"My precious Kamote" (to the tune of "Precious Cheesburger- by Larry the Cucumber)

A very wise woman once told me, her name probably ended in Austin, that to be a writer one must write. I’m sure it came from a greater person who took their own advice to heart before they died, I’m sure that greater person even had a name which is somewhere in my brain but in this instance the character of the author could not diminish the soundness of the advice. So I write.I have not missed a Sunday afternoon Frisbee game since I arrived and though the girls were skipping out on me and heavy clouds rolled in from the west my commitment was not to be dissuaded.I supposed none of the games regulars would be braving the weather either- though there was nothing presently I could more wish for then a muddy field and a flying disc – I did not expect such excitement from my companions. That realization was of very little consequence; I was hungry enough for both rain and adventure that nothing could damper my happy feet from sloshing out through the river rising in the street. BUT, before my happy feet could skip out the door I was accosted by a damsel in distress! (Ok she probably never had a “distressed” day in her life, but Lois was in DIRE need of my services Tonight was our celebration of Canadian thanksgiving and WHAT thanksgiving dinner was complete without sweet potatoes? Unthinkable- so it was up to me to brave the storm and return safely and timely with the precious “kamote” (as they are so called in Bissya.) I didn’t let another moment hold me to dryness- so with nothing but my slippers on my feet and my wallet in its pouch over my shoulder- I entered the dominion of the grey sky. I proceeded up stream. Grinning at many wide eyed Filipinos who were hiding under their tin roofs I made use of my 20 words of Bissya vocab to assert the whereabouts of these “kamote’s.” Of the 20 words I can use in Bissya, one of them proved to be moderately related to and remotely relevant to my search- you guessed it, that word is “kamote.” Strangely as much as I smiled, spoke assertively and motioned a fabricated potato between my hands people were having a really hard time understanding what I was looking for. Possibly my dishevelled appearance and apparent joy at walking uncovered in the rain were a source of their confusion? It didn’t damper me too much- I just kept exploring and talking to strangers. The rain pounded heavier and some streets rushed water to my calves- walking was getting awkward and my slippers proved their boat like qualities more than once but my grin was nowhere near extinguishable. I finally decided that the local neighbourhood had defeated me and I would have to make my way to the Agdao market.Time from the acceptance of this plan in my mind to the next colourful Tricicab floating down the street was surprisingly short. With the driver I got to use a bit more vocab and as usual he used the opportunity to rattle on in Bissya for awhile. My nervous laughter at his questions prompted the question “how long in Davao?” which I could answer- he assured me that very soon I would speak Bissya perfectly  The market is open but also covered. As I ducked under the spouts of rain into the myriad of little stalls a wave of water on the tin roof made gave the impression that I was shopping below a waterfall! I wove between people, peanuts and pigs heads using my former smiles and signals to stir fingers in the direction of my intended purchase. The keepers of vegetable stalls passed by did not seem to readily understand that I needed ONLY “kamote.”Aha! Victory at last; across another watery street and beside the live poultry my little kamote’s were waiting for me. Two kilos and 30 peso’s later they were swinging in pretty pink “cellophane” from my tricicab bound fingers. The tricicab driver and other passengers were relieved when I assured them they need not try to “float” down my street and deliver me to my door- I hopped out and rummaged for a soaked 20 peso bill- waited for change and then waded home. I passed a couple making use of a spout beside their stilted house for a quick soap down, I suppose I have no right to be jealous of their circumstance but their shower system appeals to me a lot. Entering at the back to prevent slippery floors led me straight into the kitchen and my kamote’s into the hands of a no longer distressed damsel. Mission accomplished! Somewhere along the journey I decided that if I was ever to have an Indian style name which did not, literally translated, mean “loved by God” it would certainly mean “She who walks in the rain.” Of course it seems to me now that those phrases are almost interchangeable.