The Year that Was.

It's the second time i traveled with PF by plane. The first time was in 2007, when we went to Davao on a study tour for our graduate diploma in urban planning. We did flew back home together from Manila in January of 2009 after our son's uretroplasty, but that's just one way so it does not officially constitute travelling together--half-travelling, maybe, yes.

The flight to Cebu was early, 6:15 in the morning but the airport is just about 30mins from our apartment. A group of friends who left Iloilo City 3 days earlier were to meet us at the place of accommodation. ABD, CBD, and JV, formerly ABD's bff but now already CBD's.

"Very nice, cozy place. almost looking like a pub," ABD's text read.

Ooohh. Anything that has slight resemblance to beers or to places with beers is always good.

So at 4:30 am we left our wailing son with my father. Imagine: toothless 3 year old face soaked in tears wailing don't go don't go in hiligaynon; in his right hand a miniature Optimus Prime big truck, in his left hand a miniature Chevy Camaro that is Bumble Bee. The repeated storytelling cum reminder the night before about the trip that his parents is supposed to take the next day did not, errrr, work and the whole apartment unit was left to endure the wails of a 3 year old.

It broke PF's heart.

But we had to hurry up. it might be difficult to get a taxi and our airline is 99% unreliable to sticking to the flight schedule. I crossed my fingers that there will be no flight changes today so we can have a good day.

It turned out the airport officially opens at 5 am and we had to line up for 10 minutes with the rest of the punctual travellers at the airport lobby. It took the check in counter another 10 more minutes to prepare themselves for the passengers so basically we were able to get the boarding passes just 20 minutes prior to boarding time. On a grumpy day, i would probably hit the roof but i have been looking forward to and was excited for this trip so much that I amazingly remained in high spirits. Just the thought of the pub-looking hotel is enough.  

Not half hour after we've checked in the weirdly accented PA announcer informed that our flight is ready for boarding.

At least the plane was on time.

By 7:30 am we were sat at the porch of Florentina Pensionne, waiting for our room to be prepared. A sleepy ABD met us as we have our 1st instant coffee of the day. The street of the pension house was a quaint, quiet, homey street. reminds you of suburbs. And we are just across a bungalow that has been converted to a recording studio and some rtw workshop, which, sans the signs would look just like, well, any 80s bungalow. It was so quiet you wouldn't know there was a recording studio. It is very possible that the one-hit-wonder odong band recorded their, what else? The only hit and wonder single they had. 

We had our first picture taken while we waited for the coffee, courtesy of the very sleepy ABD. JV and CBD hung out in the porch with us. They ate their breakfast while a took my first picture of the day. CBD's and JV's picture with their breakfast things.

About 9:00 am we went up to our room, admiring the rustic feel of the house. Okay, it was fake rustic but it wasn't super fake rustic to turn me off. It was definitely backpacking type, but that's what i also prefer. We were on the 3^rd floor. CBD welcomed us with envy thinking our room had a veranda. But it was a fake veranda. I ended up sleeping the whole morning off while PF worked. And a quick lunch at Neo Neo. We tried looking for some local carinderia ala iloilo’s first kitchen but it was too hot at 1:30 pm and we were already hungry. So Neo Neo it is.

ABD came up and checked our room just before the sexy things could happen. Very nice, he said because we could see a lot more from where we were. He said our day will officially begin when we meet later at 6pm for an orange party. “Call time 3:30 pm,” he informed us through text. It was very unusual for me, more so for PF, to abide by “little” ka-ekratan rules. PF does not easily give into these inconvenience unless it cost him his pinky finger. Amazingly, he consented on the orange day and wore the orange shirt that he'd had on since we left Iloilo. He consented even if it made him so conspicuously a member of these Orange club. He's always had the repugnance towards things that are kulang sa pansin. A flock of orange-wearing-adults is not far from being KSP; you could say that.


We were at the porch at exactly 3:30pm, Philippine Standard Time. 

Maritess was in yellow. I hated the fact that she broke the rule. Not only did she break the rule but she was wearing my favorite channel’s shirt in the wrong color of the day. And she dyed her hair red. Short. The kind that hugs the scalp; the kind of hair that is so not like mine.

