My view from the top of the world...

Just call me Tigum

2011-08-15T22:07:00.011+08:00

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!).

Another one bites the dust

2010-12-08T23:49:00.017+08:00

In 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.

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).

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.

Back to the title of this post.

It was only last August when klasmeyt Premee succumbed to stroke.

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.

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.

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 Premee 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.

As the torchbearer of my class (torchbearer is defined by http://www.yourdictionary.com as a person who brings enlightenment, truth, etc.; or an inspirational leader, as in some movement . 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.

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.

Then, out of the blue, my car stereo blared that old music by the British rock band Queen.

'Steve walks warily down the street with the brim pulled way down low
Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet, machine gun's ready to go
Are you ready? Hey, are you ready for this?
Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?
Out of the doorway the bullets rip to the sound of the beat, Yeah
Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust....'

Not this time, I thought.

Corrupting the youth

2010-12-01T22:35:00.018+08:00

As 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 trapo (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.

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

The issue was again tackled blow-by-blow by the radio commentators until the evening, calling the SK as Sangguniang Kamal-aman.

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.

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.

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.

Let's all pray for our children and the future of our country. Let's all pray for the abolition of the SK.

@

The Psst! Group

2010-11-27T21:10:00.007+08:00

Most 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.

But going back to Psst!

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.

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!'?

Will somebody lecture this group about Classical Conditioning or the theories of Pavlov and Skinner? Over a can of maram-an?

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.

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.

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?

Well, in one of our talks, they mentioned some familiar names.

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.

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.’

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.

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.

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.

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?

Then the question: 'Ti, waay gid ti guwapo ikaw nga nakita?'

And the answer: 'Ay raku nga guwapo eh. Pero ang gusto nanda indi ti guwapa, kundi guwapo man.'

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.

And the banters and recollections continue. Daw kang san-o lang. Psst! Ti, may sugpon o dugang kamo?

Spiderfighting or 'paupas ka damang'

2010-10-10T22:40:00.002+08:00

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.

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.

Paupas ka damang, with two spiders jousting on a stick.

‘Sir, raku damang diyan sa inyo, paupas ta.’

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.

In a spider match, a kid must be skillful to hold the stick without touching the spiders.

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.

A deadly finale. At the end of the fight, the victor throws its sticky web upon the immobilized loser.

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.

When opening the matchbox containing the caught spiders, a kid must gently blow the spiders to keep them from escaping.

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.

The common container for spiders is an empty matchbox with built-in partitions inside.

A stylized container for spiders.

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.

Damang. Following the glint of its web against the sunlight, I discovered this wild spider, curled up under an orchid petal.

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.@

Originally posted: November 11, 2009; 10:12 PM

Common things we fail to see

2010-10-10T22:10:00.001+08:00

It's rainy season. The plants are green and the wild flowers are bursting with colors.

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. 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.

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.

Here's Emerson's poem. And the pictures of what he could have meant. Enjoy.

The Rhodora
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

On being asked, Whence is the flower?

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

@

Originally posted: July 27, 2009; 2:42 PM

Of local royalties and royal marches

2010-09-10T00:24:00.084+08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

Little princes and princesses.

Seasonal fruits are refreshing sights on the sidelines.

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.

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.)

No, they are not the main attractions of the festivities. They are the proud and regal parents of the fiesta queen and her consort.

Below are more pics I took during the royal parades. (If you don't see the slideshow, please click on the link you see below. The link is only shown in the absence of the slideshow.)

@

Tinuom Festival

2010-08-30T23:55:00.015+08:00

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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. @

Fields of bariri

2010-08-15T23:29:00.010+08:00

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.

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.

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. @

RIP Premee

2010-08-12T23:11:00.018+08:00

Mosac 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yes, he was Premee. His neighbors said he was nicknamed Premee because he was a premature baby.

Interment is at the Cabatuan Catholic Cemetery on August 14.

Rest in peace, Premee.

Iloilo Sports Complex

2010-07-22T22:00:00.001+08:00

Can you jog around this track oval four times - straight without stopping? I can. Or I mean, I did.

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.

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.

‘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.

‘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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

‘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.’

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.

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.

‘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.

‘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.’

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.

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.

‘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.

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.

‘It’s a nice day.’, Tatang exclaimed.

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.’

‘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.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I rested the whole day. And the day after. And the week after.

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.

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.

I went back to my car. Maybe now I would take up swimming as my exercise. @

Note: Originally posted 7/30/09 10:00PM.

Rizal's Day

2010-06-19T23:43:00.042+08:00

It'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.

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.

I could dismiss this trivia about Jose Rizal. But somehow I also felt guilty about something pertaining to Rizal.

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.

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.

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.

'You mean, you didn't recognize the poem?' he asked. 'That was the official English translation.'

'I'm sorry but I was not familiar with the lines,' I replied.

'Really?'. He thought I was joking. 'Those were lines from the poem To The Flowers of Heidelberg. By Dr. Jose Rizal. Your national hero.'

'And how did you know that?'

'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.'

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.

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.

The Dr. Jose Rizal statue in Wilhelmsfeld, near Heidelberg. The square where the statue is found is aptly called Rizal Park.

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.

'Daddy dami nating order. Anong occassion?' they asked.

'It's the birthday of a friend,' I replied.

'Sinong friend? Special ba siya? Dahil sa birthday mo nga, pancit lang tinitipid pa.' They giggled.

'Birthday ni Dr. Jose Rizal, our national hero.'

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.

Yes, today was an ordinary day. But I was sure, with all my blunders, today Rizal would have forgiven me.@

A Las Flores De Heidelberg
José Rizal

Id a mi patria, id, extranjeras flores,
sembradas del viajero en el camino,
y bajo su azul cielo,
que guarda mis amores,
contad del peregrino
la fe que alienta por su patrio suelo!
id y decid ... decid que cuando el alba
vuestro cáliz abrió por vez primera
cabe el Neckar helado,
le visteis silencioso a vuestro lado
pensando en su constante primavera.
Decid que cuando el alba,
que roba vuestro aroma,
cantos de amor jugando os susurraba,
él tambien murmuraba
cantos de amor en su natal idioma;
que cuando el sol la cumbre
del Koenigsthul en la mañana dora
y con su tibia lumbre
anima el valle, el bosque y la espesura,
saluda a ese sol aún en su aurora,
al que en su patria en el cenit fulgura !
y contad aquel día
cuando os cogía al borde del sendero,
entre ruinas del feudal castillo,
orilla al Neckar, o a la selva umbria.
Contad lo que os decía ,
cuando, con gran ciudado
entre las páginas de un libro usado
vuestras flexibles hojas oprimía.

Llevad, llevad, oh flores !
amor a mis amores
paz a mi país y a su fecunda tierra,
fe a sus hombres, virtud a sus mujeres,
salud a dulces seres
que el paternal, sagrado hogar encierra ...

Cuando toqueis la playa,
el beso os imprimo
depositadlo en ala de la brisa,
por que con ella vaya
y bese cuanto adora, amo y estimo.

Mas ay llegáreis flores,
conservaréis quizas vuestras colores,
pero lejos del patrio, heroico suelo
a quien debéis la vida:
que aroma es alma, y no abandona el cielo,
cuya luz viera en su nacer, ni olvida.

To the Flowers of Heidelberg
by José Rizal
(A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin)

Go to my country, go, O foreign flowers,
sown by the traveler along the road,
and under that blue heaven
that watches over my loved ones,
recount the devotion
the pilgrim nurses for his native sod!
Go and say say that when dawn
opened your chalices for the first time
beside the icy Neckar,
you saw him silent beside you,
thinking of her constant vernal clime.
Say that when dawn
which steals your aroma
was whispering playful love songs to your young
sweet petals, he, too, murmured
canticles of love in his native tongue;
that in the morning when the sun first traces
the topmost peak of Koenigssthul in gold
and with a mild warmth raises
to life again the valley, the glade, the forest,
he hails that sun, still in its dawning,
that in his country in full zenith blazes.
And tell of that day
when he collected you along the way
among the ruins of a feudal castle,
on the banks of the Neckar, or in a forest nook.
Recount the words he said
as, with great care,
between the pages of a worn-out book
he pressed the flexible petals that he took.

Carry, carry, O flowers,
my love to my loved ones,
peace to my country and its fecund loam,
faith to its men and virtue to its women,
health to the gracious beings
that dwell within the sacred paternal home.

When you reach that shore,
deposit the kiss I gave you
on the wings of the wind above
that with the wind it may rove
and I may kiss all that I worship, honor and love!

But O you will arrive there, flowers,
and you will keep perhaps your vivid hues;
but far from your native heroic earth
to which you owe your life and worth,
your fragrances you will lose!
For fragrance is a spirit that never can forsake
and never forgets the sky that saw its birth.

Translated from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin

Sa Mga Bulaklak ng Heidelberg

Pumaroon kayo sa mutya kong bayang pinakamamahal,
O mga bulaklak na hasik sa landas niyong manlalakbay,
At doon, sa silong ng maaliwalas na langit na bughaw,
Sa mga mahal ko'y di nagpapabaya't laging nagbabantay,
Inyong ibalita itong pananalig na sa puso'y taglay
Ng abang lagalag na di lumilimot sa nilisang bayan.

Pumaroon kayo, inyong ibalitang madilim-dilim pa,
Kung kayo, sa bati ng bukang-liwayway, ay bumubukad na,
Sa pampang ng Neckar na lubhang malamig ay naroon siya,
At sa inyong tabi'y inyong namamasid na parang estatuwa,
Ang Tagsibol doong hindi nagbabago'y binubulay niya.

Inyong ibalitang kung sinisingil na ng bukang-liwayway
Ang buwis na bango ng inyong talulot pag ngiti ng araw,
Habang bumubulong ang bagong umagang halik ang kasabay
Ng "Kung inyo lamang nababatid sana yaring pagmamahal!"
Siya'y may bulong ding inaawit-awit sa katahimikan,
Kundiman ng puso na sa kanyang wika'y inyong napakinggan.

At kung sa taluktok niyong Koenigsthul ay humahalik na
Ang mapulang labi ng anak ng araw sa pag-uumaga,
At ang mga lambak, gubat at kahuya'y binubusog niya
Sa daloy ng buhay na dulot ng sinag na malahininga,
Yaong manlalakbay ay bumabati ring puspos ng ligaya
Sa araw, na doon sa sariling baya'y laging nagbabaga.

At ibalita rin na nang minsang siya'y naglalakad-lakad
Sa pampang ng Neckar ay pinupol kayo sa gilid ng landas,
Doon sa ang tanod ay ang mga guhong bakas ng lumipas,
Na nalililiman ng maraming punong doo'y naggugubat.

Ibalita ninyo kung paanong kayo'y marahang pinupol,
Pinakaingatang huwag masisira ang sariwang dahon,
At sa kanyang aklat ay ipinaloob at doon kinuyom,
Aklat ay luma na, datapuwa't kayo'y naroon pa ngayon.

Hatdan, hatdan ninyo, O pinakatanging bulaklak ng Rin,
Hatdan ng pag-ibig ang lahat ng aking nga ginigiliw,
Sa bayan kong sinta ay kapayapaan ang tapat kong hiling,
Sa kababaihan ay binhi ng tapang ang inyong itanim;
Pagsadyain ninyo, O mga bulaklak, at inyong batiin
Ang mga mahal kong sa tahanang banal ay kasama namin.

At pagsapit ninyo sa dalampasigan ng bayan kong irog,
Bawa't halik sanang idinarampi ko sa inyong talulot
Ay inyong isakay sa pakpak ng hanging doo'y lumilibot,
Upang sa lahat nang iginagalang ko't sinisitang lubos
Nawa'y makasapit ang halik ng aking pag-ibig na taos.

Maaaring doo'y makarating kayong taglay pa ang kulay,
Subali't ang bango'y wala na marahil at kusang pumanaw,
Wala na ang samyong sa talulot ninyo'y iningatang yaman,
Pagka't malayo na sa lupang sa inyo'y nagbigay ng buhay;
Iwing halimuyak ang inyong kaluluwa, at di malilisan
Ni malilimot pa ang langit na saksi nang kayo'y isilang.

The City of Heidelberg with its crown, the old Heidelberg Castle.

Most horrifying horror movie

2010-06-15T23:33:00.039+08:00

Cannibal Holocaust 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.

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.

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.

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.

Watch this critique. Warning: Some scenes could be unacceptable to some.

@

First Class ang ticket

2010-06-10T23:06:00.038+08:00

I 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.

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!'.

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.

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.

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.

So how did the words First Class got entangled with somebody from Lambunao?

To those who have not known, this was the story I heard a long time ago.

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!

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.

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!

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.

Then the ship left the pier and off they headed for Manila.

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.

But wait a minute. Something was wrong because the guy beside him was saying something.

'Pre, ngaa dira ka nagapanghilam-os haw?', asked the guy.

'Insa haw?', answered back bisoy.

'Pre, indi ka dapat magpanghilam-os da!'

'Insa haw? Perst klas man tiket ko.'

'Pre, indi puwede dira.'

'Insa gani, kay perst klas man tiket ko?'

'Pre, basin na ang ginapanghilam-osan mo. Inudoro. Indi ka manghilam-os sa inudoro.'

'Inudoro. Ano pagkama-an mo kanakon? Perst klas tiket ni!'

The other guy just left in a huff while bisoy toweled himself off as he murmured, 'Perst klas tiket ni!'.

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.

Here's a video of a similar incident. I don't know if the person in the video was also labelled First Class.

Ti san-o ka masunod?

2010-06-05T22:34:00.024+08:00

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?'

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.

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.

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).

'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?'

Now many klasmeyts are certified grandmas/grandpas. And they proudly parade their apos in strollers. Frankly, they looked like yayas than grandmas.

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.

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 burial of a klasmeyt, 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.

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?' @

Santacruzan sa banwa ko

2010-05-30T23:44:00.031+08:00

I 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.

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.

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.

Just look at the pics!

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.

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.

Please click on the arrow to play the slideshow.

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?

Of course, whatever. Nobody cares. As long as all the girls and their proud parents had their moments of fame.

But, really? Was the Reyna banished during the long interregnum?

Rains at last!

2010-05-26T23:36:00.010+08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.@

Angelicum School's Lizares Mansion is 'mine'

2010-05-24T01:30:00.007+08:00

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

‘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 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.

‘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.

‘Pre, my folks are in Bacolod. But they are coming. Hope you will meet them.’ He disappeared from view.

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.

‘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.

Note: This is a repost; originally posted on 12/29/08 3:47AM @

Requiems for Sister Aurora

2010-05-17T23:18:00.032+08:00

Eternal rest grant unto her, Oh Lord
And let perpetual light shine upon her.
May she rest in peace. Amen.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Sister Aurora, please pray for us.

Election 2010

2010-05-08T23:10:00.041+08:00

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.

Please click on pictures to enlarge.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You like my fearless forecast for Iloilo?

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.

For Vice President, it's Mar Roxas. Period.

For Senators, the surprise win is that of Risa Hontiveros-Baraquel.

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.

And how about my choices?

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.

For Vice President, I am voting for Mar Roxas.

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.

For Partylist, it's Akbayan.

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.@

Saw this streamer in Capiz. Board Memeber is a new position up for grabs only in Capiz.

Piyesta sa Tiring

2010-05-03T23:46:00.011+08:00

May 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.

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.

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 nth 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was easy to identify a house with lots of handa by looking at its backyard.

This house was our destination. We were given a warm welcome by our hosts.

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!

Estofado.

KBL - kadyos, baboy, langka

Valenciana

Morcon

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.

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!

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.

Outside the house, guests were still arriving. While others were resting and waiting for another serving.

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.

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.

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....

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.

Living driftwood.

Top, serisa or aratiles. Above and below, kamonsil or camachille. Both fruits abound in the riverbank.

INCA and the Mariit Wildlife Conservation Center

2010-04-27T20:39:00.011+08:00

I planned this post to be titled Lambunao's Wilds 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.

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.

(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.

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.

Flowers bloom inside the INCA campus - lirio (L) and madre de cacao blossoms (R).

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.

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.

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.

Early morning at the INCA campus is bucolic indeed. The promenade invites joggers (top). Children enjoys grazing an albino carabao (photo above).

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.

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.

(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.

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.

But our main purpose to venture into this side of Lambunao was to climb the mountains to see its waterfalls.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And the waterfalls, at last...

The view was fantastic and mesmerizing. But we had to beware of wet or moss covered rocks. They were slippery.

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.

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.

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.@

Bermejo Street

2010-04-24T22:35:00.002+08:00

Note: This is a repost. Originally posted on July 23, 2009, 10:35pm.

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.

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.

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.

I kept my promise for about a week. After that, it was again playtime on the street.

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.

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.'

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. @

Savannah!

2010-04-22T22:37:00.032+08:00

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?

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.

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.

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.

A place called Savannah... by Lito Banayo

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.

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? @

Viernes Santo

2010-04-02T23:56:00.011+08:00

My 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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 buki, 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.

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.

Native delicacies abound. After the tiresome walk and climb, the faithful gotta eat - this could be the bright thought of the local entrepreneurs.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The kids were sleepy when we got back to the car. But I was sure they learned from the Viernes Santo in Cabatuan. Alleluia!

Earth Hour

2010-03-27T23:29:00.002+08:00

We did not attend mass this evening. Instead, we purchased some groceries and prepared an early dinner. The kids were excited to switch off all the lights and electrical appliances. Starting 8:30 pm to 9:30 pm was Earth Hour.

At exactly 8:30 pm the kids switched off everything. We went out to the garden and ate halo-halo. Surprisingly, inspite of El Niño, the evening was not hot and not humid. And surprisingly again, most houses in the subdivision where we live switched off their lights. Unlike last year, when only a handful of houses observed the Earth Hour. Tonight, even the subdivision switched off the street lights. Only the house of a neighbor who was too busy with her 5-6 business to bother with social issues, was blazing with lights. Later, the neighbor complained of the unlighted streetlights. So I informed her about Earth Hour. She grudgingly switched off all her lights after a few minutes.

According to reports, 15 million Filipinos in 1076 towns were expected to participate in the Earth Hour, when at the exact time environment-minded people all over the world switched off all the electrical devices in their homes for 1 hour.

I asked the kids about the meaning of Earth Hour and why we have to observe it. They talked about the environment and our duty to protect it. They too talked to the kasambahays and explained to them the importance of saving on water, electricity, and others.

