Heavenly Food

Since it is the holiday season or thereabouts, food will be on the agenda of most, the overnourished and undernourished alike, the overfilled and the continually hungry, the obese and the emaciated. It is the gauge of our happiness and success (or the lack of them); it is one of the repositories of my memories, and the aroma of certain food can bring me back to happier, more hopeful times.

I'm not particularly attracted to artsy food, prepared by chefs and those who pretend to be chefs. I think they're more of form, design, and presentation, rather than delicious taste. I come from a rather big family, and art in food had no place on our table, nor was it practical. Meals were like plates and spoons and forks set down on their respective spots, and on the middle were the big pots of rice and a viand (or ulam, the term in local parlance). Most often, at every meal there was only one ulam, except when we had ginisang munggo, a very versatile dish, I should say, because it is a thickish soup that can do as an ulam on its own. It has become somewhat of a culinary tradition that when you have ginisang munggo you should also have fried fish. At this point I think I can venture a theory on how this tradition came about. Catholicism, the country's dominant faith, observes several Fridays of abstinence from meat, all culminating in the week of Lent. On these Fridays, lunch and dinner at home were unfailingly ginisang munggo and fried fish. I eventually discovered that this tradition was (and still is) observed in Catholic households, including office canteens. I would say this is something unique to Catholic Filipinos, unless someone will tell me otherwise.

There are dishes that I so miss, the ones that I will never ever taste again. Their creators have all passed away. They did not leave their recipes behind, and even if they did, I don't think it'll ever be possible to faithfully re-create any of these simple, nameless masterpieces. Nanay, my maternal grandmother, had this fried chicken I've never tasted anywhere else. She used what we call "native" chicken, free-range, essentially, and consistently ended up with a masterpiece so juicy, tender, and indescribably delicious. And as if this was not enough, she sauteed the chicken's gizzard, heart, and liver to come up with a sauce all her own, not thick or watery, and which I treated as a separate dish that could do tasty justice to hot, freshly-cooked rice. At my age, I consider it prudent to watch what I eat, shying away from anything fatty or greasy, but fried chicken destroys my resolve, like money and power corrupting even the most well-intentioned people. My ongoing love affair with fried chicken is probably a consequence of Nanay's creation, as I subconsciously look for even a semblance to it. Tatay, her better half, could whip up the best garlic fried rice in the grain's culinary history. During instances when fried chicken and garlic fried rice were served together, as a very listless child I became unusually quiet and well-behaved. The closest ever to Tatay's creation is the garlic fried rice that used to be served during breakfast at the Rose Bowl restaurant in Baguio City. And even now I'm not certain that the standards have been kept.

Mom had masterpieces of her own, and one of note was her pindang,her version of beef jerky. She marinated thin beef slices in a recipe only she knows, and quick-fried them in very little oil. Her pindang was perfect for our packed school lunches and family picnics. The same can be said for her pork and chicken adobo, which were unlike any versions I've ever tasted. They were almost dry but not quite,with just enough remaining sauce and oil combined, but not too much as to be watery, just enough to put on rice and have blissful eating. She was also quite an expert with relleno dishes, i.e. stuffing anything with everything good, and I went through my childhood and teenage years savoring her rellenong itlog (egg), rellenong bangus (milkfish), and rellenong alimasag (crab). I remember that Benjie and I were her "assistants" in removing the tiny fish bones from the stuffing for the rellenong bangus, and we cherished the chore as it gave us the opportunity to surreptitiously take choice morsels from the intended stuffing. Mom knew this, of course, and she pretended to scold us, most probably to discourage us from taking more than we should, and decimating the stuffing considerably. And during rainy cold nights, how can I forget her version of picadillo, a delicious steaming broth of beef cutlets, diced potatoes, onions, garlic, and sampalok (tamarind)? I now think that it is not depression I feel on rainy days, but nostalgia for Mom's cooking and those wonderful, carefree years.

My mother-in-law was not to be outdone. I initially labeled her dishes as exotic, because they were totally new to me, and may I add, deliciously so. They were, of course, more of regional dishes, southern Tagalog, the spicy kind. She introduced me to sinantol, grated santol fruit cooked in coconut milk, allowed to simmer until almost totally dry, with all the flavor and spice locked in. Then there was her chicken feet adobo, somewhat glutinous and sticky, and very spicy. Not very appetizing to look at, I have to admit, but once I tasted it, I was hooked. Savory staples of the annual town fiesta and Christmas were her special spare ribs recipe, pininyahang manok (chicken cooked in pineapple), and a soup-dish made with prawns and coconut meat. The recipes of these last three were requested by several people, after having tasted the dishes, so presumably they've found their way into other households, into other parts of the world even, but I'm quite certain only close reproductions were produced, and as with all copies, they do not have (and never will) the "heart and soul" of the original creator.

I think these dishes are forever gone now, the ones who created them having passed away. I'm just thankful I was privileged to know the people behind these magnificent creations. Oh, the delicious and happier times back then! How I wish for them to come back.

Monsoon Joys and Foibles (Aug. 19-20, 2013)

In the same month as last year, the annual monsoon has afforded me two days of an unscheduled (and welcome) holiday. The past weekend has been rainy, and late Sunday evening it culminated in a tropical storm potentiating the effects of an Asian monsoon. Schools in many areas announced the suspension of classes, and I thought my son went to bed with a smile on his face. The coming of torrential rains was announced very early Monday morning by a deafening clap of thunder, which roused me and the wife from sleep, and as soon as I got up, the almost continuous downpour melted the already-soaked earth.

Because every possible route was under water, the first order of my day was informing my boss that, in the interest of personal safety (and common sense), reporting for work was simply out of the question. I'm quite sure that it was a situation when employers simply didn't have a choice, when nearly all roads were rendered impassable by flood, other than to let employees take the day off, in spite of it eating up at their margins. Mother Nature versus corporate greed, and the former wins hands down. Of course, astute corporate types managed to use the situation for public relations mileage by telling their employees the obvious: "Unsafe to go to work today because of the floods. We don't want you to take unnecessary risks. Stay in your homes." We are forever grateful. Sarcasm meets false concern.

And so I had all the time in the world, wondrous, unfettered time. Of course, I still had chores to do; the household had to be kept running; and I also ran some short errands. But these things were done without a deadline, one of the nastiest things on the planet, a major cause of life-truncating stress.

