May Nostalgia (Part 2)

Oh great, an entry that's about topics from the previous month was only finished now. Anyway, hope the delay would not hinder your enjoyment. Part 1 is here.

Santacruzan and Flores de Mayo

Most people equate Santacruzan with the Reyna Elena, but at least for us (the community elders to be exact), it is mostly about the novena on the Holy Cross itself. While the elders are the ones who lead the prayers, provide guidance and ensure the attendees' best behavior, it is an ad-hoc youth committee that took care of the organizing of activities and soliciting of funds. As for the children, they are there to have fun while avoiding the scolding. Our Santacruzan being focused on the prayer and festivities sounds more boring than those which had the lovely ladies, but read on and discover that our experience ironically did have its share of the sexy (more naughty and scandalous, I dare say).

My first experience with Santacruzan was being given snack tokens while peering from the house to check out the flimsy-built chaplet filled with people at night. I was too young to join then, but for the children a few years older than I was, they were unable to grasp the concept of "blessing" that one would receive for participating, so they were given material blessing in the form of night snacks after the novena. At first these were simple tokens like sandwiches, chips, fruits and kakanin (rice-based gelatinous snacks). There may also be champorado (choco rice porridge), arroz caldo and inulog-ulog (sticky bite-sized balls made from ginger). Drinks consisted of fruit juices or chocolate. Kids would line up with their bowls and cups. For stricter sanitary reasons, I would prefer the packed ones that I could store and consume the next day. Later on, ice cream was included in the giveaways; that was a luxurious treat already. I wonder what sophisticated confections they would serve nowadays.

By the time I was ten, I would join the prayers. Unlike the other children, I had no problem with the long, repetitive and monotonous utterances since we had longer evening family prayers. In fact, I considered the Santacruzan a more enjoyable alternative. For me who had a curfew by about six and seven in the evening, there was the novelty of being with my playmates at night and participating in those nighttime activities I was usually deprived of. (Usually, these are just the same games we played at daytime, just that darkness could give different playing conditions as well as a different mood: Hide-and-Seek, Tag and, later on, Truth or Consequence. There might be others, but too bad I have forgotten.) The last part of the novena was sung, and this would liven up the children. The singing would indicate that the giveaways would be a few minutes away. We also got a kick with one song that had Spanish lyrics and a weird melody.

The last day of the novena was the fun-filled day for the kids. Events would start early in the morning with the blaring of the mobile sound system. (Actually the fun would start the night before with the preparations, which usually was the hanging of banderitas, while a karaoke machine provides the music.) As soon as the sound system is up and running, parlor and folk games would commence. There would be statue and paper dances¹, the piñata, palo sebo, lemon race², water relay, bring me, basagan ng palayok³, musical chairs⁴, eating and drinking contests, pahabaan ng gamit⁵ and the rough Coconut Football.⁶ Developments in the TV variety shows gave us Pera O Bayong, among others. We even had a literal peeing contest!⁷ Aside from joining the scramble for candy and coins, I never really participated in the games, until I discovered our tomato variation of the Easter Egg hunt, which fits well with my hide-and-seek prowess. The games go on all day and only takes a break in the early evening to give way to the last novena. Afterwards, we would dance until the dawn (well, they actually, I was forced to retire by midnight). I was fascinated by the disco lights and the dance music back in the 90s was fun, even though I hardly knew the steps.

I remember one scandalous incident that happened amidst the merrymaking in the last night of the Santacruzan. I think I was eleven years old then. In the afternoon lull between the games, I stumbled upon the neighborhood young men unrolling cigarettes and replacing the tobacco with something else. It drew my curiosity, and the lads offered in jest that I join them. Even if they claimed it was different than smoking, I declined, sensing they were still up to no good. Days later I got to know of the smoldering gossip that the same group of youths had successfully enticed one comely household help who was new to our place. It turned out the cigarettes were laced with marijuana and they had a trip by the darker part of the neighborhood while the flashing disco lights enhanced their psychedelic experience. One thing led to another and the maid found herself gang-banged while the loudspeakers drowned out their moans. No charges were filed, and the maid simply left our neighborhood. That's the Philippines for you, despite histrionics in media, your life and your purity are still cheap in reality.

As a side religious celebration to the Santacruzan, at every three o' clock in the afternoon, the children would gather in the chaplet to do the offering of flowers to Mama Mary. This is called the Flores de Mayo, and was supposed to coincide with the blossoming of the flowers in May. The limited appeal it had for me back then was when we would line up with our flower offerings, boys and girls would be paired. I thought it was a good chance to be with my childhood crush, but it never happened. Consequently, aside from helping my friends gather flowers, I had never participated in it anymore. I don't know if they continue with this tradition since, aside from the one in family compound, there's not much flora in the neighborhood now. Besides, I don't think my relatives would allow the flowers to be plucked from their precious plants, which I think are for sale.

Things got different when it was our generation's turn to be in the youth committee. Being part of the committee meant soliciting funds or donations in kind (basically going around begging in the neighborhood), facilitating the construction of the chaplet, grouping the families that will sponsor the chaplet decors and the food tokens for a particular night of novena (requires a good grasp on the latest neighborhood squabbling), and organizing the games and dance for the final day. I had been offered the top position, but I declined. My excuse was that I had summer classes, but was just being lazy. Later on, I learned that being the president meant doing all the work because the other officials suddenly made themselves scarce; thus, I more vigorously declined any nominations.

We were never able to replicate the awesome experiences of the previous final days of Santacruzan of our younger times.⁸ It was either we never had the contacts that would offer us the really awesome lights and sounds for free, or we never had adequate funds when collecting from the neighbors. For our excuse, it was the time of the Asian Economic Crisis back then. Fortunately, things had returned to the level of the good old times. However, our generation had outgrown all these, and it would be up to the next generation of children to find the Santacruzan an enjoyable tradition, hopefully minus the scandals.

Footnotes:

¹ For additional challenge, candies and coins were thrown around, and the spectators to scramble to get their share. The player who moves to join the scramble loses the game.
² Players gyrate to make the spoon stringed to their hips propel the calamansi (the local substitute for lemon) and be the first to make it reach the finish line.
³ We even had the variation where a tomato would be squashed. Hilarity ensued when the blindfolded player veered off course and started hitting spectators.
⁴ We call it "Trip to Jerusalem," a curious name.
⁵ Teams lay their stuff and themselves on the ground to determine which team made the longest queue. Some go all the way and strip down to their undies for the win. Of course everyone starts the game wearing layers of clothing and numerous accessories.
⁶ An unripe coconut husk is carved with niches for money and the husk is covered in grease. Men scramble for the slippery loot and the one holding on to it when the time expires wins.
⁷ The older ones would heckle the uncut, yet there was one uncut boy who used his prepuce to spray out his pee farther than normal using the Bernoulli's Principle.
⁸ I mean, Christmas lights instead of at least the discotheque? It was that pathetic!

