My Travels of 2011

February
It was 7 Celsius above freezing on a Sunday in the middle of February. The sun was supposed to showcase its magic as it rose on top of the mountain peaks 2922 meters above sea level. A sea of clouds was expected to swathe the peaks as far as the naked eye could see. Instead, a sea of mist hovered above the mountains. It was disappointing and I vowed to make another summit assault, maybe in a couple of years as the trek was excruciatingly long and tiring, to Mt. Pulag – the highest peak in all of Luzon located 216 km north of Manila.

March
A month later while the earth violently shook Japan triggering a deadly tsunami. I was frolicking with the huge waves on one of the beaches of this island made infamous by a group of bandits notorious for kidnappings and beheadings. This beach, almost an hour’s ride from the provincial capital, was gorgeous and secluded and with powdery white sand. It’s a pity not anyone can visit the island of Basilan, located 888 km south of Manila, and what it can offer to Philippine Tourism.

A quick stopover before flying back to Manila was the province of Zamboanga made popular by its supposedly colorful vintas – a type of bangka with its sail diagonally or vertically painted in different colors. I badly wanted to see one but the lone vinta I saw was on display on one of the seaside hotels. A friend told me there has been no vintas for years. Isn’t that false advertisement? Egging a tourist to come visit their province for their vintas and find a replica instead?

April
On the onslaught of summer, I hopped on an 11-hour bus ride to a province 444 km north of Manila famous for the beautiful Saud and Mairaira beaches, Bangui windmills, Kapurpurawan rock formation, and Cape Bojeador lighthouse. I had visited Mairaira a couple of years back and it’s amazing how commercialism can change a landscape. The beach, more popularly known as Blue Lagoon, now has a much longer shoreline (trees and weeds were sacrificed), more “paluto” stores, and teeming with more tourists. This is bad news for purists who want the beach untouched but good news for the residents of Pagudpud as this means additional income for them. Ano naman ang gagawin sa magandang beach kung hindi naman pagkikitaan ng mga local na residente?

June
After sunny Pagudpud I went all the way to the south of Luzon, to a beach popularly known as Calaguas, 256 km from Manila. It was my second time and the place was exactly the same as it was the previous year. Local tourists (when I think about it the 2x I visited the place I didn’t see any backpacking foreigner) still sleep on tents, cook their own food, and fetch their own pail of water using the water pump. Oh. And the toilet has no flush.

November
In the province of Ifugao, rice fields molded as terraces on the mountainside are aplenty. The most popular and the biggest are those from Batad and Banaue. We spent a night in the former overlooking the terraces made out of rocks that looked like stairways into heaven. The terraces are now color brown with patches of green as the produce has just been recently harvested. These terraces look like small steps in postcards but when you’re walking on the edge of these steps you realize these are huge, around 10-15 feet high. It’s amazing, when you think about it, how the early Filipinos molded these steps using huge rocks said to have been taken from a waterfall not far from where the terraces were shaped. What makes this feat more amazing is that these were created out of our ancestors’ ingenuity and not out of slavery. Wow Philippines indeed!

—–
I travelled far less this year than in 2010. It was a conscious choice although I wished I had used my piso-fare tickets to General Santos City (Lake Sebu) and Mindoro (San Jose). One of the reasons of my diminished travel was because I flew home 4x this year, 640 km from Manila, which would total to 5120 km.

Adding the number of kilometers I travelled including my forays to my birthplace but excluding my daily commute, it would sum up to 10156 km. With the price of a liter of gasoline selling at 54 pesos and considering a liter is consumed every 10 km, I would have spent 54,842.00 pesos. That is a lot of money.

—–
This is my entry to The Gasoline Dude’s Blogversary Writing Contest. Sana tama itong ginawa ko sa theme ni Gasul. Happy New Year!

Books of 2011

It has been, gulp, more than 2 months since I last blogged. Nothing much has happened, really. It’s the same old me. I still travel. I still watch movies and the latest episodes of my favorite TV shows but, same as blogging, it has temporarily taken a backseat in lieu of my active social life (haha) and reading books. To my surprise, I completed 20 books this year. Eleven of which I am seriously recommending. Here’s the list.

Becoming a Man by Paul Monette. An autobiographic coming-out tale of a gay man. Monette’s prose is a joy to read.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. A dark coming-of-age tale of a girl during WWII who steals books and whose foster parents take in a Jew hunted by the Nazis.

A Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin. A sequel to A Game of Thrones. This time kings battle to lord over the Seven Kingdom’s. What’s terrific about Martin is that he does not like preserving the status quo – he kills off major characters if he wants to. I’m not saying someone dies in the book. Perhaps on the second sequel?

