Categories
NO RHYME

No Choice

She stands in the middle of the intersection
with no hint of shade for cover.
Her sweaty brow,
her carbon filled lungs ignored
as she makes cars go to and fro.
No time to whine,
no time to wonder
if all is worth the exhaustion
as she inhales the exhaust of the city,
exhales the unheard sighs,
even manages to smile.
He wades in morass
in a little cube of stench.
To worry about bacteria
that an ocean of hand gel cannot squelch
is a rich man’s concern.
To be alive to smell the shit is bliss.
He thinks he’s lucky
for to be working today,
to be called to swim in other people’s crap
is a blessing, an assurance
that today there’ll be food on the table
there’ll be a scrap of cash.
Her father says she’s doing it for the family.
Her mother says she’ll do it anyway for free.
Might as well be paid to open her legs
to men too ugly inside
that they have to pay for it.
Her innocence is worth nothing.
Her honor cannot be eaten.
What use is worrying about a lost childhood?
What point is there in saving her purity
when staying alive is not a guaranteed option?
She just closes her eyes and takes it
as she tells her soul to die silently.
Categories
I FLIP PAGES

Have book, will travel

This was originally published here: http://www.philstar.com/sunday-life/229824/have-book-will-travel  . I won a 5,000 gift card from National Book Store for this. Yay!

Accidentally found the article through Google. I’m posting this now in my blog for the sake of posterity, and maybe also to convince you get a copy, a copy you can wear out as you travel up, down, far, wide, through these beautiful Philippine islands.

Have book. Will travel.


For what seemed like five full seconds I was frozen, suspended in the murky Donsol waters. I was awestruck, immobile, and were it not for the need to keep my snorkel in place, my mouth would have been open in amazement at this magnificent creature gliding in front of me. And then, the moment was gone. The speckled whale shark known for its bashfulness spotted the neon fins, realized it had company, and disappeared into the plankton haze underneath. It was time to heave our bodies back into the boat, which would once more cruise the sea looking for more butandings for us to interact with and marvel at.

Back at the resort I was lamenting the fact that I had no underwater camera to capture what our eyes feasted upon some hours back. Giving me consolation was the book I had in my hands. Lonely Planet Philippines supplied me with a black and white sketch of the whale shark along with some information about its size, habitat, and characteristics. It wasn’t quite as good as a real photograph, but it still helped recreate the image in my mind. This much-treasured book of mine also helped me appreciate the creatures more with its mention that despite their magnitude, whale sharks are gentle, harmless giants.

Later in the trip, that dog-eared, sand-marked, kare-kare-stained paperback would guide us around the sights of Bicol and would help us find a decent place to stay in when we decided to move to another hotel. 

My Lonely Planet Philippines book is my second favorite travel companion. It would be my favorite if only it could drive, carry my luggage, give me shopping money, and cap my vacation days with a back rub the way my husband, a.k.a. number one favorite traveling companion, could. Like him, this book is reliable, entertaining, informative, and can get me out of navigation predicaments. Unlike my husband, it encourages frequent stopovers for scenic breaks and does not complain about my avarice for photo opportunities.

It’s multi-purpose too. In its green waterproof casing, it can function as a pillow when I’m roughing it up and napping on a beach blanket somewhere.

Lonely Planet Philippines
 has taken me through the cobbled streets of Vigan, guided me through a tricycle tour of Tacloban, led my famished stomach to Las Vegas Canteen and Restaurant in Banaue, showed me the way to Pagudpod, gave me a preview of Tagbilaran and Panglao, advised me where to stay the night before the Pahiyas festival, pointed me towards the charming hideaway of Café Kamarikutan in Puerto Princesa, clued me in on Baguio’s Tam-Awan Village, advised me where to find Internet connections in Sorsogon, and directed me towards places where I could buy wicker baskets, burnay pots, and binagol.

Lonely Planet
 represents my two biggest passions–traveling and reading. Yes, these two activities are in opposite extremes in the activity scale. One requires you to stay stationary and lets your eyes do the roving, while the other drives you out of comforts of your couch and gets your body moving from point A to point B, on to point C, and so on. This book bridges that gap between seemingly disparate activities, both of which make my life full and interesting.

Another thing that these two activities have in common is how they facilitate learning. Both expand the mind, open the eyes, and enlarge the soul. Reading transports me to different dimensions, brings me to awareness of my environment, of art, science, cultures, life, love, and lore. In like manner, travel exposes me to diverse cultures, introduces my palette to a gamut of flavors, opens me up to a multitude of experiences, and orients me to infinite possibilities.

The infinite possibilities keep me reaching for my Lonely Planet. I leaf through its pages and let it whet my wanderlust and feed my imagination. It weaves text and images to fill my heart with longing, my feet with the itching desire to leave the city and go as far as I can, and my mind with plans of traveling to places I have yet to visit like Batanes, Siargao, Camiguin, Dumaguete, and the rest of our 7,100 islands.

