Cross Traffic

While driving into town, I somewhat misjudged my distance and pulled out onto a road in front of an oncoming car. Fortunately, the woman driving the other car had her smartphone up in front of her face and didn’t even notice me.

—Mitchell Hegman

Road Closure

I will admit to being a bit “slow on the uptake,” as the saying goes. Sometimes, I need to be told directly it’s time to go. If someone is trying to explain how to construct something, a sketch or two may be required to drag me fully onboard.

While taking a drive through the mountains yesterday, we found a road closure that must have had people like me in mind. The instant I saw the road, I was pretty certain they didn’t want me driving on it.

I’m sharing a photograph of the road so you can judge for yourself.

Closed Road

—Mitchell Hegman

Three Horses and One Mule

Even though I’ve lived in horse-infatuated Montana my entire life, you’d be surprised how impressive I find the sight of horses (and one mule) frisking about in a pasture with mountains as the backdrop. Desiree, of course, is impressed with elk and horses above most things, both of which have a proud, regal air about them. So yesterday, when three horses and a mule pranced up to a fence line to check us out, we stopped so Desiree could talk to the critters and capture them in a sun-washed portrait.

Three Horses and One Mule

—Mitchell Hegman

The Mighty Mo

The Missouri River is both beautiful and restless.

Most rivers in North America have their directions firmly sorted out. They head south, east, or west with little hesitation. The Missouri, however, begins in the Rocky Mountains at Three Forks, Montana, promptly turns north for a considerable distance, then thinks better of it, swings east across the Great Plains, and finally hooks south to join the Mississippi River on its long journey to the Gulf of Mexico.

The "Mighty Mo," as we sometimes call it, is the longest river in the United States, stretching about 2,341 miles. The river officially begins where the Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin Rivers converge. A drop of water beginning its journey at Three Forks will travel nearly 3,700 miles before it reaches saltwater.

My life has been spent traipsing along the handsome upper reaches of the river, from the headwaters to Great Falls. Yesterday, Desiree and I drove the frontage road along the stretch of river between Ulm and Wolf Creek. It turns out this is her favorite drive in all of Montana. She loves the winding waterway, the mountains marching alongside, the bridges, the towering riverside cliffs drinking from the eddied water, the lavish homes perched on ledges above, and the swirls of birds filling the skies.

We stopped at several places to fill our smartphone cameras with images.

The Open River and Mountains Beyond

Fishermen Amid the Cliffs

—Mitchell Hegman

Taking the Alley

Yesterday, I drove down a long alley just off Broadway Street in Helena. I've always found alleys fascinating. As a kid growing up in East Helena, cutting through them was often my first option as I traveled across town.

Alleys offered the raw and ragged side of life. There you found overflowing and wholly abused garbage cans, old cars with their entrails hanging out, skittish cats, scraps of wood, and all manner of untended spaces where tall weeds could grow.

But treasure might also be found: recyclable bottles, yellow rose bushes overtaking leaning sheds, twisty metal stuff I liked, exotic beer cans for my growing collection, mirrors, and discarded junk I could use or take apart just for fun.

The jungly, narrow alley off Broadway did not disappoint. I negotiated past yellow roses in full bloom, stacks of weathered lumber, a strange bench seat made of wooden slats, leafy places where city deer bed down, one disemboweled truck, and a scattering of fly-away birds.

I'm sharing a photograph of the alley so you might enjoy it along with me. Every alley keeps a few treasures and secrets for those willing to take the long way through town.

The Alley Off Broadway

—Mitchell Hegman

Among the Fallen Giants

The two primary agents for busting down an old conifer forest for recycling and renewal are wildfire and wind. Either of these can be jaw-droppingly violent.

Wildfires are the primary agents at work here. They are ubiquitous and lurid, given the clawing flames and billowing smoke. Some are utterly destructive, leaving nothing but charred bits smoldering in their wake.

But wind can do in moments what takes a fire hours or days. A microburst can leave nothing standing in its swath. Neither trees 20 years old nor 200 years old can withstand such powerful gusts. Whole sections of forest might be uprooted and laid flat to languish and die with root balls exposed, still clutching clumps of earth and stone.

