A Country of Dog Lovers: My Sweet Encounter with LeBron

     Another thing that caught me pleasantly off-guard was how much Filipinos loved dogs. Every morning during my jog, I would pass by dozens of houses and nearly every one of them had a furry companion waiting by the gate. Some were barking (probably because I was a stranger), some were wagging their tails, and others just stared sleepily, basking in the early morning sun. There were also many stray dogs wandering around, especially near the campus, beaches, and local markets.

Some stray dogs in the rain in front of our cottage which i had already given them umbrella

    The most memorable encounter I had with a dog was when I visited the home of my local friend, Kobe. He had always talked about his dog named “LeBron”—yes, like the basketball player. LeBron was a Shih Tzu and apparently, the pride and joy of his household. Kobe told me countless stories about how playful and smart LeBron was, and I was excited to finally meet him.

    When I entered their house, LeBron greeted me with excitement, wagging his tail and giving small barks that sounded more like sneezes. I was a bit hesitant to pet him at first because of religious reasons—I was worried about the ritual cleansing (bersuci) needed if his saliva touched me. But seeing how well-behaved and clean he was, I took a chance and patted him gently on the top of his head. It was my first time petting a dog abroad, and it felt like a small but special cultural moment.

My first met with LeBron

    What I found interesting was that while many households had dogs, cats were quite rare. I wondered if it had something to do with cultural or religious influences, as the majority of Filipinos in this area were Catholic. Dogs were seen not just as pets, but as protectors, companions, and even status symbols.

    It’s hard not to admire how animals can be such a natural part of someone’s daily life. And in this case, dogs weren’t just pets—they were family.

Dog in the Basketball Court

No Smoke Zone: The Clean-Air Culture of SLSU Campus

     Before arriving in the Philippines, I had a vague idea that university campuses might have some rules about smoking. But I didn’t expect to be in a place where those rules weren’t just enforced—they were respected. My experience at Southern Leyte State University (SLSU), particularly at the LabSchool where I was based, really changed the way I view smoking in public spaces. It’s not just about health or law—it’s about culture and collective discipline.

    The first thing I noticed as I explored the campus was the number of no-smoking signs. They were practically everywhere—on walls, pillars, gates, and even trees. At first, I thought, “Wow, they’re really serious about this.” But over time, it became clear that these signs weren’t just for show. They reflected a deep, consistent practice across the entire university community. I never saw a single person light a cigarette—not even staff, guards, or older students.

Sign near the Guard Post

    I became curious, of course. Was it just fear of punishment? Or was it really part of their values? I asked my friend Kobe about it, and he said, “Even if there are people who smoke, they would never dare do it around here. The rules are strict, and people actually follow them.” That level of commitment impressed me. In many other places, people might smoke discreetly or try to bend the rules. But at SLSU, the environment was so clean and so consistent that even the idea of someone smoking felt strange.

    I never learned the exact penalty for breaking the no-smoking rule—perhaps a fine or a formal warning—but honestly, it didn’t matter. The rule was already working. It had shaped the habits and expectations of everyone on campus. Even the students who did smoke, like some Kobe mentioned in stories, would go far away from campus or hide in secret places just to use vape or e-cigarettes—and even that was rare. Vape culture wasn’t really visible in public. One time, Kobe told me about a friend who once tried vaping in a restroom, but that was considered rebellious behavior, not normal.

    This clear cultural boundary between campus space and personal habit was fascinating to me. Coming from a place where smoking is still fairly common in certain public areas, I found it refreshing to be in an environment where clean air was the norm. It didn’t feel enforced in a harsh way—it felt like something people genuinely believed in. I also appreciated how this respect for air quality contributed to the peaceful atmosphere of the campus. It made walking around more pleasant, especially in the mornings when I did my daily jogs.

    But maybe what stood out the most was how normalized this smoke-free life was. It wasn’t just about health awareness—it was about community standards. No one had to shout or lecture anyone about the dangers of smoking. The quiet presence of the no-smoking signs, the absence of cigarette butts, and the fresh air itself all spoke volumes.

