March 2014
I heard that here in Dumaguete, the locals, especially the young ones, have an unusual way of greeting a person celebrating his birthday. They crack a raw egg on the celebrator’s head!
I’m turning a year older this March, and it will be my first time to mark the occasion in this city. My chance, though, of having an egg cracked on my head is nil. I’ll be twenty-nine, no longer young enough to horse around or to be at the receiving end of a prank. I’ll be missing out on a messy yet surely memorable local tradition. I’m not worried, however. Turning a year older for me is a good thing. Aside from the fact that it is a futile effort to hold on to youth, there are things to be happy about in being not so young.
As I get older, I get to know myself more and I get to know more what I want. In my teens and early twenties, I wanted to do and be anything I could. I wanted to cramp my life with activities. I was not very sociable, however, so I’m not referring to partying all night, joining sports competitions, or any of those bucket-list stuff, such as ziplining in Lake Sebu or doing something naughty in a tent at the peak of Mt. Apo. I was into learning. I felt that I was wasting my time if I was not spending it learning new things or learning more about the things I already knew. I read a lot, and I couldn’t read enough. I also watched documentaries and classic movies and surfed online for hours on end. I didn’t really enjoy what I was doing. I was doing it because I was afraid that I might not be able live life to the fullest if there was one area of knowledge I knew nothing about.
I acquired information for the sake of it, and gradually I lost the desire. There is nothing specific to which I can attribute my change of behavior, except maybe to maturity. As I got older, my focus turned from trying to learn everything to studying only the things that make me tick. Now I only do the things that I enjoy and I believe I’m good at. Where before I had an opinion on everything, and I’d voice them every chance I’d get, now you seldom hear me arguing with someone, especially when the subject is politics or religion. I share nothing but selfies and personal updates on Facebook.
It’s not that I’ve become jaded or indifferent. It’s just that my concerns have been narrowed, in a positive way, I believe. Before, when not reading or writing, I’d rant to people around me how lenient my college instructors, how unfair the school administrators, how corrupt the Philippine government officials, and how dumb George W. Bush (I told you, I’m not so young anymore) were. Now I worry myself with these questions: Am I being a good son to my parents? Am I a competent employee? Am I doing my responsibilities as a graduate student and as a teacher? Am I doing my simple duties as a Filipino citizen?
I still know enough about what’s happening in the country and the world. I even joined the “Million People March” against pork barrel when I was still based in Cebu. But I want to spend more time improving myself and contributing to my immediate vicinity than “fighting the system” or hewing a Utopia out of our struggling country.
My memory now is no longer as sharp as it used to be. I remember that when I was sixteen and in first year college, I interviewed six gay students for an article in the campus publication. They narrated to me how they came to terms with their sexuality. Each of them practically shared with me the summary of his life. I didn’t have a tape recorder, and I stored everything in my mind while jotting key words on a piece of paper. When I wrote the article a day or two after, I simply told their stories word for word. I remembered every detail clearly.
Now I sometimes fail to relay accurately something that has been said to me even just moments earlier. I notice that when quoting someone, I often start by saying, “If I remember it right . . .” or “I can’t recall the words exactly, but I think . . .” The weakening of my own mental faculties has taught me to give weight not so much to words as to the feelings that go with them. Or perhaps it is the other way around. I am no longer keen on memorizing, on capturing spoken words in their exact form and order, because getting older has taught me that there are more to communication than just the words. I am no longer a campus journalist that must report statements as they are uttered. I am a human being that understands that words are mere approximations of another human being’s thoughts and feelings, that the greater context or a twitch of a facial muscle reveals so much more.
My birthday celebration this month, here in Dumaguete, will be as predictable as it can be—heavy meal with friends followed by lots of beer, hours of talk on literature and, if we get drunk enough, an aimless stroll under the acacias along Rizal Boulevard. The friends I’ve gained here, mostly young writers, will be mocking me for being almost thirty and not yet having a book or a Palanca. But definitely there will be no cracking of raw eggs on my head. Again, I’m too old for that. I’ll be missing out on a unique local tradition. I’ll be missing out on a lot of things that come with youth. And I’m not worried. I am older, and contrary to what many people dread, life is fuller, happier, and in a lot of ways better.
Shaken
October 15, 2013
I'm staying on the fifth floor of an eight-story building, so when an exceptionally strong earthquake hit Cebu and about half of the country this morning, I had nowhere to hide. It was several minutes past eight, and I had been asleep for four or five hours. When I woke up, the bed furiously shaking, the whole building rumbling, I knew right away that I was in a life-threatening situation.
