Photos & Words

The global financial crisis seem to have had a lower impact in South Asia or South East Asia where countries were growing. The Philippines have not been immune from the recession in two ways: reduced economic expansion and incomes for people at home and reduced remittances from overseas where the many Filipinos work and had their jobs threatened by the crisis.

One example is of Filipinos who work in the Middle East employed as home staff or in hotels and resorts.  These jobs have also been threatened by the recession as the number of tourists diminished. What this means is that many Filipino working in the Middle East have been made redundant and were facing therefore the prospect of having to return home.

The led their families back home to start a reverse remittance flow as they started to send money to their relatives overseas and allow them to look for a new job as the economy recovers and jobs become available again.

Many of the Filipino workers have been living overseas for long time. I remember a flight from Hong Kong to Manila sitting next to a Filipino couple with three kids and all of them talking Italian to each other. The links with families back home is the safety net against difficult times. The link serves also as safety net to be used to cope with difficult times overseas and not to loose the possibility of finding a better paid work there.

There was a man in his early forties who liked to run . Running was very important for him and he loved it. He often joked with his friends that if one day he would not be able to run anymore he would then probably die. He used to run alone. Partly because he travelled a lot of for work , partly because he had just relocated in a new country and did make the step to search for a runners’ club yet.

Now and then while running he would think how nice it would be to run with a group of  friends.  Speak about the day. Gossiping a a bit about others. Testing our fitness by increasing the pace in the last kilometer or so. Then go back home with a nice feeling of tiredness. He would think about this but he would continue to procrastinate and not go to enquiry about running clubs in the new town where he had just moved with his family.

In the end, he thought, it is nice also to run alone. That one hour or so, every second day was really his time, only his. He used to feel a pang of guilt by going for his runs when the kids where small and leave his wife alone with them. For many years he would rush his last kilometers and stop at six, even though he would have wished to run eight.

This feeling of guilt would of course not emerge in his runs while overseas for work. he would then go to the usual track in Van Phuc in Hanoi, Orchid bay in Dar es Salaam, or in London from Waterloo along South bank, to the Tate Modern, across the Thames on the Millennium bridge and turn back just in front of St Paul.

These runs were also the time for thoughts and ideas. It had happened in the past that while running he would come up with the right title for an article. The right  incipit of a chapter of a book. The correct adjective to define the emotion and mood of a one character in a book.

Lately, however, he found himself thinking about something he felt he had to say to his wife but could not pun into words. He felt an anxiety that came form nowhere and that he could not translate into words.  Not even running, which had helped him with his books and writings seemed to work. He would find himself immersed in several conversations at the same time but too fast to be put into words. there were more emotional conversations with himself. Yes he felt that he owed an explanation, but could not find the way to start or the right word.

One evening, the track and field was quite empty due to the rain in the afternoon. The track had few potholes and small frogs jumped here and there between the white lines on the red surface of the track.  At one point he seemed to get it: ‘Yes, know I know what is going on.’ and for some seconds he felt a new energy in his legs driven by a sense of relief. he had found the right words, a story made of feelings and emotions which flowed almost logically in his mind. he had planned a 8k run, but cut it short to 6k in order not too loose his words. Jumped on the bicycle and rode back home. Reached the intersection near his house. Saw the  outdoor lights on. Lights in the living room. Opened the gate and head the voice of one of his daughters: ‘Papa’ is back’. Then the front door opened and  she ran out to hug him. She hugged him as strongly as she could and he did the same. The he stood up. Took her on his lap and entered the house. Looked around and heard that his wife and their other daughters were in the shower. They had all already eaten. His daughter asked him if she could watch TV, to which he said yes. He then sat  at the table to have his dinner. He looked into the various pots and took some rice on his plate. His wife came into the room. their other daughters sat also in front of the TV. ‘How was your run?’ He looked at her but did not feel anymore that certainty that was with him until the gate. The words which were so clear in his minds until few minutes earlier had disappeared in that inexplicable flow of emotions which was within him and which he did not know where did it come from.

My name is Abioseh. I was born in Gboko, Nigeria, in 2001.  My father was a pastor in a local church. My mother was working in a laundry shop part time as she had also to take care of me and my four brothers and sisters. If I look back at my childhood I remember that we lived always in the same house next to the church where my father worked.  My memories are mainly linked to my mother taking care of us by an assigning after school various chores to me and my sister who were the eldest. Fetch water from the well. Sweep the front  go the house up to the road. Fetch the meat and vegetable at the market.

I had a dream back then and remember the day I decided to become a pilot.  I was playing football with my friends in the dusty field behind the church. The usual late afternoon match just before the sunset.  I remember seeing often planes flying high above our town and leaving behind a long white tail that would  then disappear into the blue of the sky.  But that one day something changed. I heard the faint noise of the plane then saw the small silver dot flying high above us and stop playing. For a moment I found myself in an own world where the soccer field, the friends and their shouts and screams were blurred. I looked up and knew that I was to become a pilot. I just knew it.

Some years later my father received an invitation from a church in England to attend a one month retreat on the art and meaning of the communication with God. As the seminar was quite long the organizers allowed him to bring also his family. That would be my first flight somewhere though by then I had memorized  airplanes models. I knew the differences of the Airbus A340 series. I knew by heart how many passengers could fit in a A380.

We flew to London via Frankfurt and I was so happy that my first flight has a stop over and would actually be made of two flights. I remember landing at Heathrow and the plane slowly taxiing to the assigned gate. I was looking outside the windows and would shout to my father, who was sitting on on the other side of the aisle: ‘Look Baba, a Qantas A380!’. ‘Baba a British Airways 747 is being pulled to an hangar, it is huge!’ . Look Baba, the A340 of South African Airlines is being pulled back and a man is walking next to it with headphones and and a long cable attached to the fuselage to communicate with the cockpit!’.

When our plane reached the gate passengers stood up to get their bags and things from the overhead lockers. I stood up as well holding the cartoon box wit the helicopters model which my father bought me at Frankfurt. It felt the most precious things in the world to me.

We were the last to leave the plane with all our hand luggage and my father giving instructions to all of us including my mother. I went first. I remember that when we reached the entrance of the plane  I saw that the cockpit door was open and the captain was standing in front of it. For few seconds I could glimpse behind him the mosaic of lights, indicators and instruments.  All of a sudden, I heard his voice asking me: ‘Do you want to have a closer look?’. I could not believe what I heard. Turned to my father who smiled to me and made a sign with his head to go ahead. I entered the cockpit as I would enter a sacred place. The captain started to explain the function of some instruments but I could hardly hear his voice. This all lasted just few minutes. I then asked if I could take a picture and the captain said ’Sure, go ahead’.

And here I ma sitting in this room looking at the wall the picture that my father took of me and the captain in the cockpit of my second flight. It is hanging in a simple wooden frame which has lost its brown color with the years. I look very proud. I am older now but can recognize the same expression in my eyes and the same smile. Those have not changed.

‘Baba, I am a pilot now. It is a pity you did not live long enough to see it but you knew I had a dream and always helped me with that. That why I am thankful to you’. I whisper these words to the picture as well as to to myself. Hearing my voice makes me I stand up. I look at myself in the picture for few seconds and then walk towards the door to join the family and relatives who have come for the ceremony. I entered this room not knowing what I would say in my good bye speech. Now I know. So I open the door and join the others.