Must be the clouds in my eyes.

It was as if Elton John was breathing in my neck last week, like a devilish whisper the automatically sets your mind into some kind of trance. Daniel is leaving tonight on a plane/I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain. Oh now, I know where this is headed – Spain. You know, like a vamos por todos, etc. No, but honestly, you know those times that a song is just so stuck in your head it feels like the notes have been imprinted in your cranium? It’s not even a last song syndrome (LSS) but a last-sung syndrome. As I can remember, the last Elton John I heard before I was suddenly humming Daniel in a soundless jeep, was Your Song, the proverbial piece of my officemate who incessantly thinks he is Ewan McGregor looking for Sabine, while singing it in the videoke. But really, you know when it hounds you and follows you like dirt in your sweaty skin. As if I’m gonna get through with it already, when I traveled this week to an adjacent city, the oldies guitarist in one of the rooftop grills we ate at suddenly belch an oh-so familiar tune. God it looks like Daniel/Must be the clouds in my eyes. I dunno, I’m not really leaving for Spain right now, nor even flying on an airplane. Oh I know, I have to add this to my videoke repertoire next session. I think I may be getting it now. It’s really hits me probably on the leaving part. I’m like on a letting-go-moving-on mode right now. And waka waka couldn’t be any more timing. I think with the WC coinciding, things are looking good in the near future, not that I equate soccer with anything going on right now but maybe there is. Must be the clouds in my eyes.

Dusk of another (b)day.

This plane should have taken you to Paris, dimwit. Or Amsterdam, or Munich, or Vienna. No, make it Bruges. Instead, as usual, this took you to hell and back. Where's the beer, loser?

::: A day before my birthday, I was still in polluted Manila but on the way to the airport going back to Davao. As usual, I can’t wait to go home, though when I learned of this official trip a week and some days ago, I contemplated on staying there for the birthday and probably watch The Killers’ concert. The Killers, gosh! Even if I was able to save up, nobody would really accompany me. Besides it’s just plain weird, and stupid to go alone. Imagine a stampede; nobody would really give a shit about my sorry ass.

Finishing the inevitable airport niceties, which I absolutely loathe, I scoured a not-so-comfy seat, picked out Netherland, and read away, occasionally pausing, and looking around. It’s funny how we hate the airport; its clinical methodology and bland faces of strangers, but then the lulls provide enough impetus to drift us into reveries and introspection (I always have this funny story to tell though). It’s probably just me, I don’t know. Some people don’t really give a shit about these sissy things. They go about the perfunctory procedure; they sit, probably buy a food or reading material, and wait for the booming voice announcing the boarding. They enter the tube and sleep, lucid dreams filling up idle time, towards their destinations.

It doesn’t matter if I travel with my colleagues or traveling alone, being at airports give me the same feeling of inexplicable wretchedness, detachment and sometimes, foreboding—which is associated with this paranoia of being up in the air. (During my first flight ever, I clung to the seat like hell, heart pounding, as the plane took off, and silently freaked out whenever the plane shook.) I know my judgment is somewhat unqualified given that I’ve only gone to five or so airports, and perhaps a more comprehensive assessment is that coming from someone whose business requires a great amount of flying (which immediate calls to mind Ryan Bingham, the protagonist of Walter Kirn’s Up in the Air, now adapted by Jason Reitman). On second thought, I don’t really absolutely loathe airports, just the feeling in being one. The architecture can be a thing to marvel, but perhaps only until I see these pieces of architectural prowess.

Going through the first baggage check, I noticed someone familiar who was ahead of me. His balding head, which turned a little bit sideway, confirmed his identity. I knew he took notice of me first while I was towing my trolley on the side. I intend to call him out after the check but I realized he was with a bunch of people, one I recognized. They got their boarding passes in one lane, and mine one lane apart. I held back and try to justify what may appear my reluctant snootiness. I saw him again lugging out in Davao already. While finding my seat at the far back, I noticed a professor of accounting whom I knew when I was working as a student assistant in college. I immediately recalled the name; I realized the last time I met him was also at the airport. Throughout the flight, his named escaped me surprisingly, only to surface again after he politely asked if he can borrow the newspaper. I’m not sure if he remembered my name, but I’m sure I looked familiar to him. I managed a quick glance, but regained my reluctance again. I didn’t see him at the claim area.