I can say that I have the right amount of knowledge on what to do in such a situation. I was occupying the upper portion of a double-decked bed, so I climbed down as fast as I could and crouched in the lower deck, my head between my knees, my hands on top of my head. I was in a dangerous place, in a dangerous moment, but the best action I could take was be still and go through the ordeal, and since my roommates were not around, I had to go through the ordeal alone. I knew that if I ran out of the room, if I tried to flee from the danger, I would only be in greater danger.
The earthquake would last for up to fifteen seconds only, I told myself, but after about twenty seconds, the tremor had not yet stopped and seemed to go on forever. I felt as though I was inside a blender. In my mind I said, “God, God.” Now I had been an atheist for at least ten years, and some devout Christians might say that in those crucial seconds, I had a change of heart. When I had nothing left to hold on to, I came back to God. I found refuge in his divine protection. This was not the case, however. I uttered the word out of habit, for I was raised in a traditional Catholic home. As a believer of science, I knew no god could stop an earthquake, and I had to accept whatever would happen to me if the building I was in creaked, leaned, and eventually collapsed. “So this is how I would die,” I told myself, resigning to my fate. But as soon as I thought that, the room went still. The earthquake stopped.
I learned from the news later that the epicenter of the earthquake was in the neighboring island of Bohol, where the magnitude was 7.2. The earthquake lasted for about a minute, and geologists recorded more than a hundred aftershocks, many of which I personally felt. The tragedy left about seventy people dead and a few hundred injured in Bohol, Cebu, and other parts of the Visayas. The major old churches in Bohol crumbled down, and the bell tower of Basilica del Sto. Niño here in Cebu was toppled. The losses are yet to be determined, but it’s not far-fetch to assume that it could be more than a billion pesos, taking into account the damaged infrastructures and the lost income of outsourcing companies that had to suspend operations that day.
I was relieved when the earthquake stopped, but I knew that there would be aftershocks and I had to leave the building. I grabbed a shirt, my room key, and my wallet. I can no longer remember if I was sleeping in my shorts or I had been wearing boxers and I just put on a pair of shorts after the earthquake. I switched off the ceiling fan, pulled the wires off the socket, and walked down the stairs with the other dormers. There were at least two hundred of us, in various levels of dishevelment and undress. Some were barefoot. Because it was a holiday, many of us had been lazing on the bed or lounging on the couch, watching TV.
The ground floor was crowded, and there was no open space near our dorm, so I walked to a mall across the street and stayed in its parking lot for the next thirty minutes. Only there, while sitting on the empty stairs, did I realize that my knees had been shaking. It was the strongest and longest earthquake I had ever experienced. I pondered on the fact that I could have lost my life in the disaster, that my name could be in the list of casualties that would appear in the papers the next day, that in an instant my existence could have ended and the world would still go on.
The earthquake has shaken us in more ways than one. In my case, I was able to clarify my values more. I found out that in a seemingly hopeless situation, I would rely on my knowledge. I’d do whatever I could, and I would have peace of mind if I accepted that there are some things that are beyond my control. I would not ask for help from some Supreme Being. For others, though, the experience strengthened or renewed their faith. They believe the second life they have now is a proof of God’s love and kindness. I won’t argue against that. I’m an atheist, but it does not mean that I’m anti-religion or I can’t stand people who wear their Jesus-loving hearts on their sleeves.
As I was writing the first paragraphs of this essay, at about five in the afternoon, another aftershock occurred. The aftershocks had decreased in frequency, from every ten minutes to every two hours, but this one felt like a separate earthquake than a mere aftershock. One of my roommates and I decided to leave the dorm and spend the night in some friends’ place, which had one floor only. Cracks had formed on the walls of our dorm, and though some inspectors came and certified the safety of the building, we would not be able to sleep for fear of another strong tremor.
I’m still shaken, and I’m trying to make sense of what I’m doing, why I’m writing this. Perhaps I’m trying to seek catharsis in writing. This is my way of coping with this traumatic experience. I should keep in mind that an earthquake is a natural occurrence. It has nothing to do with me. This is Mother Earth digesting her food or scratching her back, and I’m just a keratin or some insignificant cell in her body. After this terrifying episode, I have to keep on living. The world is not going to wait on me. I have work, family and personal responsibilities. Like all Filipinos in the face of natural, social and political tragedies, I must be resilient. I must be optimistic.
