tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76070216800162779042024-03-06T01:32:13.210+08:00My view from the top of the world...... or shall I say Ilonggo Delights?Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-39309116459041834452011-08-15T22:07:00.011+08:002011-08-15T22:52:22.651+08:00Just call me TigumI have this small plot along the river Tigum where I built a small bamboo hut besides which I literally planted with camote after about 15 years of working my ass abroad. This camote I feed to my pigs which scream to death each time they hear my car coming. Pigs love to eat camote leaves. And each time they see me, they see camote.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVD6fcF5Mo-uDNRpc9kViUbJNTe_tQI-OQ20R3Qf-33a2BKRa5AjH8lV6pYtQ4X-eYsr_Xte4TxsqU0um7btyJFcd9YiTyIWKyjjNo1MRMPQr4ZcTJuk6uegmObyorNuRfShGvaAtJW9I/s1600/tigum2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVD6fcF5Mo-uDNRpc9kViUbJNTe_tQI-OQ20R3Qf-33a2BKRa5AjH8lV6pYtQ4X-eYsr_Xte4TxsqU0um7btyJFcd9YiTyIWKyjjNo1MRMPQr4ZcTJuk6uegmObyorNuRfShGvaAtJW9I/s400/tigum2.jpg" width="200" /></a>What I like about the place is the river. I like the sight and sound of water flowing among rocks and along verdant valleys and plains. And when the local men come down with their carabaos, or when the womenfolks settle to do their laundry along the rocky banks, I can hear the sigh of Amorsolo. If only I could paint that good.<br />
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But most of all, I like the name of the river. The local folks call the river Tigum. To me the name is so Filipino, so ethnic. It conjures images of brave, muscled, sun-browned men battling the guns and taunts of white men from far away. It gives me images of beautiful lasses with long black hair adorned with a simple gumamela.<br />
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How I wish my name is Tigum. People change their names into something they love that signifies their beliefs and principles. There's Kidlat Tahimik. And many African Americans changed their names because they wanted to erase the past when there were masters and slaves. And what's so good about being named Lawrence, Berthold, or Henry when you look so Filipino? My name was copied from the Americans by my parents who thought that having an American sounding name made one think American. I don’t like to think that my parents believed that speaking English made one an intellectual. To me, my name reeks of a colonial past, when Filipinos felt so small beside the Americans. I don’t look up to the Americans. And I would like to think that I don’t salivate to go and live in the States.<br />
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If I have a chance to change my name, I would like to be called Tigum. I like a name that truly embodies my ideals and personality. Most of all, by just looking at or hearing my name, I would like people to know immediately that I am truly a Filipino. <br />
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<i>Note: I found this write-up from somewhere. I wrote this in 2002 after coming home to the Philippines from a long stint abroad. I'm still in the Philippines and still maintains my nipa hut along the river. The pigs are now gone due to bankrupcy (somehow, I now admit I am not good in agribusiness.). The camote made way to corn, then bell peppers, to lacatan bananas courtesy of the Department of Agriculture (where I signed numerous documents which I hoped would not be used to justify the Joc-joc Bolante fertilizer fund scam), to string beans, and numerous other crops to make ends meet. I posted this entry because visitors are yearning to know my identity (Astig gid abi!).</i><br />
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</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-33709590155905054342010-12-08T23:49:00.017+08:002010-12-10T11:09:54.025+08:00Another one bites the dustIn the Philippines, the number one cause of death is heart disease. It is followed by vascular systems diseases. Both diseases are caused by the dramatic changes in the blood vessels and the blood flow which are attributed to the peculiarities of modern living - sedentary lifestyle, smoking, cholesterol-laden food, smoking, alcohol, stress, etc. <br />
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Gone were the days when people died of old age. In fact, the olds of long ago were possibly happy to die because, in their later years, their great great grandchildren (3g) were afraid to get near them because they (the 3g) thought the olds were so old they were like maranhig (vernacular for living dead).<br />
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Long ago in our impoverished barangay, if people didn't die of old age, they died of hiwit, inaswang, or gored to death by the pet carabao. Old people in our barangay have not heard of cancer, pheumonia, AIDS, or dengue. In the absence of doctors, surhanos diagnosed all the illneses. If somebody trembled uncontrollably, or if painful lumps appeared on a person's body, it was hiwit. If somebody suddenly fell down and died, it was the work of an evil spirit.<br />
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Back to the title of this post.<br />
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It was only last August when klasmeyt <a href="http://astig-gid.blogspot.com/2010/08/rip-premee.html">Premee</a> succumbed to stroke.<br />
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December 5, another klasmeyt, Edgardo A was laid to rest. He died due to MI (myocardial infarction) or heart attack. Another one bites the dust.<br />
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Klasmeyt Edgardo A was a seaman. He had a non-fatal attack while their ship was in the US of A and was hospitalized in California. After awhile, he was cleared by his doctors and was allowed to leave for the Philippines. He arrived in Manila, alive and well, as he pushed his trolley of luggage to his waiting wife. He was as physically normal as anyone in the crowd. But a few days after he arrived and while seeking more medical tests, he suffered another heart attack and died. Even while in grief, his family was thankful that, at least, he had gone home and stayed with his loved ones even just for a few days before he breathed his last. He is survived by his wife Vilma T of CNCHS Class 73, and his three children. <br />
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I didn't remember Edgardo. In fact I went over the decaying high school graduation souvenir program just to verify that he was a klasmeyt. And, indeed, his name was listed in Section 6, together with <a href="http://astig-gid.blogspot.com/2010/08/rip-premee.html">Premee</a> who also died recently, Zari V who is into the funeral parlor business, and Herman L who, based on his Facebook photos, is destined to become a maranhig. <br />
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As the torchbearer of my class (torchbearer is defined by http://www.yourdictionary.com as <i>a person who brings enlightenment, truth, etc.; or an inspirational leader, as in some movement </i>. Haay, I think this should be a subject of another post. Torchbearer ako is just himo-himo ko lang. Just to console myself for being actually the driver, errand boy, gina-utangan, pala-utwasan sang sakit-buot, and just somebody who is supposed to be there no matter what when needed by my klasmeyts. I still can't nudge the grudge of a klasmeyt who thought I should have visited and given him abuloy when his mother died even if at that time my own mother was also seriously ill and later died in the hospital.), I looked for the address of Edgar. When informed that the wake was in Landheights Subdivision, I scoured three subdivisions with the name Landheights along the hi-way going to Leganes, because to my horror there was not just one Landheights. But I didn't find any wake in these subdivisions. It was late in the afternoon. It was so hot and I was so hungry and I had this great urge to pee. So I called some people to help me with the right address. At last, I arrived at Edgardo's and Vilma's residence where the wake was held, in Landheights in Balabago, a 180 degree compass turn from where I originally headed. I saw Edgardo's tarp photo. Yes I remembered him as one of those older klasmeyts in hi school. I then gave the mass card bearing the name of my Class, which seemed so cheap compared to the amount I used for mobile calls to locate the address. And I was not adding my gasoline expenses yet. I was the only visitor and Vilma and her family were so accomodating. We talked about Edgardo, his life and his death. We forgot about the time. Then other mourners I didn't knew arrived. I asked to leave so the family can fully attend to the visitors. <br />
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It was a short and easy drive from Landheights Balabago to the hi-way going to Jaro. But in the hi-way, traffic was bumper to bumper. I was irritated. Then I saw the letchon-manok stands. And I remembered I was still very hungry. My conversation with Vilma was just so animated I forgot to eat in the wake. Then I also realized my bladder was just at bursting point. Yes I also forgot to pee in Edgardo's house. And the traffic was getting worse. And with all the chaos building within and around me, I remembered my klasmeyts who never even bothered to remember me when my mother died. Of course, many came, emailed, phoned or texted me. But still others just didn't bother. And I could imagine my klasmeyts playing with their apos, doing overtime in tong-itan, or gossiping with the neighbors. While I was in the middle of the traffic - alone, hungry and about to pee - because I thought it was my duty to give my last respects in the name of the Class to all klasmeyts or their parents who have gone ahead. 'Bro, puso mo!', I imagined the traffic police to remind me. <br />
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Then, out of the blue, my car stereo blared that old music by the British rock band Queen.<br />
<br />
<i>'Steve walks warily down the street with the brim pulled way down low <br />
Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet, machine gun's ready to go <br />
Are you ready? Hey, are you ready for this? <br />
Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?<br />
Out of the doorway the bullets rip to the sound of the beat, Yeah <br />
Another one bites the dust <br />
Another one bites the dust....'</i> <br />
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Not this time, I thought.<br />
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@Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-58470070223579883642010-12-01T22:35:00.018+08:002010-12-01T23:10:42.823+08:00Corrupting the youthAs I was driving today, I heard the news over the radio about the case of a Sangguniang Bayan member doing all the nasty things a <b>trapo</b> (shortcut for traditional politician; but also means in English a dirty linen which many believe signifies the dirty antics and personality of politicians) is supposed to do, to have his daughter elected as an SK (Sangguniang Kabataan) Federation President of his locality. <br />
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<a href="http://www.bomboradyo.com/index.php/news/regional-news/ilonggo-news/30482-mag-amay-ginreklamu-bangud-sa-pag-house-sang-mga-sk-chairman-kag-pagpanagtag-sang-cellphone-kag-kwa"><em><span style="color: #fce5cd; font-size: x-small;">http://www.bomboradyo.com/index.php/news/regional-news/ilonggo-news/30482-mag-amay-ginreklamu-bangud-sa-pag-house-sang-mga-sk-chairman-kag-pagpanagtag-sang-cellphone-kag-kwa</span></em></a><br />
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The issue was again tackled blow-by-blow by the radio commentators until the evening, calling the SK as Sangguniang Kamal-aman. <br />
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I was interested in the issue not because the names mentioned seemed familiar as it happened in my hometown, but also because it just bolsters my stand that the SK is just a training ground of would-be trapos and therefore needs to be abolished for good.<br />
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I too was once an SK chairman. But it was much different during our time. Our election was never like the election of the olds. We were all friendly to everybody and our elders never got involved. We never had any money from the LGUs (local government units) but we made many projects which were wholeheartedly supported by our elders. We were in the SK because we wanted to serve the community. We didn't have any allowances, scholarships,travels, perks and other priviledges. We were in the SK because the young people in our locality were looking up to us. And we thought we ought to be examples to others. <br />
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But now it's different. The SK is just that - a training ground of future trapos. Teach the youth how to house or corral possible voters prior to election for a sure vote. Like a real trapo. Show them the glint of money. Just like a trapo. Give them a hint of the meaning of 'What are we in power for?'. Just like a trapo. Kapag trapo ang tatay, trapo na rin ang anak. Possibly, many will say nakakasuka ang gakatabo sa Cabatuan. And well-meaning citizens may hope that the incident is not replicated in the other parts of the country. <br />
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Let's all pray for our children and the future of our country. Let's all pray for the abolition of the SK. <br />
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@Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-73167254645239395352010-11-27T21:10:00.007+08:002010-11-27T21:44:53.755+08:00The Psst! GroupMost often I call my classmates Manong or Manang, or Iyay for obvious reasons. Now I call them the Psst! Group. Psst! is not an acronym for a deadly group of suicide bombers (similar to the TBS 13 or True Brown Style 13, a fraternity of youngsters in Iloilo who, as part of their initiation, are allegedly killing taxi drivers after taking their cash collections), nor a pseudo society of souls who are fond of looking back to their past because the only future they can look forward to is their bleak retirement. I don't even refer to the popular meaning of Psst as Practice Safe Sex Today. Many of my classmates regard sex as a verb in the past tense. Never associated with Today. Period. If you get my drift. <br />
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But going back to Psst!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5eX5zwV1utgwqjyVY8NDPRzIV-1_C13Fro-1Fud9F7RQ-oMzMqp44vEPNSWk3BFBzpKiXxhIil3_1zfUsZ89SfcCp1dV1hTT1BkcHKA2t8bzJGv12Hj0AMaYIIl1TncjcW1uubclluWo/s1600/ernie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="484" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5eX5zwV1utgwqjyVY8NDPRzIV-1_C13Fro-1Fud9F7RQ-oMzMqp44vEPNSWk3BFBzpKiXxhIil3_1zfUsZ89SfcCp1dV1hTT1BkcHKA2t8bzJGv12Hj0AMaYIIl1TncjcW1uubclluWo/s640/ernie.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<i><span><strong>Some members of the Psst! Group. Taken after the last rites for the late wife of Ernie C. at Forest Lake Memorial Park, Manduriao, Iloilo City, Nov 27, 2010.</strong></span></i><br />
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I call this group Psst! because when they hear somebody say Psst! they will automatically turn their heads to the source of the sound. And even if the first time, the second time and the nth time they discover that the Psst! is intended for somebody else, yet the next time they hear another 'Psst!' they will still turn their heads towards the sound, unmindful of their previous experience. Parang di na natuto. Haven't they heard about the boy who cried 'Wolf!'?<br />
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Will somebody lecture this group about Classical Conditioning or the theories of Pavlov and Skinner? Over a can of maram-an?<br />
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Pero, with all the shortcomings, I still look forward to meeting my classmates and the banters that I share with them. Daw nami gid man mag-estorya kang mga nagreligad. Because… come on, can I talk about the stock market with these people? So we talked about our past.<br />
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The few times that my classmates would meet, we really make the occasion special. Even if we just huddle for a few minutes with not even a plate of peanuts or butong pakwan in sight. We talk of the days we were classmates in high school, our antics and ambitions then, and our lives now as bread winners, some as doting lolos and lolas, and a few as still coy virgins who remained untouched (kuno) and unmarried in their menopausal years.<br />
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Frankly, I sometimes am embarrassed to call my classmates ‘Klasmeyts’ especially in front of my kids. Because - I have to be tactless – they just looked so old as in mal-am gid. Of course, they are still not legally senior citizens. But when left on their own, they would chatter the whole day about their apos, their arthritis and other ailments, the pang-tuition of their college-age children and other financial woes, or the witches or aswangs who happened to be their in-laws. Will somebody tell these people to have a life? Come on. You talk of these topics with a maram-an on hand. And you share buyo, bunga, and other sangkap with the mal-am you are talking with. Try to eavesdrop on the yuppies. Are these the topics they are talking about?<br />
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Well, in one of our talks, they mentioned some familiar names. <br />
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We had some klasmeyts in high school, according to them, who didn’t allow anyone to copy their answers during exams. Mga dalok gid. They covered their answers as if these were for their eyes only. They folded the top portion of their answer sheets over the items they were answering and they stooped low over their papers so nobody would see what they were writing. As if they were really sure that their answers were right. Their answers were like their panties – they had to pull their skirts down so nobody could have an idea of the color, or if they even wore panties. But look where these dalok nga mga klasmeyts are now. Daw wala man asenso sa pangabuhi. They are not as successful professionally as those merely copying answers during exams. Agto ka sa balay nanda, baw grabe agwanta mo nga para indi ka mangihi. Kay hadlok kaw mag-agto sa anda CR. Basi indi lang toko sa dingding ang makita mo. Mayad pa mangihi sa baid kudal.<br />
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And this klasmeyt nga seaman – kapitan sa barko. He was so embarrassed when his son saw his board exam rating. His rating was gakabit nga daw wasay. But he regained his composure. He told his son, ‘Look at your mother. Grabe kataas ang board exam niya. But her 1-year salary is much less than my 1-month salary.’<br />
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And that klasmeyt who, when everybody was asked by the school nurse to bring individual stool specimen to school for laboratory analysis, he brought a big Nescafe bottle filled to the brim with his stool. And he was proud to show his loot before the class. Our teacher shrieked and ran fast out of the classroom as if she saw a scary monster. <br />
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And that klasmeyt who was so dumb in Math she only memorized the multiplication table for 1's. 1 x 1 = 1. 1 x 2 = 2. 1 x 3 = 3. And so on. Tapos na ang klase di pa nya mamemorize ang 2's.<br />
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And that teacher who was so motherly outside, but a terror inside the classroom. Kapila niya ginbunggo sa blackboard ang ulo ni dumb klasmeyt in Math. This teacher's behavior may lead to dismissal and a criminal case now. But during our time, teachers could be so despotic and physically cruel. <br />
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At times, the topic became personal. The target of the ribbing is usually the klasmeyt na laon or spinster. Why are there spinsters? Nobody courted them? Males statistically fewer than females? And the spinster answered back, by choice naman daw ang kanyang pagiging laon. Meaning, ginusto nya. Talaga? Inspite of the pocket books with lots of pasaring sa mga pangyayari sa kama? Inspite of the boys who talk dirty na dapat lang pakuluan ang mga bunganga? Inspite of the TV shows na PG pero standard ang torrid kissing scenes ni bidang lalaki and a retinue of female characters in different stages of undress? <br />
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Then the question: 'Ti, waay gid ti guwapo ikaw nga nakita?'<br />
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And the answer: 'Ay raku nga guwapo eh. Pero ang gusto nanda indi ti guwapa, kundi guwapo man.' <br />
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I remembered our spinster neighbor. She was beautiful, fair, kutis porselana. She was my bordmeyt when I was in college. She was at that time working as a salesgirl. Long after I was already working, I heard that she died of breast cancer. But before that, she usually passes in front of our house and took notice of my nieces. Many times, while playing with my nieces, she would just cry so loud, complaining that she had no children of her own to take care of her as she was already diagnosed with cancer. When reminded that she had many nephews and nieces, she would complain that the kids were only good to her if she had money. Possibly, if she could only turn back the hands of time, she would have asked any tambay, sikad driver, or kargador to impregnate her just so she would have a biological child to accompany her during her cancer years. Or nagpangamang siya kang ana mga bordmeyt para lang magbusong. But she was so suplada and picky when she was still young.<br />
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And the banters and recollections continue. Daw kang san-o lang. Psst! Ti, may sugpon o dugang kamo?<br />
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</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-12126598182577851242010-10-10T22:40:00.002+08:002010-10-11T09:13:17.958+08:00Spiderfighting or 'paupas ka damang'I got entangled into the web of this kid stuff called paupas ka damang when I noticed some kids skirting the perimeter fence of my farm, intently looking for something among the shrubs and trees. I asked my caretaker what the kids were doing. He answered that the kids were looking for spiders as paupas ka damang is currently the favorite past time in schools.<br />
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I approached the kids and asked them if they had already caught some spiders. They showed me matchboxes, with partitions inside, containing spiders. I told them about the role of spiders in nature and that we need to protect them. I didn’t know if the kids heard me. <br />
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<i>Paupas ka damang, with two spiders jousting on a stick.</i> <br />
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‘Sir, raku damang diyan sa inyo, paupas ta.’ <br />
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Well, I didn’t like to be killjoy. So I asked them to show me how to do paupas ka damang. They readily agreed. And the paupas started. It was fun, though I pity the spiders.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcNXIqt4bviV8Eg1YoRMgw6bKURawpOH40JumQVWqC9SPfAqWrNT-83K7D_Agznh6fvq7-NuWar3vWOh2SBtob_E5tN9lIaNL3LChDj03Ci32uVNtSvqOrLEiU5vlr11X_FK7ZpITpig/s1600-h/d5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJcNXIqt4bviV8Eg1YoRMgw6bKURawpOH40JumQVWqC9SPfAqWrNT-83K7D_Agznh6fvq7-NuWar3vWOh2SBtob_E5tN9lIaNL3LChDj03Ci32uVNtSvqOrLEiU5vlr11X_FK7ZpITpig/s320/d5.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>In a spider match, a kid must be skillful to hold the stick without touching the spiders.</i><br />
</div><br />