In the city, the concrete walls, halls, and malls confine me in an oppressive tangle of must-dos, must-haves, must-buys, must-calls, must-meets, and must-submit-budget-report-by-Friday-or-else-I-die. All these I am obliged to do for urban survival and career enhancement.

Lonely Planet’s 504
 pages tell me of places I must see, cuisine I must try, cultures I must encounter, and festivals I must experience not because they are do-or-die obligations. But more like do-and-live-life-to-the-fullest.

Categories
NO RHYME

WYSIWYG




From Wikipedia on WYSIWYG:
The phrase was coined in 1982 by Larry Sinclair, an engineer at Triple I (Information International, Inc.), to express the idea that what the user sees on the screen is what the user gets on the printer while using the “page layout system”, a pre-press typesetting system first shown at ANPS in Las Vegas. The phrase was popularized by a newsletter published by Arlene and Jose Ramos, called WYSIWYG. It was created for the emerging Pre-Press industry going electronic in the late 1970s. After three years of publishing, the newsletter was sold to employees at the Stanford Research Institute in California.

The prhrase “Whay you see is what you get,” from which the acronym derives, was a catchphrase popularized by Flip Wilson’s drag personal “Geraldine” (from Rowan; Martin’s Laugh-in in the late 1960s. Geraldine would often say it to excuse her quirky behavior. 

*end of quote*

And what do you know, my other name is Geraldine. 

Now, tack to the poem.
WYSIWYG

What you see

Is what I am
I won’t pretend to be deep
I won’t cast furtive, sideway glances
To make you think I’m enigmatic
I won’t give you cryptic lines
To show a shadow of something dark
Hidden, lurking behind a half-smile
No. If I try to be perplexing
And pretend to be mystifying
I will laugh at myself
And then I’ll make you a PowerPoint slide
To be sure you get
What I’m really saying
If you call me mysterious
I’ll say you’re full of crap
Figuratively, of course.
Figures of speech, I shun 
Preferring the literal
What you see is
What there is
Yes, I have my dirty secrets
But who doesn’t?
But the Venn diagram
Of what I show outside
And what I am inside
In the well-lit caverns of my psyche
Is a fairly expansive circle
Because my life is one big open book
The spine split wide open
The pages dog-eared and well worn
With nothing much in between the lines
The story of my life is open source
Password not required
Because I can be a whore for attention
Desperate for a reaction
My status even strangers
And their friends of friends know about
What I had for dinner
Snapped and posted
Liked and commented
Shared and quoted
My brain is not a mollusk shell
With meandering paths
And unexplored tunnels
My guts are spilled
For all the world to see
My innards exposed
My heart bared
If anyone cared to look
Every little pang of emotion documented
Every imagined poignancy exploited
You see, I’m in the in the business of sharing
Distributing the little that I know
People pay to learn about the stuff 
I manage to google and stuff inside my
Pretty uncomplicated noggin
I prefer the efficiency of information
Over the enchantment of the unknown
I have no time to be coy
I have no patience for innuendos
Unless they’re the funny, dirty kind
Which you say with an obvious wink wink
That makes me guffaw because I got your joke
I know, I know
I’m boring
But really, the need to be clear
Far outweighs the need to be sublime
Metaphors confuse me
The metaphysical can never trump
The clarity of reality
The ambiguous leaves me confused
Hints flummox my simple mind
Just hit me with the truth any time
And I’ll say thank you for telling it to me bluntly
Yes, that means I’m shallow
Like a saucer
Wide open
Unlocked, ajar
Spreadeagled
Uncovered
Your irony will probably escape me
If you say no, I hear no
If you say you’re hungry
I assume you need food
And not that your soul  
Is famished
Or your spirit ravenous
For some nebulous craving
Look at my face
And you see pretty much the wall behind me
Transparent like cellophane
Predictable like August rain
Symbols my ass
Semiotics—a pain
What you see
Whether you like it or not
Is what you get
So the question is
Why rest from prose
Why poetize
Why deviate from paragraphs
And delve into stanzas
I don’t know
It’s just that sometimes
When I least expect it
A word gurgles out
From somewhere visceral
A bubble of a thought
Refuses to conform to the regular syntax
And the enter button insists
On moving to the next line
Leaving the last one unpunctuated
To form narrow columns
Instead of broad walls of text
I don’t know where they come from
There is rarely rhyme
And even less common—reason
I don’t even know
How to do it right
But who cares
I just write
What feels like poetry
Listening intently
To the uncontrolled sentiments
The unstructured statements
And I relax my silly grammar rules
And let the words flow
Unfenced by patterns
Unhampered by justified margins
And they just pour out
Unbidden
Uninvited
Unhinged
Disorganized
A jumble of misplaced ideas
And molted musings
Spewed out
From a place uncharted
Maybe somewhere
In a body drenched with words
Somewhere in there
Where I’ve never bothered to look
Just maybe
Just maybe
I’m deep after all
Or not  
Categories
NO RHYME

