laging hinahanap

These are from my notes...

2008-08-19T21:23:00.021+08:00

The following was taken from notes about my little jaunt across northern Luzon. I wrote these words in a little cheap 7 peso notebook I bought. I tried my best not to edit.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Followed my desires and left for Baguio. Arrived a walked around a lot. Went ahead and stayed Burnham hotel. Woodsy interrior. Smells old. HOT WATER!! Went to Fort John Hayes-funny guard-really interested in making me stand next to things to ahve my picture taken. Afterward umikot ako sa Baguio proper. Tried to find bus terminal to Sagada. Afterward went to Faces (could not find Jam) it was pretty boring but the chicharon bulaklak was really good! I also finally started This Earth of Mankind by Pramoedya and immediately was drawn in. Left to read more. Want to eat rambutan before it goes bad. On the way to Seven Eleven saw a sign called "Footstep" strange coincidence...[this is because Footsteps is the third book in Pramoedya's Buru Quartet. The first is This Earth of Mankind.]

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Woke up early to leave. Regretted not taking pictures at the Burnham Inn. Forgot to also mention that I ate at the Forest House. Had the "Forest House Lamb." Was not that great. Rice was horrible. On the way to bus depot/terminal Baguio was surreal. Halimbawa: There was this clearly insane lady walking about 10 paces ahead of me hitting people randomly [with her fist]. People really didn't know how to react. her finale was to grab a garbage [container] in front of some convenience store and hurl it into the street. I just prayed she wouldn't stop and turn around. It's not necessarily the physical contact that disturbed me but rather the thought of looking her straight in the eyes. I'm not really quite sure what I wanted to see.

Took the bus to Sagada. I guess I was the first up to the ticket office because my seat number was #1. It was right up front. The window seemed flimsy and I was afraid to lean against it. The ride was terrifying oftentimes the gear would stick, or the road was being worked on and it seemed like we would slip out of control (due to rock or wetness) and then the road would revert to one lane only and once, the bus got really close to running off the edge because he didn't see around a curve. He usually speeds up around curves. I'm going to be honest and say I'm afraid something will happen on the way back from Bontoc. i really don't want to be negative, but I really don't want to go over that highway again. I remember what the "fortune teller" told me. I should be careful around roads. But doesn't that seem vague? Also, I already have a fear of motor vehicles and roads anyway. The Cordilleras doesn't help much.

Upon reaching Sagada I checked into the Sagada resthouse. I was more charmed by the proprietor than the residence. Very much like a kind aunt. Still, the food she made was delicious. It was truly like a home-cooked meal-I would make myself! It was a curried vegetable dish with carrots/cauliflower/green beans and some bits of pork. And the rice was superb. Best rice I've had all summer. Brown, big, and fluffy! After some thought I decided to I wanted to be in the sun. Got a tour guide to show me around. It was a nice hike but fast (not short) but he walked really fast--and he wore flip flops. Spent the rest of the day walking around town. It was really nice, although there were a lot of dogs. Usually I would think they were cute, but one of them began barking at me and following me around. I got scared but slowed, looked back at it, kept walking and it soon left me alone. Also have to say: got a really good yogurt parfait (w/granola/banana/strawberry preserves) at Yoghurt Cafe. The yogurt seemed homemade. Saw plenty of beautiful things. Also saw a bunch of piles of cowshit. They were huge! Off to Bontoc...

Friday August 15, 2008

In Vigan. Didn't get the chance, well let me rephrase this, didn't have the urge to write a passage the last 2 days. So to recreate this memory (what memory isn't a recreation?) let's begin with Wednesday.

Arrived in Bontoc rather early. The Sagada inn was a bit torn up after the noisy Koreans, the innkeeper even complained to me the next morning as I was checking out. I didn't take a bath, just brushed my teeth. Still the smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, and there seemed to be blood all over the bathroom. Don't worry it's probably not a malicious outcome, but rather because someone probably puked. Ah Korean tourists "roughing it" in the third world tropics. The trip to Bontoc was short, about an hour by jeepney, perhaps because it was slower, or perhaps it was the lower center of gravity, either way I felt pretty safe. The trip was beautiful, the cool morning air, the fog slowly burning off as the sun creeped over the mountaintops. We circled down slowly to Bontoc, which was nestled in the valley. When I arrived I immediately found my bearings as the town's layout seemed really easy to figure out. Having the Chico river cut right through it helped. When I arrived at the hotel I was pleased to find the room spacious although ugly. I was very pleased to find the television had cable and the water was hot! I took a quick shower and went off to Malagcong. The jeepney ride was great! There were all these cool people climbing onto the jeep. Happy, chatting with each other, taking their time. Strong people, their faces burnt dark brown. The older people had hard course wrinkled skin, strong hands, worn but sturdy feet. Very friendly people. The ride up was rough but beautiful, tons of foliage and the day seemed to be shaping up to be beautiful [I seem to really like this adjective]. Then reaching the top I was itching to see the rice terraces, have to admit I was absolutely stunned. The patties were green, lush, the sun was bright and I got some amazing pictures. There were even some people working. Walked through the school compound, got barked at by a lot of dogs (I swear Cordillera dogs are scary!) and some of the houses. Said hit to some folks, some didn't really speak tagalog, but in teh school I could hear the children practicing English. On the way back talked to a farmer with a big knife about palay and other tourists. Very friendly. Decided to walk down, didn't see a jeep either way, I guess I made a good decision. Beautiful, calming walk.

Afer some horrible bipsteyk [beefsteak] I decided to relax until the Bontoc museum opened. The museum was pretty cool though run down. Some [can't read this word]: the live pig in the recreated village and the terrifying section of "beheading". I literally had chills run down my spine seeing pictures of heads placed next tot he knives used to behead people. I walked around for a bit around town, it seemed like a depressed area, full of unfinished projects. Also unlike the friendliness of Sagadaeans who would stare and nod or just ignore you, Bontoc residents seemed to carry a look of resentment. I say this of the men especially. There seemed to be tons on standby. Most were drinking or chewing/spitting red tobacco [at the time I couldn't remember what this was called, it's called betel nut]. Perhaps they were getting a headstart on the 11pm curfew. Really tired, I decided to try and watch the Olympics for the rest of the night. Satellite cuts in and out and I hear the rain falling heavily outside. I hope for it to end as I'm worried about having to travel through muddy cliff roads.

The next morning August 14th, headed off to catch the bus to Baguio. While waiting I finished up This Earth of Mankind and the ending lingered and haunted for the whole day. [undecipherable]
As for the road, we were blocked just past Sagada. There was a landslide (I could onlyl guess a result of the rains from the previous night). I twas pretty crazy, they dynamited the pile a bunch of times. It wasn't until a tractor showed up that progress was finally made. After a couple hours we were on our way. The trip was slow however as fog and rain thankfully made our driver more cautious. We finallyu made it to Baguio and I ate at the Cafe by the Ruins. Had their Crispy Tapa and Suman with chocolate carbou millk. Cunny enough named Rizal. Perhaps it's just from Rizal. Still...

Caught the bus to Vigan. The driver kept showing scary movies. Starting with Rogue, then the American version of the Grudge until a horrible movie [they were all pretty horrible actually] called The Cry. It just gradually got worse in terms of quality and tellingly crresponnding with the budget. I have to admit though, the movies's constant images mof violence forced me to take a trike upon reaching Vigan. Quickly I was ripped off by the trike (50p! for what was surely less than 3km. Rediculous.) Anyway mty mood quickly shifted after getting aroom at the Gordian Inn. The inside was amazing. An old mansion converted. On the cheap to boot! The room was large, beds were wood, the furniture and the door as well. The bathroom had a nice hot shower. And the TV had 30+ channels...AWESOME. I fell asleep to the Olympics. Woke up early, got lost immediately. It might have been the Ilocano longganisa I had. It's true ti had much less fat. But it also lacked the sweetness/tanginess that I enjoy from other longganisa. The suka was nice however. Finally hopped on a bus to Santa Maria to look at the church. When I arrived there apparently was a pilgrimage going on and there were tons of people. Overflowing the church grounds were plenty people selling food, relgious items and random other things. It was a nice trip and I'm glad I got to witness it but I desired to get back to Vigan asap.

When I arrived I walked around and visited the church and the several plazas. I then visited the Burgos museum. It was run down and seemed to be decomposing, but it added to the reality of the Mestizo district outside. In a strange way the district turned my head inside out. It seemed to smash all these different temporal moments into this cramped, decaying, confusing, and beautiful space. Soon I was off to cora's botanical secret garden. It was a strange experience (talk about it later). Tried the empanada and Basi. Afterward took a walk to San Vicente to look at the church. The twon was pretty much deserted and so was the church. Still it was probablly one of my more favorite moments of this trip. Night came soon and the city lit up. The nigh was hot and the men lifted up their shirts to expose their bellies. Had dinner outside, tried the banggat. It was just like lechon. Just not as salty (I notice a trend). The mestizo district was amazing. It made me wistful for an era I never lived through. I can just imagine how one could easily wander the night away at the turn of the century, viting family, and friends, wasting the nigh away to the sound of horse hooves against the cobllestone. I went to sleep thinking of spirits, the past filling in my lungs. Woke up with a sore throat, I think the week of traveling finally caught up with me.