It was not the first time I witnessed paupas ka damang. When I was a kid in Iloilo years ago, one of our past times was paupas ka damang, or spiderfighting - a version of cockfighting where, instead of cocks, we used spiders as the centerpiece of the action. We caught wild spiders and let them fight on a foot-long stick. The winner was the spider that successfully subdued its opponent and subsequently wrapped the victim with its web to become its meal. I remember how we cheered when this happened. We usually did paupas ka damang after the harvest season when the rice fields were either covered with weeds and shrubs, or replanted with corn.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCvszbQ9m2psn4x16I8ijZquTce0WvrMKHboUArcsLebuCIRa5jWivSp0yHAA4fLgJzOgRonT9AJ72e5OzvlNStvzFDewFSc123jUxONC4Vsyez5hTBIxgc9uuSAqis4DfgfbThHRIUC4/s1600-h/d6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCvszbQ9m2psn4x16I8ijZquTce0WvrMKHboUArcsLebuCIRa5jWivSp0yHAA4fLgJzOgRonT9AJ72e5OzvlNStvzFDewFSc123jUxONC4Vsyez5hTBIxgc9uuSAqis4DfgfbThHRIUC4/s320/d6.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>A deadly finale. At the end of the fight, the victor throws its sticky web upon the immobilized loser.</i> <br />
</div><br />
When I outgrew this macabre sport, I discovered that my nephew who was in the elementary grades, was also hooked into this activity. He was studying at the Colegio de San Jose in Jaro, Iloilo City. The school may be in the city and ran by Catholic nuns, but the students were not spared from the popularity of spiderfighting, which I thought was only popular among kids in the rural areas who could easily catch spiders from nearby fields. My nephew saved his pocket money intended for food in school, and used it to buy wild spiders from enterprising boys loitering outside the school’s gates. Other boys, and even girls, in his school were also buying spiders – the boys bought spiders based on the length and size of its legs, while the girls chose the spiders with the cutest and the most likeable colors. My nephew would go home and boast of his spiders he kept inside a matchbox. He would slowly open the matchbox to show us the spiders, while at the same time slightly blowing at his prized possessions so they would continue curled inside the matchbox and would not scamper away. One time, one of his spiders escaped and was seen by a niece, his cousin, crawling on the floor. Though slightly frightened, my niece stepped on the crawling insect, and turned it into a splattered mesh. Seeing his prized spider – equivalent to a healthy serving of sandwich and juice in the school canteen - turned into a drop of ketchup, my nephew cried and rolled wildly over the floor as if his purpose in life was to polish our floor with his school uniform. Amidst wails and tearful threats to destroy all the barbies and toys of his spiteful cousin, my nephew threatened with finality that he would only stop crying if he was given another spider. So, together with my sister who was the mother of the spiteful cousin, we scoured the back of our neighbors’ houses, hoping that they were not cleaned for years so a spider would find it conducive to spreading its web near the mouths of its cindered and dusty crannies. Alas, we caught not just one, but three plump house spiders – their bodies bloated by so much food from such a dirty place, and their limbs so short and skinny with not so much exercise as food was literally crawling to their mouths in such a darkened place. And my nephew stopped crying as his eyes twinkled upon seeing what to me were yacky creatures. Whether he became popular in school because of the house spiders was another story. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzFlF2Yafjx_kfxCv0GQDxLjUKGeFbovZ-IeIKR_3jCQD2u-BGqak2ELZjxKhaTAd2_O0TTl34JLDxu9Bn6IiJbyprXJQE2KhbadU0nQBM136lnU9OFrrDOjCoa1glybEsxeeK_XYMRk/s1600-h/d7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzFlF2Yafjx_kfxCv0GQDxLjUKGeFbovZ-IeIKR_3jCQD2u-BGqak2ELZjxKhaTAd2_O0TTl34JLDxu9Bn6IiJbyprXJQE2KhbadU0nQBM136lnU9OFrrDOjCoa1glybEsxeeK_XYMRk/s320/d7.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>When opening the matchbox containing the caught spiders, a kid must gently blow the spiders to keep them from escaping.</i><br />
</div><br />
But my nephew too outgrew spiderfighting as he graduated to internet networking sites. Like a spider, he stays sedentary in front of the computer virtually surrounded by his web of sites, and patiently waits for whatever spook or interesting visitor that gets stuck into his webby rants. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MR-8Ax3IwW3AbDTnPgysVcjyNk1rqVWLGRpbkfnlBkCGaAHH5iF9f4SE_deipTIInPRLxGMxpll0oImMbr7Bk1-ERCVrA6RbieXP4iwmN_22PGBy14UyN9NMvCeSThvBEAV1ysvCVGA/s1600-h/d2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MR-8Ax3IwW3AbDTnPgysVcjyNk1rqVWLGRpbkfnlBkCGaAHH5iF9f4SE_deipTIInPRLxGMxpll0oImMbr7Bk1-ERCVrA6RbieXP4iwmN_22PGBy14UyN9NMvCeSThvBEAV1ysvCVGA/s320/d2.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>The common container for spiders is an empty matchbox with built-in partitions inside.</i><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy6U7km-ClqjoMsyiS2SlM8ChizmgpXX7Yp-nW1Fr-iYqT1A8unRTFsKzISeG-6oX5vQ1So82kb34yfXjq9rqBk23G0Myqf7UbvIYKbZVcsoTnt7RIdaxANC8_9OzkcOn_pjePj4pNWAU/s1600-h/d1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy6U7km-ClqjoMsyiS2SlM8ChizmgpXX7Yp-nW1Fr-iYqT1A8unRTFsKzISeG-6oX5vQ1So82kb34yfXjq9rqBk23G0Myqf7UbvIYKbZVcsoTnt7RIdaxANC8_9OzkcOn_pjePj4pNWAU/s320/d1.jpg" /></a><br />
A stylized container for spiders.<br />
</div><br />
I don’t know if kids in other countries also enjoy spiderfighting. What I know is that foreigners are aware of the poisonous venom spewed by wild spiders, while the National Geographic Channel would warn people to keep away from wild spiders. And NG was not particularly referring to tarantulas. I also know that kids and high school students in the provinces continue to love paupas ka damang inspite of school topics like animal conservation and efforts of LGUs (local government units) to ban catching of spiders because the activity disturbs the ecosystem in the fields. Spiders are also considered farmer-friendly, as spread around through LGU seminars on Integrated Pest Management.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmUP4PkF6bpIEbxXTnmPsjOUKK7w0RDsA0zyieR7XFfSsS8qZowv8GgvQPFGJN0F4PD3sAryb8aBj47-Bqk0CeJmH3dyopc9Dpj666ufQxnOjn__dtkZisaIg5xzjQKABsg_CyTqm4fc/s1600-h/damang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmUP4PkF6bpIEbxXTnmPsjOUKK7w0RDsA0zyieR7XFfSsS8qZowv8GgvQPFGJN0F4PD3sAryb8aBj47-Bqk0CeJmH3dyopc9Dpj666ufQxnOjn__dtkZisaIg5xzjQKABsg_CyTqm4fc/s640/damang.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Damang. Following the glint of its web against the sunlight, I discovered this wild spider, curled up under an orchid petal. </i><br />
</div><br />
When will the paupas end? I reckoned that when I was a kid, our past times or games changed with the season. Perhaps, it would be paupas ka damang today. Next it would be bug-oy ka sigay…. then, pityew… then tayhup and pitik using rubber bands… and bug-oy using patani… then taksi… kag damo pa. Yes, we didn’t have computer games and cellphones. But we enjoyed our childhood days just the same.@<br />
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<i>Originally posted: November 11, 2009; 10:12 PM </i><br />
</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-73484580426467495282010-10-10T22:10:00.001+08:002010-10-11T08:36:56.142+08:00Common things we fail to seeIt's rainy season. The plants are green and the wild flowers are bursting with colors.<br />
<br />
Lantaw ako sa ugsadan. Just then I realized, ang dami ko pa lang na-miss. Colors are everywhere. Sobrang ganda pala ng mundo. I missed the simple things. Sobrang busy kasi in making a living. <strong><em>Always busy. We have to make money. We have other priorities. We have to look at bigger things to make life better for everyone. We are too important to see and enjoy the trivial things.</em> </strong><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNdf5i0rYPg1_o7d70QoTVdsnLiL0Vyak1I08x4c_MLLzIYtsx2O3irL6HsYHqbpGsc3ecXBYmgm49NZhftnpnltw4HcagKFOPpALYS9wl7FftsS7uWJmYmlD5-Kfum2t_HNM6hGqx1k/s1600-h/flo3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363044826823053410" style="WIDTH: 280px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 254px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNdf5i0rYPg1_o7d70QoTVdsnLiL0Vyak1I08x4c_MLLzIYtsx2O3irL6HsYHqbpGsc3ecXBYmgm49NZhftnpnltw4HcagKFOPpALYS9wl7FftsS7uWJmYmlD5-Kfum2t_HNM6hGqx1k/s400/flo3.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI_heq0ybM5XihUuvgYUX64C_e6E4oRD3zpqvwm5sPO5JZtoq_kbKUxyijY30rcxjHHwgwEXCVjNkZD5IiVLcD3LZVd9cObml43oGuEGaCTJraMMkKxwqtNfmA0GkVNBI1QQWkmNzCaQ/s1600-h/flo7.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363044842633925778" style="WIDTH: 278px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 254px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI_heq0ybM5XihUuvgYUX64C_e6E4oRD3zpqvwm5sPO5JZtoq_kbKUxyijY30rcxjHHwgwEXCVjNkZD5IiVLcD3LZVd9cObml43oGuEGaCTJraMMkKxwqtNfmA0GkVNBI1QQWkmNzCaQ/s400/flo7.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
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Then I remembered my high school Literature. Yon bang poem ni Ralph Waldo Emerson. Ang The Rhodora. Until now, memorize ko pa rin. Actually, ang memorize ko lang ay ang linyang '...if eyes were made for seeing, then Beauty is its own excuse for being.' But who cares? The lines had become so popular, Emerson could have meant the colors in my backyard.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHL1GVFi1gRj2eWA4sQhqj1_ctoSj37aT2c_DsWdEU7jqbZzPdQVPhPYT0xyL9g4NCbeMPeG6at9vTgQHzWlcG3N48ZO-8XQ53pmWF953hMXtzTtcIWDhYtO6NlAlfc6wh7vxwMXEnQ0c/s1600-h/flo91.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363046414706123186" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHL1GVFi1gRj2eWA4sQhqj1_ctoSj37aT2c_DsWdEU7jqbZzPdQVPhPYT0xyL9g4NCbeMPeG6at9vTgQHzWlcG3N48ZO-8XQ53pmWF953hMXtzTtcIWDhYtO6NlAlfc6wh7vxwMXEnQ0c/s320/flo91.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiSCWlD9eMfy4u3sz0PRqdHjySTIc4LnpuQ7MrQz6_UciQRPGqNRFD6_GnIA95d0STGIjZ1LuoRRZ0E_prlfItBkac3lcfyCgGqFtubNWClmKM_9V4B24t-qh16K3vmxKIsWK-u3gOb0/s1600-h/flow2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363047367968395442" style="WIDTH: 196px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 275px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiSCWlD9eMfy4u3sz0PRqdHjySTIc4LnpuQ7MrQz6_UciQRPGqNRFD6_GnIA95d0STGIjZ1LuoRRZ0E_prlfItBkac3lcfyCgGqFtubNWClmKM_9V4B24t-qh16K3vmxKIsWK-u3gOb0/s320/flow2.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOMXoPTuwt49VZ3o1WHVo4G8w3HqjmOicvY72uBWNYc2NheMOqyGOxGowgYEXX23GPpVmWwLTyYk7U-yuZJ5g_gruSYZ8e1tP6fYD0irO_NBidWa0_prf-viQ633U6D2rOIf45Cmxpes/s1600-h/flo4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363044827350425474" style="WIDTH: 184px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 174px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOMXoPTuwt49VZ3o1WHVo4G8w3HqjmOicvY72uBWNYc2NheMOqyGOxGowgYEXX23GPpVmWwLTyYk7U-yuZJ5g_gruSYZ8e1tP6fYD0irO_NBidWa0_prf-viQ633U6D2rOIf45Cmxpes/s400/flo4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
<span id="fullpost"><br />
Here's Emerson's poem. And the pictures of what he could have meant. Enjoy.<br />
<br />
<strong>The Rhodora</strong><br />
<em>by Ralph Waldo Emerson</em><br />
<br />
<strong>On being asked, Whence is the flower?<br />
<br />
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,<br />
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,<br />
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,<br />
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.<br />
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,<br />
Made the black water with their beauty gay;<br />
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,<br />
And court the flower that cheapens his array.<br />
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why<br />
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,<br />
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,<br />
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:<br />
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!<br />
I never thought to ask, I never knew:<br />
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose<br />
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.<br />
</strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkCC_Py7HSQmOoiQxurhOirBFxQRuAXsi7QQ8g1X4zQqws-FNIrgjwt6OkjbyS0kgikanGVGMOu_HRp6ieczDp6ipXyG7hpGq_-Nl8OIIWcOjBP5NasvUtmPQVyyQxu4kXgnZ8sBf9Oc/s1600-h/flo93.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363047370968738290" style="WIDTH: 241px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 175px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkCC_Py7HSQmOoiQxurhOirBFxQRuAXsi7QQ8g1X4zQqws-FNIrgjwt6OkjbyS0kgikanGVGMOu_HRp6ieczDp6ipXyG7hpGq_-Nl8OIIWcOjBP5NasvUtmPQVyyQxu4kXgnZ8sBf9Oc/s320/flo93.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2CVyEoTw0z4aAmaelj7qUcBx9SI8bDu5s61CzcBTdCzWPNJL8kjAMWjiRQhztJjcdwDTHbNJX9PdWxHe8ho2MBpNGXpGyaA8kgsfWfqtT0y2DeEueg3v-n1kkIPWxioCHxdqr7Q13fc/s1600-h/flow1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363047363178723858" style="WIDTH: 232px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 175px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2CVyEoTw0z4aAmaelj7qUcBx9SI8bDu5s61CzcBTdCzWPNJL8kjAMWjiRQhztJjcdwDTHbNJX9PdWxHe8ho2MBpNGXpGyaA8kgsfWfqtT0y2DeEueg3v-n1kkIPWxioCHxdqr7Q13fc/s320/flow1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-xmqxMmgKbtnK8MHKUuEha-sLd3nAMfPbKl_zCWreKT1qyv-recTmifommYicLJN9WjAXj99iB0sHUdP9P_UEkChmHTbZLQeIZgTU2B07jETZAfOZUz9Q1vgilz6N4EYYxuvqkoLpSw/s1600-h/flo94.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363046422102279586" style="WIDTH: 235px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 182px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-xmqxMmgKbtnK8MHKUuEha-sLd3nAMfPbKl_zCWreKT1qyv-recTmifommYicLJN9WjAXj99iB0sHUdP9P_UEkChmHTbZLQeIZgTU2B07jETZAfOZUz9Q1vgilz6N4EYYxuvqkoLpSw/s320/flo94.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_4PSQpxyVTVBjh5jMIGhE7o3cz6QDr6j08JCJxpMU31fDnzeFp9kVoNuvZmLzbmOUWLWLdqE71VjikYpKOxHKzty9xW07KOIV7-lgxGPw-xrDLYn0moSRXZNaN1hiySCrIIaHQCabJE/s1600-h/flo92.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363046418522974578" style="WIDTH: 255px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 174px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_4PSQpxyVTVBjh5jMIGhE7o3cz6QDr6j08JCJxpMU31fDnzeFp9kVoNuvZmLzbmOUWLWLdqE71VjikYpKOxHKzty9xW07KOIV7-lgxGPw-xrDLYn0moSRXZNaN1hiySCrIIaHQCabJE/s320/flo92.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipIbTm_G8Q4bYeuaL_kXfgV3xwdx_1l3FsqvUMeXePe7jMHOoYLhD961IsxqpR8KgvJdzt0quP3OSx6o9JdvOuA84vLrfsTvrI-ncX8pm5ndpBp2z6feVE0cZISpTv0yuWYGEF0xusjcQ/s1600-h/flo9.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363046406394059186" style="WIDTH: 186px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 206px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipIbTm_G8Q4bYeuaL_kXfgV3xwdx_1l3FsqvUMeXePe7jMHOoYLhD961IsxqpR8KgvJdzt0quP3OSx6o9JdvOuA84vLrfsTvrI-ncX8pm5ndpBp2z6feVE0cZISpTv0yuWYGEF0xusjcQ/s320/flo9.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_k8ZgtQMPqa6T43bKm_zLwPucOqLrXF1jHNzYoPyf-no3QDQaXMFkSJjvYXcygGELSraohE3fFv9YQjuFN2zJw8J746le5aty3vLps9XScVlA46uggd3jkbfacfv0WfU4HN1I5tYp7ss/s1600-h/flo8.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363046402614113138" style="WIDTH: 248px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 193px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_k8ZgtQMPqa6T43bKm_zLwPucOqLrXF1jHNzYoPyf-no3QDQaXMFkSJjvYXcygGELSraohE3fFv9YQjuFN2zJw8J746le5aty3vLps9XScVlA46uggd3jkbfacfv0WfU4HN1I5tYp7ss/s320/flo8.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygNMLSEwtoq4MKVqbFFg4l3J2mw6s7Q709XY4AArDONnpkI0_nhs2e6uHTJvr8iV2DZ2Q0hpsdlTRZxKT__6UnHOXyaPOylHeEjRyetC5EV5CaXR65ekxEnJwpD1wVppzCEiGAaFotEA/s1600-h/flo6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363044837405244946" style="WIDTH: 153px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 137px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygNMLSEwtoq4MKVqbFFg4l3J2mw6s7Q709XY4AArDONnpkI0_nhs2e6uHTJvr8iV2DZ2Q0hpsdlTRZxKT__6UnHOXyaPOylHeEjRyetC5EV5CaXR65ekxEnJwpD1wVppzCEiGAaFotEA/s400/flo6.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgb5v-vV7IlWddUvLuAfhPhalXdk04UROOLaiZPSV86W9M6C47WaN-xZfn0YQOMaIgNdEl-nHOYSRNXyfLsJJG01IQzvAZqmaKAgtsWAhRT2g435pIIF5_UjfrU3gKPDGtdqGLNvaiVE/s1600-h/flo5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363044833965849362" style="WIDTH: 144px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 191px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgb5v-vV7IlWddUvLuAfhPhalXdk04UROOLaiZPSV86W9M6C47WaN-xZfn0YQOMaIgNdEl-nHOYSRNXyfLsJJG01IQzvAZqmaKAgtsWAhRT2g435pIIF5_UjfrU3gKPDGtdqGLNvaiVE/s400/flo5.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzcTEVAjo7sOBImqd1X5RbPhBBF7aPsS-7Xk62GlgMzkDHO_5mJza67YGMpyCrzK2MuJ4Gy1H61pBXHUEd31sHLcqv9xy5edbKEyKlExemz4rkrKQ3cKwoTvJk1YYBvyTjtQ3PZvS6rs/s1600-h/mush.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363061353247932370" style="WIDTH: 267px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 192px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzcTEVAjo7sOBImqd1X5RbPhBBF7aPsS-7Xk62GlgMzkDHO_5mJza67YGMpyCrzK2MuJ4Gy1H61pBXHUEd31sHLcqv9xy5edbKEyKlExemz4rkrKQ3cKwoTvJk1YYBvyTjtQ3PZvS6rs/s320/mush.jpg" border="0" /></a> @<br />
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<i>Originally posted: July 27, 2009; 2:42 PM </i><br />
</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-5992351881254615732010-09-10T00:24:00.084+08:002010-09-14T21:57:49.866+08:00Of local royalties and royal marches<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVeRbWL3irHxVkou8Z9qktLyrFxbmbPMNswrbKxAgBa_NdDmqVX8BcngIQkgBdLIhra6CpADv-m3P-vzpmeSyp7eidtNcCbkm6F2Y2kUAdNaukVaFzsmf4WDAiirH5iP7mutYAt71Ag00/s1600/p95.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="492" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVeRbWL3irHxVkou8Z9qktLyrFxbmbPMNswrbKxAgBa_NdDmqVX8BcngIQkgBdLIhra6CpADv-m3P-vzpmeSyp7eidtNcCbkm6F2Y2kUAdNaukVaFzsmf4WDAiirH5iP7mutYAt71Ag00/s640/p95.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
September 10 is the patronal fiesta of the town of Cabatuan in Iloilo. The patron saint is St. Nicolas de Tolentino, who is also the patron saint of the towns of Lambunao and Guimbal. Both towns which are also in the province of Iloilo, are also celebrating their fiestas today.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2bfitU_ma87JLaW-2yQXPkKD4ma7gVKq_jkx2zoQIAej97rosZsHt8RkwwSGmuuGc1yp_XOukuQBqDNU3kN7hfIklHAsm7awgQbs5eIoTka19viCRugYzMtk7IBivgCxKLRpt4J7D9Q/s1600/p1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2bfitU_ma87JLaW-2yQXPkKD4ma7gVKq_jkx2zoQIAej97rosZsHt8RkwwSGmuuGc1yp_XOukuQBqDNU3kN7hfIklHAsm7awgQbs5eIoTka19viCRugYzMtk7IBivgCxKLRpt4J7D9Q/s640/p1.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtF-DkHU6hkFsYAeAs-Hgy5Uw-lNy82YIEWbKUaHL-Cr4aqpY6CqfXFsg163brCspr3UeOBBumtSNl613qHmatXqr4e37jdD0WtpAwrqcOkQmWXZphZDCpiU3mvywN44UG_YmsEaorU0E/s1600/p5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="458" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtF-DkHU6hkFsYAeAs-Hgy5Uw-lNy82YIEWbKUaHL-Cr4aqpY6CqfXFsg163brCspr3UeOBBumtSNl613qHmatXqr4e37jdD0WtpAwrqcOkQmWXZphZDCpiU3mvywN44UG_YmsEaorU0E/s640/p5.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDkvXer3GVXGXH9L8BSBRXtlDyuzSbSAjzMXLsmtmKhNeKBttP3hwbwnHztguvncdIPKICHIILX1wFNlzY7awHGvugLAQNaegXlcu8AVIW7qPOd2zl_bpK49aLL-c9LwCP2xgdHvWcBZo/s1600/p990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="468" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDkvXer3GVXGXH9L8BSBRXtlDyuzSbSAjzMXLsmtmKhNeKBttP3hwbwnHztguvncdIPKICHIILX1wFNlzY7awHGvugLAQNaegXlcu8AVIW7qPOd2zl_bpK49aLL-c9LwCP2xgdHvWcBZo/s640/p990.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>People run out of their homes to see a pirate ship sail on the streets of Cabatuan, about 30 kilometers away from the nearest navigable sea.The ship, with trapunto-like bellowing sails and sturdy cannons may have snatched some attention from Their Majesties, The Fiesta Queen and Her Consort. But it sure adds a lot of drama and novelty to the otherwise staid annual festivity.</em></div><span id="fullpost"><br />
What's a fiesta without the parades and the fiesta queens? In Cabatuan, traffic has to be re-routed, offices are closed, and most of the populace troop to the poblacion to join the parade or to gawk at the fineries of the royal princesses and entourage. The food, the bazzar, and the perya are just side dishes to the smorgasbord of sights only witnessed during the fiesta. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9SXT3IPlHQ1AfXxIMvjwbWF-5sRb4ghqquit_Q31hoNycR9RtIjxu_bOBYe0wSaMHBm8EwdMC5NMy5OfF-czmi2x7HkUcxDq1C1vut1iHktdPgJmLPYwKzXCA_kcNdtnbThoFpbi9_U/s1600/p6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="494" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9SXT3IPlHQ1AfXxIMvjwbWF-5sRb4ghqquit_Q31hoNycR9RtIjxu_bOBYe0wSaMHBm8EwdMC5NMy5OfF-czmi2x7HkUcxDq1C1vut1iHktdPgJmLPYwKzXCA_kcNdtnbThoFpbi9_U/s640/p6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Part of the royal entourage are the singit boys. They are the ones who carry long bamboo poles to reach out to the overhead electrical wires for the safe passage of the royal floats.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllZkLZsjT_EJFXG4bZM78Yov-clSUdOdLyumI6rlmQ4_2oPFabEPRd4nobAUQXy0wYdjq8nj06SPNkFQq2FXHSXzKTTp6mLK5rZyXRMjcgpaI0QlqpReqG4fXDLbTH2mTpYrulZbXAtU/s1600/p96.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="466" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllZkLZsjT_EJFXG4bZM78Yov-clSUdOdLyumI6rlmQ4_2oPFabEPRd4nobAUQXy0wYdjq8nj06SPNkFQq2FXHSXzKTTp6mLK5rZyXRMjcgpaI0QlqpReqG4fXDLbTH2mTpYrulZbXAtU/s640/p96.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Little princes and princesses.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWbF-W_nTfVVXOtJ1G-FImbaD_0oJJjJ_GzPH4uBb4zsAgPBQ7uzYjdHgTaG_L97mAkL3KHzpzuAJixvolDcXyxhHTn4NM6Mxy0hGu3lpz0oLVDNVj5rY2BvKl15qp_u4YkjxG_KVCYM/s1600/p98.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="484" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWbF-W_nTfVVXOtJ1G-FImbaD_0oJJjJ_GzPH4uBb4zsAgPBQ7uzYjdHgTaG_L97mAkL3KHzpzuAJixvolDcXyxhHTn4NM6Mxy0hGu3lpz0oLVDNVj5rY2BvKl15qp_u4YkjxG_KVCYM/s640/p98.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLRVQ8vaeKkMfR5hKdg6pEJAPjcoGl4Y6I44gQNa_g-y2s8E3QvbTUux3DQYBxhF4m8J1ItF-lbuuwF5XpHCEPKdnoeyxI6HXIGUSZ1VntLbJuGrUp40Z-dhyphenhyphen3-1Sss3xyrkC1EA6S2M/s1600/p3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="474" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLRVQ8vaeKkMfR5hKdg6pEJAPjcoGl4Y6I44gQNa_g-y2s8E3QvbTUux3DQYBxhF4m8J1ItF-lbuuwF5XpHCEPKdnoeyxI6HXIGUSZ1VntLbJuGrUp40Z-dhyphenhyphen3-1Sss3xyrkC1EA6S2M/s640/p3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Seasonal fruits are refreshing sights on the sidelines.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosokUIC4qbvg6LtPiL3s9_BDKLB3wzjZLhlacjXjf7KzhjaPiarPogkL3pjJIyOm3EL9CSnpX-R1yi1LHCve4wFl7U2dKgbnwdTgUoPaf18GMoAfx1Oyb7gy-2wgmz7a4NxvdWwVlSqU/s1600/p93.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="474" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosokUIC4qbvg6LtPiL3s9_BDKLB3wzjZLhlacjXjf7KzhjaPiarPogkL3pjJIyOm3EL9CSnpX-R1yi1LHCve4wFl7U2dKgbnwdTgUoPaf18GMoAfx1Oyb7gy-2wgmz7a4NxvdWwVlSqU/s640/p93.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpxBw0oqorMQPExKxMxX60Vjd3-q9YwQ3D2ahMo1fS2Hc5F5x69mXCXeKY39j971j2hHLoWkPvSZYajh7E3npwc7a9bdgxpHpH2C_LDAuGy1vqpqhL3DeKGiUs0mLwa7zpN0Rtsv5pGPw/s1600/p991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="484" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpxBw0oqorMQPExKxMxX60Vjd3-q9YwQ3D2ahMo1fS2Hc5F5x69mXCXeKY39j971j2hHLoWkPvSZYajh7E3npwc7a9bdgxpHpH2C_LDAuGy1vqpqhL3DeKGiUs0mLwa7zpN0Rtsv5pGPw/s640/p991.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Tan Tono, the mythical founder of Cabatuan, may have wondered at all these ordered chaos. He may have founded the town, but only a few knew the actual date he formalized this sitio. And I never heard of any activity to celebrate Tan Tono's efforts. His cold statue under the shadow of the towering Catholic Church and the expensive patronal fiesta are reminders that religion is primordial in the lives of Cabatuananons.</em></div><br />