Well, in the end, 1 hour of switching off our dependence to electricity in our house may not create a big dent in our electric bill. But the level of environmental awareness achieved by my kids and my neighbors may be too much to be tossed aside. @

Traditional Filipino practices during death in the family... or mga kadu kag waay it sayud

2010-03-03T01:00:00.024+08:00

It’s the 9th day after Nanay’s burial. It’s also the end of the 9-day novena for the dead recited for Nanay. We had a small handa in our house – actually leftovers from the food prepared during the burial. My sisters just added a few dishes.

The 9-day novena is a tradition among the Catholics in the Philippines. There are other traditions which are practiced in the rural areas which to my horror and amusement are also practiced by many of my folks as I had experienced during the wake of Nanay.

The wake for Nanay was held in our ancestral house. This is a practice in our place, unlike in urban centers where the wake is held in commercial funeral houses. As soon as the coffin was brought to the house, I was initiated to the old traditions and practices which could be scientifically explained but somehow could be amusing and backward to me.

The coffin was positioned so that the feet of the cadaver point to the house’s main door. This should be the only position according to the guys from the punerarya. They arranged the curtains and the flowers and left. My nieces did the cleaning near and around the coffin as leaves and petals used in the wreaths scatter in the place. And my old aunt (Nanay’s sister) nearly had a heart attack as she shouted ‘Kadu! Kadu! Waay it sayud!’ (kadu is taboo or against cultural or racial practices; waay it sayud is not acceptable) when she saw my nieces sweeping the floor with a broom. Sweeping the floor is forbidden in a wake. According to the old folks, sweeping with a broom will result to another death in the family.

We had some food prepared for the folks who came to pray. My aunt placed small portions of the food on the makeshift altar beside the coffin like some sort of offering. She said, the itang or how the food is called in the vernacular, was for the souls. As there were many people coming and going, she placed the itang inside a room, so the souls would not be disturbed. (Itang is still widely practiced in rural areas. I remembered my grandparents, when they were still alive, placed viand and portions of rice topped with small cones made of banana leaves and filled with salt, in a secluded room. Kids like us didn’t know what for were the food. So, when nobody was looking we sneaked into the room and gobbled on the food. Possibly, the old folks would have been shocked to know that the ‘spirits’ really ate their preparations.)

Cousins came the following day to make palaypay, a temporary roofing extension outside the house to accommodate more guests. They fell some bamboo poles from our farm and a cousin’s truck hauled them to our house. Feeling like an office manager that I am, I instructed them to just extend the beams for the palaypay from our house’s main beams to save on materials and efforts. But they did not heed me as it was kadu. The farm boys made their own posts and put up the beams, making sure that none of the palaypay’s parts touch the main house as it was kadu. They used sukdap – twine from bamboo skin – to tie the beams. The whole palaypay was finished without a nail in place. And all done in the old fashioned bayanihan way. We didn’t pay the guys. They worked because the palaypay had to be done. They just settled for a bottle of whiskey and some cigarettes. Nothing else. And they were also there to help prepare for the food during the burial and to dismantle the palaypay after the burial.

I instructed my cousins not to cut the bamboo poles too short because I was going to use them in my farm after the wake. A neighbor asked me where I was going to use the bamboos. I told her I was going to use the bamboos to mend the floor of my nipa hut. In a stern way, she informed me that bamboos used in the palaypay must not be re-used to mend or build a house. Waay it sayud. The bamboos can only be used for fencing.

The wake was about two and a half weeks as we were still waiting for a brother and two nieces to arrive from abroad. In our place, wakes are long because relatives from far away are expected to come to pay their last respects. Everyday, we took a bath as usual, to the consternation of the other relatives. In the rural areas, the immediate family of the dead, is supposed to take a bath only after the wake. When my friends from the city came, I asked our cook to prepare chicken dishes. My older cousins from Mindanao told me, it was kadu to kill chicken. If ever, I must ask a non-relative to kill and to dress the chicken. He reminded me of what happened to the children of an uncle. ‘They met violent deaths (hilaw nga kamatayon) because they killed chicken and had chicken dishes in their far away house during the wake of our Lola’, my cousin told me.

Crawling vegetables or dishes that use them, were also not allowed. Mourners must not be accompanied to outside the house when they leave. Better if mourners just leave without asking permission.

Food prepared for the wake must not be brought to other houses. My sister’s husband believed in this. One time my sister gave puto, which was served to the mourners for breakfast, to her daughter as baon. When her husband learned about this, he was very angry. To appease him, my sister went to the school of her daughter to take back the puto. And she was so guilty, she didn’t dare eat nor bring the puto to their house. Instead she gave it to the tricycle driver. During the wake, a cousin delivered to our house 2 big baskets of newly harvested mangoes as my sister’s share from their farm. She didn’t open the baskets as she was excited to show them to her husband. When her husband came, he was delighted to see their farm produce, but would never take any of the mangoes to their house nor to the house of his kin because the mangoes had already been inside our property (technically just inside our gate and still outside our house). That night, I brought bags of fresh green mangoes to my house in Jaro to the delight of my kids and neighbors. I told them, the mangoes were from my farm.

Pinned to the inside cover of the coffin were ribbons bearing the written names of the kids and grandkids of the dead. I didn’t like it, but it was the practice in our place. At least, the array of names made it appear that my mother really had a family. But the list of names had to be taken down before the coffin is finally closed and entered in the tomb.

Burials are usually held during the weekend so that most everybody can attend. It was therefore hard to get a schedule on a weekend. It was also hard to look for a priest because the local parish priest uses his quota of four masses a day to say scheduled masses in the town and the barangays plus the ubiquitous fiestas. My sisters asked for three priests to concelebrate the mass. My priest-classmate and another priest-friend agreed to say the mass. I telephoned the home for retired priests if anybody would be available to complete the misa de tres. The first retired priest I talked to initially agreed. But when I told him he was one of the three to say the mass, he got ballistic. He reminded me that others can hardly find a priest, and here I was asking three priests to be in the same mass. I asked his forgiveness and hang up. I thought then the priest was too grouchy because he had menopausal fits. In the end, we settled for two priests.

After the mass there was a pictorial. The practice in our place is to take the picture of each set of the families of the children gathered around the coffin. So if the dearly departed had five children, there will be five pictures taken of the five sets of families. And many more for the other relatives, classmates and barkadas who will have their own separate photo ops.

In the case of Nanay, we only had 2 photo ops – one for the immediate family members and another for the siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews.

Then we exited the church for the 1-kilometer walk to the cemetery. It used to be that all the mourners would walk all the way to the cemetery. But not anymore. Only the immediate family and close associates of the dead walk the distance behind the hearse. The others ride in their gleaming cars, passenger jeeps, tricycles, etc. Almost everybody think that 1 kilometer is too far away. And the hot sun has to be avoided.

We served snacks in the cemetery.

After the burial, close friends and relatives pass by our house for more food. We butchered 1 cow and 2 pigs for lunch. And there were still leftovers for dinner. Male relatives were there to dismantle the palaypays. And they brought to their homes more leftover food. Somehow they didn’t think it was kadu.

Cousins stayed until late at night. There was supposed to be a belasyon with games and luwa. But somehow, none of us knew how to start the belasyon. So older cousins just informed us what other practices we had to follow.

Aside from belasyon, another old practice we talked about was the tulod damag. We were told that this was no longer practiced as none of the remaining generation knew how to do it. And nobody seemed to believe in it anyway. But we were told that tulod damag was performed when my father died more that 20 years ago.

In tulod damag, live charcoal were left glowing in the dapog (earthen platform where cooking is done using a sig-ang) from evening to dawn to guide the soul of the dead in its travel to the other world. Early the following morning, two widows would create sounds – one widow used a mortar and pestle and the other would beat a kararaw (woven wide and shallow basket used to clean rice) with a piece of bamboo. What for are these noises, nobody knew.

Our older cousins also told us that the soul is believed to linger on earth for forty days before it finally goes to heaven. They asked us to offer a mass and have another handa on the 40th day after the death of our mother. @

Goodbye, Nanay

2010-02-03T23:56:00.006+08:00

Today, at exactly 8:15 pm in my watch, Nanay died of organ failure in the hospital where she stayed for about a month. She just turned 85 yesterday, February 2.

To me, it was a beautiful and peaceful death. She was surrounded by her children and grandchildren. Those who were working and studying abroad, talked to her over the phone to assure her of their love and that it was okay for her to finally rest and have peace. I was rubbing her arm to let her feel our presence. My face was just inches from hers so she could easily see me. Seconds before she finally rested, she raised her hand to touch me. Inspite of prior delirium, now she looked at me with focus and full consciousness, as if to say her final goodbye. I told her to just sleep and rest. And she closed her eyes. And rested without pain.

How I wished that when my time comes I would be in the same situation – with my children and apos and loved ones around and near me. Not the kasambahays or strangers in the hospital. As I’ve always said, if I have a choice, I prefer my kids not to work and live abroad. Just like I was happy today I was not living abroad. I was beside Nanay when she breathed her last. And I was there to sign the papers to forego more tubes and machines which would prolong Nanay’s agony. And to remind the doctors to spare Nanay more injections and hospital pains. Because even without pulse and heart beats registering in the machine, Nanay was weakly trying to take out her oxygen mask possibly to ward off the discomfort.

I was also glad I was near her to tell her all the words she would have wished to hear from me. I sometimes read messages like ‘Tell your loved ones how much you love them before it is too late.’ Today, the message just rang true. And I told Nanay I loved her and I thanked her for all the joys, the memories, the life and the things she had done to me and to all of her children and apos. And I whispered to her that, with all my failings, I wished I had done all that she had hoped me to do for her; and I had achieved all that she had wished me to be. I was sure she heard me before she closed her eyes for the last time.

Goodbye Nanay.

Sweet smells of the past

2010-01-29T23:54:00.004+08:00

Hay, buhay! Our former kasambahay would add, ‘Parang life!’. I wouldn’t utter such corniness. But then, sometimes, when I am alone, it’s nice to just let go of the phrase to release the stress and tension that build up in me.

Today is January 29, many weeks after I made a post in this blog. I really planned to write before about issues, ideas, trivias, or just about small things that happened in my day. My thoughts just flowed out like water from the fountain. But once I was in front of the computer, I could not find the words that would truly represent my thoughts. I was in the dark. I could not write. So I just played some music in the computer – music that somehow brought my mind to the time when I was younger and brimming with vigor and idealism, to the time when the whole of my future was in front of me, when everything seemed easy and possible.

Those were the times when…

I was applying the sunblock lotion Coppertone on my skin even when I was going to the office, or even when I was going to my graduate classes in the evening. I loved the smell of Coppertone. It reminded me of summer, when my friends and I hied off to some remote beaches or mountain destinations we had never been before to enjoy our newfound freedom as well-paid single professionals. In all these outings, I had my Coppertone, more because of the smell than because of its protective formulations. Later, I noticed my male classmates at the Ateneo Graduate School also smelled like me, possibly because they came straight from an outing or because they just liked my smell. The smell was manly and outdoorsy. And psychologists say that we like a smell not because of the smell per se, but because the smell evokes or reminds us of some past experiences or people we like. So for me, nothing beats the smell of Coppertone.

I also like the smell of Crayola, the smell of new plastic, and the smell of newly mowed grass. All these evoked happy memories of my childhood. But of course, I don’t like to smell like Crayola, new plastic, or newly mowed grass.

When I was a child, my parents would bring my siblings and I to the city to purchase school supplies during the opening of school. We bought notebooks, pencils, ballpens, crayons, bags and others. When we arrived home I gathered all my new school supplies and placed them inside my new plastic bag. My notebooks were neatly covered and my crayons were arranged according to color intensity. And the smell was overpowering. Now, when I smelled the crayons of my children, it was dejavu for me.

At the start of school, I was grinning from ear to ear as I met my friends who were all having new bags and new school supplies. Like me. We were all happy. Our notebooks were covered and clean. I didn’t like to write on them lest they would look messy. Our hairs and clothes were neat. Of course, after a week nobody bothered if our hairs and clothes were in disarray. Or whether we even changed clothes at all. But on the first day of class, I pitied anyone without a new bag. For me, I felt very handsome; it seemed all my classmates and teachers were staring at me because I had a new bag. And everybody could tell that my bag was new because the plastic still smelled.

And the newly mowed grass? Every summer during my childhood years, my cousins and I spent our vacation in our grandparents’ farm. We helped in the chores. My male cousins and I were assigned to take care of the carabaos. Every morning we brought the carabaos to the fields to graze. The grasses were still wet with dew. And each time the carabao munched on the grass, I got a whiff of its smell amidst the unadulterated crisp morning air in the far barrios. We sat on the backs of the carabaos, ate some guavas, and told stories until we were called for lunch. After lunch, we listened to noontime drama over the radio. When the drama ended, it was time for us to bring the carabaos to the brook for a swim. We also swam with the carabaos in the black waters of the brook. Possibly, we smelled like the carabaos after we swam but nobody complained. Then back to the pasture. It was a carefree and memorable childhood. And each time I smelled the grass I remembered the uncomplicated days we tended the carabaos.

My mother is 85 years old come Feb 2. And she is in the hospital since December 29 for high blood, pneumonia, and blood infection. She is alright now and might be out of the hospital tomorrow. My experience with my mother in the hospital gave me some thoughts about life. She had her lows in the hospital as her doctor said ‘naga-practice dying sya’. Her children and apos were with her in the hospital. But I noticed that her face really brightened when her cousin and contemporary visited her. Her cousin was 88 years old and still spritely. I was thinking that possibly my mother cannot connect to the younger generation. She wanted to take out all the tubes inserted to her body and just go home. But we won’t allow her. She was practically a prisoner in the hospital room. She was therefore happy to see her cousin because she was reminded of her younger years, when she was without worry, carefree, and could run free in the open spaces of their rural barrio. Too bad that most of her contemporaries are now dead or prisoners of their aged body. I told my children that when I grow old like Nanay they should not bring me to the hospital. I prefer that a doctor just visit me at home. Possibly, I could stay in the hospital when I am already unconscious.

Looking at Nanay, made me want to go back to the past. The past was just simple and worry-free. If only I could turn back the hands of time and savor the sweet smells of the past…

Hay buhay…

By the way HAPPY NEW YEAR sa tanan.

Nobody, nobody but you!

2009-12-31T22:47:00.001+08:00

It's been a while since my last post. Anyway, holidays naman. And nobody was supposed to visit my blog during the holidays, right? Wala na gani time mag-shopping, tapos mag-surf pa sa blog? People thought my insomnia has been cured because of the absence of any post. But it was understandable that even if I still couldn't sleep, I would be doing something else, rather than just sit in front of my computer. The past weeks, even salesgirls, or especially salesgirls stayed up late. Baw, grabe gid mag-shopping mga tawo.

I too had to chauffer my family to shopping and visiting sorties. And these sorties sometimes lasted up to the wee hours!

But now, tapos na Christmas, and the shopping rush and spending woes that went with it. It was a habit of Filipinos to really splurge during Christmas. It was also a habit of malls and other business establishments to mark down prices or put up Sale gimmicks to entice and squeeze out the last money from gullible holiday shoppers. Anyway, better to give than to receive daw. But tell that to the marines, as I witnessed faces fell in Christmas gatherings because,after spending a lot for the exchange gift, some participants resented it when they received obviously cheap items from ukay-ukay or tiyangge sale; or they were about to cry after receiving a piece of handkerchief or a lavacara, knowing fully well that they bought branded t-shirt or other pricey items for their own exchange gift. They even had their gifts specially wrapped with special wrappers by paid wrapping counters that sprout along mall aisles, only to be forcefully torn by excited receivers. They didn’t even appreciate, even for a few minutes, the art and the skill that went with the gift wrapping.

In my family, we too had our share of budget scare. No matter how we limit the expenses, it seemed the final bill was always over the budget.

We shopped and purchased gift items and groceries for Christmas dinner early to avoid the rush only to find even as late as the eve of Christmas that we failed to purchase some required items. For example, we planned to cook pancit molo, our tradition, for Noche Buena. Days before, we drove to Panaderia de Molo to purchase the chicken molo balls. My kids and nieces love their molo balls! On Christmas eve, as my wife was cooking the molo, she discovered we had no molo noodles and spring onions. I hated the queues and the road traffic while paying or while driving, as the case maybe. So I purchased the noodles in a small tindahan near my mother’s house kilometers away when I fetch my mother for midnight mass.

Every Christmas we attend Misa de Gallo in the Colegio de San Jose chapel. The chapel is walking distance from my house and its Christmas eve mass at 10:00 pm is earlier than in our hometown. After the mass, my mother, my siblings and an assortment of nieces, apos and in-laws gather in my house for Noche Buena, exchange gift, and a party. For years now, we gather in my house because my house is the most accessible and the biggest in my mother’s family (but not anymore).

Also, every year my sisters and nieces choose a color motif for our Christmas attire. This year 2009, it was violet, lavender, purple, indigo, whatever. Everybody had an exciting time scouring the malls and tiangges for their Christmas attire. In my case, I already eyed some violet t-shirts in some boutiques. On Christmas eve, when I was about to purchase my shirt, I discovered there was no size for me. Nag-panick na ako. Violet is an uncommon color for men’s clothes. The only store I thought I have not gone to was Collezione. I thought I would be wearing one of its shirt, the most worn t-shirt this side of the planet this season (which I don’t like to wear because it was so common) – the one with the map of the Philippines embroidered on its breast. From Noynoy and Kris Aquino, to the TV news anchors and reporters, to salesgirls and even cigarette vendors – they wear proudly the Philippine map on their breasts. Very nationalistic, indeed. But do I have to wear what half of the Filipinos were wearing? Luckily, there was also no size for me at Collezione. The last boutique I went to was Folded&Hung. I avoided this boutique because its items were very expensive. But now I discovered it sold t-shirts for below Php500.00. And they had all the colors of the rainbow. I also liked their t-shirt with the Philippine map. Its embroidered outline of the map extended up to the collar, with the upper part of Luzon already embroidered on the collar. Cool. At least iba. But then, there was also no size for me. Uso kasi ngayon in the Philippines ang body-fit style of shirts, na nakadikit sa body na parang balat ng suman. Bagay sa mga kids and students. But for an older professional like me, parang trying hard ang dating sa akin. Parang nag-shrink ng todo ang damit mo, and you still have to wear it because you have no choice, dahil wala ka nang pambili. So I bought my violet shirt from F&H, the one without the map.