When Walls Talk

Stained, blotched, faded
Silent walls, three decades standing
Now heaving heavy of only memories
Housing emptyness
Covering only remnants of everyday living
The leftover matter
Once considered valuable enough to store
Now discarded
Or just waiting for the next truck to fetch them
Walls sheltering no breathing creatures
Just ghosts and lingering scents
Of food and events and human beings
They stand, lonely, lamenting
Mocking me for moving on
After years of faithful protecting
From rain, heat, and bullets of soldiers rebelling
From a world so harsh and ugly at times
From the glare of the sun and scorching truth
From the stench of the city
From the poverty some call reality
They’ve done their best
To be a fortress, a haven, a default safety
Where masks, bras, and pretensions are removed
Where one puts on a bullet-proof blanket of comfort
How dare I leave now
Where is my loyalty?
But they oblige
They shrug shoulders they don’t have
And give in to the inevitable
They say go, go, move one
We cannot stop you from living
After all, you left a long time ago
When you married that man from the south
And the walls envelop me
Forgiving me for leaving
Trying to hide their weeping
But before you go, they say
Let us talk
And I let them
And they talk of a family too eager to move in
Bringing salt and icons in a home filled with dust
And furniture too few that the house shook
Then filling the house with dreams and plans
And stories, not all of them fun
Filling the home with people, even not their own
With all sorts of things and things and things
And things and toys and books and stuff and things
With love and love and love and love
The walls talk
Of new wave parties in the 80s
Of college buddies hanging, chilling
Of sleepovers too many to count
The corners whisper of sins and secrets
Of stealing daddy’s ciggies to learn how to smoke
Of playing hooky and getting a hicky
Of stealthy kisses
And experimental gropings in the dark
Of growing up and throwing up
Of grounded days and loveless nights
Of love or what we thought was love
The walls snicker remembering
Bad fashion and worse music
Of bawling teenagers thinking
That this is the world ending
Of emo moments and bad hair days
And angst-ridden diary entries
Of children hating parents
Who loved us even when they wanted to strangle us
Of two silly brothers fighting over briefs
Killing each other over nothing
These walls giggle about jokes and pranks
And Ogs’s many emergency room trips
The walls cannot count how many nights
A father waited anxiously
Inspecting rooms, doing a roll call
Praying for the safety of those not yet home
Of losing sleep worrying how the hell
He would find tuition for
These lazy, reluctant students
Who only cared about Saturdays
Whose expensive books remained unopened
Of children oblivious to the love
They speak of a mother always screaming frantically
But just us passionately giving all, loving us loudly

The walls confess of hearing confessions
Of people alone in rooms
Of pains shared in the stillness
When nobody else was listening
The walls sing of hidden joys
Of the smiles one hides
Of hearts being punctured
Egos being bruised
Of brothers and sisters fighting
Not talking, pretending not to care
Of love unspoken
Because it’s uncool to be sweet to your sibling

The walls hush of family secrets
Of pregnant announcements
And embarrassing separations
Of family dysfunctions we thought
Nobody else had
Of dirty linen kept where they should be

Hidden, forgotten
The walls speak of heart-scarring hurts
And gut-wrenching breakthroughs
Graduations, weddings, birthdays
The walls saw the growing up
Of awful kids transforming into awesome adults
The walls remember
Parties, preparing for parties
Dreaming of parties
Parties that went too far
Of drunken people sprawled on the floor
Of cleaning up after the nights of reverie
The walls will miss
The people
People visiting
People overstaying
But more than anyone,
The people who lived, slept, breathed, dreamed, grew, gave, loved in it

And then the walls grow silent

Remembering a sister
For whom this house is just not big enough
To hold the love
To bear the pain of losing her
And maybe that’s why we have to move
Maybe this is where they outlive their use
This is when they say goodbye
One last hug, one last look
To let us move on for fresher air, for new stories
For more graduations, weddings, birthdays
For more love, love, love, and love
They’re just walls
Concrete, immobile walls
But they speak
They witness
They remember
They cry
They confess
They love
They hurt
They die
Those walls did talk
And I am glad I let them
Categories
I FLIP PAGES

I Flipped through E L James’s Fifty Shades Trilogy and (I’m Ashamed to Admit it but) I Liked It

My copy:
Box Set of 3 Trade Paperback 
ISBN: 978-0-345-80404-4
Read: August 25, 2012
Fifty Shades of Grey – 514
Fifty Shades Darker – 532
Fifty Shades Freed – 579
Total Pages: 1,625 pages! Wow! Yeay me!


There is a category of books called “Books You Have to Read Just to Understand What the Hype Is All About.” This is one of them.
For me, this category of books I was suckered to read out of social pressure include the Da Vinci Code (sucked) and Twilight (I have no strong feelings for this book-neither hated, nor loved it). In other words, I usually end up regretting the waste of precious reading time for books from this category.

Now this–Fifty Shades of Grey. I felt pretty sure I wouldn’t like it. First, it’s romance. And I’m not overly fond of them. Seeing shelves of Nora Roberts, Nicholas Sparks, and Jude Deveraux usually makes me turn a different direction. I’m not a book snob–I’ve just been out of the dating slash seeking Mr. Right scene for more than a decade that I can no longer relate to boy meets girl stories. Second, people said the writing is abominable. Third, it is a fan fiction byproduct (which is usually worse than the inspiration) of Twilight. 