    This kind of cultural approach to public health—where values are modeled rather than forced—is something I deeply admire. It’s not just a rule on paper. It’s a practice lived out every day, quietly but powerfully. And for a visiting teacher like me, it wasn’t just something I observed—it was something I experienced, and something I’ll carry forward in how I think about healthy environments and respectful spaces.

Evacuation Maps Everywhere: A Subtle Reminder of Nature’s Power

    During my time in the Philippines, one of the first things that caught my attention was the number of evacuation maps posted along the roads near the coast. These weren't just ordinary signs—they were big, bright, and strategically placed at key locations, such as near schools or busy neighborhoods. With their eye-catching colors and bold English statements, they almost looked like public service posters you’d find in textbooks. But these weren’t just for show—they were a serious reminder of how nature has shaped the daily awareness of people living in disaster-prone areas.

This sign located before we enter SLSU Tomas Oppus

    The signs typically showed evacuation directions, possible hazard zones, and what to do in case of different natural disasters. Whether it was a typhoon, tsunami, or earthquake, each map was equipped with symbols and color codes to indicate danger levels. I remember stopping to read one near my school and being surprised by the detailed instructions. It felt like a mini survival guide on the street. However, what amazed me more was how local people seemed to pass by without giving them a second glance. At first, I thought maybe they didn’t care—but later, I realized it’s probably because they’ve seen these signs all their lives. They already knew the information by heart.

    Back in Indonesia, I rarely see these kinds of signs unless I visit a mountain area or a place known for volcanic activity. Where I come from, natural disasters aren’t as frequent. So for me, these maps were something new—like visible proof of how closely daily life in the Philippines is tied to the forces of nature.

    It made me reflect on how environments shape the habits and awareness of the people who live in them. The calm confidence of the locals walking past these signs was a quiet reminder of how resilience is often built through familiarity. What might seem alarming or new to an outsider is just a normal part of life for those who live there. It was both humbling and inspiring.

Sign at around the neighborhood

A Bayfront Morning Routine: Jogging, Shells, and Solitude

    One of the things I treasure most from my time in the Philippines is the quiet, peaceful mornings spent jogging by the bay. The beach was just two minutes away from my place, making it the perfect spot to unwind and start the day. Though not your typical white sandy beach, the bayfront had its own unique charm — it was rocky and often scattered with beautiful, tiny seashells. Every step felt like a mini adventure, dodging little rocks while marveling at the patterns on the shells beneath my shoes.

    I remember hearing stories from my local friends about how dolphins and stingrays occasionally made appearances in the shallow waters of the bay. Though I never saw one myself, the thought of it made every morning jog feel a bit magical — like maybe today would be the day I’d catch a glimpse of something extraordinary. More often, I’d only spot small fish darting near the rocks. But honestly, even that was enough to make me smile.

Wonderful Sunrise

    From my very first day in the Philippines, I made a promise to myself — to be consistent with my morning jogs. I was lucky enough to have a supportive friend named Belgis, who not only encouraged me but joined me each day. We’d leave around 5 AM, right after the Fajr prayer, when the sky was still painted in soft shades of dawn. It was quiet — sometimes almost too quiet — as very few locals were out that early. That solitude gave the beach an even more calming presence.

    Jogging with Belgis became one of our little rituals. Some mornings we ran; other days we simply walked and talked, sharing thoughts, plans, or even just silence. The air was fresh, the view was calming, and the routine felt grounding. It gave us the clarity to start the day on the right foot — both literally and figuratively.

The Beauty and The Wonderful

    In a way, those early morning jogs taught me more than just discipline. They reminded me of the beauty in small things — like seashells crunching beneath my feet, the steady rhythm of waves, or even just having a consistent buddy to share the silence with. They became a quiet sanctuary before the buzz of the day took over.

    And although I never did see a dolphin, I found something better — a small window of peace, every single morning, framed by a rocky shore and an endless horizon. Something tells me that’s even rarer. 