For whatever reason, mathematical or otherwise, the forests all around my cabin have recently suffered a series of devastating windstorms. The property owner adjacent to my cabin had to chainsaw his way in to his place after a storm downed over a dozen huge fir trees several weeks ago. Yesterday, on a drive through the mountains, we encountered hundreds upon many hundreds of giants that were recently ripped from the ground and unceremoniously pitched down. For several miles we crept along, negotiating our way through places where huge trees had been wrenched from the earth and flung down across the road. Somebody had opened the road long before our arrival, but in places there was barely room for us to pass. I’m sharing images of two places where we were forced to squeak through fallen titans.

A Behemoth Tree in the Road

Trees Across the Road

—Mitchell Hegman

Wildlife Just Outside the Window

Desiree and I are staying in Three Forks while I am teaching classes in Bozeman. Our room is rather close to the edge of civilization. I am posting a photograph of the wildlife just outside our window. Several of these critters are eating the heads off the dandelions in the grass.

A Gopher Eating Dandelions

—Mitchell Hegman

Things I love About the Philippines

I love the ringing voices of the half-feral children in provincial Malabugas.

I love the families that bind parent to child, brother to sister, cousin to cousin.

I love the elders receiving the respect they deserve.

I love the soft weight of freshly picked Philippine mangoes.

I love the sting of flavor delivered by a thumb-sized calamansi lime.

I love the city street cats and the curly-tailed dogs commanding the province.

I love the muscular fish, metallic and fresh from the sea.

I love the hum and crawl of the city forty stories below me in my tower.

I love riding tricycles in Bayawan.

I love the sea grasping at, but never claiming, the white sands on the beach.

I love the palm trees.

I love my island wife,

         and her girls

               and

everyone they hold near.

Rain in Malabugas (2024)

Fish at the Market

Catching a Tricycle in Bayawan

—Mitchell Hegman

Venice Grand Canal Mall

The American singer-songwriter Roger Miller famously proposed, in the form of lyrics, “you can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd.” As someone who has seen my share of buffalo herds, I would suggest this is sage advice. Along similar lines, you would not travel to the Philippines to see Venice, Italy, but it’s actually more plausible than the skating thing.

As a point of fact, you can find a small chunk of Venice in Metro Manila.

If you happen to land in the bustle of Taguig’s McKinley Hill, you might bump into the Venice Grand Canal Mall. The mall is a playful, pastel-tinted echo of its Italian namesake. Inside, you’ll find cobblestone paths, arched bridges, and Italian-styled architecture gathered around a winding, aquamarine canal. Here, gondolas drift beneath striped mooring posts while gondoliers occasionally break into song. It is part theme park, part shopping haven, part daydream, where cafés spill out onto the water’s edge and your mind can drift untethered.

It’s Venice.

The day before yesterday, Desiree, I, and her girls spent an afternoon in the mall. We wandered along the canal, nibbled goodies from a few small eateries, stopped in a few shops, and, of all things, Desiree had her feet checked for possible orthotics. I enjoyed the time there. We interacted with several street performers, including one of the stilt walkers, who graced us with a selfie for a modest tip. All enjoyable.

The Canal

Heart, Desiree, and Bea, at a Crane Drop Game

A Stilt-Walker

Selfie (With the Lot of Us Below)

—Mitchell Hegman

Another Offering of Sketchy Wiring

Today I’m sharing photographs of some particularly sketchy wiring found in Manila. The first photograph features a temporary wiring scheme inside an apartment building under remodel. If you look closely, you can see exposed connection points and bare bussing feeding the various circuit breakers, everything open to the touch.

This is entirely “ungood.” We are talking live 220-volt current here, the kind that you likely negotiate with only once.

The following two photographs are drive-by captures Desiree’s daughter provided me. She calls them “post overload.” In the photos, you’ll notice a pair of ladders extended into a rat’s nest of cables and wires, a dense, sometimes looping tangle that continues to grow.

