guavas, cows and crocodiles

CALL FOR AUDITIONS / ANAC TI PATING

2012-01-16T18:01:00.000+08:00

We are looking to cast the following roles for the upcoming Indie Film "Anac Ti Pating"

LEAD:

Boy 11 to 13 yrs. old / must be fluent in English and Ilocano

Father 50+ yrs. old / must be fluent in English and Ilocano

SUPPORT:

Retired Doctor 65+ yrs. old / must be fluent in English and Ilocano

Korean Boy 11 to 13 yrs. old / Must be fluent in English

No Acting Experience Required

Auditions will be held on January 21 and 22 from 9am to 5pm at the University of the Philippines Baguio College of Social Sciences Audio-Visual Room.

For inquiries please email: masadao@gmail.com with the heading "auditions"

SEE YOU THERE!!!

ANAC TI PATING

2012-01-01T19:48:00.002+08:00

Watch Out For "Anac Ti Pating" to be shown on June 2012 at the Sineng Pambansa Festival in Davao!!!

“ANAC TI PATING”

SYNOPSIS

“Anac Ti Pating” happens in one school year from June to March. Sixto Mangaoang is a Math wizard in Grade 5, he however also has the penchant for drawing and writing. For his English Class project, Sixto decides on writing a short story for children about a shark living in the forest in the Cordilleras. Sixto ‘comes-of-age’ in this school year, he develops a friendship with his neighbor, the retired Dr. Rayos, who encourages Sixto to strive hard to pursue his dreams. Sixto also befriends his Korean neighbor, a boy about the same age as he, despite their awkward first meeting. Sixto experiences first love. Sixto stands up to the school bully. Sixto discovers the truth about his birth.

Towards the end of the school year, Sixto decides to leave his cold, uncaring mother and his alcoholic father. With only the barest of necessities and his short story about the Shark, Sixto decides to stow away to Manila – to carve a better future for himself.

ART OR PORNOGRAPHY?

2011-10-11T22:12:00.000+08:00

(I do not own this photo. I just got it from the web. If you are the owner of this photo and would like me to remove it. Please tell me through the comments page.)

LETTER TO POPE BENEDICT XVI

2011-09-28T15:20:00.002+08:00

His Holiness Benedict XVI
Apostolic Palace
00120 Vatican City State, Europe

Most Holy Father,

The Philippines has recently been hit by another typhoon. Countless have lost what little property they possessed. Thousands are now homeless. And that is only in Metro Manila. Those residing in the provinces are resilient folk. They will get back to their business of living each day as before. Working on the land or fishing off the sea.

The urban poor in Metro Manila are a different story.

They live in shanties in the squatter areas, mostly on reclaimed land from Manila Bay. Thousands live on the street, under bridges, sidewalks. They barely eat three meals each day. They have few clothes. Most go barefoot.

The Catholic Church is a rich organization. Why can't you alleviate the plight of your flock? Relocate these people to higher ground. Build vertical tenements for them so that they no longer clog our waterways with their trash. They will be out of harm's way during typhoons, and the metropolis will be able to cope with flooding once these vulnerable areas are cleared for water to be able to pass freely.

Open up your vast landholdings (not only in Metro Manila, but around the country) for these development projects. And once you've given them housing -- educate them. Majority of the best educational institutions in our country are run by the Catholic Church. But ironically, cater only to the rich. Can you not instruct these Universities to have a counterpart that would provide the same quality education but at a lower cost if not free for the Urban Poor? The Vatican has enough resources for this undertaking.

Education will help them help themselves. Provide skills so that later on they will be able to get jobs. Or even acquire skills to be entrepreneurs.

The Catholic Church has power over our people and our country. Wield that power to lift your flock up from poverty. You like to boast that the Philippines is the only Roman Catholic country in Asia -- but, sadly it is lagging behind its Asian neighbors. Surely, you would want us to showcase that Catholicism can and should be able to provide basic needs of the people?!

By doing so, you will prove that The Roman Catholic Church is a force for good!

With Love in Christ,

Martin

LET'S NOT BE APATHETIC AND UNCOUTH

2011-09-09T11:43:00.007+08:00

Yesterday I started a page on Facebook called "The Baguio We Want" -- I was wanting for a 'venue' where concerned citizens could get together and discuss issues that are of interest and relevance to the city. This effort was partly due to the numerous status updates I've read regarding the Irisan Dumpsite slide during the last typhoon and also the alarming concern of (mostly) mothers with regards to the disappearances of teenage females in Baguio. I was zealous in spreading the page to all my friends on Facebook.

Subsequently I made a petition also yesterday to take down the Billboards on Session Road. Again, I shared the link with numerous friends and groups on FB.

On the U.P. Baguio Alumni Association Facebook Page, I posted said link and immediately I got a comment. I am copy-pasting the thread for everyone to read. I have changed the person's name to 'Alumnus' to protect his privacy.

