Trekking Linabo, Inhaling Dakak

So I was finally dragged by relatives away from my musty, dusty, smoke-filled hole-in-the-wall and out into sunshine and fresh air. It turns out that we have a huge. huge branch of the family tree on the mother side in Zamboanga del Norte, specifically in and around Dipolog.

And because we were there already, why not spend a night in Dakak? So we did. There was nothing supertacular about the resort. It had the usual monobloc tables and chairs and the requisite floral shirts as staff uniform. There was something tacky about the whole place, but tasteful decor isn't the come-on. It's the air. Pure as pure can be. The sand isn't as fine or as white as Boracay's (haven't been to Bora so I took my cousins' word for it), and the sea wasn't still and blinding blue, but the wind blowing from it was like liquid oxygen (fed from a tube straight up your nostrils). I wanted to just sit and deeeeep breathly for hours.



I grew up in Mindanao but I swear this province is a lot more blessed than the others I've stayed in. The green of its vegetation is so vivid it's almost painful to look at. After you've stared at the plants and trees here I swear you'll feel sad for the the flora in Manila. One friend who's originally from Bontoc and who now works in Manila said that the leaves (of the mangosteen tree, for example, growing in our host's backyard) looked like they were waxed everyday.



And there was absolutely no chance to feel guilty about all the food we shoveled down our throats. Oysters (P100 for half a sack), Andres-Andres (a seashell unique to the area), crabs (small and not as fantastic as Surigao's but crabs are crabs), freshly-picked mangosteen (at P30-40 a kilo, imagine?), longkong lanzones (a bit pricey but worth it), durian (almost as cheap as Davao's but with a unique flavor; they say the taste always depends on the soil and climate of the area where it's grown). Why no guilt? Because in the afternoon of the day before we left for Manila (meaning yesterday), they made us climb the 3,000++ steps up Linabo Peak.


In the picture above on the lower left side you'll see 1,800 clearly painted in white on the steps. For the record I made it way past that point. A few hundred steps beyond that you'll come across a mini plateau and, believe it or not, an elementary school! They say the students and teachers walk up to the school everyday. Wow! But going down they ride the rails using plastic net bags. It was a Sunday so I didn't see the spectacle for myself, but the metal rails are so smooth you wouldn't think twice about believing the story.

Of course I wasn't told about this side trip so I didn't come prepared. I was wearing Birkenstocks! After that climb, my faith in the product jumped a quantum leap up. My feet didn't hurt at all, the Arizona slip-on didn't break or show obvious signs of wear from the ordeal, and I never wavered or had a misstep on the way down in darkness because, of course, we had to wait at the peak for the sun to set before starting the trek down.

The sunset was something else. As the sun disappeared over the horizon, it was a sunset like any other. But a minute or two after the sun sank the sky morphed into a giant fireworks show -- golden rays shooting through clouds, and... and... and... there are no words enough to describe the beauty (or maybe I'm not the kind who would or could). My sister tried to do a running commentary of the spectacle and I, of course, bitched. "This is a visual, not auditory, experience. And don't try taking pictures either or you'll miss the show."

A few hours before we left for Manila, it was pasalubong time and to my extreme delight I found out that Dipolog is THE source for bottled sardines (and bangus, tuyo, herring, etc.) in olive oil. Montanos is the preferred brand and the prices are worth excess baggage fees (e.g the same bottle of spanish sardines in olive oil is sold in Shopwise for P98 but can be bought for P56 only in the Montanos outlet). I've tried gourmet tuyo in olive oil with freshly-streamed rice. Heaven! The sardines, they say, are perfect for pasta and as pizza topping din daw with sun-dried tomatoes. Tsk tsk. I have to give all those bottles away. LOL.

All told, this is an experience I'll definitely repeat. The trek up Linabo Peak, that is, not the pigging out.

Also, I won't be allergic to taking vacations with the family anymore. Yeah, the women are noisy and nosy and fussy but I have an iPod.

Rip What You Sew

And so it came to pass I realized that even in the world of massive multiplayer online social gaming, karma rules.

Eh kse naman, hinack ko ng hinack my gourmet points in Facebook’s Restaurant City so now I have this faaabulously big restaurant and I can hire the maximum number of people (eight) and all the nine plots in the garden (new feature added today lang) are unlocked. But do I have money? ‘Nyeta.

I found out that (1) you really don’t enjoy something you didn’t work hard for and (2) if you go big time suddenly the old rich will still turn their noses up at you even if you can pee higher. So in unreal life as in real, the same rules apply. After all, there are very real people behind those very unreal ‘toons walking ika-ika.

