach or national park, etc. may be significantly-lower for their countrymen than for foreigners.

I get that, and it makes a whole lot of sense (even if there’s no way that would fly in the U.S.!)

However, the concept of paying “the Pink Price” (ostensibly, because foreigners have pink skin) goes to a whole other level when people try to rip you off or scam you.

For instance, they have these cool used clothing stores called “Ukays” here, with piles of t-shirts, shorts, jeans, etc. from all over the world. I might pull a pair of shorts from a bin that says “100 Pesos” right on a sign, but the store clerk will tell me that they cost 350 Pesos for me, and not even budge when I try to negotiate.

The Manila airport is notorious for scamming the pants of unsuspecting tourists, as taxi drivers routinely try to charge $50 USD for a fare that should cost $6 if a Filipino or local was sitting in their back seat!

Of course, this ain’t my first rodeo, and I have plenty of battle-tested strategies how I can counter this form of foreigner financial f*ckery!

7. Flying is cheap
I often complain about the prices in SE Asia (because I'm a big complainer at heart), but one thing I can’t “whinge" (a U.K. term) about is the cost of airline tickets. In fact, they range from affordable to ludicrously cheap. For instance, to fly from Manila to Bangkok, Thailand costs only about $86 with the cheapest fare, or about $150 for a standard ticket. You can find tickets from SE Asia to New York or California for as low as $600 or so – ROUND TRIP!

In the Philippines, flying around the nation’s 7,500 islands will run a prudent traveler about $160 for the most expensive and longest fare, to $60 or $70 for most common routes. In fact, I used to live in and near Cebu, a transportation hub, and I routinely found tickets all over the central region of the Philippines for $30 or $40.

I once found a flight from Dumaguete to Cebu for only $11. With airport taxes and fees, it was still only around $20.

For that price, how can you NOT fly as much as possible? (I flew 64 times total that year!)

8. Subtlety is not a thing
People in Asia are uncomfortably forthright when it comes to sharing their opinion of your shortcomings. There’s really no subtlety, nor is there any consolation for feelings or the possibility that someone may take offense.

“You too fat,”
“You look old man,”
“You have no hair,”
“What is wrong with you?”

These are all things you may hear on a daily basis from friends, coworkers, loved ones, and complete strangers (especially strangers) every day. Of course, they offer full disclosure on the negatives, but become mute when it comes to compliments.

And if you get mad and retaliate by pointing out that they're a midget or only have one eye, they'll just look at you strangely, adding your anger issues to the growing list of your un-flattering traits.

I've learned that this is actually a form of endearment, believe it or not. Families and close friends are often the most critical of each other, and it shows that they care enough to verbally beat you into submission and shatter your self-esteem.

What else are families for?!

9. Almost getting creamed by cars
Pedestrians have no rights in the Third World, and it's up to you to cross the street safely at your own peril. That's also exponentially more difficult because there are far less usable sidewalks, crosswalks, stop signs (they actually don't exist here in the Philippines- just because everyone would ignore them), and stoplights.

Even so, those are suggestions – not something drivers follow to the letter of the law.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that the cars won’t stop – they’ll just run right over you without slowing down. In fact, I’ve heard of bus drivers backing over a pedestrian to finish the job once they’ve hit them since the payout for killing someone is far less than the cost of paying their medical bills for life!

It’s also a wealth/privilege thing, since if you're rich enough to drive a car, then you can basically do whatever you want to lower class people, including hitting them with the car, speeding off, and not thinking twice.

It’s no wonder why traffic fatalities and accidents (often on motorbikes) are the leading cause of death for foreigners in SE Asia and many other countries.

10. Life is full of surprises:
You never know what you're going to run into living abroad in developing countries. The shenanigans I see and experience are often bat shit crazy, or, just as often, remarkable and beautiful. I can't tell you how many times I've thought, "I wish I had a video camera attached to my head right now so that all of my friends and people I know could see this."

Either way, life is definitely full of surprises. Waking up, you never know if you’ll encounter a cockroach as big as a small rat in your shower, a marching band blaring outside your window starting at 5am; a violent political protest or a 100-person spirited dance competition around the next corner; a goat riding on the back of a motorbike or a Bentley rolling down your street; a bathroom that looks like a Turkish prison cell or the most beautiful beach you've ever seen in your life.