I strung up last year's holiday lights on the china cabinet in the kitchen, and played yule music from my phone. My wife and son, no strangers to my bouts of irrational behavior, were nonchalant. My neighbors and passersby, who could glimpse the holiday lights from a glass door at one side of the house, most certainly had their opinions and suppositions, but so like the person I've become over the past several years, I simply didn't care.

I then tuned in to the radio and television for updates on the floods and its consequences for the populace. I felt a bit detached, offering only an occasional exclamation for some sounds and scenes that excited my senses, like the raging Marikina River gradually inching its way up danger levels, carrying flotsam that raced past a bridge's girders; or vehicles almost totally submerged in flood, or those driven hood-deep in flood, by people who are either very adventuresome or total idiots; or the incredible scenes of my countrymen smiling and waving at the news camera, in the midst of their wrecked homes and lives; and not to forget the children turning the submerged streets into a kind of water park, cavorting, diving, swimming in brownish-blackish opaque flood waters contaminated by raw sewage; but as I've said, I was a bit detached. And who wouldn't be? The monsoon and its dire consequences are annual events in this country, a yearly soap opera of sorts, still possessed of a plot and an ending with entertainment value, but which has all become very predictable. Ultimately, they give rise to three distinct kinds of humans: The poor and the wretched who are the victims of this annual disaster; the compassionate (genuine or otherwise) who brave the elements and lend a helping hand, and the detached, curious bystanders, like myself, who choose to be safe at home, and who treat everything as a spectacle, worthy competition to disaster movies. I don't feel the slightest remorse of any kind, and I'm starting to worry about myself.

Being cooped up at home with the monsoon all around me, with substantial uncommitted time on my hands, I was less inclined to worry about how I looked or smelled (of course, I still took my daily bath), and I looked less at the creases and wrinkles on my face, and was less worried about my thinning and greying hair. I also didn't shave the entire time, and took delight in running my fingers over the prickly beard stubs. I wondered if there was some way I could make them grow elsewhere, say, on my scalp instead. I wouldn't mind having a head of stubby, prickly, mostly greying hair. For a while there, in spite of other, more pressing concerns brought about by the monsoon, I thought about my baldness, progressing like some kind of storm surge, slowly but surely creeping up on the land and devouring everything in its path.

But the worry was short-lived, and I resumed my enjoyment of my unscheduled holiday. I wondered how the combination of relative physical inactivity, cooler temperatures, and dark skies laden with rain could produce an appetite for food which is hard to ignore or resist. The unmistakable smell of fried tuyo wafted from my neighbors' kitchens; it could well be part of an "annual national monsoon cuisine" (pritong tuyo, pritong itlog, sinangag, and kamatis), if ever there was one. The combination is an irresistible one for a true-blue pinoy, as irresistible as maybe Gemma Atkinson in my bedroom. This statement could very well spell my doom, but I've made it in the spirit of literary license, nothing more.

And so I allowed things to flow as they would, without any intervention, like what I'm doing in this latter part of my life, just to let things be, to go with the flow, like rain water moving along gutters and downspouts, to estuaries and to maybe the grand ocean. I've discovered that life and time are like liquids flowing from birth to death, inexorable and unstoppable by any means not related to our destiny. We may think we make our own destinies, but the truth is we only discover what has been fated for us. They have always been there, and we either find them or not. The monsoon has been fated for this part of the world, to be both a blessing and curse, coming at almost the same time each year, bringing joy and grief, life and death, and, in my case, a bit of insanity. When it comes again next year I'm sure it'll bring the same things, the same consequences; dire, malevolent, hopeless, and insane.

An Aborted Glimpse of Heaven

The Wait (04.06)

As I prepare for yet another climb, I avoid being giddy with anticipation. I try my best to temper my excitement. It has been my experience to have been very hopeful and excited about a lot of things, putting my all into them, my hopes and dreams, my routines, my prayers; even those of the people I love, only for matters to turn awry and catatonic, leaving me with the hollowed-out shells of my grand aspirations.

Last year I climbed, and now another mountain is at stake. My preparations now are somewhat on a larger scale, compared to last year's, in terms of expenses and equipment. I have to travel farther than last year, and this justifies the bigger logistics. I prepare by reading the reflections of others who have gone before me. I do not look at my mountains as mere destinations in a travelogue; they're episodes in my life, each with its own set of deep reflection and insight, including a sense of gratitude for their very existence. I'm just one of the many who are given the chance to experience a mountain's majestic splendor. I do not set out to conquer them, they conquer me instead. The hikes and trails are like preludes to a kiss, and the kiss gives rise to enduring desires. From and on one, I can look upon things wonderfully differently. The sun, harsh in the lowlands, cruel and unforgiving, a bane when conducting my business, becomes a benevolent, sought-after orb at sunrise, that comforts bruised souls.

I await my turn.

An Exciting Trail

Things do conspire to rob me of my dreams. I prepared so much for this climb. I neglected some more important things, including people. I was cranky out of too much excitement. It is my ugly trademark. I'm hell-bent to do something and nothing, no one, should get in my way. As punishment for my wickedness, I think, I now have practically nothing in my life to be hell-bent about. And so maybe I invent importance for an activity like climbing mountains, which to some people seem trivial and absurd, and to some, something as exciting as going to a mall and window shopping.

I thought this climb started out on the wrong foot. It has made me several thousand pesos poorer. I lost my jungle cap on my way to the airport, a newer one identical in all respects, except the color, to the one I brought with me to my climb last year. That old reliable one is still with me. Then my flight was delayed for almost three hours. This I didn't mind a lot. I didn't have plans (or the money) to book a hotel room, as assembly time for climbers was early morning the following day. I just stayed outside the airport building in Davao and waited for the appointed time to go to the assembly point. I had a very nice conversation with a family waiting for their 6 a.m. flight to Manila. They were there at the airport very early because they came from a far-away town in South Cotabato and public transportation was unavailable during the early morning hours. It was mostly about trivial, everyday things, but it gave me an insight into a family's daily struggles. Families do have many things in common. I bid them farewell when it was time for them to go inside the airport. I don't remember their names now, but still remember their faces. Fate might be so kind as to bring us together again one of these days.

We assembled around 5 am at People's Park in Davao City. By daybreak, we were on our way. The trip to Kidapawan City was long and bumpy, it made our bottoms sore. But we didn't mind. Excitement ruled us. We had breakfast at a diner near the boundary of Davao del Sur and South Cotabato. I had rice and a ham omelette. They were good. I ordered extra of the same things for my packed lunch on the trails.