On the night of the Misa de Gallo, my kids and nieces were excited to wear their attires. We first had a group picture-taking before proceeding to the church. It was nice to know that, in the wake of the Filipino diaspora, many of us were still together to celebrate Christmas. There were new faces, as a niece got a husband, and a brother had an apo. But I was sad to know that other faces in our last Christmas picture were no longer with us - a niece went abroad to work and my only nephew who was my constant companion was in London with his parents. The world is getting smaller. Every Christmas, there is always a missing face in our group picture. Who would we miss next Christmas? Can we ever gather completely again?

The church goers were staring and smiling at us, as twenty-plus of us, and my wheel-chair bound mother and the babies, paraded to the church wearing all shades of violet. Probably, many were thankful they were not wearing the same color, else they be mistaken as members of our boisterous family.

The mass was long as it was preceded by a re-enactment of the Nativity starting from the arrival of Joseph and Mary in Bethlehem up to the birth of Jesus and the coming of the three Kings. The children were happily watching at the start, and silently sleeping when the play ended. We had a hard time keeping them awake during the mass.

We had a hearty Noche Buena after the mass. And exchange gifts and games. Two computers with webcams were strategically placed in our sala so our homesick relatives abroad can also join us on real time. The kids danced like they were drunk. And they danced mostly to the tune of Nobody, Nobody But You. They kept on replaying the music and dancing to its beat, I thought my eardrums would burst. It would have been nice to hear Jingle Bells or Silent Night as it was Christmas. The kids only stopped the music when we had our ‘exchange gifts’. Afterwards they were snickering as they thought their gifts came from Santa Claus, but they said it was actually their Tita - my sister – who gave them all the gifts. I received a replica of the crucified Jesus as gift from my SP (special pal).

At 1:30 am, I drove my mother to her house in our hometown, as she will never sleep in any house but her own. When we arrived in the town 25km away, I passed by many cars and people. I found out the mass had just finished and people were still going home for their Noche Buena at 2:00 am.

In the morning, we all woke up late. And we ate all the left-overs from the previous night’s meal. The children were again preparing a dance number for the Christmas Party with their friends in our compound. I told them they should dance to any music except Nobody, Nobody But You. They just laughed. Then they all swayed their hips as Nobody, Nobody But You shattered the morning calm.

@

The women in the Arroyo Fountain

2009-12-17T22:52:00.012+08:00

Early this morning I drove to the office of my sister in Bo. Obrero. It was their Christmas Party. The party was a day-long activity starting with a breakfast. I brought with me ibos, huwad-huwad, and ripe mangoes for their breakfast.

Driving from our house in Jaro to Bo. Obrero, passing by Lapaz to Lapuz without crossing the Iloilo River, was a so-so experience - especially the trip through the Lapuz area. It was just one of those forgettable trips, so humdrum it was over before I even thought about it. The place was very impersonal, with the buildings either closed or occupied as warehouses or depots, and populated by half-clothed cargadors and other daily wagers carrying sacks of produce.

On my way back, I changed my route just to brighten up the trip. When I reached the Rizal rotunda, I turned left to cross the Iloilo River via the Quirino Lopez Bridge. Across the river, I could see the new Provincial Capitol Building, The Atrium, the old Iloilo Prison, the Hall of Justice Building, and far to my left is the turn of the century Aduana Building.

And as I got near the other side of the Iloilo River, I was face-to-face with the Arroyo Fountain, that famous landmark in front of the old Provincial Capitol Building.

The Arroyo Fountain is also known as Kilometer Zero in the island of Panay. And I think all Ilonggos must know this – that all kilometer readings beside the highways all throughout Panay were measured from the Arroyo Fountain. It was named after an Ilonggo Senator, the late Jose Maria Arroyo. He was the grandfather of the First Gentleman Mike Arroyo, infamous for being linked to the many scandals and anomalies in the administration of President Gloria Arroyo. (Now, Ilonggos must be aware that the person they love to hate is just a fellow Ilonggo.) The fountain features four women carrying a basin over their head. When I was in high school, I was one of the few students tapped by the Department of Tourism to help in their tourism promotion campaigns. We were given briefings as regards attractions in Iloilo City. I remember that we were informed that the four women in the Arroyo fountain were originally naked. But the conservative attitude of the Ilonggos, made the government decide to cover the women with Grecian garbs.

And I was reminded of the original nakedness of the stone women when I passed by the fountain two weeks ago.

It was a Tuesday, about 9:00 am. I was driving to Calle Real for some errands. The streets were busy with pedestrians and traffic. It seemed a normal day. Just like the other days before. But something unusual happened.

As I approached the Arroyo Fountain, I saw this unusual sight – a voluptuous near-naked woman, a pale orange gumamela tucked behind her ear, was dancing on the street level ledge of the fountain. No, I was not hallucinating. It was not one of the four stone women turning to life, possibly because of some enchanted kiss of a prince charming in the guise of a taong grasa. The woman was real flesh and blood. She was doing a sexy dance while circling the fountain like she was in a bar - gyrating and grinding her pelvis, swinging her exposed breasts, and taunting the passersby with the most luscious lips. From afar, her morena features would easily make her just another buang or babaeng grasa na nakakadiri. But as I got near, I could see she was not the usual streetside buang. Her body was well maintained and she could pass for a high-prized GRO. Her auburn hair could have been from a parlor. Her bras were pulled up. Her tits were dark but she had perfect skin. And her scandalous performance seemed choreographed.

But, alas, as I passed in front of her, I failed to see her face. I failed to see if she was really still wearing panties.

When I passed in front of her, I was concerned more of the reactions of the many minors and students who passed by the area. I was concerned more of whether there were policemen around and what they were doing. I was more like a scandalized Ilonggo of old prodding my government to put stone clothes on the statues that may cover the stony outlines of their nubile womanhood.

No, there were no policemen. I could see two uniformed traffic enforcers about twenty meters away with some scandalized old ladies. Surely, the dancing lady did not commit any traffic violation. The traffic enforcers were looking helplessly at the live performance they could have longed to see but could not because of their meager salaries. But in the presence of the manangs, they were in a quandary of whether to stop the indecent performance or to flag down their libido from producing a raging hard on in broad daylight. Accidents too might happen as drivers may think they were at the ringside of a go-go bar and not at the driver’s side of a vehicle.

Then I was far away. I didn’t like to look back as I may be the one to cause an accident.

When I reached home, I immediately narrated the incident to the carpenters doing some renovation in my house. We had a good laugh. One panday told us that, in the past days, he had been hearing over the radio the same incident. According to radio reports, the lady was not buang but possibly high on drugs or could have bouts of depression.

Anyway, for you my cyberfriends, I didn’t just fail to see the face of the dancing lady, but I also failed to take a pic of her even with my cellphone. Bitin? Just pray I could again witness her next free performance. And hope that my cellphone is not lowbatt.

But look at the photo of the Arroyo Fountain. Can you imagine how the stone women looked originally? @

The woes of government pensioners

2009-12-08T22:03:00.006+08:00

It’s the 8th of the month. And government pensioners are again trooping to the ATM machines of Union Bank to withdraw their pensions. And to again experience the woes of helplessness amidst the unbridled ineptness of the Government Service Insurance System (GSIS).

No, their woes are not so much because Union Bank has only two branches in Iloilo City to serve the thousands of government retirees in the city and province of Iloilo, including the nearby provinces. Why Union Bank was appointed as a transit or repository of retirees’ money is beyond me. Compared to Union Bank, other local banks, like Banco De Oro, have many branches and ATM machines strategically situated in different corners of the city, including inside the air-conditioned comfort of the malls. It is therefore not uncommon to see senior citizens forming a long queue in front of Union Bank even as early as 6:00am.

Today, retirees realized that their pensions have not been remitted. And that, many who came hoping to have money to buy food, medicines, and other requirements of their old selves have nobody to complain to but the sleepy bank security guards who had no idea what the GSIS was up to.

Late in the day, the local GSIS chief issued an explanation that GSIS was undergoing computer data migration and therefore was unable to remit the pensions on time. No date was given as to when the pensions would finally be remitted.

Last time, the pensions were paid in two installments within the month. The reason forwarded was also about the computer software.

As a computer software professional with years of experience in software development, implementation and maintenance, I was appalled at the reasons given. To me, not paying salaries or any payment due because of computer glitches is a mortal sin that warrants the termination of services of the computer geek concerned. Database migration, software implementation, and hardware changes are scheduled and done in installments so as not to affect services. I know how programmers behave. And to me, non-payments or late payments could only be caused by the insufficiency or absence of funds.

So, woe to the senior citizens who had been hoping for a comfortable life after serving the country and the people with dedication and pride. Today, they gathered at the GSIS building to air their grievances. Some were sitting and lying on the concrete floor because of exhaustion. Possibly others have not yet eaten. Poor people. I was glad Nanay has children. At least she was spared the indignity of queuing for nothing at Union Bank. But of course, as her proxy, I wasn’t spared.

But this is the Philippines. Can the shabby and lousy services be a ruse so that young people would be enticed or forced to go abroad? If they remain in the country, they just add up to the unemployment rate.

No wonder.@

The feel of Christmas in Iloilo

2009-12-07T22:52:00.021+08:00

Through the local evening news, my kids learned that Central Philippine University (CPU) has switched on the Christmas lights in its campus. This is a yearly activity of CPU to add merriment to the Christmas celebration in Iloilo.

Students enjoying the CPU Christmas spirit. Background is the outline of the CPU Chapel.

So after dinner, my kids asked me to drive around CPU where we can do some walking. Good exercise. We hopped in to the car – my two kids, two apos of my brother, my wife and I.

We proceeded first to Angelicum School which also has the same Christmas lighting activity every December. But Angelicum has not yet started its lighting activity. The kids were disappointed. But nevertheless, on our way to CPU, they comforted each other with stories of ghosts residing in Angelicum.

A big screen was put up on the football grounds to show the goings-on of the program on the stage nearby. Background is the outline of the College of Nursing building.

The atmosphere in CPU was festive. There were lights overhead the roads and lights to outline the buildings. There were food stalls selling the usual street foods and it was fun to see students in shorts and jackets and some in uniforms, eating isaw, barbecue, or hotdog sandwich. My kids also wanted to buy swaharma but I told them we just had our dinner and we were there to see the lights and to do some walking. Again they were disappointed but they ran to the football field where there was an ongoing program.

We never had our walking exercises because the kids preferred rolling on the lawn. So I told them we better go home as they still have classes the following day.

My kids enjoying the night in CPU. Note that they are wearing jackets. This December is colder than the previous ones.

The road in front of CPU was bumpy, especially the one leading to Sambag. Grabe. You will never think you are still in the city.

Instead of going straight home, we headed for Pavia to see the two big houses near Aganan bridge which had the most audacious and extravagant residential Christmas display in Iloilo. We passed by these houses many times on our way to Cabatuan and back. But we never had time to stop by.

When the kids learned that we were heading to Pavia, they were excited.

One of the Aganan houses as seen from inside the car.

When we reached the Aganan houses, I parked our car across the street. Ours was not the only car parked. Many passersby were also parking for a moment and taking pictures. Many people were milling outside the gates. Hangang-hanga sila sa lights and decorations. Parang di sila nagsasawa sa katitingin. They were unbelieving and childlike. Parang they thought they were transcended to some magical place and they were not in Pavia. The other houses nearby were bare of Christmas decors and lights. At least this was my observation. The residents of the nearby houses were sitting in their porches either sad that nobody paid attention to their meager decorations if any, or happy that they will not be paying much for electric bills this Christmas.

My kids were mesmerized and infatuated by the decorations. They were busy praising or commenting on the extravagant display. Gradually they kept quiet. They were now sleepy.

Back home we had no Christmas decorations. There is an ongoing renovation in our house. It’s just small repaint and alteration jobs but these somehow made it hard to put up the Christmas spirit. The kids will possibly do some decorations next week.

Of the two Aganan houses, this one is more ostentatious. Top photo is a close up of the house. Some of the life-size Santas were moving or dancing to Christmas carols.

But all along, I don’t like my kids to embrace Christmas as a go-for-broke and ostentatious celebration. I taught them to embrace good Filipino traditions, and the commercialized Christmas in the Philippines is not a Filipino tradition. I told my kids that Christmas reminds us about the birth of Jesus Christ and doing good and giving love must be done daily and not just on Christmas Day. We can have Christmas decorations but the best decoration is in our hearts.

Years past, when my kids saw beautiful Christmas displays they would inform me that they wished we would have the same in our house. Tonight I was happy. My kids liked the Christmas displays. But they never mentioned giving our house the same make-over. @

How to fart inside a PUJ without creating a scandal

2009-12-03T00:28:00.035+08:00

This story was narrated to me.

Michael had the urge to fart while inside a PUJ. But, horrors! He didn't like to create a loud and smelly scandal. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the music hoping to calm down his stomach.

Anong balita / sa radyo at TV/ Ganon pa rin/ kumakapa sa dilim/Minsa'y naisip ko nang umalis na lang dito...

It was Monday. Yesterday, Michael's boardmates returned from their hometowns with the usual homegrown foodstuff. So, this morning Michael pigged out on nilaga na kamote at saging, scrambled native egg at kape. He ate ravenously especially because, this morning, the food was free. No wonder, now his stomach was revolting.

Bato-bato sa langit/ tamaa'y huwag magalit./ Alam naman natin / kung sino ang toso......

Sa bawat lumuluhang dukha/Alay ko'y dugo./ May kasama ka kapatid, kaibigan./ Hangang ako'y humihinga/ may pag-asa pa...

After a few seconds, Michael could not hold back anymore. He must pass wind now. So he closed his eyes and let go, hoping that nobody would notice.

Hallehuhulu.. Hallelujahhhh...

And, possibly it was his lucky day. He heard nothing. The wind passed in sync with the drums and shouts of the rock music. Now he knew he could do it again. He just have to time it with the music. And so, when a storm signal percolated in his stomach, he let the raging wind pass in time with the loudest audio in the music. Sinong galit/ sumigaw / kagabi .. And as he heard nothing, he surmised that his fellow passengers heard nothing also. Hallehuhulu.. Hallelujahhh.. Then he farted again. And again. And again. And he heard nothing. Everything was timed with the crash of the instruments. Hallehe... he... he.. Then he gingerely opened his lids. He sensed that he was nearing his destination. He blurted, 'Lugar lang'. But the driver seemed not to hear him. Hallelujah... So he opened his eyes and shouted 'Sa lugar lang! Putsa.'. Then he noticed everybody was looking at him. Oh well, astig ako, he thought. He just shouted at the driver, right? .. see the faces in front of me... But before he disembarked, he thought he should give the driver a lesson. So he farted again to the tune of Let's go. Hallelujah... As he prepared to get down, he noticed that everyone was looking at him with naughty expressions on their faces. A passenger spoke to him. But he could not hear. He heard only the rock music. Save me from the fahyahr.. from the fahyahr... Then he realized that earphones were stuck to his ears. The music was from his ipod! He got his earphones and the music stopped. In a clear baritone heard by everybody, a passenger told him, 'Pare, rock band ang almusal mo? Grabe ka umutot. Parang rock concert!'. And the PUJ rocked as everybody, including the driver, nearly died laughing. Michael too wanted to die at that moment.

Moral lesson: Fart inside the PUJ if you like. But time it with the music. And be sure that the music is not from your ipod.

Not a work of a human

2009-11-29T00:23:00.009+08:00

For my posts, I don’t usually touch on topics which are the usual topics in other blogs or websites. I like my posts to be personal. But with the Maguindanao massacre, I couldn’t help but write what others are writing about as the Maguindanao massacre has been a hot topic of countless of bloggers.

The Maguindanao massacre was an act of a monster, a maniacal and sinister plot of the devil. As one TV interviewee who had been in the massacre scene had said, the incident ‘ay hindi gawa ng tao’. And even without the camera showing crumpled vehicles and dead bodies dug up by a backhoe from a fresh mass grave, and the mutilated bodies with cut ears, gouged eyes, bullet hole on the head, and ‘bukas na zipper at aring niratrat ng bala’, the face of Andal Ampatuan as shown on TV without handcuffs was somehow enough to illustrate the point. I can’t imagine what the man (or monster in the guise of a man, or the devil himself in the person of Andal Ampatuan) was thinking when he allegedly ordered the massacre of some 64 men and women. I can’t imagine what the Ampatuan family was thinking when the idea of killing people was allegedly hatched by them. Are Andal and cohorts really human?

I didn’t know personally any of those massacred. But I was outraged by the barbarity of their deaths. The guys may not be perfect when they were alive. But they never deserved the kind of death they’d had. As one widow lamented, hindi lang pinatay kundi binaboy ang kanyang asawa.

Watching the massacre scenes on TV was numbing. Many times, I wasn’t aware that I was shedding some tears. I was thankful though that I was watching TV alone. Ganito na ba kagarapal ang tao? Possibly, the same scenes could be seen in Iraq or Mombay. But Iraq is a war zone. And the Mombay incident was a terrorist act. The Maguindanao massacre was an act of politicians and militiamen who were supposed to protect the people and whose salaries were paid for by the people they’ve killed. Ganito ba kagarapal sila? Can a sane person really do the act in such a magnitude?

The TV stations were good enough to blur out images of the decapitated, and sometimes they showed black and white footages to blot out the abundance of gore. But such self-censorship just magnifies the details especially when the scenes were followed by the close-up of a smirking Andal Ampatuan wearing a headband ala Rambo. Tao ba talaga siya? Because I agree with the interviewee that the massacre ay hindi gawa ng tao.

The word 'massacre' is heavily used in this post because I could'nt find a graver word. Perhaps, terrorism is graver than massacre. But terrorism could be simply 'kidnapping'. While massacre means gruesome death and lots of gore.

The only way for the Ampatuans to revert back to being humans is for them to feel the same pain that their victims had felt under their barbaric acts. The Ampatuans must be put to prison for life. And they must be thankful that they live in a civil and modern society. Else they are skinned alive, or stoned to death, or chained standing on a colony of red ants and scorpions until they die, or decapitated, or buried alive, or fed with fresh dog poo till they bark, or immersed in a cauldron of boiling oil, or fed to the crocodiles., etc., etc, etc…
@

Search for Iloilo's outstanding elementary and high school students is on

2009-11-25T21:18:00.001+08:00

The Outstanding Students Circle of Iloilo (OSCI), through the Department of Education (Divisions of Iloilo, Iloilo City, and Passi City), has announced the start of the Search for the Ten Outstanding Elementary Pupils and the Ten Outstanding Secondary School Students of Iloilo for the school year 2009-2010.

