First Day of School

I've taken today and tomorrow off so I can accompany my son to his first two days of college life, mainly to make sure that he knows how to take public transportation to school and to go back home, and that he is well on his way to being more or less adequately settled and independent for this new phase in his young life. I see other parents like myself, patiently waiting for their wards, a bit annoyed by the sticky heat and humidity, but smug in the thought that they are around when needed. I think it is like this for mostly every young man and woman in our overprotective family culture.

I remember that well before my own initiation into college life, Mom made sure that I was sufficiently equipped to keep pace with other commuters each day, that I knew my final destinations, and that I took jeepneys with the correct signage on their windshields. She drilled me on these things, with almost military precision, going through the actual paces, the actual trips, so I could be familiar with the terrain. The breaks from training were, of course, our side trips to the movie houses, to indulge in her favorite activity. At times, I wondered if part of her eagerness to train me was because it provided her with the opportunity to indulge in her most favorite of pastimes. She was such a cinephile.

Not that I didn't myself enjoy those "celluloid breaks," because I in fact did. I loved walking with Mom along Escolta and Avenida Rizal; Azcarraga and Carriedo, too. Along the two former was more frequent. The first of the latter two was to go to movie houses like Dilson, Hollywood, Podmon, and to as far as Cinerama, at the corner with Quezon Boulevard. Such was Mom's stamina when it came to movies. She didn't socialize much, I mean, comparing her with the regular Filipino housewife who, I calculate, spends a fourth of their lives gossiping, I would say she lived a hermetic existence. She avoided pointless banter as much as possible, and when she got cornered by our nosy neighbors who literally barged into our home to gossip with her, she would lament at the day's end that she finished with her chores rather late due to someone's unwelcome insistence that they waste time together.

When I was about four or five, walking with Mom along Avenida or Azcarraga or Carriedo was always a treat. They were meccas of commerce, with every imaginable merchandise for sale, and people who hawk them. At times, out of sheer naivete, as we walked I picked up some of those small plastic toy trucks and cars that caught my fancy, or else a bundle of pastillas de leche or pastillas de langka. I truly thought I could do things like those, that the toys and pastillas were there for the taking. They weren't, of course, and the concerned tindera or tindero came running after us to inform Mom of my deed. I usually got a scolding right there and then on the sidewalk, and when Dad got home, Mom made sure he was fully briefed on the event. He was quite sure, though, that I didn't have the makings of a bank robber or a public enemy (or a politician, for that matter), hence, his often nonchalant reaction.

His nonchalance, however, was not to be mistaken for indifference. It was born of confidence, the kind he imparted to us children on our first day of school each year. He (and Mom, if circumstances permitted) would be present each first day of the school year, just to check on how we were doing. It was the kind of presence that saw us through our growing up years, the kind that made us feel that assurance and help were always nearby. Even as we now have our own lives, which may or may not be as what they have envisioned, looking back at their selfless act provides us with some measure of peace and some kind of hope. We feel compelled to pass this on to our own children, with the prayer that when the time comes, they too shall carry on with the "tradition," if I may refer to it as such. We are forever grateful.

Plain Transition

For the last three years or so now, I've welcomed the new year rather somberly, without fanfare or great expectations; dully even, and very tame compared to when I was much, much younger, full of hope, morally-upright, adventurous, and inured to the blows of misfortune. I have neither used fireworks, nor had resolutions or superstitious rituals. They never did work for me. Evil and misfortune have not been driven out of the world where I move. They're always there, like some vital organ or appendage.

There remains this faint prayer, though (more of a wish, actually), that I may have the courage to go through another year, despite the lack of anything major to look forward to; that January to December transpires in a blur, in order that despair will be brief, and will not take hold; and, of course, my regular pleas for the welfare and benefit of some people, including promises of heaven and earth in exchange for great riches. Might be that Heaven has become deaf to my supplications, or merely testing my resolve? If the former, then I'm done for the rest of my miserable life; if the latter, I'm hoping that all my senses are sufficiently intact for me to enjoy the coming of good things.

I do not wish to live to a ripe, old age, if that would mean being even partially reliant on another person to move the short distance between points A and B; or to purchase even the most basic of necessities; or to even be only marginally happy. Not for any of these. In fact, there are times when I feel I've outlived my usefulness, and that I should just sit back and watch life go by, and let everyone live as they please, and things happen as they will. The opinionated in me, however, often wants to take to the forefront of things. I always have something to say about something or someone, some good, some bad; and all of them are just opinions, some based on facts and some, merely on harsh criticisms. They maintain my participation in life's affairs. At other times, I'm totally disinterested in whether good or bad happens, or if anything happens at all.