Here’s a good example: I have a relatively nice, modern studio apartment in Manila. It’s pretty simple by my standards, but many Filipinos would consider it luxury.

Anyways, the whole idea of electricity and proper wiring is a hazy concept here. Even with appliances manufactured here and with the proper plug and grounding, I never know what might happen when I l plug them in.

Usually, nothing happens and it works just fine. But, sometimes, it sparks and then works. A few times, I plugged it in and the plug exploded, leaving smoke marks all over the outlet and the wall and nearly melted my plug.

I approach each outlet with caution now, plugging the metal prongs into the socket like I'm hand-feeding prime rib to a hungry tiger. But, there's no way to half-ass it – you just have to stick it in, get ready for the fireworks, and hope for the best.

I'm not complaining; I've come to sort of enjoy the adventure of the mundane.

In fact, I think that life would become a little boring if you didn't think there was at least a good chance you might get electrocuted and explode every day.

-Norm :-)

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Your August 2019 Postcard from Norm: The Honest Aeta

8/13/2019

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I came across the story of Grace when her photo and a headline went viral across Facebook here in the Philippines. Working as a custodian at the Clark Airport about 90 miles north of Manila, she came across an envelope while she was mopping the floor nearby in the waiting area of the terminal. Since the envelope was unattended and no passengers were nearby, she picked it up. It was open, and inside she found a stack of hundred-dollar bills in American dollars!

At first, Grace thought it was play money since she’d never seen crisp, new $100 bills. But, just in case, she brought the envelope to her supervisor immediately, who confirmed that it was real money. There was $1,000 in the envelope, but no other writing or information to help locate the passenger it belonged to.

Grace was officially commended for doing the right thing with the money. She could have just as easily pocketed the envelope – almost half a year’s salary for her – and not one single person would have known. (To be honest, I’m less than 100% sure I would have done the same thing!)

What makes her story even more remarkable is that Grace is an Aeta (pronounced "eye-ta"), the native indigenous group here in the Philippines with direct ties to the Aborigines in Australia.

Aetas are noticeable because they don't look like Filipinos but more like Aborigines, with coal-dark skin, tight kinky hair, round black eyes, and even the men are lucky to stand five feet tall. They are totally out of place in modern society yet abandoned and forgotten at the same time: a shadow people.

How the Aetas got to the Philippines still confounds anthropologists. The popular theory is that they came over in hunting parties that migrated across the land bridge extending from Oceania to parts of Southeast Asia. Indigenous tribes with similar characteristics exist along that path, in the Solomon Islands, Fiji, and New Caledonian. Eventually, they walked all the way to the Philippines archipelago through the elongated island of present-day Palawan, around 30,000 years ago.

While that land bridge was covered with rising oceans around 5,000 years ago, the Aetas still inhabit the Philippines. They live in makeshift bamboo huts deep in the jungles or high in the mountains, living off the land.

When the Spanish colonized (invaded) the Philippines in the 1500s, that isolation and tribalism allowed the Aetas to resist rule. They largely kept their own ways (and bloodlines), although the Spaniards did bestow the “negrito” moniker on their race due to their dark skin color.

Aetas used to scar their bodies as a form of art like tattoos, a ceremony where they were wounded and then made to scar with fire or lime. They also would chip away or filing of their teeth when they were teenagers, and then dying them black soon after.

During the Vietnam war, the largest American naval base outside of the U.S. was established in Subic Bay in the Philippines, strategically close to the Aeta village of Pastolan. There, G.I.s learned jungle survival and warfare skills from an Aeta elder named Manifacio De La Junta Florentino.

Still, to this day, Mr. Florentino teaches a jungle survival course (but now, just for fun) outside of Subic. The walls inside his humble abode are decorated with well wishes, letters, and memorabilia from U.S. soldiers, thanking him for teaching them how to stay alive.

By the 1990s, the vast majority of Aeta in the Philippines were living near the base of Mount Pinatubo. So, they were devastated when that volcano erupted in 1991, burying the surrounding countryside in ash and debris, obliterating villages, and killing or displacing possibly tens of thousands of Aetas.

