Once I published my first post (and received comments in a matter of minutes), I realized the power of connecting instantly to people through my writing.  In the two years I lived in Korea, this blog has been both an anchor to and expression of my creativity, and a continual link to my friends and family at home and around the world.

Thank you to all of you who read my posts and scrolled through my photos, whether it was once or every time I published.  Your views and comments inspired my to continue writing even during times when my Korea routine and teaching schedule felt stagnant.  The novelty of receiving instant feedback from both friends and strangers has never worn off; I still get excited when a new comment appears after I’ve stayed up way to late (again!) to publish a post.

I am writing this from Delhi, and tomorrow night will board a train to Rajasthan.  I hope you’ll join me at my brand-new blog, Free Bird, where I’ll be sharing words, images and video clips to document my 15-week journey through India, Indonesia, and Cambodia.

Korea: Thank you for two years of writing and photographic inspiration!

With Love,

Coco xo

]]> http://cocobusan.wordpress.com/2012/03/05/post-100-goodbye-coco-busan-hello-free-bird/feed/ 5 cocobusan IMG_5717 http://cocobusan.wordpress.com/2012/03/02/kindergarten-goodbye/ http://cocobusan.wordpress.com/2012/03/02/kindergarten-goodbye/#comments Fri, 02 Mar 2012 13:47:42 +0000 Courtney Tait http://cocobusan.wordpress.com/?p=3152 Continue reading →]]> Last weekend, my students graduated kindergarten–a two-hour ceremony that featured caps and gowns, song and dance acts, and a re-imagined version of The Blind Men and the Elephant, for which I constructed a miniature elephant from cardboard, felt, and packing tape–the same tape I used to seal up the three boxes I shipped home to Canada.

This week, while I begin my travels through India, my students will begin Grade 1 and the start of a long road through Korea’s education system: days in public school, afternoons in hagwons, and evenings spent studying, often until they sleep.

I want to give them backyards to run around in and afternoons off and free time with their friends.  I want to give them a school life that inspires them to form their own ideas about themselves and the world.  I want their little spirits to to thrive and grow and create.  Have fun, I told them, kneeling down to hug each one in our last moment together.  I will miss you.

They have graduated kindergarten, but in my mind they’ll be six years old forever, lined up in coats and boots, handing me colour-paper cards that say Goodbye Courtney Teacher.  I love you.  Please don’t forget me.

I won’t forget you.

xo

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ps–I am writing this from Delhi.

Up next: Post #100 on Coco Busan (last one!) with the link to my new blog…

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of the people I’ll miss.

Above: Shane and Rose, Kent and Amanda, Sam and Jesse, Johnathan, Wooram, Jin, Haven and Ina, Gina, Tabitha, Amanda and Kyle. (Joe, too–but he’s coming with me.)

There are many more whose presence I will remember when I look back on the chapter of life I spent in Korea. (Hello to my original Busan Crew: Ashley and Jason, Leah, Bryan, and Dianna.  Also: Wonseop, Adi, Branden, Ashley, Kendra, Hena, Paul, Becky, Stephanie, Peter in Seoul, and all my co-teachers…)

Korea–you’ve blessed me with two years of new friendships.

Thank you. xx

In any case, here it is, the last Philippines post, a gallery of images from our final day on Siquijor, which included a minor motorcycle accident, of which the photographic evidence of my wrist wound seems to have disappeared from the files…but never mind.  You’d probably rather stick to perusing butterfly wings and coconut-shell sculptures of birds and water cascading over rocks while Filipino boys dangle off rope swings and palms frame the sky’s blue in a gorgeous window of paradise…right?

ps. Did I mention I leave Korea forever in NINE days?  That I’m flying to Delhi with Joe on March 1st, and embarking on a 15-week journey through India, Indonesia, and Cambodia?  It’s true.  Which means there are approximately three posts only left to be written on Coco Busan.  I hope you’ll follow to the end, the full storyline, which will pivot back to Korea, touch on my two-year experience here, include some parting thoughts, and introduce you to my BRAND-NEW blog documenting our upcoming journey.

See you soon…

xo ~Coco

(Click on an image to view the album in a photo carousel–much better that way. * means photo by Joe.)

Not destined for the mountain this trip, we’ll never know…

But, witchcraft or not, with its winding coastal road (sometimes paved, sometimes not), kids waving and shouting hello from dilapidated wooden porches, hunched one-horse farmers plowing their land in the late heat, gardens blooming with recycled plastic bottles lined up along metal fences–rendered beautiful as planters for the local flora–ancient, red-roofed churches, and everywhere, palm trees, climbing up into the warm blue air and coaxing your senses to expand, release, receive, relax—this island heals.

