A fresh start

Learning a new language and adapting to a new culture requires peaceful resignation and a sense of humour

By Danny Gillis
June 2007

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A fresh start. That’s how I looked upon my arrival in the tribal village of Opis. Into my seventh month in the Philippines, I was firmly in the grip of culture shock. Oh, I told myself it wouldn’t happen to me. I steeled myself against dire predictions I’d heard in my orientation program. But sure enough, I had it. The symptoms were classic: frustration with language study, lonesomeness, irritability, craving for things Canadian.

But this was a fresh start. Opis was a village inhabited by an indigenous people called the Manobo. Before, I’d been in a busy city. Now, I was looking at 20 or so huts nestled between lofty green ridges. As Fr. Charlie Gervais and I settled into our lodgings, the neighbours came to say hello. Our rickety balcony-on-stilts overflowed with happy visitors. Well into the evening we sat up chatting and getting acquainted. Two Manobo women sang and played their native instruments. Fr. Charlie countered with a few tunes on his harmonica. Between selections he’d crack jokes and tell stories. I went to bed feeling confident that, in this idyllic little community, even I could beat culture shock.

At sun-up I awoke to the sound of Fr. Charlie splitting kindling. I trundled downstairs, poured water into a tub and rinsed the sleep from my eyes. As I was brushing my teeth, our first visitor of the day arrived. His name was Armando. I remembered meeting him the night before. I waved with my free hand and continued brushing. Armando sat down and waited for me to finish.

“Makasambeyan ku ka salindron, Dan?” he asked in Manobo, as I laid down my toothbrush.

“He wants to borrow something,” I thought, “but what’s a salindron?”

“Salindron,” Armando repeated and seeing my incomprehension, made a back-and-forth hand movement in front of his mouth.

I glanced at my toothbrush, my heart sinking quickly. I’d heard from Fr. Charlie that the Manobo were a communal people. With them, sharing was a way of life. Now, how was I to fit into this culture? With shock or peaceful resignation?

I slowly picked up my only toothbrush and held it out to Armando. For a second he knitted his brow, then he burst out laughing. He had a loud laugh. A few people, including Fr. Gervais, came in from outside, and Armando, gasping for breath, tried to tell what had happened. They all hooted. I was taking the brunt of a cruel joke and no one cared the least. Charlie brushed past me, giggling with glee.

As I stood there in my shabby shorts, bare feet on the earthen floor, dumbly holding my toothbrush in front of me, I felt a familiar surge. Culture shock was taking hold.

Charlie walked past again, still giggling. He held something in his hand; what, I didn’t care.

“This,” said Charlie, “is a salindron,” and wiping the tears from his eyes, handed Armando his harmonica.

Danny Gillis spent another two years in the Philippines among the Manobo people. He now works with the Coady International Institute in his hometown of Antigonish, Nova Scotia.

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