Alumnus: "yes remove na rin natin ang mga lahat ng sense of commercialization sa Baguio! Remove SM Baguio, remove na ang mga old buildings remove na natin lahat! remove na rin natin lahat ng tao para wala na problem ang mother earth! lahat iremove na natin!!! take them down"

Me: (I clicked on his profile and found out he works in advertising) "With all due respect Alumnus, I also work in advertising -- hindi nga lang sa print or billboards (mas sa TV and AVPs ako) anyway, let's not be defeatist about this. If you have gone up to Baguio lately, hindi naman talaga kanais-nais ang billboards sa Session Road. Ang gulo-gulo tignan. Some are almost even as large as the buildings they're on. Where is the sense of 'aesthetics' and Urban Planning here? Remember that the environs have a direct and great impact on the people within a specific community. Kung 'topsy-turvy' ang kapaligiran -- walang sense of order -- ergo, walang disicipline ang mamamayan, walang cohesion, walang civic pride.

Kung ang tao nga takes pains to make him/herself look presentable, can't we demand the same from our communites?!"

Alumnus: "Puki mo defeatist, simple lang yan. At hindi masyado maraming blah...

Occam's razor "the simplest solution is the best solution"

a. Sunugin ang Baguio and let nature take its course.
b. Kung napapangitan ka sa Baguio ngayon, wag ka tumingin.

Where's the sense of aesthetics? Where's the sense of blah? Puki mo... yung mga simpleng problema nga eh super pagtatalo eh. Yan pa kaya mga sinasabi mo na sense of togetherness. idealist twit"

Me: "You're contradicting yourself. Simple lang yan. Ayaw mong mag-sign ng petition. Don't sign. You have to resort to name calling?!"

Alumnus: "Feeling nagmamalinis ka.

O sige na kalinisan ka na. Papetipetition ka pa blah! leche"

I left it at that.

My first reaction upon reading those comments was: 'And those exactly are the kind of people that make Baguio what it is today -- The Apathetic and Uncouth'

Now, the reason behind "The Baguio We Want" page and the "Take Down Those Billboards" petition is precisely to rally the citizenry to get our act together. We need to move and behave as one community -- a strong community that works with the system. And to ensure that the system works.

I am hoping that "The Baguio We Want" transcends from being a mere FB page and burgeon into a 'movement'. A 'movement' that is free from the partisan and divisive politicking of late. And I am engaging this in today's Social Media, because I believe these platforms are effective for social change as we have seen in other communities/nations.

"The Baguio We Want" is non-political and non-sectarian. It is likewise open to all citizens regardless of sexual preference, ethnicity, or demographic (social class, age, education).

"The Baguio We Want" is Us! It is us ordinary citizens who want the same thing for Baguio and ourselves. We want a Clean Baguio. We want a Green Baguio. We want a Safe Baguio. We want a Peaceful Baguio.

So you may ask, what are WE going to do?

We can start by asking questions. And demanding answers. And to ask more questions if we're not satisfied. (Sometimes the answers are just a google away).

Let us also get involved in the transformation of our beloved city. Let's involve our children and family members. Let's get involved as students in our schools or as parents in PTA meetings. Let's involve our close friends. Let's get involved in our businesses and offices. Let's get involved in our Barangays. Let's get involved in our Civic Organizations, our Clubs, our Athletic Organizations. Let's get involved with the Media. You get the picture...

And then let's work WITH City Hall. With the Police, Fire, Health, and City Planning Departments. Let us let them know we are doing OUR part and that they SHOULD do theirs.

The Taking-Down-Of-Billboards is just the first step. Please sign the petition:

http://www.gopetition.com/petitions/take-down-those-billboards.html

Thank You Very Much! Dios Ti Agngina kadakayo Amin!

BAGUIO CITY COUNCIL STINKS

2011-08-30T09:35:00.001+08:00

Sometime in 1998 or 1999 I met a British guy in Manila. Upon learning that I was from Baguio City, he started ranting about our local politicians. Apparently, this guy was negotiating in behalf of a British Non-Profit that was hoping to put up an incinerator to solve the already burgeoning problem of waste disposal in the city. It was to be an honest-to-goodness Build-Operate-Transfer scheme as the Non-Profit was going to shoulder all costs. They were only asking that the City of Baguio provide the location for said incinerator.

He continues to tell me that the City Council then refused to sign any agreement unless they be given "grease money". The British Non-Profit, of course, declined, and so they decided to leave and pursue their project in Vietnam instead.

The local council today likes to blame Mother Nature with the ever-convenient "force majeure" as an excuse. I say, blame it on the local officials. What happened at the Irisan Dumpsite is a direct result of their lack of planning and management and corrupt practices. They ought to be liable for this.

note: I only met this British guy once, and I have failed to write down notes, nor get his name. It has been more than ten years since this happened. Had I been a blogger then, I would've been more meticulous in my gathering of facts. This is basically a recollection of that exchange. But I still remember though certain names he mentioned who were members of the City Council during that period. I think I shall go through the council's files to investigate this further. I also urge the local media to look into this as well.

photo by Harley Palangchao taken from abs-cbn news

BRILLIANT IDEAS FOR THE OLDE PHONE BOOTHS (seriously)

2011-08-08T05:43:00.000+08:00

I wonder where all the old phone booths went? I hope they didn't end up in some dump or recycle bin. PLDT could still make use of them...