I feel I've lost my desire for lofty dreams. Could this finally be elusive contentment? But I'm not really happy, though. Resigned would be the more appropriate word. I've much simpler pleasures now, because they are all I could afford. Every now and then I hear about other people's successes, and I always say to myself those could have been my own. I pined, planned, and lived for them! There is always the tinge of envy there, to be honest about it.

Life, I think, is simply too big a mystery I'm ill-equipped to understand and appreciate. Like my own set of eyes, my view of it is rather myopic. Thinking about it, I've not been very good at having foresight or being forward-looking. I'm this reflex and instinct person, and couple this with my being emotional and sentimental, they spell frequent disaster. My life seems to be a collection of one impractical decision after another, of one mistake after the next. I can't seem to get it right the first, second, third, or even fourth times. I may have been born to be this crass. I dream impossible dreams, and fight lost causes. I'm a man from La Mancha.

At night, as soon as everything falls silent, I hear those familiar sounds, the ones from when failures and uncertainty began. They're swishing, swooshing, thumping, droning monotones (chiming ones on Sunday mornings and afternoons), pleasing to an extent, and which can lull me to sleep, but not before causing me loneliness and regret. I've branded them "the sounds of being left behind."

I'm pretty certain my sins of commission and omission are among the reasons behind my crippled fortune. I've done some of the nastiest deeds on the planet, and have failed to do some of the most rightful ones. I've also broken many a mirror, and if the superstition holds some water, combining this with my sins would entitle me to more than a single lifetime of bad luck. My prospects are genuinely dim then.

Last new year's eve my son must have noticed my moroseness, and flatly declared that waiting for the new year wasn't as exciting as in years past, that there were less fireworks, fun, and anticipation. I told him that was rubbish. He is going to start college this year, and that marks no less than another exciting stage in his young life. So there. I've not outlived my usefulness yet after all. Someone still looks up to me for guidance and inspiration. I think now my own folks did the same thing. Our life wasn't easy, but at the time it sure looked like it was. They worked their magic and us kids saw life and the world with eyes of amazement and hope. I can't recall seeing them look defeated; pensive, yes, but never hopeless. I think they understood their roles and our expectations of them. They are a hard act to follow. In my eyes they will always be among the finest of the human race.

And so I must remain steadfast, firm in the midst of alternations of hope and hopelessness, with the latter taking a bigger chunk each time in its cycle, and the former gradually becoming unrecognizable and extinct. I must be firm (or at least appear to be), for the sake of those who still think I can pull them through life's quagmires, the small dedicated few who have nary a clue as to my ineptness and unworthiness. I must be around for them for still quite some time.

I'm aware I'm on a journey, as everyone else is. Long ago, I was awed by a lot of things along the way. It was a natural consequence of experiencing things for the very first time. I thought I would never run out of them, but right now I feel I already have. Or maybe there are still some left, and that they are more hidden now, not readily obvious or apparent, and so I have to look harder. There may still be a few laughs out there. Could be. We'll see.

A Fondness for Watches

I don't care at all for jewelry or the like, as I consider them to be women's domain, although from some of my readings, during the earliest days of recorded tribal history here and in other parts of the world, men fancied jewelry, trinkets, ornaments of precious and semi-precious stones and metals, as much as women did, linking these to their social status, or to skills in hunting or waging war. Over time, on the road to present-day, modern man, the jewelry have been replaced with other things, like fiefdoms, harems, slaves, gadgets, liquid assets, fast and exotic cars, and Cialis-aided sexual conquests. But there are those who still cling to the old norms; or maybe not: They're probably just vain or effeminate, or both.

I must admit, though, that up to the age of 11 or 12, I fancied those hand-made rings of either kamagong hardwood or stainless steel that could be bought from souvenir shops at Mines View Park in Baguio City. I bought them, not for looks, but for functionality. I wore them as I considered them handy in case I had to punch someone in the face, and be able to inflict some considerable degree of pain. No, I was not particularly a troublemaker, but I believed there are certain situations in life when you have to make your point using brawn. But my fancy for rings was rather brief, and from then on it was my desire to inflict pain thru other, more creative, more effective means, like hurtful words and deeds, or indifference, for instance. I realized that inflicting pain through pure muscle produces damage that is sharp but rather short-lived. It heals, like all physical wounds do. But the pain and wound from words that cut, and evil deeds that slice, are like stubborn, gangrenous sores that curse lives for good. My modus of hurting has evolved into something finer and more brutal.

And so in the natural process of growing old (though not necessarily becoming more mature), I progressively outgrew stuff, like clothes, games, toys, friends, ideas, beliefs, desires, and even dreams. But never my fascination with wristwatches. I don't know, but maybe I was born with it; it's in my genes. I am firstborn, and my coming into the world may have caused my parents much excitement. Or anxiety. Either way, they may have glanced at their watches more often than was usual, and (allow me to postulate a theory) this might have rubbed off on me as some sort of fetal imprint. I'm not so sure if this has sound scientific basis, but it is one of Man's passions to find every conceivable explanation for everything. It matters not if it proceeds from a logical premise, or is totally insane; there simply has to be one. It seems almost inescapable. Its lack is deemed as ineptitude, or guilt. We always try to explain ourselves, or to blame others, so long as it answers the question of why.