HMFFH. Whatevvvv. Yellow is not orange.

She took a drag of her cigarette looking our way, discreetly. She didn’t know I knew. She was looking our way. She was doing things so self-consciously. And the very self-conscious her blew the smoke away from us. We were waiting for ABD in the little porch. We didn’t know she was, and it is most probable she didn’t know we were. She took a drag of her cigarette again. I think she smoked menthol.

I liked her charcoal black fedora hat.

Still, yellow is not orange. It doesn't matter if I liked her hat.

Or what do i know? Maybe she is color blind?

Oh, Maritess, Maritess. Maritess is one character I didn’t know would somehow change my life forever. And she is not colorblind.

And ABD arrives. Grand entrance. In perfect orange. 

....to be continued.... (well, isn't it obvious?)

three conversations.

(and a lot of ramblings.)



"I'm five," Marian announces. She runs to the mattress on the floor and starts jumping like she would on a trampoline. "I'm five that's why i know more!"

Marian turned 5 last September 8.

"I'm four!" Gogol, for his part of attention-grabbing antics, screams.

"You're JUST four," Marian corrects him.

Marian shares the same birthday with everyone's mother. Funny, last September 8, everyone said it was their mother's birthday. What's even funnier is, all of their mothers are named Mary. Maybe Marian is like the little girl version of Mary, that's why Marian is Marian. Maybe she'll change her name to Mary when she gets older. Like adult older. My mom's birthday is on the 30th of November. She shares her birthdate with Andres Bonifacio, MY national hero. She was almost named Andrea but her father chose to name her after the 1956 Ms. Universe Winner Armi-something. Then changed it again to her present name. The national statistics office does not have her name on their record. she technically is still Armi-girl. Cool, she's like she's almost non-existent. cool.

"It's Mary, like Jesus-Joseph-and-Mary," Keith tells me, pulling a chair to his part of the dining table. "Why do we only have decaf here--"
"You mean Mary Mary? Christmas Mary?"
"Who else would i mean by jesus mary? Didn't the people on facebook tell you that?--remind me to get a non-decaf coffee later."
"I thought hers was December 8? 'Cause December 8 is Oton fiesta and they say it's 'cause it's a Mary day or something."
"December 8 is Immaculate Concepcion day. It's not her birthday. I thought you went to a catholic grade school?"
"You mean she conceived Jesus in December 8 and he instantly became a full term baby in less than 20 days?!"
"Now that you've said it--"
"I know why."
"This decaf is terrible."

"GIVE ME BACK MY PENCIL!!!!!!!" gogol screams at marian.

"I just have this great idea. Mary has actually been pregnant for months already and she just made announcement in December, 8th, to be specific, when her belly was too big to hide. You see this in jesus movies, they wear this one-piece dress that hides all the curves and bumps and all so a growing belly is easy to hide."
"And then?--CAREFUL WITH THE PENCIL!"
"And then she gave birth the 25th of December. Maybe Joseph was really the father. I don't know."
"Or maybe it was premature."
"It can't be premature or else jesus h. christ won't live to adulthood."
"I've never really thought of that. well..."
"Well, trust me. You've never been pregnant."



---------------------



I can't exactly remember who asked what or what was asked first but it was a little past 6 in the morning and we just got back from the island watchtower to photograph a sunrise that decided not to appear today. 10 meters from where we were seated, the blue-green water glistened. the tide was at the lowest of the low. i don't think we will have good time swimming today.


island survivor 1: do you put in coffee first before hot water or is it the other way around?

island survivor 2: first choice?

me: ideally, i think, it should be coffee first then hot water.

IS1: i have clumps of coffee at the bottom of my glass.

**peers at the coffee in her glass**
**swirls coffee**

me: oh, the water wasn't hot enough. maybe you should just keep on stirring it till the granules dissolve.

IS1: i like to drink my coffee cold, actually. i mean, i prepare it hot and wait for it to get cold before i drink it. like right now, i don't really mind if it's prepared lukewarm long as there are no clumps.