All the pictures I took from the vantage point of the ordinary mortal who could only be in the sidelines and never near touching distance of the royals; and outside the coronation shrine. My feet are still caked with clay. (As a consolation, I was given an invite to sit beside the royals inside the covered gym but I got cold feet as I was informed I could only mingle with the royals if I wear a 'coat and tie'. Well, I have my mothballed americana hanging in my car in peparation for the main event. But the sweltering heat and humidity reminded me that americana is not the tolerable wear of plebeian Pinoys. So I donned my Tshirt and just took pictures along the route of the procession and outside the coronation shrine. I just thought I could never be a royal; I will never be invited to any royal gathering again; and I will never have a chance to rub elbows with the royals during the lifespan of my camera.) <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocdPwGsWNM_PU6dOylUde9UaBxWYZ4wIYQOrWVnE03HtnnypS6II__7xJ4sNsj69NwVVoQqS8dbj9kq7mBSgd6ee-Zbxs26NIgIihkdxH4hn9sn_MA12iUQ6r54EdmYPS9wg2Tf-KPP4/s1600/p9993.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="498" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocdPwGsWNM_PU6dOylUde9UaBxWYZ4wIYQOrWVnE03HtnnypS6II__7xJ4sNsj69NwVVoQqS8dbj9kq7mBSgd6ee-Zbxs26NIgIihkdxH4hn9sn_MA12iUQ6r54EdmYPS9wg2Tf-KPP4/s640/p9993.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHULQu4Al3epSndSGqtI4olWkuWb7OtXTx1K8E71yxDhLhA_HZwgyxQo4cNdMLLXxAVxi1fpXNBSRn-v0Hfb9rw2my6fcWkGeA808qlbUttgm-OOTAtfC8OvPSEoVG4E-113BqbrfLto/s1600/p99941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="506" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHULQu4Al3epSndSGqtI4olWkuWb7OtXTx1K8E71yxDhLhA_HZwgyxQo4cNdMLLXxAVxi1fpXNBSRn-v0Hfb9rw2my6fcWkGeA808qlbUttgm-OOTAtfC8OvPSEoVG4E-113BqbrfLto/s640/p99941.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4NUVX3ClOtzkxcGdBb3phvMv2MzSt1m2gHfunVL65XQdYem1sEoH-BRl5GqD0Gdk7RJx6RSMCu51cHs7xaN4otOq8bBKRVDwI0ccvZ1IU-fCraVRHoo4GqkyRS_KUv35olTvO9gziTg/s1600/p9997.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="528" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4NUVX3ClOtzkxcGdBb3phvMv2MzSt1m2gHfunVL65XQdYem1sEoH-BRl5GqD0Gdk7RJx6RSMCu51cHs7xaN4otOq8bBKRVDwI0ccvZ1IU-fCraVRHoo4GqkyRS_KUv35olTvO9gziTg/s640/p9997.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><em>No, they are not the main attractions of the festivities. They are the proud and regal parents of the fiesta queen and her consort.</em><br />
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Below are more pics I took during the royal parades. (If you don't see the slideshow, please click on the <span style="color: #3d85c6;">link</span> you see below. The link is only shown in the absence of the slideshow.)<br />
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<embed flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fhimigtigum%2Falbumid%2F5516588242605853121%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26hl%3Den_US" height="400" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="600"></embed> @<br />
</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-50801674916396283212010-08-30T23:55:00.015+08:002010-09-14T09:55:01.970+08:00Tinuom FestivalThe town of Cabatuan in central Iloilo is holding a Tinuom Festival as a prelude to its patronal fiesta on September 10. Street dancing and a search for Tinuom queen are some of the activities during the festival.<br />
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Tinuom is a way of cooking where the ingredients are wrapped in a leaf, preferably banana leaf. The wrapped mix is them cooked over boiling water. The resulting cooked food is also called tinuom.<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGd6QxElY_uKgDSGmv-n_qh09TqeUc_iire96g3bpWEV9wWF6S-2yBEknRPnb3ugWvuo4p_kxQj3VXW_Upzr_5bWGoeM9_if3nQDVfatsFr8Waj_cFTmOLBxm44OTdM0bsHq6MAbTqsFk/s1600/t6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGd6QxElY_uKgDSGmv-n_qh09TqeUc_iire96g3bpWEV9wWF6S-2yBEknRPnb3ugWvuo4p_kxQj3VXW_Upzr_5bWGoeM9_if3nQDVfatsFr8Waj_cFTmOLBxm44OTdM0bsHq6MAbTqsFk/s640/t6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Currently, when one talks about tinuom, he means chicken cooked the tinuom way. So much so that people from other places thought tinuom nga manok is the specialty of the people of Cabatuan. But I beg to disagree. I grew up in Cabatuan, and I haven’t heard anyone cooking the tinuom way as part of their daily life. One time our Owaw cooked tinuom for us. And it was tinuom nga isda. Or tinuom nga uhong (mushroom). She cooked tinuom because we were in the far away farm of my father where it was hard to buy lard or cooking oil.<br />
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Last I heard, tinuom was just a specialty of one carinderia in Cabatuan. While the other carinderias serve batsoy, linaga, arroz caldo, or pata. But no one complained that there must be a Linaga or Pata Festival to commemorate their own specialties. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJzMyFco5ZBB0RNO1y01-3YLFgiAaLKNjwxQuzLgmOmqlfQiRTqGko1KhhAzDbJCz5mBYUJr3dTGLSPEp7F3xBBKxbEr9Adruf3K1oeLUIfh2FUS3ij359KvFFW2lOOo6kjaK2Ko_MtU/s1600/t924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJzMyFco5ZBB0RNO1y01-3YLFgiAaLKNjwxQuzLgmOmqlfQiRTqGko1KhhAzDbJCz5mBYUJr3dTGLSPEp7F3xBBKxbEr9Adruf3K1oeLUIfh2FUS3ij359KvFFW2lOOo6kjaK2Ko_MtU/s400/t924.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div><br />
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Herewith are pictures I took during the opening salvo of the Tinuom Festival. The streets were lined with stalls selling burloloys, ukay-ukay, finger foods, DVDs, and ice cream. Tinuom is sold in a secluded corner of the makeshift pavillon, away from the prying eyes of the spectators. But looking at the sidelines, this festivity could have been called Burloloy Festival. Or Ukay-ukay Festival. Or Bisan Ano Festival. And nobody would have felt the difference. @<br />
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</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-8865722696985196032010-08-15T23:29:00.010+08:002010-08-15T23:45:52.043+08:00Fields of bariri<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZlZ6Gv6kZ57dujlp7_SYrxdiZXj6h4gbkvYvJIECb9IYtSl2kpX-_6OHcuZ7TWogdONUsP0yd6rZYi_W0lo6nBInP2PKlmhIfk0ARSAFfbkEtc5rT_fFSQZjwLLlzCFLSeXE7JtmDfc/s1600/121_0136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZlZ6Gv6kZ57dujlp7_SYrxdiZXj6h4gbkvYvJIECb9IYtSl2kpX-_6OHcuZ7TWogdONUsP0yd6rZYi_W0lo6nBInP2PKlmhIfk0ARSAFfbkEtc5rT_fFSQZjwLLlzCFLSeXE7JtmDfc/s320/121_0136.jpg" width="400"/></a><br />
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Today we went to the old barrio of my parents and great forebears. I got a sense of deja vu as memories of years long gone flooded my mind. More so as I heard my sister narrated to my daughters the experiences we had when we as kids romped accross the fields as a short cut to the house of our grandparents. Passing this way was a shorter route. But not necessarily a shorter length of time. Because along this way we bathed in shallow pools we fancied, and climbed guavas or lomboy or any tree laden with fruits, and followed the scent of ripe wild pineapples under the clamps of bamboos. With all these activities, we reached our grandparents house just before the sun set. And no one worried that we could be victimized by mad dogs, drug addicts or sex maniacs. Those times, our only worry was if we met an aswang.<br />
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The setting was the same. The place hardly changed at all since the time we passed here when we were kids. Yes, it hardly changed especially after I saw the hills strewn with bariri. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDw85W3-mAV305NNRgUZS_aU-ZXPtFOKlpK573AuQtjFO-qqGh0u3UXV4x4BVbsrH2SfL1p5wmUXZFqHguZtY6mFsI3NJ87JGmzdKlPVl2B-hohZRM1oCXNs2Hqu_6c-_iyYvFPAN0asY/s1600/121_0140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDw85W3-mAV305NNRgUZS_aU-ZXPtFOKlpK573AuQtjFO-qqGh0u3UXV4x4BVbsrH2SfL1p5wmUXZFqHguZtY6mFsI3NJ87JGmzdKlPVl2B-hohZRM1oCXNs2Hqu_6c-_iyYvFPAN0asY/s320/121_0140.jpg" width="400"/></a> </div>'This is called a bariri,' I told the kids referring to the stalks of grass bearing the seeds. 'The bariri gets pinned like needles to the pants or the hemlines of the unsuspecting traveller.'<br />
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The kids hardly paid attention. They were more interested in the newness of the surrounding. We live in the city. And the vast expanse of open fields was new indeed.<br />
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The wind was blowing and the carpet of bariri seemed to wave at me to stoop down and look closer. I wore walking shorts which the bariri pins could not reach. But I felt the itchiness as the bariri touched my bare legs.<br />
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I remembered my father. I knew he just came from his farm because of the countless bariris pinned to his pants and his shirt. He looked like he was attacked and got hit by the arrows of a barangay of Liliputians. I looked up to those times when he went home with bariris. Tatay would give me five centavos to pick out the bariris from his pants. Those days five centavos were all I needed to get the best merienda in the nearby sari-sari store.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFz9YjAObGKIY5VQ_i6taEkJXkGpPzxcUBAnIZ5S5zvDo26KxAdg-bknefIu_maW5rLLyRDslxNOMwus6K6BmrRVbpd60vnmQo-ggFQNJiJtvpTE_U8C37oby3d5nULZYAlckcUavAv4/s1600/121_0134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFz9YjAObGKIY5VQ_i6taEkJXkGpPzxcUBAnIZ5S5zvDo26KxAdg-bknefIu_maW5rLLyRDslxNOMwus6K6BmrRVbpd60vnmQo-ggFQNJiJtvpTE_U8C37oby3d5nULZYAlckcUavAv4/s320/121_0134.jpg" width="400"/></a></div><br />
Then there was our elementary school teacher. She was late in our class. And the hemline of her teacher uniform was filled with bariri. She asked many of my classmates to clean her skirt from bariri. Afterwards, she boasted in front of the other teachers that she was late because she just came straight from the city. And she had a sumptuos breakfast in a restaurant in the city. Then my classmates who overheard her laughed. 'Ma'am, you couldn't have been from the city because your dress was filled with bariri when you arrived,' my classmates corrected. And our teacher was very embarrased.<br />
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In high school, I had a male classmate who lived in the barrio. Each morning, when he came to school I noticed his pants were filled with bariri. Before he entered our classroom, he passed by the back of our building. Afterwards, when he joined our class, he was beaming with nary a sight of bariri on his pants. For four years he endured this morning ritual. And in our senior year, he was voted by our teachers as the Neatest Lad in our class. <br />
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My kids called my attention to hurry up. They were far ahead now. I could hardly hear their conversation. Maybe they were wondering why I was taking pictures of the grasses. Possibly, they thought the grasses were no big deal. But for a farmboy that I was, a bariri is a link to the past. Something I would like to go back to, even just in my mind. @<br />
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</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-41749396246695252652010-08-12T23:11:00.018+08:002010-08-13T09:13:59.379+08:00RIP PremeeMosac called me last night. She mentioned a name of a classmate which I didn't recognize. She said the classmate died in Guam where he lived and worked; and that the wake was in their ancestral house in Bgy. Tabucan. I went over the yellowing pages of the high school commencement program which Haydee (now residing in the US) entrusted to me, before she returned to the US. His name was there but I still couldn't put a face to the name. I don't remember him at all. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJhf8nGbBoGZqFtFfSacpjfOmVIMK6KAK4Qsgm4KShH9a00z8msblbZF1FK7qAwoZLN-JAzySumW5JZAv492e1rMUEv2Q2UI99gYzmcfJ296LtRmfbnGnS4DY3f0FNJHdnK8s-l_G6VU/s1600/121_0132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJhf8nGbBoGZqFtFfSacpjfOmVIMK6KAK4Qsgm4KShH9a00z8msblbZF1FK7qAwoZLN-JAzySumW5JZAv492e1rMUEv2Q2UI99gYzmcfJ296LtRmfbnGnS4DY3f0FNJHdnK8s-l_G6VU/s400/121_0132.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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Later, I learned that the classmate was popularly known as Premee. He died after a massive stroke. He left behind his wife; and a son from a previous relationship.<br />
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I bought the usual mass card, to carry the name of the CNCHS Class, and went to their house after lunch today. I was with my sister, as she was also a classmate of Premee's younger sister. <br />
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I met his wife, his sister, and a brother - all just arrived from the US. And I saw his happy picture. But I still could not recognize him. He looked old. He couldn't be a classmate. But later, his sister explained that he stayed in high school longer than anyone.<br />
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Then they mentioned he was once a jeepney driver when he was in the Philippines. His father was based in Guam and his family was comparatively well-off. He was driving their family-owned PUJ.<br />
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Then I remembered there was once a chinky-eyed driver who was always smiling and happy. And popular with the beautiful lady passengers. And his barkadas were Colay, Zari, and the other pretty girls in my class.<br />
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Yes, he was Premee. His neighbors said he was nicknamed Premee because he was a premature baby.<br />
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Interment is at the Cabatuan Catholic Cemetery on August 14.<br />
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Rest in peace, Premee.<br />
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@ </span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-87144503879481634392010-07-22T22:00:00.001+08:002010-07-22T21:06:53.374+08:00Iloilo Sports Complex<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgew_wex1MLNamah-K6riEEyU-NlvRXN3LenCuF5N8thhEv34zMs3H9MQFUMkKmac-vcpb9G6Q21Piys6xUkuxf2CwIFiyoIzYJIRH0ar01-LICx-JC8vfHN_uWq5NLWXKBj3Kucd7f-VI/s1600-h/isc4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364263066557757618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgew_wex1MLNamah-K6riEEyU-NlvRXN3LenCuF5N8thhEv34zMs3H9MQFUMkKmac-vcpb9G6Q21Piys6xUkuxf2CwIFiyoIzYJIRH0ar01-LICx-JC8vfHN_uWq5NLWXKBj3Kucd7f-VI/s400/isc4.jpg" border="0" /></a>Can you jog around this track oval four times - straight without stopping? I can. Or I mean, I did.<br />
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I am a frequent jogger at the Iloilo Sports Complex. Or, I jog when the weather or my schedule permits. In the morning, after I drop my kids at the nearby West Visayas State University where they are attending elementary classes, I pass by the complex to do at least 1 hour of walking, jogging and calisthenics. Many of the regular joggers are already familiar to me, and perhaps, I to them. But while most regulars jog in groups, I do my routine alone to be on my own pace. Of course, I don’t talk to strangers.<br />
<br />
One day, as I started to jog after two rounds of walking, a regular ran to my direction and paced beside me. He looked old in contrast to his body which was lean and bereft of a beer belly. I heard the other joggers called him Tatang perhaps because he looked the oldest among the regulars. I usually saw him jogging beside the others and he seemed at home with everyone.<br />
<br />
‘Kumusta ‘To? Amo na maayo. Umpisahan mo jogging nga bata ka pa. (How are you, kid? It’s good you start jogging while you are still young.)’. He called me Toto. With everyone calling me Sir, Manong, Tito, and one visibly 50ish fish vendor calling me Tatay, how could you not love this man? No wonder the other joggers loved the company of Tatang.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicx8AVU5KEJEvvjezemnK4gqoYRzFLCttPjRdLiYJwmMw37BUraePeUFUpoAPEMcz_HqOePpUNaKrEDsE-3G9O21xZtQGLwbNebHHATj4ZJRpjQSzLeEvyb5Ce8b3N1EidDkX2UbZQaXU/s1600-h/isc1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364264228338554146" style="WIDTH: 217px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 171px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicx8AVU5KEJEvvjezemnK4gqoYRzFLCttPjRdLiYJwmMw37BUraePeUFUpoAPEMcz_HqOePpUNaKrEDsE-3G9O21xZtQGLwbNebHHATj4ZJRpjQSzLeEvyb5Ce8b3N1EidDkX2UbZQaXU/s320/isc1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-pFUghqpHPgh9_MqplieUUeL4nEJ8_NFdaZENTUEzUHWCBrBAg14Xq2wv0XOAZCbRVfLVzETh9L4YxsqZ28Vtw2mFsc1d7pXkRcwHaYLbK66pEZfobAplvfm_v1EtNMswORJ7Zx_VX1w/s1600-h/isc2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364264237504938370" style="WIDTH: 224px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-pFUghqpHPgh9_MqplieUUeL4nEJ8_NFdaZENTUEzUHWCBrBAg14Xq2wv0XOAZCbRVfLVzETh9L4YxsqZ28Vtw2mFsc1d7pXkRcwHaYLbK66pEZfobAplvfm_v1EtNMswORJ7Zx_VX1w/s320/isc2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
<br />
‘Ako nag-umpisa cincuenta na. Subong sobra citenta na ako. Pero sigi pa gihapon ako jogging para layo sakit. Naga entra pa gani ako sa mga marathon. (I started jogging when I was already 50. Now I am already over 70. But I continue on jogging to evade being sick. I even joined marathons.)’ Tatang talked as easily as he jogged. He talked about his experiences as a marathon runner. Sometimes he asked me questions.<br />
<span id="fullpost"><br />
I learned from a friend who was a member of the Makati Runners Club the basics of jogging. ‘Jog at the right speed, at the right pace’, he would say. And what was the right pace? ‘You are doing the right pace when, while running, you can still talk coherently without you catching your breath. If you can no longer talk straight, if you can only manage monosyllabic words, slow down. Better still, just walk until you catch your breath,’ my friend explained. And I followed his advice since then, many years ago.<br />
<br />
So I answered Tatang with long sentences. I didn’t like this old man to think that he could beat the young man in me. Ano papierde?<br />
<br />
But as I neared the end of my first round, I was conscious of my limits. I only did one straight round around the oval before; after that I slowed down to walking until I could catch my breath. Isang ikot lang humihingal na ako. I looked at Tatang and wished he would stop. He was still pacing beside me, blabbering away his zest for life, as if I was the best listener and jogging partner he ever had.<br />
<br />
Then we were starting my second round. I was praying I could still make it. Tatang was asking me about my job, my family, my everything. Now I could only give a one-word answer. Should I slow down? I could no longer speak coherently. But what will this old man say? That I was a wimp? Should I give him the ultimate high of bragging to others that he can outjog me, who was decades younger than him? Basi hambalon niya maayo lang ako sa porma.<br />
<br />
I focused on other things hoping that I would forget the distance I had run so far. I psyched myself up. I can do it. I can do it.<br />
<br />
‘Ga-entra ka sa Milo marathon? Kada tuig ga-entra ako. (Are you joining the Milo marathon? Every year I am joining),’ Tatang boasted. I could not say even a Yes. I could only blurt a sound which even I could not understand. We were nearing the end of my second round. I needed to slow down. I was thinking, ‘Please Tatang stop. Go and run with others.’<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmg_6s2aeccuiOw9oCFZr1XiMlW5a2CKSMy8Dn940frgLtutfEz5AXH6TaW3CmjJb4Ega3dAukF6AoSr1bVlRWLIYb8-vzYxOQQ0zwms8TTvm9ymXDaCoj051Df_vzGgEVz95bhJ0A4mY/s1600-h/isc6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364264249025940418" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 199px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmg_6s2aeccuiOw9oCFZr1XiMlW5a2CKSMy8Dn940frgLtutfEz5AXH6TaW3CmjJb4Ega3dAukF6AoSr1bVlRWLIYb8-vzYxOQQ0zwms8TTvm9ymXDaCoj051Df_vzGgEVz95bhJ0A4mY/s320/isc6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
<br />
We started my third round. I felt my left side aching. I could hardly breathe. My sight seemed to dim. No I still can do it, I thought. I still can do it. I still can do it. Tatang please stay away from me.<br />
<br />
I remembered my classmate Andres. He was a stroke survivor. He used to be one of the engineers during the construction of the new Iloilo Airport. He narrated to me and our other classmates his experience when he had a stroke. ‘First your sight dims. Then you see stars. You get dizzy. The stars become so many. Then you black out. And collapse.’ Andres adviced us that when we experience the same situation, we better pray. And pray hard.<br />
<br />
‘Ga-entra man ako sa iba nga marathon. Sang isa ka bulan, sa Guimaras ako. Nagdalagan man kag nag-tapos sang marathon. (I joined other marathons. Last month I was in Guimaras. I ran and finished a marathon there)'. Tatang kept on talking. He reminded me that the marathon covered a distance of about 52 kilometers. The great distance he uttered was like salt rubbed on the boils I felt growing on my feet. Was he running a marathon or jogging two ovals with me? I thought I was about to collapse.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxio-SSyauAGMT_PuE0p0NfKoUsyojYrStI2qtsPoxqGWKGobtfznZXRbhuIHu_XMj_GFxMeuw1aCyEre5ayxhpARmnbl6Jw_-uevzoQkst85qAhxEXZaha8zsDEYmhwB5hMY6lvdGJ4/s1600-h/isc5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364264245127301298" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxio-SSyauAGMT_PuE0p0NfKoUsyojYrStI2qtsPoxqGWKGobtfznZXRbhuIHu_XMj_GFxMeuw1aCyEre5ayxhpARmnbl6Jw_-uevzoQkst85qAhxEXZaha8zsDEYmhwB5hMY6lvdGJ4/s320/isc5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
<br />
‘I can do it. I can do it,’ I kept on saying to myself. ‘Don’t think about the running. Look at the trees. They are so green. And these special kids from a SPED school also on the oval. They were here with their teacher. Look at them innocently enjoying their freedom. Some could hardly run. But they are happy. Their teachers are happy. Aren’t you glad none of your kids are like them? Ahh.. today I will bring my kids to Jollibee. Forget the junk food. I just would like to be thankful my kids do not require this special attention.’<br />
<br />
Scenes became vivid and comforting. The clouds were just perfect covers against the 8:00 am heat of the sun. The people were all smiling. Life was beautiful.<br />
<br />
We were about to finish my third round. Tatang spoke softly now. Oh yeah? Could he be tired? Would he slow down? Oh yeah! He was decades older than I was. I felt my chest was about to burst.<br />
<br />
‘Kon kaisa daw ginatamad man ako magkadto diri. Pero kinahanglan gid magkari. Daw nagamasakit ako kon indi kadalagan. (Sometimes I am too lazy to come here. But I have to force myself. I seem to get sick when I don’t run),’ Tatang said.<br />
<br />
I was glad it was not a question. Because how could I answer? My tongue was wagging. My open mouth was not big enough to suck in oxygen for my lungs. I felt my mouth was sliding to the side. Most stroke victims had problems with their speech. And their mouths were somehow misplaced to the sides of their faces.<br />
<br />
‘It’s a nice day.’, Tatang exclaimed.<br />
<br />
We started my fourth round. My sight seemed to dim. Did I see stars? I refused to concede. No, it was just the glint of Tatang’s bald head. Or possibly the glint of his eyeglasses. I was looking straight ahead. Where were the other joggers. I couldn’t see one in front of me. Could it be my sight was really dimming? I felt my chest was aching. I could no longer feel my legs. Were they still moving? And stars again. No. They were just glints from Tatangs sweat. There were three stars. No the cars parked ahead were too shiny. And Andres’ advice echoed, ‘Better pray. And pray hard.’<br />
<br />
‘Please, please. Let Tatang stop. I will now wash my car. And I promise not to say bad words against Arroyo. Please let Tatang stop.’<br />
<br />
The blare of the disco music from the sound system was becoming softer. I used to time my steps with the beat of the music. This time, the beat was slowing down. My steps were slowing down. I could hardly lift my feet. We were about to finish my fourth round.<br />
<br />
Then the best music of all that day. 'To tapos na ako. Nami ka gali updan mag-jogging. Sa sunod ulit. (Kid, I am done. I enjoyed jogging with you. Until next time.)'. And Tatang ran straight to his bicycle parked near the gate.<br />
<br />