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May Nostalgia (Part 1)

Back when I was a kid back in Naga City, the month of May marked the second half of summer vacation. Suddenly there was the realization that my playmates and I should be making the most of our freedom before school resumes. It's no wonder then that we would have most of the traditional activities scheduled in this month. Most places in the country would celebrate their feast day during this month. As for me, I recall three things that I associate with this month and inspire me to indulge in nostalgia.

Agua de Mayo

As a grown-up, I have come to hate the rain due to the inconvenience it deals me while commuting to and from work (maybe I should just blame the corporate world for insisting that we wear fancy and impractical clothing). Then there would be the dark and gloomy atmosphere that dampens the spirits (though it could be good for writing). However, back then, when we really didn't have any work to do, and the summer heat punished us every languid afternoon, we would welcome precipitation and allowed ourselves to be bathed as we played in wild abandon.

Of course, there is some occasional rainfall during April, but the month of May has the heavier and more frequent downpours. In fact, the first heavy and prolonged rainfall of this month is called the Agua de Mayo, and bathing in it carries a certain good providence, particularly in terms of health. We do know, of course, that we might instead weaken our immune system and catch a cold, skin infection or electrocution if we do not take precautions like soaping, rinsing and drying immediately upon signs of either the rain abating, the wind strengthening or lightning flashing. But where's the fun in that?

As for this year, the rainy season has come real early with tropical storms already forming. It would be good to recall that May 2006 also got its share of tropical storms, and we all know that that year's typhoons were strong. Consequently this year's rainy season might end up with its own share of destructive typhoons.

May Beetle / Salagubang / Amamanggi

Basic information can be found in Wikipedia. I'm not sure of the particular species prevalent in this country though. The adult May Beetle actually goes out of its underground cocoon as early as March and stays aboveground to feed and mate as late as July. It is also known as "Salagubang" in Tagalog and "Amamanggi" in Bicol. (The latter due to the fact that the bug is more active in the evening--banggi or banggui in Bicol--and one could see them flying, eating and mating as soon as the sun has set.)

The May Beetle has been a childhood curiousity for us, just as dragonflies and grasshoppers are. What makes it acquire more novelty is its seasonal appearance. Other characteristics that make it appealing to us are its being more docile and less flighty than the other insects; thus, the May Beetle can be kept as pets by simply supplying it with leaves (particularly mango leaves), until it decides to fly away (especially when evening comes) or when the mess made by their droppings becomes unbearable.

The usual way to get the beetles is to shake them off the trees as they sleep during the day. In our neighborhood, they favor staying in mango, tiyesa and chico trees, although they can feed on any tree actually. Some trees are too sturdy for kids to shake, so an adult is asked to give them a more vigorous shakedown. The bugs fall off and assume their defensive or sleeping posture, which is to keep their legs and antennae glued to their bodies, stay perfectly still and rely on their relatively hard exoskeleton for protection. However, we can coax them out of that posture by simply blowing on them (we make them return to sleeping mode by enclosing them within our cupped hands while we clap). Later on, as I get to be more knowledgeable of the beetles, I can even spot them high up the trees. A big clue is the presence of freshly-eaten leaves. Having them on sight leads to a more targeted capture. Another way to catch them is to pester them as they fly around by evening. Then again, my obsession in collecting a virtual swarm of the beetles quickly waned after that summer when I crammed them all in a Star Margarine container. As I mentioned above, it was an unsightly and smelly mess.

Aside from merely collecting these bugs, kids also use them for amusement. The most common is to tie them on a thread and make them fly around like mini, self-propelled kites. Tying the beetle up requires skill and patience, all the while repeatedly making use of the wake-up and sleep routines described above (which aren't foolproof, by the way). Meanwhile, as the bug version of wrestling, other kids stick two bugs back to back with a bubble gum and see which is the stronger one who regains its upright position, in the process lifting the weaker one back side up with legs flailing around helplessly. To complete the gladiatorial exploits of these beetles, they are also made to race in various ways. The straightforward one, walking towards a finish line, is fraught by the risk of some of the bugs flying away. The less flight-prone races involve them digging either into or out of a pile of dirt. The digging races simulate what the bugs do naturally: they dig out to mate and later dig in to lay their eggs.

The beetles do have a practical use aside from being playthings: being food. I hear that they are fried to edible perfection in some places, though I have yet to encounter such dish and try it myself. On the other hand, I did feed the bugs to our poultry and pet birds for their special dose of protein.

Indeed it was quite a hard life for the May Beetle back when we were the rulers of the playground. Nowadays, most of the beetles have gone elsewhere since most of the ground has been covered in cement and the fallen trees have not been replaced in our childhood neighborhood.

(Part 2)

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Close Calls

It had been the week for final exams for most schools. Undeniably, it would be around this time that cramming is at its peak, but with increasing levels of difficulty and wave after wave of daunting tasks, only the best can pull it off and win the high stakes involved: pass or fail. My advice therefore, although it might be late for this school year, is to not attempt cramming in the first place.

The final exams themselves are such fine examples of torment for students. I've narrated before of one such instance to comical effect. Indeed, in the end such stressful episodes of student life do end up as memories that surfaces to the office rat who's slaving away for a crucial presentation the next day. As for myself, I recall two glistening memories of final exams that have given me a real scare.

-oOo-

The first was my finals in Linear Algebra in my sophomore year. For this course, our batch of math majors was split into two classes. One class was under this brilliant young man, who unfortunately was disposed to utilize scare tactics like tough homework and recitation questions. Then there was his infamous set of conceptual statements which require some amount of mathematical proof for the students to determine its veracity. (An easier approach suggested by one of our sharpest minds was to formulate a counterexample.) The other class was under this gentle lady with a motherly demeanor. She was nevertheless just as skilled with the subject and her long experience had resulted in numerous contributions (which if I'm not mistaken, includes the correction filter for signals beamed from deep-space probes). Her theoretical constructs truly boggles the simple minds who were tasked to derive from them illustrative mathematical insights.

The students in the former class had been terrified of their instructor, and this has kept them on their toes. Thankfully, most of the more adept minds were also with them, and had assisted them quite ably in their studies. I was lucky enough to be in the latter class, yet the subject itself is very challenging, giving us no room to slack off considerably.

When the finals came, I was in a precarious situation grades-wise. In the two hundred points available from more than ten items in the two-hour exam, I had to get more than a hundred to pass the course with a grade of D. I needed twenty more to pull off the average C grade. Upon receipt of the questionnaire, the first to pop up were the dreaded statements that taunted for a "true" or "false" assessment. Since they required no display of a solution or proof and provided relatively low points, I brushed them aside and went for the rest. More than an hour later, with significantly large minutes wasted wrestling with the mind-boggling constructs, my estimates showed that I was still short of the passing score. Oh boy, it was like dangling at the edge of a cliff! There were two more items to be tackled; would they be enough? Interestingly, the answer for one came after small effort and the proof for the other was routine. I barely made it to passing. Slightly relaxed now, I answered the true-or-false part by basically deluding myself of having found a counterexample or a hint of proof.

