tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-135318942024-03-12T04:54:51.315+08:00Reading, Writing, WalkingThe Continuing Adventures of the Filipinas Heritage Library's Travel Writing WorkshoppersKristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-85782777461445989462007-09-02T20:03:00.000+08:002008-12-12T12:44:50.868+08:00<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />GOING UNDERGROUND WITH A GOLDEN GLEAM IN MY EYE</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(The Balatoc Mines Story)</span><br />By Peter So<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">“Well, you can start your chronicles by saying we are in the middle of nowhere</span>,” my friend Ramil quipped wryly. I could only manage a forced smile, and looked around me, taking in the eerie stillness of our surroundings. Come to think of it, we DID seem to be in the middle of nowhere.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Some forty minutes earlier, we had boarded the Baguio-Acupan jeepney at the Petron gas station on Harrison St., right across the Baguio Patriotic High School and fronting Burnham Park. Our destination? The Balatoc Mines in Itogon, Benguet, where we planned to tour the underground gold mines. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The ride was initially not as arduous or uncomfortable as we had expected, as our jeepney was traveling through generally well-paved roads. This changed dramatically, however, once we got off the main highway. The roads turned into narrow, bumpy and winding rock-strewn stretches of dirt and gravel. The pervasive, swirling dust made it necessary to cover one’s nose with a handkerchief. Yet, as if to somehow compensate for this, a magnificent view of the Baguio mountainside was present with every twist and turn of the jeepney.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Eventually, the driver turned to face us and asked, <span style="font-style: italic;">“Balatoc? Go down here.</span>” With alacrity, we did as we were told.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:0;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The three of us were standing on the side of the dusty, unpaved road with the hot mid-morning sun bearing down on us. No other signs of life anywhere. No other vehicles passing by, either. Most ominously, not a single sign to point us to the Balatoc mines. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">“Where are we?</span>” my other friend, Dale, asked plaintively. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Looking down over the side of the road, we espied the steel roof and wooden frame of a large, semi-rundown building nestled amongst the trees and foliage, some fifty meters below. Could this be it? We carefully – make that very carefully – negotiated the steep stone path leading towards it, as a ravine on the side welcomed us should we lose our footing. We found no one in sight, but undaunted (or was it foolhardy?), we decided to keep on walking.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuYGNXhvb16VlysBRfZY7racXLgOM4MWvTIkzXuM1M6CveYeIdVkmBKLCLhQhRsEYKLesVLROViHNogKjSSQpd0xV9nzH1Gl9pyc9my_dI1g1e_h3bTBulHJdGmkgUL54e3RDi/s1600-h/BMpic1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5031398710290385026" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuYGNXhvb16VlysBRfZY7racXLgOM4MWvTIkzXuM1M6CveYeIdVkmBKLCLhQhRsEYKLesVLROViHNogKjSSQpd0xV9nzH1Gl9pyc9my_dI1g1e_h3bTBulHJdGmkgUL54e3RDi/s400/BMpic1.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:courier new;">Visitor's chapa, with unique visitor number.</span><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Mercifully, we ended up at the main gate of the rather grandiosely named Benguet Mines Tourism Village. A few workers loitered here and there, minding their own business. Otherwise, there was little sign of activity this Saturday morning. In fact, the atmosphere of the place could be described as too quiet, somewhat desolate even. I started to have doubts, and wondered what possessed us to go all the way here. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It turned out that our jeepney driver had overshot the main gate, thus leading us to be momentarily stranded in no-man’s land.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>No wonder, for right after we told him of our destination, he had looked at us quizzically, obviously asking himself why on earth these city slickers would want to go to Balatoc. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We were eventually pointed to the Visitors’ Center, where the staff on duty proved friendly and enthusiastic. Billed as the first and only mine tour in the country, the Balatoc Mines underground tour promised to let one experience how it was to be a miner for one day. All in all, our batch consisted of twelve intrepid would-be miners.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Each of us was issued standard miner’s safety gear, comprising of skull guard, rubber boots and miner’s lamp. We were also each given a “chapa”, a round metal button roughly the size of the old Bagong Lipunan one-peso coin, which indicated our visitor number. Cool!</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4C6EuDcqOwR_2fNk8CqoIcZPKsOEV7586jAguTTdUp65TiYhOjZ4Ip5m7eOwbgUQr34VY_eB25hx9HVAPr9Hsesros_XdTxOHLo9yVIkrWsf78aTeZycxSdt130VjodDzwXbM/s1600-h/BMpic2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5031399595053648018" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4C6EuDcqOwR_2fNk8CqoIcZPKsOEV7586jAguTTdUp65TiYhOjZ4Ip5m7eOwbgUQr34VY_eB25hx9HVAPr9Hsesros_XdTxOHLo9yVIkrWsf78aTeZycxSdt130VjodDzwXbM/s400/BMpic2.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:courier new;">The portable toilet of the miners.<br />Tissue paper not included though.</span><br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Our guide, Ms. Alma, explained that “chapas” served a practical purpose as well. At the entrance to the mines area proper, each miner drops his “chapa” into a wooden box. This serves as a control measure, making it easy to keep track of which miners were still underground. As a rule, the miners work on a buddy system and are prohibited to go out alone. They work a maximum of eight hours per shift, as their work is evidently physically strenuous.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">She further narrated that the Balatoc Mines had a long and storied past. Started in 1903, it was the oldest mine in the country. The main product was gold, with silver as a by-product. They sold their gold bullion to the Bangko Sentral, who further refines it to gold bars with 99.9% purity. The devastating Baguio earthquake in 1990 flooded the mines with water. Compounded by the drastic fall in world prices of gold to below US$200/oz. levels in 1992 <i>[Gold prices are presently around US$660/oz.]</i>, operations became economically unviable and the Balatoc Mines were shut down.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Fortunately, a few years after, the Acupan area mines were re-opened. Now operated by a contractor, the output (in the form of gold ore) is divided equally between Benguet Corp. and the nearby community. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">On the way to the underground tunnel, we passed by a display of the various antique tools and equipment used in the olden days, such as slusher, pinch bar, blow pipe and claw bar. Back then, the basic qualification to be a miner was that one just had to be healthy and strong.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Of humorous interest was the toilet car (literally, a portable toilet on wheels). Instead of the miners going to the toilet, it was the toilet which came to them. Imagine, if you will, the sanitary man pushing around the toilet car, just like your friendly neighborhood ice cream man, and tending to each miner’s respective call of nature. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXa8SA8jMd-Hdc1huX-wlo47sNaLhGT9EaZ_g9P9Bud6uPPb6XW7lnS5UKxe8icFojWdPMrj80Egoiiga14cgt1btIgZ80WQ8Gf1z5a0B9hNqlGcOAKD7P9ucbzANFZsIoDx-g/s1600-h/BMpic4.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5031400338082990242" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXa8SA8jMd-Hdc1huX-wlo47sNaLhGT9EaZ_g9P9Bud6uPPb6XW7lnS5UKxe8icFojWdPMrj80Egoiiga14cgt1btIgZ80WQ8Gf1z5a0B9hNqlGcOAKD7P9ucbzANFZsIoDx-g/s400/BMpic4.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:courier new;">Into the batcave! Rather, the Vegas tunnel.</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Ms. Alma mentioned that our miner’s gear totaled 4.9 kilos per person, with the battery of our skull guard light taking up majority. While the equipment weight was bearable, the knee-high rubber boots were rather uncomfortable and made brisk walking difficult. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Now, we were at the start of the 500-meter long Vegas tunnel, built back in 1946. Time to turn on our lights! We gingerly walked single-file into the tunnel. The ground was moist with water, and one had to walk carefully lest one slipped. But this was no longer a problem once our eyes became accustomed to the limited visibility. Our rubber boots provide good stability as well. Contrary to expectations, the tunnel wasn’t hot or stuffy and cramped. Rather, it was surprisingly roomy, and the air inside was light and cool due to the presence of blowers. Hardly any claustrophobic moments inside this tunnel, for sure.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We made our way to a portion of the tunnel where miners were preparing to do some dynamite blasting. Once gold veins embedded on the rock are deemed viable to extract, the foremost rule is to ensure that the blasting site, or “doghole” in industry parlance, was safe before operations could begin. The procedure, in simplified terms, goes like this: Strategically-placed holes are drilled on the wall to complete a blasting pattern. Safety fuses are put in, after which dynamite is loaded and pushed six feet deep into the holes.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The blasting agent, comprised of Ammonium Nitrate and fuel oil, is added using an auto loader.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOJhpA2ShTwpXHds0I1Pp7WqFjdi9E9opKlqqo0-z3A_ovXFnAHQ7f6lTyZuT8zbOKOY6K3IIXyS719z2Z6GThPksAlu8QD_sdkSzWPy5eqst3dgFYfNC3daVbU_QhE6vHgGv/s1600-h/BMpic6.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5031406527130863826" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOJhpA2ShTwpXHds0I1Pp7WqFjdi9E9opKlqqo0-z3A_ovXFnAHQ7f6lTyZuT8zbOKOY6K3IIXyS719z2Z6GThPksAlu8QD_sdkSzWPy5eqst3dgFYfNC3daVbU_QhE6vHgGv/s400/BMpic6.JPG" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Huddling together at the Miners' Lunch Room...<br />waiting for the big BOOM!</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Once everything is all set, the miner lights the fuse and scampers as fast as possible to safety. The burning rate of the fuse is 40 seconds per foot, so there is sufficient time to be quite a safe distance away from the blast. A round canvas exhaust bag, dubbed the “Anaconda” by the miners, runs along a fair length of the tunnel and is used to get rid of the smoke and dust after blasting operations, thereby preventing suffocation.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Over time, certain sections of the mine are fully exploited and deemed unsafe for any more blasting. Once this happens, the site is filled with sand, water and cement, to prevent future collapse.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Next stop was the Miner’s lunchroom, a small recessed area with spare wooden benches and tables. As its name suggested, this was where the miners partook of their meals when on duty. Our group sat on the benches to take a brief respite. We all turned off our head lamps in unison, and were plunged into pitch-black darkness. Shrieks and cries abounded, and we quickly turned on our lights again.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Ms. Alma forewarned us that the miners were now preparing to detonate some dynamite. With collective bated breath, our group eagerly strained our ears and waited. Seconds ticked by, in excruciatingly slow motion. She motioned us to cover our ears . . . .5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . .BOOM!! Perceptible shaking accompanied this muffled, yet unmistakable, sound. A few seconds later, the tunnel was still anew. I heaved a sigh of relief; and at the same time, I felt giddy and energized by what we had just experienced.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3DTmEdXLT2l5cDoN2i-gjxdGhE08y32tntwBga3nOWdSu7ReNM7mTf1K7hyphenhyphenyfur82cCKt2Yaze25xTDi3wcE7u_e_wBRBHsYdgZiXuPx6DCg1qWE1hAHpJqwnxhPcFjRyBJW/s1600-h/BMpic7.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5031401244321089714" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3DTmEdXLT2l5cDoN2i-gjxdGhE08y32tntwBga3nOWdSu7ReNM7mTf1K7hyphenhyphenyfur82cCKt2Yaze25xTDi3wcE7u_e_wBRBHsYdgZiXuPx6DCg1qWE1hAHpJqwnxhPcFjRyBJW/s400/BMpic7.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:courier new;">Riding the locomotive mine train. . .and<br />wishing Kylie was here to do the locomotion! :D<br /><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Our group walked until we reached the end of the Vegas tunnel, only too glad to see daylight again. We hopped on the locomotive mine train and rode back, passing by workers going about their daily work routine, be it fixing equipment, carrying sacks of gold ore, etc. The distinctive smell of diesel fumes filled the air. We were proceeding onwards to the ore processing area, where we would take a closer look at what happened to all that rock extracted from the mines.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Heaps and heaps of woven sacks containing gold ore occupied the ore processing area. Truth be told, these looked just like ordinary rocks mixed with sand, gravel and whatnot, so it was difficult to visualize the gold waiting to be unearthed. The ore is crushed until approximately the size of sand. Now, for the fun but arduous part, gold “panning.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Simply put, the gold panners sit in front of round plastic basins filled with water and ore. They use a rectangular “pan” with a handle near each end, on which they continuously sift the mix back and forth, the purpose being to isolate the minute specks of gold dust from the rest of the rock. According to Ms. Alma, this could actually be done by machine, but it was cheaper to do it the time-honored way. The women doing this task took great pains to point out that only water was used in the panning process, and no Mercury (a very toxic metal) was used to extract the gold. Peering over the heads and shoulders of my fellow tourists huddling closely over the panners, I finally caught my first glimpse of the specks of gold sparkling underneath the hot, blistering sun. It truly, madly and wonderfully made my day.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Our last stop was the mini-museum beside the Visitors’ Center, showing rock samples that present gold in its natural form, and pictures of the Balatoc Mines through the years, among others. A 20-kilo (643 oz.) replica of gold bullion sat grandly on a dark, wooden pedestal, as if daring visitors to pick it up. (Warning: Do so only if you have adequate footwear, as you are liable to drop it on your toes)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Best of all, each of us intrepid souls was given a Certificate of Appreciation by the Benguet Mines staff, providing evidence that we had bravely gone to the innermost bowels of the earth and made it back successfully. I am exaggerating, of course, but<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>what the heck. . .who wouldn’t?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As Ramil, Dale and I shared Cokes at the canteen while waiting for the next passing jeepney to take us back to Baguio City, our faces sprinkled with a fine layer of dust and our shirts lined with sweat, we agreed that visiting the mines was an educational experience and a rollicking adventure rolled into one. While I hesitate to use the much-repeated phrase “We had a blast!”, well, that was exactly what we had!</p>grumpyurbanslackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01352710951510373300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-59972674249868804122007-09-03T10:11:00.000+08:002008-12-12T12:44:49.746+08:00Salam Malaykum from Egypt<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesEc4B-bJ_PZE0pFe0bvcYhMI9fTACvHylWwnrnb8AE-B9N6iOCEgh_ODOtgTaNIkDw1GtJFsN96hbzSYnwlpLPh9tMirQl7H7mu_oxZ5wN08qjNMrRZ6YXfJr-gWhNxsTknm/s1600-h/egypt.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesEc4B-bJ_PZE0pFe0bvcYhMI9fTACvHylWwnrnb8AE-B9N6iOCEgh_ODOtgTaNIkDw1GtJFsN96hbzSYnwlpLPh9tMirQl7H7mu_oxZ5wN08qjNMrRZ6YXfJr-gWhNxsTknm/s200/egypt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105795424841583154" /></a><br />Monday, 9 April 2007<br />Salam Malaykum from Egypt <br /><br />That's Bettina Go, Clang Garcia, Raeanna Cranbourne and moi outside the tomb of King Tut in Luxor's Valley of the Kings, a vast funerary complex at the West Bank. We finally made it after much visa hulabaloo in Manila. Thanks to Kim Harrington who not only helped us get our 'visa upon arrival' but also hosted us at her place in the hippest Cairo-hood in Zamalek, helped us with our tours and even got us an affable taxi driver, Abdul Amin! <br /><br />We've seen most of Egypt in a week. First stop was Cairo's Citadel (1176) and An-Nasir Mohammed mosque (1318). It wasn't hazy that day and got a clear view of Giza's pyramids from the terrace. From the citadel, we drove through traffic (the city has 15 million population) to visit one of the seven wonders of the world - the pyramids! There are three structures: the Great Pyramid of Khufu (2750 BC) at 146m high, his son's called Khafre (136m) and his wife's Mankaure (62m). It is indeed amazing to be at the foot of a monstrous mountain life-like size tomb and it makes me wonder if there is any truth to its extra teresstial origin. <br /><br />The next day we flew East to Hurgada and drove down the coast to dive the Red Sea. It was a toss up with Sharm el-Sheikh but we were warned that it was very crowded and most of the corals are damaged so we opted for Marsa Alam, a newly built city with relatively less divers. Brrr! It was freezing at 22 degrees! I felt like a 'Michelin' man in a 5mm full suit plus a 5mm shortie! The dive operator at our hotel (Iberotel), Coraya Divers was run by Germans. They were very organized. I'm referred to #164 - for my locker box number, gear, etc. It was quite expensive at 20 euros for full gear rental per day (without computer) and 30 euros per dive (its an extra 3 euros for the guide). The best dive sites require a full day boat trip to "Elephinstone' and "Sataya".<br /><br />We did another dive (in Sha'ab Marsa Alam) the next day before heading out to Safaga to cross the Red Sea mountains with a police convoy to Luxor. I've never felt secured with checkpoints every 500 meters or so and a police escort. I guess after the bombing incident at Sinai in 2005, the government is trying to protect its US$6B tourism industry. The drive took almost five hours, 2 hours to Safaga and 3 hours to Luxor.<br /><br />At Luxor, we went first to the West Bank's Colossi of Memnon where we were welcomed by a pair of massive statues (18m high). Then drove to Deir al-Bahri to climb the steps up to visit the mortiuary complex of the first female 'male' pharoah, Queen Hapsheshut (very difficult to pronounce, just say hot chiken soup). Its a limestone monument carved out of a mountain! First sign of vandalism here with coptic graffiti and also where her stepson Tuthmosis III scratched out her face. Then drove to the Valley of the Kings to visit the tombs of Rameses I, IV and VI. There are 700 tombs and only 15 tombs are open for public viewing. Our ticket allowed us to visit 3 tombs. The highlight here would be the colorful painted walls depicting the life of the pharaoh, scenes to help guide his journey through his afterlife, heiroglyphics and the sacrophogaus at the end of the tomb (the contents - mummy, gold masks, etc - are at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo). After, we drove through the Tomb of the Nobles and stopped at Deir al-Medina named after a coptic temple built by christian monks. Here we visited two tombs of the workers where for 5-20 egyptian pounds, the guards allowed us to take photos! It was extremely hot in Luxor at 40 degrees, so we decided to break for lunch at a resto along the Nile River. After lunch, we spent the whole afternoon in the temple complex of Karnak and Luxor and in the evening, did the Sound and Light show. (note: we bought tickets through our travel agent only to find out its cheaper and easier to do it on your own).<br /><br />After Luxor, we flew back to Cairo and Abdul picked us up and drove straight to Saqqara, a huge cemetery of ancient Memphis where the oldest pyramid is located called Step Pyramid of Zoser. For 5 pounds, we were able to take photos inside the tombs. After visiting the pyramids and the newly built museum, we drove 10 kms away to Dashur where we climbed the 125 steep stone steps of the Red Pyramid and down the 63m long claustrophic passageway down the tomb. <br /><br />The next day Kim drove us to Alexandria, the city founded by Alexander the Great. We walked down the Corniche to Bibliotheca Alexandrina, designed by Norwegian architect Snøhetta, it houses millions of books, 3 museums and a planetarium. Then a seafood feast down at the seafood market and walked down to Fort Qaitbey (1480 AD). Back in Zamalek, we were too exhausted to eat out and decided to watch DVD of "The Yacoubian Building", film adapted from Alaa El Aswany's novel.<br /><br />The next day, Kim booked us to Wadi El-Hatin (western dessert) on a 4WD with driver Moustafa and his side kick Mohamed, to visit the UNESCO world heritage site for the first recorded fossilised skeletons of primitive whales. The site used to be a vast ocean some 35 million years ago. The topography is likened to the Grand Canyon in the United States. We had a picnic lunch at the nearby dessert Waddi Rayyan. Then before heading back to Cairo, a stopover at Tunis a plush domain-secondaire type village to view pottery. (note: town not recorded in Lonely Planet). <br /><br />For our last night in Egypt, Kim took us to a walking tour of Islamic Cairo. Our first stop was to a bazaar where locals go to (opposite Khan al-Khalili) and then crossed the street to the famous touristy Khan and visited several shops including the famous Fishawi's Coffeehouse. The nobel peace prize author Nagib Mafouz (Cairo Trilogy) grew up in this neighborhood in Sharia al-Gamaliyya.<br /><br />I enjoyed my trip and luckily, despite warnings by friends, we didn't get harrassed at all by street hawkers or for 'baksheesh' (tips). The magic word is 'la' shukran' which means "no thank you". Also most earn pathetic monthly salaries of 40-50 pounds (tomb guards) or 78 pounds (military solider). That's why they end up harrassing toursits for tips. I'm quite tolerant and in fact, ended giving tips to everybody!<br />[from: Dyslexia Chronicles, http://rosancruz.blogspot.com]Rosan Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01883465399235582604noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-79691150697222172002007-09-05T09:27:00.000+08:002008-12-12T12:44:49.559+08:00<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /><br /></span>From: "Peter" <grumpyurbanslacker@gmail.com> <grumpyurbanslacker@gmail.com><br />To: "Eric" <hellonewman@gmail.com><hellonewman@gmail.com><br />Date: Fri, September 7, 2007 11:47 pm<br />Subject: <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">NOT FOUND ON THE BROCHURE</span></span><br /><br /><br /></hellonewman@gmail.com></hellonewman@gmail.com></grumpyurbanslacker@gmail.com></grumpyurbanslacker@gmail.com><p class="MsoNormal">Hey Eric, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just came back from the Travel Mart Expo at Megamall. As expected, I nearly keeled over carrying the ten kilo-ton bag of brochures, flyers, etc. handed out at the booths. Kinda impolite, really, to refuse, especially if winsome ladies are thrusting them <span style=""> </span>at your face.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I took a quick glance at the brochures, and threw out most of them, though. They’re all so glossy . . . so perfect-looking, yet after a while, they all seem to be all the same. I mean, if its about a beach resort in Boracay or Palawan or wherever, you see this glorious sunset with a couple entwined in each other’s arms; kids frolicking in the fine white sand; a bikini-clad girl snorkeling or kayaking in the azure blue waters; etc.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">If its about a luxury spa nestled somewhere in an island or at the hills, you see close-up pictures of their aromatherapy oils and natural / herbal scrubs; sauna / Jacuzzi / bathroom <span style=""> </span>facilities with those to-die-for vertical showerheads; <span style=""> </span>heck, <span style=""> </span>even those flower petals floating on wooden bowls, while they wax euphoric about their detox programs and massages that <i style="">“rejuvenate the soul and revive the core of your inner being”</i>. Who writes these meaningless claptrap, anyway?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">What bugs me is that these perfect photos inflate your expectations, but once you get to the destination and see what it actually looks in real life, you feel deflated, misled even. Remember when we drove to Nurture Spa in Tagaytay? <span style=""> </span>The damn place looked so impeccably manicured and sterile and artificially put-together that it could have been Snow White’s garden where she played Trip to Jerusalem with the Seven Dwarfs every afternoon (of course, they have to let Grumpy win, every single time).</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, last Saturday, during our visit to Intramuros (I did mention in my last email about this travel writing workshop I was taking part of, right? You shoulda listen to this writer, KF; she has this enthralling way of speaking), I thought it would be fun to take some “real” pictures.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was perfect weather to be walking around and poking one’s nose into history: very light sun, a fair breeze, and no sign of dark clouds preceding a rainshower. I got there early. <span style=""> </span>Hmm . . . no sight of anyone looking like a fellow travel writer-wannabe, nor anyone remotely resembling our tour guide Ivan.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>I decided to buy some <i style="">taho</i> from an itinerant vendor and walk around Plaza Roma, the square right in front of Manila Cathedral. As you know, Intramuros is the oldest part of Manila and Manila Cathedral is no spring chicken itself, having been burned down a couple of times over the past three centuries and rebuilt each time. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In due time, everyone showed up and pretty soon, I was absentmindedly half-listening as Ivan animatedly fired away with a carload of historical tidbits about Intramuros, while resisting the urge to scratch an itchy spot <span style=""> </span>at the small of my back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Well, here’s something he probably has never noticed. Ever. There are <span style="font-weight: bold;">TWO GARGOYLES</span> guarding over the Manila Cathedral!! [triumphant chortle] Yup, from the looks of it, they scrutinize each and every visitor entering its doors from their vantage point at Plaza Roma (and probably put a curse on would-be thieves, who knows?) </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And I have here the pictures to prove it, too; one of them a close-up at that:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM5jpPw1rm5C0aa483Bq4FjnGEa7onOHVnyJBqZC2fhVZ3vwK-Hs99NVLDhv0p4LB51rl_yuCkIe1b-6cerblOPvAqLcF7ddCGJMmVmz7mzZpUVQeSnuB-71Qgy_C6gMU_hZ4_/s1600-h/DSC00733.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM5jpPw1rm5C0aa483Bq4FjnGEa7onOHVnyJBqZC2fhVZ3vwK-Hs99NVLDhv0p4LB51rl_yuCkIe1b-6cerblOPvAqLcF7ddCGJMmVmz7mzZpUVQeSnuB-71Qgy_C6gMU_hZ4_/s320/DSC00733.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106720175341091106" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpEDm6LjisEMS5OrzhVQKK-Hz95KYPKebjsBlg93yDkoLYohEI3EaTWixKSKrLBqAf7nDnStak0lYQprnTgTECgpH3vac84At5e1h1RYfh6QoDYv3YxRIcA6_2tgmGtNxXcs2/s1600-h/DSC00731.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpEDm6LjisEMS5OrzhVQKK-Hz95KYPKebjsBlg93yDkoLYohEI3EaTWixKSKrLBqAf7nDnStak0lYQprnTgTECgpH3vac84At5e1h1RYfh6QoDYv3YxRIcA6_2tgmGtNxXcs2/s320/DSC00731.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5107019246798813490" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1Z-mKGuCI/AAAAAAAAAIg/vmUqf8qMpUY/s1600-h/DSC00733.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1Z-mKGuCI/AAAAAAAAAIg/vmUqf8qMpUY/s320/DSC00733.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106336484437702690" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1Z-2KGuDI/AAAAAAAAAIo/c80RNA6_vu4/s1600-h/DSC00731.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1Z-2KGuDI/AAAAAAAAAIo/c80RNA6_vu4/s320/DSC00731.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106336488732670002" border="0" /></a>Fascinating, isn't it? Well, yes and no. Here's why:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4gHMZGi8Piz3FoCHHkRhDjngAjnpq7kl8ma1L3IF4Ehuxdn52KQT33Rb_JA1WVsAAWj7oGLI785ZU43fm8T3KiTrN59NwgmyYgaALFG8XNPao97DOI5i-UXkvWIKS1iq5ocqT/s1600-h/DSC00734.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4gHMZGi8Piz3FoCHHkRhDjngAjnpq7kl8ma1L3IF4Ehuxdn52KQT33Rb_JA1WVsAAWj7oGLI785ZU43fm8T3KiTrN59NwgmyYgaALFG8XNPao97DOI5i-UXkvWIKS1iq5ocqT/s320/DSC00734.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106720166751156498" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Yep, by my (unofficial) count, that' s 4 cigarette butts, 1 candy wrapper, a few lotto tickets; and strangely enough, some giant black ants happily swimming in the fetid water.<br /><br />Gargoyle B fared much worse. Take a look:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFc0GC1BRg2CeVN9wK9XIhfUJdpKKhKJ_OOEgh9qcNoPe7O4m83fqdlS6uK-Y4-Kz13qEWgiJhoikaX7eXxxd31QGwyF1uDkIJfU531CjMIiDwbR01rqJDM2MrEQqUStmQk7eE/s1600-h/DSC00730.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFc0GC1BRg2CeVN9wK9XIhfUJdpKKhKJ_OOEgh9qcNoPe7O4m83fqdlS6uK-Y4-Kz13qEWgiJhoikaX7eXxxd31QGwyF1uDkIJfU531CjMIiDwbR01rqJDM2MrEQqUStmQk7eE/s320/DSC00730.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106717972022868146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1Z_2KGuFI/AAAAAAAAAI4/a18sDE_B3uc/s1600-h/DSC00730.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1Z_2KGuFI/AAAAAAAAAI4/a18sDE_B3uc/s320/DSC00730.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106336505912539218" border="0" /></a>Tsk, tsk [shaking head vigorously]. Tsk, tsk, tsk.<br /><p class="MsoNormal">And those <i style="">Bahay na Bato</i> (stone houses) at Casa Manila? Remember you were quite impressed with them during our field trip back in Grade Three, and wanted Dad to tear down our house and rebuild it in the exact same style? Well, the whole thing is one big sham.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYOChHLYw_m4_I5MhXrWHEiz9VapoVbfMDAXo6pMNmPo1jITkYM31O5lT_obiNnD457b_L0lf66X7UKpzcg1lBCTTiaB5sB6_KoqMtj4WD46E8J94S8xDY6TrKoplRqvi7ehk/s1600-h/DSC00778.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYOChHLYw_m4_I5MhXrWHEiz9VapoVbfMDAXo6pMNmPo1jITkYM31O5lT_obiNnD457b_L0lf66X7UKpzcg1lBCTTiaB5sB6_KoqMtj4WD46E8J94S8xDY6TrKoplRqvi7ehk/s320/DSC00778.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5107019259683715394" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1aAGKGuGI/AAAAAAAAAJA/lCSW-iqZr5c/s1600-h/DSC00778.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1aAGKGuGI/AAAAAAAAAJA/lCSW-iqZr5c/s320/DSC00778.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106336510207506530" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">Turns out the design is not from the 1800s, as we had thought. No sir. It was Imelda the Iron Butterfly who had these built, <b style="">back in 1981.</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As Ivan pointed out, there were no such things as three-storey buildings a couple of centuries ago. Why, you ask? I dunno. [shrug]</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In fact, Imeldific<span style=""> </span>got the design of these stone houses from an old house in Jaboneros St., San Nicolas district in Binondo. An absolute disgrace, fooling tourists like this! <i style="">Gusto ko talagang sapatusin yang Imelda na yan!</i> (I want to bop her in the head with my fake, turquoise-blue Croc<span style=""> </span>sandal!!)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Oh yeah, we dropped by the equally historic San Agustin Church as well. It looks all magnificent and imposing in postcards and magazine articles about Philippine churches, i know; but up close, I’d say it’s in dire, dire need of a paint job. Take a look:</p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLpwIVEjgsaXPB1IEJgvOGPkTA8RO9LmNZJrm9cNRlGXZyy9S_B19evQolBtdhyGNNcQxiPxhTNNBePv-W3DjT4TUuirFh809U8PUGuChmvuBy0-peZx1dy9u0sXcD7NGtAYu3/s1600-h/DSC00747.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLpwIVEjgsaXPB1IEJgvOGPkTA8RO9LmNZJrm9cNRlGXZyy9S_B19evQolBtdhyGNNcQxiPxhTNNBePv-W3DjT4TUuirFh809U8PUGuChmvuBy0-peZx1dy9u0sXcD7NGtAYu3/s320/DSC00747.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106717997792671970" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1ckWKGuJI/AAAAAAAAAJY/ksFWnqXRu2k/s1600-h/DSC00747.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1ckWKGuJI/AAAAAAAAAJY/ksFWnqXRu2k/s320/DSC00747.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106339332001020050" border="0" /></a>Inside, we looked around some exhibits of religious figures, and even a mausoleum. Pictures were not allowed for the most part though, but no one seemed to be enforcing it anyway. <p class="MsoNormal">Check out this abaca press from the 18<sup>th</sup> century:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjteQ7YdMYL4g2QohV_zLmn-DwwvoOqo0hO2biKu5lDodcOncEG3PVkouGGxG8IA5iBULuBLI_y-oj6O6PGLi3EgarBU-PyjqVz-d_MiiZazkQOuK8EoRwfVb7tBzt4VZens8tv/s1600-h/DSC00766.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjteQ7YdMYL4g2QohV_zLmn-DwwvoOqo0hO2biKu5lDodcOncEG3PVkouGGxG8IA5iBULuBLI_y-oj6O6PGLi3EgarBU-PyjqVz-d_MiiZazkQOuK8EoRwfVb7tBzt4VZens8tv/s320/DSC00766.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106717976317835458" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1cjWKGuHI/AAAAAAAAAJI/U7TA5NB_Wx4/s1600-h/DSC00766.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1cjWKGuHI/AAAAAAAAAJI/U7TA5NB_Wx4/s320/DSC00766.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106339314821150834" border="0" /></a>I’ve no idea how exactly they used it, but it does look like a giant corkscrew or something like that, don't you think?<br /><p class="MsoNormal">Wellllll. . . not quite. Take a closer look. Here's a close-up pic of it now:</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGtt06CLAKc_2oQYPuLs7bvlpMaLrXvGSxT39tOKwsW6PDbyU8sBQRjqJ6yW7IjjE1p_TVImPi5iNhNHuI8_Ab4VwXRdNgKvPVabiddEm4FVcJWbeRNPjywkLs4E7O98sdZYj/s1600-h/DSC00765.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGtt06CLAKc_2oQYPuLs7bvlpMaLrXvGSxT39tOKwsW6PDbyU8sBQRjqJ6yW7IjjE1p_TVImPi5iNhNHuI8_Ab4VwXRdNgKvPVabiddEm4FVcJWbeRNPjywkLs4E7O98sdZYj/s320/DSC00765.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106717980612802770" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1cj2KGuII/AAAAAAAAAJQ/OlbOyQ7IXhE/s1600-h/DSC00765.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_7CcNe49T7wY/Rt1cj2KGuII/AAAAAAAAAJQ/OlbOyQ7IXhE/s320/DSC00765.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106339323411085442" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">Hah! Our ancestors really had incredible prescience!