Jump-off was at Agco, which we reached via a quite steep mountain road. The landscape reminded me of the Benguet landscape up North Luzon: Occasional small houses dotting the sides of the road and slopes, with free-range chickens, and vegetable gardens. Facial features of the natives were different, though, but their stares of curiosity, or acceptance, or resignation, or mild annoyance, or a combination of all these, were a common denominator.

The first part of the climb was beside a raging river, Marble River. The trail crossed it several times. We did it through makeshift bamboo bridges. I was nervous at the crossings. My acrophobia tried taking hold early. But I prevailed. The trail then went through thick rain forest. It was unforgiving. Steep ascents and inclines were its consistent, prominent features. Most of the time I clung to roots and protruding rocks, my heart pounding, and my breathing labored. There were moments when I wondered about my reason for being there. During extreme inconvenience and hardship, thoughts of family come to mind, the comforts of home, and love's familiarity.

Dehydration and leg cramps ruled my first day of the climb. Three of us got left behind. I was ahead of this climber and the "sweeper." I was all alone up front when darkness fell over the rain forest. When finally I could no longer see sufficiently well to safely follow the trail, I decided it was time to use my flashlight. Its beam illumined only the few meters ahead of me, and beyond that was overpowering darkness. The many strange sounds of a forest at night conspired to instill in me despair and the fear of the unknown. Danger from whatever form could be lurking in ambush. I tried my best not to think of these things. But more than fear and despair was the loneliness of being left behind in a vast, dark unknown. The description is beyond words. Genuine understanding can only come from actual experience. Fate remained kind, however, and a search party of two porters were dispatched for us left behind. As soon as I saw the lights from their head lamps, a sense of relief naturally followed. I then finally made it to the first camp site after around seven hours from the jump-off point.

The First Camp Site

The first camp site is called Co-ong, and it was in a small clearing after an arduous, steep climb. A stream ran beside it, and it was our water source. In the wild, you have to trust what Nature gives you. The wonderful murmur of that stream lulled my tired body to sleep. The night was quite cold, and I huddled and shivered in my tent. My legs and arms twitched; I dreamt of the trail I went through, straining for footholds, and clawing at roots, rocks, and earth. The dreams were powerful enough to awaken me several times. But, overall, I rested well.

We started early the following morning. We had breakfast at around 6. Sauteed mixed veggies, rice, and instant noodles. Food like these taste very good in the wild. Within the confines of a house, they are ordinary fare, with very predictable tastes. I don't know, but outdoors, early morning, and in a jungle like this one, the taste buds are attuned to hitherto hidden flavors in food. Or, I was simply famished to be discriminating.

I was a bit sad leaving Co-ong. It was a beautiful introduction to spending the night in a rain forest. Of course, to others it could be worrisome or inconvenient, but, thankfully, for me it wasn't. I've committed that place to memory: A clearing, much like a desert oasis, that offers respite for an exhausted body, with a brand of kindness only Mother Nature can provide. It is but one of several special places I've discovered in this climb.

From Co-ong to the second camp site, Lake Venado, was a four-hour climb on lovely but difficult terrain. One thing I regretted in this climb is the necessity of keeping up with a schedule, robbing me of the chance to genuinely appreciate the beauty of the trails. The pace of organized climbs is dictated by plain economics: The longer a climb, the more expensive it becomes and, consequently, less money for its organizers. When I go back to Mt. Apo and its trails, I'll go alone, with only a guide to show me the way. I can then proceed at my own pace, take my sweet time to gaze at and absorb each beautiful thing along the way. I won't be out there to break records anyway, and even if there were any left to break, I know I'm not the person with enough character to do it. I'm no mover or shaker. Never been one. I've always been content to be just one of Life's bystanders. One time I even dreamt of my own bystander ghost looking at my own bystander body in a casket, in my funeral wake, watching the proceedings of people coming and going, and milling about, talking about and discussing a multitude of things, most probably trying to decide in their honest selves whether I'm someone to be missed or not, whether what they knew or heard about me were true or not, whether I accomplished great, meaningful things, or only mediocre and trivial ones. As a committed bystander, I'm able to answer that last question with certainty and resolve, a departure from my life full of vacillations.

The trail to Venado was as steep as steep can be. There were many instances when I had to crawl on all fours, clinging to big, exposed roots and protruding rocks for dear life, and trying to find suitable footholds. Two of the most memorable (and intimidating) features of this trail are the sheer rock wall, and the 60 to 70-degree wall of loam and loose rock. The former is climbed using two separate bamboo ladders, a shorter one and a much longer one. One starts out on the shorter ladder, and on reaching its end, transfer (very carefully, if I may add) to the longer one. I can't seem to recall now how they were fastened to the wall. They looked to me like the bamboo scaffolding used in putting the finishing touches on Hong Kong skyscrapers. This appearance I didn't find confidence-instilling at all. I went to the extent of asking one of our guides if there was another trail, another way that skirts this impossible wall. There was none, he answered. Being literally pushed to a wall, or being cornered, is something I've spent a great part of my life avoiding, but facing that wall made clear only two choices: Give up and turn back, or proceed. I decided on the latter. On reaching the end of the ladder, I was, more or less, expecting some measure of relief by way of a flat surface, but I discovered instead a very steep, narrow, slippery trail, that went on for another 60 meters or more, and flanked on the right by a deep ravine, its frightening chasm only partially obscured by sparse vegetation. The chasm motivated me to proceed quickly, on all fours, clawing and burying my gloved fingers in the earth for a good hold.

The latter, the other prominent feature, is climbed by holding on to a thick rope of abaca twine, using both hands and all the might and prayer you can muster. Here, you come face to face (and I mean literally) with a wall of slippery and mushy loam, with a smattering of protruding rocks that offer sparse foothold. One instruction (more of a warning, I now think) that stood out from all the rest, and specific to both bamboo ladders and rope, was, "You may let go of anything except the ladders and the rope!" Letting go meant serious injury or death.

The Second Camp Site

Lake Venado was a most wonderful surprise, like a pricey present in unassuming gift wrapping. It struck me with more than sufficient awe to forget the difficult climb in excess of four hours. It came without warning. The trail ended abruptly in a blindingly bright clearing, a high-altitude plain I estimated to be two square kilometers, more or less. On coming out of the trail, I came face to face with what looked like a rice field, but was actually marshland with tall grass. At the height of the rainy season, so we were told, Lake Venado extends it waters and banks, and fills maybe a third of the plain. At this time, though, the lake was confined to just one corner, flanked along one of its sides by a mysterious-looking forest. There's nothing really mysterious about it, I'm sure, but my imagination just runs wild from a concoction of similar scenes from movies, books, magazines, and even calendars. One of the guides said that when one is lucky, a deer can be spotted drinking from the lake's bank. It wasn't our lucky day. But one of the two porters sent to "rescue" us on the first day of the climb, told me he was startled by a deer unexpectedly illuminated by the beam of his head lamp. I was quite sure, I told him, that the deer was more startled than he was. "Venado," by the way, is actually Spanish for "deer," and it was given this name because of its shape.

