Saturday, January 31, 2009
My Personal Birding Report for 2008
My Personal Birding Report for 2008
Jan 4, '09 5:05 PM
for everyone
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Happy 2009!!!
Here's my birding report for 2008.
Clock time are starting times. I usually do birding for about 2 hours.
October 2, 2008
9am
San Manuel wetland
Little Egret (3) [territorial birds]
October 8, 2008
4pm
San Manuel Coast
Kingfisher sp. (1 heard)
Copper-throated Sunbird (1)
White-collared Kingfisher (1)
Brown Shrike (1)
October 12, 2008
4pm
San Manuel tidal flat
Olive-backed Sunbird (1)
Black-capped Kingfisher [duPont 45 F] (2) [smaller than white-collared kingfisher]
White-collared Kingfisher (1 seen, 1 heard)
Sandpiper sp. [gray upper / white underparts] (2)
Sandpiper sp. [black beak / gray upper / white underparts] (2) [gray “kwintas” around neck / smaller than item 2]
October 13, 2008
after sunrise
San Manuel Mangroves/coast
Egret sp. [large flock roosting on the mangroves flanking the macadam road to coast]
Pied Fantail (2)
Iora (>10)
unidentified [white underside + blue-striped gray wings, size a bit larger than iora] (2)
Rufous-tailed Tailorbird (1)
Pied Triller (2)
Sandpiper sp. [same as item 5 in October 12] (2)
White-collared Kingfisher (2)
October 14, 2008
8am
San Manuel Mangroves
Stork-billed Kingfisher (1)
Kingfisher sp. (1)
October 15, 2008
7am
San Manuel Mangroves
Brown Shrike (1)
Pied Fantail (3)
White-breasted Wood-swallow (1)
White-collared Kingfisher (1 seen, 2 heard)
Olive-backed Sunbird (2)
Parrot sp. (2)
Olive Three-pipit (???) (2)
October 16, 2008
10am
San Manuel Coast
White-collared Kingfisher (4)
October 17, 2008
7am
San Manuel Coast
Pied Triller (3)
Stork-billed Kingfisher (1)
White-collared Kingfisher (5)
Pied Fantail (3)
Olive-backed Sunbird (6)
October 18, 2008
6am
San Manuel Coast
Shrike sp. (2)
Copper-throated Sunbird (1)
Pied Fantail (1)
Rufous-tailed Tailorbird (1) [in a mixed flock with 2 Ioras]
October 21, 2008
8am
San Manuel Coast
Asian Glossy-starling (3)
White-collared Kingfisher (3)
Iora (>10)
Pied Triller (1)
November 14, 2008
4pm
San Manuel Coast
Pied Triller (3)
December 26, 2008
3pm
San Manuel Mangroves/coast
Olive-winged Bulbul (2)
Kingfisher sp. (2 heard)
White-collared Kingfiser (1)
Kingfisher sp. [with orange flush in underparts when in flight] (1)
Sandpiper sp or Plover sp. [yellow legs, white underparts, gray wings, black cross-tipped tails, white border around eyes, very noisy when approached] (1)
White-breasted Wood-swallow (2)
Pied Fantail (1)
Wood-swallow sp. [golden-brown throat, looks like White-breasted Wood-swallow, perched on leaf-less tall tree facing the strong wind] (3)
I forgot the exact dates when I saw the coucal and the Chestnut-breasted Malkoha at the path near the back of our house. I saw the Coucal in October. While I saw the Malkoha a week before my Dad died (November 22).
I saw a Rufous Night Heron before noon time today (January 4, 2009) at the swampland under the acacias 300 meters from the back of our house. It's resting on the high branch of one of the acacia trees.
Juvenile Scapeland
The unreality of landscapes as the saying goes. For a brief moment they unmask themselves as CLANDESTINE. And basically, you never see them again. Try as you may. It is always the unknown room in the palace. The corridor in If It Die…, or in the burrow.
-Jean-François Lyotard
“Scapeland” in The Inhuman: Reflections on Time
Juvenile Scapeland
poetics of a queer childhood
for Carmelita Tagudar-Corkhum, on her 51st birthday
*
I was a reluctant butch. I never told my friends. I was never at ease with it. It is something I could never be proud of – nor be ashamed of.
*
“Denying a loss, I call myself careless,” so begins DM Reyes as he lays out a barren nocturnal shadowland of unrequited longing in his poem “Blue grapes.” Tonight, too, I write about loss. And I begin with childhood – the boy I lost somewhere between birth and late adolescence.
Sigmund Freud is a boy I could have loved, but there is a new place well within the place where I spent most of my childhood that was craving for a new set of characters. (Maybe the set is not new after all. It just happens that this was a recent and continuing discovery.)
The first generation: as a child and boy in the place.
Breaks have been numerous: childhood is multiple, it is not dual like a boy or girl; not a girl becoming a boy; nor a boy becoming a girl; not the claustrophobic history of Sigmund. I lost my first childhood when I entered school. Lost another when a girl courted me – a boy getting cruised at seven. Juvenile creativity attacked by another child – of another patriarch. The other child happened to be a girl – who will someday grow up into a woman? And I will be the future man for the little woman? Lost another when the school ended. After fourth grade, I moved on to another school. Another childhood lost.
*
Remembrance: recycling used memories of scenes. An early morning jog is a tour: old routes; new routes; old trails; new trails – undiscovered paths around the bush jungle I’ve come to live and love.
Mornings were times for mourning. Frigid times for mourning.
It will be a long walk along the untouched dust trail where blades of carabao grass will deliver last nights mist unto my socks, sometimes unto my bare feet when Mommy allows me to wear my blue slippers to the wood-house. Mommy’s friend, and my brothers’ favorite teacher when they were my age, now awaits at the bamboo gate – beside the pomelo grove. Time to go. Time to hide in silence. What is going to be at the end of that long trail? I greet Mommy’s friend. Mourning moves on to another dimension.
*
This eerie morning, younger brother is back in his child’s embrace of the void. He is past asleep as I scribble this suite. Such an innocent dream of solitude as I look over him from my cot where I fuse the pieces of this morose prose. I remember the picture which I took of him during that summer after his first year at the university – a non-sensual view of a young male subject taking a catnap under the searing tropical heat.
Going back ten or more years ago, we had it so young at an affirmatively gay-paranoid and nuclearly colonial patriarchal home (That was years and years ago! So distant now!) – I was a solitary pubescent boy while he’s just a little kiddo brother: Sometimes the object of my personal rage because he’s the youngest while I got stuck up in fourth – such petty and foolish things now I see clearly with silent laughter. The only sad part part of which is that the silent laughter should not have been that silent ideally. (When one laughs in silence, one ends up crying…)
It should not have been that opaque. Thumbing my blues is the only thing that I can do sometimes – because he’s so “far away” now. Our brotherly ties now getting more and more like mere triangulations by the academic demagogues that we are. When I was breezing through the dusty trail of adolescence I never had time to ask him. Was everything forgiven and forgotten, considering the phobia? Too ashamed that I pinned the craving boy at the bottom (I was playing an early apprenticeship at being a tricks-rich dominator.) Yes, I’m too sorry, we were never once given the window or warm and silent blue room where things could have been straightened out. Little kiddo brother is more robust than me now – contemplating girls he likes most – while I ended up just being his intellectual elder brother… …who is also a homosexual. It stops at that. At distance.
*
Enough of that. This is just to set the blue themes up. Care if you want but it really stopped at that. Punctuate the first chord variation with a shrieking HE’S NOT MY TYPE! He’ll probably turn up black and blue if ever he gay baits me in all my contemplative self-centeredness.
*
I will not be blinded. I tasted the scent and saw it all in the peripheral outpost after the tanks rolled in and the vigilant weary crowd cleared after February, on the radio tuned to my Daddy’s only station during that frightening – that tearfully dizzying crossing of a decade. They’re jubilant, while the days raced towards the parchness of summer. Brother was ecstatic, he defied the city-matriarchs orders that he (the other boy) stay out of Makati. The chidings. The echoes: to the chicks, to the chicks – Mah- kah- tih – to the chicks, to the chicks – Ah- yah- lah! Not knowing what to do with thousands of shoes on that field trip to San Miguel, the restlessness showed on the faces of my classmates in my freshman class at the country’s elite science high school.
Today, that’s just… That’s just kitsch on the telee. Some fetishized spool of aging film.