The Emperor of All Maladies by Siddhartha Mukherjee. A non-fiction book about the history of cancer where Mukherjee depicts cancer cells as constantly-evolving antagonists.
One Day by David Nicholls. A love story that is not purely a love story about a man and a woman who meet at the end of their college years and follows them as they age, burn bridges, reunite, and finally get separated again.

Freedom by Jonthan Franzen. Franzen’s prose reminds me of Dostoyevsky’s but without the latter’s melodramatic storyline. The way he writes his characters’ train of thought and his keen observation of a person’s mannerism and idiosyncrasies is like physically getting into the character’s mind.

A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin. HBO made a terrific adaptation of this book early this year. This book is even better.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson. The first book of The Millennium Trilogy about a convicted journalist and an internet hacker who investigate the disappearance of a girl. A multi-layered plot like no other. The Swedish film adaptation was pretty good. Critics are saying the David Fincher-directed adaptation is even better. Can’t wait.

The Passage by Justin Cronin. A post-apocalyptic survival tale of a government project gone awry.

Room by Emma Donoghue. A clasutrophobic tale about a woman and her child who is imprisoned on a room with no chance of getting rescued. Think Tom Hanks and his volleyball in ‘Castaway’ but without the beach.

A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. It’s difficult to describe the plot of Egan’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel. What I can describe is it’s about how our lives interact and that we really cannot predict that what someone is now is what someone will be years, or perhaps, even decades from now.

—–
Next: My Travels of 2011

Dreams

I went out for a few drinks with a few friends the other night. We seated ourselves, all 7 of us, around a table fit for 4. It was a Friday night and the place was teeming with yuppies, who it seemed were decided to drink the week’s stress away.

That night the rain fell with abandon. The beer flowed. The air burst with drunken conversation and laughter. At times, the falling of utensils and beer bottles pierced the humid air, already thick with cigarette smoke.

We talked practically any topic that came to mind. Books. Movies. Music. Politics. The Arts. Philosophy. Sex. It was spontaneity at the extreme. And as the clock ticked the night away into the early hours of the morning, a question was thrown out to the group – Where do we see ourselves 3 decades later.

Those who were yet to upgrade into the 3.x version mused that by then they would have published a book, owned a travel agency, became a renowned art designer, and climbed into the upper rungs of the corporate ladder. Mine was simple. I’d have retired to a place near the beach and peacefully enjoying my old age.

That got me thinking. I too was once in my 20s. I too once dreamed big for myself. I too envisioned to being this and that. But as I aged I realized, and I only mused and consciously realized this that night, that I had pushed those dreams to the backseat. I guess this was because the opportunities that would have helped me realize those dreams have so far eluded me. Surely those dreams will always be there. Maybe there will always be a small part of me who would be disappointed on how I turned out.

But for now, I’ll take whatever life has so far offered me. Who knows maybe in the next year or so my dreams would change again. Maybe something eventful would happen and those dormant dreams would make its way into my consciousness again. Maybe instead of retiring to a place where I could watch the sun work its daily magic on the skies, I’d want to be the technical guru everyone turns to for advise or a manager who will develop people.

My point is you take whatever curve ball life throws at you and deal with it. You may give up your dream at that time. It may depress you for some time. It may even take some of the life out of you. But you must not forget to keep on dreaming, no matter how simple that dream is, no matter how mundane that dream is to others. That’s what life is made of, I guess. Dreaming. Hoping. Those are what keeps one going and going and going. Just like one energizer bunny.

Remembering You

I will remember your smell. The smell of Johnson’s baby powder on your body. The whiteness of your hair, always cropped short. How you loved watching Villa Quintana but got disappointed on how it ended.

I will remember you counting your 25-centavo coins and my whoop of joy when you would finally hand me 4 of those coins after much begging and cajoling. It was the 80s and I was still a kid. One peso could buy me my afternoon snack.

I will remember you bringing that piece of bread with a red palaman when you got back from the market. That was my favorite pasalubong from you. And the sereguelas and lomboy during the summer of my childhood.

I will remember your toothless smile when I would come home to visit. You would follow it with your palm opened upward, asking for money. I would laugh and hand you five P20 bills. Hours later, when you would see me again you would smile and open your palm upward. I would laugh and tell you I have given you my money. Then you would laugh.

I will remember you asking me when I was going back to Manila the first time you would see me whenever I would come home for a visit. I will remember you asking me when I was coming back again to visit when I was going to leave for Manila. I will remember the last time you asked me that. It was March of this year. I remember I told you I was coming back in December. I remember I told you I hoped to see you then.

But God has other plans. Finally, you are with Him now. Devoid of the pain you suffered on your last days. Rest in peace now. Say hi to Tita for me when you see her.