They did return, and many now inhabit the volcanic region again today. But Aetas are also scattered across some of the central and southern region’s jungles and mangrove swamps. Today, it’s estimated that only 15,000 Aeta still exist in the Philippines (in a country of 110 million), although I’m not sure how accurate that number is or how they’d even go about counting. But, I also read that between 10% to 20% of the Philippines has some Aeta blood.

During my quick research before meeting Grace, I was shocked to read that the life expectancy of an Aeta born today is just 16.5 years. Only one-third of all Aeta children live past 15 years (at which point, their average life expectancy rises to 27.3 years). That's hard to believe until you realize that most Aeta are born at home or with the help of a midwife, never see a doctor or take medicine in their lives, have no medical care or proper education at all. They also are subjected to many of the same addictive predispositions and vices that befall Aborigines and Native Americans, cutting short their tragic lives.

The Aeta are traditionally monotheistic – they believe in a supreme being but also lesser deities, and can also be described as animists because they pay homage to various environmental spirits, like those that exist in the rivers, wind, sea, skies, and even inside Mount Pinatubo, “Apo Na.” However, their sense of religion is less than rigid, and they also show influences of American Evangelical Protestant missionaries in the 1960s as well as Jehovah's Witnesses.

From what I've read, any help from the government is largely ceremonial, and Aeta communities still rely on church or private donations.

Sadly, these First People are not even second-class citizens in their own land, as they’ve been largely forgotten and constitute the poorest of the poor here in the Philippines. They mostly live within their own isolated tribal communities, where there are scarce few jobs (Grace told me that the men carve wooden flutes that are sold as souvenirs, earning $1 per flute), opportunities, or chances for a better life.

The Aetas haven’t even received recognition or restitution for their plight by the government, such as the Aborigines or other First People around the world. In 2001, the Philippines government did pass the Indigenous People Development Plan, which awarded them ownership of their homelands – in theory.

But, tellingly, the plan was drafted in English – not the Aeta native tongue or even the national language of the Philippines, signaling that it was mostly just for optics. Their lands have been stolen or raped through logging, slash-and-burn farming, or outright annexation.

Now you know a little bit about the Aetas, and why the story of the forthright airport cleaner who turned in $1,000 in cash spread like wildfire online. Soon, reporters from several popular Philippines shows and newspapers showed up to interview her and snap photos. Dubbed, “The Honest Aeta,” Grace was given a certificate by the president of the airport, and her temporary job made permanent. But she wasn’t given a raise or promotion, and life soon went back to normal for her when the fanfare died down.

That is, until I saw her photo and the headline on Facebook. I was so inspired by her story that I reached out to a local friend, who was able to track her down. We found out that while Grace was happy just to do the right thing and not asking for any recognition, her three kids couldn’t even get to school most days in the rainy season.

In fact, that was a problem for most of the 75 kids that attended this simple school up in the mountains, little more than an open-air concrete shell with no front door, no desks or chairs, and only one ceiling fan. The rainy season meant long walks up muddy roads, treacherous hills, and through flooded fields so, without any rain gear, the little ones often couldn’t make it to school for weeks.

Luckily, through Lifted International, the charity that I helped found along with some great friends, we were able to arrange some funds to buy the rain gear those little Aeta students needed.

On a gray Saturday morning so humid you could almost ring water out of the air like a washcloth, I was instructed to meet Grace and her brother at a Jollibee (the popular fast food chain) in Mabalacat, an industrial town that served as the “other side of the tracks” to the tourist hub of Clark, where she worked at the airport.

Squeezed inside a trike, I breathed exhaust and tried in vain to get my bearings as we sputtered and sped through traffic. Finally, the driver pulled into a Jollibee, allowing me to get out of the trike's sidecar and unfold my legs. But it was the wrong Jollibee’s, I found out after furious Facebook messages back and forth, and there was another one, much further in the depths of the city.

