10 essays of the recent past

Since I’m on a self-imposed detention and can’t roll around for more than two months, I’ve decided to keep this blog updated by posting my old essays.

I submitted them for the Youngblood section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, but they were rejected. And I’m glad they suffered that fate. They made me wince in shame while re-reading them. They were either awfully childish or simply incoherent.

I edited them without a heart and here they are now, ranked from what I consider the best down:

1. Death of a boxer
   April 2007
   Many young Filipinos pin their hopes in the dangerous sport of boxing. One of them—a son of Koronadal—came home inside a coffin



2. Stop the violence
   March 21, 2006
   When a bomb explodes, old, painful memories of Mindanaoans are awakened



3. Judge them by what’s IN their heads—and what’s ON their heads
   September 14, 2006
   Young Mindanaoans are up-to-date with pop culture



4. The cry
   March 15, 2006
   Muslims and Christians can live in one village without killing each other



5. Going green
   June 2, 2006
   Long before Al Gore won the Nobel, I’ve been facing the inconvenient truth in my own weird way



6. No love lost
   September 28, 2008
   Reflections on 1950s Cuba, democracy and PGMA



7. A mugful of coffee
   February 2006
   Simple worries have a simple solution



8. Keep on rockin’
   December 2006
   A letter to a band and for myself



9. A god named Manny
   November 2006
   The man who put General Santos City in the world boxing map



10. Don’t get sick
    March 21, 2006
    Mother, mother, I am sick! Call the Congress very quick!

Going green

From my personal archives. June 2, 2006

Earth day was coming. I was reminded about this when I came across a newspaper article about the work of Theresa Calo.

A dedicated advocate of environmental protection, Calo has helped hundreds of thousands of Filipinos reform, from being litterbugs to vanguards of Mother Earth. For the past three years, she has been to more than 1000 barangays around the country, teaching the people how to dispose of their garbage properly and prompting each local government to spearhead a zero-waste management program.

As an enthusiast of green living, I consider Calo a person in the ranks of national heroes and great social mavericks. I am a self-professed environmentalist—a garbage collector to be exact. I gather post-consumer odds and ends as a pastime.

Let me just call myself “a garbage collector.” I’ve been scanning books for the right name for people who collect garbage as a hobby, but I couldn’t find any. Terms like “conservationist,” “Earth saver” and “nature lover” would do, but they are not so specific. I thought of coining my own description, which I decided should sound like “philatelist” (someone who collects stamps) or “numismatist” (a coin collector). However, I find words like “garbagist,” and “thrashist” not only politically incorrect but contradictory as well, since what I really promote is cleanliness.

If you find yourself in a bedroom that looks like a material recovery facility, chances are, you have stepped into my territory. I keep at home for several years now boxes of different sizes, each one containing a particular kind of used paraphernalia: plastic wrappers, empty bottles or scratch papers.

I carry with me the habit anywhere I go. A cornucopia of junks occupies one-fourth of my closet in the dorm and half of my locker in the office of our student publication. The sight of my well-organized rubbish gives me a sense of accomplishment and de-stresses me, probably like the way shoes exhilarate Imelda Marcos and cars give pleasure to the Sultan of Brunei.

Several things awakened the environmentalist in me. I must have been enlightened when I came across the quotation, “We did not inherit the Earth from our ancestors. We borrowed it from our children.” (Ironically, it was printed in a calendar given for free by a store that sells agricultural products, including soil-degrading fertilizers and ozone-depleting pesticides.) I also learned from science magazines the harmful effects to nature of human activities and what could happen in the future if those acts remain unabated. Filled with facts and figures, the predictions of the scientists that I read seemed so grim and imminent that they scared me more than the Book of Revelations did.

But the incident that really motivated me to save the Earth in my own little way was when I became an unwitting witness to a crime one night. A crime against nature, that is. My companions and I were then traveling back home in Isulan, Sultan Kudarat from a schools press conference in Tacloban City. We were aboard a ferry across Surigao Strait, the body of water dividing Visayas and Mindanao, when I saw someone dump the contents of a large trashcan into the dark, open sea. The can was filled with empty styrofoam bowls of instant mami, one of which was mine.

I could not believe what the shipman did. I had trouble looking for that particular can because all the other cans had been overflowing with garbage, and he just emptied it into the sea without batting an eyelash! The next morning, I fully realized the gravity of what he did when my schoolmate and I went up the top deck for fresh air.

We saw a small school of whales wading through the sea. Only their backs and streaked dorsal fins were jutting out the water. After the whales went out of our sight, two playful bottle-nosed dolphins leapt out of the water. I watched the pair with childlike amazement as they raced against each other in somersaults, only to be disheartened upon remembering what I witnessed the previous night.

Since after the trip, I decided to just store my trash inside my room. Though I do not practice recycling because I do not have the patience, creativity and any more time for that, I prefer not to give my personal scrap to the (official) garbage collectors for they just dump the town’s garbage in a landfill without using any segregation or recovery methods.

The editorial cartoon in the same issue of the newspaper shows the present condition of the Mother Earth. She is half-buried in the muck and mire of environmental problems, but there is hope that she will be saved. The artist drew a large hand extended to the Mother Earth and labeled it “environmentalists” and “Responsible citizens.” I believe, however that “Local government officials” should be included there. Only through joint efforts of ordinary people and the leaders can the environment be best taken care of. Even the success of Calo would be impossible had it not been for the support of the local officials.

I never considered Earth Day of great significance. I didn’t see the point of celebrating when we still ravage the natural resources much faster than we can replenish them. But knowing about the success of Theresa Calo made me realize that there is something to celebrate. The cause is getting more popular as concerned citizens contribute in small ways. The progress of environmentalists may be painfully slow, but the fight is never hopeless.

***

(Excerpt from my pathetic letter to PDI: I passed this article before and I later realized that the way I wrote it was awful so I made a lot of changes and kept in mind some writing basics that I forgot to apply in the first one. I hope you give this article another chance and read it and consider publishing it.

PDI wasn't moved, but with more modifications, this was eventually published in a newsletter of a mining company where I work as a part-time writer)

Don’t get sick

From my personal archives. March 21, 2006

From television and the papers, I have long learned that the Philippine health system is on the verge of collapse, but I was only able to see how close it is to the edge when I was hospitalized a few weeks ago.

I suffered from a terrible headache and spent a whole afternoon in bed, writhing and grunting in agony until I threw up everything I ate for lunch. I decided to see a doctor. When my dorm’s landlord saw me very pale and barely able to walk, he offered to go with me and brought me to the nearest hospital—the provincial hospital.