<span style=""> </span>They knew that those nincompoops at the Department of Tourism would be looking for something record-breaking, after inflicting <span style=""> </span>the biggest shoe in Marikina and the biggest strawberry cake in La Trinidad on us. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Damn right, here is the <span style=""> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Longest Phallic Symbol disguised as a Museum Artifact inside a Historical Church”</span> in the world, and it's right here in Intramuros, Manila, Philippines!</p><p class="MsoNormal">Now, this i wanna see in a brochure.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Your twin,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Peter</p>grumpyurbanslackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01352710951510373300noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-51258257142043889112007-09-17T22:45:00.000+08:002008-12-12T12:44:48.359+08:00one trip down One Quiapo Lane<div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><div><div><br />I wake to the sound of metal scraping. I sit up and peer with grogginess through our half opened bedroom window. I wrinkle my nose as I catch a whiff of a strong sour stench emanating from a floor down, almost knowing that a certain neighboring storeowner has ever so inconspicuously dumped his garbage again in front of our store sometime in the dark of the night.<br /></div><div>Two stray cats rummage the trash for salvageable feline necessities. In the middle of the narrow bumpy road of Evangelista Street, a group of boys has started their own version of a soccer game by kicking an empty rusted tin can around thus, making the scraping sound that woke me. I rub my eyes then I start to get ready for school. </div><br /><div>It is the eighties. My family has lived on the floor right above our appliance store since the early seventies. My Chinese-Filipino family thought it wise to have work and home close to each other. Right here where it once thrived as a river village with abundant water lilies named Kiapo. Hence, Quiapo. This is the district where the unique third-world dreamlike experience is strong with grittiness. This is where people come for the cheap bargains from electronics to native handicrafts, otherwise called Manila’s downtown. This is the place I’ve come to call home for most of my first ten years of existence.</div><br /><div>After I’ve been forcibly fed a bowl of oatmeal, my yaya takes me by the hand and leads me out to the busy streets of Quiapo. Right across our appliance store is an old man early at work engraving epitaphs on marbled blocks. He waves his hand and calls out, “Magandang umaga!” My yaya greets back. I smile in answer. </div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh86s1zsnnfOaMadOx3vnX2TVGSMZYwb-5jdcimeA-h1xXzEN0NNZnkYYtpx-bZDagTaZ8kArzjw6FZsMfp073_heqxIF6C53EwKOzA04BhaABeQOSk41qj3xjRvWeEfMt8SsktEA/s1600-h/epitaph.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111186768881394914" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh86s1zsnnfOaMadOx3vnX2TVGSMZYwb-5jdcimeA-h1xXzEN0NNZnkYYtpx-bZDagTaZ8kArzjw6FZsMfp073_heqxIF6C53EwKOzA04BhaABeQOSk41qj3xjRvWeEfMt8SsktEA/s320/epitaph.JPG" border="0" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7yyFgzgad_wbEOT5YhsBBTjFX-lnp1NuO2sMNAmNPYo5JJLm8RzZNGzfncOmFQ9u1ovF_7MiD-aX6ywfs9PJjAfTcsdPUZYn8cOUEPn4heljkgN6MYxANIXCNeOw9XJlklgwlw/s1600-h/q06.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111187408831522034" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7yyFgzgad_wbEOT5YhsBBTjFX-lnp1NuO2sMNAmNPYo5JJLm8RzZNGzfncOmFQ9u1ovF_7MiD-aX6ywfs9PJjAfTcsdPUZYn8cOUEPn4heljkgN6MYxANIXCNeOw9XJlklgwlw/s320/q06.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><div><br />The street is slowly coming alive as some storeowners have decided to open shop early today. There aren’t much people walking in the streets yet, mostly just the homeless getting up from their banigs or balikbayan-box-beds. Stereos begin blaring on both sides of the street; owners believing the notion of the more noise they make, the more customers they’ll attract.<br /></div><div>I look down at the concrete navigating my way around phlegmy spit and careful not to soil my black newly polished school shoes in anything as nasty as muck. Most likely horse dung since kalesas or colorful horse-drawn carriages are popular in this part of town. Another colorful means of transportation, with even more adornments and accessories than a fashionista, is the jeepney. A group of them huddled in a corner of the street waiting for passengers. My yaya and I get in one of them. The driver honks at the jeepney blocking the way, whose driver angrily yells, “Paliparin mo!” The jeepney finally moves as a cloud of thick dark smoke spews out from the muffler. We then head for school.</div><br /><div>Hours after, after classes, my yaya and I get dropped off by a pedicab at Plaza Miranda because I usually get a pink cotton candy on the walk back home. The plaza is packed, as expected during afternoons, with vendors selling and people buying rosaries, Sta. Nino statuettes, herbal medicine, and even love potions. We pay for the cotton candy and move deeper into the crowd and closer to the renowned Quiapo Church, otherwise known as St. John the Baptist Church. The church houses the Black Narazene, which many religious devotees claim to bring miracles. As a child, naivety makes you believe anything’s possible. I always smile at the thought of seeing miracles.</div><br /><div>Just a few feet away from the church are rows upon rows of fortune tellers which I always found funny because of the rather close proximity of religion and the mystic world. I waved hello to the manghuhula who foretold weeks ago that I’d get married by the age of twenty-seven and bear ten kids. We pass men selling funny-looking bright-colored bird puppets and plastic yoyos; men in low crouches looking the sinister type to pounce and mug you. Unbothered, I put a pinch of cotton candy in my mouth and let the pink puff melt on my tongue as we stroll out of the busy plaza.</div><br /><div>* * *</div><br /><div>Months after, my family moves out of the store’s second floor and into a house. I have never set foot again in Quiapo since. Until just last month, my mother needed some stocks delivered to our store in Quiapo so I decided I’d visit my hometown, see how it is and if it’s still as grubby and frenzied like how I remembered it almost two decades ago. I decide on wearing old sneakers, expecting to get my feet dirty from the grimy downtown pavement. I call Miyagi to brush up on my martial arts to fend off thugs and muggers. So imagine my shock when I finally see my old home again.</div><br /><div>My voice gets trapped in my throat. Yes, it’s still the same feisty place heady with personality but better. A blanket of filth from its signature garbage piles in the streets, fecal matter, the homeless and the disorderlies to the dark gloomy atmosphere… majority has been chiseled off to show a cleaner place with a little more structure.</div><br /><div>I stand in awe in front of our appliance store and take in the lively go-getting mood of the district. I see the shop which does the epitaphs for the dead is still there right across the street but not the same man at work from twenty years ago. With the roads less congested, I go out for a walk and see if the old church is still up and running. It still is. Seeing it for the first time again gave me a rather nice surprise --- Quiapo Church is a sight now; Plaza Miranda is stripped bare of the swarming vendors to reveal to me its gloriously clean tiles. It truly is a wonder. I ask a little girl selling sampaguitas, where all the vendors are now. She points to the side streets of the church. </div><div> </div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcCGCa4rbv6ANdyqze0nOZnyXbd9MyWWBO8bPYoM8plTzg36gXQq3onzKMcM9ocaWYBThw5rv1U0sohsnOCqL7JohMgOj48ZN1i6JPDF17Js_opoEyqGJPGCGS1Q-z8Gf2jOefWQ/s1600-h/q02.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111188113206158594" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcCGCa4rbv6ANdyqze0nOZnyXbd9MyWWBO8bPYoM8plTzg36gXQq3onzKMcM9ocaWYBThw5rv1U0sohsnOCqL7JohMgOj48ZN1i6JPDF17Js_opoEyqGJPGCGS1Q-z8Gf2jOefWQ/s320/q02.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvyeCQ-i_UStaqrsSMbFjQOyTo4e4cCZermdiIwurfkL9RDZf8HX55No7DGwnQXNOta5ot_zGGKG6nTJUodMyEMb4-vb4nB-SjCAux8rbEPLKNlIDAbGn_ww4iWbRrkGeej1Olw/s1600-h/q04.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111188113206158610" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvyeCQ-i_UStaqrsSMbFjQOyTo4e4cCZermdiIwurfkL9RDZf8HX55No7DGwnQXNOta5ot_zGGKG6nTJUodMyEMb4-vb4nB-SjCAux8rbEPLKNlIDAbGn_ww4iWbRrkGeej1Olw/s320/q04.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br />True enough, the vendors have moved to a more concealed area. It still caters to the masa for bargains from the mundane to the spiritual. I see branded imitations, cellphone accessories and pirated DVDs in every corner. The market is where having the right haggling techniques could bag you the cheapest buys. </div><div><br />The palm-readers and the fortune-tellers are still there. Candles in all imaginable colors are sold for specific spells. Wooden or plastic statuettes of Mother Mary and the Sto. Nino, rosaries of all sizes, a plethora of dried or powdered leaves, seeds and roots of medicinal plants. A wide choice of sidewalk and turo-turo cuisine for the adventurous palate.</div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjil7Nf075nOrDm6QQRXxnrPhHwyZEATgKZBDL5g96w04b16A-qu1x6TFxsjB-PFQn_uRuprC783ItBFXoav3MVfHEYrEdfsmH-g19a1pF32ZPdB_3azoWrB28DFcr1dGuge2on0Q/s1600-h/q01.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111194611491677474" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjil7Nf075nOrDm6QQRXxnrPhHwyZEATgKZBDL5g96w04b16A-qu1x6TFxsjB-PFQn_uRuprC783ItBFXoav3MVfHEYrEdfsmH-g19a1pF32ZPdB_3azoWrB28DFcr1dGuge2on0Q/s320/q01.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEaI3-nLJiBZbDcoaGhOs1cyQaZdiq5X-NUo4QmcgOfzMaDZAoyZYB2bQJ0VhCsLKSAqKsF6YsAqYW2n4emv1XDSdGhLBurFeHABJjW3JD8QaZsn-6j39aAcaxyouih62A081vvQ/s1600-h/q12.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111194611491677490" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEaI3-nLJiBZbDcoaGhOs1cyQaZdiq5X-NUo4QmcgOfzMaDZAoyZYB2bQJ0VhCsLKSAqKsF6YsAqYW2n4emv1XDSdGhLBurFeHABJjW3JD8QaZsn-6j39aAcaxyouih62A081vvQ/s320/q12.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br />My tummy doesn’t feel bold today. I walk over to a cotton candy stand right beside the Quiapo Church. I plop a tiny ball of candy in my mouth and becomes nostalgic. I think of the years spent here. I remember the fortuneteller’s hula that I’d get married at twenty-seven (HA!). I remember about the Nazarene and its miracles. I gaze out to the extraordinary change Quiapo has gone through. And I smile and let the pink puff melt in my mouth. </div></div></div></div>anjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02972900450965984563noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-40516542567658799102007-09-27T20:30:00.000+08:002008-12-12T12:44:46.468+08:00FELLOWSHIP OF THE FISH (DOS PALMAS, PALAWAN)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHly85hQjJTi9kVJrq7V0ZKowxE1PE4SHk3jh1pfmOaDPMZJ2pmvMVTomO3-YrNh7li5aTYv0czuQ55R6-xQ3ZjES6yFDDJqWpP7kB0oV6OI61ajQf1uaakvr3HUkJaXy-iriW/s1600-h/dospalmasfish.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 339px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHly85hQjJTi9kVJrq7V0ZKowxE1PE4SHk3jh1pfmOaDPMZJ2pmvMVTomO3-YrNh7li5aTYv0czuQ55R6-xQ3ZjES6yFDDJqWpP7kB0oV6OI61ajQf1uaakvr3HUkJaXy-iriW/s400/dospalmasfish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152210836897226018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />FELLOWSHIP OF THE FISH</span><br />(Part 4, Dos Palmas)<br /><br />While we were still planning the trip, i was resistant to the idea that we stay at the bay cottages. What was so hot about staying at a cottage standing on stilts out in the open water? What if the high tide rose and rose and drowned us in our sleep? Or a wayward shark decided to ram the stilts and have us for a midnight snack? And so on.<br /><br />As i was outvoted by my friends, we eventually did stay at bay cottage no. 8. And it turned out to be one of those small serendipitous things that spell the crucial difference between a so-so vacation and a truly enjoyable one.<br /><br />Why? Because the clear waters beneath the bay cottages were teeming with fish, lots and lots of fish. And they weren't the Nemo-type fish better suited for aquariums. . .these were <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> fish that you could actually eat, and there were schools and schools of them frolicking in the water with nary a care in the Neptune world. (well, at least it seemed that way)<br /><br />Pretty soon, R.C. got into the habit of asking the Dos Palmas staff for leftover bread, which we broke into little bits and started throwing into the water to feed the fish. Some of these guys literally leap to the surface and gulp down the bread, while others are more poised, and simply take a quick nibble at the floating bread.<br /><br />At times, two or more fish collide with each other while in pursuit of our bread, which proved quite entertaining. To liven things up even further, we throw many bits of bread into the water simultaneously, and watch as around a dozen or so fish converge on the morsels. Wow! And just for kicks, once or twice we threw in a whole slice of bread, and the fish all furiously swam towards it, each one biting off his or her respective chunk. Talk of an underwater stampede!<br /><br />There is just something oddly therapeutic about feeding the fish, its like time slows down. Eventually, we were feeding the fish in the morning, then whenever we were in our cottage during the afternoons, and then late in the evening after dinnertime. I think <span style="font-style: italic;">nabondat sila </span>[they stuffed themselves to the gills], since during late nights they sometimes refused to bite into the bread anymore.<br /><br />To illustrate how extreme this new hobby grew, i was soon taking bread rolls from the buffet spread just for our fishy friends. Then we noticed that some types of fish were slower than others, and thus always getting left behind in the race for the bread. So we tried aiming the bread bits very close to them, with positive results. Ahh. . .it's a great feeling knowing you've done your good deed for the year, haha :-D<br /><br />Then yours truly hatched an evil plot. Why don't we catch the fish and have them cooked? We could spread some sunblock on the bread before throwing these into water, and as the fish gobbled them up, they would get dizzy from the chemical smell and weird taste; thus, easy to catch! Unfortunately, this brilliant plan didn't get off the ground, due to the inconvenient fact that Dos Palmas strictly prohibited anyone from catching the fish. Darn!<br /><br />One sunny morning, we noticed that some schools of fish were gathered together in circles <span style="font-weight: bold;">(see photo above)</span>. What could they be doing? We tried throwing bread in their midst, to see if they would pursue it.<br /><br />Nope, they weren't biting. Absolutely nothing could disturb them.<br /><br />So, what could they be doing? Were these fish all part of one big family, and it was their weekly Sunday morning get-together? What were they talking about? The latest weather report? The new neighbors two nautical miles away?<br /><br />Not about those three bums throwing all sorts of stale bread at them, i hope.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">(For the rest of the Dos Palmas series, pls. check out my blog at www.grumpyurbanslacker.blogspot.com)<br /><br /><br /></span>grumpyurbanslackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01352710951510373300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-56667275550154076462007-09-30T20:58:00.000+08:002008-12-12T12:44:46.291+08:00Rosh Hashanah in Israel<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRV4T5KnLgRs93Y-tDQFRXBPSWB2vvgZ50xmmISln2TBWVL6vYKnp7UX8Kl6GqONgWcyy6ie3NQQIoyCx9_vAKxskGd_ag7_ff-n4_KVkUY58k-k7F3Xnrsf5UMQ3Tpl1dlEY/s1600-h/w+Jamie+Green.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRV4T5KnLgRs93Y-tDQFRXBPSWB2vvgZ50xmmISln2TBWVL6vYKnp7UX8Kl6GqONgWcyy6ie3NQQIoyCx9_vAKxskGd_ag7_ff-n4_KVkUY58k-k7F3Xnrsf5UMQ3Tpl1dlEY/s200/w+Jamie+Green.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119178827068720930" /></a><br />"<em>Hagsame!" </em> exclaimed a familiar voice onstage and I realized it was Jamie Green (in photo) of the Living Kabbalah System or referred to as "LKS" Level 1. His voice guided me in my first dip into Kabbalah six months ago.. and now, I find myself in Israel celebrating Rosh Hashanah (New Year) with 3000 students from all over the world. <br /> This is the first of everything for me - my first participation in a Kabbalah event, first time to be face-to-face with its founders - Rav Berg, his wife Karen, their sons Michael and Yehuda; first time to do mikveh; first time to be in Israel and the first time for the Kabbalah Center to have an Asian contingent- this is 12 of us from the Philippines.<br /> I didn't know what to expect. Kabbalah is being touted not as a religion but more of a spiritual technology, as a self help guide towards lasting fulfillment using ancient teachings. <br /> What drew me to attend this event was when David Ghyam, the 23-year old L.A.-based teacher in one of his lectures in the Philippines, said that Rosh Hashana is an opportunity "to wipe the slate clean"; to correct not only the negative actions of the last 12 months but also issues from past lives. He said that this is made possible through the confluence of several powerful forces during this specific period in time and for this year its from Sept 12 to 15.<br /> There was indeed some kind of powerful force present. I was in tears while singing and clapping, I was moved by the lectures, I felt some tingling sensation in my fingers and burning sensation in my ears. I just let go and was open to everything including the blowing of the shofar, the scanning of armaic letters and also in fact going to the ocean every morning (except on Shabbat) to do mikveh. This involves immersing the entire body into the water while doing specific meditations as a form of healing.<br /> The bottomline learning during the event is to treat everyone with human dignity; to put others before ourselves which is actually the basic tenet of any religion which can be referred to as the golden rule “do unto others what you want others to do unto you” or even ‘love thy neighbor’. <br /> The whole process involves changing of consciousness. Michael Berg said in his lecture the last day that “the way we view something changes the way it occurs.” I guess this is what is meant by wiping the slate clean. Berg said that, where consciousness is, is where our history is, and thereby we can transform retroactively today. <br /> Kabbalah is not an easy task. It requires constant study to learn the process to become better. Kabbalah encourages to love without reason (unconditional love), to go beyond conflicts (unity), to find joy and happiness in what has already been given (appreciation), resist the desire to react to instinctive impulses (reaction) and to accept responsibility for own actions (accountability). <br /> The world operates on a cause and effect. Whatever happens may be the result of a negative action that we have done a moment ago, yesterday, a week before, last year or even previous lifetimes. In a nutshell, another familiar voice from LKS Level 2 Michael Moscowitz sums up the best advice to resist reacting “when in doubt, shut up!”<em></em>Rosan Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01883465399235582604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-9568001720484749442007-11-23T14:08:00.000+08:002008-12-12T12:44:46.055+08:00Knowledge Channel in No Man's Land<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XiRSZnLjWk5O4_6BoIRk2sTvG_m6jaJFXGbIYzaXkVAInFvsD0NxIT1W1-zQMb-l_ePsIN3WpSk-WkOSISl4L5b5yn6rqulgMJX5X4E2Ug-NBNC66EHk6zMlkUtv3EzyWfyM/s1600-h/awang+school+blog.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XiRSZnLjWk5O4_6BoIRk2sTvG_m6jaJFXGbIYzaXkVAInFvsD0NxIT1W1-zQMb-l_ePsIN3WpSk-WkOSISl4L5b5yn6rqulgMJX5X4E2Ug-NBNC66EHk6zMlkUtv3EzyWfyM/s200/awang+school+blog.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135907905426102018" /></a><br />“No man’s land and where no one dared to tread” is how the school superintendent described Midsayap, North Cotabato last Nov 9 during the turnover ceremony of Knowledge Channel Foundation Inc.’s (KCFI) eTV facilities to San Isidro Elementary School. This is the 150th school or the final installation of KCFI’s 3-year USAID-assisted program called Television Education for the Advancement of Muslim Mindanao or TEAM-Mindanao for short. Some 78,529 students or so located in the most remote and isolated areas of Mindanao are now getting the quality education they rightfully deserve.<br /> <br />I am quite sad thoug that the project has ended. I heard that USAID did not include KCFI in its Phase Two leg. <br /><br />I’ve been to the remote remotest towns in Mindanao because of TEAM-M; particularly in the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) which is traditionally known as the most volatile area in the country. ARMM was created in 1990 and covers Sulu, Tawi-Tawi, Maguindanao, Lanao del Sur, Basilan and Marawi City. It is predominantly Muslim and unfortunately, the most imporverished region in the country, . <br /><br />Despite its notoriety, I find ARMM quite peaceful its people generous and in fact, I must say ‘corrupton-free’. I braved traversing the region’s end-to-end five times even at night. Compared to Luzon, the roads are well paved and well maintained with concrete bridges connecting the rivers. The drive is quite pleasant although the military checkpoints every few kilometers can be quite intimidating.. But the view is something else - -lush green countryside, rolling mountain range, the colorful garb of the various townsfolk, the fruit stands…. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi7GAj8Ggmk_wpPIymy_jHL5QPBSF6BhymrVPlUzOLhm2PG_3087otryeLfM04TZLAggd3yX-lsaT9EyXen4X00M1w8MyB3G0UDIx-UTR6_KmwSMuZ-TF2x2ar4s6u-7ukVbVq/s1600-h/paglas.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi7GAj8Ggmk_wpPIymy_jHL5QPBSF6BhymrVPlUzOLhm2PG_3087otryeLfM04TZLAggd3yX-lsaT9EyXen4X00M1w8MyB3G0UDIx-UTR6_KmwSMuZ-TF2x2ar4s6u-7ukVbVq/s200/paglas.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135908644160476946" /></a><br />I'm filled with nostalgia with this project ending. My first visit was in the very first installation in Paglas, Maguindanao three years ago, where Datu Toto Paglas and his sister Bai Nora hosted us in their family’s banana plantation (called La Frutera Banana Plantation, a 1,100 hectare farm of which Cavendish bananas are exported under the Chiquita, Unifrutti, Consol and Chico brands). Then to the Southernmost tip of the Philipines, Tawi Tawi on November 2005 where we had no choice but to take the navy boat accompanied by the marines to Languyan Island and from there be ferried by the only vehicle on the island (a dump truck) to the site.. And last week to witness the last installation in Cotabato. <br /><br />Aside from providing 150 schools with ETV (11 of which are high schools), the TEAM-M project produced "Salam" a 10-video peace education module and also "Negosyo Ko, Asenso ko" a 10-video livelihood module for out-of-school youths. It has improved teaching and learning capacities especially in the areas of Math, Science and English. I just hope that USAID's Phase Two can dare go to the other remote areas and cover more schools in the region.Rosan Cruzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01883465399235582604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-43581978673724048592008-11-25T22:43:00.002+08:002008-11-25T22:44:48.566+08:00<h2 class="date-header"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong></strong></span></h2><h2 class="date-header"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>FLYING ON MORE THAN WINGS AND A PRAYER</strong></span></h2><br /><br /><a name="114568643922710912"></a> <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4642/2087/1600/quicksilverplane.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4642/2087/400/quicksilverplane.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em></em><em></em><em></em><br /><em>"You only live once. Make it count, learn to fly."</em><br /><br />Fighting words indeed, I thought. It was a sunny Sunday morning, and I was standing inside the Angeles City Flying Club (ACFC) premises with my friends Theo and Heston, browsing through their brochure.<br /><br />First, a bit of background. Theo, apparently finding his medical studies not taxing enough and pursuing his lifelong dream to be an aviator, had taken the Sports Pilot certification course offered by the ACFC, and had actually been a licensed pilot for the past few years.<br /><br />The club claims to be the only full-service ultra-light aviation facility in the country. Tucked away in Sitio Talimundok, Sta. Maria, Magalang, Pampanga, our drive from Metro Manila this morning was a breeze, taking a mere 90 minutes.<br /><br />This would be the first flight for Heston and I. As we waited for our plane to become available, we spent quite a bit of time roaming around the hangar, looking over the various plane models parked there as well as watching other aircraft take off or land. Truth be told, getting up the air seemed a daunting prospect, as I was a certified world-class acrophobe. My mind was working overtime concocting all sorts of nightmare scenarios. Like, what if a 747 runs us over? Or the gas tank springs a leak?<br /><br />My initial apprehensions turned into a veritable tsunami of trepidation as I caught sight of our aircraft of choice. It was called the Quicksilver MXL II, and quite contrary to my expectation of a small aircraft wherein the pilot climbs into the cockpit in front and his passenger sits at the back seat, this was an OPEN cockpit two-seater. Essentially, the pilot and passenger sit side-by-side, equipped only with an instrument panel, joystick and pedals for steering and braking. Literally and figuratively, there is almost nothing between you and the great blue sky. Yikes!<br /><br />Heston had volunteered to be Theo's first passenger. Theo and the ACFC personnel assiduously went through the routine pre-flight check-up to ensure everything was in top condition. Heston was securely buckled up onto his seat, and given goggles and helmet to wear. The pilot and passenger can communicate with each other up in the air, as their helmets have built-in radio transmission. (No barf bags though) In the very remote event that the engine fails and they need to bail out, pulling a lever releases a rocket-propelled parachute, enabling the plane to make a soft landing.<br /><br />Theo further assured me that the mechanics make a complete disassembly and inspection of each aircraft every 25 hours of flying time. They are cleared for take-off, and disappear into the horizon. After what seems like ages, they re-appear and gradually loom larger and larger until touchdown.<br /><br />I half-ran over to them. Heston looked a bit dazed, although none the worse for wear. "Not scary," he assured me, while giving a thumbs-up sign. "The flat fields make it hard to judge how high up you are, anyway." But then, Heston has never been one to be easily scared. I mean, he can watch <em>Dracula</em> or <em>Nightmare on Elm St.</em> movies with nary a flinch, while eating fried chicken.<br /><br />Showtime. It was now my turn.<br /><br />"Can't we just hover 50 feet above the ground?" I half-pleaded plaintively, as we went through pre-flight routine once more. Unfortunately, my brilliant suggestion was met with resounding indifference.<br /><br />The control tower cleared us for take-off. Despite all the reassuring safety measures, I was sweating bullets as we gathered speed along the 450-meter grass runway. We were off! The ground below grows increasingly farther away as we steadily climb until reaching an altitude of about 500 feet. Rather disconcertingly, when you are up in the air, you feel as though you are hardly moving.<br /><br /><em>Top Gun</em> this isn't. Not even <em>Iron Eagle</em>, for that matter.<br /><br />But this is actually a positive thing. There is time to savor the hot sun and feel the rush of cold wind blowing at our faces and marvel at the verdant expanse of rice fields with an odd carabao or two grazing contentedly in the mud. We head towards the direction of Mt. Arayat, where thankfully some forest cover still remains.<br /><br />Strong winds buffet the plane, but it remains surprisingly stable. The air is now quite chilly, and I wish I had anticipated the cold and worn a jacket. While my nerves are mostly calm now, I still maintain a vise-like grip on one of the support beams. Theo puts on his best bedside manner (the guy is, after all, a neurosurgeon) and provides droll commentary on the various points of interest we were flying over. Banking sharply away from Mt. Arayat, we fly over more rice fields and farms, and eventually follow the path of the Pampanga River.<br /><br />At this point, it dawned on me that ultra-light flying is actually very safe. With maximum altitudes of 800 feet and top speeds at 55-60 kph, my wild fears earlier were all but unfounded.<br /><br />Besides, once you are up in the air with such a great birds' eye-view of Philippine countryside, you just can't help but wonder at nature's grandeur all around you, and time seems to move unhurriedly. For an ephemeral period, I felt totally free of any cares.<br /><br />Theo offered to let me try manning the controls for a second, but sadly, I reverted back to my usual acrophobic self and failed to rise to the occasion. Soon, it was time to go back to the airfield.<br /><br />We steadily reduced altitude and started preparing for landing. I couldn't figure out where the airfield was, and wondered aloud to Theo how pilots of these ultra-light planes could tell direction. "I mean, North is what is in front of me, right?" He shot me a you're-bloody-useless-with-a-compass-look and concentrated on the task at hand. He expertly maneuvered the plane towards the runway at high speed and made a semi-steep dive towards it. Whew!<br /><br />Back to the safe familiar confines of terra firma, I felt a mixture of relief and accomplishment. True, this plane ride ranked among the scariest and longest 30 minutes of my life, but it was definitely among the most exhilarating 30 minutes as well! I would like to think I faced my fears head-on and came out a winner.<br /><br />As we were driving along North Expressway back to Manila, I vowed to myself that I should come back someday for another round of open cockpit flying. . .and perhaps take the controls next time? Hah!<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>grumpyurbanslackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01352710951510373300noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-29467682515845759972008-10-26T21:58:00.003+08:002008-10-26T22:01:27.858+08:00<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span><span>SPEEDING ON THE EXPRESSWAY IN BOMBAY </span><br /><span>(Part One, Mumbai-HK)</span></span></span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >That old saying comes to mind: When in Mumbai, do as the Mumbainites (Mumbaiers? Mumbites? Bombay bombers??) do.<br /><br />The sun was shining unbearably hot during the middle of the afternoon. Having finished the day's work, my friend JPL and i were looking for a way to get back to the cozy, airconditioned confines of our hotel, Grand Hyatt Mumbai.<br /><br />Having been fleeced big-time by a taxi driver earlier that morning, who refused to use the meter and insisted on charging us a fixed rate, JPL and i paid no heed to the taxi drivers clamoring to take us back to our hotel. Heck, if i knew how to say <span style="font-style: italic;">"Go to hell!</span>" in Hindi, i would have done so.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgErFya7P_MJEGVU5H6yScHtb_nByW5815Jla2bvZoo0_E9-x2mqIJOJaqUaWwGUm0xf6D1sie0HWKHI3JeTQGQgpqf7PpVY6rYn4SASD1eRJeorzd2hBXUCDgY-qI76ABj0eXY/s1600-h/DSC01637.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgErFya7P_MJEGVU5H6yScHtb_nByW5815Jla2bvZoo0_E9-x2mqIJOJaqUaWwGUm0xf6D1sie0HWKHI3JeTQGQgpqf7PpVY6rYn4SASD1eRJeorzd2hBXUCDgY-qI76ABj0eXY/s400/DSC01637.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261436495928021634" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >So we decided to take a chance on a<span style="font-style: italic;"> tuktuk, </span>basically a souped-up tricycle (see above pic).<br /><br />Unfortunately, the drivers were quite tricky and wanted to charge us a fixed fee as well, instead of using their meters. After some half-hearted protestations and muttered curses underneath our breaths, JPL and i capitulated due to the searing heat and agreed to the sum of INR150 (around US$3.00).<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, what can we expect? They're all Indians!"</span> I shrugged resignedly.<br /><br />There was some confusion with regards to our destination. According to Samit, our driver, <span style="font-style: italic;">"There are two Hyatt hotel, the Grand Hyatt and the Hyatt Regency. One is near domestic airport, another near international airport. Which one you in?"</span><br /><br />JPL replied, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Grand Hyatt."<br /><br /></span>With a rather diffident look on his face, he started again,<span style="font-style: italic;"> "There are two Hyatts. . . ."<br /><br /></span>I cut Samit off<span style="font-style: italic;">, "We are at Grand Hyatt!"<br /><br /></span>After so more back and forth exchanges, the terrible truth dawned on us: <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Samit didn't know which Hyatt was near which airport!</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br />He asked, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Can you call them [the hotel]?"</span><br /><br />Quite annoyed by now, i retorted, <span style="font-style: italic;">"We don't know the number!"</span><br /><br />He persisted, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Address? Is it near Sahar airport?"</span><br /><br />JPL and i looked at each other quizzically. We didn't know our hotel's address, nor had we heard of Sahar airport! I hesitantly replied, <span style="font-style: italic;">"It's off the expressway. . ." </span><br /><br />But this was no help at all. Fortunately, JPL was able to fish around in his pockets for the hotel key card; and finally, it became clear to Samit where he was supposed to take us.<br /><br />Samit turned out to be a whirling dervish on the road, wheeling in and out of traffic as though his pants were on fire. With all the overtaking and swerving he did, we came within inches of colliding not only with other <span style="font-style: italic;">tuktuks</span>, but also with motorcycles, taxis, trucks and even a bus or two.<br /><br />Check out the pic below, showing the view from the backseat of the <span style="font-style: italic;">tuktuk</span>:<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJxmLgbaz9WZI99zZG5EjT3D-d0_g4MXSf6J-WUOJiRi1Ba4k1eP72oUiRlMN06AVBBwMO5SmIdlcMXeztV2aN7R3oiwZqanA6GN8GTnvb_j9ccHXrTi6LEPFRpyQL7pnD1TbK/s1600-h/DSC01636.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJxmLgbaz9WZI99zZG5EjT3D-d0_g4MXSf6J-WUOJiRi1Ba4k1eP72oUiRlMN06AVBBwMO5SmIdlcMXeztV2aN7R3oiwZqanA6GN8GTnvb_j9ccHXrTi6LEPFRpyQL7pnD1TbK/s400/DSC01636.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261436499804007858" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br />Of course, our ride would not have been complete without the obligatory tourist chatter. Samit asked, <span style="font-style: italic;">"First time in Mumbai?"</span><br /><br />After hearing our assent, he smiled and asked further, <span style="font-style: italic;">"You like it?