My first thought was.. why do I have to suffer this ignominy? I can always use PayPal to buy coins and splurge on decoration and ingredients. But no! Haven’t I learned enough? I’ll wing it the hard way and build up points while salivating over that most expensive item of indoor décor – the Ming vase. I was planning on having eight of those craftily scattered as if carelessly inside the restaurant.

But no! I will control my saliva and focus on earning my coins one day at a time, with the thought in mind that each day I play gets me a new ingredient, free!

So there, I now know the true meaning of the aphorism “Reap what you sow.”

And since my newfound status as a high roller in the food and drinks stakes was ill-gotten and shadier than the acacias of Forbes, I will have to undo the fabric of lies that weave together my dream karinderya and admit that this thing I’ve sewn together will have to be ripped asunder.

Or maybe not. I can always cloak its origins with the sheen of social responsibility. It has been done before. It can happen again. I will give away free tiles to aspiring restaurateurs. I have three roofs and I only need one. I can give away two. I covered the whole building with extremely expensive glass doors and windows, hiding the brick beneath. I can give these doors and windows away… Noooo…!!!!!

I’ve spent too much on electricity already. I deserve all those points. Plus, hacking needs brainpower. That was my equity. Most of all, if my laptop suddenly gives because I’ve left it on non-stop for two weeks already, I need a reason to buy myself a Mac Book Pro. The me of three months ago would have despised the me that I’ve become.

But… I won’t have internet access for three days starting today, as in now na… I’m done packing and will be off to the airport in two hours. I hope these three days will be enough to slap me to my senses.

The Blur that was August

First the imperial boss arrived from the ‘Merika. When gods descend, mere humans quiver like gelatin in buko-pandan salad. I’d like to think I’m made of stronger stuff. Unfortunately, I have a brood of kids that I need to protect so the last two weeks were a blur of trying to ensure that my kids did their cartwheels to perfection.

Then there were the needless moments of agonizing over assignments for school. Days and days of guilt and anxiety that dissipated when I finally sat down to attend to them. Madali lang naman pala. Of course I had to wait for the eleventh hour. I think I’ll never ever rid myself of the addiction to cramming. The adrenaline rush is pure joy! Perhaps it’s my way of reconnecting to my cavemen ancestors. Because I don’t have giant snakes or some other prehistoric beast trying to eat me for breakfast, I get my survivor surge from anthropomorphizing my schoolwork and pretending they were vampires out to suck me. I mean, suck my blood. ‘Chos.

First week of the month I went home to the province to make my Papa happy on his 84th birthday. Because vacations are usually the most hectic and non-relaxing of all human activities, this set the tone for the rest of the month.

While all these were happening, I discovered Restaurant City on Facebook. In two weeks of playing I now am Level 27 thanks to (minor) hacking and leaving my laptop on overnight.

So there, this is my excuse for not posting enough, and I know it’s not enough but what can I do? I’m only human.

Entitlement

I’ve always wondered what it is in Roger Federer that makes me want to not like him. He has the moves, after all -- the fluidity, the grace, the power deftly disguised and always lethal.

One fine day out of virtually nowhere the epiphany hit me like caveman’s club on my cone-shaped head. Heapin’ excreta! There’s one word that sums up the smugness, the (sometimes) misplaced and often grating confidence. One word that sums up his thinly veiled contempt for lesser beings.

Entitlement. His utterly blinkless assumption of his place in history’s pantheon of greats. It matters not to me that he actually racked up enough chips to make a sure bet on the GOAT (greatest of all time) stakes.

Perhaps it says a lot about me and my proclivity for underdogs, and I’m quite consistent about it in almost everything.

And because there are too many things I want to say on the topic, as usual I’ll end up saying too little.

Hands and Noses

My kibbitz on the National Artist award upheaval (uprising?).

I think I need to change my alias to something that doesn't sound anything like anonymous. LOL.

Oh well, I have no pretensions about art and all that so I shouldn't really be plunking in my two cent's worth. Plus, I sometimes get a kick from really cheap stuff so I can't stick a finger up Carlo's. However, I would hate getting kicked in the face so I sympathize with those who feel that way about Guidote-Alvarez.