The very first wristwatch I ever owned was a gold-plated, manually-wound, Swiss-made Lyric Galaxie, with a white dial and leather strap. I got it for my 8th birthday, when I was in the third grade. It was rather smallish, perfect for a boy's wrist. It was also one of life's happiest moments, to finally possess my very own wristwatch, to be able to tell time at a glance, to be one with the watch-wearing crowd. I was among the handful in my class who wore a wristwatch, and it made me very proud. I always looked forward to wearing it, the final and most special part of my dressing ritual. I thought it looked becoming on my thin, pale wrist, complementing my entire being with an air of sophistication. I maybe glanced at the time on my wrist every three minutes or so, or whenever I could, always checking if time was ticking as it should, or if a speck of dust obscured its handsome face. Whichever it was, it wasn't really about doing a time check, but plainly wanting to look at the watch and enjoy its every curve and corner. It was actually an obsession.

The Lyric was hard-earned, the result of a promise and a child's determination. Mom promised that if I could tell the time at a glance she would buy me a wristwatch. It was a challenge difficult to pass up, considering my relationship with wristwatches. I then proceeded to perfect my time-telling skills. The drill consisted of being able to tell time instantaneously, knowing which hour is marked by the small hand, even if it's between two numbers, and which minute is marked by the big hand, without counting by fives, "five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five,..." I was drilled (by Mom and Dad, of course) at random times in the day, and at random locations. What time is it now? The question could have popped up as I awoke very early on a school day, with disheveled hair and morning breath and those "funny things" in my eyes Mom called "morning stars;" or as we prepared to leave for Sunday mass, as Dad backed out of the driveway' or as the priest gave his final blessing, signaling the end of the service, which was (and up to now) my favorite part of a church service. I've always thought that the majority of priests dole out long, boring, irrelevant homilies, and to endure an hour or so of it should be considered an act of penance in itself, thus absolving me of my wrongdoings. This is my opinion, of course, and the priests have their own respective ones, and they are always miles apart from mine. I've long stopped looking up to priests and their homilies as sources of inspiration. A good lot of them fraternize with my most hated animals - politicians and their minions - and generously dispense divine blessings to the rich and powerful, for the express purpose of getting favors in return. From these, their deeds, one can come to the conclusion that society's dregs, the impoverished, have limited or difficult access to the promises of Heaven.

I was resolute in winning my prize, and so did my best to pass the drills which lasted for some several months before my 8th birthday. The promise was fulfilled, and the determination, rewarded. The Lyric was on my wrist for the most part of my waking hours; at school, at home, to church, to kin's homes, on errands to the neighborhood sari-sari store, during family meals, and while struggling with homework. About the only place where I didn't wear it was inside the bathroom, I think. I never forgot who were instrumental in providing me with my new-found joy, and was grateful at every opportunity. Mom didn't have to call me twice to run an errand for her, and I shined Dad's office shoes for free. Benjie and I earned 25 centavos for every pair shined, and this was how we earned some money to buy all those things children like to buy from a sari-sari store.

I remember the time when we were invited for dinner by the Ellises at their home in Dasmariñas Village, along Pasay Road at the corner of Pasong Tamo. Jim Ellis was an American expat and was my dad's colleague. Together with his wife, Marsha, and daughter, Julie, they lived out a quite ordinary life in the Philippines. I thought Julie was cute, with her beautiful, expressive eyes framed by prescription glasses. She was blond, too, and was about my age. And I also thought she had the most magnificent toy, a battery-operated television which could automatically feed and show picture slides! I always looked forward to the family being invited over to the Ellis home, as each invite gave me an opportunity to seek out Julie and her toy TV. Not necessarily always in that order, though. Sometimes it was only the toy TV that mattered, at other times, only Julie. I believe I was at that age when my psyche was trying to strike out a balance between toys and the opposite sex, when it was constantly trying to decide which was more important. When I was courting my wife, that same psyche had fully developed, and neither TV programs nor movies, for that matter, held any sway, if you get my drift. I distinctly recall one time, while at the Ellis dinner table, Marsha asked me about my Lyric and who gave it to me. Not wanting to embarrass myself through an inappropriate response, I stared at the food on my plate, as if trying to look for clues and help in the rice and meat morsels. It took me some seconds to answer the very simple question, and our hosts and my folks probably thought I didn't hear, or that I was too shy. Or plain dumb. I took a glance at my Lyric and declared in grammar-perfect, Paco Catholic School English, "My mother and father gave it to me." Hooray.