And then the book starts with the paragraph about the wayward hair of the character in a voice that sounds whiny and immature. That uneasy feeling of regret (I bought the boxed set!) set in. 

But I gave it a chance and read on. I don’t know at which point the tide changed, but soon I was enjoying it. I mean really enjoying it. No, not (just) because of the dirty parts, but because of the fantasy that is Mr. Christian Grey. Yes, fantasy. Nobody on earth could be that rich, good-looking, and perfect! Well, perfect except for having a really messed up sexual history. The other thing that would classify this as fantasy is the notion that a woman can so quickly and easily change a man–he started changing almost immediately after meeting her. Acting differently and doing things he’s never done before, like staying the night with a woman. 

N.B. I started this post some months back and have forgotten all about it. And tonight, as I was about to write a new post, I discovered this draft. I am trying to bring myself back to the moment when I still had feelings for Mr. Grey, but my poor memory and short attention span have made me move on. And so, I’m struggling to complete this post. 

Anyway, let’s get this over and done with. 

So what I can remember is this–I enjoyed reading it. I have not been reading much this past couple of years. And 2012 was absolutely dismal, embarrassing for somebody who has founded a book club. I have finished none of the books that we discussed last year. Either I could not attend the meeting or I just could not finish the book. But this trilogy–I consumed it voraciously and quickly. It was the first time for a long time that I felt that grip, that hold a book has to make you itchy and antsy to drop whatever it is you’re doing so you can get back to the book. And I completed the trilogy! It is embarrassing to admit that it took a trashy book to wake me up from my reading doldrums. 

So, I’m not going to review the book anymore. There are millions of reviews online. Besides, the feeling’s gone. I’m over Christian.

I’ll just post my comment in one of our book club’s threads. But first, a background for you to understand the following excerpt. I have never heard of 50 Shades until it was suggested in our book club’s Facebook group page. Yes, I was living under some kind of rock called home office, where there are no water coolers to gather round as employees talk about the latest phenomenon. Anyway, it was a read-along, meaning we would read the book on our own, but we should follow a certain schedule. We give our reactions online. And after all that was over, we met for a dinner discussion. Now, here is my post:

I really enjoyed the FSoG reading experience. The poll to select a book and the ridiculous, exasperating result that against Russian classics, we chose the modern day cheese. The community reading aspect of it. The read-along. The online discussions that went beyond the merits and demerits of the book, and got us even to share intimate tidbits. The dinner discussion when everybody came in grey outfits. The fantastic giveaways. The post-discussion lamentations. And now, the planned movie watching activity. Fabulous experience that got me out of my reading rut, albeit temporarily. It’s what book clubs are about. And how the book reading future is not just about technology, not just about high tech, but also about high touch. Loved it.

And really, even if the writing is crappy and the dialogue ridiculous, I have great respect for writers who stand out enough to sell in blockbuster numbers. They keep the industry alive and get non-readers to read.

On the personal level, I am not a romance reader and it surprised (and annoyed) me how much I enjoyed reading it that I could hardly wait for the next chapter, the next book. And as a teacher who has waded through gazillions of student papers that made my eyes droop at the first paragraph, I can recognize that this ability to make the reader keep on reading is a learned skill as well as some kind of voodoo magic gift. Plus the writer being in touch with, or having the same secret desires as her readers.
I’ve been wondering what made this book so appealing to women, specifically British housewives–and it reminded me of a certain research about why women loved watching soap; they watched soap because it’s an escape from the all-so-real reality of their lives–of career work and housework. It’s their pocket of me-time. And it’s their middle finger to a world that wears them out and robs them of their identities and burdens them with responsibilities. It’s actually a feminist act of asserting themselves. I will not go as far as say that FSoG is feminist, but I think the reason why it appealed to women is specifically because a lot of women have bought into this feminist notion. A lot of women are in charge almost all the time–at work and at home, and maybe in bed. And it can get pretty tiring to be always in control. And it has become a fantasy to let somebody else take over and have his wicked way with us. To just sit back and relax and let somebody do all the work.
And Christian Grey is hot!” 



What’s missing in above is how I, like my book club friends, enjoyed the witty email exchange between Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele. 

In summary. Yes, believe all those reviews that say it’s crap. It is crap. But it is very enjoyable crap. 

Categories
NO RHYME

Do you remember the twenty first day of September
When I grew up and the child in me died forever
When my heart broke into tiny gooey pieces that could never be put back again
That now it’s all patched up and cracked, alive but barely recognizable 

On the twenty first day of September
My sister went into coma
Because that stupid tumor just decided to erupt to flood her brain 
And all that gray matter just could not be fixed again

On the twenty first night of September
The floor beneath my feet collapsed
And I crumpled into a kicking, writhing ball of denial
Screaming the truth away, bawling the undignified howl

The days after the twenty first of September
Were engulfed in pain that turned to fear that turned to pain again
That turned into a numbness pretending to be strength
That turned into silence pretending to be peace

Ten days after the twenty first of September
We were one less sister
A million joys poorer
Wondering about the meaning of forever

So here we are
A year after the twenty first day of September
Healing, but not quite there
Better, but never like before

I sigh.
I weep without tears.
I just want this day to be over.
This twenty first day of September.