Our Siquijor home, Islanders Paradise Beach Resort, is located on the island’s northern tip, Sandugan Point.  After a lazy first day that started with omelettes, proceeded to a slow beach walk, carried on with an afternoon beverage and massage at the next-door Kiwi Dive Resort, and ended with a sunset, hammock, and sleep to the waves, we decided that day two would consist of exploring more of the island.

By motorbike, of course…

With a well-worn tourist map one of the Islanders’ staff rummaged out of a pile of books, a couple ill-fitting helmets, and our cameras, we took off, following the coastal road south through tiny villages with tidy, run-down homes and cows and pigs the size of cows and gas stations selling diesel out of coke bottles and chickens strolling along the concrete, through Larena and on to the island’s capital, named–no surprise–Siquijor.

Five towns are scattered along the perimeter of the island: Larena, Siquijor, San Juan, Lazi, and Maria.  Most populated is Siquijor, where we stopped for a bike break and a wander through the main streets.

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As in the rest of the country, tricycles dominated the roads…

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And the town’s church took center stage…

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Along with its bell tower.

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From Siquijor town we rode on, stopping for lunch (coconut rice and steamed veggies for me–fresh fish for Joe) and a beach stroll at Villa Marmarine…

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and then to a tiny, secret beach we discovered next to the more popular Paliton Beach, in the middle of the east coast, where we floated in the clear, warm water, seaweed brushing our feet, and after, from the shore, watched a small crew of local fisherman carry their canoes into the sea…

and take off on the green waters.

I think this beach was the most idyllic place we found in the Philippines.

Sky, sand, palms, water, sun, quiet, and some sort of mango-like fruit the fishermen gave us…

confirmed my belief that islands–small and sometimes poor, but plentiful in trees, air, water, sand and pure, genuine joy–can heal. They heal us from schedules. They heal us from cell phones and laptop screens and sidewalks and car exhaust.  They dispel pressure and worry, sore throats and congested minds.  I want an island in my soul, to keep with me, to ride a mental motorcycle to on days when the city/future/past/to-do list/compression of time is tying knots in the tops of my shoulders.  An island to ride to before I sleep and maybe, every now and then, when I wake.  Or maybe I’ll just look back at these words and photos and remember.

(*** means photo by Joe)

Next Up: Butterflies and Waterfalls…

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goes a long way.

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(***means photo by Joe)

(More to come.)

But teaching elementary-aged curriculum for the last two years has brought discussion of animals into my weekly sphere.  Just this month my grade ones finished units on “Animal Survival” and “How Animals Bathe”, the latter featuring a story called “Splish, Splash, Animal Bath” that showed pictures of giraffes in the wild, pecked clean by flocks of birds called oxpeckers, who perch on the giraffe’s back and eat bugs found in their fur.  During these kind of lessons the kids practice their reading aloud while I marvel at the photos, noting the relationship between bird and giraffe, bear and tree, ape and ape.  My friend Josh has built a career capturing video and photos of animals in the wild, travelling to places like the Galapagos Islands to find species that exist nowhere else on earth.  I think of him crouched on the shores there, zooming in on creatures I’ve never heard of, and turn the page of my grade ones’ textbook, next describing an animal called the okapi–related to the giraffe but striped like a zebra (am I the only one who didn’t know  this creature existed?)–and feel like I’m missing out on something pretty big.

I want to be closer to animals.

I refuse to visit or support an institution that exploits animals for human entertainment.  But in researching the various kinds of conservation-focused places that provide safe, natural habitats for endangered species, protecting them and educating people, I’ve realized it’s possible to see some of these creatures without detracting from their lives.

The Tarsier Sanctuary in Bohol, Philippines is one of these places. Shy, nocturnal, and looking a little like a gremlin, the tarsier is the world’s smallest primate.  (Who knew?) Looking at photos online prior to our visit, I couldn’t decide if it was cute or kinda freaky looking, but I was definitely intrigued.  The Philippines tarsier is endangered due to forest destruction and hunting (apparently the capture and sale of tarsiers to be used as house pets used to be a thriving industry) and the sanctuary is home to ten of them.  Joe and I took a tricycle ride there from Loboc, and were able to spot five tarsiers with the help of our guide.  The whole tour was only about ten minutes long, and our hoped-for jungle hike following it was prevented by rainy weather which had forced the jungle path’s closure, but seeing the tarsiers up close was still worth the trip.