I haven’t been confined in a government hospital before. I got worried about poor facilities and services. But I told myself all I need anyway was just a bottle of IV to rehydrate me, and I could go back to school the next day.

The hospital did not turn out to be as bad as I expected, or at least as compared to the hospital of my home province. But, still, it was not the kind of place that our public officials, especially the legislators, would bring themselves to if they have a health problem. I surmise even the doctors who work in that hospital would not have their sick children treated there. It was a hospital for those who do not have much choice—the penniless and oppressed.

The nurses were either too busy or simply too few. The ones who entertained us were second year nursing students having their hospital exposure.

Being injected with an IV is unpleasant. Being injected by a trembling, first-timer student nurse is dreadful. When the nursing students surrounded me as I sat ready for the needle, I thought they were just going to observe their class instructor inject me. To my horror, the one holding the syringe was a student. Fortunately, she was able to finish her task without any untoward incident, but I was close to crying, “I’m not a guinea pig. Stop it!”

I was made to stay in a room. A note in a small cartolina pasted on the wall read, “Blue Room: Patients need surgery but can wait.” It was crowded by a dozen patients or so, some of them in a catheter and surgical gown. Sickness, poverty and despair abide the place.

When the night came, all the other patients in the Blue Room were transferred to the charity ward. I was told that all the rooms have been occupied and there was no more space in the ward so I have to sleep in the alley. That was when I asked to be transferred to another hospital.

As expected, the private hospital was much better than the provincial hospital. There are a few patients only, and the student nurses did nothing more than check my vital signs and help me change my shirt.

The ultrasound showed I have a liver disease with a tongue-twisting name. I was confined for four days. The bill was bigger than what I pay for a semester at school.

I have to convalesce this summer, and always keep in mind an old lesson that I’ve re-learned: Don’t get sick.

Stop the violence

From my personal archives. February 2007

No one can stop a determined bomber.

When you live in Mindanao, where bomb threats never fully disappear, you have to keep these words in mind.

I first heard this warning two years ago, uttered by the police chief of Koronadal City, when I had an interview with him for an article I was writing for the student publication. Ever since, I have made it a point to stay away from the public market and other crowded places where the perpetrators usually leave their deadly devices.

Judging by the number of victims, the recent explosions were less violent than the attacks years ago, perhaps an indication that the government’s anti-terrorism campaign is paying off or the enmity in the island is subsiding. But the bombings have been constantly recurring that one is reminded not to be so assured just yet.

Every time military offensive against the rebels intensifies, not a week would pass before another bomb would blow up. The terrorists would retaliate in the worst possible way they could mock the government—by preying upon innocent lives. One example is the bombings in the eve of the Asean summit, several weeks ago. The blasts in the cities of General Santos, Cotabato and Kidapawan left seven dead and more than 40 wounded. A day before that, President Macapagal-Arroyo had declared victory over the Abu Sayyaf in Sulu.

Indeed, no one can stop a determined bomber. Be wary of your safety, even if it’s the President who announces that “the terrorist elements have nowhere to hide and are in fact doomed to annihilation.” Or—taking it from the last tragedy—be wary of your safety, especially when the President assures the public that everything is under control.

This is not to put all the blame to the administration. Mindanao has been troubled for decades, since the vast island started to become too small for the Muslim natives and Christian settlers. The conflict even stems from the age-old war against adherents of Christianity and Islam who have been trying to prove to each other whose god is mightier (never mind that the gods they claim to worship and wage war for are the one and the same God). Everything will not fall in place overnight.

The road towards peace in Mindanao is long and painful. Progress has been made possible through concerted efforts of many people—from government officials to educators to individuals who got the better of their prejudice. And each time a bombing occurs, the peacemakers have to move back and retrace the agonizing steps, as old pains, fears and biases rankle again in the hearts of Mindanaons.

Even before the Moro insurgencies surfaced, Christians and Muslims in Mindanao have long had nasty strifes. In the province of Cotabato, populated mostly by Antiqueños and Maguindanaons, anyone was fair game. The father of Manang Lucy, my cousin, was among those who suffered a senseless death. While drinking with his friends in the town market of Carmen one Sunday, he was fatally stabbed on the back. It turned out that some Muslim men mistook him for someone—a Christian—whom they had a fight with. (The true meanings of the words “Christian” and Muslim” do not fit some people I am referring to, but for lack of other words to call the two groups of warring people, I use the terms liberally.)

The killers got away with the crime, and the injustice seared the memory of Manang Lucy and her siblings’. Worse, they have passed on the bitterness and resentment to their children. Now that their children have children too, the kids will likely grow up harboring the same ill-feeing against Muslims.

For my friend Kareem (not his real name), the latest bombing is another reason to hide his Muslim lineage. When the topic of a conversation comes into his religion or ethnicity, I notice he would cringe and be quiet, until I or someone else would change the subject. When I first met him, he introduced himself with a Western name. Two weeks or so later, probably after realizing that not all Christians are bigots, he insisted on being called by his real name, which incidentally sounds very Arabic. Until now, however, he avoids as much as possible being identified a Muslim. It does not help that other guys sometimes tell him in jest that he must be carrying a bomb or he’s a close associate of Bin Laden.

I want to tell Manang Lucy that the crime of one or two person is not the crime of the entire family or community or race. But then, I’m not the one who lost a father. It’s not difficult for me to rationalize because there’s no pain that cloudens my mind. I want to tell Kareem to take pride of what he is and to stop trying to please people who can’t respect his faith. But it’s he, not I, who grew up in a polarized town where Christians discriminate Muslims. I have not experienced being the butt of racist jokes or the topic of spiteful whispers. It would be easier to make Manang Lucy and Kareem listen, or they themselves would change their views, if they see a reason to let go of the past—if there are no more division, no war, no bombings.

It’s not only my cousin’s hatred and my friend’s fears that a bombing rouses. There are countless Manang Lucys and Kareems out there. Stop the bombings. Put an end to the violence. Then we can talk about healing.

Keep on rockin'

From my personal archives. December 2006.

Dear 6Cyclemind,

I was in the crowd when you had your gig here in the bursting-forth city of Koronadal. I’m sure you did not notice me, for even if I was a stark anachronism there, the parking lot of the mall where you performed teemed with people.

Why am I writing this? I want to tell you that you are good and that you deserve the popularity you’ve been getting. I had to write because during your concert, I wasn’t able to express my appreciation. The best—and perhaps the one and only fitting—way of giving respect to the band on stage is to go with the music’s flow. But as you sang and drove the crowd wild that evening, I just stood on my spot, pliant as a brick wall.