The Lyric was my reliable accessory for many years, up to the time I graduated from high school. And when the original strap broke (I was about 12), I replaced it with a wide, brown, leather strap, something that was very fashionable in the early 70's. The two were together for something like two years, and when that strap broke (and went out of fashion), I replaced it with something ordinary and mainstream, something made of nylon. Looking back, the watch was a mute witness to some of our family's happiest moments (and sad and difficult ones, too), and to my awkward transition from young boy to early manhood, including my two episodes of being left behind at school and having to walk home, enabling me to discover hitherto hidden strengths, strengths that probably keep me going despite failures, disappointments, and a never-ending procession of gloomy scenarios.

I went through a succession of watches after my very first one, which I was forced to retire due to its glass case developing a crack and then popping out entirely. Mom's elder sister from Canada, whom she called "Diche," and who is also my godmother, presented me with a Timex watch during one of her homecomings. It was gold-plated, had a squarish case, and was self-winding, a technological upgrade from my Lyric. While it was nice, I was not totally faithful to it. I ached for the latest at the time, the Octo electronic digital LED watch. Its face was totally black, and the time was displayed as red, piercing, pulsating digits when one presses one of the two or three protruding crowns. It was space-age! The watch stores along Avenida Rizal each teemed with inventory of the Octo, square and circular cases, gold-plated and stainless ones, all very expensive and out of reach. I made up for my inability to purchase an Octo by making an almost daily detour to Avenida on my way home from the university, to ogle at Octos behind glass display cases. It's the story of my life, I think; always on the outside looking in, never on the inside.

Other watches came into my life, but I haven't been able to keep them all. One, a Titus Jetpower Super with 77 jewels, given by my maternal grandfather to Dad, and which I acquired through a combination of annoying persistence and creativity (actually a trade for my second Lyric Galaxie, also manually-wound but with a stainless steel case and stainless steel bracelet), burned in the Harrison Plaza fire sometime in the late 70's. I left it with a watch repair shop to have the cracked crystal replaced, but I was never able to get it back. Then in 1979, after Mom and Dad's sortie in the U.K.and the U.S., on a combination business and pleasure trip, Benjie and I were the more-than-happy recipients of Citizen LCD watches, the latest at the time. They were elegant, stainless steel, functional beauties, and we wore and showed them off. They don't make them like those anymore. Even Japanese watchmakers have fallen victim to the outsourcing phenomenon, and the Chinese now make or assemble their watches.

I have a dozen or so watches in my small collection, and I'm quite certain I will reach the end of my allotted time without being able to make it significantly sizeable. My dream watches are simply unattainable. Collecting watches isn't really for someone hampered by a lack of funds, definitely not for someone who has to make hard choices between buying watches and putting food on the table. Or who, if he chooses the former, becomes tormented by guilt for quite some time. But I maintain my attachment to watches, and there's no stopping it. Whenever I chance upon a watch store or a display case of watches, I must stop and take a look. It feels as essential as breathing.

One of my prized watches is a Seiko automatic chronograph, with stainless steel case and bracelet. It was a pasalubong from Dad, during one of his overseas trips. He was often on official travel as part of his job. This was in 1980, and this makes the watch rather vintage. I did some homework and discovered that this watch came out in 1969! The watch still keeps good time, having been serviced sometime in the late 90's by a master horologist in Bacoor, Cavite. I first brought the watch to the official service center, but the technician advised me that they no longer had the needed parts for it, and so he referred me to his mentor, one of the country's foremost watch experts.

Another prized watch is a Rado Diastar, black dial, gold-plated case and bracelet, and with small diamonds for numbers. It was a Christmas present from my wife in 1996. She spent a great deal of money on that watch, and although its price seemed incongruous to our economic stature back then (moreso today), it is a testament to how she will go to great lengths to cater to my every desire and whim. I'm one lucky bastard, for sure. And for sure I don't (and never did) deserve one of this world's most wonderful persons. For the reason that I have a most precious gift, I'm wanting in other things, and have failed in many respects. I've always held the belief that no single person is the recipient of every good thing Life has to offer. For each stroke of good fortune, there has to be a failing or misfortune somewhere. For every stroke of genius, there must be a disability or any other debilitation. It is never perfect. There is no perfection. There is always this gnawing need after the latest acquisition or conquest, and it makes our happiness short-lived, and our life, incomplete. Whenever I pine for something, the waiting and the dreaming are, to me, the most exciting parts of the pursuit. I'm still waiting for something, I know, but what?

I know this fondness for watches will be with me up to how old I'm destined to be, until death swallows me up, turning me into dust, but not my watches. If they take an interest, then my children can have my meager collection, and I hope they find either pleasure or utility, or both, in each of these fine, little, exquisite machines.

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.