I'm staying on the fifth floor of an eight-story building, so when an exceptionally strong earthquake hit Cebu and about half of the country this morning, I had nowhere to hide. It was several minutes past eight, and I had been asleep for four or five hours. When I woke up, the bed furiously shaking, the whole building rumbling, I knew right away that I was in a life-threatening situation.
I can say that I have the right amount of knowledge on what to do in such a situation. I was occupying the upper portion of a double-decked bed, so I climbed down as fast as I could and crouched in the lower deck, my head between my knees, my hands on top of my head. I was in a dangerous place, in a dangerous moment, but the best action I could take was be still and go through the ordeal, and since my roommates were not around, I had to go through the ordeal alone. I knew that if I ran out of the room, if I tried to flee from the danger, I would only be in greater danger.
The earthquake would last for up to fifteen seconds only, I told myself, but after about twenty seconds, the tremor had not yet stopped and seemed to go on forever. I felt as though I was inside a blender. In my mind I said, “God, God.” Now I had been an atheist for at least ten years, and some devout Christians might say that in those crucial seconds, I had a change of heart. When I had nothing left to hold on to, I came back to God. I found refuge in his divine protection. This was not the case, however. I uttered the word out of habit, for I was raised in a traditional Catholic home. As a believer of science, I knew no god could stop an earthquake, and I had to accept whatever would happen to me if the building I was in creaked, leaned, and eventually collapsed. “So this is how I would die,” I told myself, resigning to my fate. But as soon as I thought that, the room went still. The earthquake stopped.
I learned from the news later that the epicenter of the earthquake was in the neighboring island of Bohol, where the magnitude was 7.2. The earthquake lasted for about a minute, and geologists recorded more than a hundred aftershocks, many of which I personally felt. The tragedy left about seventy people dead and a few hundred injured in Bohol, Cebu, and other parts of the Visayas. The major old churches in Bohol crumbled down, and the bell tower of Basilica del Sto. Niño here in Cebu was toppled. The losses are yet to be determined, but it’s not far-fetch to assume that it could be more than a billion pesos, taking into account the damaged infrastructures and the lost income of outsourcing companies that had to suspend operations that day.
I was relieved when the earthquake stopped, but I knew that there would be aftershocks and I had to leave the building. I grabbed a shirt, my room key, and my wallet. I can no longer remember if I was sleeping in my shorts or I had been wearing boxers and I just put on a pair of shorts after the earthquake. I switched off the ceiling fan, pulled the wires off the socket, and walked down the stairs with the other dormers. There were at least two hundred of us, in various levels of dishevelment and undress. Some were barefoot. Because it was a holiday, many of us had been lazing on the bed or lounging on the couch, watching TV.
The ground floor was crowded, and there was no open space near our dorm, so I walked to a mall across the street and stayed in its parking lot for the next thirty minutes. Only there, while sitting on the empty stairs, did I realize that my knees had been shaking. It was the strongest and longest earthquake I had ever experienced. I pondered on the fact that I could have lost my life in the disaster, that my name could be in the list of casualties that would appear in the papers the next day, that in an instant my existence could have ended and the world would still go on.
The earthquake has shaken us in more ways than one. In my case, I was able to clarify my values more. I found out that in a seemingly hopeless situation, I would rely on my knowledge. I’d do whatever I could, and I would have peace of mind if I accepted that there are some things that are beyond my control. I would not ask for help from some Supreme Being. For others, though, the experience strengthened or renewed their faith. They believe the second life they have now is a proof of God’s love and kindness. I won’t argue against that. I’m an atheist, but it does not mean that I’m anti-religion or I can’t stand people who wear their Jesus-loving hearts on their sleeves.
As I was writing the first paragraphs of this essay, at about five in the afternoon, another aftershock occurred. The aftershocks had decreased in frequency, from every ten minutes to every two hours, but this one felt like a separate earthquake than a mere aftershock. One of my roommates and I decided to leave the dorm and spend the night in some friends’ place, which had one floor only. Cracks had formed on the walls of our dorm, and though some inspectors came and certified the safety of the building, we would not be able to sleep for fear of another strong tremor.