I closed my eyes in gratitude. I could not stop immediately. I had to gradually slow down. And cool down. I could not see the stars now. But I seemed to see everybody in the sports complex looking at me. Those on the sides stopped what they were doing and turned to my direction. They were all standing. With bated breath they were awaiting my entry into the stadium. Marathon is the last event during the Olympics. And there was drama, suspense, and euphoria when the lead runner entered the stadium. I was approaching the finish line. The crowd shouted my name. Electricity filled the air. I touched the finish line tape. And the crowd burst into celebration with tears in their eyes. Yes! I finished the fourth round. I jogged around the oval four times. Continuous. I slowed to a halt. I knelt and touched the rubber track. Yes! I did not see stars afterall. Yes! My mouth was still in the same place. Yes! I made it. I loved Tatang. Without him I would not have known my full potential. And he stopped first. Yes! He could never boast around that he beat me.<br />
<br />
I opened my eyes. The heat of the sun was now searing. There were a few joggers left. And they jogged on as if nothing had happened. What? Are these guys blind? Didn’t they notice that I ran the oval for four times? Straight. Without resting. They should have known.<br />
<br />
I returned to my car as soon as Tatang left the complex and my breathing came to normal. My calves were aching. My legs were not steady.<br />
<br />
I rested the whole day. And the day after. And the week after.<br />
<br />
Then I felt globules of cholesterol reticulating inside my arteries. I reckoned I needed exercise. So I returned back to the track to do my usual routine.<br />
<br />
The sun was bright when I entered the complex. There were many joggers. I was about to start walking when I spotted Tatang. Daw astig gid. He was jogging with some of the regulars. Then he saw me. I chickened. Will he jog again with me? I remembered the side pains, the difficulty in breathing, my chest about to burst, my mouth about to sag, my sight getting dim, and stars appearing from nowhere.<br />
<br />
I went back to my car. Maybe now I would take up swimming as my exercise. @<br />
<br />
<i>Note: Originally posted 7/30/09 10:00PM. </i><br />
<br />
</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-13667635239830854122010-06-19T23:43:00.042+08:002011-04-14T22:06:23.472+08:00Rizal's DayIt's June 19. Nothing special today. I was in school, perusing over some notes. No frills nor semblance of an activity outside. Not much traffic. People went on with their weekend routine unhampered. Unless Gloria Arroyo happen to come nearby to inaugurate some projects. Her appearance brings a chaotic change from the routinary, as roads are jammed due to re-routed traffic, as policemen swarm the intersections, and wang-wangs add its noise to the usual sounds of the ambulances and firetrucks.<br />
<br />
Today was so ordinary I only learned late in the day that today is the birthday of the Philippine national hero, Dr. Jose Protacio Rizal. Yes, in the Philippines we celebrate the deaths of people. Many times, we forget about their birthdays. Rizal died on December 30 and the government marks the date as a holiday. But the government never gave a hoot about June 19.<br />
<span id="fullpost"><br />
I could dismiss this trivia about Jose Rizal. But somehow I also felt guilty about something pertaining to Rizal. <br />
<br />
When I was working abroad, one of the service providers of the company I was working with was based in Germany. As an IT Manager, I was always accompanied around by the PR man of the service provider each time I was in Germany. <br />
<br />
When in Germany, I was based in Weinheim, a picturesque and hilly town popularly known as the home of the luxury car maker Mercedes Benz. A town nearby was the home of rival BMW. Every weekend, I went around the town and its suburbs. And I was a peculiar sight to behold as locals stopped whatever they were doing to stare and size me up, as if they saw a ghost or a weird ET. One time a bicycle careened into the canal beside the road because the driver kept on looking back at me. Possibly, in this area of Caucasians, I was the only brown human. <br />
<br />
My German guide was a well-travelled young man. He seemed to know a lot about the Philippines. I told him I liked the smalltown ambience of Weinheim and that, I liked a lot the nearby city of Heidelberg. It was more cosmopolitan and, atop the city were the ruins of an ancient castle which I visited each time I was in the city. Then my guide recited stanzas of a poem. And he seemed disappointed when I didn't react.<br />
<br />
'You mean, you didn't recognize the poem?' he asked. 'That was the official English translation.'<br />
<br />
'I'm sorry but I was not familiar with the lines,' I replied.<br />
<br />
'Really?'. He thought I was joking. 'Those were lines from the poem To The Flowers of Heidelberg. By Dr. Jose Rizal. Your national hero.'<br />
<br />
'And how did you know that?'<br />
<br />
'I graduated from the University of Heidelberg, where Dr. Rizal took his Opthalmology. There is a Rizal statue near Heildelberg, in the village where he used to live when he was a student.'<br />
<br />
I was embarrassed. I should have known these trivias. I should be the one to inform this foreigner about Rizal. But frankly, I didn't know about these. Or perhaps, I forgot. I knew that Rizal studied in Heidelberg. But I didn't know it was the Heidelberg I frequent on weekends. I knew that he wrote poems. But I didn't know he wrote a poem specific to Heidelberg. Perhaps, it would be understandable that I didn't know there was a Rizal statue in the area. But still I felt pathetic and miserable. Rizal or any Filipino would have been ashamed of me. I felt incompetent and not professional enough beside this German whose salary was less than mine. What if I told him something about the German national hero? But I was not even sure if Germany had a national hero. I didn't like to mention Hitler either because Germans had mixed feelings about him.<br />
<br />
That incident happened more than a decade ago. But thinking about it now, I still shiver with embarrassment. Perhaps, I regard Andres Bonifacio as my hero. But Rizal was still an impressive historical figure to be proud of. During those periods of discrimination, he towered above the foreign oppressors. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjCeO-89EQRTVkyo7zXwCSmCGjCjAUrsOszHyipN9MhpKsBEkR_TG-k9AJcto4sBKgpCgvXawNKXGY1GY41eDvki862HrQ4xvnYAQZ7v5cGLGPykAku4FDEijcuuIbfZ9D3RiFinaT1Y/s1600/Rizal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjCeO-89EQRTVkyo7zXwCSmCGjCjAUrsOszHyipN9MhpKsBEkR_TG-k9AJcto4sBKgpCgvXawNKXGY1GY41eDvki862HrQ4xvnYAQZ7v5cGLGPykAku4FDEijcuuIbfZ9D3RiFinaT1Y/s320/Rizal.jpg" /></a></div><i>The Dr. Jose Rizal statue in Wilhelmsfeld, near Heidelberg. The square where the statue is found is aptly called Rizal Park.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Today, just like other Saturdays, we went to mass in the evening. And I prayed for Dr. Jose Rizal. Afterwards, we went out to eat. For a change, I was the one who ordered as, ordinarily, my children ordered for the food. The children noticed that our order was over-the-top compared to the usual.<br />
<br />
'Daddy dami nating order. Anong occassion?' they asked.<br />
<br />
'It's the birthday of a friend,' I replied.<br />
<br />
'Sinong friend? Special ba siya? Dahil sa birthday mo nga, pancit lang tinitipid pa.' They giggled.<br />
<br />
'Birthday ni Dr. Jose Rizal, our national hero.'<br />
<br />
Then we talked about Rizal, his life, his works, and about my experience in Weinheim. I told the kids about the Rizal statue in Heidelberg and about the poem To The Flowers of Heidelberg. I still didn't memorize any line of the poem, but the kids searched for it in the internet when we arrived home. They hoped to recite it in their class in the future. <br />
<br />
Yes, today was an ordinary day. But I was sure, with all my blunders, today Rizal would have forgiven me.@<br />
<br />
<br />
A Las Flores De Heidelberg<br />
José Rizal<br />
<br />
<br />
Id a mi patria, id, extranjeras flores,<br />
sembradas del viajero en el camino,<br />
y bajo su azul cielo,<br />
que guarda mis amores,<br />
contad del peregrino<br />
la fe que alienta por su patrio suelo! <br />
id y decid ... decid que cuando el alba<br />
vuestro cáliz abrió por vez primera<br />
cabe el Neckar helado,<br />
le visteis silencioso a vuestro lado<br />
pensando en su constante primavera.<br />
Decid que cuando el alba,<br />
que roba vuestro aroma,<br />
cantos de amor jugando os susurraba,<br />
él tambien murmuraba<br />
cantos de amor en su natal idioma;<br />
que cuando el sol la cumbre<br />
del Koenigsthul en la mañana dora<br />
y con su tibia lumbre<br />
anima el valle, el bosque y la espesura,<br />
saluda a ese sol aún en su aurora,<br />
al que en su patria en el cenit fulgura !<br />
y contad aquel día <br />
cuando os cogía al borde del sendero,<br />
entre ruinas del feudal castillo,<br />
orilla al Neckar, o a la selva umbria.<br />
Contad lo que os decía ,<br />
cuando, con gran ciudado<br />
entre las páginas de un libro usado<br />
vuestras flexibles hojas oprimía.<br />
<br />
Llevad, llevad, oh flores !<br />
amor a mis amores<br />
paz a mi país y a su fecunda tierra,<br />
fe a sus hombres, virtud a sus mujeres, <br />
salud a dulces seres<br />
que el paternal, sagrado hogar encierra ...<br />
<br />
Cuando toqueis la playa,<br />
el beso os imprimo<br />
depositadlo en ala de la brisa,<br />
por que con ella vaya<br />
y bese cuanto adora, amo y estimo.<br />
<br />
Mas ay llegáreis flores,<br />
conservaréis quizas vuestras colores,<br />
pero lejos del patrio, heroico suelo<br />
a quien debéis la vida:<br />
que aroma es alma, y no abandona el cielo,<br />
cuya luz viera en su nacer, ni olvida.<br />
<br />
To the Flowers of Heidelberg<br />
by José Rizal<br />
(A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin)<br />
<br />
<br />
Go to my country, go, O foreign flowers, <br />
sown by the traveler along the road, <br />
and under that blue heaven <br />
that watches over my loved ones, <br />
recount the devotion <br />
the pilgrim nurses for his native sod! <br />
Go and say say that when dawn <br />
opened your chalices for the first time <br />
beside the icy Neckar, <br />
you saw him silent beside you, <br />
thinking of her constant vernal clime. <br />
Say that when dawn <br />
which steals your aroma <br />
was whispering playful love songs to your young <br />
sweet petals, he, too, murmured <br />
canticles of love in his native tongue; <br />
that in the morning when the sun first traces <br />
the topmost peak of Koenigssthul in gold <br />
and with a mild warmth raises <br />
to life again the valley, the glade, the forest, <br />
he hails that sun, still in its dawning, <br />
that in his country in full zenith blazes. <br />
And tell of that day <br />
when he collected you along the way <br />
among the ruins of a feudal castle, <br />
on the banks of the Neckar, or in a forest nook. <br />
Recount the words he said <br />
as, with great care, <br />
between the pages of a worn-out book <br />
he pressed the flexible petals that he took. <br />
<br />
Carry, carry, O flowers, <br />
my love to my loved ones, <br />
peace to my country and its fecund loam, <br />
faith to its men and virtue to its women, <br />
health to the gracious beings <br />
that dwell within the sacred paternal home. <br />
<br />
When you reach that shore, <br />
deposit the kiss I gave you <br />
on the wings of the wind above <br />
that with the wind it may rove <br />
and I may kiss all that I worship, honor and love! <br />
<br />
But O you will arrive there, flowers, <br />
and you will keep perhaps your vivid hues; <br />
but far from your native heroic earth <br />
to which you owe your life and worth, <br />
your fragrances you will lose! <br />
For fragrance is a spirit that never can forsake <br />
and never forgets the sky that saw its birth.<br />
<br />
Translated from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin<br />
<br />
Sa Mga Bulaklak ng Heidelberg<br />
<br />
Pumaroon kayo sa mutya kong bayang pinakamamahal,<br />
O mga bulaklak na hasik sa landas niyong manlalakbay,<br />
At doon, sa silong ng maaliwalas na langit na bughaw,<br />
Sa mga mahal ko'y di nagpapabaya't laging nagbabantay,<br />
Inyong ibalita itong pananalig na sa puso'y taglay<br />
Ng abang lagalag na di lumilimot sa nilisang bayan.<br />
<br />
Pumaroon kayo, inyong ibalitang madilim-dilim pa,<br />
Kung kayo, sa bati ng bukang-liwayway, ay bumubukad na,<br />
Sa pampang ng Neckar na lubhang malamig ay naroon siya,<br />
At sa inyong tabi'y inyong namamasid na parang estatuwa,<br />
Ang Tagsibol doong hindi nagbabago'y binubulay niya.<br />
<br />
Inyong ibalitang kung sinisingil na ng bukang-liwayway<br />
Ang buwis na bango ng inyong talulot pag ngiti ng araw,<br />
Habang bumubulong ang bagong umagang halik ang kasabay<br />
Ng "Kung inyo lamang nababatid sana yaring pagmamahal!"<br />
Siya'y may bulong ding inaawit-awit sa katahimikan,<br />
Kundiman ng puso na sa kanyang wika'y inyong napakinggan.<br />
<br />
At kung sa taluktok niyong Koenigsthul ay humahalik na<br />
Ang mapulang labi ng anak ng araw sa pag-uumaga,<br />
At ang mga lambak, gubat at kahuya'y binubusog niya<br />
Sa daloy ng buhay na dulot ng sinag na malahininga,<br />
Yaong manlalakbay ay bumabati ring puspos ng ligaya<br />
Sa araw, na doon sa sariling baya'y laging nagbabaga.<br />
<br />
At ibalita rin na nang minsang siya'y naglalakad-lakad<br />
Sa pampang ng Neckar ay pinupol kayo sa gilid ng landas,<br />
Doon sa ang tanod ay ang mga guhong bakas ng lumipas,<br />
Na nalililiman ng maraming punong doo'y naggugubat.<br />
<br />
Ibalita ninyo kung paanong kayo'y marahang pinupol,<br />
Pinakaingatang huwag masisira ang sariwang dahon,<br />
At sa kanyang aklat ay ipinaloob at doon kinuyom,<br />
Aklat ay luma na, datapuwa't kayo'y naroon pa ngayon.<br />
<br />
Hatdan, hatdan ninyo, O pinakatanging bulaklak ng Rin,<br />
Hatdan ng pag-ibig ang lahat ng aking nga ginigiliw,<br />
Sa bayan kong sinta ay kapayapaan ang tapat kong hiling,<br />
Sa kababaihan ay binhi ng tapang ang inyong itanim;<br />
Pagsadyain ninyo, O mga bulaklak, at inyong batiin<br />
Ang mga mahal kong sa tahanang banal ay kasama namin.<br />
<br />
At pagsapit ninyo sa dalampasigan ng bayan kong irog,<br />
Bawa't halik sanang idinarampi ko sa inyong talulot<br />
Ay inyong isakay sa pakpak ng hanging doo'y lumilibot,<br />
Upang sa lahat nang iginagalang ko't sinisitang lubos<br />
Nawa'y makasapit ang halik ng aking pag-ibig na taos.<br />
<br />
Maaaring doo'y makarating kayong taglay pa ang kulay,<br />
Subali't ang bango'y wala na marahil at kusang pumanaw,<br />
Wala na ang samyong sa talulot ninyo'y iningatang yaman,<br />
Pagka't malayo na sa lupang sa inyo'y nagbigay ng buhay;<br />
Iwing halimuyak ang inyong kaluluwa, at di malilisan<br />
Ni malilimot pa ang langit na saksi nang kayo'y isilang.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcGhilnu_K8mQ94WtIzc8OaQ-sdFdKw9UwPxRHTkENs3oDKr31mD2KRP7OxbhLW8JaJe4jdC6WSAhGl0SFmhI6T7kOPQLTyBTO40TmkoP_3NGXY9mZ8LGtGMTTR6D_6IOUMck7NJk5s8/s1600/Heidelberg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcGhilnu_K8mQ94WtIzc8OaQ-sdFdKw9UwPxRHTkENs3oDKr31mD2KRP7OxbhLW8JaJe4jdC6WSAhGl0SFmhI6T7kOPQLTyBTO40TmkoP_3NGXY9mZ8LGtGMTTR6D_6IOUMck7NJk5s8/s320/Heidelberg.jpg" /></a></div><i>The City of Heidelberg with its crown, the old Heidelberg Castle.</i><br />
</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-22843535528887776032010-06-15T23:33:00.039+08:002010-06-19T23:33:40.210+08:00Most horrifying horror movie<b>Cannibal Holocaust </b>could be the most controversial movie of all time. After the movie was premierred in the 1980's, it was seized by the courts, banned in some 50 countries, and its director, Ruggero Deodato, was charged and thrown to prison for murdering his actors as shown in the film. He was later released after he summoned his actors to appear in public. But the film (screenplay by Gianfranco Clerici and filmed in the Amazon rainforests), regarded as the best horror movie ever which spawned so many imitations, remained banned or censored in some countries, even as it reportedly became the biggest hit in Japan, second only to ET.<br />
<br />
I watched the film a long time ago in VHS, when DVD was still unknown. And I really thought that it was semi-documentary because the scenes were very realistic. It had a lot of gore, nudity, obscenity, and cruely to man and animals. I even showed it to a friend and asked him to verify who among the characters were the real cannibals in the movie, because to me, it was the civilized urban characters who terrorized the uncivilized jungle natives.<br />
<span id="fullpost"> <br />
The movie was about a university anthropologist who looked for a film crew which was reported missing after it left for the South American jungles to get a scholarly documentary on the lives of the jungle tribes who could be cannibals. With a lot of help from the locals, the anthropologist succeeded to recover reels of film of the missing crew. On his return to civilization, he learned of the tragic fate of the crew as shown in the reels of film recovered from the jungle tribe.<br />
<br />
I happened to stumble on this movie again only lately in the internet. And it was only at that time when I fully understood that this Italian movie was indeed a fiction.<br />
<br />
Watch this critique. Warning: Some scenes could be unacceptable to some. <br />
<br />
<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/x5nyN8iQgEM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/x5nyN8iQgEM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br />
@<br />
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</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-52432731827664806942010-06-10T23:06:00.038+08:002010-06-11T00:27:42.548+08:00First Class ang ticketI was doing a project on students' academic and non-academic performances in the city and province of Iloilo when a group of teachers asked me about the results. I told them I only had raw data and that the project I was doing was not yet finished. But the teachers were very excited about the results and they prodded me to just give them hints of the rankings I made. So I enumerated to them some schools that made a good showing. <br />
<br />
I mentioned first private schools from the city, and the teachers just nodded their approval with a smile. But when I mentioned the schools from the province, particularly from the town of Lambunao, the teachers looked at each other and commented, 'Oh, first class!'.<br />
<span id="fullpost"> <br />
I looked around if others heard the remark. To my knowledge, the comment was derisive and discriminatory, and may not sit well with somebody from Lambunao.<br />
<br />
I'd been away from the Philippines for a long time and I had not been privy to the shifts in local perceptions. Later, when I was with some college students, I asked them if they knew the connotation of First Class when referred to somebody from Lambunao. The students were clueless. It seemed they didn't even know that the words were once synonymous with Lambunao. And that when somebody was referred to as First Class, everybody knew where he came from.<br />
<br />
But not anymore. I think this is a good development. I know many people from Lambunao and I have friends from there. And these people are very polished, educated, accomplished, and well-travelled. They can stand shoulder to shoulder with anybody in the world. They can never be tagged as First Class, as how I understood the word way back then.<br />
<br />
So how did the words First Class got entangled with somebody from Lambunao?<br />
<br />
To those who have not known, this was the story I heard a long time ago.<br />
<br />
Years ago, indi pa uso ang travel by airplane. So when people went to Manila, or some other island destinations, they travelled by boat. The price of a boat ticket, just like today, was dependent upon the class of accomodation. First Class was the most expensive, followed by the Second Class, and the cheapest was the Third Class or Economy. It followed that First Class had the best accomodation - with aircon, set meals in exclusive dining saloon, and spick-and-span toilet and shower rooms. Of course, Third Class was the cheapest because it was not airconned and the accomodation was a bit messy. Bisan diin lang may karga. Tupad mo mga kaing kang paho kag uling. May mga manok kag pato pa. Kag grabe pasahero kay barato. Kon adlaw, magahod hibi ka mga bata. Sa gab-i, magahod huragok ka mga mal-am. Ay sus! <br />
<br />
It was therefore not surprising that being in the First Class Section was a badge of honor. Indi lang matawhay sa First Class. But more so, mas mahal ang bayad tuya. Gani, kon First Class ticket mo, astig ang dating. Dami pera. <br />
<br />
And so this bisoy (for those who do not know, during my time bisoy meant bisayang tisoy) from Lambunao went to Manila. And because it was his first time, he would like to impress everybody. So he purchased a First Class ticket. Bigtime!<br />
<br />
So, nagsaka na siya sa barko. And he showed with pride his ticket to the gangplank crew. First Class gid man ticket nya. And he was ushered to a separate and much cleaner gangplank for First Class passengers only. All the crew greeted him as his luggage was carried by the porters. Feeling sikat gid siya. Siyempre. First Class ang ticket.<br />
<br />
Then the ship left the pier and off they headed for Manila. <br />
<br />
In his accomodation, feeling rich gid siya because malamig ang aircon. It was a farcry from the payag he left in Lambunao. Yes, it was also cold and airy in his hometown abode, but it was because of the holes on his walls and not because of the latest technology. And when night fell he got his pajamas from his bag. Yes, pajamas. Kay ti mapa-Manila na siya, indi mapaharab sa uma. Gani dapat naka-pajama. Then he took his toiletries and went to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and wash his face with soap and water. And what a life. The floors were tiled and water just ran through. Back in Lambunao, he had to fetch water from far away. <br />
<br />
But wait a minute. Something was wrong because the guy beside him was saying something. <br />
<br />
'Pre, ngaa dira ka nagapanghilam-os haw?', asked the guy.<br />
<br />
'Insa haw?', answered back bisoy.<br />
<br />
'Pre, indi ka dapat magpanghilam-os da!'<br />
<br />
'Insa haw? Perst klas man tiket ko.'<br />
<br />
'Pre, indi puwede dira.'<br />
<br />
'Insa gani, kay perst klas man tiket ko?'<br />
<br />
'Pre, basin na ang ginapanghilam-osan mo. Inudoro. Indi ka manghilam-os sa inudoro.'<br />
<br />
'Inudoro. Ano pagkama-an mo kanakon? Perst klas tiket ni!'<br />
<br />
The other guy just left in a huff while bisoy toweled himself off as he murmured, 'Perst klas tiket ni!'.<br />
<br />
I don't know if this incident really happened. If true, the other guy could really be a chismoso because the story spread like acne on the face of bisoy from Lambunao. During my student days, the label stuck. First Class referred to people from Lambunao.<br />
<br />
Here's a video of a similar incident. I don't know if the person in the video was also labelled First Class. <br />
<br />
<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1_BstJzcQNA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1_BstJzcQNA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-73239669822332199572010-06-05T22:34:00.024+08:002010-06-05T23:05:47.308+08:00Ti san-o ka masunod?Gusto ko mag-EB sa mga klasmeyts ko. (Para sa mga insomniacs diyan na di masyadong techie, please contain your libido. This post is still rated GP. Sori sa mga utak-bastosin. But to me, EB is just plain face-to-face kumustahan.) But our EBs do not start with the usual 'Kumusta ka?' My klasmeyts break the ice with 'Ti san-o ka masunod?' Literally, 'When are you going to follow?'<br />
<br />
I noticed this a long time ago when I was in college. One weekend when I was home, I met a klasmeyt I last saw in our high school graduation. She was holding a baby. Beside her was a gangly teenager who was the best basketball player in our place. They looked too young to be parents. I was too nabigla to say a word. (During those laid-back years, teenagers hardly used their tarugo for worldly purposes other than for peeing. Not for lack of desire but for lack of motivation and a surfeit of parental authority.) So, while eyeing her partner and her situation with obvious embarrassment, she started the conversation with 'Ti san-o ka masunod?' And I heard her asked the same question each time she met another klasmeyt. As if her life was worth emulating.<br />
<span id="fullpost"><br />