*
The main question has been slapped on my centuries battered face. Without doing, I shall address it now. The urgency. Why Marxism? The little boy awed will quip, “I only believe in science.” Daddy, Mommy, and elder brothers who filled me in. With what? Observe. Think. Try. Observe. Try. Think. Observe. Try. To a child aching to know, that is perfect delight. To man, to woman, that adult thing, that’s hash. There’s no such thing, you idiot! You’re gonna bring the corporate ladder down. They also taught me God. I know what you’re thinking: Hey, that’s silly! Marx and God?
Don’t believe the absoluteness of things spoken. There’s only this mass of people. This mass. I often cried during holy mass when I was a boy. Loved the recessional songs so much that I sometimes hum them when I am alone contemplating a long procession along the aisle of a grand cathedral. Somewhere in the slow swirl of gold-colored clothes and ghostly smoke is me – a priest, an altar boy, one of those apostles, one of those beautiful boys who have their roles pegged for them – I wanted to be pegged for a role.
An atlas dead ringer at a young age? The messages of the geomancers belong to the storyland of their fantasized future that always shuts it past.
Enough. The awed little boy is getting xenophobic. And the other, the little boy who was not awed? He loved(!) Marx, because Marx was also once a boy. A curious Jewish lad growing up in a turn of age German home.
*
Boyhood could have been fun. If only… If only I pricked my eyes with my Daddy’s Parker pen that has always been my ideal. If only I blew my ear-drums deaf during those intermittent summertime skin-dives at my Mommy’s clan-owned plantation island a quarter hours drive from the provincial capital. If only I shut my mouth. And stopped breathing. And stopped giving manual service to a wretched self, tacking tears in, longing for some sweet thing obscured somewhere. Yes. Boyhood could have been fun. If only I stayed inside the merry little yard.
And stay in the merry little yard, I did.
Physically.
*
By January, the other boy was gone. My Aunt was trying hard to rationalize while I cried outside the councourse – watching the widebodied jetliner waiting to take one of my boyhood gods to his land of dreams. Daddy was silent: maybe you’ll see each other again. Mommy was explaining things out: he was his closest and most loved brother.
Was that love? I don’t know. But some things were certain. I wrote a college reading paper with a textual structure that made a parallel narrative between Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men and a brother’s act of moving away. I wrote E. explicit love letters during the time that I was finally coming out to myself.
*
I must say I really loved E. more than any other boy in our squad of five.
He scared a lot out of me sometimes, though – his self-centered independence tempered to slickness by years of checking things out alone. This has often been complicated by the reality that we were both narcissistic, be it in thematically and abstractly different ways.
We were both self-taught piano players. In the classical cannon, E. was partial to Robert Schumann and Frederic Chopin. Recently, I found that I loved drowning myself in the works of Richard Strauss and Sergei Prokofiev – the latter I liked not because of his first name which is a Russian version of my name, but due to the atonality of his music, something that mirrored painstaking transgression of conventional form; the former, I liked, simply because of the epical scale of his symphonic works, and the sonority of his lieders. E. learned how to draw and paint, I did not. I was too fussy about getting my lines straight and perfecting my curves. Daddy could have remedied my predicament by teaching me the proper use of a French-curve. However, I decided I will hate using the French-curve in the long run. I did not want to enter an artistic life with a glaring disability. I was scared by a vision: a mischievous kid in crutches trying hard to run along with his friends in a game of tag. It could be funny at times. Sometimes it is not.
Among my friends in childhood, I can not recall anyone who made any comment about the way I looked. (Looking back at rare pictures after I entered school, I noticed I really have that slight faggoty limp to the side!) The first person who made me conscious about my external and physical appearance is the other gay boy in our squad of five – E.
*
I can still recall how growing up in a countryside settlement academic environment embued me to think carefree about my young being-ness. Though I am not a very active child, physically speaking, I can always get in and out of the local gang in a matter-of-fact manner. I was not aware that I will be growing up in an entirely different way from my boyhood friends, notwithstanding my everyday excellence in academics. But even in the read-and-write field I never thought that I was that unusual a person. I would often have the usual difficulties: memorizing phyla and order in the biological sciences; contemplating the trajectories of freely-falling bodies; coming up with the proper configuration of a benzene derivative in organic chemistry. I guess, I was only a bit more introspective than my friends who never cared about anything in life except rushing to the soccer field or gymnasium right after a laboratory experiment, and having the friendly girl from the other grade level for a date or a short sweet talk in the library or the school cafeteria..
That’s what I thought then. We didn’t talk about those things like “Hey dude, why is it that you always want to play soccer?”.
Our interactions as adolescents were always filled with the extraordinary ordinariness of beings who always are in the process of dialogic clearing out for existence.
*
Let me not allow things to hang anymore. I was conscious of it at about eleven years of age. The last two years in grade school. The years when a boy starts breaking his voice. The years when you sneak at the back of a school building and start talk about getting jit. The years when you buddy it up in an imaginary manly place during a weekend pass. Ahhh, innocent grade school. Innocence that is aching to flower into the rites. Those innocent and boyish feelings and longings for companionship. That was the time I entered a new school, the first time that I saw my first same-gender pair image in a young man with whom I will be spending my last two years in grade school.
In the inner lowland of my province, the fog leaves its trace in the early mornings of June.
Coming in from my vacation in the metropolis, I found K. in my adviser’s classroom first thing that cool and foggy Monday morning. He was from another school, too. I had no idea where to place this new face in my intellectual scale, although I was not much interested in academic competition with anybody in my forthcoming class. The top slot in the 25-person class at the laboratory school was reserved for me.
*
It was so easy for a boy in the family to ride the carnivalesque aura that moves around with us. An elder brother was already a trophy at fourteen – a scholar at the best science high school in the country where I will be two years later.
The entrance examination, coming in from my fourth grade in a primary school just up outside campus, was mere bureaucratic formality. It was a given during that temporal and spatial moment that I was the best eleven-year old kid within 100 kilometers of the regional college where I literally grew up.
In my “cruel-against-lesser-people” moments, I tend to muse that the radius was in fact even greater than that! The girl from the same island province with whom I will be entering the halls of Pisay in June 1986 got significantly lower marks in the two-tiered screening examination administered by the country’s science and technology authority. She got accepted due to a state policy regarding cultural minorities. I was a normal entrant, something I was so proud of, clearing the second screening with a confident margin above the cut-off for the Southern Tagalog Region, one of the highest cut-offs around the country – second to Metro Manila.
*
K. became a group member of my reporting group in our civics class. He was often my companion on the way to school. We always came in late for our first period class. We were not doing anything along the way of course. I just enjoyed each others company, silently whiling time away walking towards a half discussed lesson.
K. didn’t have the benefit of having a father while growing up. The patriarch died while he was still a suckling. So what? He was the envy of every boy in the class because he had all the girls in school swooning over his charisma.
And his manners? No. Nothing. Nothing betrayed anything that can be betrayed by his Philippinesian features. If ever there was.
And there never was any. To the dismay of my adolescent mind – and I don’t know who else’s, nobody has come out yet, perhaps they never will.
He only courted a number of girls too many.
And beat out a number of boys in basketball and soccer shoot-outs too many.
*
What about now? Well he’s still courting a lot of women. I never asked him why. I guess it’s too an un-manly thing to ask my friend that question. Besides, whenever we have a time to talk to each other, an asymmetry always engenders into our relationship as two old acquaintances.
He never stopped looking up at me as the class valedictorian. As the wizard boy. As the son of two university-educated college professors. As the only lad in class who entered the halls of Pisay, a school he never even dreamt of getting into in the first place – because he always thought he was too ordinary, that I knew more about life than what I thought then were his bare desires.
Almost to the point of mockery. My mockery.
What I was not sure of was whether the asymmetry was still based on his parodic devaluation of his ego or whether he was looking at me as a fuckee in a fucker-fuckee relationship between two guys.
We never slept together.
*
We grew up, me and my brother, (No sisters?!? So what?!? We enjoyed each others company anyway – inspite of age gaps that ranged between one year to six years. I’m just laying out information for you – the reader. You may assemble these things up for your own version of the story. YOUR OWN VERSION, NOT MINE! – I refuse to imply anything.) inside the closed space of an academic institution in a frontier province. My Mom and Dad taught at the college, so they were able to avail of free housing facilities given to couples. The colonial style houses where quite roomy and airy. Our family of seven was never able to completely fill up the rooms. A child can lock himself up in the end room at the back of the house and my parents who occupied the front room will never hear his bodily sounds. We were quite free by ourselves.