I’m still shaken, and I’m trying to make sense of what I’m doing, why I’m writing this. Perhaps I’m trying to seek catharsis in writing. This is my way of coping with this traumatic experience. I should keep in mind that an earthquake is a natural occurrence. It has nothing to do with me. This is Mother Earth digesting her food or scratching her back, and I’m just a keratin or some insignificant cell in her body. After this terrifying episode, I have to keep on living. The world is not going to wait on me. I have work, family and personal responsibilities. Like all Filipinos in the face of natural, social and political tragedies, I must be resilient. I must be optimistic.
Half the Serving
I
felt you before I saw you.
Amid
the throng of partygoers
huddled around the table
half of each driven to grab the drumstick
and in a bite tear all flesh off the
bone
the other half fettering the one
reminding it of the eons
it took those unwearied hands to work
stones
from tools for smashing skulls
to polished spires called forks.
Amid
the other half-beasts
I
felt your heat.
From
the hodgepodge of smells
wafting from meat, spices, sweets
the
she-hound in me sniffed, singled out
the scent of your sweat.
My
head turned. There you were
the smile on your face that of First Man
the first time his eyes fell
on his pulled-out rib.
Nice
shirt, you said.
At
once I hated words. They watered down
the purest of intentions
the most primal of needs.
I
preferred the eyes and their silent speech.
Yours,
for one, so round and brown
were staring beneath the cloth
that mantled my mounds
yearning for them to suckle
your mouth
at the moment
the mouth of your flesh and blood
when you’d taken me to your
cavern.
At
once I hated those unwearied hands
for forging forks, for I had to say
why-thank-you
and crack some self-effacing joke
instead of taking your calloused palms
and letting them own
what your eyes could only ache for.
We
inched our way to the banquet
a couple strolling by the seashore
waves lapping at feet
the setting sun casting a pale glow
on blood-flushed cheeks.
Rice,
chicken, steak, pasta—with them
we filled our plates.
And
we came to the fish.
The
scaly creatures had been scorched whole
each big enough to fill a pair of
stomachs.
You
drove the tines across one
hacking white tissues with tiny strokes
the head jerking, the fins flapping
coming to life
as the spine snapped in two.
The
head you lay on your plate.
The
tail you left impaled on your fork.
I
knew it right away: half for First Man
the other for Rib.
I
needed not utter it. All the same
I did: Give it to me!
Your
head turned, but not my way.
Your
ears, I thought, must have missed
the sweet plea from my luscious lips.
The
voices around must have drowned out mine.
Or
was it that? You might be facing the other way
but your eyes were left on me.
It
must be, then, the fork forger in you
scared that the dragonfly would flee
when your fingers were a hairbreadth away
from pinching its tail.
I
wipe away your cares. I gave you a smile
no less tempting than an apple
ripe for the picking. I said, Hey.
You
answered, Here, sweetie
and put the fish on the plate
of the girl on your other side.
I
had not so much as gaze
on the black bag lying in the corner
until the device it contained
blasted in my face.
She
had been there, too, by the seashore
her eyes and yours not meeting
her fingers and yours not intertwined
her sleeve not grazing your bare
arms.
It
was enough that the sand on her wake
told of a pair of feet
dancing off into the sunset.
So
I had to crack some self-effacing joke.
I
had to show you the half of me
that took the world as a stage
for vaudeville shows
while the other half flogged itself
for forgetting that First Man and Rib
had been plucked from the grove
and thrown into a zoo
in a heap of banished couples
who had to find each other
in a game with muddled rules.
Wash My Feet
Holy Week 2012
This time last year, I was asked if I wanted to serve as an apostle in our parish. I readily agreed. I knew it would be fun. I told myself, “What would be so difficult in donning some theatrical clothes, walking around the village and asking for alms?” I was particularly excited for Maundy Thursday, when, before the sumptuous Last Supper, my fellow apostles and I would get a free foot spa from the priest.
I didn’t expect I was in for a surprise: after the priest had washed the feet of the apostles, the apostles had to wash the feet of the other churchgoers. When I learned what I had to do, it was too late to back out. It was already Holy Wednesday, and I had started to go around the village with the other men. So I told myself that the next day, I would just grit my teeth, hold my breath and get the job done and over with.
Also, the washing of feet was the least of my worries that Wednesday. My calves had started to hurt, and I was feeling the onset of a cold. My fellow apostles and I had taken a long walk since Holy Monday, and we sometimes had to run under the drizzle. I thought we would just drop by the houses at the center of the community. It turned out we had to visit all Catholic homes, even the ones in the outskirts of the village.