This “detachment” perhaps is more related to the “procedures”, the obligatory feel to it renders us like products being manufactured and determined fit for “sending out”. It sucks the life out of us. It sends us into this mechanical state of indifference.

weeweechu

Can I just pause and actually believe it? It's freakin' Christmas. The only indication of its coming-atcha mood only came a few days ago while waiting for a taxi that would lead me to the inevitable office Christmas party, which obviously plenty of us go laboriously through. Not even the office party would make me go giddy-up with joy and anticipation. For a moment, I thought all the taxi drivers in the world went to North Pole to offer themselves as reindeers to Santa. Or that by some random universal mechanical mishap all their automobiles went kaput. For 30 minutes or so I stood transfixed and fuming at the same time. From where usually hail taxis or ride jeeps, it's already unusual. And so it's Christmas na pala. And people suddenly troop to wherever to constitute the busy-ness of the season. But I'm still working my ass off like right now, which is actually okay anyway, rather than I endure the compulsory tasks propelled by the commercialism of the season. Lining up in counters, picking your brains on gift ideas, and just about every pronounced pleasantry the holidays would require one's self. This year, I find myself in utter destitution. Unlike last year, I haven't bought anything for my inaanaks. Guess I have to go through the TNT stage at least once in my godfather life. And boy do these children multiply every year! I am avoiding get-togethers and I find them to be such a cop-out sometimes. I haven't contributed anything to the noche buena table to which I cannot really call a noche buena because it ceased to be buena a long time ago. I haven't bought a single decent gift for myself except probably food, not that it would actually appease my usual helpless, lackadaisical mood during these supposedly joyous times. Kate Bosher said: "Isn't it funny that at Christmas something in you gets so lonely for - I don't know what exactly, but it's something that you don't mind so much not having at other times". My colleague said I'm slowly becoming a grinch. There's always a Christmas rant. Perhaps I should really count my blessings noh? Oh how I wish I could be little drummer boy and just be nonchalant about everything. Well, whatever. I can't help it. We live in such perilous miserable times. And so I end this with something from George Bernard Shaw, and hope next year I would have something that would best fit describe whatever remnants of joy this season supposedly give out: "Christmas is forced upon a reluctant and disgusted nation by the shopkeepers and the press; on its own merits it would wither and shrivel in the fiery breath of universal hatred."

That's me, feeding my finger to little drummer boy himself. Photo taken the other week at Plaza Pershing in Zamboanga City. The lights there are OA but fun. It's as if all the Christmas lights were harbored by the city government and plastered it in their city halls and parks.

ZaNorte travels

The trip to the west coast road in Mindanao, practically covering most of the Zamboanga del Norte region is a favorite, maybe because it was the first. Some portions of the road are whack but the paving is gathering up speed so I hope to see travel next time minus the vehicle massage. A portion of the entire stretch of the west coast road remains problematic because of lawless elements. We weren't allowed to pass through it, which is not possible anyway because of its condition. We pass through some very far-flung areas, barefoot children marvel at the sight of muddied pick-up.

A fishing are nearing Dakak resort

Shot while standing in front of Rizal's Dapitan residence

A portion of the Zamboanga Peninsula, shot along the mountainous road in Baliguian town

A small village in the town of Siocon, ZDN

Nope, the world has not tilted to a degree. The tricycles in Pagadian are skillfully built
to match its inclined terrain.

Runway of the Dipolog airport

Students brave the difficulty and danger of transportation to get back home
in this sleepy town in Zamboanga del Norte.

A shore somewhere between the towns of Liloy and Labason, ZDN

This ship sails alone while the sun sets somewhere between Liloy and Labason, ZDN.

Dried fish lines up some of the streets in Pagadian. Don't miss to bring them home.

A man sits relaxed on a furniture seemingly newly-bought on top of tricycle. Somewhere in Midsayap.

bura

Walking and looking for the famous Iloilo biscocho and other whatchamacallits when I was in Iloilo the other week, I saw a Villa Estrella in one of the streets. When a news came out of some similarly named estate claiming to be disparaged by the upcoming horror vehicle, I surmise it was that. I didn't even bother to take a picture because I would run the risk of posting it here and then I could be in some really big trouble. What I learned though is that while marauding in unchartered streets, you run the risk of stepping on poop. You're busy looking at everywhere.