Temporary Wiring

Post Overload

Post Overload

—Mitchell Hegman

My Encounter with the Filipino Medical System

For the last half-dozen years, I’ve battled recurring ear infections, unwelcome little visitors that know my address too well. The last time one showed up, about eight months ago, it brought along something extra: what is essentially athlete’s foot (a fungal infection) in my left ear. 

Welp, it appears that same fungal squatter has returned, setting up house in my left ear a few days ago. I had no choice but to seek out professional help, not something I wished to do while vacationing in a foreign land.

The Filipino health system is not like ours. It largely operates on a cash basis, a kind of pay-as-you-go arrangement where, in the case of more serious medical issues, the burden is often shared across an entire family.

Access, however, depends on where you are. Venture out into the provinces, and finding a doctor or meaningful care can become difficult, sometimes even unlikely. But here in Metro Manila, help is close at hand. In my case, it was as simple as dropping by a clinic tucked inside the mall at Market! Market!, alongside a game arcade and fast-food eateries.

The visit itself required about a half-hour wait and cost 1,000 pesos, roughly $16.66.

The prescription, which included an antibiotic, a painkiller, and anti-itch medication, came to 1,530.50 pesos, or about $25.50.

All told, the experience was efficient, accessible, and surprisingly affordable. I’m going to say that, in this instance, I’m deeply impressed.

My Filipino Prescriptions

—Mitchell Hegman

The Sketchy Side of Manila

The Philippines is still, as a whole, a developing country. And while the area where we are staying (Fort Bonifacio) is quite modern, affluent, and safe, a short drive through the city will deposit you in more dangerous places in Manila proper. You know, places tourists are told to avoid.

Naturally, we went there. Specifically, we went to Divisoria.

In Divisoria, history and commerce tangle together in a kind of permanent motion. The district began in the Spanish colonial era as a literal boundary, a “division” separating the walled city of Intramuros from the communities beyond, where Chinese merchants and local traders built thriving markets. Fed first by river trade and later by the rail lines converging at Tutuban Railway Station, Divisoria grew into a vast commercial engine, one that today draws immense crowds into its narrow streets and packed malls. Within that crush, the variety borders on the absurd: wedding gowns beside plastic pails, toys spilling into walkways, bolts of fabric stacked next to kitchenware and electronics. It is crowded, chaotic, and often overwhelming, yet beneath the noise runs a kind of rough efficiency, a place where bulk deals are struck, small businesses take root, and nearly anything imaginable can be found if you are willing to press into the tide.

Is it really dangerous?

Yes.

Desiree’s oldest daughter, Bianca (Bea), has been working near there for some time. One of her coworkers witnessed the kidnapping of two young girls there (a third escaped). Three other people she knows have had their cell phones snatched.

We went to Divisoria to buy curtains for our bay window. Before going, we stripped off all jewelry. I did not even take my smartphone. As a tourist-looking sort, I might be a target. All I had on my person was my requisite wad of toilet paper (another story). Additionally, Desiree, her daughter Bea, along with her cousin and aunt, made sure someone was always in front of me and behind me any time we had to thread our way through crowded streets and vendor stalls.

Thankfully, nothing extraordinary happened, and I actually enjoyed the adventure. I am sharing a few photographs provided by Desiree and Bea.

A Bustling Street in Divisoria

Fabric and Clothing Vendors

Burning Something Along the Street

 —Mitchell Hegman

The Blind Band

Market! Market! sits just a few minutes away by Grab from where we are staying, a sprawling mall that seems to contain every kind of store imaginable. Just outside it, under a vast canopy, is an adjacent stretch claimed by small vendors, each one adding a note to the low, steady hum of the place.

Concerts and other festivities find their way here as well, the space doubling as a kind of open-air stage.

This is also where you’ll come across the blind band, a group of musicians who play throughout the day, their instruments working on your attention until you realize you’ve stopped to listen.

It’s good stuff. Desiree has a maxim for people like those in the blind band, people doing everything they can to help themselves. She says they are “stretching their bones.”