The mechanics and criteria for this school year's search can be viewed from the OSCI official blog http://outstandingstudentscircleofiloilo.blogspot.com . Nomination forms can be secured from the DepEd Division offices. Deadline of submission of nominations is on January 7, 2010.

OSCI is composed of former recipients of the Ten Outstanding Elementary Pupils and the Ten Outstanding Secondary School Students of Iloilo awards given out during the incumbency of former Iloilo Governor, Hon. Conrado J. Norada. OSCI has been doing the Search for five years already.

Past OSCI awardees were:

TOEP 2009. (1) Arvin John Tejereso, Cabatuan Central Elementary School, 2) Jamero, Jollimee A., West Visayas State University – ILS, (3) Quilantang, Lainly D., SPED – ISEC, (4) Patriarca, Raymund John, Jaro I Elementary School, (5) Susmiran, Patrick Jules, Sta. Barbara Central Elementary School, (6) Chan, Kevin Friedrich Y., Iloilo Scholastic Academy, (7) Bimbo, Angeli Janne Ga, Central Philippine University, (8) Cajandig, Mary Monique, Children's Integrated School of Alta Tierra, (9) Fenis, Ivan Misola, Miagao Central Elementary School, and (10) Villaruz, Gerrod J., Ateneo de Iloilo – SMCS.

TOSSS 2009. (1) Vincen Gregory Yu , Iloilo Central Commercial High School,(2) Java, Albert Jan Matthew A., Central Philippine University, (3) Juan Loa, Nina Isabela P., Ateneo de Iloilo – SMCS, (4) Macero, Milrose P., Passi National High School, (5)Solas, Mark Collin P., Iloilo National High School, (6) Marmolejo, Daryl Ecuben, Guimbal National High School, (7) Miñosa, Nathaniel G., Lambunao National High School, (8) Zamora, Abner C., Anilao National High School, (9) Hontoria, Jaywardene G., Colegio de San Jose, and (10) Faculin, Andre Karl S., Colegio del Sagrado Corazon de Jesus.

TOEP 2008. 1. Lustre, Maphete Dianne (above photo, in green dress) - WVSU - Integrated Laboratory School, 2. Montelibano, Maria Trenas - SPED-Integrated School for Exceptional Children, 3. Deypalubos, Florencio III - Sta. Barbara Central Elementary School , 4. Roga, EJ Marie - Iloilo Central Elementary School, , 5. Guanco, Emma Rose O. - Iloilo Scholastic Academy
6. Alfaro, Rumel Angelo T. - Cabatuan Central Elementary School, 7. Estuche, Marc Adrian Philippe - Children's Integrated School of Alta Tierra, 8. Baladjay, Aserina Yvonne - Jaro I Elementary School , 9. Subo, Ma. Phoebe T. - Barotac Nuevo Central Elementary School , 10. Yray, Kristiana Claire - Ateneo de Iloilo - SMCS.

TOSSS 2008. 1. Penol, Jo Jan Paul (right photo) - Pavia National High School , 2. Palomaria, Stephen John B. - Passi National High School, 3. Baldevarona, Rosa Lea - University of the Philippines High School in Iloilo , 4. Leda, Stella Mariedith - Lambunao National High School, 5. Bayona, Paul Vincent S. - Saint Paul School, Barotac Nuevo , 6. Salinas, Cornelius Cesar Jude - Westbridge School for Boys , 7. Garces, Rose Ann - Guimbal National High School, 8. Enarbia, Stephanie Keiko - Ateneo de Iloilo / Sta Maria Catholic School , 9. Umadhay, Quennie Lyn S. - Sta. Barbara National Comprehensive High School , 10. De la Vega, Beverly Ann - Jalandoni Memorial National High School.

TOEP 2007. 1 Sira, Liza Marie S. - Sta. Barbara Central Elementary School, 2 Fuego, Alyanna Krista - Ateneo de Iloilo - Sta. Maria Catholic School, 3 Demafiles, Shaynne Laurice A. - Iloilo Central Elementary School , 4 Amit, Sheena Mae F. - West Visayas State University - ILS,5 Cortum, Alyanna Sinel - SPED Integrated School for Exceptional Children, 6 Adolfo, Estee Joy G. - Guimbal Central Elementary School, 7 Garrido, Excelle Anne C. - San Enrique Central School , 8 Tronco, Christina Mae M. - Cabatuan Central Elementary Schoo, 9 Lizada, Adrian Nichol - Don Eugenio Ladrido Memorial Elementary School , 10 Hualde, Karla Rosa S. - New Lucena Central School .

TOSSS 2007. 1 Pamillo, Ray John - Central Philippine University High School , 2 Robinson, Victor B. III - Ateneo de Iloilo - Sta. Maria Catholic School , 3 Hualde, Ken C. Cabatuan - National Comprehensive High School , 4 Leda, Francis Pauline B. - Lambunao National High School , 5 Cadete, Ivory June J. - SPED - Integrated School for Exceptional Children , 6 Abalajon, Karl Vincent - University of the Philippines High School in Iloilo , 7 Lazaro, Joe Abad S., Jr. - Don Felix Serra National High School, 8 Tacaisan, Ability-Ann G. - Colegio Del Sagrado Corazon de Jesus, 9 Dato-on, Luville J. - San Enrique National Comprehensive High School, 10 Fresnido, Donna Isabelle M. - University of San Agustin High School.

TOEP 2006. 1. Altamera, Shari A. SPED – Integrated School for Exceptional
Children , 2. Mellizas, Marian Mae L. Cabatuan Central Elementary School , 3. Cerebo, Bryan Eric New Lucena Central Elementary School , 4. Deocampo, Irish Joy G. Iloilo Central Elementary School , 5. Leda, Francis Paul B. Don Eugenio Ladrido Memorial Elementary School, 6. Ponta-oy, Lennon Dingle Central Elementary School, 7. Divinagracia, Bert Lorenz S. Ateneo de Iloilo/Sta Maria Catholic School , 8. Magallon, Marianne Joy Sta. Barbara Central Elementary School , 9. Atas, Celeste West Visayas State University, 10. Jamerlan, Ma. Christina M. St. Joseph School.

TOSSS 2006. 1. Llorente, Neil Andrew Chiu Ateneo de Iloilo/Sta Maria Catholic School
2. Almendros, Ma. Jilyn C. Colegio de las Hijas de Jesus, 3. Tunguia, Saer Martin J. Iloilo National High School , 4. Mondin, Vincent Leuter J. Zarraga National High School, 5. Canong, Ma. Verni Katrina A. University of the Philippines, 6. Misajon, Joshua J. Central Philippine University , 7. Servanio, Nikko Jones G. Pavia National High School, 8. Loreno, Christine Anne L. Lambunao National High School, 9. Pruto, Melissa P. Mina National High School , 10. Sampiano, Nyre Cyre Colegio de San Jose. @

Winners!

2009-11-22T21:53:00.010+08:00

We just came from the mall where my daughter participated in the caroling contest sponsored by a TV network. She was a member of her school’s choir. It was an exhilarating experience.

I was informed that the contest would start at 11:00 am. But when I arrived at the mall, choir #2 was already performing. I frantically looked for my wife to ask if our daughter had already performed. She told me that my daughter's choir was the 14th performer and that there were 14 contestants. I was relieved. I led my brother's two apos, Ryan and Lizzie, who were always going with me, to a vantage point where they could see the full performances. I bought them some waffle. Then I watched from the back.

To me it was a big challenge to watch kiddy shows like this. Nakakaburyong. Once in a while, I would slip out to some boutiques to look for some t-shirts and pants on bargain prices. But I had to return to check on the apos and get an assessment of the performances. Some contestants obviously lacked practice. Others lacked good trainors. While a few really did a pang-contest performance. But I could not say which contestants were sure winners because I hadn't yet seen the performance of my daughter's choir. With the hefty sum the other parents and I paid for the trainor and choreographer, possibly my daughter's choir was the choir to beat.

And then, after what seemed an eternity, the emcee introduced the last contestant. I felt nervous. The choir members marched to the stage. They wore identical dresses, shoes, hairdo, and make-up. My daughter was the first in the line. She was beautiful. I looked at the other members of the choir. They looked just like my daughter. Could be the make-up. But I remembered mannequins in the department stores were made to look like famous fashion models. Perhaps, the make-up artist wanted to make others look like my famous (according to me) daughter.

Then they started singing Christmas carols. Obviously, they had a good trainor. But their performance was pang-choral contest. Indi pang-caroling. Their voices were too soft to be heard. The choreography was pang-recital. It was all song and dance without the Christmas stories that other choirs incorporated into their 7-minutes presentation. It was not a lively performance worthy of an award. But what they lacked in performance, they filled with their best looking personalities. They had the best dresses, make-up, hairdo, and possibly the most expensive make-up artist. They looked like going to a party rather than to a caroling. Their props were unique. Their presentation was subdued and slow, as compared to the verve and pizzaz of the few others. And even if they also came from a public school, they were like a wisp of fresh air as they looked like prim-and-proper, coy, and inhibited convent-bred lasses in a sea of brash, loud and uninhibited public schoolers.

But I didn't mind the performance of the choir. I was focused mostly on my daughter. She was a revelation. She could sing, dance, and was at ease in front of the big crowd. She blended well with the rest of the choir. I could hardly believe my eyes.

My daughter is in Grade 3 and this was the first time she joined an extra-curricular activity. She is good in the academics, but is adamant to join school activities even if I asked her to. She always finds reasons not to join even if I bribe her with an offer to eat out with her cousins. She is suplada personified, which our acquaintances attributed to her having curly hair. Pag kulot kuno, suplada gid. She has no best friend in their class. She seldom talks to her classmates. Therefore, I am happy if I hear that she is the leader of the Cleaners for the Day, a role being rotated among everybody in her class. I will wake up early to pick some flowers for her classroom to make her feel that being a leader of even a cleaners group was special.

My girl was great on stage. I wanted to hug and congratulate her. Hers was the best performance I'd seen that day. Then they exited the stage. We met her at the side. She was beaming with joy.

After awhile, the emcee announced the winners. The judges would pick out 7 finalists out of the 14 contestants. The sponsor was giving cash prizes to all the finalists, who would compete in another round come December. All those which I thought performed well were called on stage as finalists. Then contestant number 13 was called. My wife and the other mothers jumped with joy. 'We won! We won!' they shouted. The adviser called my girl and her classmates so they could go up the stage to claim their award. And I thought they were contestant number 14! I just kept quiet. They were about to head to the stage when they saw another group going up the stage. Then they were informed it was number 13 that was called, and not 14. The teacher and the parents were crestfallen. Ay ahay, kaluoy gid. Then the emcee said he would announce the seventh finalist. The teacher and the parents were alive and hopeful again. They thought all 7 finalists were already announced. When the remaining finalist was announced, it was not number 14. A classmate of my daughter cried. All the parents, including my wife were so sad. They invested a lot of time for the practice and preparations. And the choreography for the 7-minute presentation costed more than a half-month salary of the school's utilityman. The make-up was Php500.00 for each child. But at least the dress could be worn by the daughters to another party. The parents who might have planned to celebrate with their kids in one of the fastfoods, bade us goodbye. They said they would go straight home. They looked tired. They were in school since 8:00am for the make-up and the last minute rehearsal. Perhaps, some of them hadn't yet eaten lunch because of excitement. They looked like losers. Parang mga basang sisiw.

Then my sisters, nieces, and apos who were there to watch my daughter, were surprised when I announced that I was going to celebrate. We went to a popular fastfoods. I got the money from my wallet which was meant to buy a week supply of groceries. I was happy. My daughter was beaming beside me. She told me she enjoyed the experience on stage and being the center of everybody’s attention. And my reticent daughter announced that she would be joining other activities in school. I was ecstatic. Both of us were winners!@

Tahoooooooo!

2009-11-04T22:05:00.006+08:00

When my kids hear the sound of the taho vendor, they stop whatever they do and immediately ask me to buy them some. They join the other kids in the neighborhood to gather around the taho vendor and wait with mouths open as plastic cup after plastic cup is filled to the brim with taho, sago pearls, and sugar syrup. After a cup is filled, the vendor inserts an oversized straw and hands the cup to a kid. Even with some teeth missing, the receiving kid smiles with satisfaction as if he just received a precious gift from Santa.

Such is the magic and tastiness of taho that even old people are seen milling around with the kids and patiently waiting for their turn to be handed out their filled plastic cup.

Taho is one food I can tolerate my kids to eat anytime of the day. It is delicious, filling and unlike other foods liked by most kids, it is considered a health food.

Taho is a soya bean concoction and very rich in protrein. In fact, soya is a recommended alternative to meat for avowed vegetarians. Soya is believed to improve bone density and to reduce the chances of cardiovascular diseases, cancer and post menopausal syndromes.

I tried to look for the English translation of taho in the internet. So far, I have not found any which made me believe that taho is a truly Filipino invention.

Ti may taho man sa inyo da sa abroad?

For those who miss Philippine taho and would like to make one just to savor this delicacy or possibly to engage later in taho business, here’s a procedure to make taho which I downloaded from the internet months ago. Unfortunately, I have not recorded the source website.

Taho Recipe

Ingredients:
• 500 grams soybeans
• 3.5 liter water
• 2 bars white gelatin,
• 250 grams brown sugar

Tools, equipment and utensils needed:
• Blender
• Stove, pot, weighing scale
• Basting spoon
• Knife
• l-yard cheesecloth
• Dial/cooking thermometer,
• plastic basin
• Strainer

Procedure:

Select newly harvested and good soybeans. Good soybeans are spotless, smooth, and free from infestation. Wash them, then soak them overnight or for at least 6 hours. After soaking the soybeans, wash and clean them; by then they would have expanded to three times their original size. Remove the beans from the water and peel the hulls. Blend the soybeans to be turned into taho into a puree. Similarly put the puree for the “taho” into a bowl and mix in water gradually, but this time use only 1.5 L of water. Then using cheesecloth, filter the soy puree to derive soymilk.

Cook the gelatin by dissolving the bars in a liter of boiling water.

Put the soymilk in a pot and heat in low fire. After 10 minutes of boiling, the temperature would reach 80° C. At this temperature, let the milk boil for another 7 minutes or until the beany flavor disappears.

Pour and mix the dissolved gelatin into the boiling soymilk. Remove the froth that forms on top of the mixture. Afterwards, remove the pot from the stove and let the mixture cool. Using the cheesecloth, strain the mixture and remove unmixed gelatin bits. Then pour the mixture into a mold. Set it aside and let it cool and harden for an hour.

While waiting for the soymilk mixture to solidify, prepare the syrup and the sago pearls.

To make the syrup, boil 200 ml of water and dissolve 250 g of brown sugar in the water.

Once the soymilk mixture solidifies, get a few scoops, add sago pearls, pour in the syrup, then serve.

This recipe can make about 2 kilos of soymilk mixture with a shelf life of 1 week.

Enjoy your taho. @

Piyesta Minatay; All Saints Day

2009-11-01T23:02:00.008+08:00

I woke up early today, actually too early for me as I sleep usually past 12 o'clock midnight. I am an insomniac, right? In case you forgot.

I had coffee while I waited for the kids to finish their bath. We had to be in my mother's house before the day gets hot. I would take my mother to the cemetery so she could have a glimpse of the tombs of Tatay, her parents, and other relatives. And perhaps, she would comment on how the tombs looked scrubbed and clean. And I would silently wallow on my good job. Well, not necessarily my job, as the helpers did all the cleaning while I went around the cemetery to kill the time. But I was responsible to bring the helpers to clean the tombs, didn't I?

Flower vendors are doing brisk business during the Piyesta Minatay. Arranged flowers cost more than double the price.

I dropped my wife and kids in the farm so they could arrange the flowers they bought for the graves of my in-laws. We bought only flowers - chrysanthemums, Malaysian mumps, and baby's breath. It was a sin to buy the atrociously priced foliage as better looking ferns grow in abundance in the farm. Baby's breath used to grow profusely in the farm too, but they gave way to plots of string beans. My sisters also arranged their flowers in the farm yesterday because of the ferns.

Whole families head to the cemetery in spite of the heat of the sun.

Nanay was dressed up by the kasambahay when I arrived. That was my agreement with the kasambahay. Because she is already 84yo, Nanay is impatient and moody. She will only go out when I fetch her. She will never go with anyone, even with my nieces who grew up under her care. When informed beforehand that we were going out, she would be in a hurry to leave the house and would pester everyone to take her to the car already. In the same way, she would be in a hurry to go home when we arrive in our destination. So, it is not practical to take her to some far away destination.

We arrived at the cemetery at 8:00 am. It was already hot. I showed the helper how to push Nanay's wheelchair. 'If you wish to work abroad, better learn this,' I told him. We went directly to the tomb of my father. Nanay lighted some candles with the help of her grandchildren. We proceeded to the tombs of her parents and siblings. Again she lighted some candles. Along the way, she read the names of the dead inscribed on the lapidas before the tombs we passed by. Sometimes she wondered why some of those she knew were already dead. 'I was older than them', she would comment.

Locally made flower baskets are in demand.

The Jaro plaza is literally blooming during Piyesta Minatay. But the flowers, and even buyers, are fewer this year compared to previous years.

We returned back to my father's tomb and I left Nanay there in the company of my sisters and nieces. Then I hurriedly went to the graves of other kins and acquaintances to light candles. My kids and my brother's apos who were tagging along with me, enjoyed lighting the candles.

There were already too many people braving the heat. The air was festive rather than somber. Of course, we call November 1, Piyesta Minatay because it really is a fiesta. After a few minutes, I took Nanay home.

Metro Manila cemeteries were still wet because of typhoon Santi. But here in Iloilo, we never had a rain the past days. It was really hot and humid. So we decided to take our lunch in the farm.

We had broiled fish and pork, and pork nilaga with alubihod leaves. The kids loved it. We also had fresh young coconuts or kulabo. I like kulabo. I can finish pitchers, not just glasses, of it. For dessert, we had palitaw, which I usually called palubog, and inday-inday. After lunch, everybody lolled on the bamboo flooring of the nipa hut and watched Yanggaw.