I recently learned that Anne Curtis, my only favorite artista whom I'm crushing on for a long time, swoons over Bloc Party. You know... Bloc Party ba... I like the band, who happens to be, again, British, though not as ultimately, ultimately as Anne. It's another straw to my liking her more. Did I mention I got to meet her? She doesn't remember me of course. Back when she spent hapless, unfortunate days as a stereotyped talent in that other network. Gosh, this is senseless.

On the sublime

We say we are speechless, breathless. Or, we suddenly coat our tongues with adjectives that never really surmount a beauty unfolding. Both are clichés really. But which cliché do we turn to, when we are dwarfed by awe, with something immaculate? Jeez, immaculate is an adjective.

"Sublime places repeat in grand terms a lesson that ordinary life typically introduces viciously: that the universe is mightier than we are, that we are frail and temporary and have no alternative but to accept limitations on our will; that we must bow to necessities greater than ourselves. " - Alain de Botton

4th photo courtesy of The Islander

Her majesty.

Munai

It’s almost unlikely to hear Chris Brown or Beyonce over the vehicle radio, which was showing signs of dead air, as we inch closer to Munai in Lanao del Norte. But to think such would be succumbing to the usual backwardness and ignorance of the “central people” about Mindanao who are “too cool to care”. (May Philhealth ba kayo d’yan? Pano kayo gumigimik?)

We are “massaged” inside the vehicle by extremely rough roads. There is nothing to be seen but tall coconut trees, smoky air coming from copra burning against the morning Munai rain.

Munai is almost cloistered, so when you see bullet holes perforating the municipal hall, you can’t quite imagine that heavy gunfight last August 2008 once ruled over its relative calmness, with 23 out of its 26 barangays severely affected.

A view of Munai from the top of the municipal hall, and children.

Death viewed on a precipice.

I'm going to have a major headache, or flu, or I'm just gonna be bogged down by stupor now, I think, because of the extremest of temperatures I subjected myself into today coming from the highlands of about 15 or so degrees and going off the private bus with a searing Christmas heat of the friggin city. And I’m so sweating right now, vintage James Dean on my shirt is practically licking the sweat falling off my man-boobs.

There was some major joint party that the office has to attend to in those highlands and thank God the scenery made up for it, which was kind of what I expected in a way or I really wouldn't be going. One time I was standing on a precipice -- but there was some kind of wooden fence on it -- and I really feel so one with nature looking at the mountain range, I feel like jumping. I feel like those fancy pieces of colored silk cloths attached on the poles all over the place looking so dandy, fluttering in the cold wind that could chuck an anemometer.

But of course I’m not gonna jump or else I’m gonna ruin the merriment of 100 fucking people because some jerk decided to end his life. And it’s not like I’m gonna die or something when I jump off -- maybe a broken limb or or some ribs, maybe a cracked cranium, I guess -- which is gonna piss them off anyway. My being jaded with life is not so much as death hovering above me like imaginary vultures or so ominous its familiar like the Fishers of Six Feet Under operating a funeral service business in their own house.

Nor does it anything to do, really, with Six Feet Under, which I’m watching again coz it’s the Christmas break (season 2 now) and I dunno if this is going to be an annual thing or something and SFU is not really the type of viewing for the season, but what can I do, I really get a kick out of this show, especially if you learn not to really take it so seriously. Like scenes where children, 30-something children at least, slap the hell out of their loudmouth pathetic mothers and just walk out, snap, like that.

Plus, like me, you could really learn a thing or two, or replenish elementary general information you thought you once knew like Hemingway writes while standing, or that aubergines are edible or weird things you never thought existed like death from autoerotic asphyxiation, which is really kind of funny, but then it’s really lethal, if you know anything about it. Really, that’s all, I just find the show fucking funny and no, it didn’t even occur to me to try that autoerotic asphyxiation shit.

Bordado as peace champion.

I didn’t even notice him when he descended the stairs of the Cotabato hotel. Maybe that was part of the lackluster foray he would have to embark in being a peace champion for Mindanao. An Inquirer writer questioned the cherubic adjective I used. Well, not really question as in the sense of validity because if it were I would automatically submit to him my rash choice of word. I said I wrote for the drama. Which is really true, I wanted to write at least for this one an article that is not newsy-turgid I wouldn’t even have the stomach to read it. But really, Robin Padilla did well and I didn’t expect him to be that down-to-earth and accommodating.