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Hell, NO!! Your city stinks to high heavens, the roads are dusty and full of beggars and all you taxi and tuktuk drivers are nothing but a bunch of cheats and the traffic is horrible and the heat is even more horrible!!!" </span>was what went through my mind and was at the tip of my tongue.<br /><br />But playing the nice tourist for once, i merely said, through gritted teeth, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Yes, nice place." </span>Hell, i felt my nose getting longer by the second. Grrrr!!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Samit asked, <span style="font-style: italic;">"You from Nepal?"</span><br /><br />I wanted to give a sharp retort, <span style="font-style: italic;">"No, we're from Timbuktu!"</span> But JPL, being the kind person that he was, set him straight as to our country of origin.<br /><br />Upon JPL's inquiry, Samit informed us that his <span style="font-style: italic;">tuktuk</span> used Compressed Natural Gas (CNG) and oil, not gasoline or diesel. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Efforts to have a continued conversation were hampered by the honking horns, rumbling motors and street noise. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Which was just as well. We pressed him regarding exactly what type of oil was he using, but dropped the matter, as Samit had the disconcerting habit of <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">taking his eyes off the road and tilting his head to the right side, so he could look at us while talking.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Look out!"</span> i cried, as we barely missed falling into a roadside ditch by inches.<br /><br />Eventually, we arrived at the Grand Hyatt Mumbai a bit shaken, not stirred, happily with all limbs intact.<br /><br />Oh, as i reached for my wallet to pay Samit the agreed-upon sum of INR150, he smiled and said, <span style="font-style: italic;">"INR200 </span>[around US$4.00]<span style="font-style: italic;"> please, due to long distance."</span><br /><br />With our comfy hotel room beckoning, i did not even bother to argue and handed over the Rupee notes. (Sigh) Fleeced again!<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>grumpyurbanslackerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01352710951510373300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-8939440284817897722008-09-10T11:34:00.003+08:002008-09-10T11:38:37.395+08:00Ang Pagbabalik sa Caticlan<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> Naglayon akong magtungo sa Camiguin pagkatapos ng aking maikling bakasyon sa Caticlan pero pinigil ako ng aking pilay sa tuhod. Kinailangan kong magtungo sa ospital halos araw-araw upang magpa-<i>physical therapy</i>. Ayon sa aking <i>physical therapist</i>, maaari naman akong magbiyahe basta hindi ako maglalakad masyado. Sa tinuran niyang ito, naging masigasig akong sundin ang lahat ng mga bilin ng aking manggagamot. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Kaya naman napakahirap para sa akin ang desisyong huwag tumuloy. Kung sakali, ito kasi ang aking unang pagkakataong magtungo sa Camiguin. Hindi ko matutukoy kung gaano karaming lakaran ang magaganap. Magkakalayo pa mandin ang mga gusto kong puntahan. Mas mainam kung ipapahinga ko ang aking tuhod at umasang kakayanin ko na sa susunod na linggo. Natapos ang aking <i>therapy</i> dalawang linggo makalipas.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ang kalikasan naman ang humadlang noong sumunod na linggo. Kahit na lakbay na lakbay na ako, makakabuting tumigil na lamang ako sa bahay sa aking <i>rest days</i>. Idagdag pa natin ang umpisa ng klase sa pamantasan. Naatasan agad akong maghanda ng presentasyon para sa isang klase sa susunod na linggo. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Naging bakante ako, sa wakas, noong huling linggo ng pagkabisa ng aking <i>adventure pass</i>. Nagpa-<i>book</i> ako ng lipad sa aking <i>rest days</i>. Pinaalalahanan ako ng isang kawani sa kanilang tanggapan na isang araw lamang ang maaari kong gamitin. Wala akong nagawa kundi magpa-<i>book</i> ng lipad pabalik sa Caticlan nang ika-walo ng umaga at pauwi sa Maynila nang ika-lima ng hapon. Kung ibabawas ko ang oras na ilalagi ko sa paliparan, masasabing anim na oras lamang ang aking bakasyon. Nakakabitin kung iisipin pero inisip ko na lamang na hindi lahat ng tao ay may ganitong pagkakataon upang masilayan ang kagandagan ng naturang isla.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Natatandaan kong napanood ko sa bus ang isang <i>episode</i> ng <i>Extra Challenge</i> bago ako tumulak. Dahil tinawag nila itong “Walang Liguan sa Boracay<i> Challenge</i>”, ang mga kalahok tulad nina Jen Rosendahl at Mickey Ferriols ay hindi maaaring maligo sa loob ng dalawang araw. Ilan sa kanilang mga pagsubok ay magpaunahang matunaw ang isang piraso ng mantikilya sa kanilang tiyan at paggamit ng hilaw na itlog bilang <i>volleyball</i>. Tunay na napakahirap nito kung ganoon kalalagkit ang dadapo sa iyong katawan. Lalo na kung sadyang mapanukso ang paglapit ng mga alon sa buhangin.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ang palabas na ito ang nagsilbing inspirasyon ko upang hamunin ang aking sarili ng “Walang Banlawan at Walang Kainan sa Boracay”. Dapat kong igugol ang aking maikling panahon sa paglangoy at pagpapa-<i>tan</i> lamang! Ang pagligo naman ay sa Makati na magaganap. Hindi ko na kailangang maghanap ng matutulugan kaya posible naman ito. Ang pag-iwas sa pagkain? Ito ang tunay na hamon! Naisip kong kakayanin ko naman kasi hindi ko na maaabutan ang pagbukas ng <i>buffet</i> sa <i>Station</i> 3. Marami akong kinain bago lumipad bilang paghahanda rito. Kahit na batid kong papansin at marupok sa tukso ang aking tiyan, umaasa akong mananaig pa rin ang aking hangaring manalo.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sa pagkakataong iyon, naging madali ang aking pagtungo sa isla mula sa paliparan. Natatandaan ko pa ang daan. Naging magaan ang lahat, tila wala akong baong agan-agam. Kumpara sa aking unang biyahe, isang <i>see-through</i> <i>beach bag</i> lamang ang aking dala. Tuwalya, sarong, damit na pampalit, <i>cellphone</i> at pitaka lamang ang aking dala. Naka-<i>tankini</i> at <i>bikini</i> na ako sa ilalim ng aking puting <i>t-shirt</i> at <i>capri pants</i>. Subalit, nalimutan ko pa ring magdala ng <i>ponytail</i>. Kailangan ko ito sa aking paglangoy upang hindi bumuhaghag ang aking buhok pagkatapos. Dahil dito, sa talipapa ang aking unang destinasyon sa isla.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Masyado pa yatang maaga para sa talipapa. Hindi pa bukas ang karamihan ng mga tindahan. Medyo natagalan ako sa paghahanap ng mabibilhan ng <i>ponytail</i>. Sa katunayan, hindi ko labis na naibigan ang disenyo ng aking nabili. Kailangan ko lamang talaga.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nakunsensiya akong lisanin ang naturang pamilihan nang walang binibiling pasalubong. Wala talaga akong balak mag-uwi. Sariwa pa sa aking damdamin ang hinanakit sa aking nanay. Natagpuan ko kasi ang inuwi kong malaking <i>bag</i> para sa kanya sa aking silid. Inunahan ko na rin ang aking mga kaibigang huwag umasang makakapagdala ako ng pasalubong dahil nagtitipid ako. Pinilit kong kalimutan ang sumagi sa aking diwa. Hindi dapat makaramdam ng kalungkutan sa aking bakasyon!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dinala ako ng aking mga paa sa <i>Station</i> 1. Mas gusto ko kasi ang buhangin doon kaya minabuti kong doon magtampisaw. Naghanap ako ng banyo upang makapaghubad ng damit. Naglatag ako ng sarong, nagpahid ng <i>tanning lotion</i> at tumakbo sa tubig-dagat upang maglublob. Napansin kong puro lumot ang nakalutang sa tubig. Ang tabing-dagat nama’y tadtad ng mga basura. Ang salaula naman ng mga turistang nauna sa akin!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Maya maya’y bumalik ako sa aking sarong upang magbilad. Tulad ng nakagawian, naghukay muna ako ng ilang dipa ng buhangin upang hindi mahirapan ang aking dibdib. Mataas na ang araw kumpara sa nakaraan kong pagpapa-<i>tan</i>. Umasa akong mas magiging madali ang lahat. Ang aking adhikain bago umuwi? Magpa-itim. Iyong tipong isusuot na lamang ako sa plastik, daing na ako.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Tulad ng dati, halinhinan ang paglangoy at pagbilad ko. May pagkakataong nakakarinig ako ng bulong na magsadya muna sa Jonah’s bago bumalik sa aking puwesto sa buhangin. Pero hindi ako nagpa-alipin sa tinig na iyon.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang tanghali na, nahalata kong lumalakas ang puwersa ng tubig. Hindi ko na kailangan pang umahon, dinadala na ako ng alon sa buhangin kahit labag sa kalooban ko. Kahit kapag nasa tabing-dagat lamang ako, napapaatras ako sa lakas ng pagtulak sa akin. Minsan pa’y hinahampas ako ng mga lumot, kahoy at mga basurang lumulutang dito. Hindi ko ito ininda. Matagal-tagal din akong nasabik sa Boracay. Hindi ako aalis.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Pero nakuha ko ring umalis. Hindi ko matiis ang kalam ng aking sikmura. Nagtungo ako sa isang kainan upang pawiin ang aking gutom. Tinanong ng kahera ang aking pangalan pagkatapos kong um-<i>order</i>, mukhang ililista niya sa aking resibo. Natigilan ako nang sandali at sumagot, “Vivian”.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Habang nasa hapag, bigla kong naalala sina Cherry at Alex. Kamusta na kaya sila? Nasa isla pa rin kaya sila o bumalik na sa Iloilo? O baka naman sa Maynila? Nagdalawang-isip ako kung papadalhan ko sila ng mensahe. Natakot akong baka pilitin nilang puntahan ako kung naroroon pa sila. Masaya pa mandin akong walang kasama. Pero nangibabaw pa rin ang hangad kong mangamusta. Ipinaalam ko sa kanilang kasalukuyan akong nagpapakabusog sa isla. Wala akong natanggap na tugon.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hindi roon nagtapos ang utos ng aking tiyan. Bumili rin ako ng <i>chocolate-peanut milkshake</i>. Hindi ko pa ito nasusubukan. Huli na nang maalala kong naiwan ko ang bote ng Jonah’s nang nakaraan kaya dapat nagpa-<i>takeout</i> ako upang magkaroon ng bagong bote. Nakakaulol kasi ito sa sarap! Papasok pa lamang ako, tinakasan na ako ng aking diwa.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Matapos nito, nagsadya ako sa isang banyo upang buhusan ang mga buhangin sa aking mukha, dibdib, hita at sa iba pang bahagi ng aking katawan. Pandaraya ba ito? Hindi naman ako naligo. Nagpalit na rin ako ng damit. Muli kong sinuot ang aking <i>capri pants</i> at sinuot ko ang baon kong itim na <i>t-shirt</i>.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hindi ganoon kadaling tanggaping malapit na akong umuwi. Naglakad-lakad ako upang pagmasdan muli ang buong isla. Napansin kong kakaunti na ang mga turista kumpara sa una kong pagdalaw. Palibhasa’y patapos na kasi ang Hunyo noon. Nakakasunog ang sikat ni Reynang Araw. Matatandaang maraming pumigil sa aking tumulak sapagkat halos bahain na ang Makati sa lakas ng ulan kagabi. Buti na lamang at hindi ako nagpaawat. Hindi rin naman sigurong masama kung uulan sa Boracay. May nabasa ako sa isang <i>in-flight magazine</i> kung saan may isang banyagang sa isla nakatira na nagwikang higit na kaaya-aya ang kulay ng karagatan ng Boracay kapag tag-ulan. Higit pa roon, matagal na akong hindi nakakaligo sa ulan. Walang kapantay ang malayang pakiramdam na nakakamit ko kapag ginagawa ko ito kasama ng aking mga kapatid. Tunay na nangungulila ako sa ganoong pagkakataon. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Natigil ang aking balintataw nang masilayan ko ang isang grupo ng mga batang naglalaro sa buhangin. Hindi sila bumubuo ng kastilyo. Tila gumagawa sila ng <i>aquarium</i>. Nasa lumang lalagyan ng <i>ice cream</i> ang mga maliliit na isda. Nakatunghay sila rito. Ang ilan naman ay tila nangingisda upang makapagdala ng bagong isdang ilalagay rito. Hindi ko man nauunawan ang kanilang sinasabi, batid kong naaaliw sila sa kanilang ginagawa. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Tumatak din sa aking isipan ang mga kumpanyang ginamit ang mga bangka bilang pagkakataon upang iendorso ang kanilang produkto. May namataan pa akong bangka na ang disenyo ay kawangis talaga ng <i>humps</i>. Pinili kong ibaling sa iba ang aking paningin. Umiiwas ako sa mga alaala ng siyudad!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Subalit dumating na ang takdang oras ng aking pagbabalik. Wala na akong pilay pero tila mabigat ang aking mga hakbang. Sa pagkakataong iyon, naging makatotohanan ang aking pagtanggi sa mga nag-alok na buhatin ako paakyat ng bangka. Nangungusap naman ang aking mga mata sa aking huling tanaw sa karagatan. Matatagalan marahil ang aking pagbabalik. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hindi naman naulit ang mga pagtatanong ng mga guwardiya ukol sa aking pag-iisa. Pero nagtagal ako sa <i>boarding terminal</i>, hindi pamilyar ang mga kawani sa <i>adventure pass</i> na ipinakita ko. Naturingan pa mandin silang empleyado ng Seair! Ako pa ang nagpaliwanag kung ano ito. Hindi naman napigilan ng isang lalaking usisain kung totoong mag-isa lamang ako. Tumugon ako, baka may nakikita silang kasama ko na hindi ko napapansin. Hindi na ako nagpaunlak ng paliwanag kung bakit pinili kong mag-isa.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Punong-puno ng tao ang loob ng paliparan. Nahuli yata ang eroplanong nakatakdang lumisan bago ako dumating kaya naman siksikan ang mga turista rito. Wala akong maupuan. Sa mga ganitong pagkakataon, hindi ako umaasang may lalaking titindig upang ibigay ang kanyang upuan. Hindi rin naman mabigat ang aking dala kaya hindi na masama. Hindi rin nagtagal, dumating na ang eroplanong kanilang hinihintay. Nakaupo rin ako agad. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Kalahating oras rin ang aking hihintayin bago lumapag ang eroplanong sasakyan ko. Sa pagtatangkang aliwin ang aking sarili, ginamit ko ang aking <i>cellphone</i> upang kunan ng litrato ang aking pulang <i>bag</i>. Alam kong magugulantang ang aking mga kaibigan na makitang kakaunti lamang ang aking dala. Hindi ako natutuwa sa resulta kaya paulit-ulit ko itong ginawa. Dumating sa punto na nilipat ko ang <i>monobloc</i> na naglalaman ng aking bag sa harap mismo, upang maaninag ang eroplanong nag-aabang sa labas bilang <i>background</i>. Nang tagumpay ang aking pagkukuha ng litrato, napansin kong nakatitig pala sa akin ang isang grupo ng kabataan. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ilang minuto pa! Tunay na nakakainip maghintay. Nakaramdam ako nang panghihinayang, sana’y iginugol ko ang oras sa isla. Pero ayoko rin namang mahuli. Sana talaga ay may kakayahan akong mag-<i>astral travel</i>! Nagpadala ako ng mensahe sa ilang kaibigan upang mairaos ang inip. Kinumpirma ko rin sa isang kaibigang tuloy ang aming lakad nang gabing iyon. Panonoorin namin ang aking paboritong bandang tumugtog sa saGuijo. Ipinagyabang ko rin ang <i>tan lines</i> na ipapakita ko sa madla maya-maya. Natuwa naman siya para sa akin.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Wala akong inaksayang oras nang ianunsiyong maari na kaming sumakay sa eroplanong pabalik sa Maynila. Lubos ang aking pagpapasalamat na nasa tabi na naman ako ng bintana. Magiging abala ako sa aking pagsulyap sa mga islang aming dadaanan. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dahil hindi ko na maaaring gamitin ang aking <i>cellphone</i>, naisipan kong tignan ang aking sarili sa salamin. Lumuwa ang aking mga mata sa tumambad sa akin. Pulang-pula ang aking ilong at kanang pisngi. Sana man lang pati ang kaliwa para pantay. Pasalamat naman akong pantay ang pamumula ng aking mga mata. Isang himala na walang lumalapit sa akin upang sayisatin kung ako ba ay lango sa alak o humithit ng <i>marijuana</i>. Nagimbal rin ako sa buhanging dala-dala ng anit ko. Isang pagkakamali na magsuot ng itim na <i>t-shirt</i>. Hindi ako nalalayo sa mga modelo ng patalastas na may balakubak kuno! Bigla akong nakaramdam ng kahihiyan. Hindi ako si Lorna. Ako si Vivian!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang lumapag na ang eroplano, tumalilis ako sa pagtakbo upang makahanap agad ng <i>taxi</i>. Sabi ko’y kailangan naming humarurot patungo sa aking opisina sa Ayala Avenue sa Makati. Nakarating naman kami. Subalit laking malas ko nang mabatid na sarado ang paliguan. Lumipat ako sa iba naming gusali malapit sa Pasong Tamo. Laking pasasalamat ko nang makaligo na ako sa wakas. Mapula pa rin ang ilang bahagi ng aking mukha, pero umasa akong mas makakatawag-pansin ang nakalitaw kong <i>tan lines</i>. Ako na uli si Lorna. At ako lamang ang makakaisip magpunta sa Boracay sa loob ng anim na oras!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>lornadahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14331297415219351515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-4783228766419878862008-08-28T17:19:00.006+08:002008-08-28T17:41:41.927+08:00Pagbabaliktanaw: Aking Karanasan sa Caticlan<p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ang aking unang biyahe mag-isa ay hindi ko inaasahan. Hindi pa ako masyadong naglalakbay noon. Sa katunayan, naganap ito sa taon ng 2005: ang taong lubusang umusbong ang aking interes sa pagbiyahe. Sanay naman ako sa biyahe. Laging malayo ang aking paaralan sa aking tirahan mula nang ako ay bata pa. Nagtutungo rin kami ng aking pamilya sa probinsiya ng aking ama sa Maasin sa Timog Leyte at minsan sa Cagayan de Oro upang magbakasyon at makapiling ang aming ibang kamag-anak. Minsan na rin akong sinama ng aking ina kapag may biyahe sila ng kanyang mga ka-trabaho, tulad ng bakasyon nila sa Baguio. Marahil hindi ako maagang namulat sa biyahe sapagkat hindi masyadong mahilig ang aking ina rito. Lumaki naman akong hindi kapiling parati ang aking ama sapagkat naninilbihan siya bilang kusinero sa barko. Kahit na taga-Bicol ang aking lolo (+) at taga-Antique naman ang aking lola, hindi naman sila bumalik doon. Subalit alam kong gusto kong makarating kung saan-saan, salat lang marahil na pagkakataon.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />Nag-umpisa ang lahat nang magwagi ako sa isang paligsahan ng pahayagang <i>Philippine Daily Inquirer</i> (PDI). Ang panuto ay hulaan kung sino ang mananalo sa mga kalahok ng isang patimpalak na walang pinagkaiba sa kilalang programang, “<i>The Amazing Race". </i>Laking gulat ko nang makatanggap ng tawag mula sa isang kaibigan, nasa pahayagan raw ang aking pangalan at nagwagi ako sa naturang paligsahan.<span style="color:red;"> </span><span style="color:black;">Nang mabalitaan ko ito, agad-agad kong sinadya ang tanggapan ng <i>Southeast Asia Airlines (Seair</i>) upang kunin ang aking pabuya: ang <i>adventure pass.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ang pag-aari nito ay nangangahulugang may kakayahan akong magbiyahe sa anumang destinasyon sa Pilipinas sa loob ng apatnapu’t limang araw.<span style="color:red;"> </span>Kung hindi ko ito napanalunan, ito ay nagkakahalaga ng P16,500. Kailangan kong ipaalam sa kanila ang aking mga balak upang maisama ako sa bilang ng mga pasahero. Bigla akong nanlumo, kung maaari lamang ibalik ang <i>adventure pass </i>upang mapagplanuhan kong maigi ang lahat at upang makapagyaya ng mga makakasama. Masyado akong nasilaw sa aking pabuya. Tumatakbo ang oras!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ipinaalam ko sa lahat ng aking kaibigan ang aking premyo. Tulad ng aking inaasahan, natuwa sila para sa akin at nainggit na rin. Niyakag ko silang samahan ako sa aking paglibot sa Pilipinas. Subalit hindi sila pwede. Mayroong kagagaling lang sa bakasyon at wala nang panggastos, mayroon namang hindi magkatugma ang aming iskedyul at karamihan nama’y walang naiipon upang makabili rin ng <i>adventure pass.</i> Kahit isang destinasyon lamang, hindi rin maaari.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Bigla akong nalumbay. Ito na ang pagkakataon kong masilayan ang kagandahan ng mga inaasam kong destinasyon tulad ng Caticlan, Palawan, Batanes at Camiguin, subalit hindi ko naman magagamit. Ang masaklap pa, hindi ako agad-agad makakapagbiyahe sapagkat baguhan lamang ako sa kumpanya noon, hindi pa maaaring lumiban. Bukod pa rito, nataon ang aking pagkapanalo sa aking aplikasyon bilang <i><span style="color:black;">graduate student</span></i> sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas sa Diliman noon. Kailangan akong maging libre sa loob ng susunod na dalawang linggo para sa aking nalalapit na pagsusulit at kapanayam. Nataon rin na may sira ang aking kamera nang sandaling iyon. Para sa akin, hindi kumpleto ang biyahe kung walang litrato ng mga tanawin at mga pagkaing masusubukan ko! Hindi ko napigilang isipin na posibleng hindi ito para sa akin.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Taliwas naman dito ang pananaw ng kaibigan kong si Mark. Sa dinami-rami ba naman ng sumali sa paligsahan na iyon, ako pa ang napili. Hinihikayat niya akong magbitiw sa aking tungkulin upang masulit ang aking <i>adventure pass</i>. Ganoon din daw kasi ang gagawin niya kung siya ang nasa kalagayan ko. Tulad ng iba kong kaibigan, hindi niya kayang bumili ng <i>adventure pass</i>. Subalit sagana siya sa mga mungkahi, sa kanya ko nakuha ang ideyang mag-<i>tent</i> na lang upang makamura. Hindi ko naman kayang bitawan ang aking trabaho, lalo na’t kailangan kong tustusan ang sarili kong pag-aaral at sagutin ang ilang gastusin sa bahay. Wala rin naman akong ipon. Dumating pa nga sa punto na nakiusap ako sa tagapangasiwa ng <i>Seair</i> upang bigyan si Mark ng diskwento upang may makasama ako at binida ko ang kakayahan niyang manghimok at ang kanyang malawak na <i>network</i>. Sumang-ayon naman ito subalit kulang pa rin ang sampung porsyentong diskwento para kay Mark. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang matapos ang aking pag-aasikaso para sa aking pagbabalik-eskwela, naging madali ang desisyon kong tumulak mag-isa. Pumasa ako sa UP, kaya’t nararapat lamang na magdiwang. Sa Boracay! Nagtungo ako sa tanggapan ng <i>Seair</i> upang ipalista ang aking paglipad. Itinaon ko ito sa aking araw ng pahinga sa opisina, ika-labingtatlong araw mula nang maangkin ko ang premyo. Uuwi rin ako ng hapon kinabukasan para makapasok sa opisina kinabukasan.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nagitla naman si Mark nang mabalitaan ang aking hangaring magtungo sa isla mag-isa. Lalo na kung ito ang aking unang pagkakataong magsadya roon. Tulad niya, pag-aalala rin ang naging reaksyon ng iba kong kaibigan. Alam kong mapanganib ang aking layunin subalit sayang naman ang <i>adventure pass</i> kung hindi ko gagamitin. Hindi rin naman sumagi sa isipan kong ibenta ito sa iba. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nagtanung-tanong ako sa mga nakapunta na sa Boracay upang ihanda ang aking sarili. May nagsabi sa akin na para lang itong Puerto Galera, pagdating ko sa isla, maraming mag-aalok ng kwartong matutulugan. Samantala, si Mark pala ay hinagilap ang kanyang kaibigang si Alex upang hanapan ako nang matitirahan. Nakabase siya mismo sa isla. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hindi ko alam kung ano ang mararamdaman ko ukol dito. Nakakataba ng puso na may kaibigan akong gagawa ng paraan upang masiguro ang aking kaligtasan. Pero tila nabawasan ang <i>misadventure</i> na nag-aabang sa akin. Inisip ko na lang na manggagaling ako sa magdamagang trabaho at mahaba-habang biyahe kaya isang ginhawa na rin na may agad akong matutuluyan.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">***</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang lumapag na ang eroplano sa maliit na paliparan ng Caticlan, nadaig ng kasabikan ang aking agam-agam. Nabiyayaan akong makaupo sa tabi ng bintana kaya naman kitang-kita ko ang makapigil-hiningang tanawin mula sa himpapawid. Natuwa rin ako na diretsong Caticlan ang biyahe ng <i>Seair</i>. Hindi ko marahil matatagalan ang inip kung sa Aklan pa at may dalawang oras pang biyahe patungo roon.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hindi ko alam kung saan ang labasan mula sa paliparan kaya naman sumunod na lang ako sa mga pasahero. Nang mapansin kong ang mga kapwa ko pasahero ay may mga pribadong sasakyan bilang sundo, nagtanong na ako sa mga taong nag-aabang doon. Hindi naman ako mahiyain pagdating sa pagtatanong, lagi kong naaalala ang biro kung bakit umabot ng apatnapung taon ang <i><span style="color:black;">Exodus</span></i> ng mga Israelita: hindi kasi nagtatanong ng direksyon ang mga lalaki. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Tinuro nila ako sa sakayan ng mga traysikel. Dadalhin raw ako nito sa pantalan. Naaliw ako sa aking nakita. Mas mahaba at mas maraming tao ang kayang isakay ng traysikel nila. Dalawa sa tabi ng tsuper, apat naman ang kayang umupo sa likod. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Bigla kong naalala ang mga traysikel o “motorella” kung tawagin nila sa Cagayan de Oro. Abot hanggang labing-isang tao ang kaya nitong isakay! </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang matunton ko ito, nagpadala ako ng mensahe kay Alex na malapit na ako sa isla. Pumila na ako upang bumili ng tiket para sa bangka. Hiwalay pala ang pila para sa mga lokal at sa mga dayo. Pinasagot nila ako ng isang sarbey na naglalayong alamin ang aking <i><span style="color:black;">profile</span></i> at paraan at dalas ng pagtungo sa Boracay. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nakatanggap ako ng mensahe kay Alex, nasa isla pa raw siya. Ihahatid niya pabalik ang kanyang bisita kaya hintayin ko na siya. Nagulat naman akong susunduin niya pa ako sa pantalan. Ang akala ko’y sa isla na mismo kami magkikita. Kaya naman tumambay muna ako sa pantalan. Tulad ng mga nababanggit sa akin kapag nagpapakuwento ako sa aking mga kaibigan ukol sa kanilang karanasan sa Boracay, marami ngang mga banyagang dumarayo rito. May napansin akong mga pamilyar na mukha, isa na roon ang isang tagapamahala ng isang <i><span style="color:black;">resort</span></i><span style="color:red;"> </span><span style="color:black;">ng White Beach</span> sa Puerto Galera. Ang iba ay tila nakasabay ko nang mag-ehersisyo sa <i><span style="color:black;">gym</span></i>. Marami-rami pa rin pala ang nagtutungo rito kahit tapos na ang tag-araw. Ganoon siguro kaganda roon. Lalong sumidhi ang aking pananabik. Atat na akong lumangoy, maglibot at magpa-<i><span style="color:black;">tan</span></i>!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Maya-maya, may mensahe na naman mula kay Alex. Parating na raw siya. Tumugon naman ako at inilarawan ang aking kasuotan upang makilala namin ang isa’t isa. Hindi nagtagal at nagtagpo na rin kami. Wala siyang kasama kaya inisip kong hinatid na niya pauwi ang kanyang bisita. Kaakit-akit ang kanyang kasuotan! Naka-puti siyang pantaas at maikling palda. Kitang-kita ang kanyang pusod, hita at mga braso. Kapansin-pansin rin ang kanyang <i><span style="color:black;">tan</span></i>. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Masaya ang kanyang tinig at walang alinlangang bineso ako. Nakakahawa ang kanyang awra at napawi ang aking hiya. Hindi kasi ako sanay makipagbeso sa mga taong noon ko lang nakilala. Kunsabagay, nagkausap na rin kami noon nang pinakilala kami ni Mark sa isa’t isa sa pamamagitan ng isang <i><span style="color:black;">conference call</span></i><span style="color:red;">.</span> Pinaalalahan ko ang sarili na iwan na ang mga inhibisyon sa naturang pantalan. Ilang saglit pa’y nasa paraiso na ako!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Bago kami sumakay sa bangka, pinuri ko ang kanyang bihis. Tumugon naman siyang mga ganoong pananamit ang naiibigan ng mga kliyente niya. Nagulat naman ako na naririto siya upang maghanapbuhay. Nag-umpisa na siyang magkwento na nagbitiw siya sa kanyang trabaho. Nasasakal siya diumano sa iniikutan niyang kalagayan sa Kamaynilaan. Napapatango lamang ako sa kanyang mga tinuran. Totoo lahat ito! Kaya raw sumugal siya at nagtungo sa Boracay upang takasan ang lahat at magnegosyo muna. Isa siyang masahista at ang kanyang “<i>boytoy"</i> (kanyang termino) nama’y naghe-<i>henna tattoo</i>. . Paano na pagdating ng tag-ulan? Paano na kapag wala nang masyadong turista? Nagkibit-balikat lamang siya saka tumugon ng, “Bahala na,”. Nakakamangha ang kanyang kalayaan! Bakit hindi ko kayang maging malaya tulad niya?</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Maya maya’y umandar na ang motor ng bangka. May kapalpakan ang pandinig ko kaya hindi ko na siya inusisa pa. Maaalibadbaran lamang siya malamang kung ipapaulit ko lahat ng sasabihin niya. Saka, gustong-gusto ko talaga ang katahimikan kapag nakasakay ng bangka. Sa himpapawid pa lamang, naakit na ako sa kulay ng karagatan. Inasahan kong mas maganda ito kung malapitan. Hindi naman ako nabigo. Nagtatalo ang berde at bughaw! Puting-puti naman ang mga along gumuguhit sa tubig. Bahagya akong tumalikod kay Alex upang higit na mapagmasdan ito. Naibigan ko rin ang malalakas na hampas ng hangin sa aking pisngi, pati ang pakiramdam na wala akong pakialam kung tinatamaan man ng buhok ko ang katabi ko. Gusto kong humiyaw, “Walang ganito sa Makati!”</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang abot-tanaw na ang isla, napakunot ang aking noo. Napakaraming tao! Naunawaan ko na rin ang binanggit sa akin ng kaibigan kong si Mitch na halatang hindi masusing pinag-aralan ang magiging disenyo nito. Tabi-tabi ang mga kainan at tindahan! Sa aking pakiwari, may igaganda pa ito. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Bago pa tuluyang dumaong ang bangka sa <i>Station</i> 1, nagsilapitan na ang mga lokal. Alam ko na ang kahulugan nito. Binalaan na ako ni Cleo kaugnay dito. Napailing ako nang makitang nagpabuhat ang mga banyaga sa mga nag-aabang na taga-roon. Triple pa sila sa bigat ng mga bumubuhat sa kanila! Alam naman nilang isla ang pupuntahan nila, alam nilang mababasa talaga ang mga binti nila bago makaapak sa tanyag na buhangin nito. Bakit pa sila nag-sapatos? Bakit sila magpapabuhat? Naawa naman ako sa mga taga-roon. Para sa halagang limang piso, magbubuhat ka ng humihingang baka na may dalang <i>backpack</i>? Wala naman sigurong magpapabuhat kung walang magbubuhat! Nakunsumi agad ako.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang pagkakataon ko nang lumusong sa tubig, may nag-alok na buhatin ako. Palibhasa’y umuusok ang ilong ko, hindi ako makaimik. Marihin akong umiling at maingat na pumanaog. Hinding-hindi ako magpapabuhat sa islang ito!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nanumbalik ang aking galak nang maramdaman ko ang buhangin sa aking mga talampakan. Nakakabilib ang kaputian nito. Kakaiba rin ang kapinuhan nito, para akong nakatapak sa pulbos. Ang sarap marahil magpagulong-gulong dito!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Bigla kong naalalang kasama ko pala si Alex. Sumunod ako sa kanya. Ipinaliwanag niyang sasakay kami ng traysikel patungo sa aking tutulugan. Hindi naman naging mahirap ang pagtawag ng traysikel. Sumakay kami agad at nagpatuloy sa pagkukuwentuhan. Hindi ko naman maalis ang mata ko sa aming nadadaanan. Probinsiya man ito, maraming mga <i><span style="color:black;">bar</span></i>, kainan maging estasyon ng radyo. Pagkapara ni Alex, huminto ang tsuper at siningil na kami. Agad naman akong humugot ng barya. Nakipagtalo naman si Alex sa Bisaya. Maya maya’y pinaliwanag niya sa aking labis ang hinihingi ng tsuper dahil mukha kaming dayo. Ito na nga ba ang pinangangamba ko kapag nagtutungo sa lugar na hindi ako maalam sa kanilang dialekto! Nilingon ko ang mama; napakamot siya sa ulo. Kahit hindi pa nakakabawi sa yamot si Alex, ipinahayag ko ang aking gulat sa kanyang abilidad mag-Bisaya. Ilongga pala siya. Nakakaintindi na siya ng Bisaya noon pero mas nahasa ito simula nang manirahan sila roon. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Tinahak na naming ang daan patungo sa aking tutulugan. Natuwa akong masaksihan ang mga bahay ng mga residente, ang mga batang malayang naglalaro sa daan at ang sulok ng isla na marahil hindi binibisita ng mga banyaga. Ang sarap ng pakiramdam kapag tumutugon sila ng ngiti. Ang payapa talaga sa isang probinsiya! </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Habang naglalakad, sinariwa namin ang aming mga karanasan sa kolehiyo. Nakilala niya raw si Mark sa dormitoryo. Iba naman ang tinatambayan kong dormitoryo noon pero natatandaan kong dumadalaw ako sa kaibigan kong tumutuloy malapit sa kanila. Ilang linggo rin kaming nag-<i><span style="color:black;">shoot</span></i> ng telesine malapit doon. Pero hindi ko sila nakita noon. Napapatango naman ako sa kwento niyang laging nagyayakag kumain si Mark. Kung saan-saan na rin kasi kami dinadala ng aming katakawan. Siya rin ang parating pasimuno ng pagtungo namin sa mga <i><span style="color:black;">buffet</span></i>. Dinagdag pa ni Alex na sinisilipan niya ito kasi nagagandahan siya sa puwet niya. Nagulat naman ako, hindi ako handa sa ganoong antas ng pagbabahagi. Tumugon akong hindi ko napapansin pero sisipatin ko agad pag-uwi. Siya naman ang nagulat. Akala niya raw ay magnobyo kami. Kumuwala ang isang malakas at mahabang halakhak mula sa aking bibig. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang lumiko kami sa isang hilera ng mga paupahang kuwarto, alam kong narating na namin ang aming sadya. Tinuro niya sa akin ang dulong kuwarto. Papasok na sana ako sa aking silid nang pinakilala niya ako sa kanyang ate na nagngangalang Cherry. Napadpad siya sa Caticlan upang magbakasyon. Agad niyang inalam ang plano ko. Hindi ako nakasagot agad, wala akong konkretong plano para sa hapong iyon. Tinatanong niya ba ako upang samahan ako? Hindi ko inaasahan ang ganito, ang akala ko ay hahanapan lamang ako ni Alex ng kwarto. Tila nabasa ni Alex ang nasa isip ko. Bago ko isara ang aking silid, nagwika siyang, “Pinababantayan ka ni Mark eh.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang mag-isa na ako sa kwarto, nakaramdam ako ng inis kay Mark. Kalabisan na yatang atasan pa ang ibang tao upang bantayan ako. Ayokong maging alagain at maging sagabal sa kanilang gawain. Nakondisyon ko na ang sarili kong mag-isa akong lilibot sa isla. Hindi man ako batikan tulad niya sa pagbibiyahe, may tiwala naman akong kakayanin ko ito mag-isa. Pero hindi ko naman siyang makuhang awayin sa <i>text</i>. Pasalamat pa rin ako sa kabutihang-loob niya.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Wala naman akong mairereklamo sa aking silid. Maluwag naman ito, pang-dalawahan ang kama, malinis ang kubeta. Wala nga lamang aparador kaya minabuti kong isalansan ang aking mga damit sa kalahating banda ng kama na hindi ko naman magagamit. Kontento na ako sa ganito. Mas maraming oras naman kasi ang igugugol ko sa labas. Kailangan ko lamang ng mapaglalagyan ng mga gamit, kamang matutulugan at banyong mapagliliguan. Hindi ko talaga maunawaan ang mga turistang naghahanap ng mga bagay na nasa siyudad tulad ng <i>computer </i>at<i> </i><i>swimming pool.</i> Aanhin mo pa ang <span style="font-style: italic;">pool</span> kung may dagat at buhangin naman?<br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Paglabas ko, naroroon pa rin ang magkapatid at niyaya na akong magtampisaw. Hindi na ako nagprotesta. Nang marating na namin ang tabing-dagat, pinakilala ako ni Alex sa kanyang katuwang sa negosyo/”<i>boytoy"</i> na nagngangalang Jersey. May hitsura siya, kayumanggi, mahaba at kulot ang buhok. Marahil nahalata ni Alex na kahinaan ko ang mga tipo ni Jersey, hiniritan niya akong pwede naming siyang paghatian. Natawa na lamang ako. Batid kong magkakasundo kami ni Alex. Ganoon din kasi ako magbiro.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Panandaliang tinigil ni Jersey ang paghe-<i>henna</i> upang sumama sa aming lumusong. Totoo palang malayo-layo rin ang mararating mo bago tuluyang lumalim ang tubig. Nakakapagpaginhawa ang lamig ng tubig at nakakaatat masilayan ang paglubog ng araw. Nanghinayang ako’t hindi ko dala ang aking kamera.