Categories
ISLANDHOPPER

Bale Dutung – The Anthony Bourdain Menu (July 2011)

My mother in law celebrated her 80th year. And it was a foodfest that went on for days. 

4 days after the sensory overload at Pinto Art Museum, 3 days after the pig out brunch at Legaspi Market, we were off to Angeles, Pampanga for another slow food experience. 

For most of us, this was our second time at Claude Tayag’s Bale Dutung. https://gegesugue.com/2009/07/28/bale-dutung-house-of-good-food-gracious-entertaining-and-art/

After the first one, I swore I’ll never come back. The 5-way lechon feast was a fabulous culinary experience, but that time at Bale Dutung was truly the most stuffed I’ve ever been in my lifetime, and we all know I have a pretty much world-record-able, bottomless esophagus with an amazing capacity for food. I felt then it was possible to die from too much food.

But like a lot of broken promises, when it comes to things that are too good for me, I had to swallow my oath and force myself to participate in this family activity. The sacrifices I make for my loved ones!

This time, with lessons learned, I knew I had to lay off the second servings of the dips and pace myself really well. And it’s either my esophagus got longer, or I got smarter with food pacing, that I felt I just had the right amount of food. Well, right amount being still a thousand times above any daily recommended allowance.

Bale Dutung’s house drinks with iced moscovado; that way the ice does not dilute the sweetness while it melts. 

This time, we had the menu that was served to Anthony Bourdain when he came to visit the Philippines. As such, these are their signature dishes, those that they feel best represent the richness of Philippine culture.

Claude and Mary Ann put a lot of thought into the planning of the menu, programming it to have a transition and build-up of flavors, with each dish more complex and more flavorful than the previous.  It started with the light and refreshing Pako (Fern) Salad, which was followed by the BBQ Paldeut (Chicken tail) with Lemon Grass Marinade served with Crab Fat Rice. 
The menu got heavier when they served the Adobong Pugo (Quail) and more complex when they gave us their version of Sushi, which used local ingredients like Crab Fat, Catfish, and Fermented Sauce.


The menu built up to even more complex, incredibly interesting, and flavorful dishes. Their take on the Lechon (Roasted Pig) is to shred and fry it to a golden crisp then wrap it in a soft tortilla together with varied flavors like kimchi, basil, onions, and salsa. This is a more generous version of the one they sell at Mercato because it’s served buffet style and you’re free to pile up the ingredients. Mine had lots and lots of basil.

By the time they served the Papaitan (Goat Stew), our palates were primed and ready for more exotic flavors.

To me, the most interesting dish was the Bulanglang Kapampangan na may Tiyan ng Bangus, Ulang, Sugpo, at Tadyang na Baboy. (Milkfish belly, crayfish, prawns and spareribs) dipped in a thick, gooey bulanglang soup made of guava. And this is where fine cooking and excellent menu priming can open up your palate to appreciate flavors you won’t normally like. I hate the taste and smell of guava, but I loved this dish. 


The savory segment is capped by the Kare Kare, gorgeous to look at, and incredibly delicious to eat. 

Serving Kare Kare is a tricky thing. Most people consider their family recipes as the best. And the standard for good Kare Kare is high in the Alampay-Sugue family. My mom in law Lydia’s signature Kare Kare is made using traditional methods and is hard to beat by any restaurant version. Bale Dutung’s gorgeous Kare Kare did not try to beat anyone’s family version. This is just a different and utterly delicious take on the dish. The peanut in the sauce is not too finely and evenly ground. This, plus the coconut incorporated into the dish, gave it a very interesting texture. A wonderful climax to the menu’s savory components.

Mary Ann Tayag still sets the bar for being the hostess with the mostest, ever gracious and ever ready to serve and to share fascinating information about Philippine food. 

The experience is again made richer by a peek at their home and the wonderful stories that accompany the viewing.

At the end of our long, satisfying lunch, Mary Ann brought a bilao (native platter) of Tibok-Tibok, something like the maja blanca but uses carabao’s milik, with a birthday candle. 

Mommy blew her birthday candle and wished for a 3rd Bale Dutung visit. And I swear I’m coming with her on that 3rd trip.
Categories
ISLANDHOPPER

Cagayan de Oro and Camiguin in Bullet Points

(Transferred  from Multiply. Original posted June 3, 2008.) 