The protest against Carlo I really can’t get. I grew up on comics. It's low art, yes, and I find it funny that people name other lower artists as more deserving. So their art is lower? Or a higher form of low? This whole thing about which body of work is more deserving is confusing me, because I can't see how this protest against Carlo's art will lead to better art in general. Filipinos are not known for subtlety or nuance. We're vulgar and tacky and inane. Maybe Carlo's award is a reflection of what we really are as a people? That it comes as a slap in the face to the well-bred and the well-read is no surprise. It reminds them of the one thing they've been running away or were insulated from all their lives. Eeewww... no... noooo. I'm not like that, that doesn't represent me! I'm a Filipino and I'm so not like that. Well...

As for this Guidote-Alvarez thing... Was there no chance at all that she'd have won this award on merit alone at any time other than the Glorious incumbency? She's so kapal and all that? Hmmm... I think that to raise the consciousness of the masses to a level where they would feel indignation over this utter indecency the masses should first be weaned away from beauty contests, singing contests, reality show contests, mr. bikini contests, and all such contests. Anything of this kind can be rigged, and is always rigged. In the Philippines most specially but also everywhere else. There is always an agenda, even for the most deserving, and it is always a reflection of the times.

In fact, in skewed agreement to Juanna and her thesis, this National Artist scam couldn't have happened at a better time. Perhaps this was a brilliant stroke of PR genius.

At a time when everyone wants to deduct two inches off GMA's height, this adds two more feet to the dungpile. And because the noses offended are very sensitive, the collective achoo is bound to have enough physics to dislodge irritating boogers. But only if they achoo many many times and infect others with achoo fever. Otherwise, this will be just one insignificant blip in the social achoometer. However, I strongly doubt that this irritation has enough methane to sustain a prolonged achoo.

The arts is notorious for taking the craft of backstabbing and oneupmanship to rarefied levels, as much as it is revered for giving form to what's beautiful, good, and true. And this is because art is but the mirror of the fingernail of the hand that feeds it. And the hands of patrons, sponsors, and benefactors at one time or another would have made the trip to the nether regions to clean up the call of nature. And whether this breeds in them the desire to fill the air with perfume or share the stink with many is immaterial. Only one thing is true. Art feeds off the hand -- somebody else’s or the artist's own. Any hand, it doesn’t really matter. The hand is bound to show up in the art it helped create.

No hand, no art. Bad hand, bad art.

Which brings me right back to my original confusion. What are we up in arms against? Is it the art, or the hand? Is it at all possible to smell the art without smelling the hand? Who thinks art shouldn’t be fed at all because it is capable of feeding itself, thank you? Who says art is exempt from “never bite the hand that feeds you?” Who says I couldn’t care less? Raise your hand. Many would like to cut it off.

But really, to actually take to the streets over an art award is so Pinoy. Other cultures would simply gossip about it over tea and cucumber sandwiches. Sometimes a wrist or two is slashed, sometimes people jump off buildings, but these cases are individual acts of ultimate protest. Perhaps these cultures have had high art for centuries already, so they can be calm about it? We, on the other hand, constantly raise the bar for collective public display of emotion as art. Theater of the streets with riveting raw power. Extemporaneous apparently, spontaneous seemingly, but if you sniff hard enough, your nose will always lead you to the directors' hands. We have such soft noses.

Growing Up and Cory Aquino

I think everyone who blogs and was technically capable of reproduction when Cory became president is obliged to post about her passing. Here’s mine.

Fresh out of high school and into the frying pan, I was forced to audition for a role in the play “Alay sa Sigwa ng Unang Kwarto (In Honor of the First Quarter Storm). I was actually holding hands with my talent scout all the way to audition not because we were an item but because I think that was his way of making sure I wouldn’t run away. On hindsight, I think that was a moment for him but I knew nothing back then. He grew up in Tondo and graduated from Torres so I think he must have been self-aware already. Me? I was fresh meat from the farm.

“Sigwa” is quintessential “tibak” theatre -- spare sets, and lines that will never ring false no matter what era spoken. “Ang lipunang Pilipino’y sakmal ng malalang krisis. And sambayanan ay naduduhagi sa pagdarahop.” How we’ll ever escape being sakmaled by one krisis or the other I don’t know. There will always be naduduhagi people living in abject pagdarahop.

For the record, my roots will always be working class. I am just one generation removed from my farmer granddads – honest-to-goodness Mindanao homesteaders who owned as much land as they could clear and I think they cleared a lot. And because they knew how difficult the farming life could be, they made sure the generation of my parents all had college education. And so the parents and aunts and uncles became teachers and professors and dentists and all that. I, therefore, had a sub-privileged childhood. In Grade 3 I could bake a chiffon cake all by myself (whisking eggs whites to a stiff included) and eat it all by myself, too! You could count with your fingers and toes the households in our town that had an oven. We were one of the toes.