Visiting peace and development communities (PDCs) in South Cotabato, Sultan Kudarat and Maguindanao for the past weeks has been grueling but satisfying. Some of these stories are really inspiring I wonder they don’t make it in the news. Wait, I shouldn’t really wonder, because this is the perfect antithesis to whatever is published about Mindanao. But then hey, we’re right on track and I think we’re getting there.

Robin Padilla as ambassador for Peace in Mindanao.

Robin Padilla story-tells to elementary pupils of Broce Elementary School of Peace in Datu Odin Sinsuat, Shariff Kabunsuan.

On the road

While traveling to Marawi last week, I was kidding my colleague because she kept on opening the window of the vehicle and spitting what turns out to be phlegm. She had colds. You have to keep on coming up with stuff even as mundane and utterly nonsensical as phlegm just to beat the dead air especially on an 8-hour trip. And my bootleg mp4 player is busted.

So I told her to watch the perimeter when she spits because there might be a motorist tailing the van. At the rate she’s spitting, the poor guy propped up on a motor next to the vehicle might now be covered with splattered phlegm given he’s not wearing a helmet. It was gross but we laughed anyway.

And then we were eating fried peanuts and throwing the maroon-colored peelings off the window. I told her to watch out still the peanut peelings may shot up through the motorist’s nose, block his trachea, choke him, cause him to jerk malevolently till he skids off the road and slams into some huge tree. Now it turns morbid.

Then talks of sex and more sex which was like talking about office work since both of my colleagues are already married and have kids. I laughed with them as if I’m actually a 30-something bachelor who’s spent so many one night stands.

Then smoke suddenly comes out of the front hood. We had to stop twice. It was the fan belt that needed to be replaced. So much for the merriment. I jumped out to observe the nearby rubber trees, its dripping sap being scooped up by small coconut shells attached to the trunk. It was the first time I saw such a process. I proceeded to the vehicle and picked up Woody Allen’s Without Feathers and chuckled away.

***

Higanaon house

entrance to Marawi Demo Farm, MSU compound

Ranao Pool

WTF?!?! [PAL version]

If this was charged to experience, I paid bucks.

The plane back to Davao was huge. I'm sure I have not ridden anything like it. Not once. 40K, there goes my seat. Wow, I thought, this is a huge aircraft.

I got hold of Jonathan Safran Foer and read away. This is going to be a great flight. I'm sure it would be cloudy, which is always a sight I like to behold. The safety instructions card indicates the plane is Boeing 747. I felt weirded out.

Fifteen minutes or so after, the pilot apologizes for the delay of the departure. He said they're still waiting for some passengers. Stupid, I thought, thinking about the late passengers and the discomfiture they're causing to the early birds.

No wait. I'm dead sure it was just about 4pm. How come they're late. The plane should leave 430, it's still 30 minutes early. Ok, I think they're just trying to be cute. Are there VVIPs in the aircraft?

I read. More minutes ticked.

Another announcement from the pilot. He says with finality that really, this is the final boarding on the flight to Mactan International Airport Cebu. Hahaha, the pilot's got to be kidding, right. Is he drunk? It's a bad joke, come to think of it.

I laughed in my mind. Imagine, if I landed in Cebu, I would finally see Aina and Roan. But then I can't text them because my bat is empty.

"Sir, excuse me, tama ho ba yung narinig ko? Mactan, Cebu ho itong flight na 'to?" I asked feeling like an idiot, but asked anyway.

"Sa'n ka pala?" "Davao, ho." "Naku, pa-Cebu ito." The man sitted next to the empty chair beside me frantically called the attention of the steward. "May naiwan dito, Davao daw flight niya, baka maiwan ng flight 'to."

What the fuck. This isn't happening.

"Sir, dali po kayo baka maiwan na talaga kayo, sunod po kayo sa'kin," the steward, trying to be concerned. I tried my best to explain that I entered the correct gate. The plane switched gates. I didn't know. Perhaps I was still outside, had they made an announcement. But what the fuck, I tried to calm myself because I was goddamn sure it wasn't my fault.

"Naku Sir, kakalipad lang ho nito," the pretty stewardess said, in a voice, which I thought was trying to mock me and my stupidity. The other steward said, "Sir, baba na lang po kayo sa runway, baka tinatawag na po yung pangalan niyo." This is an aircraft full of fucking jokers.

