Scavengers

Lately, I've noticed that storm surges have become more frequent along Roxas Boulevard, fronting Manila Bay, especially the area from the Manila Yacht Club up to the American Embassy. Most noticeable in these surges is the trash that get washed up ashore. Tons of them each time. Collectively, they may rival the tsunami debris from Japan's earthquake last year.

Ours is a tsunami of garbage, that poses as serious a threat to life as the storm surges on which it rides. While the surges damage and breach large segments of the seawall, the tons of trash are a national shame. They carry filth and disease, and mirror our wanton disrespect for the environment. Curiously, almost unbelievably, atop the floating, almost solid flotsam are scavengers, blending in with the garbage, like chameleons. These people have elevated scavenging to new heights, over and above a mere survival activity. In the native tongue, they are referred to as "mangangalakal," meaning "trader." They are businessmen then of the most daring kind, comparable to the most intrepid venture capitalist or investment banker. While the latter makes use of other people's money, risking to lose only their egos and reputations, the "mangangalakal" stands to lose his own life or limb should something go awry.

Scavenging is an industry in this country, as are ambulant vending and panhandling; the ubiquitous street food and fruit vendors on makeshift wheeled carts that dot every available space and corner; the "sari-sari" store every fifty meters or so in economically depressed neighborhoods; the barbecue vendors that seem to sprout during the afternoon and well into the night; these are the livelihood of a marginalised populace.

Do we recklessly dispose of our trash to sustain scavenging? I hope not. It can be a convenient justification though, but an immoral one. Scavenging must be difficult in a poor country like ours. I mean, we don't throw away TV's, fridges, computers, etc., as in developed countries. We have them repaired again and again, beyond their planned life. We don't throw away old clothes; they become hand-me-downs, or as donations to charity, or we just stow them until they are overrun with mold and rot, at which time we turn them into rags. What we throw away are almost totally useless scraps; but scavengers, with their sharp, discerning sight, still manage to find items they can salvage and sell, to keep body and soul together.

I'm a scavenger of dreams and things now, sifting through what other people and I have thrown away. One scavenges when the possibility to add to possessions is absent or dim. I went through a time of ambitions and realizations aplenty, considering them as my birthrights. Through a series of miscalculations, recklessness, and imprudence, I've lost most of my good fortune. I now take stock of my material remainders; there aren't much left, just enough to get by, enough to stay in the daily race to remain human, but not enough to be a glittering gem.

I seek solace whenever and wherever, in classical music after dinner on Saturdays; in my weekend afternoon naps on the floor, with memories from happier, better times intruding into that limbo between wakefulness and slumber, persistent, though not annoying, as the hum of mosquito wings near my ear.

Comedian On Leave

One of the family's comedians, my brother Benjie, is indisposed. I don't know for how long. He is waging an uphill battle against a malevolent disease, a disease that saps his spirit and dreams. From sparse accounts I get from other family members, Benjie, the perennial clown who takes every opportunity to practise his heaven-bestowed gift of making people laugh and be happy and consequently have a generally more optimistic take on life, has taken a leave of absence and become withdrawn and contemplative, and certainly very tired from his treatments.


I'm sure he has a lot of things on his mind, among them his wife and two very young children. It can also be surmised that he's thinking of the possibilities that lie ahead. Believe me, brother, the future for all of us is uncertain. No exceptions. Some of us may think that life allows us to see ahead and plan, whereas the truth is we cannot see ahead a minute or even a second from now. This reality is humbling. On close analysis, the things that make life worthwhile are love, hope, and faith. If you have just one of these (two or all would be best!), then you can bear life's vagaries. I'm very sure you have love.


I think of my brother very often nowadays, always returning to the times when we were growing up together. The PC, internet, video games were unheard of then. A blessing, I think, because we spent time playing children's games, including reciting lines from our favorite children's rhymes, and Japanese monster and scifi films: "O Kaka, O Kaka, San Fernandong wawa," "Chichiritchit alibangbang, salaginto't salagubang, ang babae sa lansangan, kung gumiri parang tandang," "The green slime are here! The green slime are coming!" (from the movie The Green Slime). I can imagine the smile on my brother's face as he remembers how we invented a game using these rhymes and movie line.