Several hundred meters from the lake was our second camp site. It was sunny when we got there and we took advantage of it by unpacking wet clothes and stuff and hanging them to dry. We also rested and prepped ourselves for the climb to the summit, loading up on drinking water and trail food, and listening to instructions and reminders from our guides. Spirits were high in spite of the fact that we just came from a climb lasting over four hours.

An Aborted Summit

We then started out for the summit. I now wish we were not beating deadlines, like flight schedules, hotel bookings, transport schedules, and the like. We could have taken in more of the experience. We should have stayed the rest of the day on that magnificent plain, and went for the summit dawn of the following day, so that we could've hoped and waited for the sun to slowly peer through clouds, touch our lives, and renew our spirits. But we didn't have such luxury. We raced against the organized climb dragging on and becoming unprofitable, of expenses piling up. My buffer was good for only a day at most. On simple analysis, I've come to the rather bleak conclusion that for the multitude who live in man-made, concrete jungles, with manicured grass in perfect linear order, and plastic-looking palm trees, the enjoyment of natural, God-given beauty is rather expensive and often unaffordable. If the locals only knew and appreciated what they have, then they would not have looked at us as well-heeled, well-equipped city slickers, but rather as rabid, unfortunate, misshapen, envious denizens of oversized ghettos. Then they would've treated us differently. They would've snickered at us with loathing, disgust, and suspicion, as potential grabbers of their beautiful piece of earth.

The trail up the summit was through a forest, a kind of gateway to wonderful, sought-after things. Its canopy only grudgingly allowed some sunlight through, resulting in a soothing, damp coolness. It was quite muddy, too, but by this time I was so used to mud and having muddy shoes, socks, and feet, that I didn't make any effort to skirt mud pools. The only thing that worried me was having muddied shoes and stepping on moss-covered rocks and exposed tree roots. Slippery as cooking oil on a Teflon-coated pan.

On exiting this forest, the final trail to the summit presented itself as one, long, continuous, steep incline. It didn't have even just one or two pauses of flat stretches. You breathed frantically, initially out of excitement, then later out of exhaustion, with relief expected only at the summit itself, if ever.

Many of my dreams have been at the mercy of nature, circumstances, men, and my own limitations. The mountain was fickle, and was able to command the clouds to hug it tightly, to pummel the slope with rain and wind, to instill fear and doubt, and a certain forgetfulness of purpose. The terrible elements turned my bravado into a love for dear life. It metamorphosed into a fear of wounds and injuries. Before I even became fully conscious of it, I decided against the suicidal, foolhardy, and impractical. I decided to give up my dream. Next time, if ever it will come, I will forge ahead no matter what.

Benjie's Vacation Place

Instead of on Mt. Apo's summit, as I originally planned, and as Benjie would've probably wanted, I scattered my share of his ashes on the waters and one of the banks of Lake Venado. It's prime real estate not even the richest could buy. It's not for sale. At least for now. Benjie has become one with the lake, and he's surrounded by some of the most magnificent views for up to when they'll last. It's safe to say at this point that they'll last for a very long time. It'll probably be so long that he'll grow tired of them, and move back to the underwater panorama of the Pacific, where the bulk of his ashes are by now, carried by currents from its starting point somewhere off the Monterey coast in California. Of course, I know all these are merely symbolic. It is our nature to append the relics and rites of our mortality to the afterlife, to offer a semblance of continuity to something we really know nothing of. Even with the sum total of human knowledge, we really don't know what transpires after the heart does its final beat, or after we take our final breath. Benjie might be living out one of my wishes when I, too, pass on: To be in places I've never been in this life, and in places where no man has ever been, to distant worlds and dimensions Man may never reach. The view from the lake may turn out to be mundane after all. But offering it to you was heartfelt, my dear brother, and I know you've always been partial for small, simple, and wonderful things.

A Mothers' Day Poem

I so miss my Mom,
she no longer is here;
she has moved on to Heaven,
to a special place reserved
just for moms like her.
I so miss her love, her warmth,
and all the other nice and lovely things
moms are made of and for; I could go on and
on and run out of space and time.
I made you cards about these,
and I'm sure they're with stuff you left
behind; your crude, ugly treasures from me.
You so loved movies! And I was your
movie partner from the time I could
walk and talk, probably. But I do have
the same craving sometimes.
If I had known that was the last time
we could've gone to a movie together,
then I would've said Yes! without batting
an eye. But I was busy, I said, and there
would be another, more opportune time.
There never was.
And like all other regrets I simply can't let go,
I have to live with this one for the rest of
my life.
I suppose I'll make it up to you, Mom,
if I'm lucky enough to end up in Heaven, too.

Time Machine

I believe I've already mentioned that I look forward to taking afternoon naps on the floor whenever I can, on those rare weekends when I have some do-nothing time. In between wakefulness and slumber, that brief link between life and death, I'm transported back in time, to very random scenes and moments in my life. Most of them are from my childhood, among the happiest times in my life, when innocence reigned supreme, and life's cares were non-existent. Some from my youth, to the primordial stirrings of my soul, when the future lay before me, and everything seemed ripe for the taking. None, it seems, come from recent events. Maybe memories have to be a certain old to qualify. The scenes and events are not made up, as in a dream, but real ones played back in random. They're all very lucid, their smells, tastes, and sounds, all within my senses' grasp.


I can smell our sweaty bodies, as Benjie and I wrestled on the lush grass in Mom's well-tended garden, and with a thunderstorm at summer's end, the wild, raw scent of the first raindrops meeting hot, parched earth and vegetation. At times I feel the anticipation of family gatherings; outings, too; and not to forget my homesickness on each first school day after either the summer or Christmas vacation.