I got back in; we continued on; and soon, we were in parts where I didn’t see one other foreign face for hours. We found the correct Jollibee, and it wasn't hard to spot Grace, as she was standing out front scanning the street so not to miss us. Grace also introduced me to her older sister, Lea, who was accompanying since her brother couldn’t make it. They had been waiting since 7 am (for our 10 am meeting time) since they were so excited and didn't want to be late! More Filipinos should take note of that time management!

Grace and Lea turned out to be the sweetest, nicest people ever, and we had fun joking around, but I also got to hear their story as we drove around. They were effusive in their thanks when I handed them the big bag of personal items, which some local friends donated specifically for Grace’s three kids as a thank you for her honesty. But, in the Filipino tradition, they didn’t open the bag of gifts in front of me since that would be rude.

Next, we were on a mission to find a great discount store that offered all of the things the 75 school children needed. There were four of us now occupying one motorcycle trike, so, with our gangly Filipino driver, Jun, kick-starting the engine, Grace and her sister sat comfortably in the trike’s sidecar, while I was left to ride side saddle hanging off the back of the motorcycle seat behind Jun.

It took us about an hour in traffic, bolting back and forth across town to three different stores like that. All at the same time, I shifted my weight when my limbs lost circulation, ducked down so I wouldn’t bang my head on the metal roof overhead, and tried not to lose a flip flop as they brushed the street below – or get a leg ripped off by a truck that passed too close.

I was relieved when we reached our final destination – a “99.9” Peso store (about $2 USD and our equivalent to a 99 Cent store) deep in the heart of a public market.

We spent the next couple of hours there. Amid gleeful chaos, the sisters navigated up and down the aisles, picking out things the children needed, negotiating five transactions at once with the store’s eager-to-please young staff, who were dispatched to find us 75 white t-shirts, raincoats, umbrellas, and backpacks in various sizes, colors, and with a host of cartoon characters, Disney princesses, or superheroes printed on them.

The store workers looked on in puzzled wonderment, as foreign guests never visited their shop - and certainly not with two Aeta women, each one standing about 4 foot 7 inches at best, overloading carts with supplies.

Once they found out who Grace was and what we were doing, they recognized her instantly since her story had gone viral. Even our driver, Jun, who surrendered the rest of his afternoon to be our personal chauffeur, knew of her.

Soon, it became a community activity, as other visitors to the store wanted to chat, people out on the street stared as we took photos with the Aeta woman, and others stopped to pitch in. When the store ran out of rain boots in kids sizes, the manager made a phone call and a man soon arrived with two massive grain sacks filled with about 100 rubber rain boots, all dumped on the floor in piles so we could go through and get what we needed.

I had set the budget limit to 15,000 Pesos (about $300), but no one seemed to pay attention to me as the workers rushed around to and filled the carts with more and more.

Once the calculator came out, it was the time of reckoning. I was sorry to see that we’d blown past that 15k budget and were up closer to 25k. I chipped in the last Peso I had in my pocket (minus that I had to pay Jun), and we managed to get just about everything (except the white shirts) for less than 19,000 Pesos.

We even took photos with the store workers as we said goodbye, and the manager gave us her number to call ahead next time. The haul was loaded and strapped into a second trike outside.

Grace and Lea invited me to come along and present the things to the school kids. But it was only Saturday, and with a Muslim holiday on Monday, it wouldn’t be Tuesday until the kids got their new rain gear and school supplies, and I’d already be back home to Manila.

But I promised them that we'd all stay in touch and I'd visit next time in the dry season when the roads are passable - with the missing white shirts!

With plenty of hugs and waves, we said goodbye, and I made sure the trike driver would take the two Aeta sisters through Mabacalat and as far up the mountain as his bike would go.

I found out later that he couldn’t go all the way up to their mountain village, so Grace and her sister had to actually start carrying all of those things – including two huge sacks of boots almost as big as they were – straight up the mountain road! Luckily, a couple came along in a sturdy SUV that could handle the incline and offered to drive them the rest of the way.

The crazy thing is that they, too, had heard of Grace, the Honest Aeta!

-Norm :-)

Check out these photos and videos of the kids receiving their new stuff and thanking Lifted International (or, something that sounds close enough!). And if you'd like to make a donation to help these kids, just go to LiftedInt.org.