Immediately after the end of the exam, a kindred friend and I whooped it up like we just stepped off a roller coaster ride of a lifetime. Others opted for a cigarette. Surprisingly, even those whom I never saw smoking before puffed wantonly like they had just climaxed from an intense and steamy act of lust.

When the report cards were distributed, I was expecting a passing grade of D. The mortality rate of the other class was real bad: a significant number of batch mates failed the subject. Behold my surprise when I got a C+! My classmates noticed that their grades did go one notch higher as if a statistical curving was implemented. But that still did not explain why mine went two notches higher.

It was only months later when I chanced upon a pile of exam papers for disposal at the Math Department that I got to explain my grades. It turned out that I actually scored enough in the finals to get a C. How? My answers (or should I say delusional guesses) in the True or False part actually delivered enough points to get me there. Oh bless my most unexpected luck! I kept that paper to remind me that even in the direst circumstances one could still prevail. Even if years later I no longer have a clue on the meaning of the equations and figures scribbled on it, I still remember its life lesson.

-oOo-

The second was the finals for Statistics in my junior year. This particular Stat class we had was supposed to be a masters' subject being taught to undergrads. Twisted, wasn't it. Anyway, we had for our professor a lively one who had a quirky and colorful fashion sense. Her teaching style could somehow be reminiscent of elementary school, but it does serve some purpose considering the inherent difficulty in the course. Indeed it was a struggle throughout the semester, and long test results were agonizing. The challenging part for me was the memorization of numerous steps in some procedures, so even if formulas and charts were allowed to be seen there was still something else to worry about. Then again, maybe I was just lacking in practice exercises.

On the night before the final exams, my plan was to review my notes from the beginning. Not the best way to go about it, admittedly, but it should get me somewhere, especially on the concepts and the procedures. All was going well until a few hours before midnight, then the lights went out. Normally, our in-campus dorm would have the power back on via generator, but it must have been the wirings themselves that had the problem, meaning the generator would be of no help. The technician would only be available by morning, so we had to bear it the entire night.

Surely, it could have been worse. At least I was merely reviewing my notes. Others were actually cramming a ten-page paper, a program or their thesis and who knew what could have gotten busted in their computers. The outage appeared to be limited to the dorm building only since the other school buildings were all lit up, so the solution, aside from studying under candlelight (which I've done before, so this should be no big deal), would be to go to those places. On the other hand, some were caught up with the novelty of the prolonged darkness and silence. These people opted to hang out for a while (equivalent to a few hours) and just had a chat with dorm mates. Of course, I was with them.

Later on I resumed my studies under candlelight (to keep the time I suppose, and I wanted to study alone since the other buildings had been filled up with dormers and tend to be distracting--excuses, excuses). It turned out to be an all-night endeavor, which I was not a stranger to anyway. I'd just take breakfast and have a bath later; the exam would still be at nine. Unfortunately, by six in the morning I was drowsy and went to bed.

By some providence, I jolted awake at nine o' clock. The test was starting! There was no time for bath and breakfast, and a dormer knew what to do with this kind of situation. After fifteen minutes I was in the examination room and was answering away. There were some final exams that bored me within the two hours that I had to complete them, but I don't think this was one of them

I got the barely passing mark in Statistics. A significant number of classmates were not so fortunate, so I should be thankful. It got me thinking of other outcomes if I did not wake up on time. Waking up on time had been a problem of mine up to this day, so it must have been something that I actually got to do it back then when it mattered. What were the odds?

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Traslacion Musings

Last month, I went back to Naga for the Peñafrancia Fiesta, its opening festivities, to be precise. The Peñafrancia Fiesta starts with the Traslacion, the procession where the miraculous images of Our Lady of Peñafrancia and the Divino Rostro (the image of the suffering Jesus on the Widow Veronica's cloth) are brought from the Basilica Minore where She is enshrined to the more accessible Naga Metropolitan Cathedral downtown. This practice started out back in the Spanish colonial past where walking is the main method of land transportation, the basilica no more than a nipa-roofed shrine located in the scarcely populated city outskirts, and the cathedral was located right in the place to be, at the heart of the city.

I'd prefer going to the Traslacion rather than the main event nine days later--the Fluvial Procession, where the Image is returned to the basilica via a river barge (called the Pagoda). Perhaps it's just my aversion to crowds. Actually, the number of people in the city does shoot up during Traslacion, but there's about twice more people during the Fluvial Procession. And speaking of large crowds, fiestas not only attract devotees, tourists and merchants (some aren't even selling Bicol merchandise, for crying out loud), but also shady characters who think of large crowds as both unwitting prey and convenient hiding place, just as what fellow blogger Sidney recently experienced (he too went to Naga last month, but for the Fluvial Procession).

It had been six years since I had last watched or participated in the Traslacion. I guess it's a Bicolano thing to have this itch to participate. It also helped that every school in Naga and its neighboring towns sends a delegation, so from elementary to high school I had been marching, rain or shine, in the Traslacion. My plan was to wiggle my way, by affiliation with my former teachers, into the delegation of my high school alma mater. I was thinking it would also be a good opportunity to brush up with the latest in the school and in the city, hitting two birds with one stone. So there I was walking at high noon towards the usual staging point of my high school, which was a quarter of the way down from the starting point of the procession. (They are still schoolchildren, so it would be enough for them to walk for about a kilometer while the grown-up devotees take on the full route, which is about a couple hundred of meters longer. Yeah, we're tough like that.) I was wearing only a T-shirt, but the heat was getting into me, which is not a good sign. Back then I wore two layers of formal "gala" uniform, but I took the heat in stride. I discovered that recently, the staging area was moved, which meant students now walked about 30 more meters for the procession, no biggie actually.

Finally, I saw the delegation of my high school, but was disappointed. I've been supportive of its recent major changes like a move to a new campus located at the city outskirts (I meant the new city outskirts, kilometers farther than the Basilica Minore) and, of course, co-education, but, as a school that prides itself as a Bicolano, Catholic and Jesuit institution, I hope they retain this small tradition during the fiesta. What I stumbled upon in the delegation was a sound mobile followed by the crucifix, school standards and candles held by the altar servers, followed by senior high school students and teachers then finally some students from the college. I didn't even find the old teachers whom I personally know. This was a token delegation, no different from any other school in the procession. I risk sounding like an old fogey, but during my time, the delegation came in full force, which made it unique among the other schools in the Traslacion. At front was not just the crucifix, candles and school standards but a platoon of altar servers. Then there was a brass band from college (although its recent absence was due to the fact that the school bands were now positioned at locations along the route rather than march with their respective schools). Following the band was a platoon of CAT officers, who will compete a week later in the annual Military Parade. After them were all high school students escorted by all their teachers. Among the students were members of the mysterious religious organization Days with the Lord holding up banners with Marian slogans.