Keith: i like mine really hot. like boiling hot. then i take rapid sips.

IS2: i like mine prepared with really hot boiling water. they taste better, even when i take them cold. but they have to be prepared with fresh boiling water. that way they taste better.

IS1: i heard people say that. but is there really a difference?

IS2: yeah. yeah, i think so.

me: i can't tell. well, i always want mine prepared with freshly boiled water. if i see clumps i don't drink it.

Keith: i think the hot water somehow "cooks" the coffee.

IS1: good point. maybe that's what makes the difference--the coffee getting "cooked."

IS2: or maybe it's all in my mind.

me: maybe it's just in your mind.

IS2: you think so.

me: well, we can always assume that. i mean, how do you really know, right? you wouldn't. and because i can't really taste the difference. well, the clumps make the difference but i don't think that is taste-related.

IS2: yeah.

*****silence****

***somebody sips cold coffee****

me: let's go swimming.

IS2: great idea.



---------------


Me to Keith: "I'm going to cancel my meeting today."

then i go to the toilet.

Gogol, screaming: "YOU CAN'T HAVE CANCER! NANAY, WHY DO YOU HAVE CANCER?!"

next scene:

***speechless parents***

then.

keith: "it's CANCEL. 'EL' not 'ARR'.

Gogol: "but she went to the toilet!"

the explanation is, last night we watched an Innaritu film, BIUTIFUL. right when Javier Bardem's character was taking a piss (scene: bardem's back was at the camera but it was obvious that he was inside the toilet and that he was urinating), i muttered:

me: "he has cancer?"
keith: "oh shit."

next shot was of the toilet bowl, all red. bloody red. bardem's character was pissing blood.

me: "he really has cancer."

bardem's character groans. flushes the red piss (gurgling sound of flushing plays as he opens the door).

keith: "kidney?"
me: "maybe prostate or something. oh god. this is just sad. he's gonna die."

gogol, half awake: "who has cancer?"

keith: "go back to sleep."



-------------







postscript.


and empty conversations we need sometimes. and sometimes we also need to stop talking about ourselves. like in taking pictures, there really isn't a need to explain what we took. there really isn't a need to explain how much of a good picture-taker you are, especially if nobody asks for the explanation. i learned that silence is more powerful. alfredo always tells me: show not tell. because that way, you respect your audience's intellect. i am also still learning how to do it. show not tell.

sigwa the movie is terrible. show not tell. i know what happened. i read it in papers. my father also tells me the reality behind the real real of that decade. of that year. show not tell.




--------------

photo credits: Miriam Yu and Jomarie Macairan. 

market , market.

.It's a "long weekend" because of the Catholic holiday. 

(Long weekend meaning, a holiday date conveniently set on a monday or a friday of the week making the no-work weekend 3 days or so.)

The whole family went along with the mother superior to the market. There's a town next to ours  whose market day s falls on a saturday. 

This is what we found:

stalls along facing the street. the market was developed in such a way that permanent stalls are located outside, like a fortress to the open air-market inside which on non-market days serve as, simply, courtyards.

Itinerant vendors selling children's dresses. they set their wares along the pedestrian walkways.  

things rubber. The one with wooden handle is a rubber slingshot. 

handmade baskets made of bamboo.

mobile jewelry vendors. most are silver-plated. My grandmother once bought me a "fancy" earring from one of these vendors. my earlobe scarred and got infected by the "fancy" chemicals they used for gold-plating. I started hating jewelries after that. 

more itinerant wares.

local potters selling cooking wares made from clay.

clay pots. people in rural areas still use them, i guess. green living. Now we just use them to store salt.

meat vendors at the meat section. the cows and pigs are usually slaughtered the night before. 

Courtyard vending.

neice and sister. they came to buy the cooking clay wares. when we were young we used to role play using the clay pots. we cooked with real vegetables and real fire and used the kiddie sized claywares. that's how we made friends with kids in the neighborhood.

nails.

ukay ukay stalls. 

batchoy store. 

batchoy store and the vinyls on the wall.

hello, xanadu vinyl!

and a sign you will never find in any established city restaurants.

batchoy eaters.