I smell the wonderful aromas in the air-conditioned dining room of Panciteria Moderna, which used to be a landmark in Sta. Cruz, Manila, but now sadly defunct, as we waited for our order to arrive; and hear the wonderful cacophony of plates, spoons, forks, and those petite bowls used for sauces and soups, as they are brought out from the kitchen and rapidly put down and arranged on our table. As we were a big family, we always chose a big, round table with a lazy susan, which us children would often turn into some kind of game show roulette, with disastrous results for the condiment bottles and the linen.


I feel the thrill of reading my very first "love" letter, the culmination of months of pleading with her to acknowledge, no matter how even grudgingly, receipt of my missives. I kept that one in a secret place and read it furtively each night before going to bed, savoring every word and punctuation, even analyzing the strokes and pen lifts, trying to discover any hint of reciprocal desire. It was pretty straightforward, almost business-like, but then in some parts it held mystery and promise. I clung to those for a while. She wrote very well even at our young age, and perhaps she went on to keep the world captive by her magical, mysterious, teasing words.


I don't know exactly how it happens, this time traveling. Could be from too much sentimentality. At my age, it feels like an indispensable accessory, like what goes well with clothes or gadgets. It goes well with someone who has come to grips with life's finiteness. Or it could be from something with a more scientific basis. When I nap on the floor, I lie on either side, using both arms as a kind of pillow. I contort my arms to support my head, and in the process possibly restrict blood flow to my brain. Consequently, my brain may think I'm on the verge of death, and scenes of my life flash before me. Is any other explanation plausible?


It's no surprise then, that I've become sort of addicted to napping on the floor. This isn't saying that time travel is my sole motivation. Napping has its own merits and attraction. I have to admit that I do it not only during my do-nothing time, but also during my I-pretend-I-have-nothing-more-to-do time. Sometimes I think procrastination is just so sweet. Maybe it keeps me sane. It also probably keeps my dreams beautiful. Dreams are wonderful as they are, so detached from reality, so innocent, so promising. They have nothing to do with what we can or cannot, may or may not, accomplish. They lead their own lives, have their own personalities. Putting off things preserves their status quo. Trying to make dreams come true essentially ruins them at times. From a pure, unadulterated state, they now pass on to the realm of materialistic endeavor, of greed and selfishness. They become plain objectives, the stuff of temporal pursuits, sorely lacking the nobleness of their original form. Dreams should be left to themselves, to wander aimlessly as they please, to inspire us if we want them to, or sow discontent and rouse us from lethargy, or make us feel belittled for our lifetimes. Dreams are their own intricate beings.

In Disguise

I attended the 5th grade, school year 1970-71, as a new student at Saint Andrew's School in Parañaque, then only a sleepy coastal town, now a full-pledged city. Earlier that year, in January, the family moved from Makati, into its own home in Las Piñas, Parañaque's neighbor. My brother Benjie and I had to finish the remainder of school year 1969-70 at Paco Catholic School in Manila. For more than two months, Dad drove us from Las Piñas to Paco each morning before going to work, and then collected us at midday to take us home. Mom's hot lunches always awaited us. Dad then went back to work after lunch. He didn't have a desk job, but was in selling and so was often on the road. It did the trick. Someone with a desk job would have been immediately fired for tardiness and extra long lunch breaks on a daily basis. Traffic jams were unheard of at the time, and the first global oil crisis was still some three years away. From our house to Makati took a mere 30 minutes; now it takes over an hour under normal traffic conditions, up to 2, 3 or more on a really bad day. Gasoline was something like 14 centavos a liter.

Kids have this remarkable ability to simplify things, and after a brief period of anxiety, Benjie and I became adjusted to our new school. I recall that during the first several weeks of the school year, Dad drove us to Saint Andrew's before going to work; and in the afternoon, Mom, with Brian and Benson in tow, would pick us up in a chartered motorized tricycle. My two younger brothers were 4 and 2, respectively. If I remember correctly, Brian attended kindergarten in the morning at the sole preschool in Philamlife Village, the nascent community we moved into. The chartered trike cost Mom some 10 or 15 pesos round trip. Oftentimes, even when I can clearly remember things, I find it difficult to believe that in the not-too-distant past, money had more value and went farther.

That school year was, for Benjie and myself, novel in many respects. As transferees, we enjoyed a certain stature, although I couldn't say it was all positive. Sometimes I felt that we were outsiders, more than anything else. But we made new friends, and had to let go of old ones from our former school. We simply had no other choice. We lived quite far away from our old neighborhood now, those ties had to be severed. Friendships sometimes have the appearance of being deep and lasting, but in truth are only maintained by the magic of convenience. Take the convenience away, and most friendships simply are not there.

There were three school buses, owned by a family in Las Piñas, that served the then still sparse number of students in the subdivision. They were referred to by their colors: The blue, orange, and red buses. Students who attended Saint Andrew's or Saint Paul, both in Parañaque, were transported by the blue and orange buses. Benjie and I rode on the orange bus, finally freeing Dad and Mom from the inconvenience of driving us to and picking us up from school. There were those who attended Saint Joseph's in Las Piñas, served by the red bus. On occasion, when a bus had mechanical problems, the other two buses covered for it. Saint Andrew's was then a boys' school; Saint Paul, one for girls; and Saint Joseph's was co-ed. Although both managed by the same religious congregation at the time, the standing joke was that if you flunked Saint Andrew's, you transferred to Saint Joseph's, and if you still flunked Saint Joseph's, then you ended up in a public school. At my age now, I consider this view as despicably elitist, but at the time, I have to admit, I relished being part of a somewhat exclusive academic group, although my performance was far from being "academic" at times and, if not for good fortune and proper timing, I would have been swiftly and appropriately dispatched to a public school.

As in most other Catholic schools of my time, Saint Andrew's had only one campus janitor, who was in charge of tidying up the premises. We boys called him "Mang Johnny," the two syllables of this first name pronounced very much like the first two syllables in "janitor." Looking back, I think calling him "Johnny" was rather cruel. I believe good and righteous conduct is mostly lost in the majority of the very young, and as they themselves become exposed to the cruelty of others, they can become anti-social and fight back, giving rise to the discovery of violence and intimidation as tools to use when dealing with others; or they can become meek, submissive, and afraid, resorting to using kindness and good manners to avoid conflict. This is why the facade of civilized behavior easily crumbles in the face of a breakdown of society, and it becomes each man to his own.

Mang Johnny, although robust for his age of I estimated to be sixty-something, wasn't expected to include the individual classrooms in his daily cleaning routines. The school then resorted to using its students for keeping all classrooms spic and span. As was usual, students in a classroom were seated in rows of about six pairs per row, with some four rows in a class. Each row was assigned a school week's worth of classroom cleaning duties, done in the afternoon, at the close of the school day: Sweeping the floor, dusting the chairs, cleaning the blackboard, emptying the trash bins, and waxing the floors on the final day of the school week, Friday.