Is he serious? Now he is really embarassing me. I didn't have lunch and breakfast was eons ago and I swear I could've passed out at that moment. I felt dizzy but I ran like I've never ran before. I can see a plane closing its doors and the tube slowly pulling away. Could it be it? Am I doomed? Am I stuck in this jungle full of demeaning looks?

It was not. I am saved. It's a good thing I don't like to sleep in airplanes.

The Jungle

At 23, I am terrified of going to Manila. I have constantly shoved out the idea of me working there and the planned work-related trips I had with my previous employer always ended up canceled. For someone who's greatest ambition is to be a travel writer unpredictably marauding the whole world, it's such a big, glaring, slap-in-the-face irony. I know I'm such a chickenshit and for someone who has embraced [post]postmodern theories, mine is such a backward probinsyano mentality. In fact, this is such a mockery to the "new" probinsyano/na mentality, which is venturing into the urban jungle, the clearest, most popular vision would be Manila.

And in a matter of 3 hours, I will be at the airport aboard the 1:30 flight to Manila. You can just imagine how many butterflies are in my tummy right now.

The bus ride was a bitch for the godfather.

I left for Malaybalay, Bukidnon early morning of Sunday as I promised to my former colleague that I’ll be the ninong of her firstborn son, Leobert John. I was excited of course because it would mean seeing the marvelous landscape of Bukidnon after almost a year of not passing through the Davao-Bukidnon-Cagayan route.

I woke up at 5am with the hope that I’ll be able to catch a non-stop aircon bus that would just take about 4 hours. There was no non-stop aircon until 10 am so I have to make do with the estimated 5 hours ETA with 4 stops. The sky was overcast and it rained. It rained so hard the moment the bus left but I didn’t gripe on it. What really flared me up to point I almost jammed the horn was because the driver and ticket dispatcher/collector didn’t come back until an hour after the ETD. They probably played tong-its or fucked each other twice in the filthy CR or god-knows-wherever.

I missed riding the bus actually so I was looking forward to it despite the 2-hour delay that I thought I will cause during the whole christening proceeding. Good thing the mass was late. I saw the San Isidro church of Malaybalay about twice but I never really got in. Inside it was a sight to behold. Just like the churches in Butuan, Agusan and Dapitan, it feels ancient and golden. Bukidnon also has the Transfiguration Church situated amidst the vast plains and mountain ranges. I wish I had a camera and I wished it wasn't raining. I didn't capture its architecture from the outside which resembles a massive black pyramid from the outside.

So the priest got on with the head-rinsing ritual and the whole rhetoric of godfather responsibilities. It suddenly occured to me that it was the first time I sat through a whole baptism considering that I am already ninong to about 4 children, all from high school classmates.

I ate like a pig or rather I ate the pig -- lechon that is. I did not have breakfast during the entire bus ride which was made excruciatingly long by people who seem to think they own the fucking bus by staying in the CR for too long, marauding the market and not buying anything, marauding some more before finally deciding to go back while the rest of the passengers are clutching their bags hoping to give them a beating.

Night was cold in Malaybalay which was great - one thing I love about the place. When you walk at daytime, you know ultraviolet rays are penetrating your skin but you don't feel jumping into a tub of ice water because of heat. While listening to the crickets, I decided that I would not pass up the chance to bask in the spring water resort the next morning to travel another hellish 5 hours just to get my index finger inked and vote unknown people in the barangay elections.

Ang ZTE bow

I remember the week before the ZTE broadband controversy erupted in the news, I was in Zamboanga City to do a roadshow consultation in the region with the organizers of the Mindanao ICT Congress. I was still with my previous office then and it was actually my last work-related travel. We invited ICT stakeholders both from the government and private sector to promote the conduct of the said event. As part of the promotional roadshow, we conduct consultations among the ICT players, the output of which will form the policy component which usually translates into resolutions or policy agenda.

The NTC regional director reported during that meeting that the deployment of the National Broadband Network is expected the following week. Broadband connectivity is one of the emerging ICT concerns as this is seen to heighten appreciation of the critical role of ICT in the nation's development especially that world economies are now propelled by information and knowledge. In fact, I read in the papers a few months back that the Philippines ranked 4th in the world with the usage of e-Governance. ICT is indeed critical in enhancing government transactions and the basic delivery of government services.

Then here comes Abalos who seems to enjoy the proverbial hot seat and other political schmucks entering the picture inevitably. Everything has been laid already in the table, in the hands of the Senate inquiry actually, where everybody had a grand time except Abalos who keeps receiving pies in the face.