Some names are famous. Others are not so famous. Most are never heard. But one thing are common to them - they are names of dead people.

Afternoon was supposed to be the time for pangalag. I liked the kids to experience it. We scheduled a pangalag with our neighbor who promished to cook native kakanins for us. But we forgot the time, so the neighbors just sent us some ibos as they were already leaving for the cemetery.

Some graves have many visitors....

.... others have just one... or none at all.

But we still went to do pangalag in the house of classmate Matea. She had no visitors. She just prepared for us. We had ibos, ginat-an, palitaw, pansit, suman (Tagalogs call it biko) and native fruits. I asked Matea if she had itang (small food servings placed in a corner of the room purportedly for souls or spirits). She said she did not believe in itang, just like the other people I asked. I told her I was just curious about itang because I have not seen it being practiced anymore.

Karalagan - suman, ibos, ginat-an, palitaw. I like the kids to experience pangalag, just like the days when I was still a kid myself.

Before 5:00 pm we returned to the cemetery. The traffic was heavy. We parked far from the cemetery because there were so many vehicles parked on both sides of the highway. As cars were bumber to bumper, people too were shoulder to shoulder. There were too many people. Just as I was sometimes surprised to know that some people I thought were still alive were actually dead already as shown by their lapidas, I was more surprised to meet people whom I thought were already dead but were actually still alive and kicking. I met a doctor who was younger than I but who looked older with gray hairs even in his eyelids. Beside him was a man whom I thought was just his friend, but was actually his son. His son was already shaving his mustache. And my older daughter is only in Grade 5!

There are those literally awashed with expensive flowers.

Others with just cheap ones....

.. or with just a lonesome candle. Or even with just a prayer. All of the dead are remembered today.

Candles are lighted inside the campo santo for those whose graves could not be found.

We were supposed to stay longer and meet more friends. But the clouds were dark. The heavens threatened to damp some rain. So we hurriedly headed for the car. It was still heavy traffic and it was hard to negotiate our way back to town. It was then when I noticed that it was already too dark. The other vehicles were already switching on their headlines. I also put on my headlights. And I saw that the time was only 5:30pm. Just a few minutes ago, the sun was up and it was so hot. Now, it was dark. The streetlights were also on. Parang nagka-solar eclipse.

As we reached the town, the moon was already up in the clouds. The car's clock said it was only 5:47. But the moon was beautiful. Too beautiful indeed. What was lacking were silhouettes of flying half-bodied creatures with uncombed hairs and bat wings. It would have been a more beautiful and more memorable Piyesta Minatay.@

Aswang stories

2009-10-30T22:41:00.038+08:00

I would like to contribute my own personal aswang stories to the many horror stories currently floated in time for the Halloween.

My farmhouse used to be the lone house in my area along the highway (after I built my hut, many OFWs bought the ajoining lots and built big concrete houses). Before my hut was built, the area was a long expanse of sugarcane and corn fields. And as there were no streetlights and no houses nearby, the place was notorious as baragatan, or where a bagat (a kapre, an aswang, or a spirit) would block the path of a passerby.

I employed carpenters living in the same barangay to build my simple hut. After work, the men would always go home early when it was not yet dark as if they knew something sinister would happen in the area when night fell. I heard them talked about two separate road accidents years ago that occurred in front of my property. In both accidents, the drivers of the trucks died on the spot. In the nights following the accidents, aside from the bagat, a sentermo (ball of fire) appeared near the sites of the accidents.

Some folks talk in whispers about a very old woman who was rumored to be an aswang and who lived in the next barangay. She would not die because none of her kin would accept her anta (pet, or in this context, the source of being an aswang; anyone who accepts the anta would also become an aswang). So the old woman became a maranhig (a living dead). Later, her son pitied her. He whispered to her as she lay on her bed, his willingness to accept the anta. She asked her son to get near her and face her. As the face of her son got near her face, globules of air rushed out of her throat and were sucked into the mouth of her son. Then she died. After she was buried, her son vanished from the area. The folks surmised that he wanted to have victims in far away places rather than victimize people in the area who were mostly his relatives. But everyone was cautious, and closed and secured their houses before it got dark. They thought the son could return anytime.

When my hut was about to be finished, I asked some of the carpenters to sleep there so they could keep an eye on some materials I left on the site. I offered them a bottle of whiskey so they would stay. And they stayed only for two nights. On the third day, they said that somebody or something was heard to walk near the house at night. And they were afraid that it was the notorious aswang. I just laughed off the story and asked them to just be sure that all materials were secured when they leave.

After sometime, my aunt went to see me and informed me that as the owner of the house, I was supposed to sleep in the hut on a particular date because, according to her, the almanaque stated that the said date was lucky for the owner of the house. So I slept in my new nipa hut on the specified date. And I couldn’t sleep at all because I was new to the place, and I was not used to sleeping on a bamboo bed or papag. Each time I moved, the papag creaked. And the snores of the carpenters who accompanied me that night, were not in synch with the chirps of the crickets and the croaks of the frogs. Libagon gid. In the middle of the night, when the others were sleeping soundly after two bottles of whiskey, I could hear the sound of somebody or something walking near the house, just as the carpenters said. I recently placed gravel on the walkway that I built from the highway to the hut for my car. And anybody who walked on loose gravel created a sound. The walking sound got nearer and stopped directly under the window of my bedroom. My window was open, with small bamboo poles about 2 meters long serving as grills. I froze. This could be the aswang the carpenters were talking about. I felt my hairs about to rise. The room suddenly became cold. But this could be my chance to see an aswang. I gingerly got up without creating a sound and went to the window. Yes, I was afraid. But my curiousity got me going. I gradually peered over the window. My hairs were already standing. I could hear the thunderous noise of my heartbeats. And I expected a black figure, hunched under my window, looking up at me with red eyes and a diabolical grin that showed its pangs. Suddenly, there they were… the aswangs – two of them, their dark shadows made them bigger, and through the moonlight, I could see the glint of their saliva. These were two dogs walking on the gravel and hungry for food - the same two dogs of my far neighbor that patrolled my hut during the day and fought for morsels thrown by the carpenters at lunchtime. I was disappointed. I shouted at the dogs and threw a piece of bamboo at them. They scampered away towards the direction of my neighbor’s house.

The following morning, I told the carpenters about the dogs. They asked me about the dogs’ sizes. Didn’t they look like human? Were their eyes red? I told them the dogs were ordinary as I pointed at the dogs about to enter my property. ‘Those were the dogs I saw last night,’ I revealed. The carpenters were incredulous as they said aswangs could turn themselves into ordinary animals.

In my farm, I have a poultry, a piggery, and plots of vegetables. I had different people working with me in different times. Most of these people came from far away places, usually from the mountain villages in Iloilo. And they had tales to tell as regards aswang.

I had caretakers who acted differently because of their peculiar experiences someplace. One caretaker was so insentive when drunk but tell him about an aswang and he would sober up. One planted manunggal vines behind my bathroom when he discovered my bathroom had no roof and that it could be made an entryway of an aswang in attacking him while sleeping inside the house. Another placed some bagakay (a slender variety of bamboo)sticks atop the rafters and underneath the house. He said that aswangs were afraid of bagakay.

A manunggal vine winds like a snake behind my hut. Manunggal is said to drive aswangs away.

The oldest and laziest among my farmhands recently got my ire. I nearly fired him because… I was experimenting on propagating bonsai trees. So I planted lunok (ficus) twigs on empty milk cans. After a year, the twigs were already mature and could already be shaped. But after sometime, the growing lunok bonsais were gone. I couldn’t find them. So I asked my men. This lazy man answered that he uprooted the plants and threw them away. He destroyed the lunoks because he said they served as homes of tamawos (fairies). I was incensed. But this was another story.

And here’s a story from my cousin, a cop, who was a constant visitor. He was a fearless crime-buster and a fearful aswang believer. He said there were aswangs passing by their house in Negros. There was a time that his baby would cry uncontrollably every night. So they called for a surhano. The surnaho did a seremonya, placed some oil on his baby, and burned kalawag under their house. From then on, his baby slept peacefully every night. When the crying returned after a few weeks, he called for the same surhano. The surhano made the same seremonya and informed him to keep watch the next few nights. He didn’t sleep that night. Suddenly, near midnight, his baby went into a fit of crying. He told his wife and their helper to keep their eyes on the baby as he kept watch outside their bedroom. He trained his ears to catch unfamiliar sounds. Then there was a noise coming from their kitchen. Someone just entered their kitchen area. This could be the evil kind he was supposed to watch for. He readied his pistol in his right hand and a flashlight in another. He surreptitiously walked to the kitchen. From the faint light from the far streetlight, he could see a crouching dark human form moving near their stove. He was trembling. But his baby was at stake. He would kill the devil, he thought. He aimed his pistol and his flashlight towards the shadow. He counted up to three and opened his flashlight. ‘Grabe,’ he said. The human form, according to him, suddenly turned into a big black cat, its eyes glowing in front of his flashlight. The cat jumped to the opening near a window, causing a kaldero to fall with a loud crash and all its fish contents scattered on the floor. ‘Grabe no? Ang tawo nahimo nga kuti!’, he boasted. I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Naghitsura ang garhom nga tawo, kay waay mo pa nakita, sa isip mo tawo na ang nabatian mo. Ti kon aswang to, insa nga nagtakab lang isda? Daad nagderetso sa baby mo kag gintaban.’ My cousin pretended he heard nothing as he asked to leave.

Aswangs are said to be afraid of bagakay. In photo, bagakay sticks atop the rafters.

The classic aswang story was told to me by my father when I was a kid. It was about a person I call T. I will not print the name because this might be a true story of real people, and not necessarily a fictional story woven by my father. I also heard this story from my aunts, grandparents, and other old people who were long dead but who swore that the story was true.

It was school vacation. The son of T came from school with his classmate. The classmate came from another place and was happy to spend his vacation with the family of T.

One night when everybody seemed to be sleeping, the classmate who was sleeping with the son on the same bed (in the barrios, children sleep beside each other on a woven buri mat), had an urge to urinate. So he rose to go to the toilet. When he was about to get out of the bedroom, he noticed that T and his wife were still awake and were in the kitchen doing something. The classmate overheard T asked his wife if the water was already boiling. Obviously, the two were boiling water in a big cauldron. The wife answered that the water was not yet boiling. Then T asked his wife to inform him if the water was ready so he could get the boy. The classmate felt needles were pricking his skin. He didn’t know what to do. ‘Yes, but just be sure that you get the right boy. It is very dark. You might pick up our son. Do you like to eat your own son?’ The classmate heard the reply of the wife. He was terribly frightened. His urge to urinate was gone. ‘No, I will be very careful. Have you noticed that the boy was wearing a ring? Our son has no ring. So I will just get the boy who is wearing a ring.’

The classmate retreated back to the bed. He could not run away without getting the attention of the couple. He was sweating and trembling. He lay beside the son. He could still hear T saying ‘Our son has no ring.’
The classmate took off his ring and carefully slipped it over the finger of the son. Then he pretended to sleep.

The door to the bedroom creaked open. In the dark, the classmate could see what seemed to be the shadow of T. The classmate was profusely sweating, trembling and praying. He hoped T would just go for the ring. Then the mosquito net over classmate and son was raised by the shadow. The classmate bit his tongue so he could not shout. He felt a hand caressing his hand as if massaging his fingers. Then the hand went to the son sleeping nearby.

The classmate could sense that the shadow was raising the body of the son. Away from the bed and on the floor, the big shadow was gagging, suffocating, and tying up the son with a chord. Then the shadow went out of the room.

The classmate prayed that T would not come back. He rose from the bed, and tiptoed out of the room and out of the house. Once outside the house, he ran as fast as he could without looking back. After sometime, he heard shouts and shrieks from T’s house which was already far away. Obviously, T and wife discovered too late their mistake. The classmate could hear the anger, anguish and resolve of the couple to catch him.

The classmate ran and ran. He saw a railroad track and followed it hoping to find help. Then he saw a train station. It was deserted as it was still dark. So classmate looked for a place nearby where he could hide and where he could safely wait for the first trip of the train. After sometime, the classmate heard the rustling of wings as two shadows rushed in and inspected the station. Finding no one, the two shadows cursed and hurriedly left.

After a few hours, streaks of light appeared in the horizon. A few persons, still sleepy, trickled to the station. The station was opened and some persons bought for their tickets. Classmate came out of hiding and purchased his own ticket.

From here on, the story of T became an aswang story.

Maybe, many readers of this blog had also heard this story before as narrated by their elders. Could this story be true?@

Tigkaralag is around the corner

2009-10-28T22:47:00.016+08:00

I just realized last night that next weekend is already All Saints Day and I haven't yet gone to the cemetery to do some cleaning. Well, of course, we don't need to have a big clean-up operation. But sometimes, other cleaners will just dump their garbage beside the tomb of a relative. And that is quite unsightly.

So, early this morning I went to the cemetery, with some helpers in tow, to clean the tombs of my father, grandparents, and an assortment of relatives. In a small town like ours, families are extended. And many of those dearly departed had in a way helped to raise me up as an ~~upright, respectful, and very family-oriented person~~. (These adjectives are my creation to console myself - my way of commiserating with the fact I discovered today that I was the only son, only grandchild, only nephew among the so many who took time to go to the cemetery to clean the messy resting places and to prepare them for the visits of our relatives come Sunday. I also console myself thinking that it could be that this is my time or my turn to spruce up the graves as I was never bothered during the years I lived abroad. During those years my other siblings or cousins could have arrogated themselves the lowly task of tomb cleaners - the task I just found out was entrusted to me.)

Well, I've got helpers. We bought some matches and candles at the entrance of the cemetery before entering. I gave the helpers instructions on what to do and went around the four hectares Catholic cemetery and read the names of the dead inscribed on the lapida before the tombs. This is a small town alright. I would like to know who among the dead I knew, and who among those I know are now dead.

Repainting the tombs and retouching the names are a yearly obligation of the living.

I saw a few of my teachers. They are dead, alright. And I reminisce how they were too strict inside the classroom as they threw erasers or chalks to our classmates who were too naughty or too dumb to answer their questions. One dead teacher slammed the head of a classmate against the blackboard because she could not solve a simple multiplication. Of course, these teacher acts are no longer tolerated by the Department of Education and will never be overlooked by the parents. But many of our teachers I dearly missed. They were patient, softspoken, and really made us, their students, feel we were worth their time and effort. Too bad they died without us telling them how grateful we were of their sacrifices.

In this public cemetery, resting places could be as elaborate as the ones in private memorial parks.

I've always been intrigued by what lies inside this contraption. I thought before this was a bird cage, possibly to entertain the mourners during the burial. Today, I have a chance to peer into the cage. It is actually a burial plot for two - one side was used as a grave, the other side was like a kitchen top where relatives can serve food during their visits. Nice, but not nice to the eyes.

This is the old perimeter wall of the cemetery, which also serves as tombs. Because the tombs are on top of another, they are referred to as apartments. Now they are seldom used because the tombs are too small for even the cheapest coffins. Our kasambahay who is already old and without a known relative, told us that when she dies, we will just wrap her body with a banig, and insert it into one of these apartments. Rental could be free.

Among the graves I saw was that of a spinster who had a nice office job, who walked with her chin up, who wore stockings and high heeled shoes even when she visited their farm to collect her share of the produce. She thought she was near perfect that she looked down upon a disheveled neighbor who had a drunkard as a husband, and who had to scavenge for whatever to send her children to school. The spinster and the disheveled neighbor had only their lapidas to remind me of them. And of course the contrasting tombs - the spinster in a disheveled grave, seemingly forgotten, but perhaps will be visited by the nieces and nephews this Sunday; and the disheveled neighbor in a tiled grave with borders freshly painted courtesy of the children who are now working abroad.

And of course, the grave of Iyay Quirin. She never had any ailment when she was still alive. And until she died of old age, she was walking on our street peddling her home-made tablea chocolates which I usually bought as pasalubong to friends abroad. Each time I visited my mother, I noticed that the street where I lived before was no longer the same. In fact it looked different from the street where I grew up, I could hardly recognize it. But when I saw Iyay Quirin walking on the street, suddenly the street became familiar. Only Iyay Quirin could put a connection between the present street and the street of my childhood, because she was the only person of my growing up years who was still living. Too bad she is dead now. Our street is no longer as it used to be.

And many yet familiar names. Or could it be that names are no longer exclusive?

I went back to the tomb of my father. The helpers were already resting. They had finished cleaning the surroundings. I asked them if they had cleaned the other tombs farther away of my other relatives. They nodded their heads. I asked whether they had seen any of my cousins or their children. They answered in the negative. Well, anyway today is Wednesday. Everybody could be in their offices. But it's semestral break. And the students are not in school. Oh well, it is too hot today. Could get cancer from too much sun. Spare the young students.

I told the helpers to get back to the car. I also hoped that the busy office workers and students will have time to visit their dead relatives this Sunday, rain or shine. For sure, there will be no work nor class that day.

There is a stairway going up the apartments which I knew since I was a kid. Back then, we used to climb to the top of the apartments and throw dirt at the other kids below. I heard that this location is now a dating place for lovers. This is the view from atop the apartments, facing the highway. The building near the center of the photo is the campo santo.

Another discovery I had atop the apartments is this rusting metal casket. I think I know who owns this. A few months back, the mother of a townmate died. They were planning to bury her in the same tomb where they buried their father years ago. Their problem was what to do with the metal casket of the father. Their father used to occupy an important position in the town when he was alive. So, when he died, the family decided to give him a pompous funeral and an expensive-looking coffin to wow the whole town. And that meant a metal casket which so far had not been seen in our town. So, a metal coffin it was. After sometime, everything turned to dust, as from dust they came, but the metal coffin. And so my townmate had a problem of what to do with the coffin, as even the scrap yards were superstitiously against taking it even for free. Nothing was heard about it though as the funeral of the mother proceeded without a hitch. Now I think I have the answer. Moral of the story: Up to the end, think GREEN. Just be a fertilizer, period.

These are burial niches carved on the inside walls of the campo santo. I was informed that the niches contain bones and remains of departed priests.

Boys play 'taksi' using coins, after cleaning the tombs of their elders.

A cherubim resting in peace. This old sculpture is found in one of the apartments. @

Story from Mr. Panguy-ab

2009-10-25T01:30:00.007+08:00

This story was emailed to me by Mr. Panguy-ab.