In elementary and high school, Martial Law proved to be both a stabilizing and destabilizing force. We were lulled into prolonged periods of quiet punctuated very infrequently by the percussive staccato of gunfire. Often it was far away, but one time it was near enough to punch multiple punctuations on our tin roof.

Meanwhile, the aunts and uncles were developing their own political preferences. One went the military way and eventually became a colonel in the Philippine Constabulary. One dropped out of UP and became a councilor before dropping out again to go up the mountains. One stayed in UP and became a professor and then a director of one government agency. My Mom was the moving force behind the local chapter of the Alliance of Concerned Teachers. We were not an apolitical family.

Because a steady diet of Tom Swift, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys and Bobsey Twins can do this to you, I grew up an avowed capitalist. You are what you eat. So I went to the “Sigwa” auditions mainly because my scout was persistent. Plus he was holding my hand, I had no choice. Fast forward to after the auditions when it was announced that I was to play Kinatawan ng Proletraryado and those naduduhagi and pagdarahop lines were mine plus five more pages in long bond paper back to back.

What?

I never knew if my rendition of “bangon sa pagkakabusabos, bangon alipin ng gutom” ever came across as convincing. Maybe not because I was wearing Levi’s on stage. But I did acquire beefcake status because I wore nothing else the whole time. I was half naked on stage for almost two hours. And for myself I acquired a whole new way of looking at things. In other words, caught between Ayn Rand and Marx, I was a blabbering mess.

As I was busy being a blabbering mess, Ninoy happened. I remember that day very clearly. The TV was on in the cafeteria, a hushed crowd in front of it. I knew something life-changing was going on. I didn’t know all that much about the history between Ninoy and Macoy, except that Ninoy was the last best chance for change. I had no great sympathy for Ninoy prior to that day, nor did I have great love or hate for Marcos. But boy did I cry. I must be extra-wired to the social psyche because I felt a very strong surge of emotion right there and then for something I didn’t quite understand.

That void would soon be filled in trickles by the mosquito (some are now full-grown elephants, but that’s another story) press. I read. I listened. I watched a let’s-tusok-the-fishballs friend cry on the bus as she struggled for words to express her outrage. I think I remember saying that we should be happy for the changes his death will bring about (or words to that effect). Shocked, she could do nothing except stab me in the face with dagger stares.

And as the country spiraled into chaos in the years that followed, so did my life.

Cory was my foothold to hope. Her voice cheered me up. The way she pronounced “support” will forever echo in my chamber of happy moments. People talk about missed opportunities and could’ve beens? C’mon. She was what we needed at the time, and she couldn’t have made those misses all by herself. She was ill-prepared to be President? Maybe we were unprepared to be without Marcos.

Like it or not, a president is the sum of all our aspirations and desperations. I believe that we always get the president that we deserve, and Lord knows we needed a break. We deserved to have one blazing yellow beacon in Cory Aquino in those darkest of times. We needed inspiration? We got it. That was all we were asking for. So now we tarnish her memory for what, not inspiring us enough? Enough!

She might not have been the greatest president, but her legacy extends far beyond her tenure in Malacanang. In fact, it extends right into our living rooms. Because, you see, the Kris is an embodiment of the nation – the sum of all our hopes and fears for the generation that comes after us. If Cory remained faithful to the public embarrassment that her daughter has become, there is a lesson to be learned. It provides stark contrast to the frenzied hand-washing and buck-passing of feckless public officials when caught in a bind. If Kris had been the daughter of some other president, she might have been exiled to Iligan to live with the Lola and let loose her wild horses in relative solitude.

Now, if Kris does her mother proud and transfigures from a Boy into a Ninoy, there is hope for our children yet. And Kris, in so doing, lays Cory's good soul to rest.

What's school got to do with it?

To channel Tina:

What’s school got to do with it?
What’s school but second-hand education
What’s school got to do with it?
Who needs a school when your cool can be broken…

That’s just me bittergraping about sleepless nights because I had to finish assignments and study for exams and all that. “The roots of education are bitter, but the fruits sweet.” How true.


And hey Tristan, how come I'm not looking any better despite being bitter? My belly is bloated, my eyebags have sunk lower than the Titanic (millimeters away from "hello cheekbones!"), and I have lost all urge to (window) shop.

Oh well. Maybe I'm not really bitter. Just plain tired. Very very tired.