1. Turn them into 'smoking sections' along Ayala Avenue. Make sure there's an exhaust or filter in the roof so passersby won't complain of the smoke when a user opens the door.

2. Remember our terrarium projects in science class? Why not transform these phone booths into terrariums and scatter them around the metropolis. You could make a simulation of a tropical rain forest (ferns, lianas, moss...etc.) No primates though.

3. Attach shelves inside the phone booths. Let people put used books they wish to share with other people -- like a community book drop -- locate these booths inside malls. Tada! An instant public library at no cost to readers! Call the project: 'The Old School'

4. In the same breadth, make them a drop-off for used/old mobile phones, batteries, accessories, etc for recycling later on.

5. Make the booths 'charging stations' for one's laptop or mobile phone in public spaces.

6. Tint the glass, install a mirror inside, make them into dressing areas for our inner Supermen... seriously, when you need a quick change while out in the streets (for whatever reason) or when you're avoiding a stalker or simply to retouch your make-up or change your soiled shirt. These shouldn't be open for 24 hours though, who knows what people would do inside them during off-hours.

7. Make them into 'Solitude' zones for all those who wish for a few minutes of silence from all the din and humdrum of city life. Or when you're alone and overwhelmed with emotions, it'd be a good place to cry without anyone seeing you. Or to shout out your frustrations! Better to soundproof said booths then.

8. Seal them tight and put tropical fish. Scatter booths around the metropolis for that zen feel.

9. Rent them out to the manghuhulas in Quiapo (palm reading, tarot card reading, etc. ) Make sure to install AC.

10. SERIOUSLY: I want one for when I move into that dream loft or old warehouse -- I'll convert one into my shower. No wait, I want two old phone booths. The other I'll install a waterless urinal for my buddies to use when they come over for all-night drinking fests!

Please, MVP let me have two?!

THE ACCEPTANCE SPEECH THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN...

2011-07-27T09:43:00.002+08:00

(Laida Lim sent me a text message last Sunday afternoon saying she couldn't make it to the Cinemalaya Awards Night and was hoping I could be her "rep" -- apparently she was holed up in Baguio for personal reasons -- had I attended the Awards ceremony, this would've been my acceptance speech...)

Presenters: And the Award for Best Production Design goes to... (drum roll...) Laida Lim for "Nino"!!! To accept the award is the Art Director for "Nino" Martin Masadao...

(I go onstage...)

Me: (clutching trophy) "Laida Lim is in Baguio at the moment and asked me to accept this award on her behalf... actually, she texted me earlier around 3PM, 'Martin, we're having a canao at the Cafe By The Ruins, the anitos tell me, we're going to win tonight -- scoot over at the CCP, bruha... I can't go down, thank everyone for me, please'

"I'm sure Laida would like to acknowledge everyone in the Art Department -- Carlo, Dee, our set men, etc. And given the measly budget of this film, we would like to thank all our friends and relatives -- both living and dead -- from whom we begged, borrowed and stole our props, sets, and costumes!

"But, let me tell all of you, the challenge Laida and I had -- and I think the challenge for any Production Designer and Art Department is -- 'How do you attempt to design a film, when your director is an award-winning Set Designer to begin with?!'

"Well, the answer to that is: You Don't (pause) Even Attempt (pause) To Do That. What you do is: you sit down, with your director, go through the script, listen intently to all the 'shit' he's telling you, along the way you can give some suggestions, but you never stray too far... Thank you, Loy (Arcenas) for sharing with us your wonderful vision that is 'Nino' and for steering us in the right direction.

"On a personal note, I would like to pay homage to Fides Cuyugan-Asensio... (Applause, standing ovation, etc). Fides endeared all of us slowly, and day by day, as we were filming 'Nino'. She crept to our hearts in her own special way -- coming to the set on time, never complaining about the food, the heat, the long hours -- she exhibited discipline, humility and grace -- unparalleled and rarely seen among the lesser actresses of today. Fides, we were just honored to have worked with you on this project. Fides, you showed us what true artistry is all about. And thank God, you kept your figure all these years so you could fit perfectly into that vintage Aureo Alonzo terno that Laida unearthed from her mother's baul!

"Maraming salamat! Mabuhay ang Cinemalaya!"