Did I mention each of their eyeballs is as big as their brain?

Entry into the tarsier's forest...(Joe's photo)

So shy

Mom and baby

They're so tiny

Taking a break...from naptime

This was Loboc.

(Click on a photo to enlarge and view in a carousel…it’s better that way.)

(* means the photo was taken by Joe)

But I want to tell you about the jeepney ride to Barangay Valladolid, and the Cathedral square lit up with white lights, and show you the Loboc River, and our jungle hut…

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The air in Tagbilaran was warm and dark when the boat to Bohol docked.  Men rushed toward us as we walked from the long port exit into a parking lot, calling out, “Where are you going? Where are you going?  Where are you . . .” We’d been instructed by the staff of Nipa Hut Village to catch a tricycle from the port to a jeepney pick-up point called Island City Mall, then ride a jeepney for an hour to a town called Loboc, getting off at a village called Barangay Valladolid.  A man would be waiting with a motorbike to drive us to the huts.

A tricycle–one of the most common forms of transport in the Philippines–is a motorcycle with a ceilinged sidecar and a third wheel.  The bench accommodates two, but another seat is attached to the back and one or two people can share the driver’s seat, and with laps put to use the whole contraption can carry five or six, the motor chugging up hills, crosses and little plastic Jesus’ or Mary’s hanging off the mirror along for the ride.

First of many tricycle rides

The jeepney pick-up was chaotic and crowded.  Our destination, it turned out, wasn’t one a jeepney was headed to, at least not this night, which was Christmas night and appeared to have altered routes and times. A light rain began to fall as we piled into the back of another jeepney going to the Plaza Cathedral, told by a man we could transfer there to one heading our direction.  Hands tapped on my back as we waited to pull out calling ma’am, ma’am, Merry Christmas, palms ready to open.

The jeepney took us elsewhere, Plaza Central, where none of the tricycle or jeepney drivers we asked seemed to recognize the words Barangay Valladolid.  We asked one and suddenly ten would crowd around, shaking their heads, pointing, talking to each other, then eventually wandering off.  At last a tricycle driver told us we needed to be at Plaza Cathedral, drove us there, convinced a jeepney driver with a full load of passengers to extend his route and take us to the outskirts of Loboc, where Barangay Valladolid would be.  Across from the cathedral white lights lit up a square, dangling from trees, people jostling through the pathways, jeepneys honking up and down the street.  We sat with the driver up front, waiting.  Would someone with a motorbike really be waiting at Valladolid?  The journey was taking twice as long as we’d predicted, the time we’d said we’d arrive creeping closer.

We took off, the stick shift swiping my thigh, the driver, a short, round man with wavy hair, dropping his cigarette out the window.  The engine rattled as we drove, climbing out of the city, stopping once for gas, a boy, maybe ten years old, hopping down from the jeepney’s bumper to the station and back, then swinging the bottle of gas to the driver, who set it down by his feet.  “Your son?” Joe asked him.  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “My son.”

The jeepney wound out of the city and onto the main road; there would be no further turns.  One long road and the night, maybe fifteen passengers in back, two young girls on their mom’s lap directly behind our heads.  I rearranged my legs to avoid the stick shift, my bag somewhere on the roof, Joe’s pack between his legs, the engine chugging loudly.  People hopped off at unmarked stops, one or two at a time, until only us and one other man remained, close to an hour gone.  At last we pulled over, one of the signs to our left reading “Nipa Hut Village” with an arrow pointing down a wide gravel path.  No one was there.  “This is your stop,” the driver said, as we tried to explain there should be someone waiting.  He shrugged, already on the road late on Christmas night, driving foreigners to a destination off his regular route.  We sat like that a couple minutes, not wanting to get out with no one around, unsure how far the huts would be to walk.

And then two men, only one visible at first, then the other, pulled up alongside the path; the driver called out, they nodded.  They were there to pick us up.  Sitting on the back of the bike I wedged my duffel bag between my chest and the driver’s back and gripped the metal handle behind me, saying “Slow, please,” cursing myself for not bringing the backpack my friend Amanda had offered to lend me for the trip.  We rode, Joe and his driver behind, passing through Barangay after Barangay, which, we would learn, was the Filippino term for village. The Loboc River was beside us but I couldn’t see it in the dark, my mind focused on the speed of the bike and the grip of my fingers, a small gasp emerging every time we hit a bump.  Ten minutes later, we arrived.

Nipa Hut Village in daylight

Home for two nights

Inside with the mosquito net up

Our jungle hut bathroom

Loboc River

Pics of Loboc coming soon… xo