There was nothing wrong with you guys. In fact, I wanted to shout, sing with you and do some headbang, as did the uninhibited teen-agers in front of me. The problem was me. I was simply not rockista enough.

In any rock concert, I would naturally be a square peg in a hole. You see, I’m the kind whose regular and ultimate social activity is having fun with books and other reading materials in the library. Until now, I still don't know what got into me when I decided to come with my dormmates to your concert.

My semi-stoic personality (if it’s not “monastic,” as some people label it) kept me from responding to your performance the way I ought to. But it’s also the same personality that would not allow me to shrug it all off. When I read an insightful and well-written book, I recommend it to my friends. When I hear an eloquent speech, I’m all-ears to the speaker and I try as well to apply the message to my life. The night you played, I found myself in the middle of a cool rock party. Too bad, sitting on a library chair for three hours every day had stiffened my muscled.

My scrupulous conscience is telling me that you might be wondering why a number in the audience did not seem to have any reaction. Don’t be bothered. Most of those phlegmatic people were middle-aged mothers grappling with grocery bags. The rest, who were younger, might just had something that held them back, like how my being introvert repressed my, ahem, rocker alter ego. No one booed you anyway, and even if some drunken nuts did, it would still not be proof that you weren’t good enough. You just had to look at the sweaty young things huddled near the stage, jumping mad while bellowing with you your song, “Sige lang sandal ka na / At wag mong pipigilan / Iiyak mo na ang lahat sa langit / Iiyak mo lang ang lahat sa akin…”

Okay, I’m being paranoid a bit. With chart-topping album sales and hectic tours, you may be too busy and not worried about anything at all. But in case doubt creeps in, you could take heed of these words from me. After all, you could every now and then lose self-esteem in the fickle entertainment industry, and in this crazy world, for that matter.

I am also writing this letter for myself. Like you, I feel fulfilled when I get to express myself. Like all dreamers, I wish to accomplish great things like, you know, touching other people’s lives and making a difference. I do it through writing. (I can’t carry a tune.)

I used to find it disheartening when my write-up seems to have no effect whatsoever to the readers. But now that I’ve been in the shoes of passive observers, I understand that it is not always my fault if the response to my essay or story is lukewarm. Yes, being seemingly ignored does not necessarily mean that my effort is futile or useless. Readers may not be raving about what I’ve written, but I could bank on the fact that since I write the truth and always for a good purpose, they get something from me. Hence, I will keep on writing—my own way of rocking the world.

In putting down these realizations, I hope to recall them if I’d feel rotten again when my articles receive poor attention.

I hope your bond grow stronger as you scale greater heights. Keep on rockin’. The next time I’m in your concert, I might already be a true-blue rockista.

The cry

From my personal archives. March 15, 2006

A sound told me it was already six p.m. I set aside the book I was reading and prepared myself for what I should do.

What I heard was the voice of the muezzin (crier) from a small mosque 50 meters away from our home. Inside the Muslim house of worship, he chants the call to salat (prayer) five times a day: at dawn, at noon , in the afternoon, in the evening, and at nightfall. He speaks with a microphone connected to a squawker so all Muslims in the neighborhood are well reminded of one of their chief duties.

The duty I had to fulfill that time, however, was not to pray but to cook rice. My family is Ilonggo and Catholic. We take the muezzin’s evening call as a cue to prepare supper.

We live in Sultan Kudarat, a province in Mindanao where Christians and Muslims are almost the same in number. The two groups of people usually live in separate towns or villages. But in our simple, gated community, Muslims and Christians live together—and rather peacefully.

The mosque near our home interests me. I always pass by it so I get to observe its features. It is about 15 square meters only and looks like a big shoebox, with two air conditioners jutting out the light-blue walls. The mihrab (niche), which contains the pulpit for the preacher, is at the west side of the mosque, facing Mecca . Extending from the mihrab about eight meters upward is a minaret with the symbol of Islam (a crescent and a star) at the tip.

A Maguindanaoan neighbor had the structure built inside his lot last year. It came to use just before Ramadan started. Since then, hearing the melodious but unintelligible sound has become a daily experience for my family.

To other people, the Arabic chant will surely evoke fear, especially if they associate Islam with the Abu Sayyaf and the Jemaah Islamiyah. I’m sorry to disappoint the bigots, but my neighbors are anything but terrorists.

Of course, the people in our place do not live in perfect harmony. But since our houses were built almost a decade ago, neighbors have not been seriously at odds with each other. The residents must have learned to respect each other’s beliefs and practices. Or each may just be too busy minding his own business.

As for me, I have long realized that nothing is more foolish than judging a person based on his faith or ethnicity. Growing up in a culturally diverse land made me realize that goodness and evil transcend religion or tribe.

I can’t blame the Christians and Muslims afflicted by the war if they hate each other. It’s not easy for them to just forgive and forget after losing their loved ones. The problem is how to stop the pain and hatred from being passed on to the next generation.

Putting an end to the enmity in Mindanao may be a Herculean task—but not impossible at all.

In From Arms to Farms, a documentary I’ve watched in an ABS-CBN regional station, a Muslim woman said that the people in her village joined the war because it was the only thing left for them to do. Their homes and farms had been destroyed in the crossfire. After the war, government and foreign aids came in and gave them livelihood. With a good income, they were able to send their children back to school and are now turning all their efforts to having a good life.

People of different ways of life learn to adjust with each other only when they enjoy economic opportunities and had proper education, just like in our community. Being involved in a savage war is the last thing in the minds of my family and my neighbors. Our parents know that guns and bombs will not help ensure a bright future for the children.

The road towards a peaceful Mindanao is long and tortuous. But I’m filled with hope whenever I’m home. The cry of the muezzin reminds me that Christians and Muslims can live together in one place without killing each other.

Death of a boxer

From my personal archives. April 7, 2007

All Angelito Sisnorio Jr. wanted was to fulfill his dreams—earn money, help his family have a better life, bring honor to the country. The boxer did not probably expect that by reaching for the stars with gloved hands, he would die at the young age of 24.

I do not know him personally. Perhaps the only link I have with him is the city of Koronadal, where he grew and where I'm studying now. But we don't have to share more than one common denominator for me to understand why he made boxing his profession. He is no different from thousands of young men who pin their hopes in prizefighting. His struggles in life are much like that of millions of Filipinos.