2ND YEAR BLOGGING -- Guavas, Cows and Crocodiles

2011-06-14T17:28:00.001+08:00

(Here is the essay I wrote back in 2003, which is the title of this blog. This piece is included in the anthology "Mondo Marcos" published by Anvil)

(Judge Domingo 'Roy' A. Masadao b1936 - 2005)

My father, Domingo 'Roy' A. Masadao, ran for Board Member of Kalinga-Apayao in the late 60's. He was starting his law practice in Tabuk and had hopes of carving out a political career there as well. His campaign promise was to donate his entire salary to a scholarship fund for deserving students of Kalinga. He was popular among the voters not only for this promise but also because he was a mestizo: half Ilocano from his mother's side and half Kalinga on his father's. He did top that electoral race, getting votes from both the natives and the lowlanders residing in the province. After the elections my parents had decided to reconcile (again) and thus we moved to Tabuk, Kalinga-Apayao. Although I was still young then I do remember our stay there vividly. The events I write about now may not be chronological but I assure the reader that they did take place.

My first playmates were the daughters of our neighbor, Malaika and Apastra. I was in awe of their unique names, pretty clothes and fancy slippers. Together we played shatong , hide and seek and other games. Our other neighbor was Tata Maur. He had a calamansi orchard and some fighting cocks in the yard.

Adjusting to Tabuk was not hard. Or maybe as children we easily adapted because we had come together as a family again. Tabuk was a bucolic destination. The daylong trip from Baguio made one feel that Tabuk was at the end of the world. There was one long cemented road from Bulanao to Tabuk just stopping short a few meters away from our house. The electric lamp posts in the middle of the street were a folly. During that time there was no electricity or plumbing in Tabuk. Our water came from the pump of the deep well. Our lighting was petromax or gas lamps. These kerosene lamps made our nostrils black if we left them burning all night. We sometimes woke up looking like vampires or some kind of monsters.

Our house was split-level. The basement was the kitchen and dining area. A backdoor led outside to the laundry area and outhouse. At road level was the living room and my father's law office. A flight of stairs led to the bedrooms on the second floor. We had a boy named Awi who was the household help. Well he wasn't exactly a boy. He was probably in his early 20's then. Awi was my father's pro bono client who languished in jail for some time due to a minor offense. My father won his case and so out of gratitude Awi decided to repay him by working for the family. Going to school was easy all we had to do was cross the street. While my older siblings where in school, Awi was my playmate. Behind my mother's back I urged him to teach me to play pusoy or what we used to call then pepito. Even before I knew how to add, subtract, multiply or divide, I was a champion poker player. Awi would get red-faced each time I beat him in cards.

Awi helped out in the kitchen. He was a good cook. I don't ever remember my mother or father scolding him for a bad meal. In Tabuk we got to taste exotic foods we never encountered while living in Baguio. We had frog's legs a la tinola if not fried and mushrooms that sprouted only after a thunderstorm. We even had gamet, the delectable seaweed that must have come from Cagayan or Ilocos for Kalinga is a landlocked province. We had eels, wild boar, deer and fresh carabao's milk.

My sister Joy had a classmate who once kicked a whole anthill open. The red ants whose sting hurt like a thousand needles were left scampering around. Poor queen ant, left alone, its soft body bobbing and heaving. So big and yet so helpless. My sister's hairs still stand on end with the sight and the memory of it. This classmate must have had a penchant for insects because once he also destroyed another ant's nest up in a tree then proceeded to gather the ants' eggs. With dexterity and unshakeable resolve, the classmate endured the occasional stings for what would be a promising meal of ants' eggs. They then steamed the ants' eggs and ate them. My sister says it left a piquant taste in the mouth. Before Awi we once had a maid from Apayao, her name was Flora. At night she would sit by the gas lamps waiting for gamu-gamo to flitter around. When the insects would fly by the lamp, she would grab them by their wings and swallow their bodies in her mouth discarding the wings after. She did this as if she was eating cherries, the wings like they were the stalks.

My father's law practice was doing okay. It was customary though for the less fortunate clients to pay him in kind every time they were short of cash. So time and again we had native chickens, some meat, fruits, etc. Once a client had given my father jeeploads of guavas. I remember coming home from school with my cousin Leo that particular afternoon. From the street we could smell a sweet aroma so we hurried and dashed towards home. The entire house was filled with guavas. All sorts of guavas; green, yellow, round, oval, large, small, overripe and full of mush or sour and hard. From the entrance to the entire living room all the way to the kitchen these areas were filled with guavas. My cousin and I instantly imagined we were in the Northern Hemisphere, heaps upon heaps of guavas on the floor we played with pretending they were snowballs. We slid from the guava mounds, throwing guavas at each other shouting "Snow! Snow! Snow!" Meanwhile in the kitchen, more guavas were washed, cleaned, quartered and placed in vats on the stove. My mother and Awi were busy making guava jelly. The cooked guavas were then left to strain on old canvas sacks dripping over basins. This pure guava extract my mother would later cook with sugar for the bottled jelly that we so loved to spread on bread.

In the early months of 1972, a gloom seeped through the air, even during that summer. There were rumors that Marcos was going to declare martial law. Everywhere we went people were whispering about it; "Hala, martial law is coming na! Hala kayo!" The older cousins would scare us. Everyday it was the same warning. Out of despair my cousin Cornelius asked; "Who's Marsha Lo ba?!"