Sometime, while I was about six, three college-age boys came to lodge at the vacant rooms at the back. That’s how it happened. Technically speaking, I was the more aggressive one in this pedophiliac homosexual bonding that took place.
*
High school was terrible for me. I was living in numerous fractured worlds at the same time. To my family and friends back in the province I was doing a good job studying at the best science high school in the country. For me, living with the “multiculti” product of the country it was no good at all. I don’t know where I got or how I developed swishiness, but the only thing I’m sure about was that some things were showing at the façade of my personage. Mix this with the fact that I was a small boy for my age. A gay cultural scientist who is well steeped with the dynamics of the country’s misogynist and humanistically homoparanoid cultures will easily understand how a young male subject who does not have the patriarchal inclination in joining the heterosexual subject formation at the early stages of personality development is left with nothing but the parodic devalution of his existence. I played volleyball with a swish – a total parodic abandon – and was often the butt of jokes of some sons of urban bourgeoisie. Later, going back to my province after two years at the nation’s capital, I learned and perfected the skill of playing the real hard-court stuff of volleyball, getting assigned the strategic job of setting-up offensive attacks during numerous matches. I learned to play the sport in a new real hard-hitting dimension. Now, why the heck was that sport not gendered outside the city?
Answers, anyone?
At present, I am no longer interested in inquiring about the number of the “clean and good” “real” boys who turned out gay. In Tagalog, masyadong masakit na para sa akin (it was too painful for me to think about it now). Everybody had their place while I was solitary right at the beginning – a lower-class gay pariah.
I always tried to be complex in my historico-material politics, devicing ever new ways of grasping and feeling through my socio-politics. (On a different note and level, this may be considered an ever contingent development of an ideological parachute in this hegemonic situation. And consequently the ideological practitioner – me – is always the loser.) In this ocassion I can’t do anything but apply classical class dynamics: My family belonged to the proto-intellectual class (which Filipino writer N.V.M. Gonzales calls a class that aspires to be middle class but in reality belongs to the working class – only, their job is highly specialized due to the strong indivuation produced by the division of labor, thus the ideological illusion of being above the laboring class) back in the province, but in the urban jungle I was a nobody among the rich and the bourgeoisie. I had no voice. A screaming soundless native gritty faggot.
*
There are two gays among us in the family. Or, that’s how far I can go regarding the adolescent sexualities manifest at home. Children are great experimenters, you know. They do stuff without testing them against priori hypotheses. The driving force they trust: that great welcoming unknown – the world.
The older homo boy was a junior natural scientist who was finishing his PhD in a university outside the country, a recipient of a prestigious fellowship grant from Sigma Xi, among others. He “practiced” his homo-ness half a year before I finally gave myself room, a wider room where my thoughts were freer.
I was the younger homo boy in this middle class family where both parents were both university-educated and ended up, both, holding college teaching positions.
Our playful brood grew up together inside the green and wide campus of a state college in the countryside, far from the bustlings of the metropolis which became our summer place (in an ironic reversion of a city dwellers notion of a vacation.)
We have been Mom and Dad’s whiz kid back home: academic trophies for my Mom and Dad – who have often been considered as non-conventional entities inside the green and wide campus. Perhaps, that was the only consolation they were able to get out of being looked upon as an odd couple who brought up a squad of academic boys in a far flung place. Year after year, were were reaping awards from our respective mentors.
We were not about to be brought up as physical bodies. The college track coach, a friend of Mom’s, was coaxing me to try middle distance running since I was eleven. Nobody gave it a thought. Nobody showed any enthusiasm about my going out of the academic way. Of course that would not have been a problem had I decide to run. My mother who had a minor in sports education from Diliman, was the college swimming instructor back then. Whenever me and my brothers had free time, we trekked with Mom’s weekend class to the beach where she conducts class.
But we were really training to be the whiz kids or/for our community that has continually polished our pedestals for us. My close friend K. was the captain ball of the basketball team in sixth grade. Another friend was doing well in football. I stayed within the confines of the library. Too proud of not being able to catch a baseball from the outer field. Afraid of not shooting the ball high enough to reach the basket. Even electing to read the revised little league rules for the school coach – in an apparent self-saving-cum-saving act. My physical education teacher regrets. He could have given me the home-plate position since I knew the rules more than anybody else in sixth grade. But I could not catch a ball. Or, say, I could not look a ball straight in the eye as much as I would want to. I didn’t know what would happen if I got hit by a spherical lump of leather, rubber, and wood. Worst, I couldn’t even tell my predicament to my friends. My friends who thought it’s really just not my cup of tea to sweat it out and have fun with them in the dusty baseball field. Otherwise, inspite of this “self-centered” fear of the physical games that my friends were playing, nobody could mistake me for a sissy in grade school. Simply, I was not one. Or, I can’t be one, not out of choice. I could not even talk to anybody what makes my limbs tremble. Tremors only I could feel.
*
Sexuality may have been the base of gender along with other possible complex permutations of the two categories together. But gender was never the exact base of sexuality.
*
And so, for all these, we never performed nor subjected ourselves to that fetishized concept called coming out. Even if we became silently-frozen, unsuspected spectators of our childhood friends who are at the throes of their battles for their most cherished identities – be it that they are parlor queens or gym rats. Battles which would never have been The problematique in the first place.
*
This was my compendium.
…my well of answers to questions of loneliness and of being second-best or being second-boy …for myself … for my loved ones, my few ones – after living for about a quarter of a century…
In a preface to a re-issue of his A Boy’s Own Story, novelist Edmund White said, ‘If I’d hated myself as a boy and adolescent, I now felt an affection for the miserable kid I’d once been, a retrospective kindliness one might call “the pederasty of autobiography.”’ Autobiography? This is not yet my autobiography. Narrative lines are still soaked in a great entangled mass. Interpretations have not yet landed in their final resting ground. Tentative like poetry.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Runsay
Rùnsày
An Inner Traveler’s Notes on An Indigenous People’s Filiation under the Moon
An Inner Traveler’s Notes on An Indigenous People’s Filiation under the Moon
Ancestral lands / domains shall include such concepts of territories which cover not only the physical environment but the total environment including the spiritual and cultural bonds to the areas which the Indigenous Cultural Communities / Indigenous Peoples possess, occupy and use and to which they have claims of ownership.
- Sec. 4, R.A. 8371, “The Indigenous Peoples Rights Act of 1997”
This is probably how creation starts: Before the light, everything is washed by rain and wind in the frightening dark – leaving in its track a brand new landscape that would then wait for the coming of light. At times, light was not to come from the blistering sun that arrives after a long twelve-hours wait. In the most primeval ceremonies, light comes from the watery light that arrives between the two blinding streaks of daylight…
On the last Sunday between the gregarious celebration of Puerto Princesa City’s fiesta and the more somber yule festivity, I traveled with a group of advocacy journalists some 63 kilometers south of the provincial capital.
Our trip to the town of Aborlan was to become my unexpected Christmas gift for 2003.
Despite being born in Puerto Princesa, I have a rather complicated socio-cultural upbringing. I didn’t grow up in the city I have currently adopted as my temporary outpost. My parents both taught at the Palawan National Agricultural College (PNAC, before it became State Polytechnic College of Palawan, SPCP) based in barangay San Juan of Aborlan town and I spent a great deal of my growing up years there. Beyond the tree-dotted and cattle strewn campus of PNAC, about an hour’s trek to the east is a two-kilometer wide beach where I spent childhood years learning to swim on weekend mornings. Eventually, we had to move back to the provincial capital when my parents retired from teaching.
Jean Genet, 20th century’s maverick novelist and great friend of the Palestinian cause, used to say that people should never leave their homelands. Ostensibly this was because he didn’t want the way his fellow French countrymen treated Africans and Arabs way back in the beginning of the century. Just as the Americans lassoed the Pacific islands into commonwealths, French and British administrators were busy centralizing its colonies in the African continent. With this contact of divergent cultures came economic and political hardships for the dispossessed. But what should natives do when the last remaining bastions of what they call their homelands become seeding grounds for settlers of an encroaching civilization?
Flash forward a quarter turn of the globe to the east: Palawan. Long before other peoples came to this land, the indigenous peoples (Tagbanua, Pala’wan, Batak) lived in this vast landscape of mountains, foothills, coastal flatlands, and the sea. This may look like a very large area to live in. But for the Tagbanua, each of these geographical corridors were not disparate places for their lives’ toils. From the mountains and foothills, they got light timber and rattan for their homes. On the wide flatlands bridging the sea and the mountains, they formed settlement villages and swidden farms. From the sea, they sometimes fished and gleaned for the wide variety of crustaceans in tidal flats. It was impossible for the people to stay put in one place during their entire lives as the bounty of each of the geographical corridors were dependent on the rhythm of the natural world.