Finally, I have regained the right to call myself Islandhopper. Went last May to Cagayan de Oro to conduct 3 workshops at the Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas. I decided to reward myself with a 2-day vaycay to Camiguin. No reservations. Armed with little else than my Lonely Planet Philippines guidebook. Here’s the blow by blow of that Cagayan de Oro-Camiguin hopping:


Cagayan de Oro – Day One

  • Arrived at CDO on the first flight out of Manila. Charming provincial airport looking like most provincial airports do. Taking the cab from the queue, I asked before entering if it was a metered taxi. Someone said yes it was. That someone wasn’t the taxi driver though. Captive, whizzing through parochial roads that seem too far from the city and too scary to be stranded in, I had no choice but to negotiate the flat rate from 250 to 230. Woow, power negotiator me.
  • Arrived at Willshire Inn, which is quaint and unpretentious. Yes, those are euphemisms.
  • Napped, then took the jeep (and my husband gasped knowing how I hate taking public transport) to Limketkai Mall to visit uhm… their version of National Book Store, and Japanese Home Store, and Watson’s.
  • Then, while I was browsing through Watson’s I thought how about checking out SM’s version of NBS. Nobody seemed to know how to commute to SM, so I had to take a cab. Gasp! Almost 100 pesos. It’s far from downtown. Yeah, I know why am I malling in CDO? Well, it’s just my way of uhm, acclimatizing to my new environment. Or maybe I have this goal of visiting every SM branch in the country. After all, they’ve got it all for you. Shhh, don’t tell my husband, who’s declared a book-buying moratorium, but I dropped in at the Booksale branch. Not quite the reason my return home luggage was overweight.
  • Lunch at Turkish resto. Review to follow.
  • Cab back to hotel. Unpacked and then took cab to the Eco-Tourism Village. No meter again, 250 pesos.
  • Eco-village is a nice CDO welcome. You take a map of the place and walk long stretches, going through gardens and pathways, replicas of native Mindanao houses, an aviary, and a mini zoo. Built up a sweat running away from an imaginary python. Pictures to follow. 
  • Hotel car service picked me up. Goodbye 200 pesos. But driver was nice enough to bring me to the market to buy a sarong and a couple of local bags.
  • Freshened up at the hotel and had dinner at Manukan/ Jo’s, which has branches here in Metro Manila. When out of town or out of the country, I try to make it a point to dine at restos not available back home. (I don’t get it when people eat at Jollibee’s in Cebu or McDonald’s Davao. Which is not the same as my going to SM, of course.) But since I have not tried Jo’s, this was acceptable. Liked the tapioca dessert.

Let’s Speed This Up

  • This bullet point thing is too slow and detailed so I’m going to just do a time lapse sequence of the rest of the week. First day of training a bummer due to noise of the rallyists outside. Participants were from the different parts of Mindanao Very nice folks. Was afraid I’ll bore them with 5-days straight of training, but they showed so much interest and appreciation. Week ended with a very nice, touching send off from the participants. Great affirmation that training is something I am supposed to do. Within that week, I went back to the Limketkai strip a number of times to sample the local restos, visit the internet café, and have a foot massage at Body and Sole. One night, I had a lovely dinner with an old business relation and had a conversation to refresh the soul.
  • Of course, we had to go shopping for local delicacies – bought pastel from Vjandep and chicharon from Sler’s. Sinfully scrumptious both.


Off to Camiguin in a Tricyle, Bus, Ferry, and a Scooter.  

  • Saturday morning, woke up early to check out and leave for my Camiguin experience. Left my luggage filled with corporate training clothes at the hotel. Downsized to a backpack.
  • I was a bit scared. It wasn’t the first time I’ve traveled alone, but it was the first time I would be going to the beach by myself. And I wasn’t all that confident that the information I got from blogs and from Lonely Planet were still accurate.
  • But I was also excited to be doing something that I’ve never done before and going somewhere I’ve never gone.
  • Waited for a jeep to get me to Agora, which is the bus station. No jeep in sight, so took those long tricycles instead. 20 pesos.
  • Took the Bachelor Bus to Balingoan. Airconditioned. 130 pesos. 1 ½ hours with a stopover breakfast and washroom stop over. At Balingoan, took a sitak (motorized pedicab) for P10 to very nearby port. (Terminal Fee – P2.25) 

