Footprint
This article is dedicated to my host family, the Gacitas, who treated me as one of their own during my stay in the Philippines. Also, special thanks to my Toastmaster buddies for their invaluable inputs on this article.
Have you ever wondered what traces you left in the places you visited? And what traces they left on you?
Whenever I think about the summer of 2015, these questions linger in my head, as well as the evergreen island, its calming waves, hospitable people, and serenity of life.
It was the summer before my senior year in college. While everyone had found something to do, I still had no clue what my plan was after graduation. Worried about being left behind, I enrolled in a summer course as a last resort.
It was a new, first-of-its-kind experiential learning course taking place in the Philippines. The whole class would travel to a small island called Guimaras, and spend three weeks there living with local families and working with local businesses.
We left for the Philippines on a red-eye flight. When a rosy hue seeped into the sky, we landed in Iloilo city. At the pier, I saw Guimaras for the first time. It was an indistinct green line between the blue of sky and sea. Vast white clouds fell onto it like a magnificent snow mountain. Ferries, spreading their outriggers like birds spreading their wings, were gliding gracefully towards the horizon. I gazed as far as I could, completely mesmerized by the view.
We were greeted by the sweetest mangoes and the torrid heat. That night I met my host family, the Gacitas, and moved into their beautiful home, a rustic farmhouse with green fences and unpainted walls. A little nervous and homesick, I fell asleep groggily, only to be jolted awake by the midnight thunderstorm.
Life there was simple. We took bucket showers, hand-washed our clothes, and learned to live without AC or Wi-Fi. Despite heat exhaustion in the first few days, I started to appreciate the simplicity of life. I started to feel every tender breeze and every quiet, starry night. Many afternoons we went swimming in the sea with neighbor kids. Waves washed away heat and fatigue, and above us was only the boundless sky. When night fell, we gathered around the dinner table and shared food and laughter. And at dawn, the whole village woke up in music and lively chatter.
I was assigned to work with a local computer shop that provided repair and printing services. It was a cramped store at the back of the street teeming with computer parts. When we first met, Mr. Gamarcho, the owner of the shop, was busy repairing a computer for a customer. He crouched on the floor and sweats fogged up his glasses. When we chatted, he told me a big change coming up — he and his brother-in-law were forming a partnership to revamp and run this store together.
I was pumped to hear such great news, but then my urban anxiety kicked in. I was supposed to assist Mr. Gamarcho in his big transition, but how could I really help? I was just a student with little knowledge of running a business, and I would only be there for three weeks. Even after my teammate and I built a customer database and ran a marketing campaign, it still didn’t feel enough. It didn’t feel enough because nothing seemed to have changed. It didn’t feel enough because no one knew if this was going to work.
Knowing my struggles, our instructor gave me one simple tip: Think of what you are doing as planting a tree. It was simple, but effective. It made me realize that I was actually bringing a lot of anxiety into a mission that needed patience. I was so eager for results that I forgot it was about trying. All the work we did, it might not have changed anything. But so what? Not all the roads we travelled had to reach somewhere. Footprints alone were enough.
It also struck me that for so long I had been too obsessed with results. I had been busy chasing every shiny object because I was fearful of missing out. If something didn’t give me immediate rewards, I lost my faith and never followed through. This utilitarian mindset had made me too short-sighted to be a “tree planter” who could devote to a long-term cause without seeing immediate returns.
It took me a long way to understand why the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago, and the second best is now.
I left the Philippines feeling refreshed. This journey taught me about patience and perseverance, and was the last push I needed to make up my mind about going abroad for higher education. Whenever I got anxious, the days in Guimaras reminded me to slow down and stay focused. Think of what I’m doing as planting a tree. Think of all the detours as making my own footprints. And above all, know that footprints alone are enough.
Think of what I’m doing as planting a tree. Think of all the detours as making my own footprints. And above all, know that footprints alone are enough.
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