On March 30, he fought in Thailand without proper authorization from our country’s Games and Amusement Board (GAB). The bout was a mismatch, which is said to be a common practice in Bangkok to improve the records of Thai boxers. Lito was knocked out in the fourth round after receiving a series of right hooks from Chatchai Sasakul, a former world champion who has won his last six fights, four by knockout or technical knockout. Lito's records, meanwhie, consist losses in his last three three fights, one of which was by TKO. He won just five of his 11 fights since turning professional in 2003.

Several hours after the fight with Sasakul, Lito began to vomit violently in his dressing room and was rushed to the hospital, where doctors immediately began brain surgery. He never regained consciousness. He came back home in a coffin. As compensation for Lito's fate, his family received about P300,000 from GAB, Manny Pacquiao and the insurance company that covered the fight.

The death of the super-flyweight fighter prompted authorities to take stringent measures to protect the life and ensure the safety of our boxers. Malacañang and GAB has ordered the immediate ban on the sending of Filipino boxers to Thailand. The World Boxing Council in Bangkok vowed to check every fight in Thailand to prevent mismatches and make sure every boxer has complied with the requirements before engaging in a match.

Let’s not kid ourselves. The authorities can only do so much with such precautions. The way boxing is played is in itself life-threatening. Every severe blow in the head causes permanent damage to the boxer’s brain, and repeated pounding may result to brain hemorrhage. If we really want to prevent the loss of another life inside the ring, the solution is simple: ban boxing.

Of course, our government will not dare totally forbid the violent sport. Not when our best hope for an Olympic gold medal lies in our boxers’ fists. Not when the only time the country becomes united is during the fights of Manny Pacquiao. Not when the government cannot provide a decent alternative means through which boxers can have a good life.

When some friends and I went to a town fiesta two months ago, we chanced upon a boxing competition for kids in the town plaza. Before the first match started, the mayor addressed the crowd of not less than 250, saying that the activity that afternoon was organized “for the enjoyment of the people” and “in the hope of discovering another Manny Pacquiao.”

The townspeople indeed had a great time, especially when kids aged about 9 or 10 slugged it out. The kids themselves seemed to be just having fun. They sheepishly smiled when hit, and they hopped in joy when they won.

When it was the older boys' turn to fight, the laughters faded, signifying that this wasn't just a game anymore. And it would be anything but a game. I found myself blurting out, “Daw patyanay na gid ni ya” (They seem to be killing each other).

Watching boxers fight on TV, even with blood oozing out of their noses or brows, has the same effect to me as watching an ordinary action movie. But watching boxers fight in flesh, even without the blood, made me feel as if I was transported to ancient times, when hapless slaves were made to fight in the colosseum until one would be killed, all for the Romans’ viewing pleasure.

It does not take a genius to see why many young men are drawn into boxing or are supported into it by their families. Prizefighting may not be an easy way to have a better life, but it is surely a much faster way. Ordinary employees have to work their fingers to the bone for several lifetimes to earn the amount Manny Pacquiao rakes in from a single bout. And with the kind of public education we have and the scarcity of jobs in our country, it’s no wonder many Filipinos see boxing as the only way to get out of desperation and poverty. For them, it’s not just a sport; it’s a means to survive.

I am not anti-boxing. Boxers and non-boxers alike may die while doing their job. Manny Pacquiao will forever be one of my idols (notwithstanding his dabbling in politics). I could never forget how proud he makes me feel every time I watch him fight.

Boxers learn lessons in life that I might never learn in my pampered existence. I will forever be in awe of young Filipinos who brave the ring to reach for their dreams. But I believe boxing should not be the best option for them.

A mugful of coffee

From my personal archives. February 2006

“If anything can go wrong, it will.” These words, known as Murphy’s Law, took effect on me one Wednesday night. Before the night ended, however, I was able to formulate my own law: “If everything goes wrong, something will make you feel all right.”

My roommate and I were supposed to watch “Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros” because my teacher in Art Appreciation required the class to write a movie analysis about it, but we ended up watching “Jarhead” instead. “Maximo” had been shown the previous week and we missed it, so since we were already in the cinema, we decided we might as well watch a movie and chose the US marine’s memoir of the first Gulf War, though I had an ugly premonition upon reading in its poster the teaser, “Welcome to the Suck.”

The movie was wickedly funny and made me forget that I had not yet taken my supper. When the soldiers arrived in Saudi Arabia, the lead actor (Jake Gyllenhaal) narrated how they killed the time while waiting for battle. The candidness of it was part of the reason the movie earned an R18 rating. I was dumbfounded in a moment when he said that, with other masculine activities, the soldiers fought boredom by “looking at Filipina mail-order bride catalogues.”

I heard gasps and “Whaat?!” from the few other people in the audience. Someone near me muttered, “My, Is that what they think of Filipinas?” I turned my attention back to the screen. I was just surprised to hear something about Filipinos in a big-budget American movie, and I didn’t consider what the actor mentioned as degrading or anything.

Halfway through the movie, the soldiers suddenly talked in whispers, as if they fear we will hear their top-secret plan and turn them in to the Iraqis. At first, I thought it was part of the sound effects, but after twenty minutes or so the soldiers still kept everything to themselves. I marched out the cinema thinking about the Consumer Act of the Philippines and complained to the guard. I went back inside, and soon a small group of the mall’s employees stormed the operator in his booth.

The operator had obviously fallen asleep. In a couple of minutes, the whole theater was blaring again with hip music and the soldiers’ profanities. I had lost track of the movie’s story. Worst, my bad eating and reading habits for the past few days took their toll, and my temples started to hurt like hell. I endured the pain just so my roommate could watch the ending.

I had misfortunes that night to last me a lifetime—or maybe just a week. I failed to catch “Maximo,” barely understood “Jarhead” and left the movie house with a terrible headache. I asked my companion that we try a newly opened coffee shop. A cup of coffee takes away my headaches, whether after I had too much drink or when my migraine attacks.

We were served a mugful each in the coffee shop. While I was sipping my coffee, a man in the next table suddenly talked a little too loud, and his topic was the cities of the United States he’d been to. He was blabbering in English, nasal and all, but his looks and accent betrayed his native ancestry. He was talking not to a foreigner but to two fellow natives who did nothing but grunt and occasionally chuckled while listening. I felt like I was watching a play titled “New Yorker in Koronadal.”

We emptied our mugs and rode a tricycle back to the dorm. My roommate couldn’t help himself in praising the coffee and seemed to have forgotten the mishaps I led him to. He must also have gotten too weary that for the first time, he wasn’t attacked by his insomnia and fell asleep ahead of me, making me wonder if his coffee had trytophan instead of caffeine.