I hated the question. 'Ti san-o ka masunod?' As the object of the question, I felt miserable. It was asked more to highlight the missing in me than to emphasize the obvious in the person who asked. Or it was meant to cover up embarrassment for a naughty deed. When I caught a klasmeyt with a girl, he asked 'Ti san-o ka masunod?' When a klasmeyt left for abroad to wallow in milk, honey and money, everybody in the despedida was asked, 'Ti san-o ka masunod?'. Subliminally, it was to inform everyone that klasmeyt who went abroad was very lucky indeed. And those who were left behind, manigas kayo! Kon mayad gid man kamo, insa nga giya pa kamo sa Pinas nagabira-bira nga gamay man lang suweldo niyo! Wow. It hurt so much to be dismissed as an underachiever for vowing to serve my country till death do us part. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiL8tBmVyUgoyXs_xFinrvXUBWZ_4KDBOe7zyBmUoizbw9pKhsM5regVV2n4s9_hgwtbdTgVz9ZEvnQ2SqjIF_O_ItR6Yp8o_uySP1wxGvWJdmUXpTo3BV2xCy8m4XkYn8QDBkgsE6O9o/s1600/a1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiL8tBmVyUgoyXs_xFinrvXUBWZ_4KDBOe7zyBmUoizbw9pKhsM5regVV2n4s9_hgwtbdTgVz9ZEvnQ2SqjIF_O_ItR6Yp8o_uySP1wxGvWJdmUXpTo3BV2xCy8m4XkYn8QDBkgsE6O9o/s320/a1.JPG" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXi17jI8e6AewrCoC6hSFQqPNFHI7Y_lfZTxoX4ZyXCtXzxRmbbOtY8YuOvemmfMd1zxzlAtd4NeuYcgTCkfAsYXWDbm_kOZwQxh5RWcXOnAFr0_1OurvTSPzgcgZ7Vo39A-UHVH_R9w/s1600/a2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXi17jI8e6AewrCoC6hSFQqPNFHI7Y_lfZTxoX4ZyXCtXzxRmbbOtY8YuOvemmfMd1zxzlAtd4NeuYcgTCkfAsYXWDbm_kOZwQxh5RWcXOnAFr0_1OurvTSPzgcgZ7Vo39A-UHVH_R9w/s320/a2.JPG" /></a></div><b><i>After years of communicating via email, I had an EB with the family of Toronto-based Silveria 'Apple' G-S last December 2009. She is that serbidora in brown (top photo). Her husband Arthur is the guy in white manning the barbeque grill. Nice back.(lower photo). </i></b><br />
<br />
'Ti san-o ka masunod?' Actually, it is not a question. To my klasmeyts, it's a form of greeting. It's the most used greeting. Far second lang ang 'Kumusta ka?'. When somebody got married, well wishers were greeted with 'Ti san-o ka masunod?'. When one became a father/mother, friends ribbed each other with 'Ti san-o ka masunod?' <br />
<br />
Now many klasmeyts are certified grandmas/grandpas. And they proudly parade their apos in strollers. Frankly, they looked like yayas than grandmas. <br />
<br />
Klasmeyt grandma held her apo to me and asked, 'Ti san-o ka masunod?' Of course the question was not just intended for me. But still, I cringed at the question. Possibly, feeling high lang siya bcoz napamatud-an nga indi baog anak niya kag cute apo niya; or too embarrassed about the reality nga mal-am gid tana. <br />
<br />
But give me a break. Did klasmeyt really think that life is the same for everyone? Or just because they are grandparents I would pray that I be like them soonest even if my eldest still talks and writes jejemonic at 11yo? But then I got my chance to let them taste the bitter dose of their own medicine. When we recently attended the <a href="http://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_550565056"></span>burial of a klasmeyt<span id="goog_550565057"></span></a>, as klasmeyts were about to cry, I asked all of them seriously 'Ti san-o kamo masunod?' Ouch! Ti man. Yes, on hearing this, they all forgot to cry.<br />
<br />
I haven't had an Eye Ball with klasmeyts after that. But I am sure that in our next EB, they will simply greet me with 'Kumusta ka?' @<br />
</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-19601276493217326442010-05-30T23:44:00.031+08:002010-12-09T17:38:18.766+08:00Santacruzan sa banwa koI consider May the month of debutantes – when awkward girls metamorphose into poised and pretty ladies to enthrall the world. At least, this happens in my side of the world in the flower month of May.<br />
<br />
In the Philippines, May is not complete without the Santacruzan or the culminating activity of the Flores de Mayo – when young boys and girls offer flowers to the altar of the Virgin Mary in a month-long novena. Santacruzan is a religious festivity which re-enacts the journey of St. Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great, to Calvary to look for the cross used in the crucification of Jesus Christ. In every Catholic parish in the Philippines, the Santacruzan is re-enacted in all its splendor, to give color and worthwhile activity to the sometimes humdrum existence in the provinces; and lately to raise funds for the church.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0TP7VvOaru7JVB_17W9l3Zz0uC-gw4DvitcNlVo6m3VBqkc8q3JjOVVO9a0LTzPt4OOE58Lr8wvVBz54QhoGrXQgRD-p9PDqCC5sYoMgPfVACW72dmPaGEA3H39NqtIecvudUbY4GJXE/s1600/sproc3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0TP7VvOaru7JVB_17W9l3Zz0uC-gw4DvitcNlVo6m3VBqkc8q3JjOVVO9a0LTzPt4OOE58Lr8wvVBz54QhoGrXQgRD-p9PDqCC5sYoMgPfVACW72dmPaGEA3H39NqtIecvudUbY4GJXE/s320/sproc3.jpg" /></a></div><span id="fullpost"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhXYcAPEtNydosWi3-3bZK1u1NhKpoCkR8Fwb5GBI0UoB5GwlLl6R33mYXaxl7hwV3T45YOyfrQA8mPXbmRedhQ_lVU5FN-6NgE2t-xmi2tsEE71JAP1EyzrazBDQDsTUP3FaFLUthmU/s1600/sproc2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhXYcAPEtNydosWi3-3bZK1u1NhKpoCkR8Fwb5GBI0UoB5GwlLl6R33mYXaxl7hwV3T45YOyfrQA8mPXbmRedhQ_lVU5FN-6NgE2t-xmi2tsEE71JAP1EyzrazBDQDsTUP3FaFLUthmU/s320/sproc2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIuJEwEaYvHq9xsqiY4c-v9ieKfaLMwcGjYgXPuSZX5DP4hX48-DRroqqaw0OLomZkVvUuLrUXLigvykurOyPDQJKLLbYVeGcMwlcsQfzwA1U2ZXUkM4VKPaT4GTZhFYyWX4GXL8bxL4/s1600/srina1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIuJEwEaYvHq9xsqiY4c-v9ieKfaLMwcGjYgXPuSZX5DP4hX48-DRroqqaw0OLomZkVvUuLrUXLigvykurOyPDQJKLLbYVeGcMwlcsQfzwA1U2ZXUkM4VKPaT4GTZhFYyWX4GXL8bxL4/s320/srina1.jpg" /></a><br />
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To re-enact St. Helena’s journey, a retinue of beautiful girls wearing the most beautiful and colorful gowns, parade around the poblacion to embody the entourage of St. Helena and the virtues of the Virgin Mary. This is why I call May the month of debutantes – because the girls are just stunning, while a day before, they are just common students or errand girls of their parents. And not because of their make-up or get-ups. <br />
<br />
Just look at the pics!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqkZoTAlcvlSuZckaqJJub03E11oheDBwltJjc2uxbZLuIl1eDosTE9nXk-j70lTczRsfTcckgUIcQOPjAYLoNTl2wLnJpUyOTYoJ_6X_o-Iz0oIzVSDnpvfwWluCPYGpd1Jsu5utuIQ/s1600/sproc5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqkZoTAlcvlSuZckaqJJub03E11oheDBwltJjc2uxbZLuIl1eDosTE9nXk-j70lTczRsfTcckgUIcQOPjAYLoNTl2wLnJpUyOTYoJ_6X_o-Iz0oIzVSDnpvfwWluCPYGpd1Jsu5utuIQ/s320/sproc5.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXt3JdscwJQX3FkgElomY0Y-F26xDcR5_IB8SSTtJV4TiLCUVf8z3PagUgZuCbjPlC5LWCrcYG7VDeXxOKa5B1nXCd0pgEB4AhAfFRyyxRDqj7vSEjeVioEkhUirL9JuWtJXnbrLnlX0/s1600/sproc6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXt3JdscwJQX3FkgElomY0Y-F26xDcR5_IB8SSTtJV4TiLCUVf8z3PagUgZuCbjPlC5LWCrcYG7VDeXxOKa5B1nXCd0pgEB4AhAfFRyyxRDqj7vSEjeVioEkhUirL9JuWtJXnbrLnlX0/s320/sproc6.jpg" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQTfskIz7cwsg9xYRG6rswadkUEliIqX7vw7ckrfGAGnnCbsyX8pNm-FdWbac5oERgWC5fGCEYwl7fGV1WCKwrRoFqC9cQmk1nAGUUNTZH4ggcsHzdNn5dLMdGVJx9Anf-0hFic-Wrvs/s1600/sproc1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQTfskIz7cwsg9xYRG6rswadkUEliIqX7vw7ckrfGAGnnCbsyX8pNm-FdWbac5oERgWC5fGCEYwl7fGV1WCKwrRoFqC9cQmk1nAGUUNTZH4ggcsHzdNn5dLMdGVJx9Anf-0hFic-Wrvs/s320/sproc1.jpg" /></a><br />
<b><i>Ang rebulto ni Tan Tono (siya ang nagtukod kang banwa ko nga tinuboan) nagalantaw sang mga maanyag nga mga lin-ay sang banwa sa ginahiwat nga Santacruzan</i>.</b> <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4eX43RxMQfBELqcUGWVIu-VZ5a0AsfzbUITy2xLo2PrjpPSvPv7aUOvYl9WXyACrw5T7kJtNj0ZoHK4pyrDY9z0wdc6oJyzMPi9t-WYOKwPUukKEe1Ln4bBqJDO5Q1BlsPRi0pYB5SSA/s1600/sproc99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4eX43RxMQfBELqcUGWVIu-VZ5a0AsfzbUITy2xLo2PrjpPSvPv7aUOvYl9WXyACrw5T7kJtNj0ZoHK4pyrDY9z0wdc6oJyzMPi9t-WYOKwPUukKEe1Ln4bBqJDO5Q1BlsPRi0pYB5SSA/s320/sproc99.jpg" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg081YdGJpWacOkTHZhoT4JlkITOg_BI7lTD3sUu1xFPEhvisH3HqIQqLNTkvobntDTy_sbyvY4JaNExa3_kDHSchvFFZmWWnW9-9XSYafRo7rsAwUBpgSVUp4ucAWTno2qCPF7W94epU0/s1600/schurch4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg081YdGJpWacOkTHZhoT4JlkITOg_BI7lTD3sUu1xFPEhvisH3HqIQqLNTkvobntDTy_sbyvY4JaNExa3_kDHSchvFFZmWWnW9-9XSYafRo7rsAwUBpgSVUp4ucAWTno2qCPF7W94epU0/s320/schurch4.jpg" /></a><br />
<b><i>Ang Santacruzan ginakabig nga hirimuon kang mga kababaihan. Gani ang mga lamharon nga kalalakihan nga dya, giya lang sa gwa kang simbahan nagahulat. Samtang ang mga kababaihan naga lantaw kang pag-korona kang Reyna de las Flores sa sulod sang simbahan</i>.</b><br />
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Please click on the arrow to play the slideshow.<br />
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After more than 2 decades, this was my first time to witness a Santacruzan in our town. Maybe there were changes made in the festivity since my last outing. But the Santacruzan is about St. Helena, or Reyna Elena. And the focal character in a Santacruzan is the Reyna Elena and her escort, the Constantino. But in the Santacruzan that I just witnessed, why was there no Reyna Elena? <br />
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Of course, whatever. Nobody cares. As long as all the girls and their proud parents had their moments of fame. <br />
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But, really? Was the Reyna banished during the long interregnum?Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-36543968756622839382010-05-26T23:36:00.010+08:002010-05-27T11:32:34.516+08:00Rains at last!After the summer months of too much sun, when many complained of the oven hot temperatures and drying wells, it was indeed a great blessing to hear the raindrops pummeling our roofs the other night. And this morning, it rained hard again. And for a change, it was impossibly awesome to see the leaves drenched with water and not with dust. It was wonderful to see the streets dribbled with quenching rain.<br />
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Before the rains, I was in our farm. It was heart-wrenching to see trees baked under the sun. Avocado trees, mangoes, calamansi, poncan, guavas, jackfruit, tambis, coconuts, chicos - all were already fruit bearing yet it was sad to see their leaves in different shades of brown. Grasses and flowers had dried. My once green farm had gradually turned into a virtual kaingin. <br />
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Just yesterday, the radio stations were inundated with complaints of residents that for the first time their wells had dried up. They surmised that underground water was being sucked away to the wells of some of their enterprising neighbors who were selling water to commercial establishments in the city. The neighbors cannot stop their activity because, as they explained, many hotels, restaurants, hospitals, etc. will be deprived of water. And it didn't help when experts warned that when underground fresh water is used up, salt water seeps in. And when salt water settles in the water table, it will no longer go away.<br />
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In our house, it never happened before that air went out of our faucets, instead of water. Parang magic. Metro Iloilo Waterworks District was helpless. They were even clueless as to why the bills of their clients reflected exorbitant amounts even if the clients had not seen water from their faucets for months. <br />
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Indeed, you would never appreciate the importance of water from the taps until you're deprived of it. Since last March, we seldom had water from the faucets. Lately, the faucets stopped giving out water for more than 2 weeks straight. We were thankful we had a well inside our compound. But it was hard to handle our jurassic pump connected to the well. Parang antiquated na gym device which would create a painful bulge in your testicles (hernia) rather than create the manly bulge in the arms and the shoulders. Transporting the pails of water to inside the bathroom was equally demanding to the lungs. Mas OK mag-jogging. While jogging, puwede ka magpa-porma. But how can you do porma when you are fetching water for your bath? In our barriotic culture, we take a bath first before we do porma. Diyahe naman maligo sa labas. Hindi ako si Manny Villar. Dahil siya naliligo sa dagat ng basura. <br />
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After watching the rains outside today, lo and behold, water came out of our taps. Allelujah! We filled all the containers in the house. We cleaned everything that needed to be cleaned. I had a very long bath. Possibly I lost 5 pounds as I really rubbed my skin of pounds of libag with a flat stone I picked up from the riverbank near the farm. It was the first time in months that my body had a thorough rinsing. Hindi na ako nangangati sa residual soap na dumidikit pa sa balat ko dahil sa kawawalan ng tubig. Sarap ng feeling. I smelled great. And our bathroom smelled clean after so many months.@<br />
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</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-1329881274024799622010-05-24T01:30:00.007+08:002010-05-25T14:41:26.364+08:00Angelicum School's Lizares Mansion is 'mine'I considered the Lizares Mansion, now part of the Angelicum School, as my own. I was enamored with the mansion. It was the house I would like to look at but I was afraid to live in.<br />
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My romance with the Lizares Mansion started when I was about six years old. At that time, I was already a voracious reader. But I didn’t like to read children’s books. I read mature stuff, such as the Philippines Free Press, a politically hard-hitting national magazine. I liked its articles on politicians it called Tongressmen (Congressmen) and Senatongs (Senators) in reference to the politicians’ penchant for grease money. But the section I loved most was the True Horror Stories because I found them exciting. One of the stories I read in this section was about the Lizares Mansion and its owner.<br />
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<p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357596770487129522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwltaxoAZOx0DEbNCpi5PSEyyIlFWa6ttALgj4mYCdRlJB1j049l0MTkAPaCshu7BdoyTKD_TBoVqeKBJXZpUaZyI6mYq0F8ipAYDlnrJ56E60OyZe1deBM74JsgrHHXzoMNtU5BxZugo/s400/Lizares2.bmp" border="0" /> </p><p><em><span style="font-size:85%;">My kids, nieces, and a nephew in front of 'my' Lizares mansion in Tabuc Suba, Jaro. The mansion is now part of the Angelicum School of Iloilo (ASIL).<br />
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According to the story, the owner of the mansion, who was long dead, appeared at night at a specific period. And it was an unusual apparition. Parts of the owner’s body would fall from the ceiling. They wiggled on the floor and would later form the complete person of the owner. He would then stand up - a tall, handsome, yet old mestizo. He walked to where his cane was located and proceeded to the landing of the winding staircase. Under the staircase there appeared a fire. He then walked around the fire as if looking for something. Then, he and the fire disappeared in thin air. And everything went back to normal as if nothing had happened. The owner might have kept something important under the stairs.<br />
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I loved the story. I considered it my 'own' because the setting was in Iloilo. I was born in Iloilo and, at that time, I had never gone outside of Iloilo. It was the first time I had read the word 'Iloilo' in a national magazine. So I felt proud. At that time, to me the Lizares mansion was Iloilo.<br />
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It was understandable then if I craved to actually see the Lizares mansion. The opportunity came when my grandmother planned to go to Leganes to see a faith healer. I heard that the road to Leganes passed in front of the mansion so I begged my grandmother to take me with her.<br />
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The PUJ to Leganes was sardine-packed. But I craned my neck and looked for whatever opening in between torsos, heads, and baggage of the passengers. Then there it was, my mansion – grand, white, opulent, and unreachable – a stark contrast to the rice paddies that surrounded it. The fast PUJ gave me a flitting image of what the word 'baronial' really meant.<br />
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My fascination with my mansion didn't wane as a grew up. I learned that it was built by the Lizares-Gamboa family when the sugar industry was booming. When the sugar barons of Iloilo transferred their residences near their vast estates in Negros, the mansion was mostly left to the caretakers. From then on, it served different purposes - as torture chamber by the Japanese, a haunted and feared sentinel of phantoms and ghosts, and a sleazy vice den of the gamblers. It was later acquired by the Dominican Fathers which used it as a seminary and later as rectory of the Angelicum School of Iloilo (ASIL).<br />
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The first time I went near the mansion, almost touching it, was when I was already a professional, when I had my vacation from abroad. My nieces were studying at the Angelicum School and I went there to pick them up after their classes. I went early to the school to quench my desire to see upclose my mansion. After parking my owner-type jeep, I crossed the lawn and went near the outside of the main living area. It was expansive. The sheer curtains revealed that the living area was converted into some sort of a chapel. I peeked for the ceiling. I couldn’t see it. There could be an electric fan inside. The curtains were moving. So, I thought that the story could be true. No one could stay long in this area, so the new owners used it as a prayer room.<br />
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I walked towards the tubular wing housing the winding staircase. Its glass walls were covered with lace curtains. But I could see the outline of the stairs. It could be the grandest staircase in the Philippines. I looked at the area below the stairs. The curtains were heavy but I could pinpoint the area where the owner could have walked around the fire. The curtains were again moving. I could sense that there were eyes behind the curtains looking at me. I imagined the tall, handsome, and old mestizo standing underneath the stairs and looking at me. I felt cold air enveloping me as my hairs stood at attention. I hurriedly walked back to where the yayas waited for their wards. Now I felt safe.<br />
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The only time a Lizares scion crossed my path was when I was in 4th year high school. I was one of the three delegates of our school to the Children’s Museum and Library Inc. convention held at the Teachers’ Camp in Baguio City. Actually, we were delegates of Panay Island as we were the only delegates from Panay. There were hundreds of delegates from Luzon. Only a few were from outside Luzon, so I gravitated towards the Ilonggo speaking delegates from Negros.<br />
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One day a friend from Negros asked me to accompany him to retrieve some stuff he had forgotten. Then we went out of Teachers’ Camp. He explained to me that he was living outside the camp as they had a house just across the street. As we neared their house, I saw the sign atop the gate: Lizares Residence. Then I remembered that my friend’s surname was Lizares and that the Lizareses of Iloilo, just like the other rich hacienderos of Iloilo, settled in Negros to be near their vast landholdings.<br />
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When we entered the house, I was dumb-struck. It was awesome. It was the first time I saw such a grand house. I thought I was outside the Philippines.<br />
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‘Pre, just wait for me here.’ He pointed at the velvet-covered sofa. ‘If you like to eat, the ref is there. Feel at home. The caretaker is outside.’ He turned his back to go up to the bedroom. The <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFgub4Z2D2udqdJo3v4YrD3k62An4J2D_5419rwkP6ZpLjZ90M8lPiupz59Hi03b1cNvnKUW1h-WykNkraoJfJlNEOfUU9azgCWySN9luRbPZB2H501ohyphenhyphenmDhP8NXEAn_bOxRA7pdUIXk/s1600-h/antikBulol.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353458050240073506" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFgub4Z2D2udqdJo3v4YrD3k62An4J2D_5419rwkP6ZpLjZ90M8lPiupz59Hi03b1cNvnKUW1h-WykNkraoJfJlNEOfUU9azgCWySN9luRbPZB2H501ohyphenhyphenmDhP8NXEAn_bOxRA7pdUIXk/s320/antikBulol.jpg" border="0" /></a>stairs were made of hardwood. There were many antique bulos (wooden carvings of rice gods, like in left photo). The lamps were exquisite. The carpets looked too expensive for my cheap borrowed shoes. In my plebeian surroundings, floors were made of bamboo slats. This one was tiled. My jaw was about to drop.<br />
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‘Pre, where are your folks?’ I asked as I sunk into the soft sofa. I gazed at the stone walls which led to the hardwood ceiling. ‘Pang-Baguio gid’, I thought.<br />
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‘Pre, my folks are in Bacolod. But they are coming. Hope you will meet them.’ He disappeared from view.<br />
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Then, the site of the ceiling flooded me with childhood scenes – legs, torsos, arms, and heads falling from the ceiling; they wiggled on the floor in front of me, and then they formed into the persons of his folks, and they would say Hi to me. This was a Lizares residence, right? Would it be different from my Lizares mansion? The opulent surrounding suddenly turned musty and creeping, as if Dracula lived here. The curtains made the room gloomy and dim. I thought I heard a door creaking and distant chains scraping the floors. All the bulols seemed to stare at me, their eyes glinting. The cold Baguio air filled the house and my hairs stood on end.<br />
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‘Pre, wait! I’ll go with you!’, I shouted as I ran towards where he disappeared. The door to his room was slightly ajar. I saw him skimming at convention papers atop his bed. I carefully approached him. My hairs were still standing. I was trying to dismiss the thought that he was a ghost, possibly a bulol in human clothes. Then he turned his head towards me and gave a fearful cry. I startled him. He thought I was a ghost. <br />
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Note: This is a repost; originally posted on 12/29/08 3:47AM @<br />
</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-30009831881923219612010-05-17T23:18:00.032+08:002010-07-22T20:48:03.781+08:00Requiems for Sister Aurora<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6nWbgF-DHZa54dwHnFZDnGXsZQvlWFHdv9Eq-ADHIyPuyyzXSXGYckUT3Ixnd8MTYyKpNhkYna9xquH-2kIfroWBhx_dWTeJTrUOIY_vrHJb6Hu046-oudflONDl0SEKRjhQ0_cbnJkE/s1600/b6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6nWbgF-DHZa54dwHnFZDnGXsZQvlWFHdv9Eq-ADHIyPuyyzXSXGYckUT3Ixnd8MTYyKpNhkYna9xquH-2kIfroWBhx_dWTeJTrUOIY_vrHJb6Hu046-oudflONDl0SEKRjhQ0_cbnJkE/s400/b6.JPG" width="400" wt="true" /></a><br />
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Eternal rest grant unto her, Oh Lord<br />
And let perpetual light shine upon her.<br />
May she rest in peace. Amen. <br />
<br />
But wait! Why the solemnity and seriousness? This blog is supposed to lift the spirit. To make the readers smile and be happy. Sister Aurora wouldn’t have allowed anyone to cry and feel sad and devastated. When she was around, she wanted everyone to be happy. And, of course, she always thought that this blog gave her happy thoughts. And she smiled in anticipation when she opened her computer. <br />
<br />
And so, after the priests said the last prayers and blessings, as soon as the white roses and white anthuriums were distributed to be thrown to the grave when the casket is lowered, as hankies and boxes of tissue were pulled out for the inevitable, as old folks were poised to wail their loudest, as we bowed our heads in silence to pay our last respects…. suddenly, a nun took the mike and announced to all and sundry that the burial will not push through.<br />