At around 3:30 in the afternoon our group arrived in Iraan, where we fetched Masikampo Rolando Cursod (the Tagbanua village head in this part of the province) who then guided us to the place where the village runsay was to be held. The very same beach of my unsuspecting childhood.
Under the fronds of coconuts in a tract of coastal land which had once been a flat coastal bushland covered with cogon grass, the gathering took place. Runsay, the yearly thanksgiving and panata of the Tagbanuas.
The clearing was just a few steps away from the mouth of the Iraan river, one of the rivers that flow through the flat hilly land of Aborlan town. Aborlan had been the place of tribal relocation during the dawn of American occupation during the 1900’s. An agricultural vocational school was founded here by the Thomasite John Henry Finnigan in 1912. Principal Finnigan would eventually get killed during a prison uprising in Iwahig.
Our team arrived at around four in the afternoon just as four village elderly women of the Iraan Tagbanua community were preparing offerings for the night’s ceremony. They were seated on plastic mats laid on the ground. Each was busy preparing curious bits and pieces with intricate whorls of their fingers. One of the four elderly women brought out the contents of her plastic tote-bag on the makeshift ground-mat: a kunit (a native ginger, orangey in color); a mama’un (a betel nut, my citified eyes have seen for the first time); a partially dried rinsab (a native tobacco leaf); a bag of rice grains; and a mother-of-pearl shell containing apog (powdery lime for the native cigar they call sigep). A native chick was chirping inside a small net-bag near her lap. Another elderly was curling the reeds of an unopened young nipa frond by continuously folding each into overlapping pinch-size squares. The other two were also busy with the intricate preparation of their family offerings, mainly the mentioned native cigars (one for each family member and an extra one for another unborn soul just in case) and rice grains. One can hear them chat and laugh casually while their hands mellifluously went on with the afternoons chore beside the women’s lean-to. (A second lean-to, for the male villagers, was still being put-up when we arrived.) This familial casualness was to become the tone for the entire duration of the ceremony that was to take place that night.
At dusk, other villagers trickled in and construction of a balsa (bamboo raft) began.
With not much activity going on among the village folk, our group huddled at the beach, where we had our late afternoon snack. The tide was still out, we could see two pre-teen boys at the water beyond the amorphous tidal flat. Soon, concerned with the waning daylight, we decided to eat an early dinner.
The wind had been strong coming from the sea when we arrived. It continued on till early evening. This very elemental atmosphere of the place had always kept me on my toes whenever I am near far flung beaches. I experienced a sudden downpour in this same beach when I was a pre-adolescent 12-year old boy. Pea-sized raindrops hurtled to an almost horizontal trajectory powered by blistering wind from the sea. My companion and I had to seek shelter behind one of the kakawate patches so numerous in the grassland flanking the beach. We were like basang-sisiw, so to speak. After about ten minutes, this experience of nature at its frightening extreme ended. I would later ask my mother if it had rained at the campus in the inner-land, and when she answered with a questioning “No. Why?” I was forced to tell her about my clandestine walk to the beach. I learned from her, that coastal phenomenon was a subasko.
Early that evening, we got to experience a mild subasko. Everyone in my group (huddled inside our two tents – set up just beyond the outer periphery of the clearing made for the ceremony) was probably crossing his or her fingers for the rain and wind to abate lest it lead to a cancellation of the night’s ceremony. Knowing it always ends, I sat silently as nature’s extreme battered the fabric of the tent with a sound that was like a rain-maker being tipped-over. The sound of a thousand pebbles – music to sleepy ears.
When it ended, it was already dark outside without the moon in sight. This is the twenty-second of December – two days after the lunar solstice. The moon was expected to rise just before eight.
Other Tagbanua villagers and lowland settlers from the neighborhood continued to arrive. I have heard from accounts of previous runsay’s, specifically the one performed near another river to the south of Iraan, that village lasses and lads have been making the ceremony an excuse for non-sanctioned adolescent enterprise like dating. Inebriated boys of the community have also started to arrive with the Gibbous moon. Several times during the night, the village elderly had to halt their prayers and chanting to wait for drunken hecklers to leave the place of ceremony.
At one o’clock in the morning the send-off of the offerings commenced. The moon, hanging just a few degrees east of the zenith, bathed the beach and sky in diffused gray with a bare suggestion of blue. I licked my right pinky and pointed it up to the sky – I could not sense any wind as two village men carried the balsa to the softly breaking surf some two hundred meters from the tide line. Immediately after it was left to drift, the balsa slowly edged south, its wax-fueled fire barely getting a whiff of wind. It gets dreary as one watches this scenery, and soon everyone retreats back to the clearing under the coconut trees as the prayers resume.
Women and men held hands together to form a circle, stepping fore and forth while they recited Pinala’wan verses. The men would lead a verse which would then be answered by a repetition of the same verse by the women in the rotating circle. Soon, only the close family members would remain. The village merrymakers have gone to sleep. But this sing-song exchange of verses would go on every beat of the hour till about five in the morning, until possibly all the requests for filial favor have been chanted out loud in the rotating circle.
At six a.m. our group packed our tents and trekked back to Sitio Old Site inside the SPCP campus. The village women were gone and the old men left behind helped us carry our belongings to our waiting van. A wooden pole beribboned with the curled nipa fronds stood near the middle of the clearing, a solitary sign for the day’s newcomers, unseen or seen.
Walking through this old familiar trail, I was buoyant for having finally witnessed this ceremony that has gained a mythical status in my life as a young lowlander kristiyano in the settlement town. Left with the memory of the unperturbed gentle gaze of the old village woman whom my companions called Nanay Anita, I knew what the answer was to a nagging advocacy question: With the babaylan gone, what happens to the traditional ceremony?
It goes on. Or one way or another, in some future time, the link of filiation will be fired up again. Each of the four elderly women we have chanced upon on that Sunday afternoon had stories of how they decided to continue their filial rites to the unseen and unnamed but ever powerful god through the mediation of their ancestors. Each had been sick with chronic malady for a couple of years before. Those were the intervening years between the deaths of their fathers who were traditional babaylans of the village and the resumption of runsay in early 1990’s.
Still, what could possibly cut this intimate cycle of filiation among a dispossessed people? The weather perhaps. As I have mentioned, we were really afraid of the mild subasko we experienced that night.
Or maybe, the land. When the indigenous peoples have no more place to perform their sacred rites, this sacred filiation will finally end.
- Sec. 4, R.A. 8371, “The Indigenous Peoples Rights Act of 1997”
This is probably how creation starts: Before the light, everything is washed by rain and wind in the frightening dark – leaving in its track a brand new landscape that would then wait for the coming of light. At times, light was not to come from the blistering sun that arrives after a long twelve-hours wait. In the most primeval ceremonies, light comes from the watery light that arrives between the two blinding streaks of daylight…
On the last Sunday between the gregarious celebration of Puerto Princesa City’s fiesta and the more somber yule festivity, I traveled with a group of advocacy journalists some 63 kilometers south of the provincial capital.
Our trip to the town of Aborlan was to become my unexpected Christmas gift for 2003.
Despite being born in Puerto Princesa, I have a rather complicated socio-cultural upbringing. I didn’t grow up in the city I have currently adopted as my temporary outpost. My parents both taught at the Palawan National Agricultural College (PNAC, before it became State Polytechnic College of Palawan, SPCP) based in barangay San Juan of Aborlan town and I spent a great deal of my growing up years there. Beyond the tree-dotted and cattle strewn campus of PNAC, about an hour’s trek to the east is a two-kilometer wide beach where I spent childhood years learning to swim on weekend mornings. Eventually, we had to move back to the provincial capital when my parents retired from teaching.
Jean Genet, 20th century’s maverick novelist and great friend of the Palestinian cause, used to say that people should never leave their homelands. Ostensibly this was because he didn’t want the way his fellow French countrymen treated Africans and Arabs way back in the beginning of the century. Just as the Americans lassoed the Pacific islands into commonwealths, French and British administrators were busy centralizing its colonies in the African continent. With this contact of divergent cultures came economic and political hardships for the dispossessed. But what should natives do when the last remaining bastions of what they call their homelands become seeding grounds for settlers of an encroaching civilization?