Dejected, I walked away. A few blocks away though, I saw a new delegation that was, in some ways, "unique" and amusing enough to elicit raised eyebrows from me. At its heart, Naga is a conservative city, where values like modesty, apparent if not internalized, are still regarded highly. For instance, the uniforms in its schools are of the long skirt variety (as exemplified by the seifuku in the anime Maria-sama ga Miteru, which, incidentally, is set in a Catholic school for girls, see pic at left), and this fits well with the religious procession the students are participating. But times do change and Naga is not exempted. Recently, the city had welcomed an international school, Brentwood if I'm not mistaken, and they were also marching in the Traslacion. The thing is, international schools sport a uniform of more worldly standards (and the Brentwood uniform in particular uncannily resembles the seifuku of Ghost Hunt with its sailor bow, long sleeves, short skirts and knee-high socks, see pic at right). After the initial startled reaction, the first question that came to mind was why was this not present during our time (Why?!). Then I thought, quoting somebody, "that's hot"--literally speaking--but I guess like any other Bicol resident, the Brentwood students could cope with the scorching weather. As to the question whether there were anime-cute students worthy of their anime-like uniform, it's probable but I could not ascertain since the fiery sun was beating down upon me and I had to move on.

In the end, I had to content myself with merely watching the Traslacion by the roadside together with childhood friends, something which I last did more than a decade ago anyway. At first I noticed that clouds were gathering above the approximate location of the basilica. She has started her voyage, I thought to myself. Slowly, like the pace of the procession, the clouds crept towards our location downtown. I wouldn't be surprised if it brought rain along with it since water was more than welcome in the midst of the voyadores, the tumultuous sea of men bearing the Image of Our Lady (think rush-hour MRT, only with a lot more pushing and shoving and drunkenness and body odor). Either way, there were volunteer fire trucks and civic-minded homeowners along the route willing to hose some relief onto the men. A similar sign of weather cooperating with the festivities happens during the Fluvial Procession where rains would raise the water level in the Naga River so that the barge could float along more smoothly, a feat replicated, just in case, using flood control structures.

The image of the Divino Rostro passed by, and, a couple of hours later, that of Our Lady. Together with the waved handkerchiefs and falling confetti, were raised cameras and cellphones. In the age of 3G and blogs, this centuries-old tradition continues among the Bicolanos will continue to do so for ages to come.

Traslacion photo stolen from Chy.

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The Philosopher's Tales

Back in college, I had this nice old professor as my teacher in Ethics (let's call him Mr. R). His requirements were greatly relaxing; it only consisted of a midterm and a final oral exam as well as an optional final paper. Though it seemed that the topics would pile up due to great intervals between the tests, it was actually a breeze to review if one would take down notes from his lectures. Indeed, his class was so relaxing that most of us had, at least in one point in the entire semester, dozed off to his still, small voice. On other occasions though, he had us up and alert with his life stories that he links to his Ethics lessons. What those lessons were, I'm not so sure anymore, but his stories I can still vividly recall...

-oOo-

On his being a philosophy professor, he recalls the time when he was about to graduate. I'm not sure about the details, but it appeared that he had an immersion in a community of indigenous people somewhere in Northern Luzon. He lived with them and taught their children, and he felt fulfilled. Later, when he was back in Manila, he got a job offer from Procter & Gamble (a managerial position perhaps). It came with generous compensation that would make him well-off for the rest of his life. However, in his heart he yearned for the fulfillment he felt in his short stint in teaching. He confided his dilemma to a Jesuit teacher of his, and the priest asked him what he would think of a life of "selling soap" and the rest was history.

-oOo-

Mr. R once had a French girlfriend when he was studying in France. She was blonde, fair and beautiful, but what troubled this teacher of mine was that she was a bit taller than him. It was because in his family, the men would be consistently taller than the women. He went on with the dates, dinners and all those relationship stuff with this nagging quirk of his. Why was it that she, almost the perfect girlfriend, had to be taller than him?

At one point his girlfriend was already entertaining thoughts of marriage. She was willing to undergo surgery to be shorter than him! Even her father had approached him. "I want you to marry my daughter," the old man said.

Mr. R replied, "I'm sorry, monsieur, I can't." Just because she was taller than him.

-oOo-

Still in France, Mr. R had a terror teacher for one of his philosophy subjects. In European universities then, the teaching style was to hold lectures and provide reading assignments throughout the entire term and the student will be grilled in the final exams. A whole month was devoted to the finals and the students would sign up for their preferred schedule.

Mr. R strategized that he should sign up with the terror teacher as his last exam, so that he had all the time to prepare for the encounter. However, upon re-checking his schedule, it turned out that he actually had to take the unwanted teacher's exam first!

It was a common practice then that the French professors hold exams at their homes, and so he went to this teacher's house for his oral test. The resident had just finished his morning rituals when he led the timid and nervous student that is Mr. R to his home office, where there was a pet canary at one corner. The older students had told him to hope that the bird would sing a pleasant tune during the exam. This would put the usually gruff professor in a good mood that would consequently result to a passing grade.

"First question," the professor began (the test was in French), "what kind of man are you?"

Mr. R, frightened at that time, hurriedly wracked his brains to recall everything he learned in the Philosophy of the Human Person. He muttered the beginning of a lengthy spiel, "s-starting off with S-Socrates..."

The examiner banged his fist! "No, no, no!" He growled. Mr. R was beyond horrified.

The professor repeated: "What kind of man are you? Are you Chinese? Japanese?"

"I-I'm Filipino, sir," he answered with great relief.

"Ah, the Philippines. You do happen to have a pineapple party after the finals, don't you?"

Incredulous as the student was to the query, he could only answer in the affirmative.

The real test followed, and the canary did sing a wonderful tune. Later on, though, Mr. R would be unsure whether it was on his own brilliance or the assistance of the canary that he had made the passing mark.

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From the Fall to the Legacies

It was just within this month when my brother and I were discussing safety in tall buildings. My brother remarked that the buildings in this housing complex of ours were much more safer than the ones in other places he had visited. To illustrate, he said that the presence of canopies, pot holders and raised windows, although unable to completely eradicate accidents, would ensure that only the really darn frisky children would encounter the most severe consequences.

Yesterday, one darn frisky two-year-old boy did suffer the most severe consequence of falling from the fifth floor.

My first inkling of the accident was a terrified wail from the boy's mother. She bawled out loudly and continually of how she was about to prevent it all but was still too late. When I peeked out of our window, the boy was already whisked away for treatment; instead, I saw dazed onlookers staring from their own windows and a throng of kibitzers at the ground. A crying, ballistic four-year-old stares and jumps at a spot surrounded by scattered bougainvillea bracts. He most probably witnessed it all and was heavily traumatized. From the scattered bracts I pieced out in CSI fashion how the boy might have been outbalanced from the fifth floor, plummet through the overhanging bougainvillea branches at the third floor, bounced off the canopy roof of the ground floor entrance, before falling on the cement walkway. My brother's wife, who was at the window before me still saw the immobile body, the right side of the face blackened and bruised, the mouth oozing with blood, and was shakened by the vision for the rest of the day. Actually, everyone in the vicinity were shaken for some time. Even my brother who missed the whole episode by a couple of hours would not bring himself to play the piano. "Play a somber piece, say, the Moonlight Sonata," my wisecracking self still managed some dark humor.