Simple games, yes, but they produced enough happy memories to last a lifetime. Moreover, the games of old had the finest ingredient, camaraderie, from which sprang forth sympathy, empathy, and caring. Very good for siblings and other people in general. Today's video and online games overwhelm with its technology, and leave very little for the imagination. I have to admit, a few years back I was briefly fascinated with them, preferring a game controller over reading a good book, leading my game character-hero inside an ominous-looking warehouse to blast every villain inside. The virtual blood, gore, and explosions gave me inexplicable thrill. The games catered to my dark, baser instincts. They may be enjoyed on-demand and alone, no fickle-minded playmates required. Online games? No real camaraderie needed. A common goal may bind you with other online players, but where there is only a common objective to accomplish, egocentricity and selfishness can't be far behind. No lasting, wonderful memories there.


There was a time when I was also a comic, quick to spot punch lines in the plainest of situations. But as I took life more seriously, I started becoming morose. It was life's ugly side that showed its best to me, the one with the failures, regrets, treachery, and pretentious people. The harder I struggled, the more distant my dreams became. Or did I actually chased rainbows?


But I'm slowly coming to terms with myself and reality. I'm seeing the futility of too much seriousness. Life is replete with too many unknowns. I'm at their mercy. I'm trying to bounce back, occasionally laughing at life's pranks and ironies, and at my own and other people's follies. This might seem cruel, but it's a quite effective way to deal with the harshness of my existence. If I can't get better deals, then what am I supposed to do? It would be difficult and futile to live the rest of my life sullenly.


My brother deserves this temporary intermission, if only to regain his bearings, to know where he stands; to focus on life's dearest things, without throwing in the towel.

Eternal Rest and The Monsoon

I didn't have to work today, the consequence of the annual monsoon taking on the proportions of a national tragedy. I'm old enough to recall that the monsoon season used to be an annual blessing, awaited to provide a respite from summer's scorching heat, and the promise of bountiful harvests for farmers. Now it's more of a curse, bringing with it relentless rains, floods, destruction, and death. Mother Nature is striking back, I think, after decades of Man abusing and neglecting her. And her fury cannot be restrained or contained.


My father-in-law, now a widower, is again experiencing the attendant inconveniences of a house submerged in flood. He is now temporarily displaced, staying with one of his daughters who lives nearby. The last time something like this happened was two years ago, when his wife was still alive and seemingly well. They went through the inconveniences together. I can't help but ponder on what could be going on in my father-in-law's mind, now that his wife of more than 50 years is gone, and he has to go through life's difficulties alone. My own father's situation is no different. He now has to go through life alone, without my mom's reassuring presence. These are two courageous men, able to move on despite their irreplaceable losses. I'm not certain if I'm made of the same strong material as these two. I could be. But they were soldiers of their time: My father-in-law was an officer in the Reserve, while my father was an Air Force jock. They're old school, born before the last world war; witnesses to human suffering, and the slow,, painful progression of life from the ashes. Underneath their strong, willful personalities is a rare gentleness they shower upon those whom they love. And in dealing with others they observe the tenets of fairness and unassailable integrity. They stock up on riches not of this world.


I, on the other hand, was born during a time of great optimism, strong purchasing power, and relative ease. My generation saw the rise of the service industry, essentially people doing things for other people, things too mundane or monotonous or messy. I never learned, and will never learn, to slaughter a live chicken for the dinner table, a commonplace skill of my two fathers. I am a spoiled brat compared to them.


The present-day curse of the monsoon, and life's other difficulties and uncertainties, are among the best reasons why I look forward to my "graduation," the term I use to refer to death. While most people view the subject of death as unsettling and unpleasant, and therefore a topic to be skirted in discussion, I look at it as an option to and a liberation from life's triteness. I've never entertained the thought of staying around for a very long time. There isn't sufficient happiness to go around here. Perhaps it abounds somewhere else.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

It's my mom's birthday today. She would have been 73. This is the first time she isn't around for her birthday.