But I don't gripe on this usual scenario. Fuck those retards. What I'm dismayed at is how this kind of political backwardness takes its toll on an industry that is poising the country to really actively play in the global economy, thinking that we can outrun other leading Asian countries in the ICT and BPO field in few years if we're dead serious about it. If planned strategically, and commonsensically at that, ICT can and will bridge this digital divide, even in the countryside, that hampers a great deal of development. Look at the Telepono sa Barangay which is so haphazardly installed that I bet rural people continue to ogle at its anatomy and purpose.

I hope that the initiatives and efforts that are already under way should be sustained. I also hope that the players in the industry continue to have that technopreneurial spirit to get ICT to transform lives.

The Last Trip

I wish I could call the entire trip a break, but work punctuates. Nevertheless, this will be one of the memorable trips to Mindanao despite the limited places I've gone to. The spectacular beach front of Medina. Duka Bay and it's hospitable owner, son of then vice president Pelaez. The sunrise viewed on the dungawan of the 1907 Fournier ancestral house. The old churches along the dreary winding roads. The night market in CDO divisoria (despite the torrential downpour halting what could have been a loud and merry night, I bought 3 shirts for 100 bucks). Another plane ride to Zamboanga, getting re-acquainted with Chavacano. The heaps and heaps of ukay-ukay and the infamous barter trade are too tempting not to splurge on. Perhaps, it could be any better but I guess I couldn't ask for more.

The Fournier ancestral home in Medina, Misamis Oriental (Sir Andre promotion!). Built in 1907, the dungawan is defintely one of the best parts of the house, not to mention the kitchen (hehehe).

The untapped beach front of the Fourniers in Medina. That's Mt. Hibok-hibok right there on the right side.

Ukay-ukay in the infamous barter trade in Zamboanga. Got myself an olive green padded sweater and a white polyester polo shirt for 250 bucks.

Give me a break. Puhleeez.

Tired, exhausted and still working. Been to Butuan and Cagayan de Oro cities for the past three days for the Northern Min leg of our MICT 2007 roadshow and consultations. Thank God for the nice beach front in Medina and the ancestral house of Mr. Fournier, I forgot about my headaches and the impending resignation. More about it on the next entry. Kapuya jud oi. Meanwhile, I finally bluetoothed the pictures I took from a camera phone of our short visit to my deceased mother's hometown in Man-ay, Davao Oriental during the Holy week. It took 15 years after me and my siblings got the chance to go back there again. I wonder when will be the next.

We crossed about 5 swamps with strong currents and endured the searing heat of the huge stones (walked barefoot) before we got to climb the hill on the next photo.

The hidden lagoon. One of the most beautiful sights I laid my eyes on. And no entrance fees.

And of course, the falls. The first one is second to the topmost falls, which we didn't reach because it's steep and slippery. I tripped and cut my foot several times.

The white sand beach effortlessly named as "White Beach resort".

Going back, after 15 yrs.

I was 7 years old the last time I went to Manay, Davao Oriental -- the birthplace of my mother. That was when she was still alive.

Last Thursday, at the crack of dawn, the quarter moon and the necklace of stars still hanging in the sky, I trekked the trail towards the still-dark compound of nipa huts of our relatives together with my cousins, aunts and uncles and 2 siblings. We left Davao aboard a run-down rented van at 12 midnight and arrived at a dangerous bend 5 hours later which required us to walk kilometers. The crickets were still noisy and faint lights of gas lamps from the windows of few nipa houses were still lit.

Our visit was a surprise considering that there are no cellphones or that signals won’t reach that part of the area. Kuya Dodot, my uncle who took care of us shortly when we were kids and after Mama died, was the first to meet us on his motorbike while he was on the way up. Although there was no sun and our faces weren’t visible yet, he knew it was me and immediately grabbed my tummy and hugged me as if I was the kid whom he used to carry on his back. We immediately met with Lolo Gabin and Lola Sitang, Mama’s second father and mother, whose faces I don’t even remember the slightest. After our cousin Macky called us their ‘surprise’, lolo and lola stood there speechless and lolo just hugged me and kissed me in the neck as if I was the grandson he’d left on the wharf as he sent me to some unknown place. It was weird and all, being welcomed that way. But it was authentic and an honest feeling of being loved and a sense of belongingness one cannot fully contain at the moment.