And so martial law was declared in September that year. The town was fraught with fear. Guns and other ammunition had to be surrendered to the Philippine Constabulary. My father buried a small revolver in our backyard though. To be retrieved later on when the occasion would arise, he said. My Uncle Gudo had to change the tan paint of their jeep to green for fear that it would be mistaken as belonging to the Philippine Constabulary. My father was interrogated by the military suspecting he was coddling or sympathizing with the NPA's. We children were supposed to be inside the house just before sunset. We got a whacking if we were even a few seconds late. Houses observed lights-off as soon as dinner was finished, around 6:00 pm. Dinner was eaten quietly and hurriedly. The doors locked and windows shut even earlier. Even though we were in a remote town, we did hear about arrests, ambushes, disappearances, and the chaos in Manila and other parts of the country. My eldest sister Felina was at the Philippine Science High School (PSHS) at that time. There was no recourse but to bring her back home to Tabuk. I don't remember if my father or mother fetched her or if she traveled alone. She told us that some of her schoolmates in PSHS were making Molotov bombs right in their science labs.

To dispel rumors that my father had connections with the rebels, he put up a vegetable garden in the empty lot in front of the house. We weeded the ground and tilled it. My father also fenced the area with freshly cut-up branches of a tree the name of which I now forget. With the same kind of branches he also put up benches and a table at the upper left side of the garden. For his drinking sessions he claimed. The benches left a green stain on the seat of our pants though.

We planted seedlings of every vegetable you could name. A few weeks later, the branches used as fencing and furniture took root and thus, along with our seedlings, began to sprout some leaves as well. We had beans (all kinds), pechay, ampalaya, squash, camote, etc. Not long after, the whole neighborhood followed suit. It was 'Green Revolution' time after all. Even in school, every grade level had their garden plots. There was to be an abundance of pechay that these were only fed to the pigs at one point. My siblings brought home pechay from school, neighbors generously gave us pechay, but we had pechay right in our garden too. The whole front yard was green. The fence and furniture now looking like a bushy art installation.

Sometime later, my mother's other brother, Uncle Joe and his family relocated to Tabuk. Uncle Joe was a writer back in Manila. Although he had not joined any radical organization, as an intellectual, he was suspect anyway. Together with his wife, Auntie Pining and their two children Charissa and Leo Max, they packed their belongings and joined us in Tabuk. Uncle Joe related the horrible experiences that befell Manila. Auntie Pining on the other hand set up a small sari-sari store. Charissa was aloof. Neighbors were intrigued by her precocity and city ways. Leo Max we later found out was named after Leo Tolstoy and Karl Marx. (My Uncle Joe as ever had progressive ideas even back then only to be teased later as a turncoat when he ended up writing for the Marcos administration in the 80's. And boy did they have arguments with my father!).

My cousins had all the books. Boxes of children's books galore. Their parents early on instilled in them a love for reading. Charissa read to me fairy tales and a favorite book (because of the illustrations) that started something like; "Dan led Ned to the tent. Ned led Jane to the tent. Jane led..." The story continues until a whole bunch of kids were inside the tent and the book ended like this, and we would shout it; "And they all fell down!!!" To this day Charissa and I cannot forget that book. Leo on the other hand taught me to play chess. And later on Dominoes and Games of the General. And he would beat me all the time.

But life goes on in small towns, especially for small children. Even with martial law declared. We all enrolled in St. Teresita's School (STS), the premiere private school in Tabuk. Leo and I were classmates in kindergarten. Ever the cynic, my Uncle Joe talked about the priests and nuns. He told Leo nuns had hairy armpits and that they were dirty. So dirty you could plant camote under their armpits. Early on, Uncle Joe had a twisted sense of humor. Uncle Joe also claimed that priests were corrupt. "Look, they even have servants and eat meat everyday!" (My Uncle Joe's disdain for the clergy goes back to his adolescent days in the seminary. Years later he told me that a foreign priest had once summoned him to his room only to embrace him tightly as if the priest would not let go. And how the priest was shaking, trembling and unable to speak during the whole time. That was also the source of my uncle's homophobia, I guess.) But we did go to church. My siblings and cousins and I went to Sunday mass. My Uncle Joe stayed at home. The small town that Tabuk is probably branded him a heretic. But he couldn't care less.

I did get close to a nun. Her name was Sister Paz. She was very pretty and kind and reminded me of Olivia Hussey, the actress in 'Romeo and Juliet' whose pictures I saw and clipped from our magazines. Sister Paz would come visit our house and play with me during coffee breaks with my mother. I don't know whose idea it was originally but my mother and Sister Paz were responsible for my first taste of embarrassment.