What frustrated me in this incident was that, of the large number of military personnel and nursing students in this housing complex, the first one on the scene was an idle bystander (tambay) who was clearly ignorant of first aid procedures. In a seemingly heroic gesture, he cradled the boy in his arms and rushed him to some transportation to the hospital.

Pathetic and downright wrong!

To manually carry the victim in this instance is the last thing anyone with even the faintest first aid knowledge (that includes me) would do! Doing so may potentially exacerbate any injury to the head and neck like for instance, completely severing the spinal cord leading to paralysis. Instead, one should check on the pulse and breathing while another looks for a stretcher and a neck brace and calls for transport. Lack of pulse and breathing will necesitate CPR like in all those TV dramas. Stop external bleeding by applying pressure with a clean cloth. Etc, etc... Consult a more reputable and updated source for first aid techniques, save lives and be a real hero, not just on style but substance.

It is fortunate that with the help of prayers, building safety features that prevented a direct slam to the ground, and the fact that growing children are more robust than we consider them to be, x-ray results as of this writing amazingly indicate no fractures to the skull and the boy is now responsive to stimuli.

-oOo-

Ugh, what a gloomy entry! Allow me to lighten things up:


At around the same time as the falling incident, I was engrossed with a five-CD Click-Art and font collection from the mid-1990s. It came with legacy software for viewing and editing the numerous images in the CD along with instructions for installing in Windows 95, imagine that. In fact the viewer program was clearly of a different era because it uses a different window theme, a more primordial one. The most funny thing about it was the eye icon for its View button: like a precursor to present-day cheesy Flash objects, this eye follows the mouse pointer around and blinks randomly.

Creepy.



I don't know why, but encountering relics of electronica, especially those of the 90s, gives me a warm fuzzy feeling. Perhaps, it's because of the fact that these were the very first objects that have captured my imagination, and launched me to a quest of knowledge from MS-DOS to Windows to Unix; from Game & Watch to Brick Game (Tetris) to PC games (note the jump, no Famicom to Gameboy to Playstation for me, loser); from QBasic to Turbo Pascal to Java to Unix scripting; from dBase to Access to SQL; from copy con file.txt to Wordstar to Word to Blogger; from 256 KB floppies to 1.44 MB disks to CDs, hard drives and USB drives.

Sigh.

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Not Another End of the World

Ever since my father persuaded the family to read a series of newspaper articles pertaining to Marian prophecies and a coming "Three Days of Darkness" in an effort to make us turn away from our sinful ways, I had been fascinated by Apocalyptic scenarios (it helps when your father is alarmist especially when it comes to religion). A few years later, my most read part of the family Good News Bible is the Book of Revelations, followed by the Old Testament prophecies. I've read them enough to know that these writings are not really so much glimpses on the things to come but more of messages of hope for the victorious future amidst the present tribulations for keeping the faith. Besides, they don't really give out an exact date, merely signs. But what if there was a given date for destruction? More than that, what if different factors like religious, scientific, social, etc. suggesting various scenarios for the end all converge on that date?

Remember Y2K? I first learned about it in a 1995 article in that good old tech magazine Popular Mechanics. The writer was sharing how he was testing his personal computer (an ancient unknown model by today, I assume) by setting its date to a few minutes before January 1, 2000. While waiting for zero hour, he enumerated what the experts back then believe would happen to vulnerable computer systems when they encounter the year 2000. I don't remember the details anymore, but the fearful scenarios have been well-known even by then. It was due to these speculations that he became curious and wanted to test them himself. His computer was now seconds away from revealing the results...and it conked out. Oh well, he said, better start readying computers for that moment five years away. Yes, they know how to prevent it even back then, but humans are known procrastinators. To illustrate, after reading the article, I understood the principle of Y2K: that computers, processing only two digits for the year, will get confused upon encountering the year 2000 and might do crazy things because of this. However, that was a year before my computer subject in elementary, and not seeing much relevance back then (I was living a relatively low-tech lifestyle in the province), I brushed this knowledge aside.

It was only in 1998 that Y2K started capturing public attention. By this time, it has been colored with other Apocalyptic predictions ranging from Nostradamus, New Age prophets, the friendly neighborhood albularyo, and any other pundit whose story managed to get TV coverage or whose book managed to get published. (That's what happens when the media gets involved.) It turns out the thousand-year milestone has been a favorite end-of-times date. By around this time we get buzzwords like "Y2K compliant" as companies and other institutions rush to protect their computer systems and their business. Others would like to prepare for the inevitable end by stacking up supplies and preparing the bunker, or cave, or, to force the issue, performing rituals like mass suicide. Still, others would just like to party like there was no tomorrow. If the world was about to end, at least they would go down partying. Otherwise, it was a novel experience to do a countdown and watch 1999 turn into 2000. Novel enough for a big party, like what their predecessors did at the turn of the 20th century; thus, we had the millennium songs of Jennifer Lopez, Will Smith, and the Backstreet Boys (Incidentally, their songs and videos contain common themes like the future, the past, the Y2K bug, and, yes, parteeeh!).

Since January 1, 2000 was essentially New Year's Day, I am more inclined to the party aspect of things since it coincides with what I usually do around that time. Also, as seen in CNN, other countries were also preparing their own big celebrations. It came to pass that something global did happen in New Year's Day, but it wasn't a catastrophe. On the contrary, the world was one in partying. The last time the world was one in doing something was World War II. It appeared that the world has markedly improved on its ways, and, as the more optimistic people had predicted, the new millennium will usher in a new Renaissance for humanity.

Not.

Anyway, in the summer of year 2000, I was enjoying the Discovery Channel documentary Mysteries of the Ancient Civilizations. The documentary explored peculiar commonalities among the civilizations like the presence of pyramids, the alignment of structures with constellations, and the presence of a Great Flood myth, among many other themes. In the part about the South American civilizations, they featured the Mayan calendar. This calendar is said to rival the present-day Gregorian system in its efficiency and precision in recording the passage of time. One thing peculiar with the Mayan calendar is its having an end date, says the documentary, and this end date, believed by the Mayans to be the end of Time, ends on (at this point the documentary ups the ante by having the animated gears of the calendar stop one by one, each with a foreboding click) December 24, 2023 (the final gear ends with the most ominous thud).

Oh great, I said to myself, after Y2K, we have to contend with another supposedly "End of the World." By then I would be 39. I guess by that time I had enough experience in my life. Besides, as before, this one's too far away. In any case, I marked the date in my cellphone's calendar.