I stayed awake until everyone in the dorm was tucked in bed, including the guard. I plopped down the chair and massaged my head, trying to remember the advice a hilot aunt once gave me: find the throbbing vein and massage it gently until “the air trapped inside flows out.” I kept repeating the procedure until every single engorged vein in my forehead and nape was reduced to its original size and the pain stopped.

My thoughts drifted to the reaction of the moviegoers when Filipina mail order-brides were mentioned in “Jarhead.” I could understand their indignation. They accuse mail-order brides (or, today, e-brides) of cheapening the image of Filipinas. For me, however, I can’t blame many of our women if they marry foreigners they barely know in their search for a better life or desperate struggle to escape from poverty.

Besides, many Filipinos who condemn those women do so not to fight for a moral cause or uphold women’s dignity. It’s just that the care they give to the opinion of Americans is far greater than the understanding and help they are willing to offer to their fellow Filipinos.

I thought of the man who was bragging his trips in the US and his fake twang. The patriotic blood in me boiled when I saw him acting more American than Americans in the coffee shop, but during that solitary moment in the room, I could only be sorry for him and other people who still couldn’t shake off their colonial mentality. It is enough for now that I’m willing to accept everything—good or bad, from praiseworthy to shameful—about this country and do something I can about them. And when we are invaded by another country, I will also put my hands on a rifle and let myself be welcomed to the suck. (I'm no longer sure if I'm still ready to do this hehe.)

It had been long since the last chance I had to feel the peace and quietness of the night and think about love for country. Had it not been for the mugful of coffee, I would have spent the night sleepless with headache and disappointment.

I lay down on my bed as the effect of caffeine wore off. I remembered that I still didn’t know how to accomplish my movie review and I would surely suffer from hyperacidity the next morning. Still, I slept fitfully. I need not worry too much about trivial matters, even serious ones, for at the end of the day—or of the night—there’s always a mugful of coffee to give me the much-needed bliss. And the mugful of coffee need not come in the form of a hot, dark liquid with caffeine. It may be encouraging words from a friend, a sweet, shy smile from that classmate named Meriel, or the invisible yet deeply felt hug from God.

Judge them by what is IN their heads--and what is ON their heads

From my personal archives. September 14, 2006
(This is about the Vertex boarders last school year. Most of them are no longer here.)

"Trust the uni~verse and respekt your hair."
-Bob Marley

"Forget not that the earth likes to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair."
-Kahlil Gibran

Most of my dormmates are newcomers, and they are all first year students. For months now, I’ve been wondering if they and I have a generation gap. When it comes to vanity, hair grooming in particular, I seem to have been born an Age earlier than they were.

Of the ten of us occupying the ground floor (the girls are in the second floor), I’m the only one whose hair remains black and who does not use gel. The hairs of the other guys have “highlights” or stiffened by half a bottle of gel, or both. Last year, my old dormmates did not seem to be so particular with their mane.

This barrio boy is experiencing some culture shock. It’s one thing to read about metrosexuals. It’s another to share roof, hallway and mirror with them.

It feels weird to hear the other guys talk about whitening creams with as much enthusiasm as when they share about motorcycles and “chicks.” They advise each other in which tight-fitting, signature shirt they look best. They borrow each other’s fanciful sneakers. (So far, no one has dared borrow my cheap loafers.) The other day, they tried to bleach one guy's hair. I could not suppress a grin looking at his head wrapped in a plastic bag from a department store.

Though my dormmates seem superficial, I noticed one good thing that comes along with their liking for things that, decades ago, were considered “for women only.” By being not so concerned about projecting a macho image, they do not stereotype the sexes. They have respect for women. They collect porn videos in their phones, all right, but they never talked about women as mere sex objects. They treat the girls in the second floor of the dorm as friends, if not family members. Theirs is masculinity anchored not on egotism but on sheer confidence of their sexuality.

The guys with gel and highlights tolerate, if not respect, anyone’s gender preference. We have a transvestite dormmate who prefers being called Luningning. They occasionally make harsh jokes to him, of course, but he's not talked about behind his back and labeled a sinner or any other prejudiced term. The others sometimes borrow his wig to set up a “White Lady” inside the room of whomever they want to scare during brownouts. They asked him to be their make-up artist when we had the search for the Mr. and Ms. of our dorm during acquaintance party. And, yes, they promptly call him Luningning. In another time or another place, the gay boy would be treated as the poor clown, or be mauled.

I’m beginning to think that “vanity” and “vaingloriousness” are not the proper words to describe the way my dormmates care and adorn their hairs. It’s just the norm of “their time”—the time, which I would like to think as the prelude to the age of a more open-minded and egalitarian society.

Meanwhile, the fashionista guys must have influenced me. I now have my share of vanity. I’ve grown my hair. It used to be one-inch long and uncombed for almost six years, but now it’s pricking my eyes.

I’ve been grooming my it with the aid of a small, brown comb, which would be borrowed by two or three guys every morning. The comb has raked through practically all kinds of hair: dry hair and hair sticky with gel; straight hair and parlor-straightened hair; black hair and fake blond hair; hair of an Ilonggo, and hair of an Ilocano; hair of a Christian and hair of a Muslim.

The worst antidote to the hair fever, however, is about to come. Next week, our conservative school will no longer allow male students to wear our hair long. I suspect the primary purpose of the hair policy is to keep gays from wearing their hair at shoulder-length. Talk about open-minded and egalitarian society.

What bothers my dormmates and I is that the rule says our hair must not reach the collar of our shirts. We’re planning to skirt the rule by removing the collar of our shirts. But I guess I need not do that for, thank God, I’ve got a long neck. For the mean time, what I should do is wash my comb regularly, before we share lice and have bad hair days.

No love lost

From my personal archives. September 28, 2006

A few days ago, I watched The Lost City in a mall.

The movie received lukewarm reviews, but I decided to see it after finding out from the internet that it is set in 1958-59 Cuba, where Fidel Castro and Che Guevara overthrew President Batista. I figured the film may not be a superb artwork but watching it is at least not a boring way to learn history.

I expected the scenes to look as if they happened in a place and time I could not relate to. But City might as well be set in modern-day Philippines. Like Cuba in 1950s, our country’s democracy today is in peril, though our situation is not as bloody.

Any Filipino could understand the uncertainty felt by the protagonist, a Havana nightclub owner named Fico Fellove. Some of our fellowmen even share Fico’s tragic experiences—he lost to the revolution the woman he loves, his two militant brothers, and his flourishing career.

One of Fico’s brothers served the army of the de facto government, believing that the bloodshed would pave the way for a true democracy. But his leaders, Castro and Guevara, were staunch adherents of Marxism, a complete opposite of democracy.