I could have written a similar story with a better plot. But I am so drained lately. I've just been from a marathon of grad school exams, I thought I'm now brain dead from such a hurdle. My brain might be dead, but my fingers are not. So I have to make a post, even if such is ingloriously plagiarized.

Btw, Mr. Panguy-ab is a UK resident. But he is so bored by his hapless existence in a nondescript county miles away from London that he makes panguy-ab, or yawning, a favorite hobby. In his neighborhood, everybody is absorbed with work, nobody has the time to even chat with him. His boredom sometimes mutates to homicidal tendencies especially because, as a first time UK college student and a transferee from the University of the Philippines, he finds out that his subjects which seem awefully and nosebleedingly hard to his classmates, are to him nothing but reviews of his high school subjects in the Philippines; and a slap to his nationalistic fervor - while he guiltily admits he has never finished reading and analyzing Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo, his English class takes up nothing but the works of William Shakespeare, somebody he has never admired and thought of existing. And he is so bored with the Shakespearean lines he could stab Romeo if he sees him, or snub Juliet if he ever meets her. Yes, William, a rose by whatever name, still smells as sweet. And to Mr. Panguy-ab, Juliet by whatever pseudonym or guise, still sounds and looks irritating. So he takes to panguy-ab, irregardless of whether he is before friends, Romans, and countrymen without ears.

Here goes the story...

The Vote for Heaven or Hell

A powerful senator dies after a prolonged illness. His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance.

"Welcome to Heaven," says St. Peter. "Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do with you."

"No problem, just let me in," says the senator.

"Well, I'd like to but I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is have you spend one day in Hell and one in Heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity."

"Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in Heaven."

"I'm sorry but we have our rules," replies St. Peter.

And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to Hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. Nearby are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him. Everyone is in evening attire and very happy to see him. They run to greet him, hug him, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at the expense of the people. They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster and caviar.

Also present is the Devil, who really is a very friendly guy and who has a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that the time flies, before he realizes it, the senator has to go. Everyone gives him a big hug and waves while the elevator rises.

The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on Heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him.

"Now it's time to visit Heaven."

The next 24 hours pass with the senator joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.

"Well then, you've spent a day in Hell and another in Heaven. Now choose your eternity." The senator reflects for a minute, then answers, "Well, I would never have said it, I mean Heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in Hell."

So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to Hell. Now the doors of the elevator open and he is in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags.

The Devil comes over to him and lays his arm on his neck.

"I don't understand," stammers the senator. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and a beautiful club and we ate lobster and caviar and danced and had a great time. Now there is only a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable.

The Devil looks at him, smiles and says, "Yesterday we were campaigning. Today you voted for us!"@

Yanggaw

2009-10-18T23:28:00.016+08:00

Yanggaw is an Ilonggo term meaning ‘to convert to being a witch or aswang’. If used as a noun, yanggaw means ‘a new convert; a new witch or aswang’. Technically, yanggaw connotes witchery and must be used sparingly and in private conversations or in whispers only. However, lately, the term has evolved into a common idiom which is used openly in jest. It loosely means ‘to convert’, or ‘a convert’ without the aswang connotation. So, a new member of a group of drinking buddies can be referred to as a yanggaw; or a new member of a barkada is a new yanggaw. Similarly, somebody who has just been addicted to smoking or to a new Boy Band is said to be na-yanggaw.

Yanggaw is also the title of an indie movie currently being talked about in Iloilo. The movie has earned awards and citations and is especially popular among the students from the elementary to the graduate school.

But unlike other indie (for independent, or a movie made outside any major film studio) movies, Yanggaw is not about sex, sexuality, and sex organs. Yanggaw is about culture, traditions, and beliefs which may clash with modern day living.

But what makes Yanggaw a hit in Iloilo is that, it is a mainstream Philippine movie that depicts a slice of Ilonggo provincial life. And most of all, the movie was dubbed in Ilonggo and is topbilled by Ilonggo actors.

It is a story about a yanggaw in a rural baranggay which is, based on the names of places in the movie, somewhere between the municipalities of Oton and Tigbauan. And possibly, it is a story common in many Philippine rural towns told in a hush and only to trusted friends, lest the ire of the concerned is stoked. Or worse, the rumour monger gets the sinister attention of the real aswang and the aswang stalks him (the rumour monger) till he dies of fear or from loss of blood after being disemboweled or dismembered by the aswang before he is turned into sushi or dinuguan.

Yanggaw, as the title connotes, is a horror movie. But unlike other horror movies, it does not use heavy make-up, prosthetics, zombies, alien creatures, and ghosts which tend to be hilarious rather than horrifying. It does not need an expert make-up artist or a cinematic engineer to create an aswang. An aswang is just any common folk around us. He or she can even be the person sitting beside you right now. Yanggaw creates fear through implied scenes and situations which become vivid in the viewers’ imaginations. It is a researched movie, playing on the aswang image and derring-do as cultivated in the Filipino psyche through years of story telling from childhood to adulthood. Scenes are made real by terminologies like ‘buyag’ (means ‘the ire of evil spirits’), which were long lost after the aswang-believing generation has died or has been eaten by the ghost of alzheimer’s.

I like the movie, not necessarily because of its technical aspects, but on its way of unravelling the story and its ability to capture the attention of the viewer from start to finish with feelings of non-stop excitement and anticipation. The dialogue is simple and real, with no flowery lines of written prose. The scenes are heart-rending especially to a family person. The line ‘a face only a mother can love’ pertaining to a super ugly baby is truly reflected in the movie. A father will do whatever he can, even to kill another person, just to protect his child, even if his child is a known aswang. Parents will never abandon their child, even if they know that their child is an aswang. And to do the extreme of killing his aswang child , a father will do it but with the welfare of his child in his mind. ‘Patya na lang ko, Tay’, the daughter implores her father because she is an aswang, a beast. The father will do it, but will first advice the daughter in a fatherly tone to first close her eyes. ‘Piyunga lang mata mo’, so the child will not see death coming. And death will be sudden with no pain at all to the aswang.

Ti malantaw na kamo Yanggaw?

The first time I uploaded this post, I included an internet version of the movie which I found by sheer patience. But I took it out for professional reasons. Instead I placed a YouTube version of the trailer. Anyway, you still can find the internet version if you really search for it, and if it was not yet taken out.

The internet version is free. But please help the Philippine indie movie industry. For many of you who are abroad and who can not watch personally the movie in its commercial screening, please advice your kins in the Philippines to watch Yanggaw in its commercial run. Or if they prefer the VCD version, please advice your kins to buy the original copies and NOT the pirated ones.

@

Dinagyang Fever officially starts; Calle Real

2009-10-16T23:20:00.001+08:00

The actual Dinagyang is still months away, in the last week of January 2010. But starting today, the sound of drums will drown the days of the Ilonggos. The Dinagyang celebration officially starts today, October 16. And practices of participating tribes will again be common sights in school campuses and side streets in the city.

I heard the news about the opening ceremony over my car radio. The radio announcer gave instructions to motorists to avoid portions of Iznart, Muelle Loney, Guanco, and JM Basa Streets as these were the routes of the opening parade. Of course, no traffic will be allowed to pass the front of Freedom Grandstand as the program will be held there.

I had an appointment along Plaza Libertad. So I left my car in the Provincial Capitol parking area and just walked to my destination.

JM Basa St. taken on a Sunday morning last August 2009 from the Freedom Grandstand.

Walking along Calle Real was without hassle. Calle Real (literally Royal Street), the Iloilo City strip spanned by JM Basa St., Iznart St., Plaza Libertad and Plazoleta Gay, is no longer as crowded as before. People who come here are mostly after business transactions. Few come to shop as it is more convenient and safer to shop in the malls. The City government offices are temporarily transferred farther away. A number of the old art deco buildings are now abandoned and crumbling, or used as ukay-ukay stores. On the eastern side of JM Basa St., what used to be panciterias and textile stores, open only after dark as seedy girlie joints or gay bars. The stores on the western side seem to fare better. Socorro Drugstore, Seven-Seven, Commoner, Sam’s, Shanghai - stores I’ve known since childhood - are still operating. Cinema, Allegro, and Golden Superama - the best movie houses before – are now Korean stores selling cheap items that easily break. Only one movie house is still operating. It shows old bold flicks which could not be shown in movie houses inside the malls. Hoskyn’s Compound, touted as the first establishment in the Philippines to operate as a mall, still exists. Keben Theatre is now a computer school and a host of small offices and clinics. Summerhouse which used to serve the best pancit lomi in Iloilo, transferred to another location. Dainty’s still exists and still serves the best pancit as before. But while other popular restaurants have sprung branches and have gone into franchising, Dainty’s remains as a hole in the Calle Real wall but nevertheless has maintained its loyal patrons. The IN restaurant before was Fatima. What is left of it now is just the concrete Fatima signage. Where it operated before is now a hardware store. But Roberto’s, the small restaurant popular for its take-out counter, still attracts queues of customers, like before. Vendors hawked their wares and I could smell whiffs of peanuts fried with garlic and cheap apples which reminded me of Christmas. When I was a small kid, apples only appear in Iloilo during Christmas time. My parents would bring us to Calle Real to shop and Calle Real smelled of apples. We bought the cheap smaller variety because we could not afford the bigger Red Delicious. We only ate apples during Christmas.

I was disappointed when I reached my appointment because the traffic along the route seemed normal. There was no parade that choked the traffic. I could have taken my car all the way to my meeting place.

(Above photos)An Ati tribe waiting for its turn to perform, and the same tribe while performing.

But it was a different story when my appointment was over. As I retraced my steps towards the Freedom Grandstand, a wall of humanity four-persons deep blocked my way. The Dinagyang opening program had started and traffic was rerouted. Actually, the crowd now was a small fraction compared to the crowd during the Dinagyang culmination activity. But nevertheless traffic could not pass through. And I was thankful I parked my car farther away.

(Above photos)No these are not parts of a performance, but some tribe members perched on mid-street fences to get a better view of the performances.

The afternoon was hot and humid. In this condition, walking along Calle Real in business attire was uncomfortable indeed. But seeing the usual places and happenings that evoked memories of the old happy childhood days when my only problem was how not to take a bath without being noticed by my mother, the walk was worth all the sweat and the grime in my collar.@

Iloilo Airport secondary access road

2009-10-13T12:01:00.029+08:00

I still avoid the Duyan-duyan route to Cabatuan. The Duyan-duyan road is a turugban when it rains (and it rains almost daily) and a dusty and bumpy dirt road during sunny days. Of course, I can always close my windows. But I don't like to punish the residents with dust fumes each time I pass. Besides, there usually is a traffic build-up because many portions use only a single lane for two-way taffic.

Sometimes I like to stop and have a cup of coffee in this establishment along the road leading to the airport. But my companions are always killjoy. We better proceed daw to the city, where we can have many choices of where to pass the time.

Good thing that the Tiring to New Iloilo Airport road is still passable. The dirt road was used at the time the airport was being constructed. Now, it serves as a shortcut to the airport. It is not asphalted but, at this time, is better than the Duyan-duyan road. Only few light vehicles, aside from the tricycles, carabaos and hand-held power tillers, are using this road. Sometimes I find myself the lone occupant of the road all through-out the trip. Therefore I usually stop along the way to talk to the farmers and just to commune with the bucolic setting.

Through my frequent stops, I rediscovered the smell of rice as it ripens on its stalk. I even took some rice seeds and tasted them. I looked for wild spiders which hide behind rice leaves.

When I was a kid, we play with the spiders by letting them fight on a foot long piece of bamboo stick. We cheered and clapped as the spiders went into a jostle. Our cheers reached fever-pitch as the spider which won the fight wrapped the hapless loser in layers of sticky web. We looked for spiders by following their glistening webs against the sunlight.

Now, there are no webs and possibly no spiders. Could be the pesticides sprayed on the ricefields. And I just munched on some fresh rice seeds.

Farther away some farmers are readying some paddies for planting while others are fixing the banks, we call kahon, of the paddies.

Near the airport is an aeronotics school. Walking distance from this school are bamboo shanties offering bedspace or room-for-rent to students and airport workers. Beside the road is a small sari-sari store which serves as mall, tambayan, or grocery for the transients.

I like this old and dusty dirt road. The scenery is very Filipino. Ricefields, farmers, nipu huts, carabaos, and white egrets - all positioned strategically as if painted on a canvass; the symmetry shattered only by the roar of the coming or the going of a jet plane.

The airport road is a model of a provincial road. But turning right to Tiring on this old dirt road is a turning point. This road is going to be modernized as an alternative access route to the airport. Diggings had already started and the link to the highway in Bgy. Tabucan had been inaugurated by government bigwigs.

Looking at the diggings and the hectares of productive ricefields that will be waylaid by the access route in the name of progress, I couldn't imagine the sacks of rice that will be sacrificed, the ecosystem that will be trummeled, and the bucolic scenery that will be lost forever.

A saint in the house of Arroyo

2009-10-10T20:50:00.001+08:00

Hate her and bad-mouth her. But Gloria Macapagal Arroyo is assured of heavenly intercession amidst allegations of lying, cheating and stealing in high office - all mortal sins according to the Catholic doctrine. The Catholic faith is now working on making an Arroyo kin the second Filipino saint (after Lorenzo Ruiz, beatified in Manila on February 18, 1981 by Pope John Paul II , the first beatification ceremony held outside the Vatican, and elevated to Sainthood and canonized by Pope John Paul II in Vatican City, Rome on October 18, 1987) and the first saint from Iloilo.

Last Wednesday, PGMA and family flew in to Iloilo sans much noise and funfare, to join the Liturgical Celebration which marked the formal diocesan process of the cause of canonization of Mother Rosario Arroyo de la Visitacion at the St. Anne Parish Church in Molo, Iloilo City. Mother Rosario was the founder of Beaterio de Molo and the congregation of the Dominican Sisters of the Most Holy Rosary in Molo. The mass was officiated by Jaro Archbishop Angel Lagdameo.

PGMA and party were met at the airport by the Dominican nuns, a visibly old Raul Gonzales, Sr., unshaven Iloilo City mayor Jerry Treñas, Gov. Niel Tupas who stood far from the others, and other politicians and government functionaries possibly out to ask for electoral intercession.

And how is PGMA related to Mother Rosario?

Mother Rosario Arroyo was born in Molo, Iloilo City, Philippines. She was the only daughter of a wealthy couple, Don Ignacio Arroyo and Doña Maria Pidal. She had four brothers – Jose, a lawyer, became a senator in 1917; Mariano, a physician, became the governor of Iloilo in 1928; and the other two died in infancy. (Remember the Jose Pidal account divulged by Sen. Panfilo Lacson? Now you know where the account name came from.)

Jose Pidal, ah… Arroyo pala, later married Jesusa Lacson from Negros Occidental and had 7 children, one of whom was Ignacio Arroyo who later married Lourdes Zaragoza Tuason. Ignacio and Lourdes were the parents of Jose Miguel "Mike" Arroyo, as well as Ignacio Arroyo, Jr., the one who admitted in the Senate hearing to owning the Jose Pidal account.

Back to Mother Rosario…

At the age of 27 she entered the Congregation of the Dominican Sisters of Sta. Catalina de Siena. She was given the name Sr. Rosario Arroyo de la Visitacion. Following her piety, she donated her inheritance to the congregation and lived an austere life. Don Ignacio and Dona Maria gave up their residence in favor of the Sisters. A free school was built. The Dominican convent now stands on the site of the original Arroyo residence.

According to the Dominican Sisters of the Most Holy Rosary of the Philippines website, Mother Rosario was very observant of her vow of poverty. She loved simple things and was detached from material and worldly goods. She wore darned and patched clothing and had very few of them. Her simplicity enabled her to share what she had with the poor, sometimes even giving to the sick neighbors the food prepared for her. Vanity did not have a place in her heart. Despite her position and patrimony, she never boasted of them. She preferred the obscurity of the convent life.

And when will Mother Rosario become a full pledged saint?

The Catholic process of sainthood have four long steps – the Initiation led by the Bishop of the Diocese; the Investigation of the life and works of the candidate employing a "general promoter of the faith," or devil's advocate, whose role was to raise objections and doubts as regards the virtuosity of the candidate; the Beatification; and the Canonization. Each of the last two steps requires a miracle attributable to the candidate saint, and which was verified and confirmed by the Church.

Question: If PGMA becomes a Prime Minister in 2010, and her net satisfaction rating in surveys goes up to above zero in the coming months, will the Catholic Church consider these as miracles worth consideration in the pursuit of sainthood? @

San Joaquin, Iloilo

2009-10-08T21:00:00.007+08:00

If you take the road from Iloilo City to Antique, the last town of Iloilo that you will pass by is San Joaquin. It is a 3rd class municipality and deemed un-touristy. It is one of the many blur of towns passed by if one opts to pass through Antique, coming from Iloilo, to Boracay.

But San Joaquin has some exciting spots to offer if only one stops by to look around. Its beaches along Tiolas, awashed with pebbles instead of sand, are havens to swimmers. But take note that the beaches are deep. Kantilyado. I remembered I nearly drowned in one of the beaches when I was still in college.

The ancient baroque San Joaquin Church is a must-see. It is made of limestone from the nearby town of Igbaras and coral stone which was abundant in San Joaquin. Like many other churches, it served in the past a dual purpose - as a look-out for sea-faring invaders and as an impregnable refuge for the town’s people in time of invasion. Today, the church is a beacon of the Catholic faith and a proud landmark of San Joaquin. The church’s façade is its most famous trademark and is unique in the Philippines. While other churches display saints, angels or holy objects on its facade, San Joaquin Church sports a mural of the victory of the Spaniards over the Moroccan forces in the Battle of Tetuan. So realistic and so detailed are the carvings that a viewer standing on the ground can see the facial expressions of the soldiers during the battle. In fact, the façade could have earned the church its recognition as a national historical landmark.

Outside the poblacion, as the road zigzags up the mountains to Antique, motorists can see stalls along the road selling bandi and other peanut condiments. (Reminds me of the mountain roads in Baguio where locals sell strawberry and ube jams.) The San Joaquin bandi and condiments are made by the locals and are good pasalubongs. A note to drivers: stall owners give the driver whatever item for sale he wants, as bonus for stopping by. I was always given a big bandi the size of a saucer, even if I drive a family vehicle - with only my wife, kids, and some nieces as passengers – and even if my passengers had already asked the needed paaman with their purchases after an intense bout of haggling.