A few years later in college, I stumbled upon the book Domain by Steve Alten. So much for Discovery Channel dramatics, the book states the end of the particular Mayan calendar cycle is on December 21, 2012, the Winter Solstice of that year. The book is somewhat a written version of the Ancient Civilizations documentary since it also explores the commonalities of the civilizations. In addition to that, though, it provides a fictional answer to the questions surrounding the mystery. I won't spoil it for the prospective readers out there, but the book itself essentially gives it away from the very start, which in my opinion ruins the suspense. It was after reading the book that my interest in 2012 became aroused to the point that I would monitor and research about it every now and then. (The pervasive presence of the Internet, of course, was another factor.) So, what have I found out about it? Just like the year 2000, various sources have offered, some independent of other sources, various scenarios for 2012.

One may conclude that something would happen by around that time, but which scenario would prevail? As a man of science, with Astronomy being my favorite branch, I would point out to two events: one is an alignment of the center of the Milky Way Galaxy and the sun in the sky by December 21, 2012, the other is a heightened solar activity around that year. The former is as sure as the sun rising in the east every morning, while the latter is as sure as the weather prediction for the next few days. The heightened solar activity brings about solar storms. These storms, when headed directly to the Earth, are known to be destructive to technology, although previous encounters didn't produce heavy and lasting damage (But if the Internet is damaged, then it's the end of the blogging world. Catastrophic indeed.) The radiation it brings can also be lethal, but the Earth's surface is protected by the planet's magnetic field. Meanwhile, the alignment basically is just a curious configuration in the sky. As to what it can do to Earth, this one is open to speculation. For instance, a planetary alignment last May 5, 2000 caused a minor stir back then. Mostly it was just media hype. The people had just came from the Y2K non-catastrophe, and also the alignment wasn't really as perfect and spectacular as all the planets in the Solar System queuing up in straight line for a pose. And yes, nothing happened.

December 21, 2012 may indeed turn out a non-event as well. But some of us may do a Haruhi Suzumiya and wish that, for excitement's sake, something just happen to distract us from a humdrum, conflict-filled, angsty life on Earth. Perhaps another world party is in order. Besides, it's just a few days before Christmas anyway.

-oOo-

Links

The most comprehensive database I know of 2012-related stuff is found in Dire Gnosis. This site compiles anything and everything related to 2012, so, although the owner also provides reviews, an information overload warning is in order.

What can mere humans do in face of planetary cataclysm? It's not that easy to stop a galactic alignment compared to tinkering with computer systems. Well, we can wait for the completion of my inter-galactic space ship that will ferry us to the stars, but don't count on me finishing that one on time. Perhaps you may just wait for the aliens to come; although according to New-Age gurus, they may be a bit choosy, if they come in the first place. Instead of running away, isn't it better to face the problem head-on? Well, a group has thought of a way, which in theory, they claim, may be able to influence the cosmic order: humanity must unite, pun intended, to achieve Global Orgasm.

O-kaay.

Whatever happens, at least, when you start getting the media hype by, say 2010, you can tell them that you read it here first at Highway Drift.

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Wrestling with the Wind (Part 2 of 3)

In the aftermath, trees, billboards and electric posts were felled by the treacherous gusts that blew like a boxer's punches. Hours of no electricity extended into days. Without electricity, the pumps in our housing complex were useless, leaving us waterless too. Yet this is Metro Manila, and these were really no big inconvenience. The malls were up and running on generators. These commercial edifices were more than willing to placate the boredom, heat and material needs of the urban dweller. The planes were flying as soon as the clouds thinned over the airport and its environs. The next day, I was actually able to commute to to the office without any major hitch. Metro traffic was back with a vengeance (buses made a killing while the MRT was offline). As far as I was concerned, the Globe signal never went off even at the height of the typhoon. Lastly, one significant factor that alleviated major discomfort in our place was the absence of floods, the perennial scourge back in Bicol. No muddy floor to clean up, no damaged furniture and appliance to repair.

After Rosing back then, with extensive damage to city infrastructure and utilities requiring about a week to fix (or wait for reprieve from nature, in case of flooded areas), our semestral break was extended to seven more days (oh joy!). It was impossible to be bored. The flood had shaped a new landscape of mud and sand that was conducive for play. We drew figures on a mud dump like what we did once on still-wet cement. There was even one poor boy whose body figure was embedded on the mud because the bullies made him fall flat on his face (and we thought we'd see that only in cartoons)! It was exploration galore! Rosing was so strong it took with it the remaining clouds in the region, leaving us with sunny blue skies by day and clear starry heavens by night. Our group of friends became instant astronomers as we identified constellations, stars and planets, and even spotted the occasional meteor and high-altitude plane or satellite. During the hot and humid days, we would seek shelter around the trees that withstood the typhoon or inside makeshift tents put up by our neighbors who had the misfortune of living in low-lying areas where the flood had not receded yet. I must have learned a handful of card games that time (which I eventually forgot until I encountered them again in college). The most monumental discovery of that time was a stash of comics found in one of the tents. Because of this discovery, we, pubescent boys and girls, even formed a "Midnight Society" wherein we met at a fallen tree by the bank of the Naga River whose waters were deep and fast-flowing (the source waterfall suddenly appearing as a white strip on Mt. Isarog, 15 km. away, the gentle stream swelling to a raging river up there). We didn't meet at midnight, we preferred the hot and lazy mid-days and afternoons. In the first place, we didn't share scary stories; instead, we eagerly perused and commented on the contents of the comics descriptively entitled Desire Komiks.

Now in Manila without electricity, the metropolitan life lost its essence. This brought up the opportunity for bonding among neighbors, over beer perhaps or some guitar-led sing-along. Unfortunately for me, I was not in the neighborhood of my childhood neither was I a child anymore. In the aftermath of Milenyo there were no more monumental discoveries, no new landscape to play around with. I had lost the childhood innocence and compulsion for fun. I was bored. After I had brushed up on my meager piano-playing skills, after I had completed my small reading list, what else was to be done? I realized that making music for me now is playing MP3s on my computer, and reading is blog-hopping and Internet surfing. (Thankfully, I still relish writing on paper, and my cursive is still presentable enough; else I might not have come up with this long entry.) The blackouts were less of adventure and more of inconvenience, the fallen billboards, trees and posts were less of a curiosity and more of a source of concern and condemnation. Is this what "adulthood" and "sophistication" do? Damn.

Good thing there was the humdrum of work to distract me, extract me even, from the misfortune of circumstance. For the succeeding days without electricity and water, the corporate building was my refuge. There I ate, drank, brushed my teeth, surfed the Net, and do all those things that needed water and electricity. Except for bathing, though; the P100 daily water rations back home covered for this.

After nine days of no electricity and no water, we were becoming restless (see the "grimy" details in the next part under "rants", I just wanted this part to be light and nostalgic). And I guess the powers that be had sensed this restlessness and had feared of its consequences. By night, there was light and water. The neighborhood was bright and loud once again. The TV was back with a vengeance, the multicomponent was back with a vengeance, and most especially, the videoke was back with a vengeance.


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Wrestling with the Wind (Part 1 of 3)

Pushed by boredom, illuminated by candle, wielding pen over paper, I write...