Aside from that, democracy could only be achieved by ways of democracy, not by spewing bullets to the guts of the enemy.

I have nothing against military leadership or communism. Those systems work for other countries. What I am wary of is the repression that usually goes with them. I do not want to live in a country where I would be told to think in a certain way and be shot if I speak the opposite.

The problem with democracy is not its weaknesses, but the leaders who take advantage of those weaknesses. The problem is not democracy’s tendency for instability and revolution, as Plato so dreaded. The problem is the people like Fulgencio Batista and Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo.

Why GMA? It’s because she’s a Marcos-in-the-making. Last month, our class watched Batas Militar, a documentary about the Martial Law regime in the Philippines. I was struck with the uncanny similarity of the tactics Marcos used in clinging to power and the actions of GMA today: rigging of election results, covert manipulation to change the constitution, unjustifiable offensive to communist insurgents, among others.

I wonder why so many people who belong to the generation before mine do not seem to recognize the signs. Perhaps they see, but they do not care anymore. They may have become too tired of the seemingly never-ending political crisis in the country, as Filipinos seem to be just putting in power one corrupt leader after another.

Some people insist that we have no one to blame but ourselves for our misery since, as Abraham Lincoln said, democracy is “of the people, for the people and by the people.” They say we get only what we deserve and real change is possible only if we tend to our own backyards first. I agree. But this is no excuse to let our leaders off the hook.

For me, there’s only one simple process how we can protect democracy: (1) We’ll elect our leader. (2) If he screws the nation, we’ll ask him to resign. (3) If he does not make the “ultimate sacrifice,” we’ll oust him through a non-violent people power and we’ll accept his constitutional successor or elect another one. (4) If the successor also screws the nation, we’ll again ask him to resign. We’ll keep on repeating the cycle until, to paraphrase a line from another movie, the people will no longer be afraid of the government and the government will be afraid of the people.

“The Lost City” was not partial to anyone or any ideology. It showed the capriciousness of the Batista dictatorship as much as the unforgiving ways of the Castro government.

Fico had a crucial decision to make. He could stay and lose his life. Or leave and lose his country. We Filipinos are in better circumstances. There’s only one thing we need not lose—hope.

A god named Manny

From my personal archives. November 2006

Hero. Superstar. Future Philippine President.

Ask any ordinary Filipino today who he thinks fits that description and the name Manny Pacquiao would come out his mouth.

By demolishing Erik Morales last Sunday, Manny did not only earn another win for himself. He proved once again that a Filipino could be the number one in the world. He once more lifted the spirit of our dejected nation.

For several minutes on Nov. 9, 2006, the whole country freezed--glued to television sets. I joined the millions of Filipinos in that “nation moment.” With some housemates, I sat in the sala of my dorm and watched in awe as Pacman reduced El Terible to a punching bag.

My companions grunted loudly, laughed, and clapped their hands as they cheered Manny Pacquiao on--while I was dumbfounded. I was not seeing a boxer knocking down his opponent. I was seeing a determined warrior sealing his name in history. I was afraid saying something or stirring from my seat would violate the holiness of it all.

When I heard Morales gentlemanly accepting his defeat, I could almost imagine what was going on in the other side of the world—in the county more famous to us as Marimar’s home. Mexicans may not openly admit it, out of grief for their champion, but deep inside they have come to respect Manny and Manny's country.

Manny finished the match in three swift rounds. In the second round, his infamous left made a staggering blow on Morales' jaw. In the third round, a flurry of punches nailed the Mexican on the floor for the third and final time.

Years from now, I might no longer clearly remember how it happened. But there is no way I would forget how being a witness to it made me feel--I was reminded that we can dream and reach for that dream.

So I may not scale the heights Manny did--and boxing could never be my means--but reach for the stars I will.

The Pacquiao-Morales III, the finale of one of boxing's great trilogies, ended rather abruptly. It left me and my dormmates craving for more. We turned to a delayed telecast in another channel.

As I savor Pacquiao's every winning moment again, I was thinking through the fact that the greatest pound-for-pound boxer today hails not from hegemonic America but from poor Philippines. And he's not from far-away Manila but from General Santos City, P40-ride away from where I go to school.

Indeed, greatness knows no bounds. The panadero now has the President, governors and mayors dying to have their photographs taken with him.

For the next few days after the fight, everyone talked about it as if it was their fists that landed on El Terible’s face. Our Ecology teacher was somehow able to relate Manny's victory to the lesson. I myself discussed the fight with friends for several times, while hoping they would not notice I just quoted the commentators on TV.

For the people of Mindanao, Manny is a demigod, if tall tales about him are any indication. Many barrio folks suspect he takes his incredible strength from an anting-anting. Rumor has it also that with his millions, Manny now owns half of the island. The last I heard, he bought all the passenger ferries traveling between Pagadian and Cotabato and turned them into fishing vessels.

Now I am just so particular with--and proud of—anything I have in common with Pacquiao: I am a Filipino. I drink both San Miguel Beer and Nestle Fresh Milk. I hit a playmate in the jaw when I was in grade two. I sheepishly smile when I run out of something to say, especially in English.

All I want to do when I meet him is kneel down, raise my hands up in the air and bend down the ground.

***

P.S. About two months ago, I finally saw Manny in person, when his basketball team played here in Koronadal. I did not kneel down in front him, but I yelled every time the ball touched his hand.

Rolling back

For 33 days, we've been rolling around together.
In 33 days, I've discovered many things--about home and, most of all, about myself.

Thank you.
The journey we have is wonderful.

I can't go on, however.
I have to roll back.

This is goodbye.
But I promise to come back, to see you in the summer--and stay with you forever.

I look like them? Or they look like me?

I rolled around the web and found this. It's cool. Try it.

All-natural 'halo-halo' at Mang Inasal

Koronadal City--Eating with barehands is usually associated with messy, poorly lit eateries. Not in Mang Inasal.

The barbecue grill, located at the front side of Fit Mart Mall, is nice and clean. A friend and I had a late lunch there this afternoon. We each had the lowest-priced pair of rice and chicken, at P39, not including drinks.

Mang Inasal is known for its barbecue. I, however, crave more for the resto's halo-halo (a mixture of shaved ice and various boiled beans and fruits) than for its grilled chicken.

The dessert is P45 per bowl. What makes Mang Inasal's halo-halo different and special is that it has all-natural ingredients, including what appears to me as strips of green mango. The grainy texture of the fruit and the sweetness of milk in your tongue is heavenly bliss.