FIN.

Rural Road Trip Part. 2

The continuation of the post on the accidental road trip that our family took to the rurals following the hospital visit to my centenarian grandmother who choked on a soft bread morning of January 1, 2011.


I forgot to say that just as we were leaving the town center of Sibalom and approaching the rural areas, my father pointed us an unoccupied and unfinished house (architecture similar to the cake-colored houses I mentioned in Part 1 of this post). He said it belonged to his friend, Bebot, who used to have a store in Belison. I used to come along my father for his daily afternoon chess matches with Bebot at his store. I forgot what his store was selling but it could be general merchandise because he did not appear to me as the farmer-producer kind. I've almost forgotten about Bebot, the chess matches at his store and how his kids and us became friends while we waited for those chess matches to be over. If i remember correctly, he had 2 daughters, one was sickly and the other was fat but both were very friendly. 


Tato Bebot's store had a small patch of soil where they planted catkins. Whenever we dropped by and the catkins were in full bloom, my sisters and I would pick some and bring them home, thinking they were really cats' tails. We played with the catkins until they bruised and turned  brownish-dark violet in color. When they left, nobody tended the catkins and it died a slow, mournful, dry death.


Tato Bebot, i realized, looks like the Filipino Ron Jeremy-- body type, mustache and all, except the hair. Tato Bebot's hair is fashioned in 60's cut with natural waves, and much thicker than Ron Jeremy's. If you care to know about Ron Jeremy you might want to click on the link. But because not everyone wants to click, and I do not want to discriminate the lazy ones, a scroll down option is provided. 


These are the rice fields i was talking about. That's just one of the many of them. 


Have i mentioned that San Remigio is intersected by the great Sibalom River? Now that I did, I guess you now know why the flooding and the washing out of some 2-3 barangays in 2008. 


And then back to the conversation about cemeteries.


We passed not 1 but 2 cemeteries. The second one is San Remigio's. In my very limited travelling experience, it is one of the more laudable land of the deads I've seen. There's something very spiritual about the place that i can't seem to put my finger on. Maybe it's the indian trees? The white washed tombs? And because there was nothing audacious in sight, the tranquility and serenity was preserved. The simple, white-washed entry-way (that also acts as waiting shed, I guess) was so something new to me. Normally, the patrons of the cemeteries would build grand entrances and canopies complete with fake tendrils, columns and of course the image of Jesus Christ or Mother Mary or maybe even God, if they knew how he looked like. But this one is different. We all agreed this was nami.  I took several pictures of it. 

San Remigio Cemetery

My father enjoyed driving to San Remigio so much because the roads were newly paved. In most parts, only half or the 2-laned road was used because the other half was still under curing period. 


I don't know why but i was suddenly reminded of my bus rides around Negros Occidental and/or to Bukidnon from Cagayan de Oro, on the way to SR. It must be the curves and the esses BUT then, the Iloilo-Antique highway is full of that and I have never felt, not even once, a slight resemblance to any of the NOcc or Bukidnon bus rides. Not even once was a memory of a feeling of any other trips was stirred. Travelling to Antique from Iloilo or vice versa is just that--travelling to Antique from Iloilo and vice versa. Nothing more, nothing less. I do not know if that spells tragedy.


Little Baguio was what the marker said when we reached SR town center. The marker was so predictably LGU; so predictably Filipino LGU. It was shaped like a giant heart in light blue paint that's almost fading to white. And of course, no marker or infrastructure in the Philippines is complete without the name of the donor. This marker is right across a Jesus marker, which, yes, you guessed it, marks--something!!--the entrance to the Municipal Hall of SR. And i thought governments are a-religious. 


Actually, I have never been to Baguio. I'm never really a tourist-traveler and much of my travelling were nostalgic, sappy, and just terribly lonely, driven only by the spirit of completing the work I was paid for. They were of course very heavy with lessons but I honestly do not want to travel for work alone again. 
Because I have never been to Baguio and have never experienced the chilly weather that is Baguio, never smelled the smell that is Baguio, I have no idea what to expect upon reaching SR town proper. It is beyond my capacity to affirm what was said in the marker.