Flash forward a quarter turn of the globe to the east: Palawan. Long before other peoples came to this land, the indigenous peoples (Tagbanua, Pala’wan, Batak) lived in this vast landscape of mountains, foothills, coastal flatlands, and the sea. This may look like a very large area to live in. But for the Tagbanua, each of these geographical corridors were not disparate places for their lives’ toils. From the mountains and foothills, they got light timber and rattan for their homes. On the wide flatlands bridging the sea and the mountains, they formed settlement villages and swidden farms. From the sea, they sometimes fished and gleaned for the wide variety of crustaceans in tidal flats. It was impossible for the people to stay put in one place during their entire lives as the bounty of each of the geographical corridors were dependent on the rhythm of the natural world.
At around 3:30 in the afternoon our group arrived in Iraan, where we fetched Masikampo Rolando Cursod (the Tagbanua village head in this part of the province) who then guided us to the place where the village runsay was to be held. The very same beach of my unsuspecting childhood.
Under the fronds of coconuts in a tract of coastal land which had once been a flat coastal bushland covered with cogon grass, the gathering took place. Runsay, the yearly thanksgiving and panata of the Tagbanuas.
The clearing was just a few steps away from the mouth of the Iraan river, one of the rivers that flow through the flat hilly land of Aborlan town. Aborlan had been the place of tribal relocation during the dawn of American occupation during the 1900’s. An agricultural vocational school was founded here by the Thomasite John Henry Finnigan in 1912. Principal Finnigan would eventually get killed during a prison uprising in Iwahig.
Our team arrived at around four in the afternoon just as four village elderly women of the Iraan Tagbanua community were preparing offerings for the night’s ceremony. They were seated on plastic mats laid on the ground. Each was busy preparing curious bits and pieces with intricate whorls of their fingers. One of the four elderly women brought out the contents of her plastic tote-bag on the makeshift ground-mat: a kunit (a native ginger, orangey in color); a mama’un (a betel nut, my citified eyes have seen for the first time); a partially dried rinsab (a native tobacco leaf); a bag of rice grains; and a mother-of-pearl shell containing apog (powdery lime for the native cigar they call sigep). A native chick was chirping inside a small net-bag near her lap. Another elderly was curling the reeds of an unopened young nipa frond by continuously folding each into overlapping pinch-size squares. The other two were also busy with the intricate preparation of their family offerings, mainly the mentioned native cigars (one for each family member and an extra one for another unborn soul just in case) and rice grains. One can hear them chat and laugh casually while their hands mellifluously went on with the afternoons chore beside the women’s lean-to. (A second lean-to, for the male villagers, was still being put-up when we arrived.) This familial casualness was to become the tone for the entire duration of the ceremony that was to take place that night.
At dusk, other villagers trickled in and construction of a balsa (bamboo raft) began.
With not much activity going on among the village folk, our group huddled at the beach, where we had our late afternoon snack. The tide was still out, we could see two pre-teen boys at the water beyond the amorphous tidal flat. Soon, concerned with the waning daylight, we decided to eat an early dinner.
The wind had been strong coming from the sea when we arrived. It continued on till early evening. This very elemental atmosphere of the place had always kept me on my toes whenever I am near far flung beaches. I experienced a sudden downpour in this same beach when I was a pre-adolescent 12-year old boy. Pea-sized raindrops hurtled to an almost horizontal trajectory powered by blistering wind from the sea. My companion and I had to seek shelter behind one of the kakawate patches so numerous in the grassland flanking the beach. We were like basang-sisiw, so to speak. After about ten minutes, this experience of nature at its frightening extreme ended. I would later ask my mother if it had rained at the campus in the inner-land, and when she answered with a questioning “No. Why?” I was forced to tell her about my clandestine walk to the beach. I learned from her, that coastal phenomenon was a subasko.
Early that evening, we got to experience a mild subasko. Everyone in my group (huddled inside our two tents – set up just beyond the outer periphery of the clearing made for the ceremony) was probably crossing his or her fingers for the rain and wind to abate lest it lead to a cancellation of the night’s ceremony. Knowing it always ends, I sat silently as nature’s extreme battered the fabric of the tent with a sound that was like a rain-maker being tipped-over. The sound of a thousand pebbles – music to sleepy ears.
When it ended, it was already dark outside without the moon in sight. This is the twenty-second of December – two days after the lunar solstice. The moon was expected to rise just before eight.
Other Tagbanua villagers and lowland settlers from the neighborhood continued to arrive. I have heard from accounts of previous runsay’s, specifically the one performed near another river to the south of Iraan, that village lasses and lads have been making the ceremony an excuse for non-sanctioned adolescent enterprise like dating. Inebriated boys of the community have also started to arrive with the Gibbous moon. Several times during the night, the village elderly had to halt their prayers and chanting to wait for drunken hecklers to leave the place of ceremony.
At one o’clock in the morning the send-off of the offerings commenced. The moon, hanging just a few degrees east of the zenith, bathed the beach and sky in diffused gray with a bare suggestion of blue. I licked my right pinky and pointed it up to the sky – I could not sense any wind as two village men carried the balsa to the softly breaking surf some two hundred meters from the tide line. Immediately after it was left to drift, the balsa slowly edged south, its wax-fueled fire barely getting a whiff of wind. It gets dreary as one watches this scenery, and soon everyone retreats back to the clearing under the coconut trees as the prayers resume.
Women and men held hands together to form a circle, stepping fore and forth while they recited Pinala’wan verses. The men would lead a verse which would then be answered by a repetition of the same verse by the women in the rotating circle. Soon, only the close family members would remain. The village merrymakers have gone to sleep. But this sing-song exchange of verses would go on every beat of the hour till about five in the morning, until possibly all the requests for filial favor have been chanted out loud in the rotating circle.
At six a.m. our group packed our tents and trekked back to Sitio Old Site inside the SPCP campus. The village women were gone and the old men left behind helped us carry our belongings to our waiting van. A wooden pole beribboned with the curled nipa fronds stood near the middle of the clearing, a solitary sign for the day’s newcomers, unseen or seen.
Walking through this old familiar trail, I was buoyant for having finally witnessed this ceremony that has gained a mythical status in my life as a young lowlander kristiyano in the settlement town. Left with the memory of the unperturbed gentle gaze of the old village woman whom my companions called Nanay Anita, I knew what the answer was to a nagging advocacy question: With the babaylan gone, what happens to the traditional ceremony?
It goes on. Or one way or another, in some future time, the link of filiation will be fired up again. Each of the four elderly women we have chanced upon on that Sunday afternoon had stories of how they decided to continue their filial rites to the unseen and unnamed but ever powerful god through the mediation of their ancestors. Each had been sick with chronic malady for a couple of years before. Those were the intervening years between the deaths of their fathers who were traditional babaylans of the village and the resumption of runsay in early 1990’s.
Still, what could possibly cut this intimate cycle of filiation among a dispossessed people? The weather perhaps. As I have mentioned, we were really afraid of the mild subasko we experienced that night.
Or maybe, the land. When the indigenous peoples have no more place to perform their sacred rites, this sacred filiation will finally end.
Friday, February 22, 2008
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Thursday, January 10, 2008
A Republic
A Republic
Early morning of January 18, 2003 found me walking a trail down a hillside on the western coast of Palawan. From atop the hill one could see the great expanse of mangrove swamp. On the left side of this wide vista were square patches of exposed boggy land, as if somebody had taken a razor blade and sliced a swatch from the green fabric before my eyes. We were some 30 kilometers North of Puerto Princesa City. I was part of a task force that would demolish a dike system put up on tidal flatland located in a clearing inside a mangrove forest. The clearing had been illegally made. The environmentalist lobby had gotten the court ruling and now we were taking it upon ourselves to execute it. Demolish the dikes.
“Isn’t it true? Aren’t we in the Republic of Palawan?” One volunteer lawyer of an environmental NGO said between his heavy panting. (Having grown up and spending most of his professional life in Manila, he was sweating all over.)
I don’t know what he exactly meant by that. The statement was ringing an assortment of suggestions. The most obvious of which irritated me: We are a Republic. This island I have identified myself with when placed face to face with individuals from other places is a self-contained system. A Republic.
How preposterous can one get? If this is a Republic, we would have been rich by now. We would have been as rich as Brunei now. What with all the oil and natural gas being piped out of our backyard, private investors share notwithstanding?