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Natuklasan kong hindi pala nila ginagamit ang kanilang totoong pangalan sa isla. Hindi nila nilinaw kung anong posibleng panganib ang kanilang iniiwasan. Saka isa itong paraan na naisip nila upang takasan ang nakaraan. Naibigan ko naman ang ganon, mas malaya siguro kung gagamit ng ibang persona sa bawat paglalakbay. Agad nila akong bininyagan bilang “Vivian”. Tumutol naman ako, may hindi kanais-nais na alaala ang gumuhit sa isip ko dahil sa pangalang iyon. Pero hindi sila nagpaawat. Vivian na ang binansag nila sa akin simula noon. Pumayag na rin ako, maganda naman kasi ang tunog at ang ibig sabihin nito.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hindi nagtagal ay umahon na sina Jersey at Alex upang maghanap-buhay muli. Kapag tumitigil kami ni Cherry sa paglangoy, naaaninag ko silang dalawang naglalaro ng <i>Frisbee</i> at nagtatawanan. Parang wala silang suliranin. Sabi ni Cherry, magaan lang ang trabaho pero malaki ang kinikita. Hindi nila kailangang gumising nang maaga, maaari silang matulog pagkatapos ng tanghali na kung tawagin nila ay “<i>mercy hour" </i>at malaki mag-tip ang mga kliyente. Mahina na raw ang tatlong libo sa isang araw. Namilog naman ang mga mata ko. Pwede pala iyon! Malaking kita, maluwag na oras at isang paraiso bilang lokasyon. Bakit nga uli ako nagtatrabaho sa Makati?</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Bago pa dumilim at bago ako makaramdam ng gutom, umahon na rin kami ni Cherry. Nagpaiwan sina Alex, mag-aabang pa raw sila ng kliyente. Gusto ko sanang magpamasahe at magpa-<i>henna</i> sa kanila. Pero hindi ako maaaring maligo agad pagkatapos nito. Siguro kung mas matagal ang ilalagi ko sa isla, pwede pa. Bumalik na kami ni Cherry sa silid upang magbanlaw at magbihis. Nasabik siyang tumambay sa mga <i>bar</i> pagkatapos ng hapunan. Sigurado siyang may makikilala ako roon. Agad ko naman itong kinontra. Sa aking pananaw, marami nang <i>bars</i> sa siyudad. Hindi alak at panlalalaki ang layunin ko sa pagtungo sa Boracay o kahit sa anumang isla pa. Hindi ko ugaling maghanap ng ganoon. Gusto kong magpakasasa sa dagat hanggang ako’y kumulubot at mangitim. Saka, nagdududa akong may makakapansin sa akin. Nilinaw naman ni Cherry na hindi salat sa pagkakataon ang mga malulusog na tulad namin sa islang ito. Sumang-ayon naman ako, nakuha ko kasing magsuot ng panligo nang walang agam-agam. Totoo ngang walang pakialaman doon.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Halos wala nang makainan sa sobrang dami ng tao. Hindi pa naman ako gutom pero gusto ko nang kumain kung saan may bakanteng mesa. Natatakot akong baka matuklasan ni Cherry ang pagka-<i>tamagotchi </i>ko. Pilit namang inaalam ni Cherry kung ano ang gusto kong kainin. Wala namang partikular na putahe. Hindi rin nagtagal ay nakahanap kami ng makakainan. Um-order ako ng <i>steak</i>. May kamahalan pero sulit naman dahil tunay na malasa ito.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Kahit na ilang beses na akong tumanggi, nanaig pa rin ang kagustuhan ni Cherry na uminom kami pagkatapos. Isang bote lamang, giit niya. Naaliw ako sa aming napiling lugar. Masarap ang <i>bean bag</i> na aming inupuan. Matapos nito, nagkasundo kaming umakyat sa groto.<i> Low tide</i> na kasi. Nang dumating ako, hindi ka makakapanhik dito dahil sa taas ng tubig. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dahil may nakikita kaming mga batang tila nakatuwad at may pinupulot sa tubig, binanggit ni Cherry na hindi pinahihintulutang mangisda ang mga residente dito. Kaya napipilitan silang manguha ng ibang lamang-dagat na pwedeng makain. Subalit maging ito ay mahigpit na ipinagbabawal din. Ano naman ang kakainin nila? Probinsiya man ito, matataas pa rin ang presyo ng mga bilihin sapagkat tanyag itong destinasyon para sa mga turista. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nagpatuloy siyang isang impyerno ang Boracay, hindi ito isang paraiso tulad ng inaakala ng nakararami. Hindi ko naman maunawaan kung bakit at hindi ko rin masabi kung nais ko nang malaman ito. Talamak raw ang prostitusyon at pagtutulak ng pinagbabawal na gamot dito. Ang dami kong nakitang mga Pilipinang nasa piling ng mga banyaga. Ayoko ko sana silang husgahan subalit mahahalata naman ito sa kanilang pananamit. Hindi ko naman alam ang ukol sa droga.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nagpaumanhin siya, pakiwari niya’y nagkalamat na ang aking pagtingin sa Boracay dahil sa kanyang mga tinuran. Wala naman siyang dapat alalahanin. May sumira na ng aking biyahe bago pa ako lumisan. Ipinagtapat ko ang sama ng loob ko sa aking ina at sa kanyang pagtutol na tumulak ako ng Boracay. Sabi niya, mas malayo ang mararating ng pera ko kung gagastusin ko sa mga makakahulugang bagay. Puro pasarap lang daw ako ng buhay. Ang masaklap pa rito, hindi niya na ako iniimik ilang araw bago ako umalis. Nakakasama ng loob magkaroon ng magulang na hindi sinusuportahan ang mga hilig ko. Ganyan na siya kahit noon pa. Sukdulan ang pagkontra niya sa aking pagsusulat at sa napiling kurso sa kolehiyo.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hindi ko inaasahang mabubuksan ni Cherry ang aking puso nang gabing iyon. Kunsabagay, sadyang mas madaling magtapat sa isang estranghero. Siguro dahil hindi ka nila kilala at hindi na muling makakadaupang-palad sa susunod. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Napalitan naman ng kaba ang aking nararamdaman nang mapansing dumagsa ang kalalakihan sa ibaba ng groto. May ilan namang umakyat rin sa bandang tuktok. Agad akong niyaya ni Cherry pabalik sa aming silid. Pakiwari niya’y may magaganap na hindi maganda. Dali-dali kaming bumaba.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang matanaw ko na ang mga kastilyong buhangin, naging marahan na ang aking paglalakad. Akala ko noon ay nakatayo na ito dati pa. Ayon sa isang binatilyong lumikha nito, nag-uumpisa sila, sa tulong ng ibang batang nakapalibot doon, ng mga bandang ika-apat ng hapon. Nakakamangha ang mga taas at mga detalye nito. Hindi ko maikubli ang panghihinayang na hindi ko dala ang aking <i>digital camera</i>. May kamera nga ang aking <i>cellphone</i> pero hindi ako tiwalang magiging malinaw ang kalalabasan. Wala rin namang kamera si Cherry. Kumuha ako ng barya at nilagay sa lata na nilaan ng mga kabataan para sa mga donasyon. Tumulak na rin kami pabalik sa aming silid.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hindi naging mahirap para sa akin ang makatulog nang gabing iyon. Kung tutuusin, tatlumpung oras na rin akong gising noon. Sa ibang pagkakataon kasi, sobrang hirap akong makahanap ng tulog. Hindi naman ako namamahay pero sadyang mailap sa akin ang antok kahit gaano man ako kapagod. Nang gabing iyon, sa ganap na ika-labing-isa ng gabi, hindi na ako dumilat pa pagpikit ng mga mata ko. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nagising ako sa pagtunog ng aking <i>alarm</i> sa <i>cellphone</i>. Tunay na mahimbing ang tulog ko. Sanay na kasi akong magising bago ang takdang oras ng pag-<i>alarm</i> nito. Kung hindi man, paputol-putol ang aking tulog. Ika-pito’t kalahati na ng umaga. Dali-dali akong nagpalit sa aking panligo. Oras na upang ialay ang aking balat kay Reynang Araw!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sarado pa ang silid nina Alex. Wala akong narinig ni isang kaluskos mula sa aking kinatatayuan. Nagalak naman ako sa oportunidad na mag-isa. Halos takbuhin ko ang daan patungo sa tabing-dagat. Natatakot akong baka bigla silang magising. Nang mailatag ko na ang aking sarong at iba kong gamit sa buhangin, saka na ako nagpadala ng mensahe sa magkapatid ukol sa aking kasalukuyang lokasyon. Natatandaan kong binanggit ko sa kanila ang aking hangaring magpa-<i>tan</i> pero minabuti ko pa ring ipaalala sa kanila. Naging maasikaso sila sa akin, ayoko naman silang mag-alala ukol sa aking kalagayan.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Lumangoy muna ako nang ilang saglit saka nagpahid ng <i>tanning lotion</i> sa buong katawan bago humilata sa aking sarong. Nakaramdam ako ng pangungulila sa aking kamera. Matutuwa malamang si Lovelove kapag nakita niyang dinala ko sa Boracay ang binigay niyang sarong. Kapag humahapdi na ang aking balat, babangon ako upang magtampisaw at lumangoy. Tapos babalik ako sa aking sarong upang magpasunog. Inaamin kong medyo mahirap ang pagdapa para sa akin. Kaya nagbungkal ako buhangin saka nilapat ang aking sarong. Laking ginhawa para sa aking mga suso!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Walang katumbas na ligaya at kapayapaan ang naramdaman ko roon. Tila blangko lamang ang aking isipan. Hindi ko makuhang bigyang-pansin ang mga ibang tao. Para akong mag-isa sa paraiso. Lumusong ako muli para mapreskuhang muli. Natakam ako sa mga <i>milkshakes</i> sa Jonah’s. Ayon sa aking mga kaibigan, isa iyon sa mga dapat kong maranasan sa Boracay.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang bumalik ako sa aking sarong, nakatunghay lang ako sa karagatan. Hindi pa rin humuhupa ang aking paghanga. Nagulat ako nang may tumawag sa aking pangalan. Lalaki ang nagmamay-ari ng tinig na iyon.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Doods?!” Hindi ako makapaniwala sa aking nakikita. Si Doods ay dati naming ka-opisina ni Mark. Matagal-tagal na rin siyang nagbitiw.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Binalita niyang wala pa siyang trabaho. Naririto siya kapiling ang kanyang pinsang balikbayan. Sagot raw nito ang lahat ng gastusin niya sa loob ng labing-isang araw nilang paglagi sa Willy’s. Sa Dakak naman daw sila sa susunod na linggo sa loob ng limang araw. Libre pa rin! Abot hanggang tainga ang kanyang ngiti, abot anit naman ang taas ng kilay ko. Kung ganyan naman ang mga pagkakataong lumalapit sa iyo kung wala kang trabaho, nanaisin ko na ring maging tambay!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Inalok niya ang hawak niyang <i>shake</i> mula sa Jonah’s. Tumanggi naman ako, matitikman ko rin ito maya-maya. Nagtanong naman siya kung sino ang kasama ko. Sumagot akong mag-isa lamang ako. Nagulat siyang mabatid ito. Hindi nagtagal ay lumisan na siya upang bumalik sa <i>resort</i>.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ilang minuto pa, narinig ko na ang tinig ni Alex. Bakit raw ako nasa lilim kung gusto kong magpa-<i>tan</i>. Kasama niya sina Cherry at Jersey. Ipinaliwanag kong sumilong muna ako nang magkita kami ni Doods, nasisilaw kasi ako mula sa aking kinauupuan kanina. Ayon kay Cherry, tagumpay naman ang aking pagpapaitim. Bakat na ang linya sa ilalim ng aking <i>tankini</i>. Niyaya nila akong mag-almusal. May gusto raw ba akong kainan? Jonah’s lamang ang nasa isip ko noon. May makakain naman doon bukod sa <i>milkshakes</i>.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Inalok nila akong mag-<i>flying fish</i>. Mas masaya raw ito kumpara sa <i>banana boat</i>. Sumang-ayon naman ako. Habang naghanap sina Alex at Jersey ng nagpapatakbo ng <i>flying fish</i>, nagtungo naman kami ni Cherry sa Jonah’s upang mamili ng agahan naming lahat. May katagalan ang kanilang serbisyo. Pagdating nina Alex, minungkahi niyang kumain na lang kami pagkatapos ng <i>flying fish</i>. Handa na kasi ang magpapatakbo nito. Saka hindi magiging kumportable ang aming sakay kung busog kami. Baka <i>appendicitis</i> ang abutin namin. Tama nga naman ang kanyang katwiran. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dahil kilala ni Alex ang magpapa-andar nito, mas mura ang singil nila. Naghati kaming apat sa aming bayad. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Iyon ang una kong pagkakataong makakita ng <i>flying fish</i>. Tulad ng <i>banana boat</i>, pinalolobo ito upang masakyan ng tao. Mas malaki ito at bahagyang nakataas ang harapan. Pagkasuot namin ng <i>life vest</i>, lumugar na kami sa espasyo para sa mga pasahero. May mga hawakan kami sa taas ng aming ulo at kailangan naming dumapa. Kailangan naming kumapit habang umaandar ito nang ubod ng bilis sa loob ng dalawampung minuto. Kapag may nahulog, titigil ang <i>flying fish</i> upang makasakay muli ang pasahero. Mas pabor ako sa ganitong kondisyon. Nagunita ko ang mga kaibigan kong nahirapan na iahon ako noon sa <i>banana boat</i>. Tinakot ko ang sarili kong maiinis sila kapag nahulog ako. Bago umandar ito, nagpahiwatig si Alex ng kanyang paniniwalang kakayanin naming ito. Mas maganda raw kung walang mahuhulog upang masulit namin ang aming bayad. Tama!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hindi pa nag-uumpisa ang lahat ay mabilis na ang tibok ng puso ko. Nagtatalo ang kaba at pananabik. Hinigpitan ko ang kapit. Natutusok na ng mga kuko ko ang palad ko. Hindi ako mahuhulog!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Lalong bumilis ang kabog ng dibdib ko nang umusad na kami. Tunay na mabilis ang pagpapa-andar. Napapahiyaw ako sa tuwa. Napapatihaya, napapatagilid at napapadapa uli kami. Nahuhubaran naman daw si Cherry, unti-unti nang bumababa ang kanyang <i>shorts</i>. Natawa kaming lahat.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Natatandaan kong hindi ko magawang imulat ang mata ko habang nakasakay sa <i>banana boat</i>. Nakakasilaw kasi ang araw at natatalsikan ng tubig-dagat ang mga mata ko. Sa pagkakataong iyon, dilat ako kaya’t nakikita ko pa ang mga ibang islang nadadaanan namin. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ang tantya ko ay malapit nang matapos ang aming pagragasa; bumilib ako sa sarili kong kakayahang kumapit. Subalit bigla akong napabitaw! Totoo pala ang dati ko pang naririnig na “Ang bilis ng mga pangyayari!” Hindi ko matandaan kung ano ang nagdulot ng aking pagkakatapon sa dagat. Nahirapan akong tanggapin ito! Sinikap kong bilisan ang paglangoy patungo sa <i>flying fish</i>. Nagtatawanan sina Jersey at Alex. Nahulog rin pala si Cherry. Pero mas malapit naman siya kumpara sa akin. Hindi muna siya lumapit, malamang inayos ang kanyang salawal. Tulad naman ng aking karanasan sa <i>banana boat</i>, hindi ko agad maisampa ang sarili ko. Hinila pa nila akong tatlo. Nahiya naman ako, mahirap kasi ipaliwanag kung bakit mabigat pa rin ako kahit nasa tubig.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Pumuwesto uli kaming apat at nagpatuloy ang <i>flying fish</i>. Isang panibagong yugto na naman ito ng hiyawan at pagbali-baligtad. Nang ganap nang tumigil ito, nanatili kaming nakadapa habang humihingal. Masaya siya, nakakahapo nga lamang. Napuna kong medyo masakit ang aking tuhod. Ininda ko naman ito, malamang tumama lamang ito sa kung saan. Nasa buhangin na kami’t naglalakad patungo sa Jonah’s pero napapailing pa rin ako sa saya. Gusto ko pa!</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Naputol ang aking pagpaplanong mag-<i>flying fish</i> uli pagbalik nang dineklara nina Alex at Jersey na hindi muna sila kakain. Biglang nagkaroon ng kliyente si Alex. Magnenegosyo naman daw muna si Jersey. Si Cherry na raw ang bahala sa akin. Nang mga sandaling iyon, napagtanto kong gutom na ako at nais kong maisakatuparan ang kagabi ko pang hangaring mag-sinigang na baboy. May nirekomendang kainan si Cherry kagabi, lilampung piso lang raw para sa ulam na pang-dalawang tao at kanin. Dinala niya ako sa Burberry upang mananghalian. Desidido akong mag-<i>milkshake</i> sa Jonah’s pagkatapos.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Halos tanghali na rin noon kaya matao na sa paligid. Habang nag-aabang sa aking sinigang, nagpalinga-linga ako sa mga tindahan. Nadiskubre kong bukod sa pagbebenta ng <i>load</i>, may serbisyo pala na nagpapa-renta ng <i>cellphone</i>. Ayon kay Cherry, may mga banyagang turistang na nangangailangan nito.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sa pagtingin-tingin ko sa paligid, napansin ko ang presenya ng artistang si Katya Santos. Dinagdag naman ni Cherry na naglipana ang mga artista roon, lalo na si Marc Nelson. Halos doon na raw tumira sa Boracay. Noong isang araw daw, nagkagulo ang mga taga-roon dahil nasa isla pala ang mga artistang Koreano na tauhan sa isang <i>Koreanovela</i>. Halos hindi na ako nakakanood ng telebisyon kaya hindi ko kilala ang kanyang binanggit na artistang Koreano.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dumating na ang aking sinigang bago pa tuluyang kumalam ang aking sikmura. Mainit na mainit pa ang sabaw. Naibigan ko rin ang asim nito. Tulad ng inaasahan, sariwang-sariwa ang gulay. Sulit! Akalain mong limampung piso lang ito? Kailangang mabalitaan ito ng tatay ko. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nang mabusog na kami, nilisan na namin ang Burberry upang maglakad-lakad at magkuha ng litrato sa aking <i>cellphone</i> hanggang sa marating naming ang Jonah’s. Nakakatuwang kasama si Cherry, lagi siyang tagumpay na patawanin ako. Nakakasiguro akong hindi siya nagtatangka. Ramdam kong likas na ito sa kanya. Hindi ko maiwasang makita ang sarili ko sa kanya. Ako rin kasi ang komedyante pagdating sa barkada. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dahil paborito ko ang lasa ng tsokolate, <i>chocolate milkshake</i> ang napisil kong bilhin sa Jonah’s. Naaliw ako sa hitsura ng plastik na bote na naglalaman nito. Nakaukit kasi ang logo ng Jonah’s. Halatang pinapasadya nila ito. Mabilis ang desisyon kong iuwi ito sa Cavite bilang alaala ng aking katangi-tanging karanasan.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sumakay na kami ng traysikel pauwi. Kailangan ko kasing dumaan sa ATM para sa aking gagastusin sa pamimili ng pasalubong. Bukod pa roon, mas masakit na ang aking tuhod. Agad akong naligo at nagbihis nang mapag-isa. Napakagulo tignan ng aking silid. Hindi ko muna inayos kasi mag-aayos din ako pagkatapos kong mamili. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sinamahan ako ni Cherry sa Talipapa. Wala siyang bibilhin kaya pakiwari ko’y abala talaga ako sa kanya. Lalo na nang hindi ko na maikubli ang matinding sakit sa aking tuhod. Napuna niya kasing lagi akong nahuhuli. Tumitigil siya hanggang mag-abot kami, minsan nama’y binabalikan niya ako upang sabay kaming maglakad. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nakabili ako ng piyaya at iba pang pagkain na ipamimigay sa mga kaibigan at kapatid at <i>tank top</i> at <i>linen pants</i> para sa sarili. Pinigil ko naman ang sarili kong bumili ng <i>dreamcatcher</i><i>bag</i> ang aking iuuwi para sa kanya. Pareho kasi kaming mahilig sa malalaking <i>bag</i>. Sigurado akong maiibigan niya ito. Umaasa rin akong magiging paalala ito ng aming pagkakatulad kesa lalong paghiwalayin ng aming pagkakaiba, lalo na ng aming interes sa paglalakbay. sapagkat alam kong mas masuwerte ito kung bigay ng iba. Pabago-bago naman ang aking isip kung bibilhan ko rin ang aking nanay. Hindi man ako binigyan ng diretsong payo ni Cherry, napagtanto ko ring ibig ko siyang bigyan. Matapos ng matagal na pamimili, isang malaking Boracay </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Ika-tatlo na ng hapon nang ako’y matapos sa pagsuyod ng Talipapa. Nagimbal ako nang mapansin ang oras. Ika-lima’t kalahati kasi ng hapon ang takdang oras ng paglipad ko pauwi ng Maynila! Naliligaw kami ni Cherry. Bukod pa rito, hindi pa ako nakakapag-impake! Binanggit sa akin ni Cherry na ganap na ika-apat naman ang huling luwas ng bangka patungong pantalan. Mapanganib na kasi ang alon kapag inabot na ng takipsilim. Hindi ko na mapigilan ang kabog ng aking dibdib.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Kahit saan kami dumaan ni Cherry, hindi namin matanaw ang kalsada. Sa aking kaba, halos nalimutan ko ang sakit ng aking tuhod. Kailangan ko ng traysikel higit kailanman! Pasalamat ako nang nahanap na namin sa wakas ang daan pauwi at nang makatawag na kami ng traysikel. Pero hindi pa rin nagbabago ang bilis ng aking pulso. </span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Nilipad ko ang daan patungo sa aking silid. Bakit kasi nasa dulo pa ito? At, sa dinami-rami ng pagkakataon, bakit kailangang ngayon pa kumirot nang ganito ang aking tuhod? Kahit na gahol na sa oras, hindi ko matagalan ang lagkit ng aking balat sa pawis. Nakuha ko pang maligo. Habang ginagawa ko ito, naglalaro sa aking isipan na magpaiwan sa isla. Pero hindi talaga maaari.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Lalo akong nataranta nang tumambad sa aking paningin ang ga-bundok na damit. Hindi ako magkandatuto sa pagkahot at pagtiklop ng mga gamit ko. Gigil na gigil ako sa pagpiga ng mga basang damit, sarong at tuwalya. Hindi ko na nagawang pagpagin pa ang buhangin sa mga tsinelas ko, pinasok ko na agad sa plastik. Pinilit kong pagkasyahin ang lahat ng aking gamit sa aking <i>backpack</i> at ang aking mga pasalubong sa Boracay <span style="font-style: italic;">bag</span> na nakalaan para kay Mama. Halos ayoko nang tignan ang aking orasan.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hinatid ako ni Cherry sa sakayan ng mga bangka sa <i>Station</i> 1. Nasasaktan siya para sa akin, hindi niya naiibigan ang hitsura kong ika-ika maglakad at halos makuba sa dami ng dala. Nagtangka akong magpaalam kay Alex at Jersey para wala sila noon sa kanilang silid. Nagpadala na lang ako ng mensahe kay Alex. Nakakalungkot na hindi ako makakapagpaalam nang maayos. Makakarating naman daw ang aking pagbati, sabi ni Cherry.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Habang nagtatagal ay lalong sumasakit ang tuhod ko. Bago ako sumampa, hinarang ako ng isang taga-buhat. Umiling ako, hinding-hindi ako magpapabuhat. Kayang-kaya ko ang sarili ko. Marahil hindi siya nakumbinse sa pag-iling ko, umupo siya sa aking gilid at pinuwesto ako sa kanyang mga balikat. Nagpumiglas ako, kaya naman pagewang-gewang kami nang tumindig na siya. Huwag ko raw labanan at baka mahulog ako. Natakot naman ako, pakiwari ko kasi’y hinihila ang taas na bahagi ng aking katawan. Sapat na ang isang aksidente. Inaamin kong maginhawa ang pakiramdam nito, sobrang sakit kasi talaga kapag dinidiretso ko ang aking kaliwang tuhod. Nagpasalamat ako at nagbigay ng bayad. Hindi na iyon mauulit.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Puno ng alaala ang aking isipan at hindi ko matanggal ang ngiti sa aking mukha habang lulan ako ng bangka. Bitin man ako, tunay na espesyal pa rin ang aking naging karanasan. Narating ko na ang isa sa ipinagmamalaking isla ng ating bansa, bininyagan ako bilang Vivian, natamo ko ang aking pinaghirapang <i>tan lines</i>, naranasan ko ang <i>flying fish</i> at nagsilbing inspirasyon sa akin ang magkapatid na Cherry at Alex. Nakaramdam na ako nang lungkot nang tumila na ang bangka. Lilisanin ko na talaga ang isla.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Naging mahirap para sa akin ang bawat hakbang. Buti na lamang at nakaabot ako sa oras kaya hindi ko kailangang takbuhin ang daan. Malayo pa lamang ako sa pasukan ng paliparan, nararamdaman ko na ang habag sa akin ng mga guwardiya. Nang makalapit na ako, pinakita ko sa kanila ang aking ID. “Mag-isa ka lang?” tanong ng isa. Umoo ako. Nang makita ng isa ang aking ID, nagwika siyang, “<i>Sykes Asia? </i>Kanina pa sa loob ang mga kasama mo.” Nilinaw kong mag-isa lamang ako. Maaaring mula kami sa iisang kumpanya, pero mag-isa lamang ako. Nabasa ko ang pagtataka sa kanilang mukha.</span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">Naaawa man ako sa sarili ko sa ika-ika kong paglalakad, nakaramdam ako ng bilib sa sarili na nagawa kong maglakbay mag-isa. Kahit noong una ay may alinlangan ako at nakaramdam ng desperasyon na magsama ng kahit na sino, tumuloy pa rin ako at tunay na naligayahan. Dahil matagumpay ako, hindi na ako natatakot na tumulak sa isang destinasyon mag-isa. Batid kong kakayanin ko na.</span></span></p>lornadahlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14331297415219351515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-62837032644805782442008-04-29T09:15:00.001+08:002008-04-29T09:17:39.443+08:00SPRING IN JAPAN by Mary LuAh, Japan: the home of sushi, geisha, and giant robots. It was the beginning of spring when I first arrived Tokyo, and I must admit, I'd had quite a number of surprises in the beginning of my stay there. There was my amazement at seeing young people dress up like vampires and baby dolls and converging in front of a shrine. There was also my astonishment at finding out there were such things as fetish cafés there, where the waitresses were dressed up as French maids! But one of the more pleasant surprises I had was seeing how truly beautiful nature was in Japan.<br /><br />It was some time during the first week of April when some friends took me to Yoyogi Park, a huge garden in the Shinjuku-Shibuya area of Tokyo, for what they called a “Hanami.” The word literally means, “see flowers,” particularly, a small five-petaled flower called Sakura.<br /><br />Sakura, or Cherry Blossoms, bloom only once, and stay in bloom for only a few days, in the beginning of spring. I was lucky enough to arrive in time for that.<br /><br />When we arrived Yoyogi Park, the Sakura trees were filled pink with flowers. There were no leaves. Only unadulterated beautiful light pink. And when the wind blew, the blossoms fell from the trees like pink snow. It was exactly like the calendar pictures and comic book illustrations I'd seen of Cherry Blossoms. Even more breathtaking, in fact, because I could actually touch the lovely flowers.<br /><br />We spread a mat under one of the trees and had a picnic of sandwiches, chips and bottled tea... as did hundreds of other visitors spread out all over the park. We had a wonderful time eating, talking and admiring the celebrated blooms when I noticed some black spots on the Sakura trees.<br /><br />Crows. Swarms of them. And there was something unsettling about seeing ominous black birds perched on harmless pink trees. Especially when one popular Japanese comic book claimed the reason why Sakura was pink was because the tree sipped the blood of a corpse beneath its roots, thus coloring what should have been white flowers. We got used to them after a while, though. They had to be frightened away or the chicken-sized scavengers would take our food. Crows are the Japanese equivalent of our alley cats. They would perch above and watch you eat or take your trash out. Then as soon as you release your garbage, they would swoop down and tear through it.<br /><br />After we had eaten, some of my friends decided to go off and play badminton. I was contented where I was so, I declined, sat back and took in more of the view. Several of the locals were playing badminton, too. But most of them continued to sit on their mats and drink. I saw a beer can in the hand of almost every member of each group in the park. This reminded me that alcohol was an integral part of a Japanese celebration. Food is good, but no party is a party without beer or sake.<br /><br />Speaking of food, there's actually more to Japanese cuisine than just sushi and tempura. Like most developed cities, Tokyo has its share of store-bought prepared food. Looking about the park, I saw that the locals brought along plastic bento boxes containing food they had bought from the supermarket. (We were cheapskates. We prepared our own sandwiches.) Their food looked really tempting. There was rice topped with bits of dried seaweeds and sesame seeds. They had viands of tempura, teriyaki chicken or some breaded patty. And of course, they had colorful side dishes made from radish, lotus roots, and several other vegetables.<br /><br />One thing I can say about Japanese cuisine (and almost anything Japanese, actually), is that they're very well-prepared. A bento box, even one from the supermarket, will always be garnished. There will always be this elegant play of texture and color. And just as the Japanese scenery in spring, it will always be physically designed to take one's breath away.<br /><br />The cawing of the crows signaled the sunset. Our Hanami had come to an end. No doubt the locals would be off to continue their celebration with harder drinks somewhere in the bars of Shibuya. As we packed our things to leave, I couldn’t help but take one last look at the trees we had come all this way to admire. The flowers were half gone now, blown away by the cold spring wind.<br /><br />I saw the Sakura bloom twice more after that. And even then, I couldn’t help but admire the small short-lived flowers. To my mind, the picture they created was perfect. The flowers in their numbers set against the clear blue sky were magnificent, while their delicate pink color and the crows that perched on their branches hinted at an underlying darkness. The scene they created was one of tranquility, of vulnerability, and of a sad and strangely Gothic type of beauty that makes memories of them ones I shall treasure in my heart forever.Mary Luhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17517407332969566541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-6576605462629890632008-04-25T16:27:00.001+08:002008-04-25T16:27:57.128+08:00IN LOVE WITH ILOCOS by Romina E. GapolThe trip appeared to start on the wrong foot and looked like it was heading for doomsday. It was Holy Tuesday, and the five of us joined the throngs of people, fellow chance passengers relying on extra buses, who were all heading for Laoag, Ilocos Norte that night. After what seemed like eternity, our turn came to board the bus (de luxe, with CR, the sign said), exactly an hour since we arrived at the Maria de Leon terminal in Sampaloc, Manila. The bus left at 9:45 pm, thus signaling the beginning of what was to be a nine-hour trip. Looking back, I do not know which was worse: standing in line for an hour or sitting your way through a nine-hour bus trip. In between listening to my Swing Out Sister CD and catching glimpses of a movie about a giant python devouring its victims, I finally fell asleep. The bus was to make several stops, both intentional (as is their standard procedure) and unintentional (the driver loved taking yosi and pee breaks…but hey, he’s the one driving and I’ve no right to complain...who knows how many trips he has made that day?). To my dismay (and everyone else’s), each time there was a stop, a couple of old ladies would break out in peals of laughter. They could not stop getting a kick out of being stuck in the toilet inside the bus. So the next few hours went like this: bus stopped, old ladies cackled, toddler looked for dada, manong smoked while the passengers stretched, yawned, peed, complained about the old ladies and ate noodles in no particular order. Everybody is happy.<br /><br /> <br /><br />After negotiating the zigzag, the bus made its final stop in Ilocos Sur, at a shop that sells bibingka and brownies. Passengers groggily went down to buy pasalubong for their folks. At last, we were nearing the end of the road trip. Or so I thought. It would take another two hours before we arrived in Laoag at 6:45am, Holy Wednesday. I abandoned hopes of getting some shuteye and just looked out the window. The sun was just beginning to bathe the landscape with its golden rays. It was something straight out of a postcard: mountains that seemed to kiss the great blue sky, rows of neatly planted tobacco and rice, farmers plowing the fields with their carabaos, and cows and goats serenely grazing. We passed through quaint little towns that still had remnants of old Spanish glory. People were sweeping the streets and watering their gardens. I realized that people have been probably doing this routine since the olden times, when roads were still made of dirt and karetelas were the only modes of transportation. But wait, other than this nostalgic feeling, there was something more primal: I was hungry.<br /><br /> <br /><br />We stayed in a farm situated in the outskirts of Laoag City, a town called Bacalad. It had a little carinderia by the road, which sold haybol and miki Batac. We had the chance to sample the former, which was basically their own version of beef noodle soup. It was really tasty, there are plenty of beef chunks (and not the measly beef slices that we are accustomed to in Manila) and the broth is made from real beef. Too real in fact, that if you don’t stir your soup, you’ll have a thin blanket of lard in no time. This is certainly not for people watching their cholesterol levels. All this goodness for (ka-ching) twenty-five pesos! It’s just weird though that as we made our way back to the house, there were cows mooing so loudly as if to make us guilty for eating one of their kind.<br /><br /> <br /><br />When one visits Ilocos, you must be prepared to confront and embrace history, both ancient and fairly recent. That afternoon, we visited two of the oldest churches in the country: The Batac Church built in 1587 and the Paoay Church built in 1593, also recognized as a World Heritage Site by the UNESCO. One can’t help but marvel at how these churches have retained their grandeur through the years. Not only are they pieces of evidence of Spanish rule in the country, they are also great testaments of the Ilocano faith. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Of course, what is Ilocos Norte without its most famous son, the late President Ferdinand E. Marcos? For a province that claims to be the land where great leaders are born, Marcos may very well be its most renowned ambassador. Right across the Batac Church is the Marcos Museum. Ironically, the place that houses the late strongman’s body and memorabilia is very austere. It is more Ilocano in outlook (very simple), a stark contrast to the grand (some say outlandish) lifestyle they had been known for. The museum traces the meteoric rise of Marcos’s career as a statesman and pays homage to the ideals nurtured by the former leader. We were fortunate to catch a glimpse of his body that day. There were so many visitors that the museum opened it for public viewing. It was a creepy experience, the kind that leaves you with goosebumps. The room was very dark (although not cold) and the only light came from the center of the room where Marcos’s body lay. The Gregorian chant playing in the background was the final element in this eerie orchestra. I was half-expecting the doors to suddenly shut, leaving the stunned visitors trapped. Then again, that was only my wild imagination getting the better of me.<br /><br /> <br /><br />We woke up early the next day for a sidetrip to Vigan. It only costs ninety pesos to ride an ordinary bus from Laoag to Vigan. Believe me, waiting for the bus to leave is easier than say, waiting for the bus to move along EDSA. The drivers probably understand that the passengers do not have the luxury of time to wait for passengers that will never come. Besides, there are plenty of passengers waiting in the other towns, as this is their only mode of transportation going to Vigan. Bumpy roads are a thing of the past so one enjoys a smooth, relaxing ride.<br /><br /> <br /><br />After two hours, we finally found ourselves in the bustling center of Vigan, Ilocos Sur. As we all know, Vigan is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site and is a haven for historical conservationists. It has often been said that time seems to have stopped in Vigan, and rightfully so. The Arzobispado, St. Paul’s Metropolitan Cathedral, Plaza Salcedo and the whole stretch of Calle Crisologo (where souvenir and furniture shops abound) attest to the 300+ relationship established between Spain and the Philippines. It is also home to the Terracotta Red Clay Industry, Abel Iloco Weavers and Native Delicacy Makers. However, Vigan also fuses the old with the new. The blood of commercialism pumps new life in this bustling town, albeit through “old” veins. The mall and several fast food establishments were made to look like old buildings, lending a modern touch to its old world look. Tourism is also booming, judging from the number of local and foreign tourists alike who don’t seem to mind walking through this timeless place in the heat of the sun. To make the most out of your trip, make sure to visit the Ilocos Sur Tourism Information Center for brochures and useful tips.<br /><br /> <br /><br />On our last day, we visited Suba Beach, hoping to go for a swim. Instead, big waves welcomed us. So we just contented ourselves with walking along the stretch of coastline and waiting for the great white foam to reach the shore and topple the little sandcastles. Time seemed to pass by so slowly, one wishes to stay there forever and listen to the constant sound of the waves that is sure to lull anyone to sleep.<br /><br /> <br /><br />We also had the chance to see the sand dunes nearby: great mounds of sand constantly being formed and eroded by the wind. Yes, that’s right, sand dunes in our own backyard. And you thought they only exist in Africa. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Our last stop was the Ilocos Norte capital of Laoag. We had our pictures taken at the capitol, which looked almost, if not exactly like the one in Ilocos Sur. The people there were kind enough to give us brochures about the province. We also visited the St. William’s Cathedral and its Sinking Bell Tower, which was strangely a street away. I strongly recommend spending some time in downtown Laoag as the various sights are just a stone’s throw away from each other. Other sites worth visiting are the Tobacco Monopoly Monument, the Marcos Hall of Justice and the Museo Ilocos Norte. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Ilocanos seem to like eating al fresco. The plazas in both Laoag and Vigan have sections solely devoted to selling its famous delicacies like bagnet (deep-fried pork meat), empanada (a filling combination of vegetables, eggs, and longganiza wrapped in rice batter and deep-fried), bibingka (rice cake) and tinubong (a delicacy made from rice, coconut and brown sugar cooked in bamboo tubes over coal) among others. Both dining establishments are well-maintained as Laoag and Vigan boast of being two of the cleanest and greenest cities in the Philippines.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The whole Ilocos experience is all about satisfying the senses: the rich empanada filling dipped in sukang Iloko, the crunchiness of bagnet, the smell of freshly roasted chicacorn and the aroma of miki Batac and haybol, the feel of abel and old wooden bauls. It is all about the sight of old churches, magnificent sand dunes, and imposing provincial capitols, and appreciating the art of burnay making; of the merry clickety-clacks of the calesas around town and the wonderful mélange of animal sounds that greet you each morning. It is about the Ilocano smile that welcomes each visitor. It is about rubbing elbows with other tourists, foreign and local alike. For a moment you are united because they, like you, are also there for an authentic Ilocos experience. <br /><br /> <br /><br />The phrase Umay kayto manen (Come again.) will probably best sum it all. Ilocos is forever mysterious, luring everyone to come back and discover more of her hidden treasures. It has taken me a decade to come back, yet I yearn to return soon and partake more of what she has to offer. I would like to visit the beautiful beaches of Pagudpud, the old watchtowers that dot the coastlines of the two provinces, the public markets and the numerous museums. I would like to continue my journey of discovering more gustatory delights. I am proud to say that I’ve been there twice and still loving it. <br /><br /> <br /><br />It was another eight-hour trip on board the Fariñas bus. The people seemed to have been resigned to this lengthy journey and brought out their pillows and jackets with dreams (nightmares?) of Manila looming in their heads. Once again the bus was filled with luggage, pasalubong for the folks in Manila. I was happy to have survived the Ilocos trip. There were no cackling old ladies in the bus this time. JKristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-3597343766158822962008-04-25T16:26:00.002+08:002008-04-25T16:27:02.616+08:00The Bellagio, Las Vegas by Mia Padilla (unfinished)Last December my husband and I joined by sister’s family for a brief stay at the Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas. From the moment we arrived at the world-renowned gamblers’ paradise, we entered a place of stylish, artful, albeit commercial magic. <br /><br />Stepping out of the stretch Hummer, I felt I was entering an 80’s party reminiscent of my younger days. From the circular driveway of the hotel, we heard the tune of Springsteen’s ‘Dancing in the Dark’. As if on cue, my two-year-old nephew taps his feet while allowing the rest of his body to flow with the music. We were immediately greeted by a distinguished looking doorman who called upon two eager bellhops to take care of our luggage. <br /><br /> Stepping into the grand lobby of the hotel, we look up at a ceiling intricately filled with colored Murano glass in the shape of seashells. My husband immediately takes a photo declaring it to be a grand work of art. To the left of the lobby are the registration desks – at least ten of them. We quickly get our room keys since my five-year-old niece was impatiently grabbing my hand and leading me to the back of the lobby. What we found at the back was an indoor garden converted into a yuletide paradise with four-foot reindeer hanging from the ceiling. There was also the scene of a Christmas tree being decorated by penguins with carefully wrapped gifts scattered around. Hotel guests crossed a small wooden bridge that led to a section with huge floral arrangements adorned with red and silver balls and pine leaves. <br /><br /> What is most fascinating about the Bellagio, however, is the scene of the dancing fountains. Every hour, a pool of fountains is turned on to the tune of a popular song. The flowing water, accentuated by yellow lights, sways like the movements of a graceful ballerina. My husband and stood by the railing looking out to the fountains that danced to ‘It’s the most Wonderful Time of the Year’.Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-40616841527871456782008-04-25T16:26:00.001+08:002008-04-25T16:26:30.477+08:00SPRING IN JAPAN by Mary Elizabeth YuAh, Japan: the home of gyoza, geisha and giant robots. It was the beginning of spring when I first arrived Tokyo, and I must admit I'd had quite a number of surprises in the beginning of my stay there. <br /><br />It was some time during the first week of April when some friends took me to Yoyogi Park, a huge garden in the Shinjuku-Shibuya area of Tokyo, for what they called a "Hanami." The word literally means, "see flowers," particularly, a small five-petaled flower called Sakura. <br /><br />Sakura, or Cherry Blossoms, bloom only once and stay in bloom for only a few days in the beginning of spring. I was lucky enough to arrive in time for that. <br /><br />When we arrived Yoyogi Park, the Sakura trees were filled pink with flowers. There were no leaves. Only unadulterated beautiful light pink. And when the wind blew, the blossoms fell from the trees like pink snow. It was exactly like the calendar pictures and comic book illustrations I'd seen of Cherry Blossoms. Even more breathtaking, in fact, because I could actually touch the beautiful flowers. <br /><br />We spread a mat under one of the trees and had a picnic of sandwiches, chips and bottled tea... as did hundreds of other visitors spread out all over the park. We had a wonderful time eating, talking and admiring the celebrated blooms when I noticed some black spots on the Sakura trees. <br /><br />Crows. Swarms of them. And there was something unsettling about seeing ominous black birds perched on harmless pink trees. Especially when one popular Japanese comic book claimed the reason why Sakura was pink was because the tree sipped the blood of a corpse beneath its roots, thus coloring what should have been white flowers.<br /><br />We got used to them after a while, though. They had to be frightened away or the chicken-sized scavengers would take our food.Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-72394459391902028142008-04-25T16:23:00.002+08:002008-04-25T16:24:53.655+08:00[Supposedly Long] Weekend in Ifugao by Lornadahl Campilan<span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Or to be more accurate, a 14-hour stay (bus rides NOT included) in Ifugao.<br /></span><br />Oh yes, this is another addition to my growing list of quickie vacations. Remember the 23-hour stay in Boracay and the unbelievable 6-hour comeback? How about the 24-hour stay in Coco Beach in Mindoro during the declaration of PP1017 and another 24-hour drop by for my birthday celebration (performances by Advent Call and Tropical Depression hahahaha) there last year? Hmmm I can sense a pattern here. Should I come back to Ifugao, which is highly likely to happen, I would glue my ass my next to Bulul's and pretend that time stood still.<br /><br />As always, my adventure started with the feeling of guilt in my gut. I deliberately failed to inform The Unbloggable™ that I'd be off for a solo sembreak-within-the-sem in the Mountain Province. Before you judge as completely suicidal, allow me to say I was aware of the potential risk. I was scared for myself, too.<br /><br />My last trek was in Batad and Sagada 2 years ago. I had the company of good friends Fris, Ina and Mark who were happy - no, ecstatic - to stop for a break when I needed one. Either that or they just can't say no to the birthday girl. That time, I was with hiking enthusiasts whom I doubt would be willing to slow down for a poor, flat-footed nuisance like me. Worse, I didn't even bother to work out in preparation for this! All I cared about was my enormous need for escape from the metro and anticipated enjoyment of the mountain air. I was blinded with positivity that I will obtain the serenity and experience adventure that I badly deserve. Worst, there was a parade of typhoons visiting the country during the time of my trip. So yeah, good thing I was far from suicidal.<br /><br />ARE WE THERE YET? ARE WE THERE YET? ARE WE THERE YET?!<br /><br />The bus ride to Kiangan, Ifugao took 10 dragging hours. I saved my drowsiness all day for this trip. Little did I know that Autobus happens to have the most uncomfortable seats and frustratingly limited legroom ever! I had no choice since no other bus company offers trip to Kiangan.<br /><br />Before boarding, I met up with Cricket, the Manila-based Save The Ifugao Terraces Movement (SITMo) volunteer who bought my bus tickets. He introduced me to the other women who would be joining the harvest tour namely, Jenna, Melai and somebody else whose name I can no longer recall. I sat next to Melai since the others were seated together. She was not shocked to hear I was all by myself since she had her share of solo travels. In fact, she recently treated herself to a solo trip to Batanes. She was in disbelief that I'd be crawling back to Manila the following night and ensued with the lecture I was quite welcoming to hear then. I managed steer the talk back to my dream Batanes. But my excitement turned to envy as her narration progressed. Eventually, without my permission, she left me for dreamland.<br /><br />The sight of fellow passengers with their eyelids squeezed shut reminded me I need all the strength that I can get for the hike. Thus, I struggled to sleep. But I kept on waking up as if I were a baby with no diapers. To top it off, I realized I was not as tolerant to the freezing cold anymore. I was this close to snatch somebody else's blanket. Where had the sleeveless-in-Sagada spirit gone? Needless to say, I didn't get satisfactory snooze which, by the way, happens all the time, and I bet I must be the first passenger to wake up at 2 hours before we even get to reach the destination. How it sucks to be Morpheus's least favorite!<br /><br />REACHING KIANGAN<br /><br />SITMo volunteers Jonathan and Nilo were already wating when we bounced off the bus. Considering they have met the other women before, they welcomed me with equal warmth. We were escorted to the jeepney that took us to their office.<br /><br />It was initially fascinating to hear them recall tales from their erstwhile journeys. As they went on, it became apparent they were on the move every single weekend. Much to their annoyance! I bit my tongue for a bitter retort. I would kill to achieve that kind of lifestyle!<br /><br />Soon enough, my highly-trained nostrils realized that breakfast was ready. I went down with Cricket and the girls, selected food from the array of meals on the long table and found myself seated with the other tourists. I was next to a fellow solo traveler Ivana (born in USA, raised in Canada, attended school in Scotland), an Anthropology student who went there for research. I congratulated her for making it in spite of the heavy rains she endured and subsequently informed her I imagine my own thesis to have an anthropological approach. Her study was about utilizing anthropology for community development. She went on with the details but I was easily distracted by the piercing on her lipweb. (I initially mistook it as her gums.) It was my first time to see such. I was reminded of my aim to have my tongue pierced. I managed to suppress myself from staring at it and reserve my questions for later.<br /><br />After breakfast, we all gathered to be introduced to one another and be informed about the activities waiting for us. I swallowed hard upon hearing the word "hiking" as the first activity of the day. Being surrounded by muscled and trigger happy souls made my tension mount, making me cross my fingers that my weekly panting spree to reach the fourth floor of Palma Hall and the consistently out-of-order escalator in MRT-Ayala station prepared me enough for this. In spite of my intimidation, I raced towards the jeep after the talk and distribution of IDs and nearly followed Ivana to topload when I realized I forgot to bring my sunblock lotion. Please don't squeal to my dermatologist.<br /><br />AND THE HIKING BEGINS<br /><br />The jeepney finally came into a screeching halt upon the view of male natives pounding rice in their giant mortar and female counterparts preparing ricecakes. Fellow tourists sampled on the mentioned sweets and took turns in pounding along with the natives. Nilo told me that during harvest season they are not worried about rice spilling from the mortar. Everyone is feeling generous.<br /><br />Before we commenced the hike, I noticed the writing on the baranggay hall's (I assume) blackboard. It read the womenfolk proposed a liquor ban. Considering the amount of consumption and the cultural significance of rice wine, the image of sober gatherings made me scratch my scalp. Or they have a different definition of liquor ban? Must be so.<br /><br />To my relief, the walk was mostly downward. I was more able to enjoy the view of the rice terraces and the rejuvenating air. The river glistened under the sunlight. The sound it made as it caressed the grey stones made me want to stop over, run my fingers through it and wash my face.<br /><br />I suddenly missed my good friends. I bet they'd love this. Although it was fun and fulfilling to be on a trip alone, nothing beats the experience of sharing your thrill real-time with people that matter. For now, I'd have to keep it to myself. Soon, I'd gush about my brag-worthy tales next time we meet.<br /><br />Something unexpected took place. I was taking my sweet time in crossing the lush greens and just allowed a fellow participant overtake on me when I suddenly slipped and fell flat on my butt. Jenna and the mentioned overtaker turned around to see what was going on. Jenna displayed concern, the latter was blank. Guess what I did? I stood up nearly a millisecond after my fall, dusted off the stain on my behind and flashed Jenna a thumbs up and a triumphant grin. All that before I could even say, "Ouch!". I was astounded with my own action! Typically, I would verbally acknowledge the pain, blush myself to death and ask for help. In any order. All of a sudden, my mind played a montage of all the sources of resentment and disappointment I had been suffering from during that time. The fall - and the speedy rise - made my self-respect resurface and made my heart surge with hope. Things had been pretty shitty but, just as Bob Marley's immortal song said, every little thing is gonna be all right. I was so proud of myself.<br /><br />The hike went on. The first stopover was to meet and greet the 100-year-old woman who was married to a US veteran. Her countenance looked younger than I expected. The next was for a quick repose and gulp of rice wine. I obliged. On the third, we were welcomed to witness an old man play an ethnic guitar and the rituals of rice wine making. We were treated to camote (dubbed as their "pan de sal") and more rice wine for refreshments. Reluctance registered in the faces of most tourists. One native explained (or at least to me) that it is not as potent if the intake includes solid food. Call me gullible or typically thirsty for such, I drank and ate away. I even took home 3 "goblets" made out of bamboo. How could I possibly turn down something free and bottomless?<br /><br />The final stop was in the town of Nagacadan where throngs of natives prepared a program for us. I did not get to watch all their performances as Nilo took me to his friend's home for early lunch. Unlike the other participants of the tour, I had to leave by noon for Mongayong to experience the river wild. The others would stay together for another jeep ride to Uhaj (pronounced as Uha) for tree-planting and, possibly, bonfire and slumber party.<br /><br />As soon I was bloated from the solo feast, I retraced my steps to the venue of the program. I was just in time to witness the newly-elected Governor Ted Baguilat express his gratitude for the tourists for coming over and plea to help them spread the word about Ifugao's heritage tourism. I was fortunate to interview him when he was in vacation in Quezon City about Ifugao and its tourism. He encouraged me to join the harvest tour and try river rafting in Chico River. Imagine my surprise when he came up to me and thanked me for pushing through. Shortly after, I was waving goodbyes to the fellow participants. Time to go for some water adventure!<br /><br />SCREAM IF YOU WANNA GO FASTER!<br /><br />Nilo joined me for a bum-flattening, lump-inducing trike ride to Mongayan. The river rafting is not a part of their tour package and I was touched that he ensured I would get to the resort safe, sound and in time.<br /><br />Upon getting there, I was immediately introduced to the doctor-couple who run the river rafting business and the operators Anton and Argel. I dashed to change into my swimwear in excitement. By 14:00, I, along with the doctors, their sons and two colleagues Marissa and Johann, braved the drizzle to get into the jeepney that would take us to the Mongayan Bridge.<br /><br />Turned out Doc hailed from Cavite City and his family was from Digman (place in Bacoor known for halo halo and, yes, a silent witness of my post-class gimmicks in high school). His wife's mother was from Aniban (two baranggays away from mine). It was like I was back home. They were very nice to talk with and they treated me as if I were a neighbor back from a long vacation.<br /><br />By the time we reached the bridge, it was already raining cats and dogs. Anton told us that, thanks to the downpour, the river, typically level 1-2, had become level 2-3. This means more turbulence awaited us. I shrieked in rapture. This is what I came for!<br /><br />After some crash course how to raft, we were divided into two teams. Doc and his sons went first, followed by our group of 4. We were armed with helmets (mine was in puta red), paddle, lifevests and lots of fighting spirit. The next hour witnessed us paddle our way from the violent waters of Mongayan to Ibulao Bridge. Everything was fast and maddening: the sight of the water making a tall formation before us, the dangerous "curves" ahead and the huge rock that trapped us. Plus the mockery from Doc that, "Hala, di ka na makakauwi ng Bacoor!" There river was tranquil in some points and we, as a team, spent it high-fiving one another through our paddles or imitating Johann's frightened exterior. It was all laughs and screams. I nearly cried to see the Ibulao River and the band of men waiting to lift the rafts for deflation.<br /><br />Fun can not begin to describe what I had experienced. I would definitely come back. With 18 brave souls so we can conquer Chico River.<br /><br />Soundtrack:<br /><br />1. Let Me Take You To The Mountain - Krush<br /><br />2. Sound of Settling - Death Cab for Cutie<br /><br />3. Midnight Eyes - Daydream CycleKristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-49572657953402066782008-04-25T16:23:00.001+08:002008-04-25T16:23:39.817+08:00POSTCARDS FROM EGYPT by Kate BakerPOSTCARDS FROM EGYPT<br /><br />By Kate Baker <br /><br />Greetings from Cairo!<br /><br /> <br /><br />Traveling with my friend, Anita, is like...., well, a box of chocolates, to quote an old sage. You just never know what you are going to bite into. No one is a stranger to Anita, and in a place like Egypt, that can lead to adventure............ or misadventure. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Gazing from the hotel balcony onto the city of exotic novels and movies of intrigue, we were eager to plunge into the unknown. So Anita and I set off for the famous Cairo Museum which houses 5,000 years of art and antiquities. Walking along the Nile Promenade, we were not out of the hotel 10 minutes before we were suckered in by the oldest line in the book......” the museum was closed for siesta and would we like to take a walk in the city center?” To make a very long story short, several hours later we were left with a little glass bottle of “perfume”, divested of way too many American dollars, and keenly aware that Egyptians are masters of income redistribution! Our income redistributed to them! It was nearly dark when we finally arrived at the museum which was, of course, never closed. The good news is that by going late, most of the crowds had dissipated so we nearly had the place to ourselves. Magnificent, colossal statues populate the first floor while clearly the artifacts from King Tutankhamun’s tomb on the 2nd floor are the pride of the museum. With the heaviness of attempting to view almost all 120,000 items in the museum, walking out of this funereal sanctuary into the cool night air felt wildly liberating. The surrounding gardens, with statuary, backlit and golden-hued, gave the whole atmosphere a glimmering, haunting beauty. We managed to walk back to our hotel without incident, which, trust me, given our track record, was pretty remarkable! <br /><br /> <br /><br />Gullibly yours, K <br /><br /> <br /><br />********************************************<br /><br />Greetings from Giza!<br /><br /> <br /><br />As we drove through the desert plateau towards the Pyramids, we seemed to come upon them all at once. I mean, there you are in the city, and without fanfare or warning, they pop out of the landscape...... the Pyramids of Giza, with the loyal Sphinx standing guard! The vision is staggering, stunning, stupendous! It takes a little time to digest the sight of these ancient monuments which have captured the world’s imagination for centuries. Though imbued with mystery and magic, the actual facts concerning these monoliths are astonishing. I bought an extra ticket to venture inside the largest one, Khufu’s Pyramid. Not for the faint of heart! It is a strenuous climb as well as hot and claustrophobic, but well worth the trouble to experience the eeriness of a nearly 4,000 year old tomb! Afterwards, we were cajoled into taking a camel ride around the Pyramids and discovered that camel hawkers are also adept at income redistribution! With her generous tip, Anita was trying to talk the hawker into buying a book for his son, an 11 year old camel tender. Somehow, I don’t think she convinced him, but it was a valiant effort. I must admit, with an Egyptian blue sky as background viewing the Pyramids from atop a camel just may be one of those rare, beautiful moments without equal. <br /><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br />Humbly yours, K<br /><br />********************************************* <br /><br />Greetings from Luxor!<br /><br /> <br />We arrived in Luxor this evening a bit shell shocked from the chaos of Cairo and were transported back to a colonial era gone by in the Winter Palace Hotel. Housing such dignitaries as Princess Eugenie of France and King Farouk, the hotel is a virtual museum of an elegant past. We passed a peaceful evening dining on fine Egyptian food, and a morning in the well tended garden imagining Agatha Christie on the sun-drenched verandah writing “Death on the Nile” . Boarding the ship about noon, we anticipated, but in no way could imagine, the amazing sights awaiting us in Luxor, built on the ancient ruins of Thebes. The Temple of Karnak is Egypt’s most important Pharaonic site besides Giza. Built over a 1300 year period by successive Pharaohs each trying to outdo the other, the massive temple complex covers about 100 acres. The magnificence and importance of Thebes is evident in the vast array of pylons, temples, rows of sphinxes, and giant columns and obelisks. For over 1,000 years, the complex was buried under the desert sands until the mid 19th century when excavation and restoration began and continues even today. In the evening, we were treated to a Sound and Light show within the complex guiding us through each Pharaonic period and its history. During ancient times, an avenue of sphinxes led from Karnak to the entrance of Luxor Temple. We, however, took the bus. This elegant temple which is much smaller than Karnak, houses a pink granite obelisk which was one of a pair until its mate was given to the people of France as a gift. It now holds court in the Place de la Concorde in Paris. Buried until 1881 when excavation began, a village actually developed on top of the site and had to be removed. Only a 13th century mosque is left. <br /><br />Our task master tour guide is teaching us hieroglyphics and Pharaonic periods. Since he has forbidden us to talk to strangers, we have not gotten ourselves into any trouble today! <br /><br />Awesomely yours,<br /><br />K<br /><br />******************************************** <br /><br />Hi from aboard M/S Carmen, somewhere on the Nile <br /><br />De Nile! De Nile! I’m in a state of De-nial! Pinching myself to prove that I am really cruising on this ancient icon, studied in history books and romanticized in film and novels. The sky is the most incredible blue I’ve ever seen and wispy clouds dance about while a golden sun warms the cool winter day. Sitting from the vantage point of the ship’s deck, I am watching life go by as it has for centuries. A bull drinking from the river, a shepherd herding his sheep, a lone fisherman in a small wooden skiff. Beyond the lush green landscape by the river, brown, mud brick villages spring up amongst the desert hillocks. A tiny blue mosque sits atop a outcropping of sandy hills. A reed hut is a beehive of activity. At the edge of a small orchard, children play, long robed men carry loads of cane, cattle graze. Two little boys in a battered skiff are taking a bundle of cane across the river. They wave and shout greetings to us. I see 5 black-clad women washing their clothes on rocks. Two men unload hay from a donkey cart. Oh, the poor Egyptian donkey! Is there a load he is not asked to carry, a day he is not expected to work? What good luck not to be a donkey! <br /><br />Thankfully yours, K <br /><br /> <br />********************************************<br /><br /> <br />Hello from Abu Simbel! <br /><br />It was party, party, party on the boat last night as we bade farewell to our disparate group of new friends who had become so familiar and comfortable these past few days. One night we dressed as Egyptians relinquishing all inhibitions and dancing with abandon. Even with an early call in the morning, the weary tour guides had a difficulty getting us to leave the dance floor for our state rooms. The belly dancer was ugly, but the whirling dervish was amazing! <br /><br />Early the next morning, we were transported to Aswan airport where we boarded a flight to a small island which is home to two historic temples. Abu Simbel resides in an area called Nubia, just a few kilometers from the Sudan border. Four Colossi of Ramses II are carved out of a cliff of solid rock with an interior of graceful carvings and hieroglyphics. Can you imagine sailing up the Nile and seeing these massive figures? (Ramses II’s lips alone are one meter in width!) Obviously, they are meant to impress and to frighten! The second temple is dedicated to the Goddess Hathor, and Ramses II commissioned it for his beloved wife, Nerfertari, a beautiful Nubian. Buried in the sand for centuries, Abu Simbel was threatened to be buried by water after the Aswan Dam was built. In the 1960’s, UNESCO was able to cut the monuments piece by piece from the mountain and locate the temples in their entireties to another island, an immense undertaking by the international community. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Before we knew it, we were back in Cairo at the mercy of taxi drivers and without our guide to keep us out of trouble. Although we had to sit on on our suitcases because I’m sure that the taxi driver was on his way to the recycling center, we managed to make a good deal (we think) on our return trip to the hotel. Also, Anita managed to get the life story of the taxi driver in the process. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Colossally yours,<br /><br />K<br /><br />********************************************<br /><br />Back in Cairo!<br /><br /> <br /><br />After the majesty of the Pharaonic antiquities and the serenity of cruising on the Nile, Cairo hits us with a cacophony of traffic, pollution, and admittedly, an excited edginess now that we have no protective guide! We decide to focus on Islamic Cairo. A colorful glimpse into the past, this part of the city is a maze of narrow streets writhing with activity, old Mosques, and the famous Khan al-Khalili Souq (bazaar). Would you believe that we took our Turkish coffee at the same coffee house where Naguib Mahfouz used to take his! Fishawi’s has been around for 200 years with its brass topped tables and antique mirrors all crammed together, smoky and exotic. Young men puff away on sheeshas (water pipes) and the intelligentsia discuss lofty topics over mint tea or pomegranate juice. I could just see Mahfouz in the corner hunched over his manuscript for “Palace of Desire” sipping tea. <br /><br />Across the square, Mosque of al-Aqmar is the oldest stone-built mosque in Egypt. Dating from 1125, this beauty is also home to a madrassa, a school for teaching Islamic law. Architectural details are stunning and rich in decorative features such as inlaid stone work and carving. A marble columned library provides texts where students from all over the world study. <br /><br />Another “must-see” in Cairo is the Citadel which dates from 1176 and is comprised of a huge enclosure housing mosques, museums, and a vast view of the cityscape. The spectacular, Mohammed Ali Mosque, the jewel of the Citadel, is popular not only for the tourists, but also for Muslims who have come to pray. A young man calls plaintively into a prayer niche, another bows his head to the floor, silently others give their submissions oblivious to the camera-toting tourists. <br /> <br /><br />Prayerfully yours, <br /><br />K <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br />*********************************************<br /><br /> <br />Howdy from a farm near Cairo,<br /><br /> <br /><br />My last day in Cairo! Anita left this morning, and I’ve made an plan for myself. At the Winter Palace Hotel in Luxor, I had a chance meeting with a British woman married to an Egyptian, and she very kindly invited me to Friday’s lunch on their farm outside of Cairo. Friday being a holy day for Muslims, family and friends gather after prayers for socializing and enjoying a meal together. After a tour of the farm which is home to over one hundred Arabian horses, a menagerie of dogs, cacti extrodinaire, and various children and family members, we drove out into the desert behind the farm. With exhilarating speed and freedom, we negotiate the deep furrows of the desert sands and speed over giant hills. In the distance, we can see the odd pyramid and ruin. I’ve learned that scattered all along the Nile from Cairo to the Sudan, pyramids exist in various states of disrepair, the well-known Giza Pyramids being the most outstanding. Perched upon a strategic hill, we see a most amazing sight........a full view of the Giza Pyramids at one end of the horizon and Saqqara at the other end. Saqqara is the famous step Pyramid, Egypt’s earliest and prototype for all pyramids to follow. The children romp in the sand as if it is perfectly natural to play in the midst of 5,000 year old relics while we adults gaze awestruck.<br /><br />Back at the farm, the guests arrive in groups. Danish, English, American, German, the Egyptian family members, grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, some very traditional and some very fashionable. I lose track of who’s who. A feast of Egyptian cuisine such as lentils, babaghanoush, hummus, fish, melokiyah soup, fresh tomato and cucumber salad is laid upon a colorful tablecloth of traditional design. Bathed in the warm winter sun, we are seated at round tables scattered about the garden engaging in easy conversation. As in this garden on this farm in 2008, Cairo remains a cultural magnet for people from distant lands speaking foreign tongues. And so it has for thousands of years.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Thoughtfully yours,<br /><br />KKristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-81594155004416392282008-04-25T16:21:00.000+08:002008-04-25T16:22:00.355+08:00TURISTANG HILAW™ - Batad and Sagada by Fristine de GuiaBy Fristine de Guia <br /><br />After nearly four months of wishy-washy planning and dreams of Camiguin; the whitest of sand, toes dipped in unbelievable hot springs sprung from seven volcanoes, the cleanest of salty water, White Island - the sexiest of all islets...I get to go gallivanting and traipsing in BANAUE.<br /><br /> <br /><br />What in the world did I do in Mt. Province when everyone knows I am the absolute worst in hand and eye coordination? I say and quote Laura Hogg (please check her out on the postcards I am to post later); "I thought I am the biggest klutz in the world, the worst in hand and eye coordination...then I met you." Two things after she said that while sinking my feet on cold mud, slowly hopping down the crude steps to reach Bog-ok (small) Falls: First, hopelessness - I may bid goodbye forever to spelunking (A sport I was inspired to take after sliding clumsily in Sumaging Cave and saw how Lornadahl kicked the head of our non-personable cave guide by the name of Errol), secondly, surprising mirth, bubbly as a newly opened champagne bottle. At least I made someone feel better, though at my expense.