Most houses in the sitios are built in the middle of a farm. That means neighboring houses are usually far apart. Some can be as far as half a kilometer from the nearest neighbor. In such places, we spent more time walking in the fields than staying inside the homes. From Holy Monday to Holy Wednesday, we visited at least a hundred households in four puroks and three sitios. We traveled about 20 kilometers. We trekked more than a dozen hills, crossed two creeks and, between the 12 of us, slipped on the muddy ground a hundred times.
I found out that being an apostle is more than just asking for alms. In fact, what we received could not be considered alms at all. We didn’t ask for any payment; the village folks just handed us whatever they could afford or wanted to. About half of what they gave us was money, most of which were coins. The other half was fruit and vegetables. (We liked fruits; we ate them as we walked. But we couldn’t say exactly the same for vegetables, especially squashes—especially squashes that weighed more than a kilogram each.)
The primary duty of apostles is to lead the prayer inside the homes and during processions. In the course of the Holy Week, I must have recited “Our Father” and “Hail Mary” in the vernacular 150 times. I had not been that involved in a community activity for a long time. The last time I actively served in the church was when I was still in grade school. I was an altar boy then, and my father was the apostle. When I moved to other places to continue my studies and to work, my participation in parish activities lessened. That was why, last year, I no longer knew that apostles had to wash the feet of other people.
The washing of feet turned out to be not as unpleasant as I thought it would be. I even found myself enjoying it. My parents happened to be seated on one of the pews assigned to me. As I washed their feet, it dawned on me that I had never touched their feet before, while they had touched, washed and even kissed mine when I was a baby.
Why would washing feet, a lowly act, be a good experience? It’s because you cannot feel greater than a person who helps you clean yourself. When the priest washed my feet, I felt unworthy of such a service. When I washed the feet of the other churchgoers, they fidgeted and smiled shyly. No one made me feel that I am a lesser being because I touched his foot, washed the grime off it and patted it dry with a towel. From being hesitant of performing the rite, I found myself wishing there were more pews and more people who came.
In his homily, the priest asked those who attended the Mass, “Among the leaders of our country today, who do you think is willing to wash the feet of an ordinary person?” Faces ran inside my head—faces of national and local government officials—and I wasn’t able to come up with a sure answer. The rest of the congregation seemed to be in the same quandary. Silence answered the priest.
Father then went on to say that it is the biggest difference between Jesus Christ and most politicians. Christ was a king, but he led like a servant. Our leaders are public servants, but many of them act like kings. I can only agree with the priest. Many of our leaders will resign first before they will wash the feet of, say, a laborer, though they won’t resign in the face of corruption charges with damning evidence. Perhaps they will wash a laborer’s feet, but only if there’s a camera around. But if no one is looking, they will kick the man—or do worse to him—if he keeps on complaining against inequality and injustice.
It is difficult to follow the footsteps of Jesus Christ, but I believe our leaders should try to and do their best. They should learn to wash the feet of the masses, if not literally, at least figuratively. They should always keep in mind that they hold office by people’s consent, not by divine right. Because if they remain greedy and abusive, the people will eventually see them for the thieving slaves that they are.
Our corrupt leaders may be able to get away with their ill-gotten wealth. They may keep on eating steak in luxury hotels while half of the people in the country knead their grumbling stomachs. But all they will get is false friendship from their fellow crooks and flattery from desperate voters. They will never earn the respect of an honest, hardworking man. A laborer, in the heart of whom Christ resides, will not find them worthy to lead him. They are not worthy to serve him, not even to wash the dirt off his feet.
After Jesus washed the feet of the apostles, he said, “I am your Lord and Teacher, and I have just washed your feet. Therefore, you must also wash one another’s feet. I have given you an example, so that you too will do what I have done to you.” It’s Lent. It’s time to listen to his message, to emulate his deeds.
Old Shoes
Published in the Youngblood section of the March 24, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
Among the more than 6,000 pairs of shoes you will find in our school, mine must be in the poorest shape. All that is left of its original label are scattered dots. The tongue and side flaps of each shoe are in danger of falling apart anytime, much like the petals of a withered rose. The rubber soles and front covers, which were once white, are now gray with dust and age. With every step I take, my little toes peek out from tiny holes at the sides. (Now girls looking at me as I walk can find out if a guy with small shoes has small . . . toes.)