More than half of my life, I've spent away from my mom. They migrated to the States when I was almost 25, a new husband and father. After that, I saw her a total of three times before she passed away last year. Time flew really fast, and took with it the moments I could have spent with my mom. I kept procrastinating, kept thinking that plentiful time to spend with her was always available for the taking. I was mistaken, of course.

A loved one's passing away opens the eyes to the importance of seemingly trifling, everyday things, like sharing meals, a good laugh, fears, tears, and most important of all, time. I still have dreams, I guess, but they're much simpler now. They're more like getting from one day to the next, happy and in one piece. None of us will be around forever, and we can take along nothing of what we have, save for love and memories. And for some, even this is not possible, like when they die surrounded by the hatred and loathing of people they have mistreated and abused; or when they pass on while afflicted with dementia.

Two months back, I sent out e-mail invites to family and selected friends about my blog post and photos related to my Mt. Pulag climb. I sent one out to Mom. I have not deleted her from my mailing list. Never. I want to keep it this way. E-mail was just about the only way we kept in touch, and deleting her name would be quite difficult. I can easily delete other people's names, but not my mom's.

If I had gotten a reply to my e-mail, then that would have been wonderful. And initially mysterious, too. To other people, it would have been frightening. But not to me. Mom was a firm believer in the supernatural, especially ghosts. I believe she held the record for having seen the ghosts of all our kin who passed on ahead of her. Each time we had kin pass away, Mom was equally worried and certain, as she was sad, that the dead kin's ghost would make a stopover at our home on its way to the eternal beyond. And indeed there were many instances of these ghostly visits, if I believed my mom's accounts. Our dead kin's ghosts said hi to her at the most inconvenient times: Like when she went to the toilet to pee in the middle of the night; or when she was on her way to the kitchen very early in the morning to make breakfast, and she thought she saw the ghost of our recently dead kin sitting on the family couch, wearing his burial clothes. Terrific. After this episode, it was Dad who cooked breakfast, and this arrangement remained in force for the rest of their life together.

I often told her not to worry about ghosts bothering her, as about real flesh and blood humans out to do others harm, like robbers and muggers. And professional politicians, and those who simply play politics. I kept telling her there were no such things as ghosts, and that when people die, their souls are not permitted to terrorize those who still survive; that a quick judgment is handed down a few hours after death, and the soul is swiftly dispatched to its eternal destination. But Mom would have none of these. She clung to her beliefs with enviable tenacity. And while she was deeply religious, she was also steeped in superstition and ritual. I think she embodied the Filipino psyche well, and it is something that I can be proud of. I think it is this mindset that endows Pinoys with their renowned resiliency. It could be one of the reasons (the other being our continuing love affair with slapstick humor) why we do not have (not yet, anyway) incidences of people going to movie houses, campuses, and workplaces, to shoot everyone on sight.

And so it was that when Mom died, I was hoping that she was right about the ghost stuff. I longed for her to pay me a visit, to say hi before she took off to her eternal beyond. I waited for anything unusual or supernatural, like the sudden waft of flowers or a candle going out, or an apparition in a darkened corner of our home, or maybe even in a dream. I waited in vain. Mom never paid me a visit. I was right about ghosts not existing. I was actually disappointed. It was one of those instances when I actually wished I was wrong. Mom probably grudgingly conceded defeat, but at the same time, was relieved and thankful that she didn't have to pay the customary ghost visits to family and kin. Mom's and Dad's families are quite big families, and it would have taken her some time to pay everyone a ghostly visit. It's different when you're on the visiting end, hey, Mom?

And then, again, if I had received a reply to my e-mail, I would have suspected, after a brief period of incredulity, that my brother, Benson, was playing a prank on me. I'm quite certain he assisted Mom with setting up an e-mail account, and if Mom didn't bother changing the original password, then Benson, one of the family's comedians (the others being Benjie and Bennett), would have found the perfect opportunity to practise his craft.

Here's a toast to you, Mom!