<br /><br /> <br /><br />This was the original plan: Celebrate Lornadahldahl's and Grace's solar returns in Camiguin. We will go to Cagayan de Oro, stay with Lorna's aunt for a few days, go to Camiguin, burn our bums on hopefully hot white sand and pig out on boxes of pastel (I proudly own an incorrigible sweet tooth). Go back to Manila with Lorna owning enviable tan lines and myself with more boxes of pastel. Reality was hard to ignore. As much as our plans were deliciously laid out, though haphazardly, our failure to save enough money to fly our buxom selves to CDO is the primary reason why we didn't get to see the reigning queen of all islands down south. I contracted beta streptococcus, medication is insanely expensive, and Lorna just...well...she just failed. <br /><br />We decided to go to Sagada instead (It's closer, as we are generic Manileñas). First, it's cheaper; second, it might be the only place away from the city where Grace WANTS to tag along. I have to stress on wants, as this girl cannot ride the LRT without splashing alcohol all over her body and swishing her 20 lb. bag to kill everyone within a 12" radius. If Grace says she wants to give the trees a hug, Lorna and I are more than welcome to oblige. <br /><br />We suddenly thought Sagada might not fit our budget so we decided to go to Batad instead, and perhaps later, we can drop by Sagada if our budgets will allow (mga purita). I then packed my 30 lb. hiking bag and giddily anticipated the trip. Arriving at the Victory Liner station, Lorna and I with our sumo packs and bloated bladders, waited for Mark (I secretly dubbed "Road Whore") and Ina (pint-sized bête noire). Formal introductions were made; in between hand shakes I realized we all have 2 things in common - infallible taste buds and bottomless stomachs. <br /><br />After a five hour bus ride to Solano junction we hopped down from the bus, took three jeepneys to get to Banaue Poblacion, we heard a choir of growling stomachs. The Road Whore spoke of good beef tapa and bottomless brewed mountain coffee served in Sanofe. The beef was tough as rubber (chewing on marinated shoe soles would have been a better experience), the "garlic" rice didn't have any garlic and the refillable mountain brew coffee was not bottomless. Road Whore apologized profusely until we arrived in Baguio. It took him four days to get over it. Poor guy. <br /><br />With full stomachs, we packed ourselves and our bags in a cramped tricycle and headed to Banaue junction, then hopped on a jeepney towards Saddlepoint. Seeing the huge jagged white rocks on the path to Saddlepoint, I realized that much to my disdain, a noisy tricycle cannot wheel to the said destination without destroying itself into smithereens. <br /><br />Midway to Saddlepoint, Road Whore had the tricycle stop by Guihob Natural Pools. If not for the concrete dam, it would have been the most charming micro falls for toes to get frostbite (if there is such a thing in a tropical country). Smooth-round stones, ice-cold water...perfect for torturing pesky creatures belonging to the "bane of the earth" list. Trudging along the path to Saddlepoint made me wish I taped a piece of thick bubble wrap to my bum. My bottom suffered a battery of pummeling from the tricycle. From barely there bum to nonexistent. <br /><br />Upon reaching Saddlepoint my breathe was taken away, not because of the scenery but upon hearing, "Batad is an hour away from here by foot." from the Road Whore. I have a pack as heavy as a sack of rice, scoliosis and nearly nonexistent sense of balance, I wished myself luck. After 3 or so stop overs, panting like a horse, we saw the blue and red sign to Simon's Inn, claiming to have the BEST pizza Batad has to offer, I instantly knew I had to try it. "...10 minute walk", it read. <br /><br />I smelled Batad from the fresh buffalo dung dotting the trail. If not for the greenery I would have been driven crazy nuts. Ten minutes later, a wide view of the lush green terraces welcomed my tired body. It was worth every one of my overworked sweat glands, temporary crossed eyes from gauging each of the trail steps' depth, and my callused right toe. <br /><br />According to Mark (The Road Whore), this place used to not know the definition of electricity just a few months ago. It didn't bother me, with this view, who needs electricity? (Besides, Batad is impenetrable by Smart, Globe, Nextel and Sun Cellular, no cellphone battery charging concerns) <br /><br />We checked-in at the Hillside Inn, after enjoying our mountain-fare meals, mostly every available meat in cans stir fried with rice and lotsa garlic. We dropped our bags on the floor of our spartan room, and dropped on our respective beds like the dead. Lorna, Ina and I dreamed of Tapia Falls, but that would take a few more hours of hiking which our bodies cannot take at the moment. The fact we accidentally left our door wide open for our fellow Korean guests to see our wasted selves coupled with our hanging open mouths left Lorna in severe disgust. I was more concerned with the stink emanating from my body when I woke up.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The sun had set when we all woke from deep slumber, taking a bath was first priority on my list, never mind my growling stomach. I knew a wild hog smelled better than I did. The four of us trotted towards Mang Simon's Inn. Fresh from the bathroom, my mouth watered for pizza. The Road Whore have good reviews for Mang Simon's in-house pizzas, we had to try it. Upon entering Mang Simon's impressive place, along the hall, on the right side, we noticed gazillions of business cards, empty cigarette packs with notes, IDs, passport photocopies, wallet-sized photos tacked to the wall, all with the same message, "I SURVIVED BATAD". I just knew I had to tack my name on the wall with other "survivors". I should, and I did, since I carried my bag all the way to arguably the best if not the only rice terraces amphitheater. A mere biodegradable note will not do, so I rummaged through my wallet and picked a plastic card with my name solidly embossed. I will not be surprised if my spine delineated from the vertical axis at least 10 more degrees coming to this place. <br /><br />I ordered a delectable 9 inch pizza, a mock marguerite. Slices of vine-ripened tomatoes and processed cheese food under a pasty spread of Del Monte's spaghetti sauce (which explains the sugary-grainy goodness) on a crispy thin and flat round bread. No torn basil, I was nearly disappointed, but as soon as the tomatoes played with my taste buds, it made me forget about the tiny misgiving. I am amazed that the crust put up a good fight under the weight of the tomatoes, and its thickness is only 2/3 of Shakey's thin crust. Culinary perfection achieved in high altitude. No one would think everybody over there can both say and spell "chapatti" like it's second nature. It's no surprise. <br /><br />The Road Whore took us to the place where the townspeople and visitors hold bonfires during weekends. With the naked blue-black sky studded with stars paining my eyes while trying to count the bright little suns, I didn't seem to mind the absence of a huge bonfire to welcome our group on a Tuesday night. It was one of the clearest skies I had the honor of gazing at, my perennial pair of prescription glasses was not necessary. The Cam-Whore of course, had to lie on the stone table to have her picture taken in pitch black darkness. Akin to South American Indian tribe sacrifices hundreds of years ago, where they've slain hundreds of virgins. I didn't know the extent of Lornadahl's camera whoredom until I experienced it with both Ina and Mark first hand at that moment. <br /><br />Our sore bums parked on the inn's veranda after supper. While staring at the mountain silhouettes, we talked about Batanes and fresh, sticky marijuana to be purchased at Sagada, how we will celebrate Lorna's birthday, Batad's reduced charm since electricity was introduced to the town, Road Whore’s and Ina’s past trips to places Lorna and I have never been to, and the locals’ undying love for American country music (Comparable to China’s obsessive adoration for ancient art reproduction, which is an art in itself). Interestingly enough, though the experience may be the most plain considered by many, listening to my fast-assembled group gave me the naked truth about themselves. My powers of observation amazed even myself, every single word that rolled out of their mouths I absorbed, like a brittle dry sponge to salty water. I may be with the best group of people to be with at that exact moment (Babayaran niyo ako, alam niyo ‘yan).<br /><br /> <br /><br />After a few minutes, my tired body decided to doze off. Ina and Mark repeatedly asked me to go back to my room. I heard snippets of conversation, going over to Mang Ramon’s place; take photos of Batad’s only preserved house, my funny soft snore, and what to eat tomorrow while hiking back up to Saddlepoint. Sandman dropped a huge bag of dust on me; I could hear my bed calling me then. <br /><br />Lorna as usual, the most sleep-deprived and always the first one to rise, woke me up with her feet heavy on the wood floorboards. The eternal light sleeper, it’s a curse. The air was flush with the word “sore” emanating from our bodies. Needless to say, we had to scrap going over to Mang Ramon’s house, besides, our contracted jeepney will pick us up in less than two hours. Mark, though he will not admit it openly with us Tres Marias of the Underworld, was worried we might not get to Saddlepoint in time considering how fast we move (Ina was THE exception). We consoled ourselves with, “Mang Ramon’s house is something to look forward to next time.” What sorry liars we were I realized while paying our bill at the inn and signing the guest book. <br /><br />The Road Whore foiled my attempt to order a fat chapatti with tomatoes and cheese, insisted we start heading back to Saddlepoint, chop-chop. A deep temporary furrow grew on my forehead, as I thought how am I to survive with just a pack of crackers and water on the way up. Our money-hungry porter (Yes, we cheated, us girls had our bags carried for a reasonable fee; I have to remind you, I have scoliosis so I’m excused) gloated he can carry them all at once. I told him he better be sure because if he passes out, I will not render any CPR if needed though I am a licensed first aid instructor and we will not pay him a single cent. With my hands free, I had my arms to help me balance myself on the way up.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Three-fourths of the way, after a few stop overs and fifteen minutes to spare before the jeepney driver comes to pick us up, I thought I saw an albino buffalo with a huge black pack (Excuse my 200/200 vision, I was not wearing my glasses), turned out to be a tall Caucasian male, dripping with his own sweat (Akala ko talaga luntian yung pawis, at pinagalitan ko na naman sarili ko dahil kung anu-ano ang nakikita ko. Later on, I realized why). He asked if where we’re heading to, he decided to share the jeepney as he had to go to back to Banaue junction. Why not? As long as we can cut our expenses. Mga purita kami.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Fork on the road! now, it’s a choice between a straight path up and narrow deep steps up. The birthday girl chose the steps. While silently cursing, we all climbed the steps. Of course, the Road Whore got to the top a fair ten minutes before Lorna and me as he has this perpetual itch to talk to strangers and turn them to not-so-strange creatures. Turns out the guy’s name is, Omer (or Omar). While Mark tended his disgusting knee wound from his previous trip to Sagada, the jeepney rolled into view. Knowing we made it to the top before this four-wheeled vehicle made my chest puff with accomplishment. <br /><br />On our way back to Banaue’s Poblacion, I couldn’t resist talking to Omer. A few things about this South African native, whose base is located in Johannesburg; he’s a 26 year old real estate person who is currently at a crossroads with his career. He found himself roaming the Philippines after his job contract with another Southeast Asian country (I forgot which one). And his favorite Filipino reality show? Take a good guess…Pinoy Big Brother. Why am I not surprised? Perhaps I’m too tired and sore to show that I’m horror-struck. The show is a virus worse than Ebola inflicting millions of Filipinos and non-Filipinos combined. <br /><br />Omer wanted to go to back to Manila (to his self-declared Philippine hub) then fly to Boracay. I can’t blame the guy, he’s a tourist for heavens sake and besides, he has two copies of that Lonely Planet book. Of course, excited as we are about Sagada, all we did was ramble about the place. Stopping by the Banaue junction, Omer decided to join us to Banaue Poblacion instead. At that time, he didn’t know it but he’s already half-convinced to join us to Sagada. <br /><br />As recommended by our jeepney driver who loved to grumble in Ilocano, we should go to Las Vegas Inn and Café for brunch. With our packs on our backs, our driver happy with his thin wad of hundred bills, we plodded up along the path to Las Vegas. The place is a very interesting mixture of Las Vegas’ famous casinos and hotels memorabilia, black wooden statues and, Ilocano table runners and knickknacks. After a heavy breakfast of pork tapa and mountain brew, Omer announced, “Since I’m here, might as well do it (referring to Sagada)”. Alright! I thought meron na namang kahati sa gastusin sa pamasahe. <br /><br />With our stomachs full of good food, we struggled (This word is only applicable to both Lorna and I) to get to the bus station where the mini bus that goes directly to Sagada stops. I tallied up around 20 heads of people all smoking at the same time, and it would be a shame if I’m going to be the oddball without a stick waiting for the bus, so I lit up a cig. Fifteen minutes passed by, still no bus. Halfway done with smoking, I noticed Omer was very much engaged talking to a couple. The Road Whore all of a sudden disappeared, to gawd knows where...again. While I searched for tiny Ina and my hands groped for Lorna, I found Mark talking to the couple Omer was talking to. Obviously, we didn’t want our excitement for Sagada be dampened by the mini bus’ penchant for the traditional Filipino time so the Road Whore ferreted out a jeepney to take us to Bontoc. <br /><br />For some reason, I zoned out for about half an hour as soon as my rump touched the jeepney seat. I heard Lorna rambling; saw Ina’s thoughts running through her mind (her thoughts are so palpable it’s hard to miss) and Mark contemplating whether he should pee or not. Across my peripheral vision, I saw four Caucasian heads talking like they are enclosed in a tiny bubble of sorts, oblivious to the rest of mankind. Having experienced the same thing each time I traveled along North America, I was not offended. People are always drawn to their own kind each time they are a minority. It’s natural affliction, immediate affinity with people who share the color of your skin and the shape of your nose. Be thankful if you have a good nose and that I do preach all the time.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Two hours into the ride to Bontoc, and two stops courtesy of Mark’s always distended bladder, my right leg lost every feeling in it. Considering my bag was sitting on my foot and a French-Swiss guy’s pack kept hugging my leg, no wonder. I silently loathe uncomfortable silence so I had to talk to everybody after purposely listening to their conversations. Finally, I get to be the local who gets a kick out of foreigners’ commentaries and observations about my country, very refreshing. After four years in North America, mostly shuttling round and about the US and few trips to Canada during its winter months (Yes, I’m a proud masochist), I always get good-natured laughs from locals each time I say anything about their native terrain. I learned that these four, after weeks of staying in the Philippines, learned to be thankful that the bus arrived an hour or two after its expected time of arrival. Better late than never and find themselves with bound hands and feet in some dark vehicle trunk after being nabbed by mercenaries. <br /><br />Ten minutes to Bontoc, the sun with all its effulgence, revealed a breath taking view of a small river and tiny terraces. I have never seen wild callas look so white and proud. The river nearly blinded me, but who gives a damn? The sight immediately made me stop talking. Majesty is always appreciated in silence. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Ten minutes later, we got off the jeep, crossed the street to the jeepney stop heading for Sagada. The nearer I was to Sagada, more of my arm hair stood on its roots. It was like anticipated sex with Hugh Jackman, it’s unbelievable. Turns out the jeepney parked on the stop cannot accommodate four long-legged foreigners, four short Manileños and ten heavyweight packs. We realized the locals have an implausible talent for stacking and packing sacks of produce in small spaces, but since the eight of us are too tired to be treated like sardines for canning, we decided to wait instead for the next jeepney. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Not willing to wait for more than 15 minutes, again, Mark contracted another jeepney to take us to Sagada. A private jeepney for P600, not so bad divided amongst the eight of us. Happily, we stuffed our bags and ourselves in our hired vehicle. With room to spare my legs, I stretched with abandon. This cost me P75, I would have killed anyone with my stare who would have dared to tell me not to. Less cranky and claustrophobic, I finally collected the names of the three foreigners. I learned two of them, Laura (researcher, works with UN) and James (chef), are natives of New Zealand who haven’t seen the sun rise in their homeland for the last four years. They are official globe trekkers/nomads who work without rest for 16 weeks at a time then take 6 weeks off to travel a foreign country with their hard earned money. Divers at heart, they talked about going to Malapascua, perhaps Bantayan Island, etc. Hats off to this couple, they hiked Batad and Tapia falls in a day, leaving their bags in an inn in Banaue Poblacion and then back. As soon as they got to Batad, they learned about a dozen cheaper inns they could have crashed into. They were just so nice not to curse their hired guide. The French-Swiss guy’s name is nowhere to be found in my mind’s database. Perhaps because he hardly talked at all, and he didn’t move his bag upon my request to bring some blood back up my leg. Needless to say, I didn’t like him very much. I knew I asked him twice in perfect English and once in very broken French. Damn, I’m an ineffective communicator.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Thousands of minutes later, a few bouts of prickly shush-ness, I saw the brown sign “Welcome to Sagada”. All of my arm hair stood up, I’m worse than a person distressed with LBM without any loperamide on hand to soothe the pain. All of a sudden, the air seemed to smell sweeter, it was familiar but not overly so, it promised me 48 hours of imperturbable and relaxing experience. <br /><br />The jeepney stopped by Alfredo’s Inn and Restaurant. With our each of our P75 on Laura’s hand, I furtively twirled 360 degrees. I could not believe I’m back in Sagada. While they all gabbed about where we’re supposed to check in, and immediately planned out an itinerary, all I did was wonder how I can make it feasible enough to bottle this air in a pressurized container and bring it back to Manila. Being absorbed as I was, I did not even notice the French-Swiss guy split from our group. Alfredo’s was under renovation, Road Whore was disappointed (he prefers a thick Alfredo's mattress under his short frame) but there is always St. Joseph’s Inn squatting on a small hill with its stark white sidings, forest green roof and gutters, we knew that is the right place to be. <br /><br />After twenty or so grunts and surprisingly dry underarms, a faint pine scent welcomed my nostrils. I saw portraits of nuns (this place by the way is a convent converted to an inn), newly polished broad wood plank flooring, display shelving with hand painted natural fiber/wool bags and shirts, captioned and illustrated maps, vcds and cds burned with local scenery and music. The inconspicuous front desk is a thing of beauty in its own right, polished narra and as heavy as four oxen. I couldn’t help running my fingers along the grain while they all chitchatted with the lady behind the desk with widened eyes due to the fact they couldn’t believe it only cost P150 per night per person in Sagada. One cannot help but be surprised that it’s way cheaper than wash-up rates of nondescript motels everywhere in the Philippines. <br /><br />With our room keys on hand, like children, we all excitedly trotted/ran to our respective rooms. I shared mine with Lorna and Ina, of course as always; I’m drawn to the bed farthest from the door, but since the biggest window that showcased the best view is right beside the bed, Lorna just had to have first dibs on the bed (It’s the girl’s birthday). I took the bed in the middle and Ina right next to the door. Ina kept commenting about the dust floating around our room air, and I sniffed around looking for more than necessary dust – looking back at it, its no wonder my grandfather said I had rat genes. The opened windows and fantastic view was more than enough to compensate for the Nickelodeon pillow cases and shrunken and scratchy red fleece blankets, narrow single beds, carceral windows, bare mirror, and the rusty up-to-the-sky towel hanger. Not that I was expecting anything analogous to New York’s Waldorf Astoria, I merely want to stress out how beautiful Sagada is. To think our bedroom view was filtered by a clothesline and we haven’t seen all the good stuff yet. <br /><br />After leaving our things in our respective rooms, we all walked to the famed Yoghurt House to have late lunch. Woven fabric hung from the ceiling interspersed with black and white photographs, wood tables and chairs and its small fireplace pumped up the restaurant’s charm. I ordered tuna and vegetable salad with roasted eggplant and garlic yoghurt dressing. While waiting for our food, we perused through its numerous guest books. One entry written by a pregnant woman found by Laura is the most memorable, this woman is a traveler, she’s been up north and everywhere down south, and she claimed yoghurt in Yoghurt House cannot be replicated anywhere else in the world. Pregnancy did not deter her from going to Sagada to just have the yogurt made and served in this place. With that in mind, I knew I just had to have the yogurt then as I will not be able to wait for breakfast. Ina was devastated, she didn’t want anything else on her yogurt but honey, since the manangs any liquid sweetener aside from Karo syrup, she was forced to drag Mark to the market to buy honey – both of them didn’t find anything. In Ina’s devastation, Lorna and I finished our meals with a serving of water buffalo and cow’s milk yogurt topped with granola happily. Cruel I know, but sweet. <br /><br />As the sun began to set, the Road Whore led the way to Echo Valley. Following Mark’s trail to the valley, we passed by the Church of St. Mary the Virgin. The church is quaint and petite, Anglo-Saxon in nature, very intimate and unique. The roughhewn stained glass windows and stacked chipped rock walls gave nearly all of its appeal, façade-wise. The church’s inside is naturally dark, big fat candles could make it a haven for cameras. Snooping around, I saw the nave gave way to a non-functional quasi-clerestory displaying saints dressed in full regalia, simple and no glitter. Instantly, I thought of the weddings that were celebrated inside. The church is perfect for unfussy clandestine weddings and vow renewals. Having to coordinate and arrange quite a few events myself in the past, every time I see beautiful churches/chapels, immediately my mind makes mental slideshows of the place with scaffoldings, flower arrangements, swags, candles etc. My snooping around left me at the end of our file, I quickly followed James who seemed to feed on the sight of the soon-to-set sun and tall trees. Five minutes from the church, Campo Santo came into view. Crude stone markers painted white beckoned to be noticed. Mr. and Mrs. Masferré’s plain graves stuck out from the rest thanks to its numerous vertical markers. Makes one wonder how this famous photographer lived his life aside from the photographs and I wondered more about the woman who lived under the shadow this man. <br /><br />On top of the Campo Santo hill, one can view Echo Valley in its quiet splendor. Gray toothed and serrated rocks of varying heights alternated with spots of tall pine trees. A Finnish couple (How did I know they’re Finnish? They both stayed at the same inn and one of them offered me freshly picked guavas before we headed to Yoghurt House) yelled two hills away to check if they are indeed by Echo Valley. Some rocks had stacks of hanging coffins, I was amazed to see how the barefooted locals years ago managed to hang and pin these wooden caskets when harnesses were non-existent then. Perhaps their feet had claws, who knows? After taking numerous photos and sharing sibling stories we headed back to St. Jo’s.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Everybody charged their cell phones and camera batteries and the brave took quick baths back at the inn (Foreigners are almost always scared of cold showers, needless to say, none of them washed the gunk off of their bodies). After my ice cold bath, though my blood cringed at its semi-frozen state, it felt good to take off the accumulated dust from my curls and crystallized sweat off of my skin. Mark, close to shrieking, ran like a miniature horse in the common room and upstairs. He cannot get over his room’s view, and he would not stop dragging all of our tired bodies to his room to boast. I looked for my group one by one and decided to join Ina and Omer in an absorbed discussion about quarter life crisis. Omer said the 30th year crisis is worse. I wonder how he knew when everybody in our group is no more than 28 years old. Laura and James headed for the inn’s restaurant to grab a few bottles of beer, Omer joined them of course. (Luntian kung luntian ika nga, iiwanan at iiwanan kami nitong mama basta si James ang magaya o makatabi niya. Bakit ako nagta-Tagalog? Kasi baka basahin nilang tatlo itong maiksi kong naisulat. I promised myself I will be true to this travelogue to the tiniest detail I could remember, and heck, blood tinged with a bit of green is hard to forget) <br /><br />Of course, since we own bottomless stomachs, we decided we’re hungry for more good food. All of us fell in love with Yoghurt House; the two manangs were not surprised seeing us back for supper. The sisters (manangs) are superwomen. They run the whole place, tending the organic vegetable garden on the backyard, making the yogurt; they do all the cooking, dishwashing, cleaning and take the orders of every single soul who longed for a good meal. Since it was Lorna’s official solar return day, she decided to have a bottle of Tapey (Unfiltered local rice wine, rose in color, housed in a clean Ginebra bottle) to share with everybody. After a decidedly filling dinner and a few rounds of rice wine, ghost stories and folklore tales were in order. I can never resist scaring the shit out of foreign travelers; Lorna, Ina, Mark and I took turns scaring the three of them while Omer ordered another bottle of Tap-ey. Even if we didn’t succeed, at least we tried. I knew Laura and James are now subconsciously wary of manananggal, tiktik and Sorsogon, haha. There goes the income generated from Sorsogon tourism, another local giving bad rap to the place, tsk. I will be shot by the incumbent Secretary of Tourism. Was Omer scared? No one can tell, with his tongue burned from the very spicy hot chicken curry and alcohol drugging his veins, I doubt if he even listened. (Who cares? Katabi niya yung isa eh. Ikaw talaga Fristine nagtaka ka pa) <br /><br />Following the path back to St. Jo’s, my body silently whined and complained about the cold air biting on my extremities. Mark had to knock on the local bakery door again for some more cinnamon rolls when he knows at 10 pm it is lights out in Sagada (It was past 10 pm). Plopping down on the common room sofa, I felt the effects of lactic acid in my muscles. Though sitting on the patio, a number of women smoking who would gladly massage my sore body for a small fee will ease my pain, I had to decline as I’m on a strict budget and ATMs are not available in this area. Sadly, I brushed my teeth and went to bed. While Ina traipsed with Bo Peep in la-laa-laaand, I silently observed Lorna quietly struggling to sleep. I called on Sandman to whack Lorna with a sack-full of dream dust. Unfortunately, Sandman didn’t hear my plea; Lorna again was the last to sleep and the first one to rise. <br /><br />At around two in the morning, dripping water on my feet woke me up. It wet my bed and the floor. Since my brains were curdled due to sleep, I thought someone upstairs peed unceremoniously non-stop. The first name that came to mind? Mark. Gritting my teeth, I thought it better not be pee or someone will be very hurt come sunrise. I went back to sleep after moving my bed towards Lorna. The next day I found out Mark did pee in his bedroom, but he swore his empty water bottle caught every drop. Tsk. Katamaran is never an excuse for peeing inside the bedroom unless he’s an invalid. I dropped the issue, besides, the Road Whore was our guide. He doesn’t cost a fortune. Tour guides are expensive. <br /><br />Dreams of the expatriate French baker’s goodies haunted my mind, my brain in the state and consistency of spoiled yogurt (Thanks to the cold wind) cried for bread and hopefully freshly churned butter. Everybody quickly dressed up, ready to go down to the depths of the earth and invade critters residing in Sumaging Cave and swim in the cold water of both Bog-ok and Bomod-ok Falls. Of course, before the hike we had to eat first, !nd guess where we went to eat? Yoghurt House. I had to set aside my dreams of freshly baked baguettes and beignets. The manangs are so used to tourists and travelers going back to their place for more. I had a plate of French toast with Karo syrup, Hangover’s Anathema (2 eggs and more toast) and a cup of coffee (I fell in love with Cordillera coffee, Arabica beans is one of my favorite coffee bean varieties, maniacally, I drank with abandon). Going back to Manila without their famous roasted eggplant and garlic yogurt dressing was not an option for me, I asked (actually more on harassed) the manangs to make me a jar-full of the stuff to take home with me. They said they don’t sell the dressing, I told them to name their price. My closest friends dub me as one of the best bargain whore/hunters they’ve ever known, so for me to say “Name your price”, it only means it’s that good. For P150 per jar, we sealed the deal; they made it ready for pick up the next day before we headed for Baguio. <br /><br />With stomachs filled with coffee and good food sloshing around, we all stopped for Sagada’s City Hall to sign up for the cave tour and single out an authorized cave guide. After dividing cave tour fee amongst the five of us, (You may be wondering why not seven? Omer wasn’t feeling very well and Ina said she’s been to Sumaging) the seven of us hiked the concrete path to the cave. We passed by the French baker’s home, I was on tenterhooks just to have a whiff of baked bread, nada. Walking on by, the sight of Sagada’s rice terraces was breathtakingly beautiful. I nagged everybody with cameras to take false panoramic shots. One thirds of the way, Mark noticed our guide, Errol, carelessly forgot the kerosene lamp. What was he thinking? Maybe he thought we all had cat genes and we can all see in the dark. Errol spun his heels in his non-personable way to get the lamp. Upon reaching the opening where everybody begins their descent, we waited for our disinterested guide. Refusing to be more pissed at Errol, I chugged water from my bottle and asked both Omer and Ina if they will be ok once the rest of us explore the cave.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Seeing Errol fast walking with a backpack, we headed for the man-made steps and began our descent to the mouth of the cave. A strong fume of sautéed garlic, onions and canned sardines bombarded our nostrils; I learned later on, the bats in Sumaging are responsible for it. Throwing my water bottle by some cave rocks, I checked my pockets heavily laced with Velcro, leftover toast…check, alcohol bottle…check, prescription glasses on the bridge of my nose…check, cell in double Ziplocs…check, Ina’s ugly green hair scrunchie…check. I was ready to go in.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Upon reaching the end of the steps, Errol, in monotone said there will be 70 meters of slime-covered, slippery white stone steps we have to tread before we get to see the good stuff. The “weakest link” should be the first to follow him inside, he said. Just in case the biggest klutz slips and whacks his or her head on some of the rocks, the rest of the file can help him or her. Who was the group’s biggest klutz? Fristine.<br /><br /> <br /><br />One hundred percent humidity, slimy rocks, poor eyesight and lack of balance are responsible for the dozens of mud and bat poop spots everywhere on my body. As long as I keep the poop away from my head, I’m good I thought. With only a scratch on my left knuckle, we hit pay dirt. Tan rock formations, trickling and small pools of mountain water and pairs of footwear welcomed us all. <br /><br />Leaving our footwear behind like everybody else, we were forced to rely on our bare feet to move ourselves throughout the cave. I knew I had good traction; my feet haven’t had any spa treatment in months. My calluses kept me slip-resistant. Cave rocks in forms of sleeping turtles, rice terraces, king’s curtain (check my photo out, I still think it looks like chocolate curls), pregnant women etc. A beached whale and dinosaur fossils inaudibly made their presence known to us, and fossilized crustaceans decorated the walls. Squinting my eyes behind my wet glasses, I tried to see more than the outline. I’m deeply astonished how this used to be part of the sea, now it is home to gazillions of bats who smelled like cooked sardines. The way nature preserves its past, showcases its present and conceals its future is stupefying. Sometimes I think about the people who are less appreciative, they’re missing out on half of their lives. <br /><br />I asked Errol (three times actually) for how long he’s been a cave guide, the guy curtly replied, “Three years.” No wonder not a lot of people find him personable, he exuded simple disinterest in what he does, and it is turn offish. He talked in this monotone, synonymous to firing an automatic shotgun. It is hard to find respect in people at work emptied out of passion, at least for me. <br /><br />Fork on the road! Or shall I say cave? We were told by Errol there are two ways out of the cave. Way #1, comfortable wide spaces to walk on by, knee-deep water –or- Way #2, claustrophobic spaces, craniums susceptible to cracking courtesy of rocks and chest-high water. Everybody looked at each other; Laura was dying to take the hard way out but very sweet enough to take the consensus of everybody, then said, “You guys can always come back here anytime.” Taking the hint, I said, “Let’s take way #2”. Her face lit up brighter than a halogen lamp. After stuffing all our electronic gear inside James’ bag, we followed Errol.