Tried to sleep in and cheat the Partas bus line and jump in from the highway. Was mildly successful. I was able to hop on a different bus to laoag (not Partas as I had planned) but it worked out okay. Checked in immediately. A lot less character than Vigan B & B and definitely less space. Alghough if you're American it defintely is a familiar form of motel/hotel. Headed out to see the body of Marcos in Batac. Before I headed there stopped by the brand new (1999) Museum of Ilocos Norte. In Batac Marcos's Mausoleum was closed for lunch. Chatted with a few locals that just hung outside the door, apparently self-appointed guides. Informed me about some other "must see" local places. All these places of course I already knew about, but I played dumb just to be polite. He pretty much tried to hustle me with a "friend" of his who owns a tricycle. Saying that no jeeps go to the towns I wanted to visit and if I wanted to get there it would cost me up to 400+ for the whole day. After walking through the creepy Marcos mausoleum (it looked totally fake). I said I'd think about it. Walked to the center of the town and was able to grab a trike for about 50 pesos. Ah the Philippines. Overall I was feeling kinda crummy today, and it occurred to me that most of what's interesting about Laoag remained outside of Laoag. But since I was definitely getting a cold, a lot of my excusions were much limited in scope. Still I was able to head out to the beach (ever so briefly) and see the ocean which I sorely miss. Got caught in a downpour while riding outside of a trike. Quite a ride! Now just enjoying the cable TV.

Some things for later (after the travels outside of the city):

1. Ninoy's assassination and the city's celebration
2. Riding the MRT/LRT
3. Conversations at Magnet and afterward (also meeting Kidlat Tahimik!)
4. Waiting for a home.

civilization?

Camp John Hayes

strange totem pole

me posing by a plant

by a bed

more posing

some of my faves from the cemetary of negative thought

my life in a nutshell

apt for the academic isn't it?

"Think GOD, not drugs"

punk and metal for sale at Baguio!

Burnham park

kids skate here.

Night palengke

hanging coffins in Sagada

me hangin' out with the hangin' coffins

from a great height

little falls in Sagada

the foggy dusk

Malagcong

Overjoyed!

palay

ready?

real live pig in the "Igorot Village" at the Bontoc museum

glancing across the chico. I crossed that bridge below. scary.

there might have been a dwende

the chico

landslide! And no, not the kind involving Stevie Nicks

My b&b in Vigan

outside Santa Maria church

Santa Maria church, throngs of people

down the steps of Santa Maria...it seems to lead to another world

Mestizo district

a shot of basi (sugar cane wine)
it tastes like vinegar

Ilocano style empanada

The Burgos House, where he was born

The provincial jail. Also where Former President Quirino was born (his father was the Warden)

Church of San Vicente

Vigan at night

Marcos Mausoleum in Batac

front of marcos

St. Augustine Church in Paoay

Fort Ilocandia Beach

Transients stay here...

2008-08-12T17:10:00.003+08:00

So I finally scratched that itch to get out of the city and headed north. My goal is to see Vigan, the Mestizo parts especially. But on the way I decided to check out Baguio and some of the Cordilleras (rice terraces and whatnot). So yesterday I went to Baguio and the night life there is crazy. There are so many people in Baguio, I feel that it truly rivals Manila (at least in terms of crowds). In fact I've never seen this many people concentrated in one place in Manila. Indeed if they were this concentrated, they seemed to not be moving at the same pace as Baguio: fast! Still, the baguio stories, along with the pictures will have to wait until later. This morning I left the fast paced acoustic guitar capital of the Philippines and headed to Sagada. For some reason, I ended up in the very front of the bus and saw every single fast turn and near miss the bus achieved on our 5 hour drive from Baguio to Sagada. Below is a brief snippet of what I experienced. I'll talk about the coffins later. Tomorrow: Bontoc.

on the margins of limbo

2008-08-10T21:07:00.012+08:00

I've now spent almost a whole week here in metro Maynila and although I haven't been able to document every part of it through photograph, nor have the patience to upload all the imageries at the moment, I want to embed some memories into this blogpost.

Monday-Saw Pasay and my Kuya Jun. Arrived in Rockwell. Ate at a Malaysian restaurant within Powerplant mall. Decent but expensive. Welcome to Rockwell.

Tuesday-Went to Greenbelt. Planned to go to go to Ayala Museum. Plans fall through. End up wasting time in Glorietta. Hang out at Cafe Havanna. Old white men and a lot of bored Filipina GRO (guest relations officers or )-types hanging out, drinking, eating, texting, waiting. Tried to make contact with friend of friend: John Torres (director of Todo Todo Terros).

Wednesday-Went to Quezon City to check out UP. Received an unexpected text from friend of friend: John Torres. Bought a lot of academic texts (I am a geek). Looked for Chocolate Kiss and was embarrassed asking directions to Chocolate Kiss. Bought a carrot cake at Chocolate Kiss and an espresso. Bought a ticket to see Brutus at Film institute. Technical difficulties kept pushing the time. Was not able to see it. Made some conversation about the "scene" in the Philippines. Apparently QC is it. Both the locus and the domain. Went to Green Papaya, a not yet opened art space to see John's new short film. A collaborative effort with a fiction writer. It's about a Maximalist. Met Khavn and a bunch of other artists/filmmakers/poets/writers/prize winners. Everyone spoke English and much more important than me. John was super nice. Not quite sure about the rest. The familiar feeling of being out of place in a different place hit me again.

Thursday-Went to the Banko Sentral. Accompanied by my AFAP fave Tita Tess from DLSU-Taft. Went to the CCCP afterward and checked out some "art" and "culture". Ah the modern dilemma. Ended the night by watching the Mummy 3 against my better judgment. Let's just say, I feel bad for the Yetis.

business district while waiting. This whole thing seems owned by AYALA. Walk into the Stock Exchange. Nothing much going on on the floor. A lot of John and Yoko. Don't think it has anything to do with The Beatles. Good food though. Good prices. Planned to go to Friday-Out of town friends arrive and want to meet at Greenbelt. Wander around Makatitexting. Not quite sure if this is due to the time difference or Philippine culture. Most likely both. We end up eating at Greenbelt'sSanguijo to check out some video premiere that my new best bud (yeah that's right Carmel) John Torres invited me to. End up not going due to visiting friends's disinterest in seeing a live rock band. End up returning to Greenbelt, drinking and eating some bad stuff at EBON, feel sick going to bed.

Saturday - Wake up later than normal. Swim for a long time. Get a mild sunburn. Have weird visions while swimming. Strange desires emerge and submerge. The sun finally hits the chlorine water. Head to the Fort Bonafacio. Excited by Fully Booked. Buy a shitload of Filipino DVDs. Lino Brocka marathon screening soon. Decide to wander the fort by myself. It's actually quite entertaining. A lot of empty urban space. Time will tell if the development becomes developed or it's remain empty. It is said that the stock exchange will be moved here. Fort Bonafacio, the new global city. Eat some fried Balut for marienda. It's like a deep fried hard boiled egg. Guess it defeats the purpose. Have a late dinner with Mike's nice friends at Cubao Ex in QC: Mogwai. Very cool little "enclave" as Mike likes to put it. Mogwai is nice and cheap. Great mojitos. Food is iffy, but the staff is nice. All the same people from Green Papaya are there. I run into John and Khavn again. Meet Raya Martin, seems like a good humble guy. End up in Conspiracy and listen to sleepy time music. Seems like a cool laid back place. Too bad this night, it was a bit too laid back. Fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

Sunday-Meet up with my sister's friend and hang out of the whole day. I leave my camera on all night and the battery is drained. We of course end up going to malacanang, intramuros, luneta park, coconut palace, university belt, Glorietta, MOA, the cemeteries at Fort Bonafacio, and the shopping centers at the Fort. ikot ikot. I eat constantly. I really liked the babinka at Cafe Mare's. Also the buffet is crazy at Dad's. Consumed some snails. Ate Rachel is super nice. I received several rambutan. I'm set for life.

PS. itching to head out of the city.

family in Pasay

Cinemalaya screenings at the Film Building at UP

Some poetry at Green Papaya in QC

cultural center of the philippines

art inside???????VVVVVVV

decay trapped inside progress

gabriella of Makati

chapel inside greenbelt mall

john and yoko

spoon and chopsticks: east meets west!

scene from Greenbelt 3

avoid EBON at all costs!

fried balut

blurry mogwai

mural at conspiracy

welcome home [?]