  • 1 hour ferry ride to Benoni port (P120) in an overcrowded, rickety, wooden boat. As I was surveying the situation and pondering if the monobloc chair beneath me could float in salt water, I started questioning the wisdom of taking this trip. I was afraid it was going to be the last hour of my life and I texted my husband last goodbyes. He asked what he was supposed to do with all my books, my only valuable possessions.  Isn’t he practical? 
  • Beside me in the monobloc bench was this ownerless black backpack. My seatmate and I looked at it suspiciously, trying to discern a ticking sound, feeling for unusual shapes that looked like a bomb. Oh well, I figured ground zero was the best place to be. At least I get blown to smithereens, and do not have to worry about being cast out into the sea for days and having to eat human flesh.
  • Somebody drew the tarpaulin cover down, blocking the view of the water. A bad place to be for a claustrophobe. It’s a good thing I’m not, but still it made the scary experience even more uncomfortable. I napped to shorten the ride. 
  • Whew. Arrived safely at Benoni. Walked towards the bakery and waited for a jeep as Lonely Planet suggested. Accosted by habal habal (motorcycle) drivers whom I ignored at first. No jeeps came. Figured I was wasting time waiting. I’ve got to carpe diem it, so I negotiated the 100 peso habal habal fee to 80. And that’s how I met Dodong. Dodong, my island boy.
  • The habal habal was a good idea. It was a 500 meter uphill trek from the main road, where the jeep would have dropped me off, to my hotel.
  • Checked in at Enigmata Tree House. Lovely, charming; no, not euphemisms. It’s literally a tree house; 3 levels built around a giant acacia tree. Filled with eclectic art. I was led into this huge room with a spacious ante-room. With a hammock!!! And a lovely, rustic, bed swathed in white, covered by a thinner than muslin mosquito net. Suddenly started missing my honeybabs. Reluctantly left room. Had to seize the day.
  • Commissioned Dodong to drive me around the island to the tourist spots recommended by bloggers.
  • Camiguin is a beautiful island. Astonishingly beautiful. A two-lane concrete road wrapped around the island connecting little side roads. No helmet motorbike riding wasn’t scary at all, since there were very few cars on the roads. Mostly scooters who always gave a courtesy honk when overtaking. The sea was almost always in view. One time the motorbike took a turn and there before me was a vista of green cliffs, mountains, wispy clouds, and the deep blue sea that told me why one word for blue just wasn’t enough, I felt rapturously in love. Life looked so good. What a sublimely romantic moment. It was a good thing Dodong was shorter than me and had really bad teeth or the inevitable could have happened. I could have fallen in love with this island boy. And I would be texting my husband – won’t be back, you can keep the kids.  (We don’t have kids, so don’t look at me like that.)

Tourist Trapped

  • First stop was the Katibawasan Falls. I was surprised that when we stopped the bike, there was a gate to get to the falls. Of course, there was an entrance fee being charged. I was befuddled. I thought going to the waterfall would require a long nature walk. It turns out that in the name of tourism, the falls had been made more accessible, and that meant messing with nature. The walk leading down had been converted to concrete terraces with picnic tables. The falls were beautiful, all cascading 70 meters of it. But as my eyes looked at the pool beneath it, I felt that there was something strange. And that something strange is that the natural lines of the river had been altered and cemented into a round concrete walled pool. The water still flowed out of the pool into a stony river, but I can’t help but be disappointed at the artificial aesthetic of the place. I guess that made the place more accessible to tourists, but I wish they had set a larger setback to preserve the natural terrain. Oh well, I’m no tourism engineer, so maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.
  • I didn’t stay long. Just took a few pictures then exited. Outside the gates, there were a number of huts selling merchandise. I bought a keychain and I tried the kiping smothered in caramel.
  • We then went to the Sunken Cemetery. Then, I wished I were more prepared for the trip. I was really curious to snorkel and check under the water. I also wished I weren’t alone so somebody could take my pictures. Dodong’s picture of me had the cross right above my head. 
  • My island boy and I had lunch at an Italian place. Mostly, I used my time to delete pictures because my memory card was getting full. I observed, though, that the food prices were touristy; quite expensive.

Springbored

  • Dodong then drove us to Ardent Hot Springs. Since it was the height of summer, the place was jampacked with locals. A mass of humanity that would make Malu Fernandez cringe filled the place. And again, man can’t leave nature well enough alone and transformed the place into a place of concrete mazes.

Mini Rant

  • I am all for progress and tourism development. But I think our country has to learn more about nature conversion. I mean, people from the cities flock not to see shrink wrapped versions of what used to be. We go to the islands expecting to see less concrete and more green. And if you’re going to mess with nature, at the very least, work with consultants with great aesthetic sense.

Now, This is Pararadise

  • I figured I had enough of the tourist spots and felt my room hammock calling me, so I decided to head home and enjoy my hotel.  What a splendid idea, Gege.
  • Thanked Dodong profusely not just for driving for me but also for carrying my things and being very nice. The only thing is that he is one of those, when asked about the cost of their services, would say “Bahala na kayo.” I hate that – you never know if you’re being cheap underpaying or you’re being too generous and ruining the curve for the backpackers. I gave him 400.
  • I spent the rest of the day in my room and it really was a good idea.
  • First the shower. After spending 6 days at the euphemistically unpretentious Willshire Hotel with the shower barely a trickle, I was so ecstatic to experience the high pressure cold blast of water to wash the city grime and island dust away. I literally screamed Yes, Yes, Yes! What deprivation does to make us more appreciative.
  • Chick lit. Mango smoothie. Hammock. All in the comfort of my own room. For that whole afternoon, my life was perfect. And I knew that someday, when the government has discovered how to tap into my husband’s finite fart reserve to provide enough power for the 7,100 islands and 7 million SUVs of this archipelago, and all he has to do for us to live comfortably is to eat beans and release, then we can retire early, and that hammock-smoothie-book combination will fill my days.