<br />
<i>What? What is this, a wedding? That in the middle of the ceremony, somebody would just shout, ‘Stop the wedding! That man (or woman) is already married to me!’ Or as the wedding march is played, somebody would announce that the wedding will not push through because the bride ran away with the best man, or the groom ran away with the maid of honor, or something to that effect. Sister, this is a funeral. And in our impoverished barangay, you don’t stop a funeral like you stop a wedding. It is a taboo. Kadu gid.</i><br />
<br />
The madre was profuse with her apologies for suspending the funeral rites. She said she also asked for apology from Sister Aurora. She announced that they were temporarily suspending the burial because the coffin containing Sister Aurora’s body would not fit in the grave. According to her, they were assured by the Memorial Park’s authorities that their standard size graves can accommodate even the coffin of their biggest foreigner client. She ended her apology by saying that the authorities were rushing to enlarge the grave and that the actual burial might be done the following day. <br />
<br />
Sister Aurora died last Monday, May 10, in Cagayan de Oro City. She was a hospital administrator in Mindanao. Her body was supposed to be brought to Iloilo last Thursday, but the nuns couldn’t find a coffin big enough to contain her enormous body. Sister Aurora, when alive, had grown to be enormously healthy. The funeral parlor custom-made her coffin. Her body arrived in Iloilo last Sunday, in time for the scheduled May 17 interment.<br />
<br />
After everything was said, mourners closed their mouths and looked at each other as if to ascertain that they heard the same thing. It was their first time to witness a funeral being suspended just before the coffin was to be lowered to the grave. <br />
<br />
Relatives and friends placed the white flowers atop the coffin, lined for the packed snacks, and went home. There was no crying, no wailing, and nobody looked up to the heavens to contain the flow of their tears. <br />
<br />
The nuns were spirited as they tackled the faux pas. This could be what Sister Aurora had wanted. ‘Si Sister Aurora talaga,’ they gushed. ‘Ganyan talaga siya. Pinapasaya kami palagi.’<br />
<br />
It was just 11:00 am. As I drove home with my family and two nuns who asked me to drop them at the mall, I received a call. It was from the memorial park. I was informed that the grave will be rushed and the burial was scheduled at 2:00 pm. <br />
<br />
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I rushed back before 2:00pm. Baka wala ng workers. The nuns might need me to carry the coffin and lower it to the enlarged grave. I hoped I would not get hernia.<br />
<br />
The nuns were at the memorial park’s chapel where the coffin was temporarily placed. A few relatives and friends were also there to accompany the nuns. <br />
<br />
At 2:00 pm, sweat-drenched laborers came to carry the coffin. In this morning’s schedule, barong-clad pall bearers would have carried the coffin to the grave. But this plebeian funeral could be what Sister Aurora had wanted. Possibly the nuns could have thought so. And I thought that the sando-and-shorts pall bearers could be far better than the sight of my lonesome self and the coterie of nuns huffing and puffing as we shout 1-2-3! to move the coffin inch by inch to the grave.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Vww9PBB5zCtqDD5Kn4a9lZLUEJXAK8sBD7UG98f3W5Qa7pVEUzPlFqd5oupZvpzoTjDBGW3WceceLz7MissgSIGpj9XdleCqjiKphbfW1hRL8jvOxh4FsJ8jLfw8T7XuLTINS-iBfFU/s1600/b99.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Vww9PBB5zCtqDD5Kn4a9lZLUEJXAK8sBD7UG98f3W5Qa7pVEUzPlFqd5oupZvpzoTjDBGW3WceceLz7MissgSIGpj9XdleCqjiKphbfW1hRL8jvOxh4FsJ8jLfw8T7XuLTINS-iBfFU/s320/b99.JPG" wt="true" /></a><br />
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The nuns were singing as the coffin was lowered unto the grave at 2:10 pm. But not before the memorial park attendants opened the coffin and peeked at the actual size of the cadaver. In their years of working in the memorial park, this could be the first time that they re-worked a grave because of the size of the cadaver.<br />
<br />
There were much fewer people now compared to this morning. But, yes, Sister Aurora. A number of those by your grave shed tears. This was a funeral afterall, inspite the distinctiveness of the circumstances.<br />
<br />
Sister Aurora, please pray for us.<br />
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</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-89048223611891914462010-05-08T23:10:00.041+08:002010-05-09T02:25:33.741+08:00Election 2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwm5Nm8YQb-4Jmc3FuPFoF-0tP_dlpVm70cJk9QTqZUu4MTSicwea-h8HETuFThfNA13BlzDjkB_ZwLvXIVo6x5YFHrOFrZ0MzobjPeRVAJVAAEIjvZ_-M2CBvBjQXf4YSKVL2RtgcDNI/s1600/e2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwm5Nm8YQb-4Jmc3FuPFoF-0tP_dlpVm70cJk9QTqZUu4MTSicwea-h8HETuFThfNA13BlzDjkB_ZwLvXIVo6x5YFHrOFrZ0MzobjPeRVAJVAAEIjvZ_-M2CBvBjQXf4YSKVL2RtgcDNI/s320/e2.jpg" tt="true" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8CzwTAtblnpFBrnqRRmd1L5QtdfUEMAaL7DN99Ay1DQ1JI0pcJyPFpsz5jKwlWctFcVp-gvHbpI9GFEkBgYThWgLBrHB1I67TjEb8nJFzpgLaGuJNlDx4aknWXz9cm0u5O74b_M6Ubsg/s1600/e4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8CzwTAtblnpFBrnqRRmd1L5QtdfUEMAaL7DN99Ay1DQ1JI0pcJyPFpsz5jKwlWctFcVp-gvHbpI9GFEkBgYThWgLBrHB1I67TjEb8nJFzpgLaGuJNlDx4aknWXz9cm0u5O74b_M6Ubsg/s320/e4.jpg" tt="true" /></a><br />
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Today is the last day of the campaign period during this election year 2010. Candidates make their last ditch effort to be heard and to ask voters to make them their chosen one come Monday, May 10, Election Day.<br />
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Please click on pictures to enlarge.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizw-cqSpbit4lG-IckMVXA2k0xfF8aWQxHJ6ZpjIc1OfSreOFTlOY6CW9U4EAkInQdrY6HzWkp8mQFFj0yujThvYlBwEMulu02ImF_eoibLNPJHR4siLc204hn3m9BvQpTqQqEk3tTjTQ/s1600/e6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizw-cqSpbit4lG-IckMVXA2k0xfF8aWQxHJ6ZpjIc1OfSreOFTlOY6CW9U4EAkInQdrY6HzWkp8mQFFj0yujThvYlBwEMulu02ImF_eoibLNPJHR4siLc204hn3m9BvQpTqQqEk3tTjTQ/s320/e6.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><i>This is the perimeter fence of my farm fronting the hi-way. Rather than curse the mess, I prefer being amused. My frontage look so colorful with all the posters. And even if the intermittent rains wash away the posters, a fresh batch sprout like mushrooms the following day.</i><br />
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As early as 6:00am, when the sun barely made its heat felt, loud speakers blaring the jingles of the candidates shatter the morning calm. It would be debatable whether the noise would have positive effect on the voters; or the voters would just dump posthaste the candidate for disturbing their sleep, or for peddling a surfeit of promises. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUv1qPISJWDmR7id5a7B7KqNp3bb9ksaBYUlvpTjVrDE5L2Tqdf1ISnvECxrWNgedIu_CaUfgMkZIFgb3GbletbnnBb4SbFa-FFooOWjWRxekNuAtebGHVFDAJt5WPNog6cqk0FSCR3N0/s1600/e93.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUv1qPISJWDmR7id5a7B7KqNp3bb9ksaBYUlvpTjVrDE5L2Tqdf1ISnvECxrWNgedIu_CaUfgMkZIFgb3GbletbnnBb4SbFa-FFooOWjWRxekNuAtebGHVFDAJt5WPNog6cqk0FSCR3N0/s320/e93.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><br />
At 7:00am the caravans of candidates started. The caravans were preceded by a traffic police and a number of motorcycle riding supporters. Many candidates were wooing voters by visiting each house along the way. They called this strategy house-to-house. Voters have a tendency to recall or like candidates who have entered their abodes. Still other candidates allegedly invited barangay leaders to their houses for merienda or lunch after which Php 200.00 or Php 500.00 was given for transportation fare even if a tricycle fare of Php 5.00 would suffice. Of course, the names of the visitors/recepients were supposedly listed as the candidates hoped that the visit could be converted to votes. I wondered why I wasn't invited to these lunches even if, last typhoon Frank, I led some men in my impoverished barangay to roll a fallen tree off the road so it would not hinder traffic. Wouldn't this qualify me as a barangay leader? Sayang din ang Php 500.00.<br />
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But I like this idea of house-to-house. Because in our impoverished barangay, mga bombay lang nga naga 5-6 ang naga-house-to-house everyday. Not anymore. During the campaign period, kada adlaw naga house-to-house ang mga kandidato. But it saddened me to notice that before the end of the day, ang mga kandidato daw amoy bombay din. And not because their platforms and their promises suck. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5AvB7dIDCbErkReIdhPV0rdeIUs1XDfaWceU_MgzZI78IKkdT7Hs5bYomFvNAjnaZPWw-JbBbXkB5AU9eXPFpawT1cQ0EuVLJG9kULIMJdH0BtjKwiw-8UlCeFzm-glb23wLnsTjeg6Y/s1600/e91.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5AvB7dIDCbErkReIdhPV0rdeIUs1XDfaWceU_MgzZI78IKkdT7Hs5bYomFvNAjnaZPWw-JbBbXkB5AU9eXPFpawT1cQ0EuVLJG9kULIMJdH0BtjKwiw-8UlCeFzm-glb23wLnsTjeg6Y/s320/e91.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><br />
I heard that in the city the going rate was Php 1000.00 to Php 2000. Bigtime! But I haven't yet met someone who had actually received. Puro bati-bati lang. Bati ko, kon magboto ka pabor sa kandidato gaan ka Php 2000.00. Kon indi ka pabor, gaan ka Php 1000.00, indi ka lang magkadto sa presinto.<br />
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You like my fearless forecast for Iloilo?<br />
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For President, it's going to be a landslide for Noynoy Aquino. Iloilo is a yellow country. Yellow ribbons and Aquino posters are on cars, houses, posts... everywhere. Even the posters and streamers of Gloria Arroyo's candidates are in yellow. Yellow is subliminal as a plain yellow ribbon speaks loudly of someone's political leanings. Iloilo is trumpeted by Manny Villar as his home province. But Villar is seen here as a filthy rich corrupt businessman. People are waiting for his money. But so far, they have not received any. And to Villar's dismay, Frank Drilon happens to be from Iloilo. And Drilon speaks Ilonggo. While Villar speaks only about how poor he was before he hit bigtime.<br />
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For Vice President, it's Mar Roxas. Period.<br />
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For Senators, the surprise win is that of Risa Hontiveros-Baraquel.<br />
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For Governor, it's hazy. I hope the young one wins. But many believe that the old one who was also a former Governor, was never accused of corruption during his time, unlike the outgoing Governor who is the father of the young one. Ergo, it's OK to vote for the old one.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeirplNZot6ih-i5h1GifJWiFPc6-4_kbeZFxeoNOLhkglyH7HzoHMzGpdwiwyiPIrynDjPTzun2sLoRMnnFxhxZUzboC2YXf1IM02B1CVmghWrnHxq-YO9S4UI2HL8Y2PuaxbhVm4zM/s1600/e1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeirplNZot6ih-i5h1GifJWiFPc6-4_kbeZFxeoNOLhkglyH7HzoHMzGpdwiwyiPIrynDjPTzun2sLoRMnnFxhxZUzboC2YXf1IM02B1CVmghWrnHxq-YO9S4UI2HL8Y2PuaxbhVm4zM/s320/e1.jpg" tt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtrUf9Yw9QiqQ-vHq8vqTfL16WVKyNqOCj8trB-aDanP4RnsYC8rnkWt0nIBbpj-R05bDaoF4l-ZHlbFXYep3fyc60C0U5j9rKO9ANa9-HQJUQVBx2Sg_N89KVQlzw3YzM2iYoRe32B4/s1600/e9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtrUf9Yw9QiqQ-vHq8vqTfL16WVKyNqOCj8trB-aDanP4RnsYC8rnkWt0nIBbpj-R05bDaoF4l-ZHlbFXYep3fyc60C0U5j9rKO9ANa9-HQJUQVBx2Sg_N89KVQlzw3YzM2iYoRe32B4/s320/e9.jpg" tt="true" /></a><br />
</div>And how about my choices?<br />
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For President, the foremost quality I am looking for is trustworthiness. I will vote for the one I trust to prosecute Gloria Arroyo relentlessly and credibly, for crimes she committed while in office. Future Presidents must be given a lesson that they can not do anything they want as President because they can be prosecuted after their terms. For this I am voting for Noynoy Aquino.<br />
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For Vice President, I am voting for Mar Roxas.<br />
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I am voting for all the Liberal Party Senators, except Sergio Osmena and Ralph Recto. In their places, I am voting for Satur Ocampo and Liza Maza. Aquino and Roxas need all the help they can in procecuting Arroyo and in furthering the cause. <br />
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For Partylist, it's Akbayan.<br />
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In the local level, it's too personal. Iloilo is a small place. Candidates are friends, acquaintances, fraternity brods, or blood relatives. I'd rather keep silent on this.@<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPBWY7YWUP0vzvkPC7ZoQ4vltmeTAwHm74CVyOgF1Fl19kTsnZw-3_O-0hFW9DYegiS0JL4sB4jLlC1etEJgNw5y7zvjGWLJGX9I968wfzjkIak79dM6fpJ4LB-II4DIO3GCjxndJ3JyM/s1600/106_0336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPBWY7YWUP0vzvkPC7ZoQ4vltmeTAwHm74CVyOgF1Fl19kTsnZw-3_O-0hFW9DYegiS0JL4sB4jLlC1etEJgNw5y7zvjGWLJGX9I968wfzjkIak79dM6fpJ4LB-II4DIO3GCjxndJ3JyM/s320/106_0336.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><i>Saw this streamer in Capiz. Board Memeber is a new position up for grabs only in Capiz.</i>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-68418467902222274382010-05-03T23:46:00.011+08:002010-05-04T22:29:07.049+08:00Piyesta sa TiringMay 3 is Bgy. Tiring's fiesta. It follows the fiestas of Bgy. Talanghauan (May 1) and Bgy. Pamuringao-Garrido (May 2). Tomorrow, May 4, is Bgy. Duyan-duyan's fiesta. In the sleepy town of Cabatuan, famous for being the repository of the thunderous noise and the toxic fumes of the jet planes landing and taking off from the New Iloilo Airport, everybody is looking forward to the fiesta month of May as a month to socialize and to gain extra pounds for free, in preparation for the lean months of tag-kiriwi or tag-gurutom. Such is the fun of the fiesta month. In the morning, everybody rushes out to pig out on cornucopias of catered or home-cooked dishes. In the afternoon, many rush to buy Diatabs; or complain of dizziness or difficulty in breathing. It could be heatstroke. Or worse, high blood or heartstroke due to uncontrolled intake of estofado, sarciado, letchon,a cocktail of softdrinks and a hodgepodge of salads laced with artificial flavorings. But still many go home with smiles on their faces. As their horde of children and pet dogs walk after them, with bloated tummies and pork oil stains on their lips. The day has passed with free delicious foods only a fiesta could offer. Ahhh... life is good when food is free. Tomorrow there's another fiesta. Makalibre na naman. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaYHsjLQQ_FVIv_-7HLnFDyDDpLogg8K0IhyphenhyphencMXoedcZ1ziSxVljE4xf1u86EyroE500BEGqEyXUIlivjToajbC_3ZlRL9FJrtNfOZpgth78SpjR6b-QfJVdYBanjgAh7D0x34vNv0DE/s1600/t1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaYHsjLQQ_FVIv_-7HLnFDyDDpLogg8K0IhyphenhyphencMXoedcZ1ziSxVljE4xf1u86EyroE500BEGqEyXUIlivjToajbC_3ZlRL9FJrtNfOZpgth78SpjR6b-QfJVdYBanjgAh7D0x34vNv0DE/s640/t1.jpg" tt="true" width="640" /></a></div><span id="fullpost"><br />
I was in my farm checking the soil whether it was ready for plowing after a heavy downpour. (PAGASA announced that it seeded the clouds to produce rains. The seering El Nino dried the rivers and lack of water had become a serious issue among local politicians in this election season.) I thought that the soil was not ready. Indi na lang ako mag-arado. Much to the glee of my friends who had cajoled me since yesterday to go with them to attend Tiring's patronal fiesta. To my friends' minds, fiestas are the best legacy of Spain to the Philippines. I donned my shorts and tshirt with a portrait and signature of Jose Rizal emblazoned in front. I wondered if my friends really liked to bring me to the fiesta or they just wanted a free ride in my airconned car. Grabe gid man kainit ang panahon.<br />
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I grudgingly went with the group. They planned to go to the house of a friend of a friend of a friend of my cousin. In our impoverished village, a friend of a friend to the n<span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span> degree is also a friend worth sharing your house and your meals. I went with them because they assured me that we were going to the house of a friend (to the nth degree) which was located across the river and about a kilometer from the main road. A virtual adventure. Sounded exciting. And I liked going to fiestas where food is served not on metal chafing dishes but on platters or bowls used during family meals. Daw kilala ka gid sang tagbalay because with ordinary serving dishes, the ambiance is homey and personal. With chafing dishes, I feel like, nagakaon ako sa himatayan. Or in commercial establishments. (Even if I pay in restaurants, at least aircon. Wala heatstroke. And I can complain endlessly about the food with too much salt, too much oil, too much eVAT. And which I can not do in fiestas where the host could have probably nangutang pa sa bombay para mapakaon ang mga estranghero kapareho ko.) Therefore, during fiestas I avoid the fancy houses along the roads. Just like in Tiring. Almost always, in these fancy houses, the hosts display their chafing dishes as if they use these everyday at mealtime, even if their dapli is baringon, pinakas, o pinamarhan nga sapsap.<br />
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It was really a fiesta ambiance in Tiring. The road was festooned with colored banderitas and streamers to welcome guests to the fiesta. Both sides of the main hi-way were converted into parking areas. The air smelled of letchon baboy.<br />
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We turned towards the river. We had a hard time passing through because of the parked vehicles beside the narrow dirt road. And when I got near the river, we just parked our vehicles on the bank as we were sure no flood would happen that day. It was nearly 1 pm and was scorchingly hot. Grabe. It was good that this place was far from the other houses and we seemed to be the only souls lost in this part of Tiring. I didn't like the sight of us mature people braving the heat, the dust and the far distance just to eat in the fiesta. Mga mal-am na pero dalok pa. Can we not afford the food and therefore we went through this hardship just to have a taste of it? But when I see the young ones, walking in groups even under the noonday heat, daw nami tanda lantawon. Daw bagay kananda maglagaw, ma-miesta kag mag-enjoy. Pero ang mga mal-am, daw mga dalok lantawon. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNBnkewCUtu9k8sHmB0J7yqY-Gf-Mawp8rnJ81s1tpMzhZHdfOgCJXFeslyOaRn2SKU9U4SikLEYQXnAsa5AjpthfiyG5QrQw2vEy1xCShxJeJtKadv43D6xRXMbaI3__cXH4W2qVP7c/s1600/t2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNBnkewCUtu9k8sHmB0J7yqY-Gf-Mawp8rnJ81s1tpMzhZHdfOgCJXFeslyOaRn2SKU9U4SikLEYQXnAsa5AjpthfiyG5QrQw2vEy1xCShxJeJtKadv43D6xRXMbaI3__cXH4W2qVP7c/s320/t2.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2ifBdHNm-HFuK-ifPjvjNHnayXSYcp8OnpsqW5LhoS9cj1lAi_UKkmX72EG8eD-riL7lv3hYRe_21rGTFOUiZhQwWJNI-L_oYx1FI6BwMSYZcy-WOYi7ANSHAupZbmTkKZydXjmPIj0/s1600/t3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2ifBdHNm-HFuK-ifPjvjNHnayXSYcp8OnpsqW5LhoS9cj1lAi_UKkmX72EG8eD-riL7lv3hYRe_21rGTFOUiZhQwWJNI-L_oYx1FI6BwMSYZcy-WOYi7ANSHAupZbmTkKZydXjmPIj0/s320/t3.jpg" tt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0hBMQiKcZPsYVJOEejAo1BQQ9XWTiNy-amI3p64f3ojC9RTDprSDbEvVVYuhrtcXLhxw-ZRjjpngw2f5dmjGPWUxAaGQvEitefFbGaKKRTFeU1fWQjhfw0o0-H7vWW8p9Vf8CUfKb10/s1600/t4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0hBMQiKcZPsYVJOEejAo1BQQ9XWTiNy-amI3p64f3ojC9RTDprSDbEvVVYuhrtcXLhxw-ZRjjpngw2f5dmjGPWUxAaGQvEitefFbGaKKRTFeU1fWQjhfw0o0-H7vWW8p9Vf8CUfKb10/s320/t4.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>We parked our cars beside the river. And we negotiated the far distance to our destination as if this was our only chance to taste fiesta food. But we were relieved by the thought that nobody knew us and we were the only souls lost in this part of Tiring.</em></div><br />
Finally, we arrived in our destination. We were introduced to the hosts and they were very accomodating. They regarded us as friends they've known for years even if we've just met. Di ba we were friends to the nth degree? When the other guests before us finished eating, the hosts offered us plates and usherred us to the dining table laden with food. And, yes, there was no chafing dish. I felt I was part of the family. I learned from the hosts that this place was already Guiboangan, a barangay adjacent to Tiring. But eversince they came to realize it, they were making handa during Tiring's fiesta and not during Guiboangan's fiesta.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBlMStdtZuJ-yutfqAQZXv85W6WGkQQQenEcis7FCJDMAL7_YSbwi8g5hvn5cKlOAPrLinwAyyM30JNpKmuIegb28gHZmuYLIYwi1Zm-U-6Zc6oPJ8bRhAVkI94bBfzXxvqUw1xiqtUw/s1600/t5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBlMStdtZuJ-yutfqAQZXv85W6WGkQQQenEcis7FCJDMAL7_YSbwi8g5hvn5cKlOAPrLinwAyyM30JNpKmuIegb28gHZmuYLIYwi1Zm-U-6Zc6oPJ8bRhAVkI94bBfzXxvqUw1xiqtUw/s320/t5.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>It was easy to identify a house with lots of handa by looking at its backyard.</em><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqHMw8cKT-S6MfifKkIygJOOP_VaA3UDiglw9Zm9_7Z9EHQCw5VsNSrZHmUrttoh7GYFFHwlS95v2qNAJlg8qTBUVVGfTR4K1MTlIE_2n-GhUY-VTbjlLUgsKonxZh4nqQ33lS4TNTzK8/s1600/t6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqHMw8cKT-S6MfifKkIygJOOP_VaA3UDiglw9Zm9_7Z9EHQCw5VsNSrZHmUrttoh7GYFFHwlS95v2qNAJlg8qTBUVVGfTR4K1MTlIE_2n-GhUY-VTbjlLUgsKonxZh4nqQ33lS4TNTzK8/s320/t6.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>This house was our destination. We were given a warm welcome by our hosts.</em> </div><br />
We ate heartily as if we had not eaten breakfast. And as if we also ate our fill for dinner. Mga dalok gid. Then as we were about to finish eating, we were given glasses of punch with freshly squeezed orange juice. May pulp bits pa. When we were through, another batch of newly arrived guests took their positions beside the table. And the platters and bowls were refilled with putahe from a nearby big caldero. It was already past 2pm and it seemed that the stream of manugpamiesta had not abated. Grabe. The humble house had more handa than we ever had in our house during Jaro fiesta! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xDpwrvhS7NYoAgP3tbmi0VA0nvZK-O1Mh1-kBWCCVNQ8ywvKfS0NM1ag1YscOk-ar7jMByfYiWm0PRKx-SolfbNNYHmBHue6mIBymZJYYsxsTbFMy0RO5dITHrCX6r9wGBTfWQS5LRQ/s1600/t7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xDpwrvhS7NYoAgP3tbmi0VA0nvZK-O1Mh1-kBWCCVNQ8ywvKfS0NM1ag1YscOk-ar7jMByfYiWm0PRKx-SolfbNNYHmBHue6mIBymZJYYsxsTbFMy0RO5dITHrCX6r9wGBTfWQS5LRQ/s320/t7.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>Estofado.</em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUSJVtpbyz4vO3KHIHIk8MWtSJYsh8tv9LnYUDtuzwqCAIi81uETxv3btauzFs60VqFJFO_CY-twR66Ld8Bqa0a_HPvCtQp3hubOseFi9PLuntoBTEF40d4mrnNIi604yFaNWhrhDPwPc/s1600/t8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUSJVtpbyz4vO3KHIHIk8MWtSJYsh8tv9LnYUDtuzwqCAIi81uETxv3btauzFs60VqFJFO_CY-twR66Ld8Bqa0a_HPvCtQp3hubOseFi9PLuntoBTEF40d4mrnNIi604yFaNWhrhDPwPc/s320/t8.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>KBL - kadyos, baboy, langka</em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIGXT8qb0voQ3CM8QD806jO8MJR_ChJ_d4N2m31Qx-R_BhZtnLTumUnW2tJTpEMwsyYAshxnoP9JTecSAbE06yB5eWTjmJa1mCRCXOkk2WRQ_N_SFIDcmrvUF113JjcQtrueQ97yiQdE/s1600/t9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIGXT8qb0voQ3CM8QD806jO8MJR_ChJ_d4N2m31Qx-R_BhZtnLTumUnW2tJTpEMwsyYAshxnoP9JTecSAbE06yB5eWTjmJa1mCRCXOkk2WRQ_N_SFIDcmrvUF113JjcQtrueQ97yiQdE/s320/t9.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>Valenciana</em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKz19V1l49IkLIT7-hD76FYIuEl5R0ix4Jsp3igHZEIYWdjSxUaBJwy7BFl2JPhPnPLftO5p95WbgAqo7b4kInmblA63GOoWe3S_EaoakYyzCb3qact8fpUvcitNbppriyOnb33Vvno9Y/s1600/t91.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKz19V1l49IkLIT7-hD76FYIuEl5R0ix4Jsp3igHZEIYWdjSxUaBJwy7BFl2JPhPnPLftO5p95WbgAqo7b4kInmblA63GOoWe3S_EaoakYyzCb3qact8fpUvcitNbppriyOnb33Vvno9Y/s320/t91.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>Morcon</em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimpXjf5QQm_wlJSDqPC7_-xYHEBYybuXzlf8rwsgJ6DcQbYp7Iae_cDhhehia4zJpGO90t4Y1K3ZS0-gZui06qwttjO-Poony88fM_SEoMBI3nefPuytjkRCTIV8j7wN7UtF6GJyuzoZU/s1600/t94.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimpXjf5QQm_wlJSDqPC7_-xYHEBYybuXzlf8rwsgJ6DcQbYp7Iae_cDhhehia4zJpGO90t4Y1K3ZS0-gZui06qwttjO-Poony88fM_SEoMBI3nefPuytjkRCTIV8j7wN7UtF6GJyuzoZU/s320/t94.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>Ice drop, or belbit, sold in front of the house. It seemed that the ambulant vendor was also a guest in the house. And while enjoying a free meal, he too earned from selling belbit to other guests. Practical and enterprising, indeed.</em></div><br />