10 things I love about my dorm

1. It gets better by the year. Regularly, it’s refurnished and refurbished. (Regularly, the rent is also increased.)

2. I’m the elected prince. That means I don’t have to worry about organizing activities. I’m just so burnt out with my duties in school as president of the graduating class and Political Science Society.

Vertex Dormitory, Pantua Village, Koronadal City

3. I get to share my dormmates properties such as Marlon’s gadgets and groceries; Eric Van’s mint-green, plastic laundry basin; Ron’s scissors and scotch tape; and Bryan’s 100 phone sex videos.

4. The bickerings are endless. I’ve learned so much about human relationship.

5. It has Time magazine. The office of Vertex Dormitory subscribes to it. Our landlord gets the newsweekly from the office and lends it to me first.

In my crib, er, bed

6. We have no TV at the boys quarters, in the ground floor. I hate watching TV—or, I hate watching what other people watch on TV.

7. I get to play Detective Conan, because something is stolen almost every fortnight.

8. It’s very near the school. No worries when LBM strikes in class.

Receiving area. Wi-fi zone

9. I’m the kuya. The younger boarders believe everything I say, including the “curse” in Rm. 88. Eric sleeps on the floor because I told them that all occupants of the upper bunk of the bed in the room, as I’ve observed, suffer mishaps and stay in the dorm for one week to one semester only.

10. I have funny dormmates willing to make fun of themselves such as 89-kg Don, who would playfully cry Eeeeek-eeeek, and Ron, who would do just anything anyone suggests.

Private videoke at EMR

Koronadal City--My friend Debbie is going back to Cebu, in her work as a call girl, er, call center agent.

In usual Debbie fashion, she bid farewell by inviting us to a hush-hush night-out (and I'm blabbering about it). Six of us had quiet fun in a videoke room at EMR Center.

Inside the Chinese Red room. A giant bagua mirror adorns the ceiling.

Left to right: The Rolly, Ryan C., Debbie, Royal

I’m the official “killjoy.” The microphone never even brushed my fingers.

The price of VIP rooms at EMR starts at a thousand bucks for three hours, inclusive of food and drinks.

EMR has the best french fries I ever tasted. The place and my dorm have the same owner.

Mr. University 2007 belting out “Somewhere down the road”—and countless other songs.

We couldn’t stop him from singing. When our time was up, three waiters had to practically pry the mic from his hands and carry him to the door. (I'm exaggerating, of course.)

Left to right: Royal, Debbie, Ryan A., Mark Anthony

The loo

5000 pairs of sandals

It looked as if all the residents of Koronadal had trooped to the center of the city.

More than five thousand people, majority of them wearing sandals, came last night to witness the last part of Hinugyaw Festival. Alunan Avenue was closed for vehicles and opened for hoi polloi.

The hinugyaw (Ilonggo for shouting and merry-making) got louder and merrier at 10 pm, during the fireworks display at the roundball.

Map of Koronadal's Hub

At 8:30 pm, some dormmates and I went to Alunan to have dinner, which turned out to be a not-so-good idea. The food was bad. (The best way to enjoy the place, as I’ve tried in an Octoberfest before, is to have San Mig Light and Chippy, while listening to the band on stage.)

After eating, we walked back to our dorm. From the kiosks to the roundball, it took us more than half-hour to pass through the multitude.

I’ve never been to a Disco sa Kalye (street disco) before, so I was amused with the small discoveries I made. The street wasn’t packed with teenage punks—as I expected—but with people of all ages and from different walks of life.

One crazy couple had their five-month-old baby with them. And though I did not see a graybeard with a cane, I saw a woman in her fifties in lavender spaghettis.

In every fifteen meters or so, a sound system was in full blast. One had Sean Kingston (“You’re way too beautiful, girl…”). Another had a Cebuano copy-cat (You’re way too beautiful, gay…”).

Huddled in front of the large music boxes, dancing to their hearts' content, were elementary-school pupils and a few teenage drag queens.

We passed along General Santos Drive and headed straight to our dorm, reaching it by 10 pm, just in time for the fireworks display. We rushed to the rooftop and watched.

I was amazed with the fireworks--and appalled by the smoke it generated. In 12 minutes, the sky above the roundball was covered in a mass of gray cloud.

Before going to sleep, I was thinking about global warming.

Drinking world's most expensive coffee

Koronadal City—I have unwittingly drunk the world’s most expensive coffee. And I’m not kidding or being sarcastic!

At about 9:30 last night, two dormmates and I agreed to go to U3, a newly opened coffee shop at Alunan Avenue.

Whenever I try a place for the first time, I always order the specialty of the house. Incidentally, U3’s best is Coffee Alamid 2x Espresso, at P286 per serving.

I’m cheap, but I couldn’t break my self-imposed rule. I mustered all the courage I needed and asked for Coffee Alamid. Marlon and Jomar must have also been extra brave at that moment for they also asked for the same coffee.

When our order was served and we saw the tiny mugs containing no more than 120 ml of black liquid, we were half-convinced we had made a mistake. When we started sipping the drink and the bitterest coffee we ever tasted made love with our taste buds, we were fully convinced we had made a mistake.

But since we had reached the point of no return, we mustered again all the courage we needed to finish the excruciating mission that was emptying our mugs. While we were in it, I told my two hapless fellows that the most expensive coffee in the world, as I read in Time magazine, is made from beans handpicked from the poop of civet cats.

After a while, my eyes fell on a tiny tarpaulin facing me a few feet away. I saw a picture of a small furry animal and coffee leaves and the words “Philippine civet cats” and “U3”.

In one swoop, the pieces of information got glued together inside my head. I blurted out something like, “Guys, what we are having right here, right now just happened to be the coffee I'm talking about..."

At P2.38 per milliliter, U3’s Coffee Alamid is still too affordable to be considered the world’s most expensive coffee. But civet cats, which are so picky they eat only the sweetest and reddest of berries, are native to the Philippines (local name: alamid) and Indonesia, the beans from which are called kopi luwak. US and other countries have to import the beans, so the price there is way higher, up to $50 per cup in some cafes.

Upon leaving the place, we realized we did not make a mistake. Where else could you have the world’s most expensive coffee at such a low price? And I was just being a git. The coffee tasted great that I drank it without sugar.


Before hitting U3. Jomar and I at a food stall in front our dorm. He deserves nothing less than civet cat droppings.

U3's front looks like a cafe at a street in Paris. My phone's battery, however, got empty before I was able to take a photo of it. Next time maybe.

Running after the Mardi Gras

Koronadal City--Last night, I felt like a paparazzi dying to take a photo of Britney Spears.