The size-7 canvas shoes cost me P209 last year. Now, beggars would sneer if I offered them my shoes. Well, they don't have to do that because I don't have any plans of letting go of them yet. In fact, I've decided to wear them until the end of the school year, or until all my toes are exposed, whichever comes first.
I'm amused when other students stare at my battered and tattered footwear. I try to guess what's on their minds. They probably pity me. I sure look poorer than a barefoot rat.
But I couldn't care less. Being poor is currently in fashion. (With the expanded value-added tax and all the corruption in government, we don't have much choice, do we?) What matters to me is that I don't have athlete's foot. Besides, school is not a catwalk.
I'm glad male students are free to wear any kind of pants in my school. Sneakers look just fine with jeans.
For more than a year, I've been wearing the same shoes every day—in the classroom, out on the streets, even during acquaintance parties. I take them off only when I'm going to sleep or taking a bath. Their sole competition is the red, oversized slippers my old roommate in the dorm gave me to remember him by.
The shoes were the best investment I have ever made by far. They helped me pass two Physical Education classes—dancing and badminton—but they have to last until I get through basketball this semester. I've worn them for more than 400 days already. This means that I've spent about 50 centavos a day only for my very reliable footwear. (I figure that if our lawmakers adopt this kind of austerity measure for themselves instead of burdening the people with so many much taxes, our economy might recover faster.)
I have no plans of buying a new pair yet because walking inside the mall makes my legs ache. And I hate crowded places. And I hate shopping. And I hate capitalism.
Of course, I'm just making pathetic excuses. I'm actually waiting for the day when I will have enough money to buy better shoes (I'm dreaming of Ferragamos or a pair of Zoom LeBron III). In the meantime, I am thinking of a way to convince Manny Pacquiao how badly I need money so that he would give me some balato(share) from his latest win. And I'm still weighing the moral implications of betting in the illegal numbers game called “last two.”
I never liked sneakers before. I bought mine only because all my newfound friends last year were wearing sneakers. We agreed to wear shoes of the same kind but of different colors. There were already red, green and blue, and I was supposed to have Power Ranger white. But I had to settle for a black pair with slightly different markings because it was the only one available in the store then.
From the moment I started wearing them, I was convinced canvas shoes were the most comfortable shoes in the world. They also made me part of a cool brotherhood like the Fellowship of the Ring. Thus, seven pairs of sneakers would usually walk together to and from Mathematics, Chemistry and Technical Drawing classes. And suddenly, I was not this antisocial paperback junkie anymore, and the number of people calling me “weird” was getting smaller by the week. Before that, a lone pair of black suede shoes trod the school premises by themselves.
The sneakers, however, did not keep our brotherhood together for long. The next semester, the one who always thought up ways for the group to bond together had to transfer school. Another stopped studying. We also had different class schedules and others found the company of others more enjoyable. My sneakers had their chance to take a different path when I finally realized that I was always getting lost trying to find the x's and y's, and decided I might do better if I aspired for public service.
I don't see the other guys very often anymore. But most of us still use the same old shoes. And I'll continue wearing my sneakers, even if they are stained, discolored and torn. I don't want to buy new shoes. I might never find a better or equally valuable pair.
Mugged
October 5, 2010
I was mugged, and just like all victims of cheating, I never thought it would happen to me. I always believed it happens only to people who are naïve, careless, or have a birthmark in the butt. I believed I was smart enough not to fall prey on cheap street crooks.
It happened in Cotabato City , while I was on my way home from Cebu City to Sultan Kudarat Province Mindanao I had tried to imprint on my mind.
I didn’t need to spend a night in Cotabato City
I also imagined myself waxing nationalistic. Cotabato City for me is the epitome of the Philippines Philippines
The predators, though, did not wait for me to sit at the plaza before pouncing. I was mugged a short while after alighting from the van I was riding—in broad daylight and in the middle of a busy street.
“You have to pay,” an unkempt youth said to me in Cebuano.
“Huh?” I said, still walking.
“If you don’t pay, I’ll stab you.”
It dawned on me that I was being extorted. I felt insulted. The rascal had taken me for someone fresh off the boat. His assumption, though, was not exactly unfounded. I was grimy and sweaty, and I did not seem to know how to speak Tagalog. Earlier, he had approached me and talked to me in Tagalog, offering for help, but I declined, starting my sentences in Tagalog and lapsing into Cebuano. (I’m Ilonggo, however.)