Early morning of January 18, 2003 found me walking a trail down a hillside on the western coast of Palawan. From atop the hill one could see the great expanse of mangrove swamp. On the left side of this wide vista were square patches of exposed boggy land, as if somebody had taken a razor blade and sliced a swatch from the green fabric before my eyes. We were some 30 kilometers North of Puerto Princesa City. I was part of a task force that would demolish a dike system put up on tidal flatland located in a clearing inside a mangrove forest. The clearing had been illegally made. The environmentalist lobby had gotten the court ruling and now we were taking it upon ourselves to execute it. Demolish the dikes.
“Isn’t it true? Aren’t we in the Republic of Palawan?” One volunteer lawyer of an environmental NGO said between his heavy panting. (Having grown up and spending most of his professional life in Manila, he was sweating all over.)
I don’t know what he exactly meant by that. The statement was ringing an assortment of suggestions. The most obvious of which irritated me: We are a Republic. This island I have identified myself with when placed face to face with individuals from other places is a self-contained system. A Republic.
How preposterous can one get? If this is a Republic, we would have been rich by now. We would have been as rich as Brunei now. What with all the oil and natural gas being piped out of our backyard, private investors share notwithstanding?
An essay on incoherence
An essay on incoherence
How easy it is to forget.
No, it is not easy to forget.
But what gets at you is how difficult it is to find meaning.
All those memories of childhood are still there, even after the purging.
But what eats you is how childhood seems to be a stupid thing to remember.
Childhood void of sentimentalism is just another phase.
How empty it seems when you get to the next phase.
Or how unrelated childhood seems to be to memories of puberty.
They don’t connect.
Or connections are trivial.
There are two principal ways of getting to the wooden schoolhouse. You walk the gravel road inside the campus and veer North along the grass lined path on the creek’s border. Or you walk the gravel road outside the campus until you reach the same school ground. Either way, you walk. You don’t ride a bike. You don’t have money to pay for a ride in a trike. I don’t know, I guess, I never asked money from my mother or father. They had nothing to give.
How easy it is to forget.
No, it is not easy to forget.
But what gets at you is how difficult it is to find meaning.
All those memories of childhood are still there, even after the purging.
But what eats you is how childhood seems to be a stupid thing to remember.
Childhood void of sentimentalism is just another phase.
How empty it seems when you get to the next phase.
Or how unrelated childhood seems to be to memories of puberty.
They don’t connect.
Or connections are trivial.
There are two principal ways of getting to the wooden schoolhouse. You walk the gravel road inside the campus and veer North along the grass lined path on the creek’s border. Or you walk the gravel road outside the campus until you reach the same school ground. Either way, you walk. You don’t ride a bike. You don’t have money to pay for a ride in a trike. I don’t know, I guess, I never asked money from my mother or father. They had nothing to give.
Rounded? Well-Rounded? Non Well-Rounded?
Rounded? Well-Rounded? Non Well-Rounded?
When somebody drops the discourse on non-roundedness, must I still be affected?
It’s a marker indicating that another battle is not worth pursuing anymore. Get my guns on another battle. For this one is not worth winning.
It is a vague issue. At best a discourse on averages.
A smattering of this and that. Tit for tat.
I cannot possibly control how others will take me.
Am I affected?
It is a lie to say I am not.
But as I have said, I cannot possibly control how others will take me.
I didn’t set out in the world to be everything.
I set out to learn. To know those things which I can do best.
And it is a lie to say I still don’t know a few of the issues I am good at.
Should I still pine for getting everything to get the best average?
Now that infuriates me. To do that is the most unintelligent thing.
I am afraid God might take the best things from me if I set my life in pursuit of that vague average.
I want to be able to say at the moment of dying, that final moment of closure, that I did the best I could in those issues presented to me.
Averages are fadistic. And even if I would have wanted to pursue the vague average, do I have to slap everyone in the room with the fact that my resources were meager?
I think it is hubris for a bourgeois “average” to regret that the people living in the mountains didn’t have cellular phones or pieces of modern fad gadgetry. They didn’t know how to go beyond themselves. That’s the simplest rebuttal I’ll give the “average.”
The best thing is I experienced everything I have been though to the fullest.
Do they know my happiness the way they knew their happiness?
I think they do not. The only thing they can do is say I am not a rounded-person because I did not fit their average. I didn’t take the same paths they took.
So what? Must I track back? Retrace my footsteps and take the same paths they took in pursuit of the enjoyment they knew best?
Theirs is really a limited self. Somebody who can’t go beyond one’s self. And when this happens, the other is not worth pursuing anymore. Communication is impossible.
Communication is a crossing of boundaries. A dynamic crossing. And it requires a great mind to really have this dynamicity. The best that the average can do is only to approximate the other, thinking that what it thinks about the other is the actual thing that the other thinks.
Approximation is not dynamicity.
Without dynamicity there is a failure of crossing.
Without crossing of boundaries there is no communication.
What is the value of an average other when you can not communicate with it?
I leave you the question to answer.
Now I sleep. And dream again.
When somebody drops the discourse on non-roundedness, must I still be affected?
It’s a marker indicating that another battle is not worth pursuing anymore. Get my guns on another battle. For this one is not worth winning.
It is a vague issue. At best a discourse on averages.
A smattering of this and that. Tit for tat.
I cannot possibly control how others will take me.
Am I affected?
It is a lie to say I am not.
But as I have said, I cannot possibly control how others will take me.
I didn’t set out in the world to be everything.
I set out to learn. To know those things which I can do best.
And it is a lie to say I still don’t know a few of the issues I am good at.
Should I still pine for getting everything to get the best average?
Now that infuriates me. To do that is the most unintelligent thing.
I am afraid God might take the best things from me if I set my life in pursuit of that vague average.
I want to be able to say at the moment of dying, that final moment of closure, that I did the best I could in those issues presented to me.
Averages are fadistic. And even if I would have wanted to pursue the vague average, do I have to slap everyone in the room with the fact that my resources were meager?
I think it is hubris for a bourgeois “average” to regret that the people living in the mountains didn’t have cellular phones or pieces of modern fad gadgetry. They didn’t know how to go beyond themselves. That’s the simplest rebuttal I’ll give the “average.”
The best thing is I experienced everything I have been though to the fullest.
Do they know my happiness the way they knew their happiness?
I think they do not. The only thing they can do is say I am not a rounded-person because I did not fit their average. I didn’t take the same paths they took.
So what? Must I track back? Retrace my footsteps and take the same paths they took in pursuit of the enjoyment they knew best?
Theirs is really a limited self. Somebody who can’t go beyond one’s self. And when this happens, the other is not worth pursuing anymore. Communication is impossible.
Communication is a crossing of boundaries. A dynamic crossing. And it requires a great mind to really have this dynamicity. The best that the average can do is only to approximate the other, thinking that what it thinks about the other is the actual thing that the other thinks.
Approximation is not dynamicity.
Without dynamicity there is a failure of crossing.
Without crossing of boundaries there is no communication.
What is the value of an average other when you can not communicate with it?
I leave you the question to answer.
Now I sleep. And dream again.
Dumaguete
D
Passing through the national highway that connects “Junction One” and the San Pedro area in Puerto Princesa, I often remember another city. The portion of the road that passes the western edge of the airport is so uncannily similar to the national highway that passes the edge of the airport of another city located some 400 nautical miles southeast of P. However, the sensation of fast moving tricycles and multicabs passing through this primary artery that connects the city to the barrios seems to be the only thing that gives similarity to the two cities I am imagining. As I pass through this strip of national highway in barangay San Miguel of P, much as the two cities of my imaginings are both located at the edge of land, bordering the sea, I am temporarily split in space and time. Differences abound, but I could not immediately place myself in the correct Cartesian map at the precise moment.
I first came to Dumaguete during the summer of 1997. D was the terminal point of a three-day trip I was taking to reach the summer Mecca for the country’s best literary greenhorns; it was to be my home for three weeks. The first leg of my trip was an overnight boat ride from P. Our boat berthed in Manila North at 10 in the morning the following day. I only had ample time to pick-up some clothes in my rented room in Quezon City and hit the mall for some last-minute shopping. At four in the afternoon I flagged a cab and braved the midsummer Friday afternoon traffic to the old Manila Domestic Terminal 2 for my flight south, the second leg of my trip.