On a recent visit, I stood in front of them for a while, taking it all in. I had Desiree pass me a few peso bills, which I slipped into the collection box.

There’s a lot here worth admiring.

The Blind Band

—Mitchell Hegman

Follow the Cats

We have two options for trash disposal at the rooms where we are staying in Manila. One option is to catch the tower employee sent to the floor each evening for room-by-room collection. The other option is to drop down to level B5 in the elevator and find the trash bins for yourself.

B5, it turns out, is an amazing place.

Before we drop down to B5, though, let’s talk about the street cats in Manila. The city is filled with them. They are all skinny, sometimes a little battered, and living by their wits along the busy boulevards and side streets.

I bring up the cats because the first time Heart, Desiree’s daughter, and I tried to find the trash bins in the B5 basement, we got lost. It is a vast, mind-bogglingly bright and spotless parking garage, one of the cleanest places I have seen anywhere in this island country. After failing to locate the bins, we took the elevator back up to our room, trash still in hand. On a subsequent elevator ride to the ground floor, I bumped into a pair of tower employees who told me about the far corner of B5 where we could find the elusive bins. At the end of the conversation, one of them quipped, “Just follow the cats.”

I’m sharing photographs from our second, successful venture to B5, along with a typical street cat.

Lost in the B5 Parking Garage

The B5 Parking Garage

A B5 Basement Cat Near the Bins

A Typical Street Cat

—Mitchell Hegman

See-Through Money

One of the small curiosities I’ve encountered here in the Philippines is the money, which is valued in terms of the Filipino peso. At present, our U.S. dollar is worth something near 60 pesos. The curious thing is the manner in which some of the peso bills are produced: they are partially see-through.

The first time I noticed it, I thought it was a trick of the light. I could plainly see my fingers through the bill. You turn the bill slightly in your hand, expecting the effect to disappear, but there it is: a clear window built right into the note.

These bills are not paper in the way I’ve always understood paper money. They are made from a thin polymer, a kind of flexible plastic that gives them a slightly slick, almost waxy feel. They don’t crumple quite the same way. They don’t seem to mind a bit of moisture— a practical approach in a place where sudden rain showers appear out of nowhere and humidity hangs permanently in the air.

The transparent window, it turns out, is not merely a novelty. It is a defense. It can hold detailed designs and security features that are difficult to reproduce, making counterfeiting far more challenging.

There are other advantages as well. These polymer notes last longer than traditional paper bills. They resist dirt and wear, and they don’t absorb whatever happens to be on your hands at the moment you pass them along. Given how many hands a single bill might travel through a wet market in a day, this too feels like a thoughtful adjustment.

A 1000 Peso Bill

—Mitchell Hegman

Lost in Translation

Desiree purchased a small bamboo cutting board for use in the kitchen in the place where we are staying in Manila. The board, of Chinese manufacture, looks to be well made, but something has been lost in the English translation of the printed information that came with it.

The English text is filled with misspellings and does not exactly make sense to me. The text reads exactly as follows: “High quality bamboo, spccial artwork, natural green, envirenmental protection and sanitation penple need bamboo ror inhabiatancy under the circumstance eating without meat.”

I gave this sentence to AI and asked for a possible translation. This was the answer:

“This sentence reads like it went through a linguistic blender on ‘optimistic mode.’ Let’s decode the intention hiding inside it.

Original:

‘High quality bamboo, spccial artwork, natural green, envirenmental protection and sanitation penple need bamboo ror inhabiatancy under the circumstance eating without meat’

What they’re trying to say (cleaned up):

‘Made from high-quality bamboo with special craftsmanship. Natural, eco-friendly, and hygienic. Bamboo products are ideal for a healthy, sustainable lifestyle, especially for people who prefer a plant-based diet.’”

Apparently, the original message took the scenic route through the English language on the way to me, but it got where it needed to go eventually, with a nudge from other sources.

