Lessons In EDSA

I wasn’t’ able to join the People Power Revolution back in 1986. I was too young then. I just turned 14.

Neither was I able to join EDSA 2. It was physically impossible since I was too far away. I was living in Los Angeles then.

EDSA 3? I don’t think so. Even if this is the third chance for me to join a potentially historic event in unseating a president, I think I would choose to pass.

I have nothing against those people who march out to the streets to fight for what they believe in. People like Professor Randy David have always made it clear that this society needs changes. Radical changes.

But somehow, I believe that Filipinos haven’t really learned their lessons. And I’m not only talking about lessons in EDSA here but more so in realizing that EDSA is just the first step. Rebuilding a nation requires a lot more hard work than trooping to that famous stretch of road dissecting this metropolis.

I remember way back in 1987, at the first year anniversary of the original People Power Revolution, our most-feared History teacher required us to join the celebrations commemorating the event. I was young, idealistic, nationalistic, and I wore Haruta leather shoes. Without my socks on. Yes, my dear wife, I was a certified fashion victim back then. Imagine me walking the stretch of EDSA from Ortigas to Camp Aguinaldo wearing my leather loafers. Predictably, at the end of the day, my two feet were sore from all the blisters I got from that ordeal.

But the thing is I learned my lesson well. Wear the appropriate shoes for the proper occasion.

For the Filipino people, we cannot hope to go far on this journey if we do not learn the lessons history keeps on teaching us. Just like the blisters on my feet, these would prevent us from moving further.

Discover Philippines II

I've found it!

A few weeks ago, I posted an entry about the latest Smart / DOT TV ad featuring the various tourist spots in the Philippines. And I was particualry intrigued by the shot of what seemed like a chapel inside a cave. But I didn't know where in the Philippines it is located.

And last night, as my wife and I were surfing the net, looking for travel packages online for our summer destination this year, we stumbled upon the Wow Philippines website. (And as I also found out, the Department of Tourism wasn't able to get the domain name of www.wowphilippines.com. They, instead, settled with www.wowphilippines.com.ph.)

And there I saw it. The Peñablanca Caves located in Cagayan Province. The TV shot on the commercial and the pics on the website are just a taste of it. I'm sure that it's pretty much more grand and breath-taking once you reach the place.

It may take a lot of planning to be able to shedule a trip to Cagayan. Not to mention a lot of convincing on who would be helping out in driving. Coz for those who know me, I'm really super-lazy when it comes to driving. Especially long-driving. But I feel that it would be worth it as I discovered that there are a lot more tourist attractions in that area of the Philippines.

But for now, our focus is on Bohol. It's our first time there this summer. And boy, are we excited. Especially my wife who insists that I take some very good pictures of the tarsiers in Bohol. She plans to have some blown up pictures printed and compare it with one of her officemates who, according to her, looks like a tarsier.

Turning 34

"You're turning 34!" wife exclaims.

"Yeah, I know," husband says, eyes not leaving the book he is reading.

"You're already in your mid-thirties," wife says.

Husband stops reading his book. Then he looks at the wife.

"Ha ha ha! You're old!" wife teases.

"Look who's talking. I'm just one year older than you are."

"But still," wife interrupts. "I still belong to the Early Thirties bracket. While you are already entering the Mid Thirties."

"Yada yada," husband goes back to his book.

"So what do you want on your party?" wife asks.

"People who are in their mid-thirties don't like parties," husband states sarcastically.

"So we're not throwing a party this weekend?"

"No."

"Okay. Suits me just fine. I won't have to worry about the menu."

A few moments of silence as the two decide to just read their respective books.

Husband breaks the silence. "We haven't done a white party yet. You think that would be cool?"

Wife raises an eyebrow on hubby.

B (Manilow) On Helium

I just tried to search the net if there was a holiday yesterday like maybe the International Tone Deaf Day. Search produced zilch. No such holiday yesterday here in the Philippines, or anywhere in the world.

I’m still wondering what the hell happened yesterday at the party of one of our neighbors. You see, from time to time, our peaceful community gets scandalized by those loud videoke machines that one can rent on a daily basis. And yesterday was one of those days as a neighbor held a videoke party by his garage.

One of the guests was B, one of the more colorful characters in our village. Already in his late thirties, I strongly believe that the term KSP was invented because of him. And I also strongly believe that he comes from a family who are all tone deaf. Coz if someone who really cared for him told him the harsh truth, he wouldn’t dare sing another song and he would drop his dream of becoming the village concert artist.

Imagine this. At 11AM, as soon as the rented videoke machine arrived, B started his performance with the gayest performance of an Eraserheads classic. He followed it up with two more classic OPM songs to warm up his vocal chords. Then, he rested for about 3 songs. And when he resumed, there really was no stopping him.

From that whole afternoon until around 10PM when the party broke off, B probably hogged the microphone 80% of the time. I couldn’t care less since it wasn’t my party anyway. But I really couldn’t help noticing his singing as his voice was competing with the audio of the TV program my wife and I were watching. He was Barry Manilow on helium. And what was worse was that he's more tone deaf than the worst singers of the defunct That’s Entertainment teen show.

Yesterday, I was just waiting for B to sing "My Way". Had that happened, I would instead be searching the web today for a news item about the latest victim of the My Way curse.

Muted Medicine

The narrow hallways of the building were quite dark and claustrophobic. It was a far cry from the ultra-chic doctors’ offices in The New Medical City that I used to frequent just a few months before. But what could you expect. This was at the heart of old Binondo.