"Would you like to see the municipal building?" my mother asked. 
If that is not clue enough, she works for a municipal government. SR municipal hall compound is probably the first government compound I've seen that is not devoid of trees. I would very much want to see what's up there and know why they kept the trees when most would rather cut and sell them for profit. I know, because that's what the Patnongon LGU did. 

My father suggested we see their friend (or comrade?) who lives in the area. They want to surprise her. He carefully negotiated between the narrow road with an oncoming overloaded jeepney. Did i say SR is a hilly (more like mountain) town? Few meters from the marker is the town market which sits atop a hill overlooking the fields below like a sentry. I was again reminded by the feeling of emptiness when i first arrived for a stop-over at Mina, Sipalay. Mina in Sipalay is a village of engineers who used to work in the mines of Sipalay and when the mining industry was over, all that was left of the village were abandoned, rotting architecture (mostly housing) and a market that's almost deserted, even in the busiest time of the year. SR market was newly painted and was not empty but the whole topography of the place to me bore the sadness that was Mina. 

My parents' friend went to San Jose, the man at the market said. He said he saw her leave the town earlier. Instead of turning back, my father drove forward and Sister #1 prompted for the place-that-Typhoon Frank/Fengshen-washed-out. I tried to snap pictures of the markers of the places we passed along and i was lucky to get a clear shot of two of them: Libonan and Trinidad. 


Friendly Brgy. Trinidad, or maybe the barangay after it, was our last stop. At the narrow street adjacent to a Baptist Church, my father took a turn and then another and we made our way back to Sibalom. 


"Where's the washed-out place?" asked Sister #1.
"Farther away, there at the foot of the mountain."


Oh, we so wanted to see it but my father is leaving for the City today, too, so we really had to return.


I can see now why the area suffered so much, in addition to what my father has also explained. The place is practically surrounded by mountains. It is a valley circled by an unbroken range of peaks where there is no other place for the water to go but here. But nature easily recovered and after two years, not a trace of the typhoon or the flooding can be seen. I just can't say the same for the people.


From the edge of the town center to Trinidad it was dirt road. But despite the bumps the kid remained fast asleep, missing out a lot of things in this road trip he so mostly anticipated.   


Maybe someday he'd be lucky to come back and get to know these places better. Maybe he will. 


------


other things you might care to see.

Threshing by the side of the road the newly harvested palay. 

Oh my.

New bridge. We saw a group of pre-teens playing and across them,
a group of teens with bicycles hanging out with their homies.
Generation gap, literally.

FIN.

***Ron Jeremy is an american porn actor known for his 9.75 inch (about 24.75 cm) penis. I think he was popular in the 90's.

Rural Road Trip Part 1

Centenarian Granny and
3 year-old great grandson

My 100 year-old grandmother choked on a soft bread morning of January 1, 2011. It was a 5-minute horrible experience getting her out of her bamboo house into the vehicle and then to the nearest community hospital. But i can easily laugh about it now, especially when i recall the scene involving a topless brudda and a father driving without his slippers or shoes on. I might write about our comedy of errors later but for now let me tell you about the little side trip we had today which, partly, was a result of my grandmother's hospitalization.


A little after lunch we went to the hospital to pick up my sister (will be referred as sister #1) who stayed overnight with granny. Another sister (will be referred as sister #2) will take over for the change of shift so that sister #1 can go home, wash up, eat and have some rest. She will again return later for the night shift as sister #2 needs to go back to the City for work the next day. 


My kid (hence, granny's great grandson) has been raring to go around for days now. And though only 3, we've repeatedly brought him along during hospital visits because he wants to go where the car goes, even if the car takes him to Hell.  For 2 days now, the car has been going back and forth to the hospital so to hospital he, too, goes.


Incidentally, the community (or is it district?) hospital is in Sibalom, a town where there is supposed to be a dam. My dad worked with the irrigations in the 80's so he was right there in the middle of the action when the dam and the irrigation systems were being built, so he knew. He asked if we want to go there, see the dam and all and get the travelling itch off the kid, his grandson. And also because my mother wanted to deliver the fresh molasses to her friend, who lives in town, a local politician, who also happens to be my (birth) godmother. 