The red-eye flight to Cebu was a clunker. There were perhaps only 20 passengers on that day’s last flight to the “Queen City of the South” that I could only see five passengers in my section of the widebodied Airbus. An hour’s flight and I was in Mactan International. After an uncomfortable overnight stay in a stolid area of the terminal building (This was when I learned firsthand that having an overnight flight connection can be a bummer specially when the airport you are in shuts down at midnight. Connecting-flights can save you money, though. Back in 1997, the direct flight between Manila and D was almost a thousand bucks more expensive than a flight plan that passes through Cebu.), I boarded the next day’s third commuter flight out of Cebu 20 minutes before seven in the morning. The twin-engine turboprop climbed out over the eastern edge of Mactan island before banking right towards what was my first glimpse of Cebu in clear daylight. All I could see of the city the night before were orange blips that have been randomly scattered on a pitch-gray veldt. That morning I saw the patchwork of man-made structures and greens sprawled out on a coastal plain going up to a gently sloping inner land that abruptly stopped at towering mountain cliffs in a not so distant background. Such a place: from one single spot you can have a lucid view of the sea, the coastal plain, and the mountains. But this was not yet my destination. I was still on my way to D.
I was back in D in 2000. This time it was nothing out of literary whim. My brother and I were flying to D for another lofty purpose. Hard before the track of a tropical typhoon that eventually caused the death of my province’s most popular long-time political father-figure, we were making a paperwork swing through northern Luzon, Busuanga Island, and Negros Oriental in a back-breaking two-week road trip. Manoy D was laying out the groundwork for his cross-country field survey of an endangered crocodilian species. He needed to coordinate with local field scientists (of whom, the most famous is Dr. Angel Alcala of the Silliman Marine Laboratory in D).
My latest trip to D was in June of 2001. Of all the trips, this was the most unconventional as this was really an unscheduled one. I hitched on at moments notice. My brother woke me up at seven that Saturday morning. They were to fly to Cebu in the afternoon on their way to Negros Oriental for their continuing fieldwork. And suddenly he wanted me to be on the trip! They were carrying electronic instruments that needed to be hooked up to a computer before being deployed in the field, but he didn’t want to lug his computer to the mountains of Negros Oriental. (Battery guzzling equipment are practically not suited for a month’s work in the mountains, and expensive general-purpose electronic gadgetry like a notebook computer is an enticement for unlawful elements in the bush. It is better to take down field notes with pencil and weatherproof paper and reorganize later with a word processor. Even a palmtop PDA is impractical for this purpose because of so much dust and moisture out in the tropical jungle.) Kuya asked me to go with him as far as their jump-off point in the town of Basay southwest of D. That was where I was to set up their field instruments with the laptop which I would then take back to P for safekeeping while they do their fieldwork.
I didn’t learn actual science in graduate school seminars. It was my two elder brothers (two, because another brother was also involved in environmental field work before becoming a white collar public policy analyst) who confirmed to me my long-held beliefs about the vicissitudes of real scientific fieldwork: Days in the field are devoid of melodramatic scenes, of fashion panache and techno savvy. Nubuck-hide hiking boots eventually get soaked in water and crusted with mud. In time one decides to walk barefooted in mud swamps. A sixteen-satellite precision GPS unit reaches its maximum load of waypoint markers. Soon you have to recourse to writing down each dead-reckoning waypoint on paraffin-coated paper lest you get lost and go on an infinitely circular path in the jungle. On my way back to D from Basay, the expensive top-of-the-line laptop I was ferrying was resting on its canvass satchel safely tucked inside a decrepit black garbage bag.
At half past two in the afternoon of the following day, I was back in P. The searing afternoon heat off the tarmac was pushing me in quick strides to the familiar air terminal building, erasing from my thoughts my recent views of another island across the Sulu Sea.
Passing through the national highway that connects “Junction One” and the San Pedro area in Puerto Princesa, I often remember another city. The portion of the road that passes the western edge of the airport is so uncannily similar to the national highway that passes the edge of the airport of another city located some 400 nautical miles southeast of P. However, the sensation of fast moving tricycles and multicabs passing through this primary artery that connects the city to the barrios seems to be the only thing that gives similarity to the two cities I am imagining. As I pass through this strip of national highway in barangay San Miguel of P, much as the two cities of my imaginings are both located at the edge of land, bordering the sea, I am temporarily split in space and time. Differences abound, but I could not immediately place myself in the correct Cartesian map at the precise moment.
I first came to Dumaguete during the summer of 1997. D was the terminal point of a three-day trip I was taking to reach the summer Mecca for the country’s best literary greenhorns; it was to be my home for three weeks. The first leg of my trip was an overnight boat ride from P. Our boat berthed in Manila North at 10 in the morning the following day. I only had ample time to pick-up some clothes in my rented room in Quezon City and hit the mall for some last-minute shopping. At four in the afternoon I flagged a cab and braved the midsummer Friday afternoon traffic to the old Manila Domestic Terminal 2 for my flight south, the second leg of my trip.
The red-eye flight to Cebu was a clunker. There were perhaps only 20 passengers on that day’s last flight to the “Queen City of the South” that I could only see five passengers in my section of the widebodied Airbus. An hour’s flight and I was in Mactan International. After an uncomfortable overnight stay in a stolid area of the terminal building (This was when I learned firsthand that having an overnight flight connection can be a bummer specially when the airport you are in shuts down at midnight. Connecting-flights can save you money, though. Back in 1997, the direct flight between Manila and D was almost a thousand bucks more expensive than a flight plan that passes through Cebu.), I boarded the next day’s third commuter flight out of Cebu 20 minutes before seven in the morning. The twin-engine turboprop climbed out over the eastern edge of Mactan island before banking right towards what was my first glimpse of Cebu in clear daylight. All I could see of the city the night before were orange blips that have been randomly scattered on a pitch-gray veldt. That morning I saw the patchwork of man-made structures and greens sprawled out on a coastal plain going up to a gently sloping inner land that abruptly stopped at towering mountain cliffs in a not so distant background. Such a place: from one single spot you can have a lucid view of the sea, the coastal plain, and the mountains. But this was not yet my destination. I was still on my way to D.
I was back in D in 2000. This time it was nothing out of literary whim. My brother and I were flying to D for another lofty purpose. Hard before the track of a tropical typhoon that eventually caused the death of my province’s most popular long-time political father-figure, we were making a paperwork swing through northern Luzon, Busuanga Island, and Negros Oriental in a back-breaking two-week road trip. Manoy D was laying out the groundwork for his cross-country field survey of an endangered crocodilian species. He needed to coordinate with local field scientists (of whom, the most famous is Dr. Angel Alcala of the Silliman Marine Laboratory in D).
My latest trip to D was in June of 2001. Of all the trips, this was the most unconventional as this was really an unscheduled one. I hitched on at moments notice. My brother woke me up at seven that Saturday morning. They were to fly to Cebu in the afternoon on their way to Negros Oriental for their continuing fieldwork. And suddenly he wanted me to be on the trip! They were carrying electronic instruments that needed to be hooked up to a computer before being deployed in the field, but he didn’t want to lug his computer to the mountains of Negros Oriental. (Battery guzzling equipment are practically not suited for a month’s work in the mountains, and expensive general-purpose electronic gadgetry like a notebook computer is an enticement for unlawful elements in the bush. It is better to take down field notes with pencil and weatherproof paper and reorganize later with a word processor. Even a palmtop PDA is impractical for this purpose because of so much dust and moisture out in the tropical jungle.) Kuya asked me to go with him as far as their jump-off point in the town of Basay southwest of D. That was where I was to set up their field instruments with the laptop which I would then take back to P for safekeeping while they do their fieldwork.
I didn’t learn actual science in graduate school seminars. It was my two elder brothers (two, because another brother was also involved in environmental field work before becoming a white collar public policy analyst) who confirmed to me my long-held beliefs about the vicissitudes of real scientific fieldwork: Days in the field are devoid of melodramatic scenes, of fashion panache and techno savvy. Nubuck-hide hiking boots eventually get soaked in water and crusted with mud. In time one decides to walk barefooted in mud swamps. A sixteen-satellite precision GPS unit reaches its maximum load of waypoint markers. Soon you have to recourse to writing down each dead-reckoning waypoint on paraffin-coated paper lest you get lost and go on an infinitely circular path in the jungle. On my way back to D from Basay, the expensive top-of-the-line laptop I was ferrying was resting on its canvass satchel safely tucked inside a decrepit black garbage bag.
At half past two in the afternoon of the following day, I was back in P. The searing afternoon heat off the tarmac was pushing me in quick strides to the familiar air terminal building, erasing from my thoughts my recent views of another island across the Sulu Sea.