In the Wilderness

  • Paradise, of course, means rustic environs and communing with nature. And the no air-conditioning ambience of the tree house deeply ensconced into the eco-system means being exposed to all that nature offers–-bugs, howling wind rustling the shell curtains, and the creepiest, strangest noises that kept me up all night.
  • One time an insect landed on my fingers and it immediately sunk its tentacles into my flesh. So many little creatures in the place. I could live with that. But it did make me a bit edgy. So much so that when my camera strap slipped and moved, I almost shrieked.
  • And of course, it was bound to happen in the wilderness. As I was enjoying my breakfast with Grace Nono thumping in the background, in came an unwanted visitor that stealthily walked towards my legs. It was a cat! And those who know me know that I would hug a snake, sleep with a capre, eat ox brain, and do practically anything other than touch a cat. The little boy who served my breakfast heard my bloodcurling scream and got so alarmed thinking the cat did something bad to me–yeah, it did just by showing up. I had to finish my breakfast in my room.

Lonely Animal

  • The trip was too short for me to be homesick. But the beauty of the islands and the charm of my lodging made me miss my husband. Yes, he’s the vacation nazi. But he’s much better looking than Dodong. 
  • I hoped, at least, to find some social animals in the hotel.  I was visualizing carousing with foreigners, having cross cultural, intellectual discussions with people with accents, getting to know the owner of this eclectic wonder. Alas, the owner was in Kuala Lumpur. And  Enigmata’s phone  was busted the whole week so no one could make reservations. So, except for the staff, who  slept early, I was the only social animal in the place. 


Camiguin’s Finest

  • Then, Dodong and I were off to White Island. Technically, it was just me. Dodong just dropped me off at the shore and my boatman, aptly named Journey, brought me to the island. It was a bit scary for a moment when the waves rocked the really tiny the boat too much. But the view of White Island made the mini-ordeal worth it. Really beautiful.
  • People call this a sandbar. But it really isn’t made of sand but of crushed corals. One can imagine the amount of time (eons) to grind corals to that fineness. The time I spent there was too short, but we had to leave the island before high tide because it is one of those islands that disappear with the tide.
  • On the way back, I realized I could actually check out of the hotel that afternoon, and catch the last ferry back to Cagayan de Oro. Not that I wanted to leave this paradise, but it gave me the opportunity to sleep more the next day and spared me the stress of catching my noon-time flight. And that’s what I did.

Goodbye, Camiguin

  • As I was checking out, I realized there was a screw-up and I was given a bigger room than I could afford. I won’t go into detail, but that mistake was a happy mistake for me because I wasn’t charged extra. I’m so blessed to enjoy that huge, comfortable, beautiful room for that price.
  • And so, Dodong and I got back onto the bike and I took one last drive along the coastline and caught the last ferry out, just in time to see the sunset over beautiful Camiguin.
Categories
NO RHYME

Where the Hell is Heaven?

A bit of prose to explain the story of this picture and this poem. It’s not a poem I find well written at all. No rhyme, no structure, no art. I was in the car somewhere in Batangas and I looked at the sky. I saw the silver lining of the clouds, admired it, mused over what the silver lining is to Rita’s death. And I started wondering as I looked up if Rita looked down at me, at us. I have no biblical references to bank on, and I refuse to accept what people claim to be true just to make people who grieve feel good.  This is a hastily written poem on my my IPad, and I do not have the heart, nor the energy, to rework this. 

Where the Hell is Heaven?

Do you see me
when i look up to the clouds
thinking of you?

When people tell me
what they think i want to hear
is it true
that you  watch over me
from up above?

Where are you geographically?
Because i’ve never seen a map
with  directions to heaven.
Google ‘s no use.

Can you hear me
greet you in the morning?
When I call your name in the darkness
and ask why you had to go away?

Can you see my face crumple
and my heart crumble
because I still have not stopped mourning,

wishing, crying?

Do you know when my heart is sighing?
Do you feel it when despite the pain I laugh?
Can you feel any better knowing I’m moving on?

Or are you oblivious
because  the joys of heaven
fill your days and sate your needs?

Do you count the days or years
When we see each other again?

Do you pray for what i pray for–
a grand reunion of everyone we love.

All the gadgets and widgets can ‘t help me
to hear you
see you
have you within arm ‘s reach.

Maybe I don’t know where heaven is.
But I know you are here
a breath away
in my heart
where you’ll be forever
until I can have you again
in a heavenly embrace.

Categories
NO RHYME

When?



When do I stop hoping it’s not true?
When willl I stop missing you?
When do I stop wishing for the impossible?
When do I stop asking why it happened at all?

When does it sink in?
How do I move on?
When does it start to make sense?
When willl the grieving be in past perfect tense?

Will I ever feel complete again?
Will I ever find peace that transcends?
Willl there ever be a day when I don’t think of you?
Will I ever forgive myself for the things I did not do?

How do I make the crying stop?
How do I tell my nagging brain to shut up?
How do I tell my heart not to hurt anymore?
All this agony, what is it for?

When? How? Why?
So many questions crowd my mind.
And I have to accept that for a lot of them
The answers I just won”t find.