San Joaquin is 53 kilometers south of Iloilo City. The road is asphalted and safe. The public utility jeepneys plying the area are somewhat too fast. And it seems embarrassing to apprise the driver when the local passengers seem not to care and they even seem to enjoy the fast ride.

Note: The pictures above were taken when we passed by the municipality of San Joaquin on our way back to Iloilo from Antique.@

New terminology: Fujiwhara Effect

2009-10-07T10:09:00.004+08:00

Typhoon Pepeng (international codename: Parma), which lashed Northern Luzon last Saturday and exited the Philippines area of responsibility towards the direction of Taiwan on Sunday, returned back to the Philippines via Ilocos Norte, making landfall Tuesday night, packing peak winds of 105km and gustiness up to 135kph, the Pagasa said.

Pepeng's return was anticipated as it lingered for two days in the South China Sea.

The apparent change of heart of Pepeng was attributed to another typhoon Quedan (internationally designated as Melor), churning in the Pacific, 2,000 kilometers east of the Philippines. Quedan sucked in Pepeng affecting its direction.

Pagasa however added that the strength of the second landfall of Pepeng is not as strong as its first landfall in Cagayan last Saturday.

This dance of the typhoons is apparently not a new phenomenon. Experts call it the Fujiwhara Effect named after a Japanese meteorologist named Dr. Sakuhei Fujiwhara. In 1921, Dr. Fujiwhara determined that two storms will sometimes move around a common center pivot point.

Fujiwhara Effect has been used to describe the tendency of two nearby tropical cyclones to interact with each other. Sometimes they merge into one super typhoon.

In the case of Quedan, it didn't really made a landfall in the Philippines. It headed north at 22 kph toward Japan, and could possibly pull in Pepeng to follow a north northeast track.@

Typhoons in Luzon; storm in Iloilo

2009-10-04T23:56:00.010+08:00

Sunday, the sun shone brightly all over the Philippines. Alleluia! There were intermittent rains in some parts of Luzon. But on the whole, the weather was good. The Department of Education ordered the resumption of classes on Monday except in those areas where there are still floods and in schools still occupied by evacuees.

TV news dwell on the typhoon Ondoy experiences and footages of the devastations wrought by typhoon Pepeng as it lashed Northern Luzon last Saturday afternoon. Typhoon Pepeng was indeed a super typhoon.

Iloilo was spared from the typhoons. But last week the sky was overcast and there were also heavy rains in Iloilo.

And a storm has been brewing in Iloilo for weeks already. And this storm is comical, entertaining, and many times stupid and pathetic. The storm I am referring to is in the field of politics. Elections may still be eight months from now. But to a true blue politician, May 2010 is just some weeks away. Politicians have started getting the voters’ attention months ago.

Currently in the eye of the political storm is incumbent Iloilo Governor Niel Tupas, Sr. Since last week, local radio stations have been airing his alleged misuse of government equipment in building his resthouse at Brgy. Juanico, Banate, Iloilo. Local TV stations showed video clips and photographs of dump trucks, a grader and a bulldozer working in the governor’s house. The green dump trucks are marked “Province of Iloilo” while the blue grader and bulldozer bear the official seal of the Banate municipal government.

In a radio interview, Tupas said the trucks never got near his house. But when shown with copies of the pictures, he said he only invited the drivers to have coffee and snacks when the heavy equipment passed by his house as they were getting quarry materials from a quarry site nearby. He added that the issue was politically-motivated.

It must be recalled that early this year, Gov. Tupas established a house at Brgy. Juanico and transferred his voter’s registration to the same barangay in preparation for his candidacy for congressman of the 4th congressional district of Iloilo opposite incumbent Rep. Ferjenel Biron. Gov. Tupas is on his third and last term as governor. The 1987 constitution limits the term of local officials to three 3-year terms.

As the alluded source of the video and pictures, Rep. Ferjenel Biron, in a radio interview, hedged the accusation, and rather lambasted Tupas for allegedly stashing so much ill-gotten wealth. In so many words, he questioned the capability of Tupas to build multi-million-peso houses on his capitol salary of P38,000 a month. He asked something like ‘Ano gid bala ang business ni Tupas nga nagmanggaranon gid siya?’ Biron, a medical doctor, owns a drug company and a chain of pharmaceutical outlets.

I would like to stress that the first time I heard about Biron was in the 2004 elections. It was the first election I witnessed since I transferred for good to the Philippines. In that election, I think the dirtiest was in the 4th congressional district of Iloilo, between Ferjenel Biron and Jesry Palmares who were running for Congressman. The fourth district might be far from Jaro where I live, but the radio and TV airtimes were inundated with political black propaganda of the two candidates against each other. The attacks were so vicious, I wondered how the two protagonists could still face the people with dignity after the elections.

If Tupas is graduating, who are aspiring to be the next Iloilo governor?

When typhoon Ondoy was bringing floods to Luzon, politicians in Iloilo were also flooding the halls of Hotel del Rio in Iloilo City to hear Congressman Arthur Defensor, Sr. and Board Member Richard Garin announce their decision to run for governor and vice governor, respectively, in the May 2010 elections. Defensor said that he has decided to run again for governor (he was Iloilo governor from 1992 to 2001) to “bring back the trust and confidence of the people on the provincial government.” He added there are reasons “to put an end to the continuity of the present leadership and restore faith and dignity among our people.”

By trust and confidence, he apparently refers to persistent reports of graft and corruption committed by the Tupas administration as reported in the media. And by continuity, of course he refers to incumbent Barotac Viejo Mayor Raul “Boboy” Tupas, Gov. Tupas’ son and anointed one.

Raul Tupas is reportedly running for Iloilo governor. His running mate is former Vice Governor Obet Armada. Surprise? If you recall, it was Armada who was overtly atat-na-atat to kick out Gov. Tupas during the capitol siege in 2007, when the military barged into the Iloilo capitol by breaking a glass wall to bodily drag Tupas out of the governor’s office. Tupas was suspended by the Ombusman for corruption. Defenders said he was suspended because he withdrew his support from President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo following the "Hello Garci" controversy. At the time of the capitol siege, Armada was the vice governor. He ran for governor, but lost, against incumbent Niel Tupas. Now, he will run again, but this time in tandem with the Tupas son. Oh, well, politics is addition.

And in Iloilo City?

Vice Mayor Jed Patrick Mabilog officially declared his intention to run for mayor of Iloilo City at the auditorium of the University of the Philippines in the Visayas (UPV). He will run against Chief Presidential Legal Counsel Raul Gonzales, Sr. and Presidential Assistant on Water Lorenzo Jamora. Gonzales was vocal about his plan to run for Iloilo City Mayor even while sitting as Justice Secretary. At that time, when asked about a possible clash with Mabilog, his partymate, he sounded boastful and confident. Bisan pila pa kuno ka Mabilog, or words to that effect. Now, that Mabilog has announced his mayoral bid, Gonzales sounded bitter and betrayed. He could tolerate being pitted with another elderly like Jamora but not with someone who could be younger than his son.

Lately, the two mayoral aspirants attacked each other’s declarations of Statement of Assets, Liabilities and Net Worth (SALN). The two accused each other of doctoring their SALN. And more skeletons from the closet will soon surface out. Abangan.

And the congressmen for the lone district of Iloilo City? It was tauted before that Iloilo City will be divided into 2 districts to accommodate Mayor Jerry Treñas who is in his third and last term as Iloilo City mayor. The incumbent congressman of Iloilo City is Raul Gonzales, Jr. But the bill is still in limbo as it is deemed unconstitutional.

Treñas is supposed to seek a higher position. But he is a sure loser if he runs as senator. So, congressman it must be. But he cannot yet announce his intention. He does not like to act ingrato kuno to Gonzales Sr. who said that Treñas owed his being mayor to him. Treñas and Gonzales Sr. and Jr. are in the same party. So Treñas cannot run under his party because of the incumbency rule. Besides Gonzales is a party bigwig. And how about Treñas’ P130-M Pavia housing scam? Raul could be holding some aces. But there is a signature drive in the city to ask Treñas to run for congressman. The group expects to gather 5,000 to 10,000 signatures by first week of October. So who said Treñas is not doing anything? Bisan ano basta ikaw ang topiko ka mga tawo.

But I think, the most awaited fight is in the fifth congressional district. Vice Governor Rolex Suplico is reportedly running against his cousin Niel Junjun Tupas, the incumbent and the governor’s son. Who said that blood is thicker than water? I pity the two. When they were kids, the first cousins might be the constant playmates, the best of friends with one ready to suffer bruises and black eyes to defend the other in a kiddy fight. Now that they are older, more mature, professionals, and able to discern right from wrong, they become bitter enemies. Everyone is awaiting what muck, dirt, and family heirloom will fly in the fifth district. Indeed, familiarity breeds contempt.

And have you heard this news? A graduating town mayor who is a sure loser if he runs in a higher office, is running as vice mayor instead. He is scouting for a winnable mayoral candidate to support and to run with. But there is a catch – the mayoral candidate must agree to serve only for one term because this graduating mayor plans to run again as mayor after three years. Noting that power is addictive, so far none of those eyed agreed to the scheming mayor’s agendum. And the mayor's wife who was rumoured to succeed her husband was too pragmatic to resign from her job. The mayor also parted ways with his partymate and long-time vice mayor because of the one-term issue. Ang friend niya nga SB nga popular pero masakiton, indi man kay hadlok mapatay sa hapo sa kumpanya. Amo na ang iya problema – ang makakita ti kandidato nga pang one term lang. Pero sin-o nga politico ang indi kapit-toko?

So, there. In politics, your dear friend today is your worst enemy tomorrow. And your bitter rival yesterday could be your ardent partymate today. Like typhoon Ondoy, sa politika weather-weather lang yan.

My friend wanted the campaign period to be now already. She likes to be shocked and at the same time to be entertained. Nakakasawa daw and telenovela.@

A big turn-out of church goers

2009-10-03T21:16:00.024+08:00

Saturday has always been the day we attend the 5:30pm mass at St. Clement's Church.

This afternoon the children didn't go to mass with us. They went malling with their titas and cousins. We were a bit late. Nevertheless, we went straight to the usual pew we occupy near the front.

The church was filled to capacity. The big number of church goers was unusual. But then, these were unusual times. The parishioners could be doubly thankful for being spared from the onslaught of typhoon Ondoy.

The priest led the prayers of the faithful. It was specially composed to seek help during these times of never-before-experienced climatic tantrums. The homily was about love and marriage. Frankly, I felt sleepy during the homily. Daw ginaduyan ako. But during my scheduled sleeping time at night, waay gid ako ginatuyo. Ginakibang ako (Do I use this term right? Many times, I encounter terms that were used by my long-dead lolos and lolas, that already sound alien to me.)

Then came the communion. People lined the center and side ailes. Again, communicants were unusually so many. I was about to mention some typhoon supplicants when I noticed the communicants were mostly very young - too young to devote their lives to prayer (Di ba common impression sa mga young people, sa mall sila naga-agto. Mga mal-am kag mga manang lang ang naga-pass their time in the church. Of course, I don't consider myself mal-am. I am not religious. But I like religion, not necessarily Catholism. It brings order to life.)

Then I realized these so many young people were in the church because tomorrow, the Licensure Examination for Teachers (LET) would finally continue after it was postponed last Sunday, together with the Bar exams, because of typhoon Ondoy. The young people in the church were would-be LET takers (WLT). Tomorrow the BAR examination will also take place.

After the priest said the last prayers and exited, and as the regular mass goers headed for the exits, many WLTs headed to the bigger-than-life-size picture of the Mother of Perpetual Help near the altar, genuflected, and said more prayers. Some placed their hands or wiped their hankies on the glass surface. The scene was very solemn and very spiritual. If I were the Perpetual Succor, I will let them all pass the LET.

The recessional song ended. We turned back to the main door and was about to leave. But we stayed for a while because the front doors were just jammed with people. Many WLTs were there, saying more prayers with eyes closed or locked with the eyes of the saintly statues near the entrance. I was glad the kids were not with us because they always light candles after the mass. This evening, the candles area could not be seen because of the WLTs, five persons deep and in deep prayers before the candle stands. (If you are innocent of this Catholic practice, you might think the WLTs were standing there to warm their bodies before a fireplace lit with candles.)Even if the kids could pass by the immobile supplicants towards the bucket containing the candles, possibly there were no more unlighted candles left.

We went out of the church. There were still so many WLTs, giggling and planning where to go from the mass. Ang iba grabe gid ang Kinaray-a. Garagumo gid. Could be because the whole of Panay would take their LET in Iloilo City. Gani, tanan nga klase ka dialect nabatian ko.

Again, I repeated my prayer a while ago. Pangadi ko nga daad tanan nga LET takers buas makapasa. For a change, daad 100% and passing sa October 2009 Licensure Examination for Teachers. Pati na sa BAR exam. Impossible? When did you say, it is impossible for a flood to reach chest-high in the never-before-been-flooded subdivision where you live? @

Most compelling typhoon Ondoy video

2009-09-30T22:09:00.037+08:00

It is the most compelling, the most copied and probably the most viewed typhoon Ondoy video in the net. It had spawned copious versions some carrying prayers and surreal music background. It was played a number of times in local TV and was picked up by foreign networks.

The video is a testament to man's nothingness in the face of nature's might and fury. It showed a group of what could be kids swept by the swift and angry currents of the river towards the underside of a bridge at the height of typhoon Ondoy. When the video panned downriver, only a single person made it to the other side of the bridge. The river was so swollen that the bridge became so low for people and debris to pass under it.

Initially, I was unperturbed by the Ondoy floods. It was not the first time that Metro Manila was flooded, right? Saturday evening, the TV news showed houses submerged up to the roofs, cars hoisted by the water atop trees, families huddled on rooftops, and government agencies tallying the affected and the dead. Having experienced the flood brought by typhoon Frank in Iloilo last July 2008, I thought that the scenes were just a rehash. ‘Been there. Done that.’, I shrugged.

However, the following morning, the TV stations kept on airing the devastation brought by Ondoy and the cries for help of the victims. Being a father myself, I especially commiserated with a father, an executive type, who was in tears and choking, asking those who have seen or known the whereabouts of his daughter to please call the evacuation centers. The father could be a growling tiger in the boardroom, but the thought of his daughter possibly suffering somewhere away from his consoling presence, ang tigre ay naging basang sisiw. Para sa akin na isang tatay, matinding parusa sa isang ama ang isiping ang kanyang anak ay nagdudusa at nangangailangan ng kanyang tulong, pero wala siyang magagawa.

Then I saw that Ondoy video. And I thought, ‘Tama na. Sobra na. The people had suffered so much already.’

I remembered the Saturday night of typhoon Frank in Iloilo. I kept vigil until midnight to watch if the water would reach the second floor of our house. Sensing that the water was receding, I went to bed tired, hungry, and disbelieving of all the helplessness I saw in our never-before-flooded neighborhood. I opened my battery-operated pocket transistor (there was no electricity) for updates. As I drifted in and out of sleep, I heard the news that a passenger ferry had sank when it got caught in the eye of typhoon Frank. The radio announcer sounded tired and he lulled me to sleep with the names of the survivors. I was too sleepy to react. But before I was drowned in deep slumber I uttered, ‘Tama na. Sobra na. The people had suffered so much already.’

The Ondoy video could have touched the hearts and minds of so many that a TV network made a follow-up story. It showed two dead bodies fished out along with some debris from under the bridge.

But where were the other victims? Who were they? How about the person who survived?

The following Tuesday, I saw again the video on TV followed by an interview of the single survivor. His name was Erik. He was a young man, still visibly stunned by the experience he went through. He said he was with some people, and his wife and his two daughters. They were swept by the current from a sitio in Quezon City, kilometers away from the bridge. With blood-shot eyes and a straight face, he said he was still looking for his wife and kids. ‘Huwag mong sisihin ang sarili mo,’ people consoled him.

Many said that the Ondoy onslaught was an act of God. Many also countered, that the devastation was an act of man. As early as the 70’s urban planners had already warned that the eastern part of Manila was prone to high floods and they forwarded solutions. Unabated clearing operations of the upland areas also contributed to the floods.

Unlike the people who consoled Erik, dapat ba natin sisihin ang sarili natin? With another typhoon scheduled this week, and more to come this year, are we in for another compelling video?

@

Donations for typhoon Ondoy victims flood in

2009-09-28T22:47:00.013+08:00

International and local donations poured in as tropical storm Ondoy (with international code name Ketsana) left the Philippines leaving behind at least 140 people dead, scores missing, hundreds of thousands of families affected, an estimated half a billion pesos worth of crops destroyed, hundreds of millions of pesos worth of properties damaged, and thousands of video and text postings in cyberspace.

US Ambassador Kristie Kenney authorized an additional $50,000 in immediate disaster relief assistance through the Office of Foreign Disaster Assistance (OFDA) of the US Agency for International Development (USAID), bringing the total in immediate relief donation assistance of the US to $100,000, said Rebecca Thompson of the public affairs office of the US embassy in Manila.

China, through Chinese Ambassador to the Philippines Liu Jianchao, also donated $10,000 (about half a million pesos) for the victims of typhoon Ondoy. The donation is coursed through the Philippine National Red Cross.

Hollywood celebrities also got involved to raise funds for the victims of typhoon Ondoy.

Meanwhile in the Philippines, millions of pesos in cash and in kind were given or pledged by good Samaritans through the fund drives of TV networks ABS-CBN and GMA, and through government and NGO drop-off points.

However, the nation is waiting with bated breaths how much money Congressmen Danilo Suarez of Quezon 3rd District and Martin Romualdez of Leyte province will unload to alleviate the sufferings of their fellow Filipinos.

It must be recalled that Romualdez reportedly paid the $20,000 bill for President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo's dinner in the upscale Le Cirque restaurant in New York. Ms. Arroyo was accompanied by 40 other people, mostly Congressmen. On the other hand, Suarez was said to foot the $15,000 bill of Ms Arroyo's meal in Bobby Van's Steakhouse in Washington. She was accompanied by the same entourage in New York. Ms Arroyo and party were in the US on a working visit upon the invitation of US President Barack Obama.

People keep wondering that China, a would-be superpower country, can give only $10,000, while a Philippine congressman can splurge double the amount in a single dinner. Therefore, people hope that Romualdez, Suarez, et.al., would be as generous to those who really need their mullah.