2008-08-07T19:53:00.002+08:00

Living post-AFAP

2008-08-06T09:52:00.017+08:00

August 5, 2008

AFAP ended last Friday, August 1st with a semi-last minute trip to Malate (the former Red Light district of the American colonial period). While in the dorms we have to abide by the same rules as every other student in residence. This means that we must obey the curfew hour of 10:00 PM. (un)Fortunately, because we are Americans and exceptions are always made for Americans in the Philippines, we have been able, with ample warning, to extend the curfew hours to 12AM. Yet, since Malate is rather far from Dasmarinas and we were most likely to arrive well after 12AM, our staff let us know that it was best to just go ahead and sleep over at our host families rather than soil the AFAP name further. So, we agreed. It’s a good thing too, since we ended up leaving Dasmarinas at about 10:30PM. By the time we got there it began to rain and after a few missed hits, we ended up at a place called Mr. Lady. I believe the name says it all. Anyway, the entertainers of Mr. Lady, were really nice, and we got to end out our visit with some of our group going up and singing some of the greatest hits. First, “I love the night life” and of course my new favorite song: “Especially for you.” There was also a lot of tears. Anyway, it was about 3AM and just when it looked like we were heading home, we ended up next door at a dance club. I know what you’re thinking, Allan at a dance club? This is most likely not going to last long. Aesthetically the club was surprisingly nice for the moment. Everything was completely white with nice clean or circulinear lines. It looked a lot like a cover of a “Chill/downtempo” greatest hits collection that one would buy with Euros. The DJ was playing house music and the two surrounding flat screens were screening the Fat Boy Slim dvd, live from Florida, I think (SPRING BREAK 2003!). The music was actually pretty good. It made me nostalgic for the ‘90s. I literally was dragged onto the dance floor and shook a few things here and there. It was really quite fun, possibly the most fun I’ve ever had at a club, and dancing in general. This was probably due to the feeling that people were dancing to dance, not to pick up anyone or pose with the latest fashion trend (although I cannot say that these activities were not going on, they certainly were). No offense to people who love hip-hop clubs, but from what I’ve seen, hip-hop clubs are far too reserved/self-conscious. In a sense, it always seems like folks on the floor seem to be dancing for a disembodied audience, rather than for themselves. A roving camera for the latest Rap City (does Rap City still exist? I don’t have cable and haven’t seen BET in years) video perhaps? Still, the club was great and we ended up staying there until about 430AM. We had planned to leave around this time to see some of our classmates off at the airport. Their flight was at 530AM, so we headed over. By the time we got to the airport, I was dead tired. Still we were able to say goodbye and wish them luck and safe journey back to the U.S. before embarking on our own journey back to Dasmarinas. I drifted in and out of consciousness and was surprised to find that we had arrived on campus. It was Saturday, 6:30AM, August 2nd.

Since Saturday was our official last day, or the day that everybody gets shipped off back to Maynila, I ended up texting my cousins from Imus/Bacoor, asking to pick me up on campus so that I can spend some time hanging out with my relatives I have yet to see in the Philippines. We first went North to Santa Rosa, Nueva Ecija to see Tatay’s (my grandfather) grave. The trip was rather long. I think about five hours in all. I slipped in and out of consciousness. I tend to be doing this a lot while riding in cars. Perhaps it’s the way my body adjusts to the random conditions of traffic and the jarring effects of the roads here. Or perhaps my body has been trying to readjust to a non-AFAP schedule. The last month has been pretty trying. In any case, our first stop in Nueva Ecija was the church by the main road. In my sentimental moment I imagined my mother being baptized in this church and perhaps attending mass here. I’m not quite sure if these thoughts are well founded, but I do know that my mother was born in this place. The church was packed. And strange enough, the entire mass was conducted in Tagalog. While I was in Maynila and Cavite, certain parts of the mass were Tagalog and certain prayers were in English, especially “Our Father” and “Hail Mary.” In Bicol, mass was done in Bicolano, or English. Here, everything was Tagalog (or to be politically correct: Filipino). There was no trace of English. Needless to say I was very surprised. Perhaps next time, AFAP’s excursion into the province should be to Nueva Ecija rather than Bicol. A quick side story. My grandfather, or Tatay as we call him, and this story was recently told to me, used to be the chief of police in Santa Rosa. After some years he was urged to run for mayor. He lost. Because of this there was a certain sense of “hiya” or shame, and he opted to move his family to Pasay. One of his sons opted to stay behind. My mother was the last one in the family to be born in Santa Rosa. So after mass we headed to visit my cousins who stayed behind. I was surprised to find out that they were palay (or rice) farmers. (I come from peasant stock after all!) I was also surprised to find out that my grandparents owned a little piece of land here. Two and a half hectares of bukid for palay, with another half hectare for a mango orchard. I really wanted to go and see it, but they kept insisting that we didn’t have time and that the soil was too muddy. They ended up drinking Emparador whiskey for the next two hours. Ah the Samaniego sense of time and belonging. But before the drinking commenced, I was actually hanging out with the women inside the house. I don’t know if it’s because I was a foreigner, younger, or didn’t speak the language very well, but they were rather candid about a lot of personal things in front of me. Certain biological stories were tossed around and I although a bit uncomfortable at first, I was quickly drawn into their stories or “tsismis” as some might call this form of storytelling. In addition, there was a manghuhula, or “fortune teller” and a “faith healer” in attendance, and she, I guess, was a family friend. In fact, she told me she was related to us, since her father’s mother’s name was Samaniego. I don’t know the extent of her connection or kinship to me, but she certainly knew how to talk. She actually knew quite a lot of English words and could slip quite a few into our conversation. She asked me if I had ever had my fortune told. I avoided the question, in order not to be rude and to not get pulled into a scam. Yet, my cousin from Imus had her fortune told and so I was urged to do so after her. She used playing cards and supposedly saw things within the pattern and placement of numbers. I couldn’t really see any pattern in what she was looking for but in any case she was able to say some pretty vague things that were eerily specific about me. Certain things about my past and my present were certainly correct. And when talking about my present, certain doubts that had been in my head surfaced. Finally, in her reading of my health, one of my “fears” was pointed out. I didn’t want to give in and kept my face calm. But perhaps she was able to notice that I began to get a bit uncomfortable, so she thankfully stopped instead of pushing further. I’m definitely not sure if fortune telling actually has any merits. Perhaps in the vagueness and vastness of the “fortune” being told to us, certain thoughts are recalled from our “unconscious” that we had been suppressing, and hence, the “fortune” becomes uncannily true. Or perhaps, the very act of submitting to the discourse of a fortune reading is our “unconsciousness” pushing to get out. Forcing us to face whatever it is that we had been psychologically running from. I’m not quite sure. After the reading, just before lunch, we headed out to see my Tatay’s grave. I quickly bought flowers at the local palengke but forgot to buy candles. When we arrived, I was surprised to find how small the lot was. How ordinary the headstone was. This was a man who had lived a 102 years. He had over 15 children. Touched intimately over a hundred lives. His memory and effect lingers long after him in all of my family’s stories. He and my grandmother were the reason why certain feuds ended or never began. They were the reason people came together in the same room. He always commanded respect without demanding anything, and he always made people laugh. I imagined a tomb, a mausoleum, a pyramid, a statue made of bronze, or an orchard ordained with living things. Not a headstone overgrown with grass. Yet, thinking back, he was a simple man. At least in my imagination he was. He had his vices. He liked to play mahjong and cards. He stayed out with his friends. He was a barber and a policeman. He came from peasant stock. He loved his children and his apos, and his great (great, great?) grandchildren. So perhaps this was gravestone was more fitting. Perhaps, it was what he wanted. To be buried in the soil that raised him. To not be a burden on it, with extra stone or marble, but to simply become a part of it. Perhaps.

After the trip to my grandfather’s grave we (this was the men this time) then had lunch and talked about farming, gasoline (some drove jeepneys and tricycles), America of course, what exactly I did for a living (this one is usually hard to explain in Tagalog and in English), and what my plans were while here. Yet, the day began to run out of hours, and we were off again to Angat, Bulocan to see my Tito’s place and of course visit my grandmother, Nanay. After a couple more hours south, we finally reached my Tito’s place. It was a great piece of land. A lot of fresh air, away from everthing. Up on a hill, so one could see the water below. A lot of trees. I didn’t get to take a tour since I immediately went inside to see Nanay. She was in the CR by herself (surprising!) and then she came out smiling. We hugged and she gave me a kiss. Waves of nostalgia came over me, and memories and feelings of home washed over my skin and shot through my thoughts. I was really happy. It had been over two years since I had seen Nanay, and last year, when my Tatay died, I was unable to go to the Philippines due to me having to be in SEASSI and getting appendicitis. Nanay took it really hard. After all they were married for almost 80 years. Yet seeing her, she didn’t seem depressed at all. She seemed more lively than the way I remembered her while she lived in Washington. She was usually more tired, slower, didn’t really speak much, although she always asked me in English if I was done yet with school. Here however she made swift movements. Theatrical gestures. And she spoke loud. Booming Tagalog. She launched into me with a mixture of questions and statements. Phrases and topice like:

How long have you been here? Are you done yet with school? You’re so industrious. You’ve been in school forever. Don’t ever forget your language. You forgot your language? I thought we spoke in America! My eyes are perfect, but my hearing is horrible. I can still push the thread through the needle’s eye without glasses. I pray every night the same prayer. That’s why I’ve led a blessed life. I had 15 children. I used to have to be the one who punished your titos. Your grandfather was so kind and patient. I was so lucky to have found him. Hopefully you will be lucky someday as well.