I went out of the house to have fresh air. You don't know what's going to explode from the guts of newy fed people. Especially people who ate as if they were born solely to eat. The humble house could just explode with hydrogen sulfide!<br />
<br />
Outside the house there were still many guests. It seemed they came ahead of us and they'd already eaten but were just resting and waiting for the next wave of famishness so they could again attack the bottomless servings on the dining table.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBxYdkSaCBQbAvhujW_r6Bk0mik5mQDIi7Bplv7R-uYfQ2hj5qWp9Duw3O6J5DZ-gRcUe5N3T1alkPGBtI7_1sHTsq5b5jdjc6nDT_M3b8bbh4wNZ-iktaF1jDbOVyHiGEcXtGOn8Wxs/s1600/t93.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBxYdkSaCBQbAvhujW_r6Bk0mik5mQDIi7Bplv7R-uYfQ2hj5qWp9Duw3O6J5DZ-gRcUe5N3T1alkPGBtI7_1sHTsq5b5jdjc6nDT_M3b8bbh4wNZ-iktaF1jDbOVyHiGEcXtGOn8Wxs/s320/t93.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>Outside the house, guests were still arriving. While others were resting and waiting for another serving.</em></div><br />
Some guests were also leaving. Possibly they were going to other houses of their friends to the nth degree. And taste a different set of dishes. And compare who had the best valenciana, the best letchon, the best salad. Or they could use the comfort room to unload their guts for another chance at pigging out. <br />
<br />
As we went home, we passed by happy old people going home. And happy young people resting under trees and without intention of going home. To them it was still happy hour. Groups of happy men huddled in front of houses with bottles of beer and cheap liquor. I think this is the spirit of a fiesta - just be happy irregardless of your status in life. Be happy. Tomorrow will take care of itself.<br />
<br />
It was still early but we headed straight home. Wala pa mga hubog. So it was safer. When I was a kid, after a fiesta, news would filter out nga may napatay sa fiesta. Kon waay napatay, indi sadya ang fiesta. That was my belief then. And today the fiesta was really masadya. Halaaaa.... <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQOcnID5ABwF4Y0RY74AuUrkpEixWgMYd6EVDv-T2BUP-lNeVte-OyZVs3cBwumfE9_EQ_n1Wr6lVwT9s3niWBbiBDhrzOCM1Jpve3QdYwcbqJopAwT8pDenGJu_-pKTsujHeZTpdP7c/s1600/t98.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQOcnID5ABwF4Y0RY74AuUrkpEixWgMYd6EVDv-T2BUP-lNeVte-OyZVs3cBwumfE9_EQ_n1Wr6lVwT9s3niWBbiBDhrzOCM1Jpve3QdYwcbqJopAwT8pDenGJu_-pKTsujHeZTpdP7c/s320/t98.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>There used to be a hanging bridge in this place. It was very useful to the residents of Tiring and Guiboangan. But the floods brought by typhoon Frank destroyed the bridge. Now, the people are using this tied bamboo poles that float when the water rises. </em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkXDKhLiw-V9Xtd-BtktC5CiOFRPpmUTNqeVgXIT5JOzFGJyemZwr6vtYYCqMhHsdiJ0BaBnqCjMikB1yJFJF0WEyHNP30vAHLpxv0rXO7W6ZTMGXDzD07ynjB98Ap-Xuw8XlVzRKPuk/s1600/t85.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkXDKhLiw-V9Xtd-BtktC5CiOFRPpmUTNqeVgXIT5JOzFGJyemZwr6vtYYCqMhHsdiJ0BaBnqCjMikB1yJFJF0WEyHNP30vAHLpxv0rXO7W6ZTMGXDzD07ynjB98Ap-Xuw8XlVzRKPuk/s320/t85.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>Living driftwood.</em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQRxfcdePiKCvUr8OKP5LGF3yEz45N-emM3uya0ZOArM_kHjyZjSUmfbnPIhHHYfWPpy1gyX80-JQVJ8vhIkWj27JxMMVB9Vb_YbEbtvchchJLegaUpRvjqvATc6Cu6_y4GzR7raoPCs/s1600/t97.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQRxfcdePiKCvUr8OKP5LGF3yEz45N-emM3uya0ZOArM_kHjyZjSUmfbnPIhHHYfWPpy1gyX80-JQVJ8vhIkWj27JxMMVB9Vb_YbEbtvchchJLegaUpRvjqvATc6Cu6_y4GzR7raoPCs/s320/t97.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbKjr1uzvuy8HDePnIXsdE8GirpUCd4U2wt6Ax2GLLmFsPUhiUPKuM6-aEO5_JWB9ciFT7FpTiwuqHanfDIwp0_j1EXqLBueTHaN-YDMRQBQNJs3JtSeeVWOcY13UDSCd9z669d5pW4g/s1600/t96.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbKjr1uzvuy8HDePnIXsdE8GirpUCd4U2wt6Ax2GLLmFsPUhiUPKuM6-aEO5_JWB9ciFT7FpTiwuqHanfDIwp0_j1EXqLBueTHaN-YDMRQBQNJs3JtSeeVWOcY13UDSCd9z669d5pW4g/s320/t96.jpg" tt="true" /></a> <br />
<em>Top, serisa or aratiles. Above and below, kamonsil or camachille. Both fruits abound in the riverbank.</em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyOa1cOs6lmfKetgGgKd0TFL_QRtqa_20OWW9UuLkmIEcGl61HJUV8XRXLY4gsynqj6UomYRWItOVYVuK4C-aZyPQGfIRSAYeC58G8J1q8I8lEmN6Lmfevb0AwJqU7xrWTr9pb2uefOEQ/s1600/t99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyOa1cOs6lmfKetgGgKd0TFL_QRtqa_20OWW9UuLkmIEcGl61HJUV8XRXLY4gsynqj6UomYRWItOVYVuK4C-aZyPQGfIRSAYeC58G8J1q8I8lEmN6Lmfevb0AwJqU7xrWTr9pb2uefOEQ/s320/t99.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div>@ </span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-37813467547223232912010-04-27T20:39:00.011+08:002010-04-27T21:41:22.470+08:00INCA and the Mariit Wildlife Conservation Center<strong>I planned this post to be titled <em>Lambunao's Wilds</em> as I was really planning to write about our encounter with the wild side of Lambunao, a second class municipality in central Iloilo. (The municipality is about 48 kilometers from Iloilo City and is known for its mountainous terrain, thick forests, countless waterfalls, and its hidden tourist draw - a 7-hectare mountaintop lake popularly known as Tinagong Dagat.) But after my initial scribblings about the Mariit Conservation Center, I ran out of words. Or I was just too lazy to write further. But as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. So, there. I'll just give you the pics and a short caption... and just let your imagination run wild and free. Just like the wilds of Lambunao.</strong><br />
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The Iloilo College of Agriculture (INCA) campus may just be near. But it’s surprising that only a few of the local adventure seekers have discovered the beauty and challenges within the hundreds of hectares of campus. And this is not an ordinary campus, because aside from the school, within the campus are mountains of virgin forests, some waterfalls, endemic animals, a wildlife conservation center, and of course human settlers.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y7CMlDB8eP-M4jmIeudp2KB2ZHZjZQvV7ABRmGri2_4Do9gLNVf2Ia2VClkR7P2z3SAeS7ujD4XoEPzbZAfhIJoodyaHWnhBWkCIM6FofkQxWgwPLUyWBKdFUSU4MV-pZRPYHOwhlF0/s1600/facade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y7CMlDB8eP-M4jmIeudp2KB2ZHZjZQvV7ABRmGri2_4Do9gLNVf2Ia2VClkR7P2z3SAeS7ujD4XoEPzbZAfhIJoodyaHWnhBWkCIM6FofkQxWgwPLUyWBKdFUSU4MV-pZRPYHOwhlF0/s400/facade.jpg" width="400" wt="true" /></a> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHNgx9U60tRN8lM_ah11FWT2C1vdiY0fYod_Y0IMPqB97jwENUuR17Stzzj5ajxz7WI-kRErCioqukGaMpZF-jp_FcKz-E_m104FQ2QV93zXQIWhpf2bMYU2_i3JL6WRsfkNyl2iRCVc/s1600/mariit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHNgx9U60tRN8lM_ah11FWT2C1vdiY0fYod_Y0IMPqB97jwENUuR17Stzzj5ajxz7WI-kRErCioqukGaMpZF-jp_FcKz-E_m104FQ2QV93zXQIWhpf2bMYU2_i3JL6WRsfkNyl2iRCVc/s320/mariit.jpg" wt="true" /></a> </div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Top photo) The main building of the Iloilo National College of Agriculture, now West Visayas State University - College of Agriculture and Forestry. (Above photo) Entrance to the Mariit Wildlife Conservation Center.</span></em><br />
<span id="fullpost"><br />
INCA is about ten kilometers from the poblacion of Lambunao, Iloilo. The roads are winding and Baguio-like and it could be hard to travel to this area during the rainy season. No wonder, the college just catered to just over 200 students. But by now, the roads are being paved. Thanks to the election season and to the mole of Gloria Arroyo plastered in big billboards along the way.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6Vbq-bGZz3ZiK8wgul23T9Jp7WOKd7s3m5GFhR3DZX-WJWn-qeBWtVAEMLgcY2sU-BtOcmGcL2qiTzPrVe7t7Yg-eXHbik9lZz7t04yBh01UoMkvd75LNEQ3LmTehUT1Favb0uGwwjU/s1600/lily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6Vbq-bGZz3ZiK8wgul23T9Jp7WOKd7s3m5GFhR3DZX-WJWn-qeBWtVAEMLgcY2sU-BtOcmGcL2qiTzPrVe7t7Yg-eXHbik9lZz7t04yBh01UoMkvd75LNEQ3LmTehUT1Favb0uGwwjU/s200/lily.jpg" width="200" wt="true" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUUzJqrWia3yfQEKvXpnCjlW0wQ_tNqNzlvP7B4ig4SUKhTeOh9BA5l8Yv9jDRV8O95PFOa2bmZGzEbU5IcIsuJI3jOTbd-yeHVNcPx4tYB2JErqvcIw4LarNYY_lfoS5pWr3fzkLHSc/s1600/madrecacao.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUUzJqrWia3yfQEKvXpnCjlW0wQ_tNqNzlvP7B4ig4SUKhTeOh9BA5l8Yv9jDRV8O95PFOa2bmZGzEbU5IcIsuJI3jOTbd-yeHVNcPx4tYB2JErqvcIw4LarNYY_lfoS5pWr3fzkLHSc/s200/madrecacao.jpg" width="200" wt="true" /></a></div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Flowers bloom inside the INCA campus - lirio (L) and madre de cacao blossoms (R).</span></em><br />
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But setting the road aside, INCA is the best location for those taking up BS in Agriculture and BS in Forestry. The place is just a gigantic greenhouse where plants would grow in ideal environment. And even if surrounded with a mountainous jungle and far from the poblacion, INCA is safe as there is a small community of settlers and professional staff and academics living nearby. And a military infantry station is visible in the tallest promontory as a 24/7 security blanket over the campus.<br />
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In our INCA adventure last weekend, my group of adventure seekers which was composed of my extended family, stayed in one of INCA’s fully equipped guest houses. Guests can select from among the many airconditioned or fan rooms for a nominal fee. We settled for the fan rooms, as we really planned to sleep in tents. The caretaker, a BS Hotel and Restaurant Management student of INCA, was at hand to prepare our food if in case we asked. In the evening, we told the kids stories about ghosts to spook them to sleep early. <br />
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Early, the next morning we jogged along the paved roads around the school buildings. The air was crisp and the low clouds still hovered about the trees. The grasses were wet with dew which was somehow uncommon to city dwellers like us. Behind the thin fog, we could see far away children grazing their carabaos. It was a nostalgic sight. It was the first morning I haven’t heard a sound of a motor vehicle.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHi8ZSmoz0rtXAwwJepYI40zIlVEc6tuD5t5aGYnxzIu3Tbv02MMSNWsGQ46ratfDu03dyTYNvvN-iGnuK9TT7zradr0FlSdIG4K5Em0Uiylvnsh_7vLGvEo3uGIsPF5x8MwyBx9Afnp8/s1600/morning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHi8ZSmoz0rtXAwwJepYI40zIlVEc6tuD5t5aGYnxzIu3Tbv02MMSNWsGQ46ratfDu03dyTYNvvN-iGnuK9TT7zradr0FlSdIG4K5Em0Uiylvnsh_7vLGvEo3uGIsPF5x8MwyBx9Afnp8/s320/morning.jpg" wt="true" /></a> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhm9MuDEAa6DPhf124dkEiQBACoy5-fyesHL7c9AHdxKIweR7AyHiEjJEjvV4Z8dfDFiZw-3KO0HO1Thr9rzg5Kz_3Ia-xaQVBmrg2jRj1zyAfT1eV6EFCO4mL0MkW5J991YHnW6_jJj4/s1600/carabao.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhm9MuDEAa6DPhf124dkEiQBACoy5-fyesHL7c9AHdxKIweR7AyHiEjJEjvV4Z8dfDFiZw-3KO0HO1Thr9rzg5Kz_3Ia-xaQVBmrg2jRj1zyAfT1eV6EFCO4mL0MkW5J991YHnW6_jJj4/s320/carabao.jpg" wt="true" /></a> </div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Early morning at the INCA campus is bucolic indeed. The promenade invites joggers (top). Children enjoys grazing an albino carabao (photo above).</span></em><br />
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We headed to the nearby Mariit Wildlife Conservation Center (mariit is a Kinaray-a word which means enchanted). It was no less than the center’s Director, who toured us around. Good thing about the smalltown ambience. There was no such thing as protocol.<br />
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The Director informed us that they only allow visitors inside the center early in the morning during feeding time. Otherwise, the center was off-limits because it was breeding season for the animals.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnAIAaF943jfSL3CIPN6HP0ZdjYXl6RupH6Ca0wezJINgckmfs2yeJwk-x_Y7Bja1fHwi4zIth1ONAXUouLJgNOKn9ixTITsX8ncSZhZ1isvHTHNYfTcjxBLLMxgfcd3sze0mg4r7DEcg/s1600/dolongan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnAIAaF943jfSL3CIPN6HP0ZdjYXl6RupH6Ca0wezJINgckmfs2yeJwk-x_Y7Bja1fHwi4zIth1ONAXUouLJgNOKn9ixTITsX8ncSZhZ1isvHTHNYfTcjxBLLMxgfcd3sze0mg4r7DEcg/s320/dolongan.jpg" wt="true" /></a> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ixC4JGdUx329bBhHFbDyJZuKQ5OJNmAdNRTTSUD4kI__-d5se5nerW837eqJ4rOaIAepq8uAc5r4erwlb_s5AAi1ZYx_x3Gxq9nRoQ7k9AJv8hA4-LfwCpN55ywMSLpm54iYOJJ1f6Q/s1600/tariktik.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ixC4JGdUx329bBhHFbDyJZuKQ5OJNmAdNRTTSUD4kI__-d5se5nerW837eqJ4rOaIAepq8uAc5r4erwlb_s5AAi1ZYx_x3Gxq9nRoQ7k9AJv8hA4-LfwCpN55ywMSLpm54iYOJJ1f6Q/s320/tariktik.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6goo_uhGdNBCfV73bcGcaa4kkCpjRbRL_94m0jCBh-Lqh1mbTNzQPJWkrihK9Le-6QqyJYiJlfPXXXSLcfpgYW4Wxy30laa1i9gglqmrat7-T63Tuhol07CEuGlpC2ogiApUwSc-jrGA/s1600/wildboar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6goo_uhGdNBCfV73bcGcaa4kkCpjRbRL_94m0jCBh-Lqh1mbTNzQPJWkrihK9Le-6QqyJYiJlfPXXXSLcfpgYW4Wxy30laa1i9gglqmrat7-T63Tuhol07CEuGlpC2ogiApUwSc-jrGA/s320/wildboar.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ4Z3fdA0Ptjtn8V__0rz1sdyteFrYrVYW4GuzDIc2Pd7wm5dIyOp6abrqKHKrz98b1grIUQmkiW7SRBj-NisYs0FFzflHYr9MK6ZzjnVs6fGZ14ALYItC8NaU_QkYyXe8qGWmo3b_PyQ/s1600/deer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ4Z3fdA0Ptjtn8V__0rz1sdyteFrYrVYW4GuzDIc2Pd7wm5dIyOp6abrqKHKrz98b1grIUQmkiW7SRBj-NisYs0FFzflHYr9MK6ZzjnVs6fGZ14ALYItC8NaU_QkYyXe8qGWmo3b_PyQ/s320/deer.jpg" wt="true" /></a> </div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Photos from the top) The Mari-it center was the first in the world to successfully breed the Dolongan hornbill; the Tariktik hornbill; sections in the center are reserved for petting wild animals like the wild boar; and the spotted deer. </span></em><br />
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The center have Dolongan and Tarictic Hornbills (kalaw), Arrow-tail Parrot (pikoy), White-spotted Deer, Wild Boars, Cloud Rats, Leopard Cat (singarong) and other species they rescued from the wild. We were informed that the center was the first in the world to successfully breed in captivity the Dolongan hornbill. <br />
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But our main purpose to venture into this side of Lambunao was to climb the mountains to see its waterfalls.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijISAeG4B-oV4cY832WAoi0FUBGe7tyjeyRSs7LO_8mfEwKivuRaPJ-cH4Pb3VtKNa0_q9dwoVF-E8a7ME7fVglTGMfatU5-SC9kOOBJYOubnpYIhcmfbaOHk25B2fGmlNkxPJa4W9Uic/s1600/sapa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijISAeG4B-oV4cY832WAoi0FUBGe7tyjeyRSs7LO_8mfEwKivuRaPJ-cH4Pb3VtKNa0_q9dwoVF-E8a7ME7fVglTGMfatU5-SC9kOOBJYOubnpYIhcmfbaOHk25B2fGmlNkxPJa4W9Uic/s320/sapa.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><br />
We started our mountain trek towards the waterfalls on a light note - everybody thought it would just be a walk in the park. Especially with the sight of wild flora never before seen by anyone of us.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpHwNZ9xp_S7BJITmzUzBzg16_LgxVdvgCmFNQPY6jq-7f3Fq3S2mrCkYkoOyolR7OsW_RM6X_IZ2lUMnnQudDjPwd3LWmNgclJ_Z2Kf8gBDXJYcFFqSlqRk8lf38lb8hjfuRYNy3zE4/s1600/lm4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpHwNZ9xp_S7BJITmzUzBzg16_LgxVdvgCmFNQPY6jq-7f3Fq3S2mrCkYkoOyolR7OsW_RM6X_IZ2lUMnnQudDjPwd3LWmNgclJ_Z2Kf8gBDXJYcFFqSlqRk8lf38lb8hjfuRYNy3zE4/s320/lm4.jpg" width="240" wt="true" /></a> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhukEL7256T-o6Zf-X3e3FJKDQOxisVu2ZU7aq5zrGNCCnJUNHdXQWeN0tWTpo-RoWjb4-YTak4XqStggX2nnSOVBXHUhov3WmC06TGuMjuXb0pZtmHvKNG0uSo2Om2kUZEmlgAVPQOMZA/s1600/vine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhukEL7256T-o6Zf-X3e3FJKDQOxisVu2ZU7aq5zrGNCCnJUNHdXQWeN0tWTpo-RoWjb4-YTak4XqStggX2nnSOVBXHUhov3WmC06TGuMjuXb0pZtmHvKNG0uSo2Om2kUZEmlgAVPQOMZA/s320/vine.jpg" width="320" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyhZIGHT0fSVbK3Vk-Cu1kG6IwGzHT6IqonNHZsALBdL3kP9pk_eyGxqIMk5F2K-L6PevGywSbId4DyhwW3i5peM5W1Z6_3tSlNVDnQfxSis8Z3BybT_jPc4rMXGOPyK58GA-X4oWWkk/s1600/106_0246.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyhZIGHT0fSVbK3Vk-Cu1kG6IwGzHT6IqonNHZsALBdL3kP9pk_eyGxqIMk5F2K-L6PevGywSbId4DyhwW3i5peM5W1Z6_3tSlNVDnQfxSis8Z3BybT_jPc4rMXGOPyK58GA-X4oWWkk/s320/106_0246.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-eeN_qdsVwjchmT_OJGzxThzwfQYS5JmL1tVnc9FXYXsAHGdQv9a5_MMPB2G5reVE0qVX65rlKo_j-H3jGNHfMeUB1DR2ltHMY6e5cxAJ7kdE9Pu87FTq6I_d6HrGzGgpYTMmh4lv8z4/s1600/lm1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-eeN_qdsVwjchmT_OJGzxThzwfQYS5JmL1tVnc9FXYXsAHGdQv9a5_MMPB2G5reVE0qVX65rlKo_j-H3jGNHfMeUB1DR2ltHMY6e5cxAJ7kdE9Pu87FTq6I_d6HrGzGgpYTMmh4lv8z4/s320/lm1.jpg" width="320" wt="true" /></a> </div>But the trek turned into a challenge of endurance as we climbed 75-degrees mountainsides with nary a footpath to follow nor a handlebar to hold unto. We thought that after the initial climb, the top was already the place where we can finally sit and rest to behold the waterfalls we were looking for. But no, not yet. We had to descend to the other side at the same scary angle, and cross the extension of the same watery ledge we left. The climb was just a short cut, as we were told that if we went ahead to follow the creek, it was going to be harder and more dangerous especially to the kids.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqcSE78mm3174BTunNRgHgN65I962wQChPhH64oFZvFMal0pdTQp_CljnA4BEPzvNvQl3UW19lAfO92SeYyGPTavrZMwNP7JoXbgJJR_dqI5gpEMBKy66DLHrATDIX5eD6M9x7_zMWtU/s1600/lm2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqcSE78mm3174BTunNRgHgN65I962wQChPhH64oFZvFMal0pdTQp_CljnA4BEPzvNvQl3UW19lAfO92SeYyGPTavrZMwNP7JoXbgJJR_dqI5gpEMBKy66DLHrATDIX5eD6M9x7_zMWtU/s320/lm2.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div>And there were more ascents and descents at belabored pace. Many complained that we shouldn't have jogged early in the morning to prepare for this challenge.<br />
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I stayed at the tailend of the group as we climbed singlefile, not because I was holding the camera, but because I would like to be there to break the fall of anybody, especially the kids, if they happen to fall, slide or roll down accidentally. On the way down, I would also go down first, not just to record on cam the agony of the old and the excitement of the young, but also to be ready to catch whoever may thought he or she had some powers to roll at high speed in such a steep incline.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IsFBfbQpZfP0ASdr5CDlKLZhqCDy1aH_xVE5w3z3woGb7F0atesPkSVKmtsr7rJp1FlLGT5isEqyBZ2nQUZinDp63tPHsBVIjQCf6_aBE3KB6LhMHycz7Ci3t4oZV-3q0dRpN5XxTTg/s1600/lm3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IsFBfbQpZfP0ASdr5CDlKLZhqCDy1aH_xVE5w3z3woGb7F0atesPkSVKmtsr7rJp1FlLGT5isEqyBZ2nQUZinDp63tPHsBVIjQCf6_aBE3KB6LhMHycz7Ci3t4oZV-3q0dRpN5XxTTg/s320/lm3.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div>And the waterfalls, at last...<br />
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The view was fantastic and mesmerizing. But we had to beware of wet or moss covered rocks. They were slippery.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD0ngv-cIQmjaXbMjJj_hAlGAG8OkxkjUzDsGIY8xmz98IwMNt87e81XaMS5denALwlm7OGhCBkDIVJxqOc0QyoahMr_CIoNVLtqQFOuubxe8XlfBst4z76KeaAe3fljfEma96LDM0D-8/s1600/inas2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD0ngv-cIQmjaXbMjJj_hAlGAG8OkxkjUzDsGIY8xmz98IwMNt87e81XaMS5denALwlm7OGhCBkDIVJxqOc0QyoahMr_CIoNVLtqQFOuubxe8XlfBst4z76KeaAe3fljfEma96LDM0D-8/s320/inas2.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div>The INAS (Iloilo National Agricultural School, old name of INCA) Falls was nearer and conveniently situated. But the kids thought it was less attractive because getting there was less challenging. <br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWcqUpJnE9mlRzJpPUbxIBpV-9C-x7FiI52ptSjoREl0tsvkzgcK7YHfyt2RFLsE1pDFolA2C8i_Xf0_pMHBIVXXYXVFsrHfYylzawEZlla_2fw7xNkCp_chkgKzP5zSdQPLddQkN-Sg/s1600/montillano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWcqUpJnE9mlRzJpPUbxIBpV-9C-x7FiI52ptSjoREl0tsvkzgcK7YHfyt2RFLsE1pDFolA2C8i_Xf0_pMHBIVXXYXVFsrHfYylzawEZlla_2fw7xNkCp_chkgKzP5zSdQPLddQkN-Sg/s320/montillano.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div>The end of our mountain trek was Montillano Falls. It was refreshing to see until other groups arrived for a swim. We lit some charcoal to grill fish and chicken for our lunch. While we watched over the kids as they swam at the foot of the waterfalls, we gathered plastic wrappers of candies, chips, shampoo, cigaretes, etc., scattered along the banks and threw them into a nearby unused barbeque pit. We were warned beforehand by some people in INCA about the trash. Nevertheless, it was good to be in the area as we did some cleaning. But, as soon as most of the plastic wrappers disappeared from view, another batch of newly thrown wrappers littered the place. No, the other people in the vicinity didn't think of us as paid janitors to clean up their mess. It seemed it was just their habit to throw their garbage anywhere. I overheard some of the ladies saying they were working with a bank in Iloilo City. And bank employees have this dispecable habit? We pitied the place. <br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja1z9BM1H1vtCKmm6VCzaOwD3pmRdgPThB8gCBA43MfE60PcgX4teKexz7jL1D9GtGS9HUjtgDhvdx5rp0z-SMagvKliKN6QneSXo_P9xIroWh-W_riRGFOTYp6vgZOmbzQtuX1BC6WYs/s1600/kainingin%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja1z9BM1H1vtCKmm6VCzaOwD3pmRdgPThB8gCBA43MfE60PcgX4teKexz7jL1D9GtGS9HUjtgDhvdx5rp0z-SMagvKliKN6QneSXo_P9xIroWh-W_riRGFOTYp6vgZOmbzQtuX1BC6WYs/s320/kainingin%5D.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div>Inspite of the difficulties we encountered in our forays into the wilds of Lambunao, the kids seemed to love the experience. They kept on retelling their embarrassing moments as they clambered on mountain sides and the joys and novelty of swimming below the waterfalls. But as we left Lambunao, we saw this unsettling sight - a kaingin or what used to be a wooded mountainside that was burned and cleared for agriculture. The kids were thankful we had experienced Lambunao's wilds before these too are turned into a barren kaingin.@<br />
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</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-64100160474105988722010-04-24T22:35:00.002+08:002010-06-01T20:58:37.657+08:00Bermejo StreetNote: This is a repost. Originally posted on July 23, 2009, 10:35pm.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxoeQpq8jdnXVz2_AWsqyTLUYbp74oVDmXBg5utdNUBRgwBH-awdQFwBLSr96d1new7OOPjHPDAGHN5pnSWTG9kdOrM_kUES9Cdn-6xU5gXwbsQQbqxyztnrXSd5QzmLIBxjCCXNNs2G8/s1600-h/104_1181.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361632831042251298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxoeQpq8jdnXVz2_AWsqyTLUYbp74oVDmXBg5utdNUBRgwBH-awdQFwBLSr96d1new7OOPjHPDAGHN5pnSWTG9kdOrM_kUES9Cdn-6xU5gXwbsQQbqxyztnrXSd5QzmLIBxjCCXNNs2G8/s400/104_1181.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
This is Bermejo Street in the Municipality of Cabatuan, Province of Iloilo. The picture was taken by my nephew from near our ancestral house towards the direction of the parish church. He took the picture possibly because he would like to record the street where he spent his years from the time he was a baby to the time, at 17 years old, he left for the United Kingdom where he would study and, probably, where he would stay for good.<br />
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The street is the main street in Cabatuan. It is a commercial area and pass-through for vehicles going to Janiuay in the north and to Iloilo City in the south.<br />