Milenyo (Xangsane to the rest of the world) was the strongest typhoon to hit Manila in 11 years, eh? I remember its predecessor, Rosing (Angela), punishing us with Signal no. 4 fury back in Bicol. My experience with Rosing all started with the late Ernie Baron showing us viewers of TV Patrol a satellite image of a menacing cloud spiral as large as the Philippines itself with winds of about 200 to 300 kph. He declared that this awful weather disturbance will hit Bicol head-on and possibly mess with the All Souls' Day rites of those places in its path, places which were under Storm Signal no. 3, bypassing the first two alert levels. Although used to annual storms, every Bicolano's heart sank. Still, the catastrophe was inevitable: within 24 hours and well throughout the night, the winds blew with destructive gusto and the rain inundated us in disease-laden floodwaters five feet deep. At around midnight, radio reports said that the typhoon just got stronger, and we were now under Signal no. 4. I barely knew the howler also hit Manila hard; because, we had no electricity for seven freakin' days!

In Bicol, tropical depressions, storms and typhoons were a yearly occurence that we practically grew up with them. My playmates and I had our childhood partly deprived due to uprooted fruit-bearing trees in our neighborhood. Later on, typhoons have ruined my planned swabe (smooth) moves, messing up my teenage love life big time (to the benefit of my main rival: he was stranded with the girl). Oftentimes, though, they are a welcome break from grade school grind up to college pressure, providing a source of excitement tempered by reaching out to those who have suffered.

Such regularity made me take such weather disturbances in stride. It also helped that I was still young and my parents took care of the logistics. Important tasks were ordered to older siblings, leaving me with ones like stay in the house, keep an eye on things, listen to the radio for news, do not disturb, and do not block the way. If there were floods, I'd also help in moving some of the things to the second floor. (There was one typhoon that flooded even the second floor. Feeling helpless, I slept that one out. Later I learned that the water never went higher during my slumber.) Even in my college dorm in Quezon City, we were taken care of by the maintenance staff. Better still, electricity, water, phone and even Internet concerns were capably handled.

My present life in Manila does not have much weather-related action in it. Newspaper columns in the wake of the Indian Ocean Tsunami, Katrina in New Orleans, and South Asian earthquakes has crowed on Manila's luck for not yet experiencing a natural disaster of similar scale (only man-made calamities). To my dismay, this lack of natural calamities and the general lack of interaction with nature have disabled my "nature-sense": I never had a clue of Milenyo's coming; because I never experienced the windy day that precedes a typhoon. What I experienced instead the night before the storm was gently-falling rain, the kind of rain that did not drive me into fits of melancholy. Oh, how deceitful the storm was for putting me under a false sense of complacency!

Sharing responsibility in the unit that we stay in generates new anxiety, much more when, in this instance, I was left home alone to fend the brunt of the typhoon. I was on my toes monitoring the leaks lest they turn out-of-control. I made sure the windows were shut, and for the windows with missing locks, I improvised with strings. I wrestled with the furious gust and rain just to close a window forced open by the wind. In some windows I won against the wind, in others I lost, with broken glass panels as proof of my failure.


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Summer 2006 Escapades (Part 5 of 5)

Rainy days have come. What better time to let the summer sun shine once again, at least in our minds.

-oOo-

Laiya, San Juan, Batangas

This was the outing that nearly failed to push through.

It was a tradition among the young ones in our IT department to have a summer outing as a bonding activity. In previous years, they had been to La Union and also to White Beach, Puerto Galera. Calls for organizing this outing came more than a month ahead of schedule so that we could mark it off our "busy" calendar. Consistent with our "workaholic" lifestyle though, we put the issue of organizing the outing at the back of our minds. Only later did it dawn upon us that we will have to reserve a venue in advance. Numerous suggestions have been thrown, but in the end they chose mine: Laiya Beach in San Juan, Batangas.

Obviously, I suggested this place since I had been there before--twice in fact--and both were bittersweet but predominantly happy memories nevertheless. On both occasions, I participated in my capacity as core group member in the year-end evaluation seminar of my beloved college organization, the Department of Student Welfare and Services (fondly called as DS). Ah, those were times of heightened emotions ranging from bored to solemn to reflective to cheerful to funny to sad to hopeful--all of these a testament to the friendship (or such) of a group that was formed between acquaintances and even strangers who were given tasks to fulfill in twelve months, and in the end will have to bid farewell to graduating members and give way to the next core group. Therefore, for me, this outing would also be a personal pilgrimage to relive those memories.

Alas, the year 2006 was out to prove itself as a rain-drenched year and it started early with its bid. There was a tropical storm in May, and it struck Batangas right during the weekend of our supposed outing. Thus, aside from the strange schedule for this spiraling cloud of bad weather, it had a quite unusual path (they usually pass by Bicol and Northern Luzon). We were forced to reschedule to June, even if we'd paid a 50% down payment, a transaction I personally handled through a dinner with my DS friend, Maan, whose family owns the place we will be lodging (perhaps the spilled glass of water in that dinner was an omen). Thank God, they're very accommodating, and our schedule was modified without much incidence.

The storm still dealt some damage to our plans. It, and its message that summer is over, drenched the enthusiasm of some of the dismal few who cared to join. From a measly 15 out of 40 potential attendees, our numbers dwindled down to six, with some, including me, still threatening to back out. I would lose face to my friend. From reserving two rooms, we would end up canceling it altogether. Even if it was not embarrassing (Maan says she understands), we would still lose the down payment (as she pointed out too). Attempting to salvage this outing, my officemates relied on their significant others. Still, this wouldn't obviously work for me, and, faced with the inevitable torture of watching lovebirds go mushy (among other things), my threat to back out remained. I changed my mind when one of them finally agreed on bringing her two kids along. At least the outing wouldn't be entirely a lover's trip. With the numbers assuring a critical mass of attendees, the outing pushed through, albeit with only one room this time.

The ten of us left one rainy Saturday morning aboard an old van that bravely moved along under the collective weight of our luggage. The clouds soon cleared when we have left the metropolis, and in no time we were rolling along the idyllic Batangas countryside. The trip itself was like traveling back in time. With the Eraserheads Anthology and Ultraelectromagnetic Jam CDs playing in the background, we were back in the 90's reliving school time fun. Yup, it was regression galore, making me wonder who the real kids are: the two girls silent/sleeping/bored at the front or the yuppies cracking up at any inanity that arose along the way. When the list of recent songs was exhausted, our time travel was pushed back further when we strangely agreed to play a digital preservation of an obscure artist of the Sixties. If we painted flowery patterns on the rickety old van and wore bell bottoms and oversized sunglasses (wait, this one's in style again), we'd be cruisin' along like the hippies of old. Peace mehhnn...

The trip was longer and farther than expected. In the first place, I, who reserved the venue, only have vague memories on how to go from Lipa to San Juan. Rakenrol! Thank God, one remembered a web site that gave directions to a neighboring resort and connected to it using his Nokia Communicator. Whaddya know, cutting edge technology did save the day. The last kilometer of the trip was a dirt road towards Laiya, the beach of white sand and fond memories.