Below are some American Apparel like shots (this is due to my cousin’s lack of digitial camera maneuvering experience) of me and my grandmother. Isn’t she beautiful? It began to rain hard as we left. It was pitch dark in the provinces. As we drove away from Angat, I tried to grasp on to to the quickly fleeting memories of my grandmother’s warm hugs. The familiar smell of baby powder. The sound of her kiss as she inhaled deeply on my cheek, as she always did, even when I was a little child growing up in Pasay. The dark wet night quickly engulfed the road. We would then get lost in Bulocan, miss the expressway, and end up in Quezon city. A two hour detour. I would learn the next day that the heavy rains caused serious flooding in Nueva Ecija, Ilocos, Bulocan, and Pampanga. But this story is another story for another time.

never got around to posting this

stray kitties adopted by the boys dorm

me reciting my tula

the grad students and future roommates giving thanks to dasmarinas

tumugtugtog?

after program marienda

rainy night in Malate

Mr. Lady! and afap

what goes on at 3AM in the dance club

...at 345AM

...at 4AM

Santa Rosa, Nueva Ejica

kamag-anak nueva ecija

manguhuhula

at the cementary

tatay's grave

fetching things

things

atis...finally!

my lola. isn't she beautiful!

can someone say friendster?

views of Makati

welcome to rockwell

fun with coconuts (mga niyog) at the adventures of fresh buko

2008-07-28T09:07:00.007+08:00

How does one open a coconut? Follow up: how does one drink and eat fresh buko juice?

Can I try?

procrastination

2008-07-25T23:57:00.005+08:00

Went to Maynila today to attempt to extend my visa. Quick backstory: anyone who visits the Philippines from another nation can stay for 21 days. After the 21 days, you have to pay about 4000 pesos (about 90 US dollars) to extend for a standard 38 days. When I arrived in Maynila on June 14, 2008, the airport officer who was stamp my passport was too incompetent to change the stamp from June 14, to June 04, so my 21 days was cut to 11 in less than a second. I of course didn't realize this until I went to immigration to extend my visa. When I got there (about a month ago) I paid the stupid extension fee but was told that if I had had a Philippine passport I would not have to pay at all. Since I used to live in Pasay (from about 1982-1986) and used to have dual citizenship, I emailed my mother to see if she had any proof. Luckily she did and emailed me the letter, stating that I was to be considered a "Filipino" while in the Philippines. Fast forward to today at the immigration madhouse building in Intramuros (the legendary part of Maynila that Rizal made famous). I get in line, fill out the form, and prepare myself to shell out another 4000 pesos to extend my stay another 38 days. I bring the letter thinking it's worth a try. The agent looks at it and asks why I paid the extension last time. I said I didn't have the letter last time. He said "okay" and returned the letter back to me. I said "ok" back and asked what he meant by "ok". He then told me, I'm a Filipino while in the Philippines and just to show the letter when I get to the airport. I was then hit by a strange mixture of happiness, acceptance, anxiety, and annoyance. Happiness due to not having to pay. Feelings of acceptance by this nation (ah an imagined acceptance?). Anxiety, thinking about how many times I have to show this letter and explain about it at the airport in about 30 days. And annoyance that he couldn't just enter into the computer that I was exempt and should be considered a citizen. In any case, I ended up going to SM maynila since my colleagues who did have to pay had to wait around for their passports later in the afternoon.

While there I caved in and received my first haircut in the Philippines at the local Ricky Reyes (henceforth to be known as "the Reyes"). I had heard many things about haircuts here--free hairwash, having your face shaved, less than 5 dollars, and a back/neck massage to boot! --and they were surprisingly all true! Unfortunately my friend next to me got bamboozled into getting some sort of hair stimulant/relaxing treatment and hence I got suckered in as well. Overall the whole experience took over an hour, most of which was me squirming uncomfortably in my seat while getting a backrub. I honestly thought I was prepared, but it was strange. Earlier in the week I also caved into peer pressure and got my first full body massage/facial! Even the the person who gave me a facial gave me a massage afterward. Interestingly enough, it seems like every "beauty" service includes a massage, I won't be surprised that in the future that with every fill-up at the gas station, the "gasoline boy" (that's what they call attendants here) will work out the knots in your lower back. Finally since there isn't a mirror in my dorm room (probably afraid the students will never go to class, I swear, since coming to DLSU-Dasma I have never in my life seen so many boys/men primping their hair and spending hours in front of the restroom mirror) I went ahead and asked for a shave at "the Reyes". The stylist took a long time on it with his little razor blade, and while I was sitting there I wondered if he usually did this and whether I had made a bad decision. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally got to sit down and see the final product. I was horrified. The reason it took him so long was that he had shaped my sideburns to all the way down to my chin! In fact, it looked like something one of the backstreet boys would have sported back in '96. Yet, I had a dilemma. I felt guilty asking him to shave it off since he seemed to spend so much time on it, yet this feeling of guilt was quickly subsumed by my liberal sense of self and entitlement. I paid for it, I should get I what I want right? Anyway, I ended up asking for him to cut it off which did without reaction and I was soon off on my merry way. Although I ended up getting about a pound of aquanet on my head before heading out. Below are some pictures of my new (too?) short do, after I had washed out the layers of crusted hairspray and Maynila particles.

More fragments of bicol

2008-07-21T15:56:00.014+08:00

I still haven't been able to process all the traveling (trikes, jeeps, vans, buses), sights (Mayon, churches, lignon, rain and the ocean), sounds (music from church, playing drums in front of nuns, singing karaoke on the bus), tastes (balut, fresh coconut, pili nuts, bikol express and laing!), smells (fresh seawater, fresh mountain air, the stench of palengkes) and of course the amazing people I've met (the folks at the Social Action Network, Monsignor and the sisters, and the academics over at Ateneo de Naga). Since getting back to Dasma I haven't really been able to get the memories out of me, and indeed, I still yearn for the "simple" country life of Bicol. I know these thoughts feed to a nostalgic and superficial fantasy of the provincial life but I have to admit, after spending a week in Bicol, removed from giant SMs, crazy jeep and trike drivers trying to overcharge you, laptop carrying rich kids etc., there is some essence in these stereotypical images. For now all I can do is post some of the fragments I've collected over the last week below and also a quick bullet point listing of the happenings in Bicol.

1. De La Salle bus breaking down because of some strange "magnetic force" on our first day in Bikol. It would break down constantly for the next week. We did get it blessed by the Monsignor before we headed back to Das, and I must say that forget about science, faith works!
2. Riding the jeep sabit style on the back and my first trike ride EVER! (I would follow it up by sabiting a bunch of times on the trike, you would think that 10 people can't ride on a trike, but you're wrong). Also, my favorite person in Bicol, John Bautista from the SAC mentioned that the average Trike driver earns 150 pesos a day after expenses. That's a little over 3 U.S. dollars.
3. If you don't like Pili nuts don't come here. But if you're smart you would invest in Pili nut oil. I think it's the next big thing. Serious.
4. One word: ABACA! The filipinos from the big city love"native" crafts made from Abaca. It's funny because one of the major exports of Bicol up until the commonwealth period was abaca. This economic tie to the U.S. allowed Bicol to be one of the major economic competitors to Manila for a good chunk of the 20th century.
5. The food! I love the spicyness of Bicol cuisine. Indeed the bicol express (ground up chiles and coconut milk) and laing (coconut milk and gabi leaves ) are amazing dishes. look it up and try it out if you want to change your life forever. Also, although originally from Quezon province, I discovered the best banana chips ever. And of course, eating balut for the first time in 20 years.
6. Meeting and interviewing women who pray novenas for a donation.
7. swimming in the warm waters of the Pacific ocean, with Mt. Mayon in the skyline.
8. According to the Diocese of the Philippines we live in a culture of d.e.a.t.h.
D: Divorce, E: Euthenasia, A: Abortion, T: Total Population Control, H: Homosexuality. (something tells me they were stretching a bit for the "T" part in death).
9. bats in churches! Amazing.

first day in Polanquii

Mt. Mayon...

..can fit between my hands!

somewhere outside of Tobaco, the bus breaks down. Warning: don't use dirty fuel!

sabit time on the jeepney, after waiting for 5 hours because of the breakdown

drying palay (rice) by the side of the road

a lot of old churches...

our national hero!

shrine to our miraculous sister. Apparently if you have trouble getting pregnant, you come here to pray.

i swam in these waters

waiting for the trike...any trike

st. john the baptist church, bell tower, built in the 19th century.

looking up the tower

abaca rope and pili nuts

rice farmers

catching a flash with the mayor of tiwi

halo-halo bicol style, the mayor treated all of us!

new ad campaign for korean tourists!