I counted at least three "turn off your cellphone" signs on the way to the doctor’s office. And as we were greeted by the doctor’s secretary to have our names listed down, she again reminded us to turn our cellphones off. Putting it on vibrate mode wasn’t enough, she reminded. It had to be strictly turned off. Gosh, they’re really serious about it. But why? I had to wait till a little bit later to satisfy my curiosity.

The waiting area was a shabby four-by-six meter room right adjacent to the doctor’s clinic. People who were already waiting were sitting on plastic chairs scattered all over the room. A 21" television was hanging by the ceiling in front. Two industrial fans served as ventilation. Talk about bare essentials.

Some people tried to watch the TV. I wasn’t interested. First, because it was showing a cartoon show. Second, because the volume was set very low that one can barely hear what Barney was saying on TV. Third, I had a stiff neck and watching the TV hanging from above would only force me to strain my neck muscles even more.

And so I just tried to relax sitting by my plastic stool. I was observing the room and the other people beside me. Hmmm. The four walls of the room were covered with paddings. And those paddings were the type used in sound-proofing.

The turned off cellphones, the almost-muted TV, and the sound-proofed walls. Something told me that they were all connected. And I would get some explanations in a while.

As we had our turn to consult with the doctor, I experienced the weirdest way a doctor diagnoses his patient. He touched the pulse from my left wrist using his fingers. Intently. Then he did the same thing with the pulse from my right wrist. That was it. He just listened, or should I say felt my pulses.

So that was what the strict rules about unnecessary noise and interference were all about. So that the doctor’s concentration wouldn’t be disturbed. (Yes, he knows if there is a cellphone turned on as one patient who didn’t turn off his discovered.)

Then, in the best Tagalog a pure Chinese can dare to speak, the doctor told me his diagnosis. And I was surpised that he was able to tell me various diagnosis about my health that I knew were true.

I won’t go into the details of the diagnosis and his prescription of herbal medicine. I won’t even convince you to believe in the way this doctor practices medicine. But when modern medicine fails to cure some illness of our modern times, it may be worth the try to go back to the basics.

The Monster

The Monster forced him to do those things. Endure the scorching heat of the sun and the sudden drops of the rains. Sleep by the sidewalks just to be able to reserve a spot in the line. The borrowed money was just enough for a one way ride. No extra cash for food. He just had to feed on what was left of him. Hope. Hope that he would win the game of chances. The probability was close to nil. What with the thousands of people just like him also waiting in line. Everyone hoping and hanging on to their dreams.

It is the same Monster which has been repeatedly playing with his fortune. His and of the millions of others who are just like him. Their stories are different, yet very much the same. The Monster owns them all.

This same Monster chose to get even crueler with his fate. It decides to push him. Push him harder even if he can’t move on any further. And when he couldn’t move on a step further, he stumbles. Down on the ground, the Monster pins him down. He cries. But it doesn’t heed his call. It continues by planting its ugly feet on his back. The weight crushes him. His shriek of pain dissolves into a whimper of submission. With unbearable pain of the repeated blows squashing his already beaten up body, he surrenders. His frail body can only take so much.

The Monster leaves him. Lifeless.

Crushed not only was his body, but also his dreams. His family’s hope and fortune remains dim, if not darker with his death. Another story of unthinkable misfortune. Another tale of human tragedy.

The Monster continues to claim lives. Many more lives of people like him who cannot break away from its clutches.

The Monster has a name. And it is called Poverty.

I Got Stabbed!

"Aling Lydia! Aling Lydia! Si Kulot ho nasaksak!"
("Miss Lydia! Miss Lydia! Kulot got stabbed!")

Aling Lydia is my Mom. I am Kulot. I was eight years old when it happened. And it was my friends who were shouting those carelessly chosen words, informing my Mom of an accident I met.

No, I was not the youngest member of the Sigue Sigue Sputnik who got caught in a gang war. And neither did I have an enemy mad enough to stab me. I was an adorable little kid. Really.

My playmates and I were playing one of our favorite games – street kickball. It’s a game very similar to baseball or softball except that instead of hitting a small ball with a bat, we were supposed to kick a football and run through four bases.

The football was kicked by one of my playmates and accidentally landed inside the front yard of one of our neighbors. Or in the lingo of street play, it went over-the-bakod. Unfortunately, there was no one inside the house. So we had to climb the fence ourselves to retrieve our ball.

You know how kids are. We had to race among ourselves to know who can get to the ball first. And so climb we did. The metal spikes of the fences didn’t deter our resolve to get our ball back.

I was among the first to climb the fence. As I was about to leverage my arms and feet to climb atop one of the cement posts, I felt something unusual touch my skin. It was in the inside of my right arm, just below the armpit. I took a peek as to what it was. And to my horror, my arm wasn’t just touched by something. The metal spike of the fence actually pierced into my arm. It was already about one inch inside the flesh of my triceps. There was no blood. Or at least, I don’t remember seeing blood flowing out from the wound. And the weirder thing was I didn’t feel any pain.

I immediately removed my arm from the metal spike and went down the fence. It only took a moment for my friends to realize what happened. And it was when all hell broke loose.

I ran home as fast as I could. My left hand was covering the stab wound on my right arm. As if I was so afraid to let blood drop from the wound. A few of my friends ran faster ahead of me towards the direction of our house to inform my mom as to what happened. As I was running, I was deciding whether to just faint and let my other friends catch me and bring me home.

Everything happened so quickly after that. My mom almost got a heart attack with the way my playmates broke the news to her. I was rushed to the hospital. And I got stitched up for the first time in my life.

The scar would later be a reminder of my daredevil recklessness when I was a kid.