With my classmate Arian, the youngest barangay councilor in the city and perhaps in the country, I jogged almost a kilometer trying to capture for posterity the Marbeleño Mardi Gras (Marbeleño refers to the people of Marbel, Koronadal's old but still popular name).

Our mini-marathon did not produce good results, though. My pictures were a mess and we were only able to witness a small part of the night-time street dancing.


Dancers waiting for their turn in front KCC Mall

When Arian and I got out of the school, at about 6:45 pm, we saw the tail of the parade. We ran towards it. I kept trying to get a perfect picture but I was met with every kind of problem: the light in the lamp post was too glaring, the dancers were just walking straight, or the street was too crowded.

Before we knew it, we were near the roundball, at pace with the first dance troupe. When all the competing groups had passed, we whiled away the hours at the roundball, chatting beside the water fountain.

We later noticed that the people were crowding in the street in front of KCC Mall, where, we found out, the street dancers would have a mass demonstration. When Arian and I got there, all we could see were the heads and shoulders of the people in front us.

Still, our moods weren’t spoiled. We laughed at how crazy we must have looked running the long stretch of Alunan Avenue. And we had a chance to share stories, which we haven’t had for quite some time.

Local history told through dance

At 3 pm yesterday, the city government's Hinugyaw dance troupe presented the story of the pioneer settlers of Koronadal.


In the early 1940s, present-day Koronadal became one of the resettlement areas under the “Land for the Landless” program of President Manuel L. Quezon. Many people of Luzon and Visayas came to Mindanao in the hope of having a better life.



Indigenous people and Maguindanaoans, who at times fought each other, had been living in the land long before Christian settlers came.






During World War II, the settlers suffered persecution in the hands of the Japanese




Engr. Albert Morrow met with the captain of the invading soldiers and spoke for the people, but he was rebuffed. Morrow--and later his friend Santiago Odin--killed himself. Since the Japanese consider taking one's life an honorable act, the Japanese official belatedly granted Morrow’s plea.


Felipa Garingo, another hero, was executed for refusing to reveal the whereabouts of her brother, a guerilla leader. Her brother later killed the Japanese military leader and his troop in an ambush.


Students from Koronadal Comprehensive National High School made up most of the audience. The girls would shriek every time Meynard, playing the role of Morrow, came out the stage.


Daughter of Lt. Jesus Larrabaster accepting the honor the city government gave to her late father.

Lt. Larrabaster was the supervising overseer of Marbel (Koronadal's old name) resettlement area. Mayor Fernando Miguel's Proclamation No. 1 s. 2007 recognizes Larrabaster as one of the heroes of Koronadal.

Ms. Larrabaster said she "literally cried" when she received the letter in the US.

I gave my Coke-in-can, which was distributed for free in the front rows, to these rowdy kids. A minute later, half of the content was splashed on the floor and the can, crumpled.

I was with my classmate Jerazy. We wanted to go inside the museum but it was closed for renovation.

Air-con ukay-ukay store

Koronadal City--Recently, an ukay-ukay (used stuffs) shop opened in the ground floor of Vertex Dormitory, where I stay, at Pantua Village




Marlon, my dormmate/aspiring model

The best chicharon in Koronadal

Koronadal City--For more than seven years now, I've been into a no-pork diet, except for occasional servings of chicharon at Jeetz, a food stall in front my dorm at Pantua Village.

The price of Regular and Premium chicharon ranges from P21 to P41, while each 100 g of Special (with meat), Bulaklak (intestines) and Tenga (ears) is P48.

The food stall also serves rice and viand and snacks.


With dormmates Sarah, left, and April

Barbecue at ‘Baywalk’

KORONADAL CITY—Two years ago, the wind made me roll out of the student publication. But, until now, about half of the guys I go out with are the ones I met inside that insane circle.

Debbie and Ryan, former editors in chief of Omniana, visited me at the dorm yesterday (as though I was sick or jailed. The truth is, I was just penniless and had nothing to pay for the tricycle ride to KCC Mall, where they texted me to meet them). We talked and talked. We seldom see each other now (Ryan is a nurse and Debbie works for Convergys in Cebu), so our how-are-you’s went on until 8 pm.

I took a bath and followed them at the back of the city hall, where the street is closed at night to give space to barbecue tents. The place is known as—well, it has various monikers. Many people simply refer to it as “likod sang city hall (the back of the city hall)”. Others call it “One-way,” after the direction of the vehicles passing by. Some prefer “Las Vegas,” as if bulbs and neon lights look the same. A friend would often confuse tricycle drivers by saying, “sa likod lang ni Miguel (at the back of Miguel [the city mayor], please).”

For the staff of Omni, it’s “Baywalk”, or “Baywalk Without a Bay” as landlocked Koronadal is dozens of miles away from the nearest edge of the sea. Perhaps someone thought of the name because the street looks like the Baywalk in Manila.

Our Baywalk here, all but 30 m in length, teems with people every night. Not less than 10 stalls offer different choices of barbecue—the cheapest in town. Chicken, with either a wing or a drumstick attached, is only P35. Chicken intestines and pork slices come at P3 per stick, while two pieces of chicken neck is P15. My favorite here is panit (or “sken” as a tindera once insisted), at P5 per stick.

For the complete street-food experience have a balut or two from the vendors lined at the other side of the street. Then wash the barbecue grease and chicken bits down your throat with a slice of watermelon from the fruit stands across the adjacent street.

Last night, however, we passed on the balut and watermelon because of the rainshower. When the pouring slightly waned, we decided to check the schedule of the coming Hinugyaw festival printed in the tarpaulin in front the city hall.

We walked in the drizzle without any covering for our heads, pretending we’re in Chicago, the windy city, believing ours is the normal world.

Our most joyous faces

New Year in the streets of Koronadal

Playing tun-og, waiting for Mark Aethen

Ms Grace, her daughter, and the New Year crashers

KORONADAL CITY, SOUTH COTABATO—I never thought being “homeless” could be so cool.

Two friends and I spent New Year ’s Eve loitering along Alunan Avenue, one of the busier streets here.

At about 11 pm, Royal and Mark Aethen suggested we dropped by Matchbox, a fast food stall just several meters away from the roundball. The place was no longer serving food, but Miss Grace, the affable owner, treated us to sumptuous servings of oyster valenciana, burger steak, and shrimp salad.

Before long, we were slowly having rounds of Red Horse (still on the house!) as Bob Marley crooned “No woman, no cry” in the karaoke and splendid fireworks illuminated the night sky.

Greeting the New year couldn’t be this languorously fun.

Royal and Mark forcibly took 2/3 of my three-piece tribal bracelet