I looked at the guy’s hand. His fingers were wrapped around a blue ballpen, which was pointed upward, not at me. I noticed that his voice was quivering, too. As he was obviously bluffing, I ignored him.
“This is Cotabato City
I nearly rolled my eyes. If I believed in such baloney, I wouldn’t be there in the first place. One reason why I took the Ozamis-Cotabato-Isulan route, not the usual Cagayan-Malaybalay-Tacurong, was that I wanted to tell people I know that this side of Mindanao is not as dangerous as it appears in the media. I felt the road was safe for me because I was an ordinary traveler, not a journalist, foreigner, or politician.
The mugger kept muttering threats. I scanned the area for policemen, but I didn’t see any. I thought of running toward a group of people and asking for help, but I was too embarrassed to shout. I thought of telling the guy I’m the mayor’s nephew, but I considered name-dropping, even in such a situation, beneath me.
My options were running out, so I sized up the mugger if I could take him down mano a mano. I hate to admit this, but I ditched the idea in no time. Though he was not bigger than me, he was taller (as most people are). And I only had a boiled egg and a roll of Maranao sweets for lunch. And my heavy bags hampered my movements; even simply running away would be difficult.
In frustration I asked, “How much?”
“One hundred,” he said.
“Haah?” I said, my voice slightly higher. For a thief whose only weapon was a ballpen, I thought he was asking too much.
“Just fifty then,” he bargained.
I took out my wallet and flipped it open, tilting it away so he could not see the contents. I took out a fifty-peso bill and handed it to him.
Then I noticed another boy that had been riding a rusty sikad (a bicycle with an attached carriage) alongside us. I wasn’t able to connect him with the mugger until they exchanged a few words in Maguindanaon.
The first kid turned to me again and said, “You have to pay.”
I frowned at him, implying that I thought the matter had been settled.
“Give me some more,” he said.
“Give me some more,” he said.
“F—— you,” I muttered. It was the first time I uttered the words to anyone.
“Fifty pesos,” he said.
Earlier, I was just irked, but this time I was starting to become truly nervous—not because the crooks turned out to be Muslims but because they seemed persistent in milking me. But still I thought they were not thuggish enough to deserve another fifty pesos. I fished out, instead, all the coins in my pocket. They glinted in the sun like gold nuggets.
“That will do,” the bastard said, and I dropped the coins in his hands.
He hopped on the sikad and they sped off.
He hopped on the sikad and they sped off.
The muggers had appeared and disappeared in just a minute, maybe even less. I continued walking, wondering if what happened really happened. When I spotted a lodge, I deposited my bags and walked to the nearest police station.
I had no intention of getting my money back. What I lost was a pittance; I had spent much greater amounts on stupid things. But I was worried that if I didn’t do anything, those boys and others like them would keep on prowling the streets of Cotabato City Cotabato City
The policemen were more helpful and friendly than I expected. They brought me back to the street in a patrol car. But the kids, of course, were wise enough not to hang around. I had to settle with just having the incident recorded in the police blotter.
I went back to the inn and locked myself inside the room, seeking catharsis from what happened by writing about it. And as I was writing the first draft of this, I realized what the mugger was holding was not a mere ballpen. It was a little too fat and did not look like any ballpen I had seen or used before. The glinting silver metal I had mistaken for the ball point might actually be the tip of a tiny icepick-like weapon. I was in real danger after all, and my ignorance gave me a false sense of courage.
What happened could be enough for me to swear not to go back to Cotabato City Cotabato City
And one last thing: whatever you bought my money with, I hope you choked on it.
A Free Ticket and Missed Autographs
November 21, 2009
I’m enjoying my four-day leave, but I still haven’t got the slumber I intended to have. I spent the whole day yesterday bumming around inside SM (pathetic life) and a quarter of the night last night at the Hale concert in a college campus. The fun thing was, I got in there with a free ticket! Thanks to my dormmate Mitch.
Mitch works as a receptionist in the hotel where the band was billeted. A guy from the band’s entourage made a pass at Mitch (without much result, I must say) and gave her some concert passes. Since Mitch was too tired from work to go, she decided to donate the tickets to some charity cases, i.e., me and some friends.
But before we went to the campus, Mitch showed us around the hotel. She let us inside the penthouse at the rooftop. That’s another thing to thank Mitch for. I’d never be able to set foot inside such a posh room if not for her (unless of course I’ll work as a bellboy in Dubai someday). She said that in the three years since the hotel was built, the room has been occupied just once. Which isn’t so surprising considering the room’s rate: thirty thousand bucks a night.