So, off we go. 


We first drove towards my godmother's house but she wasn't there so we didn't stay long; didn't even go out of the vehicle to partake the usual Filipino hospitality of juice or coffee and biscuits or whatever's left of the New Year's feast. Then we headed for the dam. Sister #1 asked to see the place that was washed out during the Typhoon Frank (international name Fengshen) in 2008. I think about 2 dead bodies coming from that place were found inside our property (the farm, not the residence), amongst the mess of logs and debris. Bugo, the town that was most severely damaged is in San Remigio, a town next to Sibalom, at the foot of a mountain range.  



Dad said it's a little far, further than where the dam is, but he might take us there. 


When my father worked with the irrigations he was assigned field officer. In the duration of the trip he would point to us the places he'd trekked while on the job. As field officer, he said he was responsible for the maintenance of the equipment and for making sure that the supplies needed to maintain the field operations are in place, like fuel and tools. He said there's a tunnel underneath the road or the fields that channel the waters to garble garble garble. The sound of the motor drowned the rest of is story. 


Along the way i learned that Sister #1 had no recollection of our father working for the irrigations, which i found rather incredulous. That job was like a milestone in our father's career as an engineer. Calculating, she realized she must have been too young to remember--she's just 4 then. 


So i told her, "There goes your childhood amnesia."


Meanwhile i kept snapping pictures. 


We passed by Sibalom Municipal Cemetery which i found rather fascinating, albeit nostalgic. It looks welcoming. But then, you always like the things you don't have and a good welcoming feeling is probably what our church's cemetery doesn't have. Apart from the fact that WE really do not have a municipal cemetery to peacefully bury any dead person's body in absence of inconvenience related to his/her religious affiliation. 


More cemetery talks later.


 The kid fell asleep seconds after we left the cemetery and when it was time for him to see the dam, he's dozed off like he hadn't had any sleep for days. No amount of shaking and calling out "bridge! bridge!" could wake him up so we contented ourselves with admiring the men doing laundry by the dam's causeway (if that's how you call). 


I also took pictures of colorful houses. I personally do not find seeing these kinds of houses comforting nor do I find it uplifting despite the delicious colors. Kid rather associated them with cakes. I would probably never develop any taste for these kinds of houses. But it is worth mentioning that they were built in plots adjacent to each other. Yellow, orange, green and blue. I can just imagine the owners getting together, in a small meeting, maybe in the middle of tong-its or mahjong and coming to an agreement on who would paint their house with what color. 


Yellow house: "Akon tana yellow gid ha so dapat di run kamo magpick kang any shade or tint kang yellow kay akon run ra. Kundi...andaman nyo lang."
Green house: Ako tana, kay inguday kita green gid tana akon. Para lain gid kanimo."
Orange house: "Akon tana orange. Hay hambal da kuno ang orange nga color meaning na kara horny."


I was not able to get a picture of a blue house but i don't really need to, as architecturally speaking, all of them look the same. I leave the coloring to your imagination.  


We also also passed by the rice fields. Lots and lots of rice fields that i wish would never be converted to commercial or residential use. 


This post is too long. I will cut it here and make a part 2 of it. Below, by the way is the panorama of the dam which the kid missed. 

  

Part II coming....

puto post

2010. 11. 28. 

Priming.

Gogol was trying the mobile rice mill. 

2010. 11. 29

This is it.

We are bringing them bamboos and them carpenters to the construction site. 

Tato Alex realized i was snapping pictures so he smiled. 

the bamboos are so long i can see them from the passenger seat. 

5-minute stopover at the plaza for some business. 

and 100 meters from the site the worst thing happened. 

the culvert was too narrow and the ditch too deep; the truck made a wrong turn and we're stuck.

"This way!"

 

But everyone helped so we are happy. 

despite the glaring 10 am sun. 

we got to the site just fine. 

bamboo bridge.  I don't see none of this anymore. 

 on this site will rise. 

Fin.