Coin-Powered Internet? Piso WiFi Is a Whole Vibe!

     Before I went to the Philippines, I had never heard of "Piso WiFi." I imagined it was just a funny name for cheap internet or maybe some promo deal from a telecom company. But when I actually arrived and started living near Southern Leyte State University (SLSU) LabSchool, Piso WiFi became a fascinating and unforgettable part of my daily observation.

    What is it, really? Piso WiFi literally translates to “One Peso WiFi,” and yes—it’s exactly what it sounds like. A machine, usually placed outside of a house or small store, that allows people to connect to the internet by inserting coins. One peso could get you several minutes of internet access, and if you inserted more, you got longer time. The entire setup is genius in its simplicity and wildly practical for students, workers, and even just social media scrollers who don’t have unlimited internet at home.

Example of Piso WiFi

    During my stay, I’d see these machines almost everywhere—right outside homes, near sari-sari stores, and even in small alleyways. Many of them were decorated with colorful LED lights, blinking in rainbow hues at night, attracting passersby like moths to a flame. It gave off this low-key cyberpunk vibe that felt oddly comforting. Almost every morning or evening when I went jogging, I would spot a few people sitting outside with their phones, likely connected through Piso WiFi.

    I asked Kobe about it because I was so curious. “Is it really fast?” I wondered. He laughed and said, “Fast enough to play Mobile Legends!” That was enough for me. Apparently, the connection quality is surprisingly decent for basic browsing, watching YouTube, or gaming on a mobile device. And since it’s coin-based, it’s also very budget-friendly—especially for students who just need quick internet access without having to commit to expensive data plans.

    Most of the users I saw were young—students or college kids—who’d pop in a few coins to scroll through Facebook, message their friends, or even submit assignments. Sometimes they’d bring a plastic chair outside and stay connected for a while, especially in the evenings when the weather was cooler. It wasn’t just a tech service—it was a small, social ritual.

Piso WiFi is almost everywhere around the neighborhood

    What amazed me most was how this micro-transactional internet setup perfectly matched the community's needs. In areas where unlimited WiFi isn’t always financially practical, Piso WiFi serves as a bridge—connecting people not just to the internet, but to opportunities, knowledge, and each other. It also reflects the creative adaptability of Filipino communities—how they make use of limited resources in efficient, community-centered ways.

    Although I never used it myself during my stay, I learned so much about its impact just by observing and asking questions. Piso WiFi isn’t just a machine—it’s a little piece of digital freedom for the everyday person. And now, whenever I think about accessible technology or creative local solutions, Piso WiFi will always come to mind as a uniquely Filipino innovation that made a big impression on this curious foreigner.

Preparation: Getting My Passport – A Journey of Firsts

    One of the first and most crucial steps in preparing for the SEA-Teacher Program was getting a passport. Since this was my first time traveling abroad, I had never gone through the passport application process before, and neither had my three friends who were also joining the program. So, this was going to be a new experience for all of us.

Finding the Nearest Immigration Office

    To make the process smoother, we decided to apply for our passports online first to check for available slots and avoid long queues. After some searching, we found that the nearest available appointment was at the Kediri Immigration Office. However, there was a small catch—only electronic passports (e-passports) were available at that location. It didn’t make much difference to us, so we decided to go ahead with it.

    On the scheduled day, the four of us traveled to Kediri, accompanied by two lecturers who helped guide us through the process. Since this was our first time dealing with immigration paperwork, we were eager to learn and pay close attention to each step. From document verification to biometric data collection, everything was a completely new experience. It was both exciting and nerve-wracking, but overall, we felt a great sense of accomplishment by the end of the day.

In queue, passport on progress

    Once we completed the registration process, we were informed that our passports would be ready in approximately one week. That meant we would have to return to Kediri to collect them.