It was during the second or third month of my fifth grade when my little "misfortune" happened. It was our row's turn to be class cleaners, and I assumed that our orange bus would wait for me. I assumed incorrectly. But Benjie was able to board it home, and young as he was back then, wasn't unduly alarmed by my absence. I was big brother, and was supposed to be looking after him, not the other way around. Having completed my tasks as a class cleaner, I hurriedly went out of the campus, and outside to the parking lot where the orange bus parked to wait for its passengers. It was nowhere to be seen. I remember shrugging the incident off as a minor misfortune, and placing great trust in the "emergency money" in my safekeeping. While Benjie and I didn't have any real need for spending money, as we daily had home-made sandwiches and complete lunches we brought to school, Mom made sure we had money for unforeseen and unexpected expenses, like buying school supplies, materials for projects, and fare money for situations exactly like this one I found myself in. Oftentimes, too, Benjie and I used part of the money to buy ourselves treats, like ice cream during lunch break, or pork rinds dipped in spicy vinegar. Mom regularly audited the fund and replenished it as necessary.

On discovering that the orange bus had left without me, I then crossed over to the other side of the road fronting the school and waited for a passenger jeepney. Then it dawned on me to check my wallet. It wasn't there. Not in the back pocket of my uniform trousers, nor in my school bag, or along my retraced paths. I can recall my rather calm and resigned decision to walk all the way home from school. I learned early on that, when faced with intimidating prospects, the best thing to do is to take the most logical path available, and simply hope for the best. And so I made myself ready for my hapless journey. I was packing a big, black, rigid wall school bag with a shoulder strap on which Mom sewed a length of soft cotton cloth to cushion my shoulders against the bag's punishing weight. She must have taken pity on my frail, sickly-looking frame. I don't know why most schools, then and now, find sadistic pleasure in requiring students to bring all their books, notebooks, and other school paraphernalia each day. I also had my tin Wild, Wild West lunchbox complete with an Aladdin thermos bottle, which I've recently discovered to be a collectible item today. This provides me with another glimpse into the difference between ordinary objects and people: With age, the former become prized and collectible; the latter, discardable. Finally, I had a thick, blue, hardbound dictionary, which I took with me to school that day for my Reading subject. I still have this dictionary at home; old, yellowed, and beat-up, missing its front cover and some pages, always a reminder for me of the lessons from this experience.

Thunderstorm

I knew then that I should walk on the side of the road facing traffic, and so I started out on the left side. But after some time I felt that the sight of oncoming vehicles somewhat slowed me down, and so I moved to the right side, and stayed on this side for the entirety of my journey. I focused on the task of walking, with only little concern for my safety, as traffic whizzed past me from behind. Was I totally careless at the time, or was I hopeful and trusting that some unseen power was at work, keeping me safe? It could be that sometimes faith disguises itself as some kind of a death wish.

I was totally alright the first several minutes and probably five hundred meters of walking, and then my loads felt progressively heavy. My school bag's strap, slung on my right shoulder, felt like it was gnawing at my bone and flesh. I countered part of the weight by occasionally lifting the bag using my right arm, and by tilting my body forward and to the left. My left hand clutched my tin lunchbox, and partly, the bound side of the dictionary; with the rest of my arm pressing the dictionary against my body. I wasn't heavy-set as a young boy; in fact, I was thin, frail, and sickly, and I must have been a strange spectacle for motorists and pedestrians alike, the boy with the heavy loads, walking from and to they knew not where.

Just as I was approaching Kabihasnan, La Huerta's neighboring barangay, a thunderstorm came to pass. I was caught out in the open and was drenched. I found shelter in an overhang of a gated private compound, the Guevarra Compound, if I recall correctly. The heavy downpour lasted close to half an hour, and it gave me the opportunity to put my loads down and recover. It was then I discovered that my white shirt uniform had been stained blue by my dictionary's cover. I remembered my little mishap of an adventure each time I wore that stained shirt the remainder of the school year, although the stain was considerably minimized by Mom's laundry skills.

While waiting out the thunderstorm, I dwelt on a lot of things; like what got me in that situation in the first place. If I had been more careful with my wallet, then I would have been home safe and sound and well-fed, having feasted on toasts spread with State Fair margarine, and a glass of cold milk, which were Mom's, I would say, traditional school day afternoon snack. But blaming myself, coupled with a lot of ifs, were the order of the day at the onset. After a while, though, I realized they got me nowhere nearer my destination. I didn't resort to self-pity either, although I remember an occasion when I did: I got a very serious and harsh scolding by Dad on my 10th or 11th birthday, and I simply cried myself to sleep. But that is another story altogether.

On the Outside Looking In (Passing By Reynaldo Suliguin's Home)


After the thunderstorm, it was time to continue my journey home. My clothes and loads were wet, and I felt a bit cold. It wasn't an ordinary kind of cold, but something of aloneness. It has left an imprint in my memory, and each time I find myself alone against intimidating odds, with little or no help from anyone, and the gloomiest of prospects, I feel exactly the same way. I marvel at the way memories are roused by certain stimuli.

Rey Suliguin was one of my first acquaintances in the new school. I remember him as a likeable, curious, and helpful fellow, always on the ready to answer my inquiries. It probably helped that his family name always preceded mine in the class roll call. Suliguin. Present! Sulit. Present! When I passed by their home, the middle unit in a row of apartments which they owned, along the national road, almost fronting the Saulog Bus terminal, whose drivers gained notoriety from their reckless driving, he was watching cartoons with his siblings. I recognized his voice. I momentarily slowed down, and thought that I, too, should have been home that same instant, watching cartoons or having a conversation with Mom on the day's events. It also occurred to me to knock on the Suliguins' door and borrow fare money, but I didn't. Instead, I picked up my pace and continued on my way home. Early on, I was proud, and have always wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible. I can be gone a long time, and most people will hardly notice. Which is quite good, if you ask me.

From the Suliguin home I pressed on. It was getting dark and I wondered if I could be home in time for dinner. Sometimes the way to make sense of the world is through pure simplicity. Dinner instead of possibly getting hit by a car and dying on the roadside. Or perhaps I was shortsighted, as I am now, focused on the mundane, delving a lot on the past, and resigned to the future.