Of course we talked about a lot of stuff and we were introduced to some of the other far relatives who came also to pay a visit. It turned out that it was lola’s birthday.

When I was able to make a clear view of everything, I stood outside the newly-built shed and did a 360. The grounds were surrounded by hills and coconut trees were everywhere. There were coco shells and husks piled up on some of the place. I later learned that this is really where they get their livelihood; the common term is copras, a harvesting done every 3 months, according to Kuya Dodong.

Kuya Dodong was one of lolo and lola’s sons. He was also the one who accompanied me all the way while the entire group crossed streams and trekked the mountain trails. I couldn’t even estimate the number of kilometers we hiked but I’m sure we crossed about 5 streams which are actually one but separated only by land masses. There was this waist-deep stream with a strong current that broke our line and send one of us hurling towards the bend.

He pointed one stream which drowned lola, Mama’s original mother. It was sort of scary and all. Then we trekked some more encountering a few more relatives and stepping on cow and horse dung on the way. We climbed a steep and rocky hill and down towards a magnificent waterfall. We found another fall on the lower end as we climbed down. The smaller one is kind of a hidden fall and the place is usually infested by snakes. We were lucky we didn’t encounter one that time.

Coming on a long way back, I didn’t realize I cut myself twice on my right foot. I walked barefoot on some parts where sharp stones and sticks could have done my feet good. While we were talking along the trek, what struck me most though is not the scorching heat of the sun, but by the generosity of Kuya Dodong who has lent me his sturdy slippers, because I kept breaking mine, while his feet endured cuts itself and the heat of big sun-exposed stones, and the simple life that they have managed to get through.

We spent the next day in White Sand Beach, which pretty much explains. I drank a lot of tuba, emperador and Red Horse that day until I puked and bloated myself with ice water to relieve myself moments before we left, past midnight. We had to leave early because the 3-month old baby of my cousin was convulsing with fever.

I later learned from one of my cousins that lola didn’t show up while the rest of use were leaving because she can’t take the sight of it. The last time my cousins were there, she cried and cried. It was a fulfilling to have reconnected with them though we have to leave right away. Upon boarding the van, lolo said how happy he was to have seen us and that he might as well be contended when he died. I chuckled so as to stop him from thinking such, because I definitely would like to come back soon. Perhaps sooner.

a trip to Comval

If I were to borrow Ma'am Inday's affirmation -- even if it's bordering on cliche -- everyday you'll learn something new. Perhaps not new as in new new but something that will prove useful somewhere along the road called life. And of course, without stretching it, you only get to experience this with people way beyond your years.

I went to Compostela Valley, particularly in Monkayo, for a prep meeting with the IP datus last Tuesday. We had the actual meeting in Davao here today with Dr. Walter Brown of Philex Inc. which turned out to be the president of the shoe company W. Brown. I learned this also while on the way to ComVal. I have heard Dr. Brown's name ever since I got here, but even if the obviousness was screaming at me in the face I didn't know until then.

We were also supposed to go to Diwalwal, the conflict-torn mining community, which up to now, hasn't found its peace. But there was an enormous storm brewing so it was postponed. The IP community there unfortunately are at a losing end. Though there are initial undertakings there geared towards community development. One datu confessed that despite decades of toiling, they haven't got a single gram of gold ore which is in the very heart of their ancestral domains. Sadly, they have become beneficiaries for a long time when in fact, they should be partners. They too, should be emancipated from such mentality in order to for them to move forward.

i want to get away...

Despite the demands my work has posed, especially the year 2006, I savored the times I roamed Mindanao as if it were just blocks in a village where meet your different street friends. The working conditions in the office makes you want to bark like a dog so getting out of it is a real relief. Despite going to places for a specific and work-related reason, I still had to make the most out of it. Because, I may not be coming back in a long, long time.

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This was taken at the Zamboanga museum, with the remains of an old spanish building. January 25, 2006

This was taken on a Sunday at the Zamboanga Ecozone, the day before we went back to Davao. The place is being groomed to become an industrial hub with a little push in investment promotions. September 3, 2006

My favorite photo that I have taken is a glimpse of the Cebu skyline during dusk, while overlooking from the 11^th floor of the Cebu Midtown Hotel. July 31, 2006.

Whoever thought Dapitan was boring. A shot of one of the portions of Gloria de Dapitan, both a commercial and entertainment center of the city. September 28, 2006

Waking up in Dakak. September 25, 2006