BTW, with all the braggings of Gloria Arroyo especially in her July 2009 SONA (which many thought was the bitchest SONA ever), many are wondering why imperial Metro Manila was not prepared during the Ondoy onslaught. More than a year ago in July 2008, Panay island was devastated by typhoon Frank and its subsequent flood never before seen in the island's history. Didn't the Arroyo administration think that the same situation would happen in Metro Manila, or in any other place in the Philippines for that matter? Last weekend, people just realized that rubber boats and rescue helicopters were direly needed. And didn't Gloria Arroyo think she needed a presidential jet sometime ago?@

FLOOD!

2009-09-26T23:08:00.010+08:00

No. There is no flood in Iloilo. Though it rains intermittently and the sky remains dark. Tigum River in Cabatuan is rampaging but the water level is not alarming. But flood-prone residents of Jaro are in panic mode as they await for warning calls.

But typhoon Ondoy has flooded Metro Manila and most of Luzon, the gravity of which is higher than the floods brought to Iloilo and Panay by typhoon Frank last year.

Of course Manila is flood-prone. But the floods today are cataclysmic. The basement area of Megamall in Ortigas is flooded and houses along the university belt are submerged up to their second floors if not their roofs. Parts of EDSA and Buendia are neck-deep.100% of Cainta is underwater as their mayor aired for help as late as 10:38pm as residents in many subdivisions are spending the night atop their rooftops.

Even with so many people affected and crying for help over the radio and TV (as I write this entry, 9 are already confirmed dead), many are thankful that this incident occurs on a weekend when schools and most offices are closed. And the floods started early in the morning when residents are still in their homes and therefore are not stranded somewhere away from their families.

It was also the same situation in Iloilo when typhoon Frank flooded most of Panay on a Saturday when schools were closed and during daytime when people could easily see and think of what to do.

But many are asking: Why these floods? Panay was flooded as we know. A few months back, portions of Mindanao were flooded for weeks. And now, the floods are in Luzon.@

Provinces Under State of Calamity: Marinduque, Camarines Norte , Bataan and Metro Manila were already placed on state of calamity. Aurora, Quirino, Nueva Viscaya, Nueva Ecija, Pangasinan, Tarlac, Zambales, Pampanga, Bulacan, Rizal, Quezon, Isabela, Mountain Province, Ifugao, Benguet, La Union, Ilocos Sur, Cavite, Batangas, Mindoro Occidental, Mindoro Oriental, Marinduque, Camarines Norte, Bataan and Metro Manila.

Disaster Emergency Hotlines: 911-1873, 912-5296, 912-2665 Quezon City Rescue: 161 Meralco: 09175592824, 09209292824 Philippine National Red Cross: 09209527268, 5270000 National Disaster Coordinating Council: 912-5668. 9111406, 9122665, 9115061 ABS-CBN: 4163641

The mouth-watering taste of lansones

2009-09-25T23:06:00.013+08:00

Last Monday was a holiday. I asked my daughters why they had no classes. They immediately replied it was Eid Al Fitr, the end of the Muslim month of Ramadan. They added that Eid al Fitr was like the New Year for the Muslims. So I told them we were going to celebrate the New Year by going around the city. Together with my brother’s grandchildren, we hopped into the car and drove away.

As we passed by Jaro Plaza, the children’s attention was focused on the fruit stalls beside the plaza.

‘Daddy, ano po yon?’. They pointed to the fruits.

‘Mga prutas - apples, oranges, grapes,’ I answered, without looking at the stalls.

‘Hindi. Yon pong bilog na brown.’, they countered.

My eyes were on the road. I was about to answer ‘Chico’ but when I glanced at the fruit stalls I saw mounds of lansones. Pieces of cardboard with words ‘Cagayan de Oro’ were stuck unto the lansones mounds. ‘Cagayan de Oro’ referred to the place of origin of the fruits. And to many, Cagayan de Oro was supposed to produce the sweetest lansones in the Philippines.

‘Ah, lansones,’ I told the kids. I asked them if they had already eaten lansones.

‘Wala pa po,’ the younger kids answered back.

So I parked the car near the stalls so we can buy some lansones.

The fruit vendors ran to my open window. ‘Lansones, Sir.’ Each one shoved a lansones to me. ‘Tam-is ni, Sir.’ All broke open a lansones in font of me. My mouth watered.

We decided to go to the stall with the most number of customers, a guarantee that its fruits were of good quality. It so happened that the stall’s lansones was more expensive. The vendor said it came from Camiguin, an island off Northern Mindanao, near Cagayan de Oro. 'Bag-o lang abot Sir,' the vendor enthused. As proof, she pointed to a few black ants crawling over the fruits. She said, Camiguin grows the sweetest lansones and that if we liked cheaper ones, she pointed to another mound which according to her came from Davao.

We settled with the ones from Camiguin. Ok lang kung expensive. Anyway, as the vendor weighed our purchase, the children had already eaten about a quarter of a kilo as patikim and paaman. They liked lansones.

We were eating lansones as we drove. ‘Be careful with the latex from the skin. It will stain your clothes and the seat cover,’ I reminded the kids.

‘Daddy, what’s the English word for lansones? How do you spell lansones?’. The children were now bombarding me with questions about the fruit, many I could not answer. So, I told them I would answer when we arrive in our place.

The first time I saw a lansones tree bearing fruits was when I attended a fiesta in Paete, Laguna. At that time the lansones trees were heavy with fruits. Bunches of fruits were sprouting straight from the main branches, and from the trunks near the roots. That is why I always associate lansones with the town of Paete, a picturesque wooded town with narrow streets nestled in the foot of the Sierra Madre Mountains.

Well, from the internet, the scientific name for lansones is Lansium domesticum Correa. It is spelled lansones or lanzones. There is no accepted English term for lansones yet. Its English nomenclature is just a phonetic derivation of whatever is its name in the place of its origin. So foreigners will just call it lansones because that is how it is called in the Philippines where it came from. The plant is found in tropical climates in Southeast Asia, South America and India. In the Philippines, it is grown in Laguna, Bukidnon, Albay, Quezon, Samar, Oriental Mindoro, and in some provinces in Mindanao and the Visayas. Lansones fruits are sold in fruit stalls starting August to October.

After awhile I called the kids to inform them about my new-found knowledge about lansones. The kids seemed not interested as they were watching a kiddy movie over cable TV. I just shrugged.

So I went to where the kids placed the plastic bag of lansones. I reckoned, I can enjoy lansones even if I didn’t know its scientific name. I opened one and gobbled it. The sweet translucent pulp seemed to melt in my mouth. Some partitions have no seeds and I just crushed them inside my mouth and let the pulpy syrup ooze on my tongue. I lapped up all the tastes. The slight sourness made me quiver. I opened another one and popped it in like a pill. And again let the tangy sweetness percolate in my mouth.

Then my daughter approached me. 'Dad, what is the spelling of lansones?', she asked.

Wiping my mouth, I answered her with hints of Shakespeare, 'Ahh... lansones, by whatever spelling, still tastes as mouth-watering.' And I opened another lansones to take pleasure in that mouth-watering taste.

Ti may lansones man sa abroad?@

Traffic jam and news blackout

2009-09-24T22:25:00.010+08:00

Today, late in the afternoon, there was a heavy traffic jam in Bgy. Tiring, Cabatuan, Iloilo. Vehicles and throngs of people lined the sides and the middle of the road. No, there was no fiesta. There was no road accident. There were no road repairs. No, none of the roadside tarpaulins of Gloria Arroyo were toppled by the wind and the rains, and created a disaster on the highway. No, no airplane overshot the Iloilo Airport runway and nosedived near Tiring Elementary School.

None of the passengers of the passing vehicles knew what happened or was happening. Iloilo City-bound vehicles were virtually stopped and they lined askance all the way to the adjoining barangay of Tabucan. Cabatuan-bound vehicles were slightly lucky even if they moved a bit faster than a snail. At least, Cabatuan-bound passengers were assured they will be home by dinner.

So, why this traffic jam? What happened? Why were there so many cars with red plates near the school? And why so many usyuseros and usyuseras around, as if may shooting ka pelikula in this remote brownout ridden barangay?

At about 6:00 pm, everybody got the answer. First, they saw a hand waving like a beauty queen gone ugly. Then, they saw the mole. Then, that toothy rabbity smile... or smirk. Yes, Marilene. At around 6:00 pm Gloria Macapagal Arroyo made a dramatic entrance in Bgy Tiring.

So, why was she there? What was she doing? Nobody knew for sure. Some said she was there to inaugurate a Botica sa Barangay. But they were not sure. Others said she might be running for Congresswoman in the Third District of Iloilo. Wasn’t she there also last month? And the other month? Frequent? As frequent as her visits in Pampanga? Ah, chismis.

But why was the visit not known?

In the evening news, there was no mention nor footage of the Arroyo visit, unlike her other visits. But there was a mention about the news blackout. Yes, news reporters snubbed Arroyo’s visit allegedly because of a Malacanang factotum decree that only one handpicked reporter will ask Arroyo a question. The others will just listen like tape recorders. The factotum’s decree raised more questions. Ano bala ang ginatago ni Arroyo? Ano ang ginakahadlukan ni Arroyo? Indi bala siya gusto pamangkuton parte kay Gibo Teodoro? And rather than be fed with the lies and the calibrated responses, the media mounted a news blackout.

And just as the media were peeved by Arroyo’s sudden media-shyness, the commuters too were cursing because they were delayed by another shooting ka pelikula ni Gloria. Pila na naman ka boto ang nadula.

So, there. Now, you know. It’s no longer a news blackout.@

Remembering 'Hello Garci'

2009-09-21T23:10:00.013+08:00

September 21 is known in the Philippines as the anniversary of the imposition of martial law. Many have been written about the evils of martial law. I don't have to delve on this here.

But today I would like viewers to revisit 'Hello Garci' and ponder on its repercussions if ever it happens again.

Please watch.

Sundae special

2009-09-20T23:27:00.021+08:00

Hometowns can be blasé to many, especially if they just live a few minutes drive away. But my hometown has always greeted me with interesting candour. I am always awed by the many new things that I discover each time I come for a visit. The residents, the goings-on, the seasons - all have given me new insights about the town I call my home and the home of my forebears.

Last Sunday I was home again to visit my mother. I was with my wife and kids. We arrived at around 10:30am, late for the market (Sunday is market day in my hometown) when we could buy fresh farm produce for lunch. But I texted my sister that I was bringing some fish - bangos, sapsap, matangbaka - and she could ask my nieces to buy kadyos for the bangos. The other vegetables I could pick from my farm nearby. The sapsap we can make into pinamarhan and the matangbaka we can broil together with pork. I was getting hungry by just thinking about our lunch.

After we arrived in our house and while everyone was busy preparing lunch, I went to the market to see what else to buy. The market was nearly deserted as it was nearly lunchtime. But the vendors were still on their toes, hoping that they could still make another sale, or another suki would just drop by for a forgotten ingredient.

The vendors were courteous - some knew me as this is a small town, while others, I thought, pretended they knew me to tempt me to buy their stuff. I too pretended I was interested to buy their stuff to inveigle a conversation with them.

Here are some photos of my Sunday adventure.

1. After the customers left, this family gathered in their fruit stall to celebrate a profitable day. 'Life is hard but we all help each other to survive,' says matriarch Nenita B. The happy faces told me it was a real good day.

2. Sinugba nga mais was tempting. I didn't like to buy because it was nearly lunchtime. But the vendor insisted. She said it was pilit nga mais and just right for broiling and that if I won't buy, she would just give me some because I was her relative. I tried to recall where I met her. She told me about her family. She then introduced me to her elder folks standing nearby. Everybody shook my hand. Daw politiko ako. I ended up buying all the mais which were already cooked! On my way home, I was thinking that the mais episode was the best marketing ploy.

3. There was a barbershop inside the market. This was a new discovery. The stall was also selling halo-halo. You can have a haircut while lapping up a bowl of halo-halo. Great combination! Who needs an airconditioned barbershop?

4. I am not fond of eating lamayo nga bangros. Maybe once a month is enough. But when this Lola, who sits at the entrance of the town market, calls my name I just could not resist buying a tompok. One tompok of lamayo consisting of 3 pieces of binulad is about Php 120.00. Lola will not accept my No as an answer. As soon as she sees me approaching, she readies a page of newspaper to wrap the lamayo with. If I alibied that I have no money, she will just shove the wrapped lamayo unto my hand and tells me to enjoy the viand, and that I can pay later when I come back even after a month. With vendors like this, how can I go hungry?

5. My kids wanted to eat ginat-an - ground pilit nga bugas nga gin-lugaw with gata, bananas, and camote. So we looked for the ingredients. We bought coconut na panggata. The coconut was halved and grated in front of us. But only after the vendor asked for my kids, their names and their ages, and the other kids who accompanied me. She asked about my job, my mother, my sisters, and my brothers. It was only after I convincingly answered all her questions that she started preparing for what I liked to buy. Ahhh.. in a small town like this, everybody is supposed to know everybody.

6. Each time there is an affair in our household, I always order puto and ibos from this lady. She makes the best puto and ibos in my hometown. In the photo, she was preparing ground rice for puto. When I saw her, I immediately asked her if I still have unpaid utang. I was glad when she informed me that there was none. My practice, kasi, was to ask a friend to inform the lady to deliver puto or ibos to my mother's house whenever somebody asked me to order. Sometimes I forgot to pay because the order was not mine. But the lady never complained.

7. The vendors seemed sleepy because they could have been in the market since dawn. But when they saw a probable customer in me, they brightened up. I bought huwad-huwad and puto lanson. I always buy the native delicacies not just because my kids loved them, but also because I like to keep this home industry alive.

8. It has been years now since I've eaten dried fish. Not because I don't like it. It's more on doctor's advice. When I saw this mound of baringon, I remembered the years when I was living abroad. My sisters used to send me dried fish from the Philippines and my wife kept them at the bottom of our ref to hide from some too-comfortable visitors. Dried fish from Iloilo was heaven-sent to Filipinos living abroad. So, whenever she cooked the baringon, pinakas and daghanan/tabagak she would call our friends to drop by and have dinner with us. And everybody came in a rush as if we prepared a grand party, and dug unto the baringon, etc. as if these were the foods of the gods. As a bonus, we also had sinamak brought in from the Philippines.

9. The most nostalgic find I had in the market were buyo leaves sold beside dried tobacco leaves. As I recalled, buyo was one sangkap used when you make mama (accent in last 'ma') - the practice of chewing beetle nut by old folks. My owaw used to ask me to buy buyo when I was still a kid. The last time I saw buyo was when my paternal owaw was still alive. All my owaws were already dead for decades now. And I am now an owaw myself, courtesy of my four nieces. As an owaw, do I have to chew buyo also?

10. I saw these items in one stall - small portions of cooking oil, vinegar, and soy sauce in plastic containers. Onli in da Philippines. People in rural areas are fond of buying in tingi-tingi or small portions. They only wanted a small something, good for a day's use. This is one marketing strategy popular in the Philippines. Shampoos, toothpastes, etc. are sold in sachets to maximize sales. And vendors prepare their own small portions, like those in the picture, to entice more buyers.

11. On the way to the farm, I chanced upon this bridal entourage without the bride in front of the church. The groom appeared like looking for his lost bride while the guests who were obviously the principal sponsors were also looking for somebody. And as I looked at them in just my sando, I couldn't imagine their discomfort and uneasiness in their gowns and fine regalia while being baked under the heat of the noonday sun. But I also understood that when you wear your formal attire which had been kept inside a baul for so long and may still be smelling like napthalene, you feel so gwapo or gwapa that you can withstand whatever punishment such a feeling brings.@

Much ado about SALE!

2009-09-19T23:11:00.010+08:00

It’s Saturday. And all the roads lead, not to the beach, but to the mall where a 3-days SALE with some prices slashed to as low as 50% was hyped.

There was a traffic jam as people from all walks of life jammed the entrances before the mall opened at 10:00 am. So, who says that life is hard, that we need to tighten our belts, that the economic crunch is worldwide? Not in my part of the planet. Life is only hard in the newspapers. In HongKong, everyday is a SALE day for all the stores. In the Philippines, it is not frequent that a mall announces a sale. Therefore, Filipinos rush in where there is a mall-wide sale.

I didn’t know that there was a sale in the mall. I dropped my wife and kids at the mall at 2:30 pm as they planned to just do some window shopping. But seeing the SALE posters and the rush of shoppers, we had to change plans and adjust the budget.

They said they were going to call me at 5:00 pm as we were still going to attend the 5:30 pm mass. But they called at 6:30 pm as they could not decide what to buy amidst the so many things they wanted to splurge on.

When I went to the mall to meet them, I had a hard time looking for a parking space. When finally I entered the mall, I saw all the boutiques bursting with SALE items. The wide corridors were not spared as SALE items fought for space with the wily shoppers. The mall looked like a big ukay-ukay store. It was a sudden change of ambiance seeing so many people eager to buy things they ignored before. And they were egged to buy more by the festive air and the Christmas carols. There may be no Christmas decors yet on display, but the Christmas songs just bring ‘joy to the world’ even if the news said that health workers in the US were already protesting for possible job losses.

I saw many familiar faces – friends who could easily swing to Hongkong or Bangkok to buy clothes were busy flipping on clothes with 20% mark-off, and some at PhP 99.00 only; street kids in basketball shorts and slippers tried on discounted denims; couples with four… ah five… no it’s six children… who obviously belonged to what the government categorized as below poverty level, were also doing the shopping, or window shopping, and had a whiff of Jollibee, or Dunkin Donuts, or Chowking. With a sale as big as this, and shoppers as many as this, the really poor who can only afford to dream, and even the taong grasa who have no dreams, can enjoy their time in the airconditioned mall without buying anything as they can easily be lost amidst a sea of nondescript crowd.

We left the mall at closing time. Just like so many others. The Christmas carols were still blaring. The entrances were now closed and shoppers carried their heavy bags of newly bought items with strains of ‘Joy to the World’. Many were laughing as they literally shopped till they dropped.

It was a dark night and was about to rain. Tomorrow is Sunday. I hope that none of the shoppers will wake up to reality - that they still have food to buy, next week’s allowances to spare, rent, bills, tuition fees to pay, etc., etc. – and end up cursing that they shouldn’t have bought the items they paid for at a bargain, and laughed at last night.

The mall owners are still laughing.@