Planning the Passport Pickup

    When the day finally came, we had to decide who would pick up the passports. After some discussion, we agreed that only Bagas and I would go, while the two girls would stay behind. There were a few factors to consider, including travel costs and schedule conflicts. To make things easier, they prepared authorization letters, allowing us to collect their passports on their behalf. Since the immigration office had given us a pickup window from 10 AM to 3 PM (WIB), I decided to stay overnight at Bagas' house the night before so that we could leave early in the morning. This way, we wouldn’t have to rush, and we could avoid any unexpected delays.

    The next morning, we set off on our motorbike journey to the immigration office. However, there was one small problem—I was incredibly sleepy. I have always had a tendency to feel drowsy during long trips, and this time was no different. Throughout the ride, I struggled to keep my eyes open, and at one point, I even dozed off and accidentally rested my head on Bagas’ shoulder while he was driving. Bagas, being the kind of friend who never misses an opportunity to tease me, found this hilarious and even recorded a video of me sleeping on his shoulder! I didn’t find out until later, but when he showed me the video, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.

    When we finally arrived at the Kediri Immigration Office, we went straight to the passport collection counter. We had all the required documents with us, including the authorization letters from our friends. The process was surprisingly smooth—within minutes, we had our new passports in our hands! Holding my passport for the first time felt surreal. It was a small booklet, yet it represented something much bigger: the start of my journey abroad.

My first experience to grab passport

    Before heading back, we decided to take a short break in the prayer room inside the immigration office to rest for a bit. Since I had barely gotten any sleep, I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be too drowsy on the way home. Even after resting, I still felt sleepy during the ride home. To avoid another “falling asleep on Bagas” incident, we stopped by a convenience store to grab some drinks and snacks. I figured that keeping my mouth busy with food might help me stay awake, and thankfully, it worked!

    As we got closer to Bagas' house, we had less than a few hundred meters to go. However, we noticed that the sky had turned incredibly dark. The clouds looked heavy, and we had a bad feeling about it. Suddenly, out of nowhere, it started pouring rain—heavily! We panicked for a moment because the rain was so intense, even though it had only just started. Fortunately, Bagas’ house was only a few meters away, so we rushed as fast as we could and made it inside just in time before getting completely drenched.

    That day was a rollercoaster of firsts—first time applying for a passport, first time collecting it, and first time experiencing such an eventful trip just to get a single document. But more than anything, it was another step closer to my SEA-Teacher journey in the Philippines, and that made all the effort worth it.

Basketball Lifestyle: Where the Court Is the Heart of the Neighborhood

     In the Philippines, basketball isn’t just a sport—it’s a lifestyle, a rhythm that pulses through almost every street corner and barangay. One of the most iconic places I found near the university was the local basketball court. At first glance, it looked like a simple court in a humble neighborhood, but it carried so much more than that. It had a permanent roof structure and solid posts, giving it a touch of permanence and pride. Even more impressive was the solar-powered lighting installed in the ceiling—those lights would automatically glow as soon as dusk crept in, letting the game continue well into the night.

Kobe with his friends play Basketball

    I remember only visiting the court once during my stay, and that moment still lingers in my memory. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was starting to dip behind the hills. I had gone out without formally asking for permission, following an invitation from some local friends. That little decision led to a gentle but firm reminder from Ma'am Lilian, our SEA-Teacher coordinator, who caught wind of our late-day excursion. “You shouldn’t go out after dark without permission,” she said. That experience taught me a valuable lesson about being mindful of cultural and safety expectations—and I never made that mistake again.

    Still, even from the sidelines, the energy of that court was contagious. I had never played basketball seriously before, but watching the locals play was a show in itself. The kids would usually take over the court in the early evening, laughing, dribbling, and shooting with joy. But once the sun fully set, and the grown-ups began to arrive, the kids knew it was time to step aside. It wasn’t a rule—it was an unspoken rhythm they all understood.

    As the adults played, the atmosphere turned from fun to fiercely competitive. The way they moved, shouted, and passed the ball was something you’d expect from a local league, not just a neighborhood game. I stood there amazed, cheering silently from the side, feeling like I was watching something much deeper than a match. This was community, connection, and identity all rolled into one.

Children in the neighborhood