<br /><br /> <br /><br />I was so proud of myself, three-fourths of the way; all I got is a knuckle scratch. I very much enjoyed exploring the cave and heard Lorna “accidentally” kick Errol solid on the head. I didn’t crack my head, I didn’t slip and slipped a disk, I had to give myself a pat on the back. Slowly plodding through the rejuvenating cold water and dodging cave rocks, dreams of spelunking filled my excited mind. On our way back up, Ina and Omer were still sitting on the same spot we left them. Ina took a photo of our disheveled tired selves. Of course, on the way back, we decided we’re hungry again. But since we were near Sugong Cave, we had to see the coffins it houses. <br /><br />Steep and narrow steps said hello on the way down to Sugong cave, instinctively, I groaned inwardly. Here we go again, I thought. At the end of our file, I watched my group silently while they take photos of the coffins, I instantly marveled at the ancient locals who thought of hanging all these coffins on cave walls. Gifted with a hideously hyperactive imagination, of course, mind sketches of huge feet with claws packed my mind. Huge feet parallel to Chinese lotus feet, gnarled toes and the most supreme of calluses might belong to this people. Hey, with great things, everybody had to sacrifice something. Who cares about visual appeal when you are the first (if not the only one) to think of making mummies in a tropical country and hang them in caves? <br /><br />Small unrefined wooden caskets giving the illusion of being stacked played with our eyes. An elderly couple from Australia on their way back up from Sugong stayed put to wait for me get to the landing. Given the lack of balance, I was atrociously slow in my descent. After getting to the landing, I promptly thanked the couple, then I thought, “Wait a minute, I am at least three decades younger than those two and they’re the ones who had to make room for me.” I’m a shameful hussy. At twenty five, without my glasses I’m nearly blind, how can I feel I’m twenty five? My birthday gift to myself as soon as I turn thirty? Epilasik sight correction surgery. <br /><br />The wooden coffins were superiorly crafted, without any chemical treatments, they strongly stood against humidity. They are surprisingly dry, I wonder if the ancient locals rubbed something on the caskets. These people never cease to amaze me. There were several casket lids with lizard relief. I learned from Anarinda (A local artist from Angeles, Pampanga, responsible for the tiny baby tees with lizards, colorful woven earrings and painted woven bags with suns in Sagada souvenir shops), the ancient Sagadans’ symbol for the god of harvest is the humble lizard. I wonder why. (If you’re sick of my “I wonder whys”, you’re on the wrong page. I ALWAYS wonder why. If I don’t, it’s either I’m dead or already inflicted with Alzheimer’s disease) <br /><br />Sensing everybody was sick of sight seeing upon hearing the chorus of growling stomachs, eating in a different place other than Yoghurt House was in order. Heading back towards the town hall, and over cold bottles of Lipton’s Green Tea, we decided on Log Cabin Café over Masferré’s Inn and Restaurant. We happily trotted to Log Cabin. Only to find out they do not serve lunch, however, we can pre-order dinner. Priced at around P160+ per plate, a bit of hesitancy was obvious. With food described as follows: Chicken Paprika – one fourth roasted chicken with sour cream gravy, served with cucumber salad tossed in yogurt dressing and Belgian styled fries; order me a plate baby! Laura asked what adobo is, of course, I had to explain it Fristine style. She had to order it of course as Fristine’s way of describing food never fails to make everybody promptly listening to order the dish being described. With a gamut of salads and pastas with Italian sausages and cilantro pesto, pork medallions, chicken paprikas and chicken pork adobo listed to be prepared and eaten by 7:30 pm that night, we started going back to Masferré’s Inn and Restaurant to shut our growling stomachs up. <br /><br />With Laura and James with a double clamoring for more local food, they ordered binagoongang gulay and lechon kawali. Omer, our admittedly lazy traveler without a bone of adventure for food, ordered something so usual I can’t even remember it (How grossly ironic don’t you think?). The four freaks from Manila cried for sinigang na baboyand lechon kawali. Waiting for the food, I walked around the inn/restaurant. My eyes were drawn to the photographs framed and hung on the wall. Masferré knew how to photograph women, they all looked stunningly beautiful. Somehow, the photos seemed to have a life of its own. Some of the captions were disgustingly misspelled though, I couldn’t help but cringe. Considering all of these were older than I am, I decided not to say anything. But I knew I had to write about it. <br /><br />Masferré’s pork sinigang is different, they have chunks of ginger in the soup base plus the pork was chinicharon for some reason. While waiting for our mountain lunch fare, we girls treated ourselves to Masferré’s hot chocolate special with panutsa. I can eat a bowl that raw brown sugar in one sitting, if only I’m not carrying the diabetes gene. Lunch was over after fifteen minutes counting from the minute of serving. <br /><br />Big fat drops of water fell on the ground which dampened our desire to go the falls. Since we cannot go back to Sagada on an instant whim, rain is something that should not be highly considered. We scrapped the idea of going to Bomod-ok Falls, but hiking towards Bog-ok Falls was permissible by the weather (Not without a quick pit stop over at St. Jo’s of course). <br /><br />Omer, feeling ill, decided not to come with us (Kahit alam naming lahat gustong-gusto pa niyang makasama at masilayan and mukha nung isa, talagang hindi niya na kaya). He then checked out of St. Jo’s and checked in to Ganduyan’s Inn. Six disgustingly bloated stomachs sauntered towards Bog-ok Falls. Fat drops targeted our heads, we checked out the houses, saw Sagada Weaving and Masferré Photos, and discovered poinsettia blooms bigger than my already big head. With the art of shirkers, we all managed to avoid stepping on buffalo dung mushrooming the concrete road. It seemed endless. (Not the road but the dung piles) <br /><br />Like everything there is to see in Sagada, the road to Bomod-ok included rudimentary steps. This time around, it’s all carved out of dirt. So, even armed with my hands as supplementary to my feet, I cannot hold on to anything as the dirt is too soft as I began my descent. Lorna and I both relied on blades of grass for support. If that spot lost all its grass, Lorna and I are both liable for the grass extinction. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Our efforts were rewarded with the sight of a small but puissant falls, water running towards a pool twenty feet deep. Reluctant to jump in as my toes felt ice cold water; I watched James take off his shirt, climbed the rocks and jumped in. Lorna, giddily took off her shirt, with her perennial swimsuit she took her time before she jumped into the water. After seeing James, I knew I had to follow suit. So screw it if I’m wearing disposable panties and did not wear any bathing suit. It wasn’t so bad, the water was very rejuvenating. I thought, I might suffer from nagging pains from my bad knee later, but I didn’t care. I dove several times to reach the bottom, I miserably failed. It was like swimming to reach inside a whale’s stomach to reach the bottom wall. We took turns watching the Road Whore befriending a lonesome carabao who seemed to not want his presence or his attention. Laura refused to go in, she’s afraid of cold water. Ina didn’t want to take a dip either but climbed the rocks just to see view from up there. Feeling the slimy rocks, I wonder what the bottom of the pool looked like. <br /><br />It was getting dark, so before the sun set, we headed back to St. Jo’s. My body felt like unstable heavy dark matter, I felt so heavy it took me at least twice the time to climb back up than to go down. The sound of a pig inhumanly slaughtered across the fields by a local who obviously didn’t know how to slaughter stopped James and I on our tracks. With a wrinkled forehead and twisted eyebrows, the urge to yell “Just stick the damned thing straight through the neck and twist the blade!” was overwhelming. Poor pig. The pig must have yelled for twenty minutes straight. <br /><br />I’ve never been so happy to see my small bed wrapped with a shrunken piece of scratchy red fleece upon entering our room in St. Jo’s. My wet body screamed for a quick bath. As much as I wanted hot water, knowing a small pail of it costs P40, I didn’t mind bathing with one of the coldest waters in the universe. Resting my tired legs on the steps to the inn, while Ina and I waited for both Lorna and Mark, the sight of Sagada sunset made me awe-struck. The splashes of purple, reds and orange cannot be sucked out of my mind. And I knew from then on, I will never forget seeing one of the most stunning sunsets ever painted by the cosmos. <br /><br />Ina and I decided to grab a quick drink to relax our muscles a bit. Since Ina doesn’t drink beer, we searched for Tap-ey. We nearly rummaged through St. Jo’s Restaurant, we found out they only had San Mig’s Pale Pilsen which, at the time pretty disappointing and their filtered rice wine costs a small fortune. We started walking to the stores by the station. Still, we couldn’t find a good enough rice wine for Ina and she thought we should start shopping for souvenirs. This girl is the ultimate souvenir babe; she can’t stop with just one item to bring home to her mother, Cocoon, her brothers and their girlfriends. She’s very sweet I think and for sure she had more money than I did. <br /><br />The unavailability of good enough rice wine brought the two of us to Ganduyan Inn’s Souvenir Shop. We took our time checking out locally made tchotchke. The usual shirts, both printed and painted, dream catcher pendants, framed sketched portraits of local people, Masferré’s post card sets, and arrays of earrings and other accessories, wood carvings, bags and more knickknacks we can ever bargain for. I bought a black woven sling bag with hand painted lizard which I know my officemates are sick of since I hardly changed bags since I got it. <br /><br />Back at St. Jo’s Lorna had a fit knowing we shopped without her. We all took a quick bath and right after, we headed to the Log Cabin to eat. The banyagas had a round of beers when we got to our table. Our bodies were greeted with a lit fireplace, pine kindling and lit votives on the wooden tables. Once our food was served, we stared at the humongous plates of good food laid out on our table. No wonder the food cost at least P160+ a plate, as one plate can feed three heads. Soft piped music is the only thing missing to make the gastronomic experience even better (It’s not the only thing, I itched to throw the two grossly misplaced monobloc chairs by the fireplace). I couldn’t finish my fries, finishing my roasted chicken was already a struggle on its own. <br /><br />With our already distended stomachs bigger with food, we talked about reality shows. Reality shows is the newest virus to be contracted from the telly. It’s a shame that more people are tuned to what’s happening on their favorite character in Pinoy Big Brother, or their favorite contender in Average Joe than to know what is truly going on around them. Watching the local news is nonetheless never startling anymore, it would be nice if someone can come up with something to show what pressing matters at hand we all should attend to and hopefully prod everybody what needs to be done to make our disoriented but beautiful country a better place to live in. <br /><br />Of course, it wouldn’t have been a great dinner without a serving of ghost stories. Going back to the inn filled me with a smidgen of sadness. I knew the next day everybody will be riding the bus to Baguio, thus the end of our Sagada trip. I contemplated whether I should remain to stay for another night since I am to meet my family in Baguio the day after we are expected to leave. But the storm made the decision for me, staying and be stranded in Sagada was not an option given it’s my two cousins birthday celebrations that coming weekend. <br /><br />While watching our cell phones and batteries charging in the common room, Mark ran downstairs and showed us his camera. He took a photo of hand painted shirts laid out to dry upstairs. We all went upstairs to see ourselves. A tall woman, with long hair and with two beautiful boys sleeping inside her room was responsible. She introduced herself as Ana (aka Anarinda); she painted the most beautiful Sagada lizard and the prettiest pipe smokers on shirts. I knew I had to buy me one with a pipe smoker but with my little modifications. I asked her to paint me a pink pipe smoker with boobs, curly hair, a fresher face, and to use red glitter paint and to accommodate one small lizard in the picture without it seeming like a huge fleck of dandruff on my black shirt. Mark commented that’s a little too much modification for a P250 shirt, I told him to shut his trap. Besides, Ana seemed happy to do it for me.<br /><br /> <br /><br />We slept fitfully listening to the strong wind blowing outside the pristine white walls of St. Jo’s. It was a bit scary; the mountain wind during a storm is expectedly and magnificently burly. The following morning, we had to scratch Bomod-ok Falls from the list of Sagada to-go-tos. With the storm and signal #2, who can get a hold of the nerve to walk on slippery rocks? No sane and normal person would.<br /><br /> <br /><br />There are three buses that leave Sagada for Baguio everyday. We decided to take the second bus. And while we waited for ten o’clock, we had breakfast. Where? Yoghurt House of course, where else? I made sure I get my yogurt dressing before leaving. Stomachs full of coffee; we shopped for last minute items to bring back home. I went back to Masferré’s to buy packs of their organic sugar (aka panutsa) and Sagada coffee. <br /><br />We tried to force everything we bought with our dirty clothes inside our bags. Ina had the hardest time amongst all of us. I believe she bought the whole of Sagada and brought it back to Manila. While she was packing her bag, her bed was strewn with piles of folded souvenir shirts, vcds and cds of local music and scenery, two jars of yogurt, and every possible tchotchke available in Sagada. It was a surprise her tiny frame managed to carry the whole bag, I was scared that she would topple over like a pick-up stick.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Suddenly I heard Mark yelling and calling us to run down to the bus station. It made me wonder why on earth would my legs give up on me during my time of need and risk us being stranded in Sagada...traitors!<br /><br /> <br /><br />I ran disgracefully to the bus station as fast as I could and jumped right on the bus that started to roll ever so slightly. According to Lorna, my pack whacked at least two heads while I looked for familiar faces. My thanks to Laura who asked the bus to wait for four lost souls. <br /><br />After settling down and fighting with my pack who didn't want to stand up on its own, a man in his mid-fifties asked me where I'm from. I guess he couldn't resist talking to the only person in the bus who unceremoniously (and unknowingly, I want to make that very clear) knocked down a couple of people with her ugly maroon bag. He spoke of Baguio's irreclaimable glory and the beauty its denizens, uneducated visitors and local government destroyed without beneficial purpose for the future. I did not feel like talking about politics at the time with strangers so as soon as the lady right across Ina left the bus, I traded seats with another passenger who seemed eager to talk with the man beside me. <br /><br />Getting to Baguio was not as easy as I thought it would be. The five hour trip turned to seven hours. Owning a distended bladder at the time did not make it as painless as it ought to be. Traffic in Trinidad Valley was atrocious, worse compared to Recto, Manila. To prove it, my hair by the time I got to the Backpacker's Inn, my hair was crusted with a thick film of dust and other pollutants.<br /><br />I thought at the sight of both Macapagal and Session roads, I will be comforted. Instead, I felt a throbbing headache eating away at my neurons. Then there's this problem with the banyagas accommodations (Courtesy of SEAG) in Manila as all of them will take the bus back before midnight. As for me, I will spend the night at the inn run by Tita Gay (One of the most tightfisted Baguio local I have ever met) and Tito Abe (One of the most ingenious Japanese men I've ever met; the man can speak Ilocano, Tagalog, English, Ilonggo, and Bisaya, aside from Nihonggo - the man is well blessed). All I was looking forward to at that moment is to leave my wretched bag in the inn then go someplace nice to eat supper. <br /><br />A few minutes away from Quezon Hill road, the austere inn came to view. Right after meeting Tita Gay, she immediately had us all sit down, drop our bags and stretch our legs inside. I checked the whole house and picked a room in the attic, since I'm the only guest, I did not dare sleep in the basement. The house was impeccably clean, I doubt if there was a single speck of dust inside. I felt at home in an instant.<br /><br /> <br /><br />We all headed for SM to eat dinner and buy a gallon of Arce ice cream. Our feet dragged us to Dencio's. SM Baguio is my favorite SM, its architecture is the most unique and its humongous skylight makes one feel closer to the heavens, coupled with the welcome fog and chilly air, on the verandas with furiously lit chimneys to warm cold toes and fingers, unbeatable. After feasting on shrimp gambas, chicharong bulaklak, grilled tuna, kare-kare, the perennial pork sisig and bangus belly everybody quickly marched to the grocer for Arce ice cream (non-existent in their freezer, James had to satisfy his Arce ube ice cream craving with a scoop of Fiorgelato's purple yam), green tea to take to the bus and breakfast to start my day before my family picks me up. <br /><br />I settled on a half loaf of Gardenia's chocolate and mocha marble and two packs of Maggi's instant creamy carbonara. My family is late 99.98% of the time, so I figured if they said they will pick me up after breakfast, that means they will around lunch time. The loaf will keep my stomach from grumbling 'til then.<br /><br /> <br /><br />In the cab back to the inn, melancholic anxiety crept all over me. In a few minutes, I will be left alone in an almost empty house. Mark did sell me the idea of staying here, grateful as I was, still I didn’t feel comfortable being left alone. After the rest of them freshened up, they all started hauling their bags on their backs. James and Laura kissed, hugged and thanked me for a wonderful two days. I knew instantly I will miss these two wonderfully odd couple. After giving them all a kiss (pwera si Omer) and giving all of them my farewells made my stomach cringe. Being with these people for days and days; it will be strange without them while I stay behind in Baguio. <br /><br />I started nibbling on my chocolate loaf after a long hot bath and engaged in a conversation with Tita Gay. The sweet couple prepared my bath water. After days of extremely cold baths, savoring tubs of hot water inside the inn’s immaculately clean bathroom was more than welcome to my incredibly sore body. I learned Tita Gay and Tito Abe moved back to Baguio after years of raising their children in Katipunan, Quezon City. They decided to be the caretakers of the inn and run a college cafeteria after their prime years as they called it. Tito Abe used to tour Japanese soldiers after the WWII around the Philippines thus explaining his gifted tongue. Every shilly-shallying, round and about person would envy the contentment oozing from these couple’s pores. Someone said “Youth is a mistake, manhood is a responsibility and old age is regret”, seeing this couple would dispel the quote in an instant. <br /><br />With eyelids drooping, I walked to my room, propped up a couple of pillows and wrapped myself in two fleece blankets. It was odd to be in a room where I can hear a pin drop in deafening silence; I missed Lorna’s soft breathing and Ina turning on her bed. Tomorrow, I thought, will be spent in silent reflection. Upon realization of the fact I hardly spent enough time in silence for so long made me decide to take pleasure in the opportunity to do so. <br /><br />The following morning, Tito Abe gave me thermos-full of hot water, San Mig coffee, some bread and a tub of butter. “If you need anything, just call me, your Tita Gay is just a text away”, he said. I hardly said a word aside from “Thank you”. Tita Gay sent me an sms saying, “If you need anything, just call your Tito Abe. Anong oras ka raw ba susunduin?” Hospitality is one word these two revere obviously; nobody can resist the feeling of being ultimately at ease. After buttering a few slices of bread, I heated water for my carbonara and looked around the house. What a curious mix of local bric-a-brac and Japanese customs of maintaining everything inside. <br /><br />While I waited and waited for Buda and Jolan, I picked up an old copy of Reader’s Digest and devoured every word. After a long nap and breaking my glasses, I carried my bags downstairs, grabbed my yogurt dressing from the freezer and paid Tito Abe. He then told me I can always come back anytime I wanted, and if my family is interested they can check out the inn too. As soon as a washed-up gray van pulled up by the gate, Tito Abe bent over Japanese style and said, “Arigatou gozaimasu…” and something else that meant “please come again”. Having replied with a soft sounding, “Domo arigato, itte rasshai” (Thank you very much, see you later), I could not help but feel I’m inside Furusato Restaurant in Manila. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Perhaps you’re thinking where I learned a bit of conversational Japanese? I used to be an anime addict. I AM the #1 Inuyasha fanatic and watching English-subtitled Japanese cartoons is one of my bonding pastimes with my younger brothers. <br /><br />On the way to the house borrowed from a distant relative (Hey, I have an Ilocano relative. Very surprising since all I knew was that both sides of my family hailed from Cavite), the heavy traffic and very polluted cool air bothered me from the top of my head to the to the roots of my unshaven leg hair. Baguio, especially the Session and Macapagal Roads section to me looked like CAR’s Quiapo. I was immediately informed the house is located by La Trinidad strawberry farms. My forehead without delay made soft burrows. Going back to that hellish traffic was not a great experience. In fact, heavy traffic anywhere is never a good encounter, unless of course one is having sex with someone like Brad Pitt or Hugh Jackman, or that new Batman guy inside the vehicle. <br /><br />After dodging tens of vehicles, shopping for more food, and scratching the van, we finally reached our destination. In an instant, I knew my family’s was within 10 meters from where I stood. My whole family, with all of us together, is the eternal sound of stampeding and screaming kids and crinkling thick foil. Nobody asked how my trip was because everybody else is covertly jealous, but didn’t forget to ask me if I bought a loot of Marijuana. <br /><br />Lugging my bag by the family room, I decided to visit the kitchen and put my yogurt dressing inside the fridge. Mama then told me I am to cook tomorrow’s picnic spread in celebration of both Karen’s and Maxine’s birthdays. My grandmother couldn’t see my muscles are silently quivering due to lactic acid, my whole body was screaming in pain and begging for a masseuse and she nonchalantly ordered me to make a picnic spread for thirty people without even asking, “Are you up to it?” <br /><br />Being the overachieving granddaughter for the last twenty five years to her, of course she thought I’m up to it. This granddaughter of mine loves challenges, she thought. I don’t like disappointing people I care for so I hit the bed early after playing charades with the rest of the clan and I gave my tong-its coins to my brothers. Playing cards with my family means I have to smoke more and drink alcohol, these two vices of mine I have to keep at a bare minimum, if possible, at zero levels. Sleeping was the evident option, besides my arms should be ready for the kawa the next day. Even the air smelled like pig poop (No wonder, the house is a few houses away from a piggery), I didn’t care, I was simply too tired to care. <br /><br />The boys said we will go to Camp John Hay for the picnic. I told them only unimaginative and lazy people go there for picnics, and besides, what’s the use of bringing a mountain of food over there when the place is already sprawled with restaurants? Taking the hint, they all took the van and searched for another place. How I prayed at the time for them not to take the hint, I was not up to cooking anything. While they were gone, I decided on baked macaroni, Diablo style with sun dried tomato pesto and béchamel sauce. It’s not an official kid’s birthday party without fried chicken, but I had to make mine with beer. Fried beer battered chicken, the kids loved the fact it has beer, but they’re too young to know before it hits their mouths, the alcohol is gone. With muddy heels, the boys excitedly told us we’re all going to Tam-awan Village that afternoon. <br /><br />The absence of an oven presented a problem. It will not be called baked macaroni without an oven. How does one improvise to melt grated gruyere cheese? To solve the problem, I borrowed a welding torch. Nobody could tell the difference afterwards. Pare-pareho lang ‘yan sa bituka I know, but it had to look good.<br /><br /> <br /><br />I always loved going to Tam-awan Village. The clandestine Igorot houses turned picnic areas and coffee are always a treat, not to mention the artists one can always find in the village. I remember as a kid, I like going under the faux Igorot houses, climbing the ladder and finding out of place things obscurely attached to the house. Like that house named “Batad”, one would find a huge sculpted penis protruding by the support beams. I guess people in the village are sometimes are just too energetically creative. <br /><br />While waiting for everybody to settle down, I dragged my brothers along to the core of the village where the artists hang out. We first entered the village café, knowing the type of individuals who frequent the place, one can always hear politically-driven conversations and see people sketching and painting while sipping coffee. I was too spellbound by the paintings hung in the cafe that I missed the birthday cake blowing, I really didn’t mind since I was given the chance to meet Jordan Mang-osan personally (For the clueless, he is the only solar painter in the world, he uses magnifying lenses to give his paintings its outlines and texture and usually paints over them with acrylic). <br /><br />Feeling lucky, Jordan Mang-osan personally introduced me and my brothers to his new paintings in the gallery. If only I had P15,000, I would have bought one of his paintings right then and there. Upon purchase of his paintings, half of it goes to a charity of his choice. Noble people are hard to find nowadays and I wish I had more money to support more causes. For years it pained me to see art appreciation gradually dying in our country. <br /><br />The artists by the mini plaza asked me to have my portrait sketched in exchange for an undemanding donation. I told them I will bring my whole family over after eating so more people would give more to their donation box. These artists without a smidgen of belligerency try everyday to make do with what they have. I saw one young artist who sketched my cousin’s face with a two inch orange wax pencil. I’m no sketcher but I know it is very hard to sketch with wax that small, unless one is using bare charcoal. Most of the donations I learned go to art supplies and workshops they conduct regularly. <br /><br />Each of us had at least two artists to do our faces. Being the last face sketched on paper, I had the luxury of watching the artists at work. Some started with the eyes, some with the outline of the face, some with the nose, some prefer thick charcoal to charcoal pencils, some like their sketches sporting the unfinished look and some are too bent on sketching every detail delicately that most eyes miss. Bay-an, the artist whose style Jolan and I both liked, sketched my face. I never saw my face that way before, but my brother swears he could recognize me in the portrait. It is so different from every portrait of my face that I knew I will have it custom framed. As I told Titan, I like hand sketched portraits better than photographic portraits in the sense that it solidly depicts how others see you without going through the unfeeling glass eyes of a small machine that are always dictated by lighting and angles. <br /><br />We bid our goodbyes to the artists and Jordan after the sun had set, and drove back to Trinidad Valley. The next morning I knew I’m going back to Manila, looking back at my whole week in Mt. Province, the trip in its entirety seemed surreal. As I tore the lettuce and tossed the salad, a feeling of not wanting to go back home hit me hard. It’s hard to be away from home for too long and traveling not so often, I always find myself not wanting to go back for some insane reason. With Sandman refusing to leave my back at the time, instantly I fell asleep right after asking Mama to buy me foodstuff from the Good Shepherd Convent. I hankered for the ube jam, angel cookies, pastillas de leche and blueberry jam. I know these nuns overprice everything, but remember, as every sticker on the lids of their products denote, “Your money help put us through college – Cordillera Youth”. Who would mind an extra hundred per jar of the good stuff?<br /><br /> <br /><br />Inside the twelve o’clock Victory Liner bus, I was torn in between not wanting to leave and raring to go home to write all this down and finish it in the next 24 hours. I did not finish this in a day, of course but I managed to bring it all together in four weeks. Before I wrap this up, I have people to thank. <br /><br />Lornadahl – for being the best friend that she is to this girl, for introducing me to Ina and Mark, for always co-creating Turistang Hilaw™, for being the Camera Whore that she is because without her cam-whoredom, I will not be able to share and show pictures of this trip to prove I traipsed in Banaue, for being the original Bratinella, and for being the woman I have always known her to be. <br /><br />The Road Whore– for giving me a hand each time my balance seemed to disappear, for sharing Batad and Sagada with us and taking us every place you have been to and frequent, for that revolting knee wound you had giving us immeasurable entertainment value while we all watch you bleed and I do hope to be with you and your travel faction in Batanes. <br /><br />Ina – for the listening ear and her struggle to remain prim during the week-long encounter with me and Lorna, for that involuntary recoiling your petite frame does each time you hear profanity, and for your incredible sweetness and thoughtfulness fatal to every diabetic. I will visit your shop in Malate any day now. <br /><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br />Laura and James – for making our trip all the more interesting, enjoyable and worth writing fifteen pages of grueling recount, for the amazing sense of adventure you both harbor, for sharing your photographs. James, for never shying away from everything we tried to feed you. Thank you for an amazing two days and for giving me newfound friends.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Omer – for being the way you are and for being the only lazy traveler in the list of everybody I met since birth. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Titan – for the attempt to share my experience and rubbing your undying enthusiasm and love for Sagada on me. My second first time wouldn't be the way it was if not for you. <br /><br />So where to next time? I don’t know. Turistang Hilaw™ might invade Mindanao next time – where exactly? We’ll see, the possibilities are endless. I hope next time around, our wallets are swollen fat with blue bills.Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-32996530659539901582008-04-25T16:20:00.000+08:002008-04-25T16:21:12.085+08:00An Encounter with the Eerie (A Trip to Banahaw) by Crispin Alexander A. ParladeIt was early morning and I hardly had a good night’s sleep. Grumbling, I boarded the bus filled with rowdy boys who filled the bus with their boisterous laughter. I wanted to sleep, but it was just impossible. I wanted to scream, “SHUT THE HELL UP!” at the top of my lungs but I powerless against them. So I ended up being in an irritable mood, looking out of the window hoping for a miracle to happen; a miracle to shut my classmates up. After all, the place we were going to is filled with mysteries and miraculous stuff. And so this was how my third year high school field trip to Banahaw began.<br /><br /> Passing through the countless roads of traffic (whether in Manila or Laguna), I could hardly care. I was just looking at the window, watching the cars and the ads along the way. Sometimes I would look at the people living out their normal lives as I munched on my baon. Or from time to time I will glance at the show being shown on the television with a lack of interest. I’m not much of a miraculous things fanatic nor a nature lover, so I bet that I wouldn’t enjoy this trip. So what if the locals consider this a sacred place? I’m not as rowdy as my classmates are anyway, I thought. Little do I know that there were surprises waiting for me ahead.<br /><br /> From the bus, we went to a village that leads to the mountain. The villagers there were mostly elderly, and looked like a grumpy bunch when you see them, but they welcomed us warmly. They took us to a small shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary. The shrine was small, but it was a sight to behold. The altar was mainly white, as if made of pearl, filled with statues of saints. Dominating the scene was a statue of the Virgin Mary. Legend has it that she descended down to visit these mountains once in a while. But an even more surprising image is a picture of Jose Rizal outside of the church. Our facilitator told us that there are cults here that worshipped Rizal as a saint or even a god. Woah, I thought, I never knew people could praise Rizal this much. As someone who loves to write, I’ve always looked at Rizal as one of my inspirations. But I’ve never thought that people would go as far as to treating Rizal as one equal to the divine.<br /><br /> From there we started to climb the slope of Mount Banahaw. At the first glimpse at the endless trail or huge rocks, trees and shrubs, and slippery mud, my first impression was, we’re climbing THAT? You’ve got to be kidding. But to my dismay, the facilitator instructed us to fall in line and start the climb. My heart beat faster with every upward step, moving as slowly as possible to avoid the possibility of slipping. I got so paranoid with slipping that I became oblivious to the people around me, save only the hand of the one before me to help me up and the one behind me who I must help up in turn. The world seemed to have narrowed down to a beautiful picture of huge deformed rocks that had jagged edges and mosses growing all around them. They seemed to me like stone guardians of trail, clothed in lush green moss clothing, but weathered down by time. My mind started to wander into my imagination when I felt a sharp pain along with a flow of what seemed like droplets. I returned to reality only to find that I scraped my knee upon climbing up. Great, I said, we’re not even at the top and here I am with a wound on my knee. Fortunately it was only small, and I could manage to continue. As we climbed higher, we found a rock that was shaped like someone with a huge backside. My classmates jokingly named it Janice after our math teacher. I couldn’t help but laugh. Pretty soon we were starting to name rocks just for fun. At that point I started to think that the trip was not so bad after all. Yes, I told myself, even with this darn wound.<br /><br /> At some point in our ascent, my classmates and I got separated by how fast our paces were. Once again, I can feel my heart beating faster; only this time it was not much on the activity that I was doing but more of panic. I felt a cold shiver down my spine and goose bumps along my skin. I tried to look back but my classmates were nowhere in sight. The same thing happened when I tried to look forward. Sweat trickled down my face and I knew not what to do. Should I wait for my classmates to arrive? No, I told myself, because who knows if I’m at the end of the line? Then I asked myself if I should go on upward instead. I sighed and thought that this was the better choice. After all, I told myself, we’re all supposed to eat lunch at the peak. So I looked around again at the tall trees at grasses around that seemed to hide any view of my classmates as well as possible unknown dangers. Damn it, I cursed, who knows if a duwende is playing a trick on me? I closed my eyes tried to picture the face of my crush in order to find some source of strength to push forward my seemingly frozen body. Making a sign of the cross, I plunged into the unknown. Boy, if I were to mention places where my faith was tested, this would probably be in that list.<br /><br /> As I’ve mentioned earlier, I didn’t really believe much in miracles. But to my surprise, I found myself at the peak where the rest of my classmates were. I thanked God for sparing my life, saying a silent prayer at a wooden cross at the peak. Then I sat down to eat lunch with my classmates. It was then that I saw another spectacle. I could see the entire mountainside from there as well as the villages in the distance. From gigantic trees to various shrubs and vegetation, as well as huge boulders and winding routes of mud, everything was visible at that point. I could even see my classmates who were just on their way to the peak from afar. Looking above you could see the clouds that seemed so close that you would think that you were flying. After taking some pictures, we started our climb downward.