Goodbye, lola. Thank you for sharing three decades and one year of you with me. I will miss you.

A Game of Thrones

Loyalty. Politics. Romance. Conspiracy. Incest. Betrayal. Murder. Witchcraft. Sex. All of these make George R. R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones, the first book in a seven-part series, a very good read.

In aGoT we are introduced to the Starks and the Lannisters and the Targaryens. We also get to meet characters we would learn to love and loathe as the story progresses. My favorites from the first book are Jon Stark – the bastard son of the Lord of Winterfell, Arya Stark – the tomboyish younger daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, and Tyrion Lannister – a dwarf and brother to the Queen and probably blessed by Martin with the most classic of lines.

Martin acknowledges at the end of the book that “The devil is in the details… A book this size has a lot of devils, any of which will bite you if you don’t watch out.” Don’t let this deter you from grabbing a copy. The plot is not that confusing although it helps if you have watched HBO’s faithful adaptation of the first book.

And by the way, the paperback edition is 807 pages long with tiny font size and tiny space between lines. It’s a daunting task. I haven’t tried to read that compact of a book since Anne Rice’s latter novels which took me months to finish. I practically spent 3/4 of my long weekend reading but it was so worth it.

Language of the Learned

James Soriano and his Language, learning, identity, privilege Manila Bulletin article has been the hottest topic this week. The article has since been pulled down from the MB’s official website. Soriano writes about how he was brought up to talk and think in English. He writes that “Filipino, on the other hand, was always the ‘other’ subject — almost a special subject like PE or Home Economics, except that it was graded the same way as Science, Math, Religion, and English.” Sad but true.

Filipino is not given much importance in a school curriculum. I remember there would be speak-only-and-only-English day in school. If you don’t there would be some sort of punishment. A company where I used to be employed had this too, and you pay 5 or 10 pesos for every Filipino word spoken. The whole exercise was some sort of training for the mastery of the English language and a fund-raising drive.

I particularly like when Soriano writes “Only recently have I begun to grasp Filipino as the language of identity: the language of emotion, experience, and even of learning. And with this comes the realization that I do, in fact, smell worse than a malansang isda. My own language is foreign to me: I speak, think, read and write primarily in English. To borrow the terminology of Fr. Bulatao, I am a split-level Filipino.”

Soriano writes “But perhaps this is not so bad in a society of rotten beef and stinking fish. For while Filipino may be the language of identity, it is the language of the streets. It might have the capacity to be the language of learning, but it is not the language of the learned.“ Emphasis mine.

Filipino is not the language of the learned? And English is? How about the Japanese who only speak Nihonggo and only a trickle of English words? How about the French who only speak French and only a trickle of English words? Does that also mean Nihonggo and French are not language of the learned?

This struck a raw nerve in me. I get pissed when people think they are better than most for the sole reason that they have an impeccable grasp of the English language. Intelligence is not measured by how well you write and speak in English. Gets?

Soriano also writes “It is neither the language of the classroom and the laboratory, nor the language of the boardroom, the court room, or the operating room. It is not the language of privilege. I may be disconnected from my being Filipino, but with a tongue of privilege I will always have my connections.” Emphasis is mine.

Is Soriano emphasizing that English is the language of the bourgeois? Of the moneyed? Of the high class? Is mastery of the English language defines where one belongs in the social class? I guess not.

I strongly suspect Soriano means English is the language of opportunity in the Philippine context. Having a good grasp of the language may give one an advantage when hunting for jobs. Now that most companies have gone global, outsourcing their business to foreign shores like the Philippines, a grasp and not necessarily mastery of English is a must.

But bagging that job is not the recipe for success. Perseverance and dedication and intelligence and, some say, luck are.

Another Year

Do you fear growing old alone? Envying those who have spouses or partners. Always the third wheel. Immensely trying to look at the bright side of things, but at the end of the day the smile turns into a frown when you get into bed and you have no one to hug but an extra pillow.

Loneliness is Mary, the character played by Lesley Manville in Mike Leigh’s entry to the 2010 Cannes Film Festival. You see in her face how the world has been cruel to her. Her quiet desperation to get herself a man. Her disappointment and bitterness and sadness on an unrequited flirting.

Loneliness is not all there is to it in the film. There is happiness and contentment too in the faces of a middle-aged couple played with such loving simplicity by Jim Broadbent and Ruth Sheen. You feel their bond strengthened by decades of companionship – in their simple dinners, in their weekend trips growing tomatoes, and sweet banters.

Another Year unabashedly depicts the wonders and fears that await old age. It mirrors our lifelong pursuit for happiness. It is one of those films that becomes great for its sheer simplicity and bluntness.