I'm about to pass out from eating too many halo-halos. In reality, there were some left over and I ended up eating two in a row.

the sisters cooked us a feast!

after dinner, a bit of rock n' roll. I'm borrowing the sister's sticks.

at a local abaca craft "factory"

inside joke (remember SEASSI anyone?)

the native wants food

home-made suka

My last time walking through Legazpi (for now)

it's called makahiya

sipa! (and you thought hackeysack was just for dreadlocked white hippies!)

phonograph from the early 20th century. Now who said the Philippines wasn't modern?

my first trike ride ever!

A moving fragment of Bicol

2008-07-16T20:55:00.002+08:00

Off to Bicol

2008-07-12T11:38:00.003+08:00

So the first component of the program is over and we're all off to Bikol for a week (a province to the west of Manila)! Last year it went from 2nd most impoverished province to the 4th...movin' on up! Below is a link to some information to Bikol. Sorry for the short post, but I'll write out my thoughts after I gather it along the road to Bikol. Hopefully there will be some amazing pictures of the volcanoe. Ingats!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bicol_Region

Just in case you thought I was faking the whole thing

2008-07-10T07:19:00.000+08:00

We got a write up in the Manila Times weekend edition. This article is a result of July 4th (Philippine Republic's former independence day) Philippine-American Friendship Day! Celebration time come on!

http://www.manilatimes.net/national/2008/july/06/yehey/weekend/20080706week1.html

more aguinaldo, pizza hut, public tv and everything after

2008-07-09T10:39:00.006+08:00

Pasensya po (my apologies) for taking awhile this past week on blog posts. It’s not that I haven’t been doing interesting things, it’s just hard to get away from these activities and write down stuff in front of a computer. I also have way too many pictures and videos to upload and that eats up a lot of time, especially on the connection we have here on campus. Still, I would like to say it is quite a nice respite to write down some of my fragmented thoughts in English. Although we are required, for my program to maintain a journal in Tagalog, I still find myself getting worn out by all my thoughts being focused merely on all things about the program. So frequently things in this blog find their way into my journal and vice versa (the last post on NGOs is a perfect example). But on to bigger and better things: what did I do this past weekend? First, me, my host family, and a select crew traveled to Kawit and had a tour of the (in)famous Aguinaldo house. We had the benefit of a private tour since my host dad is a professor and is real chummy chummy with the head of the museum. Highlights: going up the secret passage all the way to the top of the house, which has a nice view of Manila, the cool old flags (especially the smiley face sun and the “KKK” or Katipunan flag), the bowling alley, and of course the giant cake of the Aguinaldo house where lil’ Emilio actually waves the flag. According to the sponsor, Red Ribbon, this scene is historically accurate. Second, we headed to Manila for a bit of shopping. Although Divisoria was a bust, we ended up at Robinsons and looked around for a bit, inside Robinson’s proper, not in other stores. Since it was our last weekend with our host family, me and Edwin decided to treat them to dinner. And what better place to treat a Filipino family other than Pizza Hut!!!! (cue theme song) It was fast, rather tasty, and I would say a great success. Highlight: The stuffed crust pizza in which a hot dog gets stuffed into the outer crust. YuM!!

On Sunday we were whisked away to congested Maynila in order to appear on Channel 4 government television. Because of someone’s bright idea (Frank) and the “pushover-ness” of our program coordinators, we had to write a tula (poem) about ourselves, and read this poem on air as our personal introduction. So we all went along, even though this bright idea was presented the morning of the interview. We all ended up writing our poems on the bus and in a future post I’ll share what I came up with, but for now let’s just continue with our story. Upon reaching the station, I felt as though I was in the backstage of a television station in the communist bloc. The air con wasn’t working, they had a betamax machine, and the “green room” was crammed with people. While we were all chilling in the “green room”, we get a “suggestion” from our coordinators and Frank that we should all try and memorize our poems that we just wrote an hour ago. I’m sure all the students had one thought in their mind: “fuck that.” Or at least I thought it. Anyway, after arriving at the station at 2PM, we find out that the program doesn’t start until 4PM. Okay, no big deal, I like avoiding work anyway, and the grumpy makeup lady chose to have me go firsties on the makeup chair. I obliged, and everyone commented on how great I look with makeup. Guess who’s the next covergirl? Anyway, 4PM comes around and we are told we will go on soon. That’s fine, I like hanging out in tv stations equipped with 1970s technology anyway, so 4PM turns into 5PM and 5PM turns into 530PM. The clock finally turns to 545PM and we get word that we are next. We get rushed to the burning hot stage area and are forced to line up behind the hosts and our teachers. So we are now standing behind our seated teachers, and some other folks that are being interviewed on this public-access channel like set. I peer at the TV that shows what is being broadcasted, and all you can see is our crotches behind the talking heads. I kid you not. Anyway, 550PM rolls around and finally our program gets introduced and it is now our turn to shine. Jason goes first and begins to read his poem but gets cut off by an angry old (very light skinned) woman, a.k.a. our annoying TV host. Jason getting cut off only means one thing: the poems that we were told to create and memorize aren’t even going to be read. We end up just stating our name and where we’re from and then it’s 5:55PM, and some women get on stage and sing our program out. Good night public television! Needless to say we were all pretty pissed, yet we got some rock n’ roll pictures of the crew on the bus as we were rolling out. We ended up eating at Max’s or as it’s known in ancient sanskrit: “the house that fried chicken built.” For all those score keepers out there I’ve eaten about 4 million fried things since I arrived! Highlight: seeing Tita Terry again and getting an awesome pic with the living legend. Can someone yell FRIENDSTER!?

Yesterday, headed out to celebrate a birthday at Jollibee’s. Yes, you read that right, Jollibee’s. Indeed, they decided to do a blowout Justice League themed private party at Jollibee’s for one of our guros. Everything was surprisingly fun, although the food was terrible. Highlights: the games and silly prizes, the overwhelming use of synchronized dance routines to sexually explicit adult club dance hits, and of course the totally bading Hettie and Jollibee (whose costumes stank like sweaty old costumes usually stink).

Random thoughts:

I was invited to a birthday party and was handed a bowl of sinigang hipon (a kind of shrimp soup). Along with other delicious food I began picking at the sinigang and realized there was about a dozen pieces of whole shrimp. Yet, since I was at an outdoor birthday party and was without table, I attempted to eat the shrimp with one hand. I figured there was a correct way to peel and eat shrimp, and since I had about 12 in the bowl, I was bound to stumble upon it. I was wrong. Question: how does one peel and eat shrimp with one hand?

When Filipinos speak in English and attempt to be polite, they insert either “sir” or “ma’am” into every other line. Today it finally clicked. In Tagalog, one needs to simply selectively insert po into certain parts of the sentence in order to make it the polite form. Sir/ma’am acts in the same way. Ain’t life grand?

nagpapamakeup

in soviet union, tv eat you!

rock n' roll tour '77

rock n' roll tour '78

check your tagalog textbook!

i am vanilla sky man

I'm not quite sure what jolli is doing

i'm not quite sure what i'm doing either.

2008-07-07T07:38:00.006+08:00

Right at this moment I’m listening to this Pilipino rapper named Gloc 9. I got turned on to him through the youth I’m working with at Bahay Kalinga. In case I never mentioned it, part of the program entails volunteer work at an NGO. What is peculiar is that Bahay Kalinga is run by the municipality, and hence is an obvious government entity. Anyway, other than that, the running joke about Bahay Kalinga is that its name should be changed to Bahay Kalungan (jailhouse). This is because the Bahay (home) that these youth live in (ages ranging from 6 to 18) has three locked rooms. One is the “play” room. The second is for the younger kids (6-12) and the rest of the older youth are crammed into the third room. This probably would not be a big deal, but the fact that there are about eight in the younger kids room and over twenty in the other room is disturbing. They younger kids have scabies that they keep passing on to each other, even though we bought medicine, we’re not sure it’s being applied properly. There is also a severe lack of clothes, as they repeatedly wear the same t-shirt everyday, and some of the younger kids do not have underwear. To make matters worse, because these youth were abandoned, in trouble with the law, or both, the law maintains that they cannot ever leave Bahay Kalinga unless a family member signs them out and a judge approves it. Unlike in the states, 18 is not the magic number here for juvenile detention, and instead of being let free, they are transferred to adult prison, which quaintly enough, is next door. Anyway, other than the saturation of hopelessness that permeates our work, the brief hours every weekday we spend their seems to lift their spirits somehow. Monday marks our last day where our program coordinators want to have our respective NGOs (in essence the people we “helped”) to perform for them and have a “send-off” for us (as if we actually need gratification). Still, although this performance was planned more for the program coordinators to enjoy a spectacle performed by those less fortunate and for the coordinators to witness their “benevolence” reflected back to them, this performance still provides a space for the youth who are continuously silenced or ignored, to express themselves and provides a moment of what my professor back home considers “play” in communication, a possible instant that subverts and overturns the intention of the dominant or hegemonic order. It is at this performance that some of the youth (no doubt inspired by Filipinos’ love of dance crews) will dance to Gloc 9’s “Huwag Kang Matakot Sumayaw.” At first I thought Gloc 9 was a jokey pop dance type rapper (you know like Will Smith) but he’s actually really good. Although he has the same nasally tone and similar flow as Eminem, (and the similarity is really uncanny) throughout his album “Diploma” he’s able to move through different beats, different syncopation, and different topics fairly easily. You can tell he’s comfortable with each line and really works at his craft. In addition for the most part, the whole album is in Tagalog. The only problem are the beat production, where it’s usually the cheesy karaoke style tone of instruments.

