Full bloom

MANILA, Philippines - Like most of you, I am still learning, but I will share with you what I have found so far. Before I begin I’d like to share a bit about my background — I grew up studying in an all-girl Catholic school, and my life revolved around a small five-kilometer radius growing up, and I lived in a tiny room with my mom and Nanay. We wouldn’t take family vacations, and when we did travel, it was mostly to visit other family members. I was raised in an environment where I was not allowed to ask questions, and to “obey without delay.” As a result, the rest of the world daunted me.

And then I found photography. It was the first time I had ever felt at ease to explore the world around me. At first I thought I wanted to do photography so I could travel. But as time went by, I found that it became about the photography, and not just about being in constant motion. It was about finding understanding and stillness in a landscape that was different from my own, and not about counting how many countries and famous landmarks I had been to. 

Photography has been the reason for my constant motion, and also the reason I could find stillness within that motion.

Thinking back, as I tried to figure out what to share, it has been a pretty crazy ride for me. I never made any grand plans about travel or photography, but I have found myself in places I never expected I would — couch-surfing across Europe, hanging with chimps in Borneo, on horseback with nomads in Mongolia, with indigenous communities in the Philippines, exhibiting work in Scandinavia, walking around the streets of conflict-ridden Palestine, hanging out with poachers in Cambodia, and sipping opium tea with the Bishnois of India. All these things were beyond my imagination as a young girl in Manila. I believed these things could only possibly belong to the most privileged — to people who had something that I didn’t have.

But eventually, through the images I made, as I started to travel and explore more and more, I realized that there was something I had that was different — I had my own voice, and though I am still continuing to realize what that is, exactly, it gave me hope that there could be a place for me in the industry, somehow. So I continue to tell stories — and always, in images.

At first, it was a way for me to share what I was experiencing with my mom, or with my grandmother, or whoever it was who would listen and look at the photos. My first audience became my Lola Tita, who would look at the images with wide eyes, as if I had done something impossible — if you think about travel and flight, these are things that would have been impossible if I had been born in another time or place. It was because of sitting beside her as she marveled at what was out there, just like I had done when I was little and looking through mom’s National Geographic magazines, that I remember what a privilege and what a miracle travel truly is. When I move, I try to never forget that. And I try to take home some bit of the miracle with me, as in photographs. Growing up, images made me dream of the world around me.

They have the power to connect, to enable humans to empathize. I started not only exploring outside of myself, but also inside. I read from a book we have at the Geographic that “every photo you take is a self-portrait.” What you put in the frame is not just what is around you, but what is within you. And, perhaps this works beyond photography too — how you view the world, how you move through it, and what you share with it says as much about you as a self-portrait would. And through my constant motion, I am hoping that the human being I am becoming and getting to know is a good one.

But it will be a constant struggle, because some days, I don’t want to leave, I just want to stay. Like when I found love. I ask myself, “Will I or have I become that woman, the one that is always somewhere else?” But I have to leave because there is still so much out there, and I need to go take a look. If you travel I hope that somehow you will get to know this pain, of missing home, whatever home means to you.

The stories you tell will stay with you (hopefully forever), and some, quite literally. My fiancé Jon found me because he decided to leave America to see what is out here. His parents, who were immigrants from the Philippines in the ‘80s, were bewildered at this impulsive, impetuous move. They went to America so their son could have a better future, only to find that he would move to Manila, the place they had left behind. But if he had never come and if he had stayed in the comforts of America — if he had stuck to the plan — we never would have found each other. So I hope that in life and in travel, you leave space for serendipity. You never know what you might find.

And finally, however far you go, I hope you remember not to lose sight of who you are. Know your name. I wish that for you, and I wish it for myself too.