Haven

My strength was now ebbing fast, and I needed to rest more often. I rested by stopping for a few seconds, and putting down my loads. My right shoulder and both arms felt abused and sore. As I neared St. Joseph's School, it was almost dark, and the headlamps of cars from behind made me cast a long, graceful shadow on the road in front of me. At times it amused me momentarily, taking my mind off my burdens.

St. Joseph's was by now a dark, empty campus. I could see the faint light from inside its famous church, most probably from altar lighting; the daily evening Mass was now over. I then felt I had to rest, not just awhile, for the final push homeward. I found myself a somewhat cozy nook, the concrete steps leading to a small bank or medical clinic, sheltered by an overhang. I put down my loads and sat. An immense sense of relief coursed through my body.

Various thoughts also coursed through my mind. Funny now, but I think I was feeling more inconvenienced than afraid. I missed my bus, my afternoon snack, and my cartoons. What was for dinner? I wondered. And was Dad already home? How could he have missed me if he had taken the same route? Or maybe he took another? After more than an hour (or was it two?) I knew I had to leave the safety and comfort of that sheltered spot.

I stood up, lifted my loads, and resumed walking. I felt a bit replenished. But after a hundred meters or so, my loads weighed me down again. I was simply tired; and now I felt thirst and hunger. My tin lunchbox rattled, a sign that it was empty. I met people along the way but I didn't matter to them, or they, to me. They most likely lived nearby, out on an errand or something. Occasionally, I smelled food frying, and heard people's voices from inside their homes. One very peculiar thing here and elsewhere is houses very close to the road. It is as if the houses came first, and they had to cut a swath in them to build the road. Talk about maximizing space, but I believe it doesn't provide very well for privacy.

Salt Beds


I finally was near to rounding up that bend that I considered as a landmark in Las Piñas. South-bound, as one was about to round that bend heading left, there was a longish town plaza on the right, with a concrete stage, where special town presentations, contests, and the like were held; and this area became alive and colorful at the approach of the Christmas season because it was where "parols" or star lanterns were sold. I'm not sure if this still is the case nowadays, as it has been decades since I last set foot on this place. As I reminisce all these, I actually have the urge to one day retrace my steps in this unusual, once-in-a-lifetime journey, to look for all the landmarks that are still there, or to discover what had replaced them. I hope I can devote time to this endeavor before it's time for me to go.

Rounding up the bend, I came upon two of the largest salt beds at the time, to my left and right, and which helped put the then town of Las Piñas on the national map and consciousness. This stretch of road was dark and unlit, with the next lamp post not until the historic bridge spanning the Zapote River, where a public elementary school could be seen on the right, just before the bridge's approach.

Traversing this lonely stretch presented me with a panorama straight out of a wary dream or a feverish hallucination. There were momentary lightning flashes, probably remnants of the thunderstorm earlier, or another storm brewing. The flashes illumined the salt beds in a weak, ghostly light, and gave rise to a landscape quite difficult to describe, but added to the loneliness of a weary traveler. Occasionally, the headlamps from an oncoming car, or one coming up from behind would pierce the loneliness with artificial light. I must have appeared as a young boy with a purpose, trying to discover something in that dark, lonely stretch of road, rather than someone who needed help. If I remember correctly, there were merely two motorists who pulled over and asked me if I needed a ride home. To both of them, I said no, and on that day I knew why I did so. Most of us are always on the lookout for once-in-a-lifetime adventures and opportunities, and I must have found one of mine that day.

I finally reached the bridge, and the street lights now resumed at more or less regular intervals. Street lighting at the time was either whitish or bluish, and certainly pale and weak, so very unlike the strong, amber, all-weather ones nowadays. Today's street lighting bathes areas with a kind of warmth that helps dispel depression; yesteryear's made things look a bit more desolate, sickly, and surreal, if not already so. But they made surroundings look rural, and went very well with strong breezes and the rustling of leaves. I crossed the bridge over to the other side. It wasn't a very long bridge, but it was a kind of milestone for me, a marker for the succeeding phase of my journey.

Unforgettable Kindness

I was now effectively in Pulanglupa town, and by this time I was way past my threshold of pain. My shoulder was sore, bruised even, from lugging my heavy school bag, but I felt it as the smallest wound, worthy of only brief attention and concern. One learns to lick his wounds and live with them. Life is so far from perfection. We always have something we worry and complain about, something we want but cannot obtain, or we could've but passed up. Like my heavy school bag, we always lug them around, bruising our souls and our egos. It is not to say that we should forget lessons learned but, on occasion, we should put them down and obtain some measure of relief.

Pulanglupa was another town that devoted substantial acreage to salt beds. I'm assuming that most of them, if not all, are gone now, having given way to unstoppable development. I will find out when I retrace this journey one of these days. It was also home to Sarao Motors, the first and original producer of the Filipino icon both loved and hated, and used each day, the jeepney. Sarao Motors is now effectively defunct, falling victim to the harsh realities of doing business. It began losing steam when its founder passed away. All good and great things come to pass. No exceptions.

Southbound, Sarao Motors is on the right, flanked by salt beds on its left and right. But before you passed those salt beds, you came across Naga Road on the left. In later years I discovered, on my bicycle, that this road linked to one of the largest residential development back then, the Manuela Subdivision, which actually was almost a next-door neighbor to Philamlife Village. I loved biking along this road, which I considered a circuitous shortcut between two towns, Pulanglupa and Pamplona.

I passed Sarao Motors and its dimly-lit jeepney showroom, and wondered when my long and difficult journey home would culminate. I, of course, knew it would, I just didn't know when or how. It was faith, I think, or plain obstinacy. The distinction between these two is sometimes a blur. I was more like slogging now because of exhaustion. I could hardly make out the outlines of the salt beds on my right because this stretch was unlit, save for the faint light from one or two lamp posts on the other side.

Then it happened. He came out of nowhere, or so I thought; a dark-skinned, nondescript man driving a run-down, smoky, two-stroke tricycle. He was northbound, at breakneck speed for a trike; I was heading in the opposite direction, on the other side, homeward-bound. I could tell he was also on his way home, probably from making a living the whole day, or from an errand. He was perhaps looking forward to resting his tired bones, as I was. I dismissed him, in the same manner I dismiss those who or which I think cannot be of any help or significance to me. At an early age, I had all the makings of a politician but, unfortunately, I failed to capitalize on it. If I did, then I would have become rich, famous, and despicable. I pressed on, dinner and bed in mind to keep me motivated. We each should have something to inspire us in the drudgery of existence, be it grand or trivial; something to pine for or hold on to, something to help pull us through, if not wholly, then at least partially.