Christmas time in Tabuk was celebrated by each district giving a presentation in church during the masses that would signal the Christmas season. Our barangay was scheduled to perform on Misa de Gallo itself. The culminating performance. For that my mother and Sister Paz had suggested that I play 'the little drummer boy'. Aaargh! I had become my neighborhood's mascot. They set out to make me a costume -- old pants and a shirt, both with patches on them. Charcoal was smeared to dirty them some more. Stray pieces of straw were strewn on my hair and shoulders. I was given a drum and two drumsticks. They would rehearse me everyday that December. At the start of the evening mass itself, there I was, marching down the center aisle; "Come they told me, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum..." Classmates and cousins were laughing at me because my drumming was out of beat and I was barefoot too. I prayed, "Jesus, please don't let them make me do this ever again!" I guess I did not pray hard enough. For three consecutive years I was the 'little drummer boy' during Christmas.

Flashback: when Leo and I dropped out of kindergarten (we were far more advanced but they would not accelerate us to Grade One; we had to wait for the next school year to start), my Uncle Joe brought us to a trip to Umao's ranch. Umao was a rancher my Uncle Joe had befriended because my Uncle had thought of buying some land in Kalinga as well. The ranch was a day trip out of Tabuk proper. It was located if I remember right somewhere between Bulanao and the road leading to Tuguegarao. We had packed our lunch and Leo and I were excited for this adventure. My Uncle Joe had promised us that we would see a million cows. After what seemed like forever, we finally arrived at the ranch. While at the ranch Leo and I got bored. It was too hot to play and there were no cows in sight. We were getting pesky, urging my Uncle to take us back to Tabuk.

Then suddenly we heard them. My Uncle startling us; "Hey listen, what's that?!" We heard a low, rumbling, scuffling sound. The sound got stronger by the second. Then we could feel the earth tremble a bit, a cloud of dust forming in the horizon. At the edge of the hill where we were standing we saw them. There they were, the cows, hundreds if not thousands of them, coming from below, rushing towards us. Leo and I had fear etched on our foreheads. We clung to Uncle Joe for life, crying and bawling out of pure, unadulterated fear. My Uncle and Umao brought us to the fence where we sat, still crying and shielding our eyes from the dust. The noise was unbearable. When the cows had settled, my Uncle Joe tried to reassure us that all was safe. He and Umao started laughing at both Leo and I. Looking back, I think my Uncle Joe was scared as hell too, he just didn't show it. Laughing was his way of coping. Yes, he was scared. Who wouldn't be scared of a stampede? And he does remember that incident alright. Still laughing at us the same way when he would remind Leo and I about it every time we would talk about Tabuk.

One time, the household was preparing for a big feast. I don't remember what we were celebrating but there were lots of people helping out at home for yet more people were expected to arrive. The women joined my mother in making the fruit salad, pancit, macaroni, gulaman, etc. Outside the men were in charge of butchering the animals. There were chickens, a goat and a really large, fat cow. It was still early but the men had already started drinking. While we kids waited for the actual slaughtering of the cow, the men took their time drinking hard liquor. The fat cow was lying on its left side, its feet tied. It had a hard time breathing and we pitied it but were scared of it too because of its sheer size. Suddenly one of the drunken men carried me and laid me on the cow's stomach. This was his idea of a good time I guess. At my terrified expense the men laughed, enjoying every minute of me being atop the cow's belly. The cow grunted and tried to move which made me even more scared. I cried so loud my mother came to fetch me and scolded the guy who put me there.

But we couldn't get our eyes off the cow just the same. Moving a little farther this time, we continued to wait for the time when they would butcher the cow. I don't remember how they killed the cow. All I remember was that moment they slit her stomach and out came a calf fetus. No wonder the cow was fat. The butchers got the fetus out of the cow's stomach, it was smeared with blood but still had that translucent coat. We stood in shock. Our eyes glued to the calf, our mouths wide open, throats getting dry. We didn't exchange a word amongst ourselves for a long time. I had nightmares about that calf. My cousin Cornelius also could not forget about it.

Making new friends was a cinch. Typical of small towns, word got around quickly that there would be new students. The Masadao brood had arrived. Yes we adapted easily. While we spoke English at home, we picked up Ilocano in school. My brother Manong Budi used to tease the younger children at school. Once the children gathered around him and asked "Apay, inborn ti English yo?" (Is your English 'inborn'?). On another occasion some kids were arguing about what lapis was called in English. They sought to settle the argument by asking my brother. "Haan aya ti lapis ket 'pencil' ti nagan na nu English?" ('Isn't it that lapis is called pencil in English?') asked a confident boy. The boy was right of course. "Gago! Saan, Mongol!" ('No Stupid! It's Mongol' -- a brand of pencils) my brother snapped back with a poker face. "Kitam! Kitam!" the rest of the boys teased the confident boy who was now left bewildered, probably thinking 'how could I have been wrong?'