A Photo of the Cutting Board

—Mitchell Hegman

My Buddy Ashwin

Today, I’m sharing a photograph of Ashwin, also known as Win-Win. Ashwin is the provincial Filipino version of a 15-year-old boy. He is also Desiree’s nephew. I’ve been hanging out with Ashwin for the last two weeks, but yesterday he flew back home to his province.

I’m going to miss him. He’s a bit goofy at times, but Ashwin’s a really good kid. He’s respectful, pretty good with English, and not afraid to laugh at himself. You can’t ask for much more than that if you’re an old guy from Montana visiting the islands and looking for pleasant company.

I hope to see you again soon, buddy!

Hanging Out with Win-Win

—Mitchell Hegman

The Wet Market

At the top of my list for adventure when I’m in the Philippines (any Asian country, really) is wandering through a wet market. The inputs feeding into you there can be overwhelming at first.

First and foremost, the great discordance of sound created by the market as a whole feels less like something heard and more like something encountered, closer to a wall than anything else. Once you step inside, everything arrives in a rush: hundreds of voices talking at once, knives and cleavers thwacking cutting boards, cubed ice pouring into bins, the bustle of traffic still reaching in from the streets.

Visually, it’s no gentler. Displays rise vertically and stretch horizontally, each one asking for your attention. I’m drawn to the fruits and vegetables, bright and varied, many of them unfamiliar to those of us confined to the Rocky Mountains. The fish and meat section can be more challenging for anyone accustomed to thinking of chickens, fish, and four-legged animals as things that begin and end in tidy packaging. Here, their parts hang in displays like trinkets on a macabre charm bracelet. Fish are stacked into shining heaps. Everything is being reduced, piece by piece, as you watch.

And the scents refuse to settle. They shift and layer as you move along, never letting you land on any one thing for long. Fruits and vegetables offer sweetness and earth, while the meat and fish press in with something heavier. You are reminded of damp stone, of overturned soil.

Given all of this, I love the wet markets. This is honest stuff. Life without the courtesy of packaging.

Vegetables

Fish on Display

Fish Up Close

—Mitchell Hegman

A Post for Alan

This post is for my friend Alan Bouchard. Having worked on the communication/data side of the electrical industry, I suspect he’ll take a particular interest in the street wiring photographs I’m sharing today. As it happens, these feature some of the more orderly examples here in Metro Manila.

These pictures are what I’ve come to call “drive-by shootings,” quick attempts to catch a moment through the window of a moving car as we slip from one part of the city to another in a Grab ride. The results are not always perfectly framed, but they tend to be authentic.

In time, I’ll try to share a few captures of what I consider the more… improvisational work in the outlying neighborhoods as the opportunities present themselves.

Street Wiring

Street Wiring

—Mitchell Hegman

The Durian Thing

If you glance at the first photograph I’ve posted today, you’ll see, in the foreground, some large spiky-looking fruit. That’s durian. If you are unfamiliar, durian is the train-wreck of fruit in the tropics. This is due to the horrendous, off-putting scent emitted from the fruit once it is sliced open.

Travel and food writer Richard Sterling states that "its odor is best described as pig-excrement, turpentine, and onions, garnished with a gym sock."

Interestingly enough, the smell is only the opening act, a kind of olfactory toll you must pay before marching in for a taste. Once cut open, the flesh inside is soft and custard-like, with a flavor that seems to argue with itself: sweet, savory, faintly nutty, and somehow reminiscent of things that ought not belong in fruit at all. Some swear by it, speaking of durian with something near unwavering loyalty. Others recoil at first encounter and never quite recover. Here in the Philippines, though, it is treated not as a novelty but as a matter of fact—another offering from the tropics, equal parts challenge and reward, waiting patiently for you to decide which side of the argument you fall on. 

I tried durian while in Vietnam in 2009 and tried it again here in the Philippines recently. I would describe the flavor as sweet at the start, with a weird, chemical, industrial-cleaning-agent finish. The smell is such that many establishments in Vietnam would not allow you to bring it inside. I don’t wholly object to durian, but it is not a favorite by any measure.

Durian on Display (and Desiree)

Open Durian Fruit (Wikipedia)

—Mitchell Hegman