Anyway I started this blog entry to write about our trip to Kawit, home of Heneral Emilio Aguinaldo. There surprisingly were not that many visitors, and although the house was amazing, the curator didn’t provide much knowledge other than what could be found in a textbook. Even the giftshop had hardly any Aguinaldo or historic things for sale, and instead had the usual tourist things (coconut shells carved into animals, random bootlegged CDs, and a lot of fashion disaster hats). Below are some (a lot!) of pictures of our excursion. Two facts of interest: 1) there were a bunch of “secret” passages throughout the house. 2) His bowling alley was awesome and totally reminded me of the last scene in There Will Be Blood. Something tells me Aguinaldo was probably capable of the same thing that Daniel Day Lewis’s character was capable of as well.

the eight provinces

rizal and bonifacio

where he lies

matching the portrait?

haunted

matt and the cow

aguinaldo's moving cake

caught in the act!

kids wanted me to take a picture of them jumping off a bridge

my hero!

delicious!

boredom at the library

boredom at the library part 2

yes Max's is the house that fried chicken built

hot kalamansi

20 years later...

2008-07-01T13:05:00.005+08:00

Last Sunday I went to visit my kamaganak (extended family) that I haven’t seen in twenty years. Needless to say, I didn’t recognize any of them. Although some of my cousins’s faces and names seemed familiar, their children, my pamangkin (nephews and nieces) were not. I even met what technically would be called my granddaughter. The big joke was that she should call me Lolo (grandpa) Allan. Still, it was strange having these teenagers and twenty year olds call me tito (uncle), when tito is what I call my elders. (My nieces call me Uncle Allan back home) I occasionally would slip up and call my kuyas or ates (older cousins) tito or tita, simply because they were about double my age. Still, I’m glad to say, it was the first time I actually felt at home in the Philippines. It was the first time I actually felt genuine care and concern from Filipinos. This is not to say that the teachers and staff at the program, or my classmates, or my host family don’t give a fuck about me, the opposite is true. They all very much care about me, but in a professional sense. I know that it is a service they are providing, and although there are of course moral obligations: I am a “human” being after all, I also know that at the end of the day, the only thing that ties us together is a loose friendship and a bureaucratic network.

In Imus however I finally felt home sick. There were all these conversations about my family back in the states, how they are doing, what are they up to, if so and so is still fat (you can guess who they are talking about), if so and so is still working, if so and so lives close to so and so etc. In Imus, I actually felt somewhat comfortable speaking Tagalog. Unlike at the program and around other students, I didn’t feel like I was under pressure (for a grade or for some weird interstudent competition), I finally felt like people wanted to hear what I was trying to express, rather than just if my grammar was correct. Although they obviously corrected me and guided me in my speech, they were also the most encouraging out of everyone that I had previously spoken to. I think they were impressed that I really wanted to learn Tagalog as well as Philippine culture and history, that I really wanted to hear how they experience life and expressed themselves in their language, rather than force them to enter into the uncomfortable lingual space of English. They kept repeating how whenever some of my other extended family members from the U.S. visited, they would be mahiyain (embarrassed) to speak up, because they were afraid of making mistakes in English. Moreover they get confused whenever people speak in English too fast, or use too many slang terms, so they just nod their heads, pretend they understand, and smile. I don’t want to leave the impression that they are in some way less apt to understand English, or do not have the ability to comprehend English, rather I would like to point out that from this I gather that a less real, or less honest form of communication occurs during these brief visits. Moreover although my visit was very short (about 6 hours), I felt like I expressed more about myself than I usually do at family gatherings in the U.S. Still they were very appreciative of my father and mother’s visits, as well as my older brother and sister, since they speak Tagalog and always try to make time to check-in while they are in the Philippines. Yet, as previously mentioned I actually felt homesick, or at least, I really wished members of my immediate family were there to experience all of these things at the same time. Still, I’m glad I went on my own, just so I could attempt to articulate, in Tagalog, my own autobiography, without utilizing one of my family members as a translator or a crutch. At this point, I really don’t know how to translate my feelings into this text, and I know that this will be a recurring feeling. Still I know that at this moment, I truly desire to meet and get to know further the rest of my family spread out across the Philippines, and to let them know that although I might have “forgotten” their faces and names over the two decades I’ve been away, I never forgot that they were here, and I hope they never forget that I am here as well.

Some quick and random lines of what I did and what I saw while visiting family in Imus.

1. The Pac-Man’s fight, delayed of course, but libre!

2. I found out that my Kuyas work as seamen (another popular gendered OFW labor) on cruise ships and my nephew is about to set sail for a year next month. (they also only get about a 2 hour break when they are at port)

3. I broke my oath of sobriety (sorry mom and pebs) by drinking Red Wine with ice…YUM!

4. My granddaughter really appreciates all the dolls my mom gives her.

5. Every one of my cousins own sari-sari stores, and my Kuya Jun owns a pedi-cab. (how cool is that?)

6. I went with all my pamangkin to the internet café in order to “mag-myspace” and “mag-facebook”. I ended up playing counter-strike on the LAN with all of them (11 of us in all). I really sucked and shot my teammates a lot. I was able to pay for all of us for an hour with about 100 pisos (a little over 2 bucks). Which leads to number 7:

7. Me and my ates compared prices and standards of living between the U.S. and the Philippines. They asked me if life was hard in the U.S., I said yes, but then I had to backtrack because of all the things like what Americans take as a global standard: appliances, decent transportation, living space, groceries, hospitals etc. are not common the Philippines.

8. Two of my ates are guros. (yay education!)

9. My little niece (who isn’t that little) is in college to be a nurse. She wouldn’t mind going to the U.S., but is weary of the discrimination and the possible labor scams. My family is totally on fucking point. (Yay family!)

4 hours short in intramuros

2008-07-01T12:46:00.008+08:00

One fine Saturday afternoon we escaped from Dasmarinas and got to frolic in intramuros for a few hours. The battery on my camera ran out, but I think you get the point.

i like this portrait the most

catching some shade with our man J-Riz

an original, not a copy (to be said in a high fidelity tone)

tools of the Doc

I like seeing these things more than portraits

It's huge!

tunneling into the PAST!

careful where you aim that thing big boy!

our relationship in a nutshell

i just really like the picture

in a half step with rizal

green is the color of my true love's carriage.

a tunnel to the chapel or a golf course, your pick.

behind me is where they drown prisoners

(i'm so happy to be where they drown prisoners)

kabayo

look at Linda the tourist!

whose culture?

2008-06-28T08:31:00.004+08:00

Last night we celebrated Jason's birthday at a Korean restaurant, but before the celebration we had a crash course in Philippine "culture", which according to Frank Rivera, is the "best in the world." Who owns this culture? Filipinos. As long as Filipino "blood" courses through your veins, you own this culture. Apparently the nation, culture, and blood are synonymous terms. Moreover the problem with Philippine culture now is that the people who own it, for example, Filipinos, are mahiyain (ashamed) to show their culture. So they bury it or deny it, eg: Lea Salonga. Anyway, I'm surprised that academics in the Philippines seem to run parallel in thinking to Fil-Am academics in the United States, especially when it comes to culture (which has a limited usage here, and only holds currency for activities such as music, dance, acting, poetry, fiction etc.). The main concern here for academics is the concept of "colonialism" or "globalization" in which we deny our "true" selves in order to copy what the imperial others propogate as the best. If one is ready to reduce this thinking, one can easily see the way this process of cultural colonialism and "globalization" derives itself from what is commonly referred to in the U.S. as identity politics, a politics that is itself embedded in the liberal individual. I'm not saying that this is good or bad, but rather surprising. Some questions that never seem to be answered by Philippine academics that I've met so far. First, can their concept of "globalization" and "colonialism" move beyond the physical analysis of "diaspora" studies in regards to "Filipinos" living and being raised abroad (for example us)? And second, culture and colonialism's etymology are so similar, it is hard to think of one without the other. Is it not possible that one needs some form of colonialism in order to produce and keep alive culture?

Anyway, deep thoughts by Jack Handey aside, below are some pics taken within the last week.

Lake Taal at night

That's Ambeth Ocampo in white!!!!! Through a really foggy lens

That's Frank Rivera, giving us a pep talk about drama. (In other words, we better do some fucking drama)

Rica taking a picture of drama in action.

thuggin' in the dyip (one of my 5 faces)

korean table

korean food: filipino style! Komote anyone?

the birthday boy at the karaoke bar (where are the GROs?)