My sister Joy who was grade six upon relocating to Tabuk had all but complains regarding her teacher at STS. Joy's training at the Saint Louis Center back in Baguio made her a stickler for correct grammar and spelling. Everyday she would complain to my father about her teacher's mistakes. One afternoon she came home and told my father that her teacher had meant to write on the blackboard the word 'Israelite' but included a 'T' and so came up with 'Istraelite'. My father who probably had enough of my sister's complaints bellowed; "That's it! Tomorrow you're transferring to the public school!" My sister of course was taken aback at such a drastic move. But she couldn't counter my father's command. No one dare did. They never informed the authorities at STS the real reason why she was transferred to the other school though. I guess my sister did not want to make a big fuss out of it anymore. But her new classmates would press her for answers. And so she relented by telling her peer group about the 'Istraelite' incident. The news got back to her former teacher and so she sent word that she was challenging my sister to a spelling contest. Of course a showdown between the two never happened and the animosity died down when the town had other new developments to gossip about. The next year Joy returned to STS. She excelled in academics and the arts. And we were all scared for my brother Geej because now, he was under that same teacher.

Manang Felina was still in second year high school when she left PSHS. Upon going to STS she had breezed through the second and third year level and was accelerated to Fourth year high. Finishing high school in all of three years. She obviously was the brightest, her lessons in fourth year she had already taken up in her first year at PSHS. She wasn't First in Excellence though. Her lack of residency at STS denied her that honor. Upon graduation the school bestowed on her the award 'Best in Academics'. (Tell me now, what's the diff?!) (Felina also belonged to the first batch of fourth year high school students to go through the Citizen's Army Training (CAT) and the National College Entrance Exams (NCEE) that was implemented nationwide.)Because of her irregular schooling a special certificate from the head office of the Department of Education in Manila was procured to ensure her eligibility for college. Mama had to endure the bureau's red tape with frequent trips from Tabuk to Manila and back.

While my older siblings and cousins were in school I was left with my mother and Awi at home. Sometimes I would play with Malaika and Apastra. Other times I played with Awi. If he was busy I played alone. I didn't care to play with the other boys in the neighborhood because they were too rough and would make fun of me or bully me. One afternoon as my mother was trying to coax me to nap with the story of General McArthur's landing in Leyte, we heard a plane flying overhead. It was very rare for planes to fly above Tabuk. Yet the plane seemed to be descending as it circled and circled above.

A sizable crowd was already gathering by the roadside. In a few minutes the plane landed on the wide cement road right in front of our house. It was a single-seater and painted white with a blue and red stripe on both its sides. By this time the whole town gathered around. They maintained a large circumference away from the plane. The principal, the schoolteachers, the pupils, people from the market, from the municipal hall, neighbors from everywhere all stood quietly. From the airplane out came an American. Whispers of "Americano, Uy! Americano, Americano aya?!, Americano nga talaga!..." were heard among the crowd. Necks craning to get a better view. The American was tall, wearing a jumpsuit and shades. He walked toward our house as the crowd parted like the red sea. My mother and I stood by the doorway and greeted him. He was lost, hoping to land somewhere in Cagayan. My mother told him he was in Tabuk, Kalinga-Apayao. He asked for a glass of water, drank it, gave thanks and said goodbye. He put on his shades and as he walked back to the plane, he waved to the crowd. The crowd cheered in unison. He started the engine, the propeller turned, the crowd moving further back. Off he flew again.

Then the crowd started talking. Not willing to break their ranks, the teachers had a hard time asking the students to go back to their classrooms. This incident had become more important than the lessons in class. For majority of them it was after all the first time they would see a real plane and a live American. Loud voices of excitement filled the hot afternoon. As my mother and I were going back to the house, the bullies I refused to play with came running towards me. They asked me if we owned the plane. "No it belongs to my Uncle, the American General" I proudly lied with crossed fingers behind my back. They stood in bewilderment. And they never bothered me again.

I saw my first movie in Tabuk. The town had only one theater. Every afternoon the owner would send someone on a jeep equipped with a large speaker. The jeep was one of the few vehicles in Tabuk. Round and round the jeep would go about town, the guy on the passenger side announcing what was showing and what time the screening would be. I had long wanted to go watch a movie but my parents said I was still too young. Once, my cousin Cornelius slept over at our house, there was no school the next day. Upon hearing the jeep pass by, we begged my father to let us go to the movies, saying Awi could accompany us.

Inside the theater we found ourselves to be the only kids around. There were hardly any females even. The theater had wooden benches as seats and smoking was allowed. Some men also reeked of alcohol. A couple of adults were even sleeping on the benches next to us. And so my cousin Cornelius, my brother Geej, Awi and I sat down to watch "Kansas City Bomber" starring Raquel Welch. Ms. Welch played a captain of a roller derby skating team. Two teams went round and round knocking down members of the opposite team. Raquel Welch was beautiful. She had long hair, long legs, and a bosom from which the men couldn't take their eyes off. Howls were heard from the men every time a close-up of Raquel Welch's cleavage was projected on screen.

The next day, I called Malaika and Apastra to play. I told them I would teach them a new game I had learned from the movie I saw the previous night. They had never been to the theater either and were therefore quite eager to hear about it. But first I told them to put on their shoes and get for each one of them: two old empty evaporated milk cans, two pairs of knee socks and a towel. As they ran to their house I put on my shoes and looked for my requirements as well. We gathered in the empty ground in front of the house. I instructed them to follow as I did. I tied a sock around each elbow & knee and wrapped the towel on my head. I peeled off the labels from the milk cans, got a stone and hammered the empty cans in the middle. Then I inserted my shod feet into the cans, the top and bottom ends now tightly clinging onto the sides of my shoes. I had improvised elbow & kneepads, a helmet and skates!!!