Novels and Places
Novels and Places
Marseilles was ideally suited to Genet’s imagination. Like Brest, where he would set Querelle, it would be bombed severely during the Second World War. Once a place was destroyed, it became a suitable subject. Genet wrote about Mettray after it was closed, Brest and Marseilles after they were bombed, Montmartre after it no longer existed as a bohemian or criminal centre but had become a weekend tourist trap. Used materials ‘composed’ best; that is why novelists like to work with them. Only when subjects have lost their journalistic flashiness do they become suitably cool for serious fiction.
– Edmund White, Genet: a biography
Marseilles was ideally suited to Genet’s imagination. Like Brest, where he would set Querelle, it would be bombed severely during the Second World War. Once a place was destroyed, it became a suitable subject. Genet wrote about Mettray after it was closed, Brest and Marseilles after they were bombed, Montmartre after it no longer existed as a bohemian or criminal centre but had become a weekend tourist trap. Used materials ‘composed’ best; that is why novelists like to work with them. Only when subjects have lost their journalistic flashiness do they become suitably cool for serious fiction.
– Edmund White, Genet: a biography
Thursday, November 29, 2007
MALTREATMENT OF MEDIA IN MANILA PEN TONIGHT
As a practicing journalist, as an editor of the country's most awarded environmental community newspaper, an active partner of the Center for Community Journalism and Development, the Center for Media Freedom andResponsibility, the Philippine Press Institute, and the BIMP-EAGA Media and Communicators Association, I join our fellow media practitioners tonight in condemning the excessive show of force of the Arroyo administration in keeping the Manila Peninsula standoff under wraps. I urge all my friends in this group to speak up to their colleagues and all members of the Philippine and worldwide community of freedom loving individuals about this unprecedented maltreatment of professional media practitioners who were arrested and brought to Bicutan, just because they happened to be in Manila Peninsula hotel doing their jobs.
While we may have biases, I know that we are always expected to maintain objectivity even when we come face to face with issues like this.
But tonight, I simply have to speak up if not for those who were actually arrested, but for my fellow media practitioners who are toiling in the provinces far away from the network support of bigger media organizations.
What happened to our fellow media practitioners tonight was unprecedented since EDSA 86.
If this could happen to colleagues who are working for manila-based and foreign-based news organizations, what sort of protection can community journalists depend on when they come to the same situation covering police and military stories in the provinces? To what recourse will we run to?
While we may have biases, I know that we are always expected to maintain objectivity even when we come face to face with issues like this.
But tonight, I simply have to speak up if not for those who were actually arrested, but for my fellow media practitioners who are toiling in the provinces far away from the network support of bigger media organizations.
What happened to our fellow media practitioners tonight was unprecedented since EDSA 86.
If this could happen to colleagues who are working for manila-based and foreign-based news organizations, what sort of protection can community journalists depend on when they come to the same situation covering police and military stories in the provinces? To what recourse will we run to?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
No onions for intellectual debates
Afternoon of September 29 started out slowly for me.
After lunch, I texted my two remaining close friends who shared the same sympathies as mine with regards to the debauchery that is slowly creeping up Palawan from its southern tip.
I was adamant in attending the UPAA forum scheduled for the afternoon. For what could be a more incongruous topic for a fora than "responsible mining"? I told my two friends, since nobody at our house (my mom studied in UP Diliman in the early 50s, while her four boys studied hard sciences in Diliman and Los Banos later on) got invited for the gathering, I've already told my mom not to attend. We were in a boycott mode at the house so to speak.
But my two friends texted me back to attend. I previously texted them, what the heck is the organization of UP alumni doing with the responsible mining bandwagon?
Turned out one my two close friends was scheduled to speak. Upon their urging, I changed my mind and decided to attend the forum. I told one of my friends, am only going there because of you. She was asked to deliver the mining situation in Palawan from the anti-mining side.
First to draw his sword in the forum was Engr. Fuji Rodriguez, who is with the Narra Nickel. Probably the longest and most parched talk of the day. As parched as the mountain sides they have razored off in the south. The engineer was boasting that he is in the company of what is probably the most intelligent group of men in Palawan during his time in the mining industry. Duh! (Let's compare our Stanford-Binnet's Mr.) After a rather hyper-extended (just like men trying to augment their sexual inadequacy with huge, loud, shiny cars) introduction to his talk (f__k me, you've been introduced by the forum host already!), the mining engineer dived into the kernel of his talk about responsible mining: the reforestation blah, and the alternative livelihood blah for the affected communities. He was talking about the gulayans for the community.
This was followed by a very raunchy (I hope you're intelligent enough to understand what I mean by this) deconstruction of the current Mining Act delivered by a witty old professor from Baguio. My friend delivered her talk after the witty deconstruction that elicited a series of guffaws from the audience.
Everything was almost going fine (it was an intellectual discourse among UP alumni anyway), but the vice governor decided to react.
One of the informations brought out by my friend to the afternoon audience was the fact that as of now, there are 315 applications for mining in different parts of Palawan.
The vice governor said, based on his fact checking with the secretariat of the provincial board, there are only around 15 mining applications in the board.
Faced with the two incongruous numbers, he could not engage the intellectual discussion and asked where did my friend from Palawan NGO Network Inc (PNNI) get the data. He was like a child appealing to the audience, this cannot be true. This girl has taken my candy. Although somewhere in the hyper-extended (Too! They seem to share the same preponderance for boring the audience) reaction he issued a disclaimer that he was not lawyering (well, that's what he is, a lawyer) for the mining sector, his demeanor late in the afternoon was like he was the one worst hit by my friend's statements during the forum than the mining advocates.
Even the presentation of pictures of indigents near Rio Tuba (site of the Rio Tuba Nickel Mines) suffering from skin diseases right after an unloading of sulfuric acid was questioned. The vice governor must have thought the audience composed of men and women who have TAKEN THEIR UNDERGRADUATE studies in the fertile rooms of UP are so delicate, they cannot be allowed to get exposed to such horrifying images.
But the vice governor should be aware that we, as the best and the brightest minds of the Philippines living and toiling in this corner of the country, have been trained for the horrors of work and society. Matters of visual taste and "but we have tried our best" apologia are poor defenses in such intellectual exchange among the brilliant minds who have walked the holy halls of UP.
Looking Out
Because I was never a part of them, they exist at that moment just as I look up the clock face to find the second hand two ticks away from the zenith.
I could never hold the visions completely.
And in moments when am untruthful to myself, I also say the visions could never hold me because I was never a part of them.
But I keep coming back to take my surreptitious peeps at memory’s leaking hole.
These are glimpses akin to dreams of peripheral visions. Sidelong glances upon beautiful strangers one meets in busy passageways.
Soon the second hand arcs down… and things are no longer where they are supposed to be.
I could never hold the visions completely.
And in moments when am untruthful to myself, I also say the visions could never hold me because I was never a part of them.
But I keep coming back to take my surreptitious peeps at memory’s leaking hole.
These are glimpses akin to dreams of peripheral visions. Sidelong glances upon beautiful strangers one meets in busy passageways.
Soon the second hand arcs down… and things are no longer where they are supposed to be.
Pornography
This whiteness is an embarrassment.
It slaps me with the cold memory of the toilet tiles and those secluded moments of abandon when bodies are only concerned with bodies.
The real intercourse within these walls is not lightweight. It lacks sterility.
Contacts are always weighed down. Literally, by the book satchels hanging down the backs of college boys, the computer bags down the sides of some IT geeks, the shaving kits of urban soldiers who just happened to pass by the mall today.
Figuratively, we are pulled down by the weight of our loads: the fear that some ugly mall guard will suddenly crash into this unspoken chewing of the cud, that some straight brats (with a kinky show of flesh, some are not so straight after all) will enter the scene with their bad words about the brotherhood.
But, you ask me, why is it an embarrassment?
Because nobody wants to speak of it.
It’s only in poems where you get to read about them.
Chances are you don’t even have access to smut.
It slaps me with the cold memory of the toilet tiles and those secluded moments of abandon when bodies are only concerned with bodies.
The real intercourse within these walls is not lightweight. It lacks sterility.
Contacts are always weighed down. Literally, by the book satchels hanging down the backs of college boys, the computer bags down the sides of some IT geeks, the shaving kits of urban soldiers who just happened to pass by the mall today.
Figuratively, we are pulled down by the weight of our loads: the fear that some ugly mall guard will suddenly crash into this unspoken chewing of the cud, that some straight brats (with a kinky show of flesh, some are not so straight after all) will enter the scene with their bad words about the brotherhood.
But, you ask me, why is it an embarrassment?
Because nobody wants to speak of it.
It’s only in poems where you get to read about them.
Chances are you don’t even have access to smut.
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