When we got back to the hotel’s lobby, Hale’s entourage was there—with some members of the band, I heard from whispers. The famous vocalist wasn’t there, though. I wanted to ask for an autograph, but the thing was, I didn’t know which of the guys were members of the band (music ignorant me). It would surely be weird to come to them and say, “Excuse me, who among you are famous? Could you scribble a few letters on my sneakers?” So I decided to play it cool and pretended they didn’t exist.
Then a baller-looking guy passed by. “He looks like Asi Taulava,” I thought, “but he’s dark and Asi has Caucasian skin on TV.” I played it cool again, and found out today from Mitch that it was indeed Asi (sport ignorant me). Ugh, another missed autograph.
At the concert venue, I was surprised with how big the crowd was. It was not big! There were just about 300 to 350 people, who all seemed to be college students. The place, which appeared to be a mini gym with a basketball court, had enough space for someone to ride a bicycle around. Good luck to the organizers and to their pockets.
Hale played for an hour or so. I am now a fan. I learned I had heard some of their songs before and liked them; I just didn’t know who were singing those songs. Unfortunately, the sound system was less than serviceable. I didn’t understand a word the vocalist crooned—well, almost. I figured out “sides of your circle” from “The Day You Said Goodnight,” and I think I heard him say “Maayong gab-i” and “Mabuhay Cebu” once.
The drummer rocks. Fuckin’ rocks. Champ Lui Pio, the vocalist with the dimples and milky skin and smiling chinky eyes, is your perfect magazine cover boy. I couldn’t help but notice, however, that his khaki pants were betraying his fat legs. Oh, I’m just sour-graping, which I shouldn’t. A fan could only see that his idol is perfect. Hail Hale!
I’m enjoying my four-day leave, but I still haven’t got the slumber I intended to have. I spent the whole day yesterday bumming around inside SM (pathetic life) and a quarter of the night last night at the Hale concert in a college campus. The fun thing was, I got in there with a free ticket! Thanks to my dormmate Mitch.
Mitch works as a receptionist in the hotel where the band was billeted. A guy from the band’s entourage made a pass at Mitch (without much result, I must say) and gave her some concert passes. Since Mitch was too tired from work to go, she decided to donate the tickets to some charity cases, i.e., me and some friends.
But before we went to the campus, Mitch showed us around the hotel. She let us inside the penthouse at the rooftop. That’s another thing to thank Mitch for. I’d never be able to set foot inside such a posh room if not for her (unless of course I’ll work as a bellboy in Dubai someday). She said that in the three years since the hotel was built, the room has been occupied just once. Which isn’t so surprising considering the room’s rate: thirty thousand bucks a night.
When we got back to the hotel’s lobby, Hale’s entourage was there—with some members of the band, I heard from whispers. The famous vocalist wasn’t there, though. I wanted to ask for an autograph, but the thing was, I didn’t know which of the guys were members of the band (music ignorant me). It would surely be weird to come to them and say, “Excuse me, who among you are famous? Could you scribble a few letters on my sneakers?” So I decided to play it cool and pretended they didn’t exist.
Then a baller-looking guy passed by. “He looks like Asi Taulava,” I thought, “but he’s dark and Asi has Caucasian skin on TV.” I played it cool again, and found out today from Mitch that it was indeed Asi (sport ignorant me). Ugh, another missed autograph.
At the concert venue, I was surprised with how big the crowd was. It was not big! There were just about 300 to 350 people, who all seemed to be college students. The place, which appeared to be a mini gym with a basketball court, had enough space for someone to ride a bicycle around. Good luck to the organizers and to their pockets.
Hale played for an hour or so. I am now a fan. I learned I had heard some of their songs before and liked them; I just didn’t know who were singing those songs. Unfortunately, the sound system was less than serviceable. I didn’t understand a word the vocalist crooned—well, almost. I figured out “sides of your circle” from “The Day You Said Goodnight,” and I think I heard him say “Maayong gab-i” and “Mabuhay Cebu” once.
The drummer rocks. Fuckin’ rocks. Champ Lui Pio, the vocalist with the dimples and milky skin and smiling chinky eyes, is your perfect magazine cover boy. I couldn’t help but notice, however, that his khaki pants were betraying his fat legs. Oh, I’m just sour-graping, which I shouldn’t. A fan could only see that his idol is perfect. Hail Hale!
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