Another one bites the dust

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.

@

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Corrupting the youth

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.

@

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The Psst! Group

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?

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Spiderfighting or 'paupas ka damang'

I got entangled into the web of this kid stuff called paupas ka damang when I noticed some kids skirting the perimeter fence of my farm, intently looking for something among the shrubs and trees. I asked my caretaker what the kids were doing. He answered that the kids were looking for spiders as paupas ka damang is currently the favorite past time in schools.

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

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Common things we fail to see

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

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Of local royalties and royal marches

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.)



@

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Tinuom Festival

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. @

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Fields of bariri

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. @

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RIP Premee

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.

@

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Iloilo Sports Complex

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.

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