The man who looked mediocre and insignificant did something I totally didn't expect. I never flagged him down or anything, nor looked beseechingly in his direction. I was way past the halfway mark now, and was bent on getting home through walking the rest of the way, in whatever conditions prevailed and with nary a care for whichever obstacles remained. He slowed down, then stopped and asked me in a yell if I needed a ride home. I wasn't surprised that I said yes. I was plain exhausted. From across the road, he maneuvered to my side, and after mumbling my destination, I got in the trike.

Notwithstanding its dilapidated condition, the trike felt like the most comfortable of them all. The seat, with its cheap and lumpy upholstery, felt luxurious. The clickety-clack of the two-stroke became rhythmic, sweet, and soporific. I fought with my best the desire to just let everything go and fall asleep, so that I could continue giving directions to the man. I wondered what he thought; or my predicament could have been quite obvious and no questions needed to be asked. It was tacit understanding. I trusted the man, but he was a total stranger. Or was he? He lent an aura of confidence to the manner he drove his trike, and of kindness to that very act of taking me home. Inside the trike it felt like a safe haven, with the flapping of those transparent plastic tarps to keep out rain, and road imperfections and bumps, all conniving to produce an almost hypnotic kind of regularity.

When the man finally got me home, I found it abuzz and ready to spring into action. The lights outside were lit, and at the first sound of the trike's motor, and the first clang of the steel gate's handle, the front door flew open, and out rushed Dad and Mom. I found out that they were all set to launch some kind of a search party to locate me, possibly involving the local police, if the need arose. I matter-of-factly told them that I missed the school bus and lost my wallet with all the emergency money in it. Attention centered on me, naturally, and the man was almost completely forgotten. Mom mistakenly assumed that I rode on the man's tricycle only from the village entrance up to our home, and so paid the man 50 centavos, the fare for the distance. I was too exhausted to rectify Mom's mistake, so that she could pay the man what was rightfully due him.

The man never complained or explained. He accepted the fare and thanked Mom. Never saw him again after that. Never thanked him for his kind and generous heart. If he had a wife, then I was quite sure he loved her dearly. If he had children, then I knew they were brought up well, steeped in character and dignity. I was a total stranger, and he was concerned that I got home safe and sound. He could have chosen to ignore my plight. I could have died that night; it was rather very late, the roads slippery from the drizzle of another impending downpour, and dark from poor lighting. A frail, little boy walking on the wrong side of the road, exhausted and wobbly from his heavy loads, could easily have been missed by a motorist, impatient and speeding towards his destination.

I am probably fated to live to a ripe, old age (Not too old, I hope.), as there have been several instances of "near misses" in my childhood. As an infant I was very sickly, and I remember Mom told me that whatever miniscule savings they had went to my medical expenses. She said that there was even a time when I got so sick, and my doctor told them that if I did not regain consciousness within a particular night then I certainly would be dead by morning the next day. Dad and Mom kept vigil, and I woke up and cried in the morning's wee hours, and went on to fully recover. I also can still very clearly recall two occasions (the first one when I was about 4, the second one when I was between 5 and 6) when I ran after some coins I accidentally dropped and they rolled and stopped right in the middle of the street, and as I stooped to pick them up, I heard the screeching of tires and, looking up, saw, on both occasions, the bumper and grille of a car, and heard the angry and panicked remarks of its driver. These events were portents of what my life would become: A never-ending pursuit of money that could end up as threatening to either life or health, or both. That's a good one, I think.

I was also scratched, bitten, and mauled by an angry monkey. I have an elder cousin on Mom's side of the family, Arthur, and they had this primate caught in the hinterlands of Davao province, and which was being reared as a pet by my grandfather in the town of Marilao in Bulacan province. It was here where I spent the first years of my childhood, and where our family first had a home before I attended any school. The animal had its own loft with a "monkey house," and was secured to the contraption by a chain originally meant as a dog leash. One morning, my cousin and I had nothing better to do other than provoke the primate by poking it with a stick. My cousin actually did the poking as he was tall enough to do it. I enthused over this mischief. I was maybe 4 at the time, but I clearly remember that the monkey hissed, gnarled, and bared its canines. We probably looked at it as an experiment on cause and effect. Poke the monkey and see what happens. Test limits. The primate reached its breaking point, and so did the chain restricting its range. We didn't notice, but when the now rabid monkey quickly went down from its loft, we knew we were in trouble. My cousin then said that we should now run for our lives. He quickly outpaced me since he was bigger and faster. I was left at the monkey's mercy. I outran the rabid animal for a while, and then it caught up with me, and started pawing and nipping at me with fearsome paws and canines. I then let out a panicked shriek, an unearthly cry of grave fear, and Mom heard me. She burst out from the house, and realizing the danger I was in, immediately lifted me with both arms and held me as high as possible. The idea was to keep me away from the rabid primate. But it was crazed with anger now and was focused on taking revenge, and it clambered up Mom, stepping on her shoulders and head, and continued clawing and nipping at me. My grandfather heard my mom's cries for help, and went to our rescue. I think what he did was to hit the monkey hard with a blunt object, and it fell down, semi-unconscious. My grandfather then decided to give the monkey away to the town barber, Mang Itoy, who also gave it away because the rascal got hold of safety matches and almost burned down his home cum barber shop. For several days (or was it weeks?) after that, I had to endure the pain and fear of daily anti-rabies vaccines. I remember trying to hide under tables and inside clothes cabinets to escape the daily shots, but I was always found out. I then daily cried all the way from our house to the municipal health clinic, a good 200 meters away or thereabouts.

There have been countless other mishaps in my life, many of them I consider as near-misses and life threatening. Some were the result of folly, or naivety, or ill fortune; some, of microbes and their attendant illnesses. But I'm still around. I'm possibly plain lucky or durable, or simply destined to last longer than some. But there are times when I think, and believe, that interventions to the possibilities of my early demise were clockwork-perfect and, therefore, unnatural; like things, persons, and situations materialized out of nowhere, sent for my timely rescue. We are all beneficiaries of these what I call "providential rescuers," but most of the time we don't see them as such. We lump them with everything that happens and should happen each day. But on closer analysis, they stand out; they do not belong. Of course, a lot of evil still happen everyday, with no apparent rescue from them. Why are we rescued sometimes, and at certain times, we're not? This, for me, is one of life's mysteries.