Matt looking up MMMbop for the eighteenth time

everyone's feeling total eclipse right about...now.

Bidio Time!

2008-06-26T13:00:00.004+08:00

Since you (Carmel especially) want more bidio!

(these are from the first day)

Welcome to AFAP!

Marching band!

The typhoon blues

2008-06-24T10:22:00.009+08:00

(I wrote this a couple days ago at home)

Today was Sunday and day three of Typhoon Frank (I think that’s its name). A truly lazy (or at least I desired it to be a truly lazy) day, I got to accompany Tita and Tito (my host mother and father) to the palengke (marketplace). The marketplace (along the “coast” off of Aguinaldo Hwy in Imus) was surprisingly busy, probably because it was covered by a roof. Still, the rain was intense and so were the smells and sights. Meat, fruit, vegetables, rice, and a bunch of other necessities were on sale. There was also a gigantic line for the NFA (government subsidy) rice. It’s much cheaper than the imported rice, but Tita and Tito explained to me that the rice has a darker color because it has been sitting in surplus in a warehouse somewhere. So in essence, it might not have the same amount of nutrients and indeed most likely taste different. Overall though the palengke was not as overwhelming as I thought it would be and people seem very friendly, especially when haggling over price. Although they would feign surprise over the cost of things, there seemed to be a mutual understanding to how low the price of the commodity could really drop. The rain was intense, but luckily the winds were not as strong on the ground. If it were, we probably could be without electricity. On the news there were numerous reports and images of people being without power in other provinces, I know that up north/central Luzon seems to be flooded. I guess we’re pretty lucky here.

hayop ng dagat

you trust the bucket?

more dead things

expensive rice

NFA rice

bidio time!

Yesterday we had to watch a movie called “Munting Tinig” (Little Voices) although me and Matt, as usual, disagreed about how “to read” the movie, I felt that it stimulated some interesting conversation, and the jokes/acting wasn’t overly corny. Overall, it wasn’t, for a “mainstream” movie, that bad. After the movie, tensions finally emerged in our “cohort” as we got locked into a room to decide, of all things, the two names of each of our classes. We finally settled on Ugat (roots) and Bagwis (wings). I’m not going to go into the clearly sentimental and nostalgic rationale other people provided in voting for these words, but I just want to say I came up with Ugat (GO ME!). I’m just glad it didn’t turn into something corny, although my other suggestions such as chicharon (pork rinds), ipis (cockroach), and sabong (cockfight) didn’t get much attention either. Afterward we had to talk about the t-shirt design for our class. It turned out to be longer than I thought it would be, and although I could care less on how it would turn out, a lot of people seemed to take it very seriously. So although I really didn’t want to, I had to remain engaged and kept up the façade that I was paying attention, although to be honest my mind often wandered to a million other things I would rather be doing, like for instance, eating chicharon at a sabong. Overall Saturday was probably the most tense day as everyone seemed a bit out of sorts. We all went our separate ways and I just tried to read my assigned novel “Dekada ’90,” in my room. Before you say how “masipag” I am, every other word in the novel seemed to be destined to be looked up in the dictionary, and as if habitual, everyday after dinner, I try to study, but end up falling asleep. It’s strange that in the U.S. I have no trouble running on 5 or 6 hours of sleep, but here, I seem to be sleepy once it gets dark. Just walking outside drains so much out of me. Everything is so intense, and I’m always paranoid, that I’ll miss my stop, get run over, or get pickpocketed, that it truly is tiring to my senses. Still, I avoided work for a bit by playing cards with the my little “sisters” and talking with Tita.

After dinner, Tita surprisingly revealed quite a lot about how her family interacts, especially her sons and her husband. Perhaps it’s a normal part of “Philippine” culture to reveal such personal insights, or perhaps it is because I’m an outsider but she ended up revealing that although Tito is a good provider and kind person, he doesn’t have much of an intimate relationship with his sons. He’s actually quite a well respected person here, and very much tied into numerous communities, holds many positions, and is always going to meetings or evaluating things. That perhaps is the problem as Tita says, he’s a workaholic, and is never at home. The eldest son is taking a break from college, while the other two sons are really quiet, the second one is a “loner”. They don’t speak much to Tito, even around the table, and Tita thinks that that is why certain actions happen. Either they want his attention, or are at this point, indifferent. It’s quite sad actually, but it parallels a lot of the things going on in Dekada 70, and perhaps, reflects the particular form of patriarchal family in the Philippines. In some ways, even I can relate, as I too feel that a lot of memories growing up were around my mother and siblings more than my father. Although, I do remember my dad talking much more at the table than Tito ever did. Moreover since the Barangay office is so close, he merely eats and then sets off again to the office, for meetings or more paperwork. This along with his teaching duties at the university doesn’t leave much time for his family. And this I think is what Tita is worried about.

but enough serious talk, let's look at more pictures of stuff at the palengke!

coco for coconuts!

look at the size of those things!

first fresh lychee I ever tasted, I know, and I call myself "ethnic"

bananas for bananas! (ugh...)

I believe this is the pico mango, but I'm probably wrong (I get quizzed every night at dinner and am usually 50% correct)

Later on on Sunday, after a nap and more hours spent attempting to read Dekada, I was invited to attend a Debut. I’ve never been to a real Philippine debut before, although I have been to a few Fil-Am debuts, as well as sat through the horrible movie of the same title, so I was really excited to be able to attend. The debut started about a couple hours later than was written on the invitation, so Tita just left me with the girls while she went back to cook dinner. As I sat there I got to talk to some of my “sisters’s” friends and got a bit of tsismis about whoever has a crush on who and so on and so forth. I also got to meet some of the other teenagers, their mothers, as well as the debutante. One funny thing that happened is the girls kept pointing out how “sexy” the teenagers were and that I should go talk to them. I explained to them that I was very old. One of the mothers, I think a relative of Tita, asked if I could take a picture with her daughter (one of said teenagers set to dance in the debut). I thought she was joking. She wasn’t. Still I found it funny as Tita introduced me sort of like an exotic commodity: he’s from America, he’s trying to speak Tagalog but can’t really. All of which is true, but it still felt strange. I asked one of the cousins (who is super nice, and is very proud to be both Filipino and a Cabiteno) if they had any family in America. She answered no, and I believe that that explains why Tita introduced me the way she did. The debut overall was fun although long. (the debut was set to begin around 5pm, in actuality it began at 7:30) There was a lack of performances but an overabundance of 18 things: 18 roses, 18 balloons, 18 candles. All of these things were accompanied by family and friends who each had to do a speech. Although the words didn’t seem overly personal, the debutante cried a lot. I didn’t quite understand why she was crying, she wasn’t necessary leaving to go somewhere far, nor were there any other trying histories hinted at by others. Still, after reading her invitation, which contained a myspace like autobiography, I understood why she acted so “emo.” After all, for most of this current generation and especially for most in the Philippines, the term “emo” came into vogue, smuggled along the routes of myspace.

kahit ano

2008-06-20T13:20:00.009+08:00

bumabagyo, rain starts and stops. We eat in an open air cafeteria, this is the view. Kidlat tahimik? Hindi.

a statue for one of the martyrs sa aklatan ng dlsu

student clubs at DLSU

bicycles, the world's best friend

outside of musuem, parang espanyol diba?

Replication ng Noli, mayroon ring erasure marks

we have to introduce ourselves on stage in Tagalog, and this is what it looked like. Nakakatakot ha?

matt being matt (and Jason in the back)

Happy Rizal Day

2008-06-19T16:37:00.004+08:00

So today is Rizal's birthday, I haven't seen much work stoppage, nor any pistas or paradas. But I'm probably just in the wrong place. There's a lot that's been swimming through my mind and especially through the ink in my pen, but the thoughts and feelings seem to only slip into the tagalog words for my AFAP journal. By the time I get to this area, this virtual storage space, I'm utterly spent. Some quick and fairly incoherent fragments will follow.

First, I'm starting to feel a bit strange about the Philippines and especially the program that I'm attending. I've hinted before about the strange alchemy of "premodern" trust and "modern" paranoia coursing through the circuits of everyday Philippine political economy. For instance, in my first jeepney ride since whenever (1987?) I noticed the manner in which one pays for one's "bayad" or fair. The driver doesn't even look back and people pass the fair from person to person and yells "bayad po" and declares how many they are paying for. The driver will trust whatever you say and simply makes change but keeps driving. People can jump on or leave whenever, but there is a certain sense that you can't really "cheat" anyone in this situation. But at the same time, this system, the Jeepny or "dyipni" might seem backward, or premodern. After all there seems to be so many opportunities for either the driver or the passenger to cheat the other. Moreover, there seems to be no actual organized or better put "official" method of collecting fairs. Even getting on and getting off the dyip is random and subject to an instant decision. In this sense, if one peeks from the blanket from under the blanket of the first world (or the modern) one can easily point to this system as a simulcrae for the backwardness, underdevelopment, and semi-fuedal condition of the Philippines. But to do so would be mistake, for the Philippines is indeed modern, and this mixture of "trust" and "paranoia" albeit frustrating and alien, seems to offer much more hope that the "true" modernity of the West. At this point, I'm not even making sense to myself, but I'll get there.

