I stared out of the window of the 747 into a black night sky and wondered for the thousandth time what the next five months would bring. I had always dreamed of visiting my cousin John Holbrook’s project, but now I found myself awash with questions. What would Balangabong be like? Would the Tawbuid people welcome me? Would I enjoy life without electricity and running water? A little over a month later, I am happy to say that I have found a welcoming family in a wonderfully simple village tucked into the foothills of Mindoro’s majestic peaks. I have traded my alarm clock for early-rising roosters, and I enjoy it—most of the time.

The hardest part of my time here thus far has been the language barrier. As I struggle through simple phrases with these beautiful, long-suffering people, I am painfully aware of how dependent I am on John to communicate. Sure, I can say please and thank you. I can even introduce myself, not that I need to, as I am the only tall, white woman in more than a hundred square miles. But I cannot yet convey to the Tawbuid people how beautiful it is to hear their voices float out from the surrounding huts at night, creating a lullaby unparalleled even by Brahms. I can’t yet explain how grateful I am every time they hand me a plate heaped with rice, because it isn’t just a meal, it’s unadulterated generosity from these subsistence farmers. I want so badly to put into words how amazing it is to watch the children play happily without TVs, video games, computers, ipods, or bikes, and how incredible it is to see their ingenious games.

And so today, I committed more time to a Tagalog dictionary. In time, I hope to have the privilege of expressing my gratitude for the richness of perspective and experience I have gained here in Balangabong. But until then, I rely on unspoken thanks.

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