<br /><br /> At that point I started to go down at a faster pace, fearing nothing at all. But I made sure I had my classmates in sight this time. Nothing was slowing me down, not the trees nor the rocks. That is, until the rain started to pour down. The slope became slippery that I had to cling on to the rocks for support. As I’ve expected, I wounded myself yet again. Once again irritable and at the point of exhaustion, you could only imagine my joy when we arrived at our destination.<br /><br /> Along the way, we met a couple of girls from St. Paul, a batch higher than we were. Catching a glimpse of them from afar, my classmates acted as if they’ve seen a diwata pass by. We acted like gentlemen before them, helping them up (touching their hands felt like heaven) and encouraging them on. Their smiles were priceless. Some of my classmates even went as far as introducing themselves to the girls. It was a funny sight watching them. I guess it’s just God’s way of providing them with a miracle after a long, exhausting journey. Wow, I thought, the view is perfect for someone who’s falling in love. I smiled. This thought reminded me once more of my crush. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br /> Finally, we reached the place we that we were supposed to go to. It was a small cave where everyone rested and tried to dry themselves up. There, the facilitator organized a group of volunteers who will venture into a cave called bla. It was mentioned to a very narrow cave, one that you have to crawl into in order to maneuver. They even said that it is a place that will change your life, that you will be a different person when you emerge out of it. Sadly I declined. I couldn’t bear any more wounds, or worse broken bones. Plus, I’m a stout fellow, so I don’t want to end up stuck like Pooh bear was in his Disney movie. And so I stayed there looking around the place. The cave itself had a small shrine with some statues of Mary. I went there for a while along with the others who declined and prayed. I thanked God for this exhausting but beautiful journey. When my classmates came back, I asked them how the adventure went. I could only laugh when they confirmed that they were indeed changed. I’ve never seen them so holy before. <br /><br /> Finally we descended down altogether down the mountain. My classmates couldn’t help but wave at the girls who were just passing by. As for me, I was looking around once more. These trees, rocks and shrubs that made me nervous during the trip were no longer heralds of dangerous beings of the unknown, like when I got lost earlier. They seemed like silent guides who show you the way back. For once during the trip I saw them like friends rather than enemies. My eyes were opened to how nature was actually supporting me. The trees, with their fan like leaves, shaded me from the heat of the sun. The rocks, grotesque as they are, served as handlebars to hold on as you go down a slippery trail that would make you appear like a roller skater.<br /><br /> We made our way back to the shrine and the village where we started. At the village, I could only imagine the inhabitants laughing at our appearances. We were soaking in sweat and muddy; exhausted but all with a big grin spread across the face. We returned to bus to change our clothes and prepare for our way back. Just then something really hilarious happened. Some of our classes, after having changed, came down of the bus and went to the buses of the girls of St. Paul. They stopped by the window of the girl considered the heartthrob and, to my classmates’ amusement, they started serenading her. Our bus was soon filled with boisterous laughter and loud voices cheering our classmates on. Fortunately, after the show, my classmates who did the serenade were still in the right mind to stop and return to the bus. Shortly after, we were on our way back. I can’t remember what happened next. All I know is that I feel asleep on the way back due to exhaustion, waking up when we arrived back at school.<br /><br /> At the end of the day, I realized that I was wrong. The trip that I thought would be forgetful turned into one memorable adventure for me. It made feel like a different person altogether. Not only did I learn to appreciate nature, it made a believer out of me. My faith in God was strengthened and now I believe in miracles. Given the chance, I would want to go back to Banahaw and take the trek once more. So may strange and miraculous things happened to me, so I doubt that I would even be bored. Do try it, if you have time. Who knows, we might cross paths in this encounter with the eerie?Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-55487966529177953372008-04-25T16:19:00.000+08:002008-04-25T16:20:19.609+08:00MYANMAR, THE EPITOME OF INSPIRATION By Corazon SanicoWorking in a multi-national company has been an exciting experience for me and the best part that I enjoyed most is traveling both domestically and internationally. I had a strange mixed feelings when I have to travel to Myanmar, formerly known as Burma, to conduct a week-long Quality System audit to one of our affiliates. The feeling of excitement to have a chance to visit a country that I only have read in my history book, much more so I found to be such an exotic and mysterious place and the other feeling was that of pins and needles after hearing the news on the political volatility of the place, nevertheless, the compulsion for an opportunity to visit Myanmar and potentially explore its mystery is something I just couldn’t relinquish even if it only means a day. <br /><br />Since the flight schedule is irregular and our return flight is on a Sunday, I had the liberty to spend a free Saturday after working for five days to visit significant places in Yangon in the company of a Filipino expatriate colleague assigned there and my Indonesian colleagues. <br /><br />The moment the pilot of Singapore Airlines declared our touch down at Yangon Airport, I am already filled with curiosity of how Burmese people lived. As we go through the Customs, we have to fill up a form to declare our valuable possessions like electronic items such as computers and hand phones, cash and jewelry. Electronic devices do not work in Myanmar so there’s no point to pack your computers and the Customs will ask you to surrender your hand phone.I wonder how I could tell my family that I have arrived safe and that I am still alive. It is a good thing though back at work as we can focus on what we need to do without any interruption. One thing sure is that we seem to have turned our back to life’s modernity. This is one of my trips that I really have to travel light. After which, we have to go to a cashier which we will have to give USD 200 to be exchanged to their local currency, Myanmar Kyats equivalent, <br /><br />The moment we are picked-up from the airport on the way to Traders Hotel in downtown Yangon, I was surprised by the site of an overwhelmingly huge golden pagoda which is known as the Shwe Dagon Pagoda, the biggest Buddhist shrine in Burma. I was lost when I saw that the writings are all in Burmese characters including the street names and store names and I was immediately lost in translation. We arrived on a rainy, Sunday afternoon and that gives us a real good reason to stay in the hotel and rest in preparation for the audit the following day.I tried to open the television and we had very limited channels all in Burmese and no cable television considering we are already staying in a four-star hotel. It dawn on me that this seems like a “retreat” with plenty of quiet time. What a relief to meet English-speaking hotel staff ! <br /><br />It was an early Monday morning trip as the factory is an hour drive from Yangon. We had a sumptuous buffet continental breakfast, typically served in a hotel. As we drove down to the factory, I started to look out of the car’s window to see how a typical Burmese morning life is like. For a start, I am very much relieved by the ease of traffic in the downtown area. Something that’s real good for Monday morning! Well, What would you expect of a place that has very low population? My attention was caught by the mode of transportation that people use to go to work. I have been told that the bus that was being used was still from way back in World War II but instead of a six-wheeler bus, it has been converted to four wheels because of the high cost of importing tires. <br /><br />What amazed me is that the disposition of the people was calm, simple and exudes a sense of inner peace. It made me wonder and felt very sympathetic as to how such kind of people be living in an environment of violence and chaos, I find it very ironic. <br /><br />As we continue driving, I saw young monks walking in queue on the side street with their pots and went from one house to the other to collect food, supposedly their breakfast. I was deeply touched by the gesture of generosity by the Burmese people that despite their meager supply, they can find in their hearts the joy of giving and the gesture of thanksgiving for being such a blessing. I could not help but reflect and see in my heart that sometimes I even refuse to give and thought I did not have enough. It was such a humbling thought and sight. <br /><br />We moved on and I saw another form of transportation which looks like a “jeepney” Surprisingly, I saw people hanging out from it. As transport is very scarce, they just take whatever that can convey them from one place to the other. I used to see this in the Philippines back in the 70’s and early 80’s when we go for our summer vacation in my mother’s hometown in Leyte, I haven’t seen it now. Much more so, I did not expect that it still does exist in another country. What an eye-opener !! <br /><br />As we approach the factory, I have seen a very similar dwelling that I can find in some remote country sides in the Philippines. The simplicity of rural living which I have seen in a lot of other Asian countries I have visited. I gives me that sense of home as I see similar sights from home whether it is from the past or present. It made me realize, I have not been that far, this is still Asia. <br /><br />We arrived in the factory and having been introduced to my Burmese colleagues, I haven’t seen such gesture of hospitality, warmth, sincerity and respect. They have been very excited to have visitors as they sparingly come because traveling to Myanmar is rather difficult especially with the travel bans imposed by our Corporate Security as and when needed. Then, it was a discovery that Burmese people cannot travel freely as I do. The government keeps their passports, if ever they carry one. When there is a need to travel, they will have to send a request a month in advance and will have to specifically state the duration and purpose of the travel. As soon as they come back, their passports are then surrendered to the government. I can’t explain the feeling I had upon hearing this, all I was able to say was Thank God, I felt blest to be a Filipino and be free to travel. <br /><br />I noticed that the girls in the factory were pretty and simply adorned. They have a yellowish color that they put on their cheeks which arouse my curiosity to find out what it is. They call it “Thanaka.” It is something that they wear on their face including men which serves as a sunscreen and make-up for ladies. It is a mildly fragrant bark that is ground to powder, mixed with water, and then applied topically to the cheeks. It is suppose to soften the skin as well. All the while, I suppose “make-up” is rosy pink or red, something new that I learned. <br /><br />We have been served with a sumptuous meal of a mixed Chinese, Indian and Thai cuisine. I loved the curry though a bit spicy. Myanmar has a variety of food but I find these three to be their strength which could possibly be due to the influences of the migrants from their neighboring countries. They are very simple dishes though ! Being a dominantly Buddhist country which accounts to about 90% of the population, beef dishes seem not to be so popular. I did not mind it as all as I am not much of a carnivore . <br /><br />Night life seems very quiet and unexciting, even quieter than Surabaya, Indonesia where I am currently based. We were hosted to a dinner at one of the finest Chinese restaurant in Yangon and we have to finish dinner by 9:00 p.m. A bit too early for the normal dinner out that I know of. The streets are dark and so tranquil that gave me some goose bumps of an unexplained emotion. Perhaps, I have been all time in the hustle and bustle of a city life. This trip has indeed gave me a respite from the busy life I always have been. It was indeed an experience I am bold enough to accept. <br /><br />Each working day has been the same. On the way back from the factory, I have noticed that by sundown, Burmese family and friends gather together to a side walk outdoor café which I call “Starbucks ala Myanmar” Burmese people are very family oriented. They do love to get together in their own little way and it does not have to be lavish. I remember what a friend of mine told me : “ Most of the things that we desire are expensive but the truth is the things that really satisfy us are free...laughter, family, friends and most of all God’s Love” <br /><br />I am excited and anticipated the Saturday so I will have the chance to visit some places in Yangon. It was also timely that it is also Waisak Day which is Buddha’s birthday. It is a great festivity well celebrated by the Burmese and the Buddhist Burmese will all go to the Shwe Dagon Pagoda to pay homage to Buddha. I haven’t seen so much piety as much as the Burmese people. Maybe we think it is crazy, but who are we to judge when we can’t see the hearts and minds of people. The Burmese generously spend their hard-earned money in order to buy the gold leaf paper that they paste on the Shwe Dagon Pagoda. They believed in the merits of giving with joy and with your heart and freedom from materialism. <br /><br />It was close to sundown when off we went to the Golden Pagoda and we have to take off our shoes as we enter the Pagoda as a sign of respect and walked barefooted around this huge Buddhist shrine. It is packed with people from sundown as walking barefooted at noon would be scorching to the feet. I have seen the locals to walk barefooted on the street as they enter the Pagoda. Amazingly, inside the Pagoda was very clean. Burmese people revere the place and ensure that it is kept undefiled. It was such a bliss to walk around the huge pagoda with all the different images of Buddha coming from different parts of the world as well and watching the Burmese together with their family and friends enjoying the simple pleasures of life. The weather was very complimentary with the festivity with its cool breeze and bright moonlight. It is more fascinating to visit it at night when all the lights are on and you can just marvel at the glitter of gold and diamonds that adorn the pagoda. Again, another paradox of wealth and poverty where you can afford to have such lavish expense on the pagoda with your people left wondering as to where their next meal will come from. It was even a shocking revelation to know that the lights around the pagoda were never put off not a single day even when the whole country is in darkness. I find it hard to comprehend. Yet, the people seems to be happy and take pride at the sight that their pagoda is always radiant. As I reflect, perhaps they are looking up to it with a hope of a bright future that will someday come to pass. I would intently share the same dream and vision for the Burmese. <br /><br />The morning of Saturday was a visit to Na-gar Glass Factory which is just outskirt of Yangon. As a chemist, I am fascinated to see the manufacture of many things and glass happens to be one of my favorite things. The beauty of this is that it is all hand-made with only a gas-operated kiln to generate the heat for the glass curing stage to render it less breakable. They walked us through the process of glass making from melting the glass, molding it to give it its form, coloring or decorating it, then curing it and Voila!! you’ve got a masterpiece. As each glass is hand-made, no two glasses are the same, so goes with it the creativity and skill of the man who mold it to give it form. These glasses have found its way all over the world and Europe has been their biggest client for export. It is a family-owned business and the owner was with us when we visited his factory. I was marveled by the craftsmanship that I ended up buying a number of pieces , mostly wine decanters and glass balls. <br /><br />After that, we had a sumptuous lunch at a Thai restaurant and off we go shopping at the Bogyoke market and the Gem Museum. Myanmar is noted for their gemstones dominantly jade, rubies and sapphires. The Gem Museum collections were incredibly stunning and relatively cheap however, we need to exercise prudence in purchasing more than normal to avoid any Customs intervention as you leave the country. I just bought a jade bracelet for my mother. <br /><br />Bogyoke market was a real shopper’s haven with all the Burmese handicrafts, jade, textiles, lacquer ware, puppets, carvings. I was astounded by the variety and tempted to execute my shop-a-holic nature only to realize my suitcase is a bit undersized for all those stuff. I end up making a difficult decision to settle for the bare essentials, a special souvenir from Burma, a set of their national costume which I decided to wear on my visit to the Shwe Dagon Pagoda that evening. <br /><br />As I recollect my experiences on the sights and sounds of Myanmar, the country is very rich in natural resources and the winning part is that it is very rich in culture and values. It was truly enriching to know how to enjoy the simple things in life despite the grandeur of materialism around you, the sincerity of the hearts of the people, the smiles on the outside yet you know there is something inside them that aches and the hope in their eyes that life can only be better. <br /><br />As I empathize with the Burmese, I find myself realizing that true happiness is finding your deep-rooted purpose in life and achieve it. It is difficult to measure it as it lies in the heart that no person can see. I believed that if anyone even in their own little way, inspired, encouraged and liberated somebody to find their quest for meaning in life, that person has really made a difference in this world. The Burmese people had done that to me, I was enlightened by their genuine simplicity in life as well as the paradox of the calm amidst chaos, the generosity amidst scarcity, the gratitude amidst pain and a faith beyond doubt. <br /><br />My Myanmar trip although short has indeed inspired me to celebrate life.Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-3360038137874756492008-04-25T16:15:00.002+08:002008-04-25T16:18:53.407+08:00Remnants of Time by Carren Jao (Avila)AVILA was only a name in grade school, said in reference to St. Teresa of Avila. Any mention of it evoked hazy pictures of angels and other supernatural elements. <br /><br />However, today, Avila was clear and solid to the touch. I stood in front of the historic walls of Avila that had its beginnings as far back as 3rd century B.C. It was hard to imagine that this was the same wall that cloistered a saint’s life – two in fact. St. Teresa and St. John of the Cross. Standing before these walls was like having the stuff of legend suddenly come to life in front of my eyes. <br /><br />Avila was beautiful. Set 1,130 meters above sea level, it stood above the heat of Spain offering respite to the local people. The air seemed clearer and purer as we went farther along. The sky was azure and the guide tells me that was how it usually is, spared from the rains of Spain due to its altitude. <br /><br />It is no wonder this was the place that had inspired the writings of St. Teresa. How could one feel apart from God living in such beauty?<br /><br />Avila is also known for its well-preserved medieval wall enclosure, which acted as a defense during the Roman era. For Manilenos, our own Intramuros echoes its grandeur to a lesser extent.<br /><br />Inside these walls were the protected palaces of noblemen including the likes of St. Teresa’s family, which were preserved and converted into hotels. Palacio delos Velada was one such place. It sits right beside the Cathedral and a block away from the converted shopping district, where locals and tourists roam the city as if time were of no consequence. Though the structure had been there for centuries, modern amenities were added for comfort, while the interior still kept its air of history.<br /><br />Avila was dotted with chapels and cathedrals owing to its strong religious heritage. Inside the South Wall on Calle Dama, sits Convento de Santa Teresa built on top of the place of Santa Teresa’s birth. It holds a museum of relics, which include St. Teresa’s actual writings and one of St. Teresa’s fingers.<br /><br />A little ways away, Iglesia de San Pedro stands in front of the Plaza de Sta. Teresa where the townsfolk mill around and children play in the afternoons. It was an idyllic sight starkly different from the usual city life filled with nights of being glued to a television set. People and children actually found time to enjoy themselves playing, sitting and talking. <br /><br /><br />Outside the walls lay the Monastery of the Incarnation. Erected in the 16th century, this was where St. Teresa stayed as a nun for more than 20 years. Within their walls, one can actually visit her cell where she spent her life. It was little more than a patch of land cordoned off by walls. Looking at it, I wondered how it must have felt to live in her shoes during such times when modern day comforts like heat and light were just figments of the imagination. <br /><br />As my group and I listened to our guide, I gradually realized that St. Teresa was a force to be reckoned with. As a mystic she was given to bouts of religious ecstasy at the contemplation of God, yet she was also a strong woman even by today’s standards and more so in the 16th century.<br /><br />She was, in essence, a businesswoman for her congregation. Through her strength and perseverance, she raised money for new chapters of her order to be founded. She kept her congregation going. <br /><br />She had also equalized the social structure within the congregation as well. In the olden times, the social stature of a nun was maintained even after entering the convent. If you entered a rich woman, then you were a rich nun living in luxurious quarters and eating the best food. However, if you were unfortunate enough to enter as poor woman, you would be given a small room eating the food that was leftover. This had all changed when she came into the picture. Rightly so, she had given equal lodging and food to those who would be novitiates. It was a revolution for her time, though it would seem only natural to us. She contended with many disgruntled nuns, unused to this equality. To say she was remarkable is an understatement. She is an inspiration to women of whatever status in life.<br /><br />St. Teresa was a reflection of her hometown. They were both a sight to behold and amazing to contemplate. Avila maintained the sense of peace and clarity that I can only imagine it had centuries past. No wonder pilgrims and tourists alike are drawn to this place preserved in time, standing almost apart from it, unmoved by the ferocity of the outside world’s pace.Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-20873131835441373752008-04-25T15:57:00.001+08:002008-04-25T16:15:33.850+08:00BURMA by Josefina LaurelIt was with some trepidation that I decided to go to Myanmar (Burma) in early February of this year to fulfill a birthday promise to my beau that we would visit the only southeast asian country he had not seen. The reasons for my trepidation were firstly, Myanmar is and has been ruled by the military for over 4 decades. Secondly, I learned that when one visits Myanmar one should be prepared to lose touch with civilization as we know it because cellphone usage there is blocked and access to the internet for email purposes is very difficult and expensive. Thirdly, credit cards are not accepted in Myanmar so one has to take enough cash for all expenses there. What a hassle. Later, I was to find out later that credit cards are accepted in certain hotels like the Sedona but at a mark up of anywhere from 4.5 to 8%. The Myanmar government does not make it easy for one to get a visa. My travel companion and I had to personally go to the Embassy of Burma in Manila to sign an affidavit saying we were not journalists and we would not interfere with the internal affairs of Myanmar. We got a 28-day visa which is now standard and stayed for 18 days.We arrived on Feb 2sd in Yangon via Bankok ( an hour's flight on Thai Airways) on a Saturday evening. Being tired from our one week prior trip to Siem Reap, Cambodia to tour the Angkor Wat and its neighbouring temples I did not feel too well upon arrival in Yangon and remained mostly hotel-bound. The Yangon int'l airport is modern enough, that impressed me immediately but reminded me of our awful int'l airport here in Manila. We took a car to our Kandawgyi Palace Hotel which used to be the museum of natural history. It is a beautiful hotel made of teak and has a lovely lobby pavillon. We were billeted in a non-smoking room (as I requested ) on the 5th floor. Walking through the promenade on the 4th floor to get to the 5th floor we were treated to a startling and beautiful view of the great Shw edagon Pagoda, a dazzling gold monument thrusting out in the dark horizon. The most vivid image I take away from Yangon is of this magnificent pagoda. On the afternoon of our second day I went just before sunset to the site of the great Shwedagon. Fortunately there is an elevator that one can use to get to the top of the hill. The Shwedagon pagoda is a huge bell-shaped pagoda with tons of gold-leaf applied to it over some 500 years. Surrounding it are many other temples, stupas, pagodas and bells. One is required to go unshod upon entering the sacred ground of the pagoda. Upon entering the holy site one is amazed at the living spirituality shown by the devotees all over kneeling in front of the different temples.Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-15522620567917113852007-11-23T18:41:00.001+08:002007-11-23T18:41:43.308+08:00Thank You, Camiguin (by Sabina Vogt)“Thank you Camiguin” <br /><br />What is it that draws me to spots in the Mindanao Sea? Each time I venture deeper into this area, it’s where magic happens. It’s a mystical connect difficult to explain. It’s as if some higher power brings me to these places to allow a peace and reflection within myself and a connection with nature not present in the city. <br /><br />I just recently returned from a trip to Camiguin, a place I’d wanted to see for awhile and that magic hit me. The anonymity of the bustling city folded away and there was trust and contentment. Though some habitants were poor, their gardens were tended and the infectious “hello, friend” echoed as my motorcycle hummed passed. It wasn’t a place swarming with tourists like the blasphemous Boracay. People were going about their lives without the hardness in their faces from dealing with rude and obnoxious tourists. <br /><br />One morning the bruised cumulonimbus clouds were threatening. Rudy and I were on a mission, to find Tangub hot springs. We straddled our motorbike making our way trying to outride the impending rains. We didn’t care. There were no signs. The locals directed us to the Sun & Sea Ministry, a retreat center on the end of the shoreline. Was this right? Yes, the construction workers said down there. We wondered through a herd of goats. Rudy said that we could buy the goat pen and build our home there on the edge of the rocks. They were boulders that had obviously been spewed out of the once young and vigorous volcano. Gray pumice boulders and other rough brick-colored volcanic rock lined the shoreline. Some fishermen were cleaning their nets and told us the springs were among the rocks. What? No. But as we stepped onto them our bare feet felt the warmth of the heated rocks. So surreal. No one would know. Giggling, we dipped our toes into different pools of water to find our desired temperature. Ahhhh….that tingling feeling you get edging your body into a bath tub and your muscles sigh with relief. <br /><br />We began building rock walls to keep out the waves so our cradles of warmth were protected. The Earth was breathing as bubbles rose from the depths. The unfortunate fate of a limp crab slowly cooked in the water floated upside down in one of the pools. Slippery slimy fish slithered across the barnacle-covered rocks. A cocky crab leaped from one rock to another arching its back. <br /><br />Oh no! The drops began lazily and then reached a crescendo. We didn’t care. We were like the Japanese monkeys in Baraka serenely staring meditatively toward the expansive sea with raindrops pelting the surface of the water. We had nowhere to go, no reason to leave. It was the healing powers of the Earth’s comforting warmth that kept us there. <br /><br />-By Sabina Vogt, November 2007Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-77718902333176370772007-11-23T18:39:00.001+08:002007-11-23T18:39:54.086+08:00Dusty Old Binondo (by Iris Tan)Dusty Old Binondo<br /><br />By Iris C. Tan <br /><br />As a child growing up from the Bicol province, my Chinese parents brought me to Manila during summer vacations. Always always we would visit Ongpin. I have many impressions of the place. "Wang-pin-tsie-thow" (Ongpin Street) taught to us in Chinese high school talked about what it represented; it is almost a literary piece to Chinese Bicolanos. <br /><br />Ever since then, I have been to Ongpin and to Binondo a million times; it is hard to separate the two. To the common tao, it is ChinaTown. When I was little, I held a lot of fascination with the red and gold Chinese little lanterns that hung in the small shops, over dimsum, tikoy (a sweet sticky rice cake) and other delicacies of various colors, textures and taste -- found in a certain Salazar bakery – there at the corner of Salazar and Masangkay. Ampao (literally red bun), made of red-colored rice crispies baked as sweet hollow crunchies, was particularly special to a wide-eyed kid. We always stayed at Fortune Hotel, a sterile hotel with what I thought were killer elevators that still exist to this day. <br /><br />Later on when I entered the university and stayed in Manila, I would come to Binondo every weekend. It kept me busy. It is such a tight-packed place, distinct I would say from the rest of Manila: by sight, sound, smell, and yes taste. You have the close-knit stores advertised with Chinese characters. Whiffs of herbs and spices from the drugstores contrast with the smell of horse dung and vehicle exhaust. Bustling would be the word on a typical day: from vendor calls offering wares, fruits and veggies, to wind chimes from the trinket shop, to the sounds of horse shoes against granite as horse drawn carriages called Calesa pass by, and the sound of car horns. All things Chinese are found here, including Chinese mass at 6pm Sundays in San Lorenzo Ruiz Church, the peanut soup at the old deli corner with those iron-bolted stools, Oyster Cake at the old estero, now demolished. Yum, yum – birthday misua in Carvajal! Definitely, it is a place for food trippers. Anthony Bourdain would have a feast here. <br /><br />Anyone for exotic animals at the Arranque Market, or Chinese gold to be haggled at Wyn's Jewelry? How about some peace and quiet at the Chinese Temple just between the hardware stores and the lumpia-shop PatLin? For incense, paper money, good luck charms, try Condesa street just beside Binondo Church. The place is a treasure!! Despite the smell of dung, despite the atrocity treated to those poor Calesa horses, despite the spitting public, and despite the dusty crowded streets, Binondo is my haven and the destination to be, were I to be put on auto-pilot. <br /><br />I am now in midlife and I have traveled around the world; I still find Binondo a most unique place. I find that I have a lot of stories and nuances to share to friends. I continue to discover new things too. Believe me, while it is traditional it finds a way to keep itself interesting. The popular Eng Bee Tin now has a non-profit violet-themed (as its stores are) café – all proceeds going to a Binondo volunteer fire brigade. Down farther Benavidez along Soler, there is a Japanese coffee shop called Ku Khin where wealthy Taiwanese teenage immigrants hang around.<br /><br />Binondo is not perfect but I find a lot of pride and joy in making the discovery with other people. Just as it had taught me curiosity, a sense of adventure in the most mundane of circumstances and ultimately an appreciation of my roots, I hope that it also touches other people and teaches them the appeal of the ordinary.Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13531894.post-15509332220949139762007-11-23T18:36:00.000+08:002007-11-23T18:37:52.378+08:00One Saturday in Binondo (by Niña Batino)One Saturday in Binondo.<br /><br />By Niña Batino<br /><br /> <br /><br />This Saturday was different. I had just enrolled at a travel writing class and we were set to join the Big Binondo Food Wok by self-acclaimed streetwalker, Ivan Dy that day.<br /><br />Taking the Pasig River Ferry Service to Binondo proved to be a fascinating option. The ferry was adequately air conditioned and surprisingly, had a flat television which played videoke hits. Before the 45 minute ferry ride to Escolta ended, I found myself happily singing along with the song, Quando Quando.<br /><br />Our hunger prompted us to Polland Hopia and Bakery in Escolta Street where I had Kuchai-Ah, a sumptuous pork and tofu empanada and a good-for-2 crispy fried lumpia which had thinly diced pork, tofu, cabbage and carrots.<br /><br />As the tour of Ivan Dy was yet to commence in two hours, we decided to explore Binondo a bit more. We went to Eng Bee Tin Chinese Deli along Quintin Paredes Street where I grabbed a pack of fortune cookies and proceeded to Sincerity Café and Restaurant along E. T. Yuchengco Street where we shared an absolutely scrumptious oyster cake.<br /><br />With all the food already devoured, it was ludicrous to still join the Binondo Food Wok. But my stomach has proven to be incredibly resilient in other important events. It will not fail me today.<br /><br />We marched on to Binondo Church where we met Ivan Dy and we were then off to another culinary adventure.<br /><br />Our first stop was at a chocolate tablea manufacturer where we were made to try tasty chocolate paste which will make anyone crave for more. Next yummy stop was at Café Mezzanine, also called Volunteer Fireman’s Coffee Shop, where we were given bowls of kiampung (salted rice with peanuts and pork) and fishball soup, washed down with iced brewed coffee. Far from being famished, I still managed to try out these absolutely delightful dumplings and Chinese pancakes from an authentic Chinese restaurant called Dong Bei.<br /><br />There were other several food stops which were equally unforgettable : Siopao of a different kind, boiled egg likewise of different kind and fried dough with sugar, all of which were worth the risk.<br /><br />Our final stop was at New Po Heng Lumpia House located inside an old Art deco building where we were served superb lumpia with peanut sauce.<br /><br />Officially stuffed, we then headed back to the terminal of Pasig Ferry Service, ready to bring my Saturday to a good end with a second round of Quando Quando.Kristine F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/12477392394965816532noreply@blogger.com0