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Bermejo St. was also the street where my siblings and I spent our early years. The street then was narrower and, as there were fewer vehicles at that time, it was also a place where we played. I remembered a bus nearly ran over me. The bus was discharging passengers near where we were playing. Then a friend ran after me and my brother. I ran to the street. Then I just saw a blur of colors - the same colors as the side of the bus. People shrieked and cried. The bus stopped. The passengers stood and shouted that the bus nearly killed a boy. Some passengers pointed at me while others pointed at my brother. Some neighbors were hysterical. They said I was pale and I might black-out. Others shouted that I be given warm water to drink. While the old women pulled their rosaries and thanked heavens that nothing untoward happened to me. Amidst all this hoopla, I was quiet on the lap of my grandmother. I never understood the concern and the attention I got. Then my mother, who was a teacher, came home. She got a plastic belt and gave my bottom a lashing. She only stopped when I promised never to play on the street again.<br />
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I kept my promise for about a week. After that, it was again playtime on the street.<br />
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During those times, there was no electricity. People used kerosene lamps. We had Petromax which shone like daylight bulbs. On moonlit nights, we played hide and seek, ens-ens, tumba patis, tumba preso and told stories about aswang, kapres, and murtos. Many times we just lay down on the asphalt and counted the stars; or pointed at a star we wanted to visit when we grew up. At that time, we had heard that a man named Armstrong had already visited the moon. When a vehicle passed, we scamperred to hide because we were informed that some people in vehicles stole kids at night which they used as offerings in some sugar centrals - ginadaga. But we completely stopped our nightouts after a passenger jeep jumped into an abyss. Many passengers from Cabatuan died. After the accident, people said they heard sounds of shoes as ghosts wearing high heeled shoes roamed the streets at night. When old folks shouted 'Steel heels!', kids like us cowered in fear.<br />
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The street changed a bit when electricity came. The nights were brighter. And there were more night people. I remembered one Christmas time. We had a Christmas tree made of wood branches wrapped with white crepe paper. My mother bought some Christmas lights and we placed them on our Christmas tree. Ours was the only house on the street with Christmas lights. So, in the evenings our playmates would come near our house and shouted 'Siga!' when the lights were on and 'Patay!' when the lights were off. Everynight we would hear 'Siga! Patay! Siga! Patay! etc.'<br />
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There were only two houses on the street with a television set (maybe, the whole of Cabatuan had only 5 TV sets). In the evenings, people went to these houses to watch TV shows. People sat on the floor, on window sills, atop fences, and nearby tree branches just to have a glimpse of the TV screen. Only the dear friends of the house owner got to sit on the chairs positioned in front of the TV sets. For us kids, we watched through slats or holes on the walls. Sometimes we were lucky to know the owner of the next house. So my friends would sit near the window which overlooked towards the sala of the next house with TV. I liked this arrangement. But I was not watching TV. I was looking across the kitchen of the house with TV. The TV owner was having dinner of plates of rice, and pork adobo. Everynight, he had pork adobo with another viand. His table had so much. While we only had baringon and lamayo. The following day, we talked about the previous night's show. We memorized even the advertisement. Those who had not watched the show looked so miserable and dirt poor because they lived far from the house with a TV set.<br />
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When we were older, we used to tambay on the corner of Estrella-Bermejo Sts. We talked about school, friends, and the latest cool music. The most adventurous among us were smoking Layebana and drinking lapad. Addicts and rapists were only on the pages of newspapers.<br />
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<p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361651529596498210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdPxIAVZD2GsCl4TVrVmlKPSuQT3ieBRNvKIteOsHjunUQ6__9Llr4rju8az-In1-q8XTHLr6jjm-D45u8T80MZmehq8EjcO_5eHSx4l-PmbvoRa9QqoXCyOzdKHUuClI74as-Zxz4bu8/s400/104_1190.jpg" border="0" /> <em><span style="font-size:85%;">Bermejo St. from the same spot near our house, towards the direction of Janiuay. The far green wall to the right of the street is Cabatuan National Comprehensive High School.<br />
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Today, Bermejo St. is indeed different from the one I knew in the past. The houses are different, the residents are different. Where before there were only vacant lots, now there are already commercial buildings. Before I knew all the tambays. Now, I feel like I am a stranger in my former tambayan. The nights are so dark, even with electricity, that people seem afraid to venture out. And not because of aswangs or Steel Heels.<br />
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It was sad that I had no camera before to capture the street I left years ago. I feel sad that I can't show a hard copy of the street I knew, when the familiar faces were still around.<br />
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But I feel happy that my nephew had a picture of the street he knew. Years from now, he will return a different person - older, wiser, well-travelled. Bermejo St. will be different by then. The people will be different.</p><br />
<p>Or possibly, he will never return. But a picture will help make remembering easy. Bermejo St. will continue to be part of him. I am sure my nephew will be happy to reminisce the years he spent in that street, when life was simple and when his uncle was around. @<br />
</span></p>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-52199875079599710282010-04-22T22:37:00.032+08:002010-04-22T23:34:18.033+08:00Savannah!I could easily discern the frenetic developments in Iloilo through the many infrastructures - roads, buildings, bridges, etc. - currently under construction. But with the developments are some changes in the suburban make-up that could be somehow unsettling. I am referring to the number of subdivisions that dot the periphery of the city. The sprawling subdivisions with their impressive entrances, clubhouses, and model houses were some sights to behold. But I've always wondered at the price Ilonggos have to pay, not for the residential lots inside these subdivisions, but for the displaced farmers and the agricultural produce lost in the hundreds of hectares of arable lands, some irrigated, turned residential. How many tons of rice have been lost in the name of development? <br />
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I remember the years when I was an undergraduate student. When I went home from Iloilo City to my mother's house on weekends, I could see the fields beside the highway bursting with rice during the rainy season, and with watermelon and tomatoes during the summer months. The fields were awashed with the colors of the crops the farmers were planting.<br />
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Not anymore! Now, the fields previously colored with the produce of the local farmers are gone. There are now colors of the flaglets to mark the frontage of the subdivisions. And the palatial houses within are colorful indeed. <br />
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Herewith is an article I've seen in the newpaper Malaya, which tackles the issue of an agricultural land turned into a subdivision. I am interested in this article because it speaks of Savanah, a high-end subdivision in Iloilo, and its owner/developer, a presidential aspirant. Please click on the title to jump to the Malaya article. <br />
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<a href="http://www.malaya.com.ph/04222010/edbanayo.html">A place called Savannah... by Lito Banayo</a><br />
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Here are the YouTube videos mentioned in the article. The videos purportedly documents the acquisition and conversion of prime agricultural lands into the present day Savannah subdivision.<br />
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<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/u0FDEUAPMhs&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/u0FDEUAPMhs&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8su_LCC01t4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8su_LCC01t4&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
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If you happen to get inside Savannah, would you marvel at the wealth of the owners of the big houses? Or would you look over the perimeter walls and see if the houses of the displaced farmers are still standing? Or would you wonder whether the drainage that serves the subdivision's residents are actually irrigation canals that were meant to serve the farmers and help them make Iloilo a rice granary of the country? @ <br />
</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7607021680016277904.post-8680446963324978702010-04-02T23:56:00.011+08:002010-04-11T20:44:21.765+08:00Viernes SantoMy family (wife, kids, siblings, nieces, nephews, a few cousins) have been spending the Semana Santa in some other places in the Philippines. We regard the Holy Week as a time to bond with the family and an opportunity to travel together as Holy Week is the time when those working can take a leave from the office and those studying are already free from school.<br />
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This Semana Santa, we stayed in Iloilo. And therefore we had time to mingle with friends and relatives who were truly surprised to see us in Iloilo during this time. They thought we finally succumbed to the high cost of travel. And they were right.<br />
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But anyway, we had a swell time in Iloilo. To me, it’s not the place. The place just lends surprise and excitement to the bonding moments. To me, what’s important is that our family is together and enjoying.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFQk4593dv4IjEVCi361xc1YXHXW37M6hfLJaJ6aeNivh6YpjNPCwTKhdQEUq9qqhI1tEqSXMIJUCdtwb90X-cNv8Q5qZJ5ZLONJrtBfv8s4zE2vg2l9n1pZF6WKnsTLIPGyN5yy6YhU/s1600/hf91.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFQk4593dv4IjEVCi361xc1YXHXW37M6hfLJaJ6aeNivh6YpjNPCwTKhdQEUq9qqhI1tEqSXMIJUCdtwb90X-cNv8Q5qZJ5ZLONJrtBfv8s4zE2vg2l9n1pZF6WKnsTLIPGyN5yy6YhU/s320/hf91.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Santo Entierro or the dead body of Jesus Christ is the centerpiece of the Viernes Santo evening procession in Cabatuan. The santos is borne on the shoulders of the worshippers and paraded around the town. It is then displayed inside the church where religious groups do an around-the-clock vigil until the wee hours of Easter Sunday.</span></em> <br />
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On Holy Friday, or Viernes Santo, we were in Cabatuan, about 25 kilometers north of Iloilo City. Cabatuan is one of the few towns in Iloilo that observes Viernes Santo with the traditional early morning procession to the kalbaryo which is about a kilometer from the poblacion. Along the route to the kalbaryo are makeshift altars depicting the fourteen stations of the cross which culminates with the gigantic cross atop the kalbaryo. The cross symbolizes the crucification of Jesus Christ on Mt. Calvary.<br />
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The kalbaryo is a high hill in Sitio Balic outside the poblacion of Cabatuan. It’s not an ordinary hill as it has a steep side. But somehow, the Semana Santa tradition to the promontory have sliced a footpath on the steep side which through the years had grown to a small dirt road that can accommodate a car or the carroza that brings the lifesize statue of the Nazarene halfway to the top of the hill.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnrErccJZ7I0n9wvWBjWM_2YjjzqYdaUU9CHBK6AzmuBsolQn5g5R6wGFaoA33ResBrPAvA_P-vMjxqZsuwzvED3XCf6HlOit1m9ZSIydotOMR8KYJAIYLG-jlOtAYekIrj_NE5yR24Bw/s1600/hf95.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnrErccJZ7I0n9wvWBjWM_2YjjzqYdaUU9CHBK6AzmuBsolQn5g5R6wGFaoA33ResBrPAvA_P-vMjxqZsuwzvED3XCf6HlOit1m9ZSIydotOMR8KYJAIYLG-jlOtAYekIrj_NE5yR24Bw/s320/hf95.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBxIfzEVx4eGTcqXrMHI0IO_FjQ7z6gK_L2VuAOs9veMJtclUkVYZ0nXAOdkDFeRPOnbfvx6CxqI5w8oGPctyE-VooYeeeQn0WFzcNw-QxO2ZsWhFYgNKyCibbHmKIekjLh2VUPq9-IY/s1600/hf96.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBxIfzEVx4eGTcqXrMHI0IO_FjQ7z6gK_L2VuAOs9veMJtclUkVYZ0nXAOdkDFeRPOnbfvx6CxqI5w8oGPctyE-VooYeeeQn0WFzcNw-QxO2ZsWhFYgNKyCibbHmKIekjLh2VUPq9-IY/s320/hf96.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpC4w0dA_svGvLzMu9JnBZiTinLFnK_beYFqsObIcmbS8dZVmmPOkUW5k4kcnRKvxYS5LaOv1xae2YR3ghl_1p-wKTxEnWy0f66Q89elndVC3wkIJ33zKXg6YelcMIPWCqgwWQicDommE/s1600/hf97.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpC4w0dA_svGvLzMu9JnBZiTinLFnK_beYFqsObIcmbS8dZVmmPOkUW5k4kcnRKvxYS5LaOv1xae2YR3ghl_1p-wKTxEnWy0f66Q89elndVC3wkIJ33zKXg6YelcMIPWCqgwWQicDommE/s320/hf97.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo49fGLd4qMyOh76LBzWyoR3CewNEIpAieYcR8jEzufSakqpNeBcVMLxbWfjoQHNJ7IUIG9ufwp3yCAZQ5wCZZLNvZxi5rkTbTsZAdWxxG96aIbO0saLiJY4V-uEABeV_IWpyLVACYfCU/s1600/HF1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo49fGLd4qMyOh76LBzWyoR3CewNEIpAieYcR8jEzufSakqpNeBcVMLxbWfjoQHNJ7IUIG9ufwp3yCAZQ5wCZZLNvZxi5rkTbTsZAdWxxG96aIbO0saLiJY4V-uEABeV_IWpyLVACYfCU/s320/HF1.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
</div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">It is a long climb to the top of the kalbaryo. But the breathtaking view from the top is worth the climb. Church authorities ensure that the worshippers are safe and a police assistance kiosk is also visible.</span></em><br />
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We arrived in Cabatuan already past 8:00am. And the tail-end of the procession had already reached the kalbaryo. We were supposed to do the Via Crucis but it was so hot so we took a tricycle to the kalbaryo. The kids were ecstatic as the last time they climbed the kalbaryo was years back. It seemed a new experience to them now.<br />
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Devotees were already on their way down when we reached the kalbaryo. Everybody was busy buying native delicacies, fruits, and even fresh fish. The foot of the kalbaryo became an instant tindahan. One would wonder whether the people were doing penance or enjoying the fiesta atmosphere. On our part, we were enjoying!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_LtxTPp_R5kaFMm-EGAbHOW1QKtYPAYJtasYxs6gulD5-uCq4gVeHjaoyajiPTg1Vp9Ef3-FjctrnW9ND14zpwiZV7YSi2qJXhcBse8qb0nCON998bR4Ay4uUsoAHSwM9mh01bvRUu4g/s1600/hf2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_LtxTPp_R5kaFMm-EGAbHOW1QKtYPAYJtasYxs6gulD5-uCq4gVeHjaoyajiPTg1Vp9Ef3-FjctrnW9ND14zpwiZV7YSi2qJXhcBse8qb0nCON998bR4Ay4uUsoAHSwM9mh01bvRUu4g/s320/hf2.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIP9vCDq3fWMBRIpneZPtYA4t0KpaX2vshmg_XMRi-eVg40Wd9xknakKxBTV4fSV9ZwY8BFwJJgFv0y_dnik_2ZBCOoGCudC7cRX5V8IQNsg_AZ6WOwa69TNvsBgMKldmAV0FiktOLPo/s1600/hf4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIP9vCDq3fWMBRIpneZPtYA4t0KpaX2vshmg_XMRi-eVg40Wd9xknakKxBTV4fSV9ZwY8BFwJJgFv0y_dnik_2ZBCOoGCudC7cRX5V8IQNsg_AZ6WOwa69TNvsBgMKldmAV0FiktOLPo/s320/hf4.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6e_16lNOKy9o7zssvQEx6gNHbqy3jGCcfQud8P2R0pqgliPfjmhADVe9FyephVDUwP-G9Iwrv8d5GMElhQwp3zRulNm3SWtqcirSgnXNeLrm1u1boeMi27YHIaKCR0dR3joVKJw3vps/s1600/hf3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6e_16lNOKy9o7zssvQEx6gNHbqy3jGCcfQud8P2R0pqgliPfjmhADVe9FyephVDUwP-G9Iwrv8d5GMElhQwp3zRulNm3SWtqcirSgnXNeLrm1u1boeMi27YHIaKCR0dR3joVKJw3vps/s320/hf3.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
</div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">It is not just a season for penance. It is also a season for native mouth watering fruits; and the obiquitous displays of political posters. </span></em><br />
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Semana Santa is vacation time to many. And here in the kalbaryo, a local would easily discern the visitors or a kababayan just arrived from somewhere. Local visitors may act like <i>buki</i>, or an ignorant newcomer, as they pointed to or oggled at common objects which could be new to them. Kababayans who just came from Manila wore the latest fashion - never mind if the fashion was not meant for a dusty and hot kalbaryo-climbing. They too were very verbal; and in Tagalog even, for everybody to hear, nevermind if the Tagalog sounded like Kinaray-a. Kababayans who just arrived from abroad toted with their flashy cameras aside from their expensive cellphones. Nevermind if they could take quality pictures with their miniature cellphones. They slang their cameras over their shoulders wherever they go, as if the cameras were part of their fashion statement. They wore rubber shoes with short pants cut above the knee. The last time I wore above-the-knee short pants was when I was in Boy Scouts. <br />
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There were only a few people going up, and fewer still lingered near the cross atop the kalbaryo. But at least, the few people made the view from the top less scary to the kids. The view was breathtaking and unhampered for kilometers. We saw the twin spires of the old Catholic church and the far mountains of the neighboring town of Maasin. When we descended, we bought ibos, kalamayhati, alupi, and betcho-betcho which the kids loved.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjuBZpr50ZJXB1pLUc7asno_JkNMYVoEgqrRB5sNeTltB1wqf53d21pqdYDhyphenhyphen7a5iRShXBtgEMrLKUfPmf9BSGEw25hpBayANw6A_v8dVYW574mp-iZ_skprvg12eSbxbt1udeFq9TJ4/s1600/hf98.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjuBZpr50ZJXB1pLUc7asno_JkNMYVoEgqrRB5sNeTltB1wqf53d21pqdYDhyphenhyphen7a5iRShXBtgEMrLKUfPmf9BSGEw25hpBayANw6A_v8dVYW574mp-iZ_skprvg12eSbxbt1udeFq9TJ4/s320/hf98.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYQgdNQjwo2lZmx0n3sjvZ6eWOSh8ct4Pe_eTibwC7f851clW9Xcjtoy8NOSYp7MpJ_aZclf3eGq5xuwhpScY0LH3g1t75EHG-sY3_x6A47x7ZBNTlA3TO0UkeidYiFMZ2fiJJ3a8cyQ/s1600/hf99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYQgdNQjwo2lZmx0n3sjvZ6eWOSh8ct4Pe_eTibwC7f851clW9Xcjtoy8NOSYp7MpJ_aZclf3eGq5xuwhpScY0LH3g1t75EHG-sY3_x6A47x7ZBNTlA3TO0UkeidYiFMZ2fiJJ3a8cyQ/s320/hf99.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
</div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Native delicacies abound. After the tiresome walk and climb, the faithful gotta eat - this could be the bright thought of the local entrepreneurs.</span></em> <br />
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As in the past, we passed by the house of classmate Jocelyn M for breakfast of sotanghon soup, puto, and tsokolate. It was also a time to meet other classmates and exchange stories. Edith P whose name is ended with an Ed.D., was there. Also Cami and Dakul. Others had already left. <br />
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In the evening we joined the procession which was highlighted by the colorful parade of well dressed saints atop heavily decorated carrozas. We followed the carroza of the Pieta – lifesize statues of the Virgin Mary carrying on her lap the lifeless body of Jesus. We were told that the Pieta was sent from Spain and were under the upkeep of our family for seven generations already. The current caretaker is a seconnd cousin. When we were kids, I remembered seeing the dismantled limbs and other parts of the Pieta kept inside a big wooden box in the house of an uncle. The maids would scare us with the life-size limbs.<br />
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After the procession, a multitude of worshipers formed long queues that snaked in the streets outside the church, and waited their turns to pay homage to the Santo Entierro or the supine dead statue of Jesus Christ. We didn’t join the queue as it was already about 9:00 pm. I led the kids to inside the church and showed them what the worshippers were doing. Well, the worshippers were kissing a big crucifix instead of the Santo Entierro. The Santo Entierro was inside a glass encasement and displayed near the entrance of the church.<br />
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The last time I was in this church during Viernes Santo, the worshippers were kissing the feet of the Santo Entierro. The santos was just like a big cadaver surrounded by townfolks who acted as the apostles. Yes, it was like a cadaver fresh from the morgue and lying cold and dead. And it was common to see small kids wailing with fear as their parents dragged them near the santos. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAXXLdhFpALXcBX3RD9L3fn8OkrxuHeF1NtdwvrdvE2F1yhSn93TjoqEnmWdua5TaDZrg3sO1qwCEF3rTJaDDItqPwqfMySL7HbaZSM7lUN7cQyaXCRvsXq614eZ61E21hJQS5ZrgoIk/s1600/hf9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAXXLdhFpALXcBX3RD9L3fn8OkrxuHeF1NtdwvrdvE2F1yhSn93TjoqEnmWdua5TaDZrg3sO1qwCEF3rTJaDDItqPwqfMySL7HbaZSM7lUN7cQyaXCRvsXq614eZ61E21hJQS5ZrgoIk/s320/hf9.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Pieta is the most dramatic and most symbolic among the santoses that are paraded in the evening of Viernes Santo. This Spanish-time life-size santos in the above photo, is in our family for seven generations already. Below, a line of santoses are displayed in front of the church for the worshippers to oggle at. </span></em><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EuCYvUMzVuOVhnWhiUnjke4KwIdd2pAUNLU-8oyAe3kq0pl7PSUkuo4IzxJ-X9E9LMa5DFtaSgXYQAr-gYTvkcqOZyI-tFKPRyvlx1s46VWuKYIR-jClDr_k0F3GjmiW9IFNyt1YIdA/s1600/hf92.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EuCYvUMzVuOVhnWhiUnjke4KwIdd2pAUNLU-8oyAe3kq0pl7PSUkuo4IzxJ-X9E9LMa5DFtaSgXYQAr-gYTvkcqOZyI-tFKPRyvlx1s46VWuKYIR-jClDr_k0F3GjmiW9IFNyt1YIdA/s320/hf92.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
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</div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Along the route of the evening procession are makeshift stands where ladies in traditional attire (above) sing the passion. Beside the stands are life-size tableaus (below) made of native or recycled materials and depicting the passion of Jesus Christ. </span></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGO0HSHoB2C-XWMlF4nlxANVZLyL-ynhmObExG5_gHXvieFqbChFvwZ8vrPrAEtmiz6dJIBbc1qHX7Q_FkQQdwB-7c4MrmTESMMi3ZeeMIRP-VC_q4n3-y0_9UEjbt_WhDBM-bQwuZC4/s1600/hf94.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGO0HSHoB2C-XWMlF4nlxANVZLyL-ynhmObExG5_gHXvieFqbChFvwZ8vrPrAEtmiz6dJIBbc1qHX7Q_FkQQdwB-7c4MrmTESMMi3ZeeMIRP-VC_q4n3-y0_9UEjbt_WhDBM-bQwuZC4/s320/hf94.jpg" wt="true" /></a><br />
</div>Outside, it was like there was a big event in the town plaza even if the people were hushed and unmerry. Around the plaza, the lifesize tableaus of the Via Crucis using native or recycled materials were lighted and people mill around to see which station was the best. Beside the stations were makeshift stands where ladies in native attire sang the passion. In the past, I knew that there was a contest as to the best station of the cross and the best group who sang the passion. And people would spend a lot for their assigned station, and singers would sing their best and their loudest when a crowd passes in anticipation that a judge might be in the passing crowd. Now, it seemed that the tableaus were constructed just to complete the task, and the singers were tired and I had not heard any singing when we passed the stands. Times changed I thought. Young ladies would better text their barkadas to enjoy rather than do spinster stuff like singing the passion.<br />
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The kids were sleepy when we got back to the car. But I was sure they learned from the Viernes Santo in Cabatuan. Alleluia!<br />
</span>Si Astig Akohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04281471792014672967noreply@blogger.com2