A second observation, or experience (karanasan for all you tagalog score keepers out there!) concerns the alienation I feel from the Philippines in terms of customs and society. For example, I've been used to living on my own, or at least having the ability to just stay locked up in my room while I study. In fact, while I was "staying" at my sister's for the beginning of June in order not to pay rent, I still spent most of my days at Suzzallo because I would not have been able to get any work done otherwise. Here however, where everyone, including second cousins, run through the house, there's always someone knocking to see what's up, or perhaps telling me that there's some food downstairs or whatever. Moreover, since where I'm staying is not my own family, I feel like even more of a burden. Many of my colleagues, say I shouldn't feel bad, since the program is paying for it, but that doesn't necessary alleviate the sense of being an invader in someone else's home. Indeed, I feel like all the things that I'm uncomfortable with in the Philippines is heightened because I am staying with another family for only four weeks. I feel like one of those people who "observe" from within. A parasite that embeds itself into a body of language in order to suck out any experience that may advance my "knowledge" of Philippine culture, language, society, and custom. I'm not quite sure yet about this program.

Welcome to Dasmarinas

2008-06-17T12:54:00.015+08:00

I don't have much time to write at the moment and sure more to come later. But let's just say the first day at Dasmarinas, Cavite was filled with marching bands, (somewhat homophobic) singing groups, adoring tweenage girls for Matt, and a torrential downpour out of nowhere. There were also numorous brownouts accompanied by simultaneous screaming. Here are some random pictures.

free the fish?

room with a view

a duplication of Emilio Aguinaldo's house in Kawit

they call us fulbright scholars

me receiving some sort of flower necklace for being alive at DLSU

sa terrace ng host pamilya ko

sininguelas galing sa puno

Sneak peak for next entry (as soon as I have time): The messed up banking system, transportation system, and social welfare system in the Philippines. There' s a strange mixture of trust and paranoia in each of these areas. Furthermore, I hate American Express traveler's checks, they are utterly useless.

mourning has broken

2008-06-15T06:24:00.000+08:00

Sa wakas!

2008-06-15T01:28:00.000+08:00

Nasa Maynila na ako kasama ni Matthew sa CSB Hotel. It's a very nice hotel and all the people are very very nice. The streets are of course alive with blaring horns, sporadic driving and death defying pedestrians. On Roxas, there seems to be a 7-11 on every corner, and surprisingly more KFCs than McDonalds. It's pretty crazy that it has been 20 years since I've been in the Philippines and I have to admit, it's definitely imposing on my sight. The architecture of buildings and the way people move about the street is foreign. However it is nighttime and I have been riding on a plane or in airports for the last twenty or so hours. The staff seem extremely nice and so are the other students, albeit tired. I'm actually related to one of the people here through marriage. Crazy! The following are some pictures from the journey to the Philippines. I definitely need to time to process any and all impressions of this trip so far. Hanggang mamaya.

Thanks Marites for the Top Pot!

Japanese vending machine!

our national economy

mirrors and hotels

These are truly the last days...

2008-06-13T15:33:00.000+08:00

So I ran some errands today at and around campus. Picked up a Freud book and a lonely planet book for myself. I also considered getting some sandals, but the thought was fleeting. Went ahead and had lunch with some of the Makipag folks aka guerillaz, aka art thugs, aka creative rights coalition etc. It was a first time for everything as we ended up eating at California Pizza Kitchen in Bellevue. Numerous ideas were hatched for the summer and beyond (including Roger's mystical ability to connect with the homeless simply through a magical parka) and the marching band must go on.

After numerous tears and many manly hugs I headed off to pick up some contacts at Costco that I had ordered merely 30 hrs earlier (thank God for capitalism!). Afterward, I did some more errands and then had dinner with my sister and her family at Claimjumper (ah the suburban life). The food actually wasn't that bad. I had a Jambalaya dish and it tasted better than coming straight out of a box (I kid because I love). Overall not a bad last dinner in the United States, although they charged me $11.00 for four glasses of water. Afterward we headed back and ate some ice cream. Hurray!

After ice cream, I finally instigated the packing event...which quickly devolved to me sitting on the couch while my sister packed everything neatly and efficiently. Hurray for spatially competent sisters!

And so, this ends the last blogpost for the United States, hopefully soon enough, I'll be able to post from the Philippines; and have some juicy pictures to boot! Sige, hanggang susunod na lang.

hot pot at seven star peppers

2008-06-13T01:55:00.000+08:00

I don't know if I can give it seven stars, but it certainly brightened my night! After a long and arduous shopping spree with Matt at Target and Northgate (where we ran into Kuya Jed) and the Apple Store (did I tell you how amazing the iphone was? Truly we are living in the best of times) we met up with the rest of the original SEASSI or FIL-AM Grad Student gang (still in Seattle) and had a "going away" dinner last night. If you've never tried hot pot, you really should. Julie likes to call it Shabu Shabu, but I am an anti-imperialist and hence do not like the term. As for why hot pot is so awesome, I can list three reasons. 1. Exercise - you have to stand up to get meat from the pot. 2. Fire - There is a constant fire in the middle of the lazy Susan! (That'll teach that Susan to sit around on her lazy ass all day) 3. Disease - I'm sure you're more likely to get a disease from this thing, but at least you know who to blame...yourself silly!

Conversations of course were great as we talked about shopping in the Philippines (best store name "Folded and Hung" (which one's the men's section? hurhur) ), Patrick Swayze's best movie (many say Dirty Dancing, I say the Outsiders), and me when I'm drunk (would you call it "belligerent" or "emasculated"?). After shedding some tears we said goodbye to Jon and Meg and headed down to my car. But the parking garage, for some strange reason and with no posted warning, shuts down half the space (guess which half I parked at) and so I had to run around the corner to catch the guy closing up before they locked up for the night. I think some of the homeless guys and people at the bus-stop were cheering me on. Or at least I wish they had.

To cap off the evening we went over to Matt and Marites's apt building and multo made a rare performance. We did three songs and rocked the shit out of our audience: Matt and Julie. I'll be gone 'til September Seattle! Malapit na!

Residence on earth

2008-06-05T21:03:00.000+08:00

So this is the archetypal first statement of the first post of any sort of blog. And so it will be with this one. I know you may be asking (the royal you of course!) two things: 1) Why am I, the author, writing in English when this blog is primarily about learning Tagalog in the Philippines? And 2) Why is the name of the blog already grammatically incorrect (or at least doesn't make any sense)? Those are two very good questions, and I have to say, I mulled them over for a good two minutes myself. The answer(s) is/are this: it's easier to ask questions than come up with answers.

Yet unlike other initial blog posts I would like to begin with some thoughts about traveling to the Philippines. I am in a strange ambiguous emotional space right now, which I'm not quite sure can be categorized under "happy"or "sad". Not because I'm depressed, or anxious, or frightened, or unprepared or any of those things but mostly because I'm tired. I'm tired of living a life that seems to revolve around unpacked boxes, cluttered suitcases, back-breaking beds, and early morning/late night excursions. Since moving out of my parents' house to live in the "dorms" in college (since 1999), I haven't lived in the same room for more than a year. In many ways I live a three quarter life. The years I experience revolve around the academic year, not long enough to fully embody the modern capitalist year experienced by most, and not short enough that I can claim any sort of emancipation from the rigid structures of the empty boxes of calendars.

Yet, this Residence on earth (to lift from Pablo Neruda), is about learning to live in exile. Or perhaps better put: living exile. Still I do not mean to construct an image of myself as someone who is "oppressed" or "forced" to leave my "home." Unlike many narratives of OFWs or "political" emigrants or the romantic diasporic identity, I have not dealt with extreme trauma or extreme longing. It is a different form of exile, one that is about race/ethnicity/nation and still at the same time, everything but race/ethnicity/nation. Nor, do I want to claim that I am part of some cross-current of "globalized" cosmopolitan set of routes. No, I am far too mundane for that. And my horizons far too narrow. Still, there is a romance attached to having "roots" or to feeling at "home" in some space. Perhaps that is why property is such a lingering fetish in modern society. Perhaps that is why the domestic is always conflated with the familiar. Still, there is a certain deep loneliness embedded in living an "academic" life, and many people that I know, both friends and fellow travelers, all mention the desire to settle down, and just get a "normal" (wage labor I assume) job. Perhaps get a cat and/or buy some furniture. Don't get me wrong though, it is not like I do not enjoy the opportunities to live to "read" and "research" and "write." I think it's an amazing promise of civil society that I can have these experiences in a tactile dominated world. And I am very much eager to travel, or better put, revisit, the Philippines this summer. I just know that the fog that governs and bars my "consciousness" gets punctured and I feel, ever so briefly, the detachment from my surroundings. And in this instance, it feels less like an eternity, but more like a series of infinite repetitions. And only now can I write of its afterlife.