The Filipino-style two-storey Casa Remo where I stayed for the two evaluation seminars still stood proudly. Upstairs, the sliding doors of the bedrooms were ajar. Downstairs the inhabitants were lounging by the sala, the same place where we held meetings and watched DVD movies. Others were playing cards by the long dining table. Beside it stood also the tamarind tree, decked with multi-colored lights that had dazzled us at night and a bamboo hammock that had lulled us to sleep as we whiled idle moments away. Ah, memories! This time, however, we would be staying in a two-storey concrete Casa Remo Apartelle beside the house. Built just two months ago, this would be for commercial use while the old house would be for exclusive family use.

We made the trip without aircon (lest the van overheats more frequently than what we experienced); thus, the air conditioned room was a welcome place of rest. We decided to let the hot afternoon pass first and focused on establishing territory. The room was actually designed for eight people, but with the kids being, well, small and the three couples having a propensity to stick close to each other, our group managed to fit in it nicely.

We joined the setting sun in taking a dip in the sea. The water was not as crystal-clear as in White Beach, but it sure appeared clean enough to be swim-able unlike that of Nasugbu. I smilingly remember how last year I filled a bottle with the white sand of this Laiya beach as a memento of that great evaluation seminar I attended. Indeed, the white sand makes Laiya similar to a Puerto Galera beach, and the resort owners here were making an effort to enhance that similarity. Multi-colored flags line a wide stretch of the beach and beach volleyball sites emerge from the sands. Moreover, there were boats offering transportation to snorkelling sites, and their docking and undocking also interfere with swimming. If the trend continues, perhaps rows and rows of seaside restaurants will be grilling seafood in the near future. But before that, perhaps it would be wise also to have a Bantay-Dagat to monitor the cleanliness of sand and sea. At the time of the outing, there was some trash being swept by the waves into shore. They might also want to do something about rocky portions in the beach. Lastly, the town of San Juan might have to expand the capacity of their plumbing system to handle the increasing numbers of resorts, since the large demand will reduce the flow of tap water to a trickle.

As expected, the couples swam as pairs like ... wait, what's the marine equivalent of lovebirds? I guess there's none so humans like these are setting an unprecedented marine behavior. As for the rest of us, the presence of the two kids was a constant and effective reminder that this was not exactly a lover's outing. Aside from their mother, we never thought their silence and lethargy during the trip actually meant they were merely preserving their energy. By the time the sun disappeared, the boundless energy they release made them so adorable that you'd want them to quit it. The younger one, in fact, reminds me of Taz of Looney Tunes. After the swim, we showered and dined, still the kids remained bouncy and zippy as ever. Even when we left them in the room for the perfunctory drinking session cum bonding activity, they continued playing on the two joined king-sized beds. Their rowdiness made me comment that they might be more drunk than we were. The couples contemplated the possibility of having similar lively offspring in the future.

In the end, I realized that this outing was not exactly the pilgrimage to the recent past that I wished it was. If I wanted that kind of pilgrimage, I should have done so with the friends I have shared this pleasant recent past with. Instead, the outing was an introduction to the possibilities of new friends, new loves and the fruits that these would bring.


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Civic Duty

The following anecdote would be my Independence Day contribution.

It happened in the late seventies, more than a decade before it was my turn to play and learn in grade school, which in turn was more than a decade ago today. Back then there was this principal whom they call as Mister Badong. It must had been a strange name for a principal even during my grade school days, but maybe not during the seventies. Or maybe kids really didn't find it strange, and it was just me and my supposedly adult pseudo-sophistication. In fact, in this story the kids would be the one teaching a lesson they had learned from Mister Badong.

The seventies, as the oldies allege, seemed to be the time when this grade school deserved to be called the premiere elementary school of the city. The educators were very serious in their duty and teaching as a noble professions was the reality and not just as an utterance of the ideal. The present local political and business leaders, whom some have gone national or international, trooped to this grade school for their basic education. (Okay, some of them had gone corrupt, so the school was not that much of a premiere school eh. Then again, there had been other influences in the community, so...)

Mister Badong is one of those serious educators of long ago. He was into the observance of civic duties and other Boy Scout basics. He trained the little men on tying knots, starting fires and other fun survival techniques. In flag-raising ceremonies, he would be very particular about a certain line in the Lupang Hinirang, "it's sa langit mong bughaw, not mo'y!" he would repeatedly point out to the student body (I imagine him grabbing the microphone immediately after the National Anthem and speaking in a stern voice).

Mister Badong died in the seventies, but his influence lived on for quite a time. This was made evident one gray morning a few years later. The kids were lined up in the open field for the daily flag-raising ceremony. In the middle of singing the National Anthem, there was a sudden downpour. But, having been taught respect for the Flag by the departed principal, the children remained standing with their right hand over the left chest. They sang until the last note, then and only then did they run for cover.

Mabuhay!

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The Remix

Some jeepney drivers play a private, somewhat exclusive, collection of remixed songs as they do their pasada along the C-5 route. The songs in their CD are famous Filipino ballads that were added a certain thumping slow beat. For months I was unable to place these songs in their context. What purpose does the electronically added beat serve? It cannot be for dancing in some jologs disco bar or sidewalk dance. Maybe some slow dancing perhaps, but they were not romantic enough. The added percussions would be extraneous for sing-along. For months I content myself with the thought that the songs were relaxing and that was their purpose.

One summer day, however, due to the hot morning commute and crowded jeepney space, I must have made a connection to a college summer class that had 50 students. It was a social science class and the instructor was a students' favorite due to his humor in lecturing and generosity in grading. Aside from those reasons, I was assured of his competence when I noticed that years of teaching had made him at least memorize his lessons so that he delivers his lectures and answers student questions straight and fast and without consulting his old rookie notes. That summer term was his last teaching stint, he said, so I guess we were fortunate enough to grace his last class.

In an effort to expose us to the hidden nooks and crannies of society, the class had various projects tasking us to explore, observe and investigate its different aspects. If it was a regular semester, not a summer term, which has limited time, our instructor would have taken us in a gay bar as he had taken his past classes. Instead, we had to settle with watching the Lino Brocka movie Macho Dancer.

It so happened that in the movie, the protagonist was an amateur in the male sex trade in Manila, and a kindly veteran offered to mentor him along the way. Thus it was shown how he learned the ropes, including the right way to gyrate and to undulate his body ("Lagyan mo ng libog!"). Due to my "impressionable young mind," I also learned some moves in the process (thus basic macho dancing was added to the list of non-academic stuff learned in college).

Back in the jeepney, four years later, as its radio plays the remixed ballads, I recall the moves I learned one summer ago. In my mind, I undulate and gyrate to the sound. The slow thumping beat matches the sway of the body. The ballad's lyrics wail about forbidden love, about forsaken love, and all those emotions residing in the nooks and crannies of society.

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