I then related to them "Kansas City Bomber". All day long we chased each other on the grounds, elbowing each other, simulating bad falls and getting up with mock anger on our faces, pretending we had long hair billowing at our backs. Sometimes we would do it in slow motion. I played Raquel Welch while Malaika & Apastra acted as members of the opposing team.

At times my brother Geej and I would sleep over at cousin Cornelius' house in Bulanao. We liked going over to Bulanao because somewhere near the bridge that marked the boundary between Tabuk and Bulanao was a carabao we would occasionally see grazing. This was no ordinary carabao though, it was albino. We would shout; "There it is! There! The pink carabao!" My cousins lived in a two-story house with a nice lawn. The second floor overlooked the cemetery located some two kilometers away. We would scare each other with ghost stories at night. Frequently though my brother Geej and my cousin Cornelius would sleep in the garage. In the 80's we later found out that they preferred to sleep in the garage because they would pore over my Uncle Gudo's Playboy magazines that were hidden in the boxes there.

My father took us to trips around Kalinga-Apayao. We visited the enchanted river of Pinukpok. Went around Salegseg, crossed the roaring Chico river on our porters' backs, visited Conner, Lubuagan, Balbalan, and Balbalasang. In Balbalasang they grew the sweetest oranges. They aren't really oranges of the American variety but are more closely related I believe to the Spanish Naranja.

An unforgettable trip to the interiors of Kalinga was our stay in Bwaya, my paternal grandfather's birthplace. Bwaya was a remote town, at its footsteps the road ended and we had to hike or go on horseback to reach the town proper, this being a cluster of houses. There we were introduced to relatives. Their hospitality was overwhelming. The simple folk butchered some chickens and brought out salt, a rare commodity reserved only for special guests or occasions. The sili labuyo was their daily condiment. They also gave my sister Felina strands of Kalinga beads, beads of varying design, material and value -- her heirloom as the eldest child in our branch of the family. During my Lolo Inggo's wake in Baguio in the mid-90s, relatives from Kalinga came to pay their last respects. I saw a woman among the group wearing strands of Kalinga beads. I sat beside her and jokingly said; "Auntie, igkan dak met ah ti tawid ko, uray nu beads laeng!" ('Auntie, aren't you going to give me any heirlooms, some beads will do') She looked at me and smiled; "Ag-asawa ka pay ngarud ah, santu igkan da ka!" ('Get married first then I'll give you some') Yeah, right!!!

Anyway, Bwaya, which literally means 'crocodile' in the dialect was so remote we never got to go and visit again. The peace and order situation in Kalinga now makes it even more difficult to go back. We never encountered crocodiles in Bwaya but the old folks had tales of massive crocodiles terrorizing the village. Tales that date back eons ago. We also were told of mythical creatures like the snake that had a head that looked like a rooster. This snake would give off a sound much like how a rooster would crow, this it supposedly did to catch its favorite prey--chickens. Relatives there told us also about a breed of chickens that could fly long distances. I don't know if the older relatives told us these stories to entertain us or if there was any truth to them.

We left my father in Tabuk in the summer of 1975. My mother brought us back to Baguio to study and settle down. My cousins from Bulanao soon followed and we all stayed in the compound my maternal grandfather built. My Uncle Joe and his family moved back to Manila but we did get in touch with them again in the early 80's. My father later practiced law in Manila and then was appointed as RTC Judge in Malolos, Bulacan. He again run for public office in the late 90's for the congressional seat of Kalinga but fell off a horse in one of his campaign sorties in the interior of the province. He took that as an ominous sign and so begged off the race despite being egged on by his supporters.

My cousins and I have a fondness for Tabuk. Tabuk holds special memories for us. How could we forget her? She held us in her warm arms, watching closely as we learned to read and write, to climb trees, to swim, and to be the best kids we ever could be. Does Tabuk hold us in its special thoughts too? Or has our stead been replaced by development?

My father passed away in November 12, 2005 after 19 years of dedicated service in the judiciary. Relatives and friends from Kalinga came to the wakes held first in Malolos and then Baguio. My father was due to retire in February 2006 and had expressed his desire to serve the province of Kalinga once again. Either as a private practitioner of Law or perhaps to consider running in the next local elections. He once related to me that in the Batasan elections of 1978 (or was it 1980?) my father run again but was cheated extensively. He claims that this was due to his preference to run as an independent candidate, preferring not to run with either the Marcos administration or the opposition. Also he had on the side called a Marcos strongman a 'bastard' and that remark of his got to that person. Despite his popularity, my father had lost that race with an incredibly large margin. He got zero votes in his precinct to which my father exclaimed, “What do they want to prove, that I didn't even vote for myself?”

NINO (Cinemalaya 2011)

2011-06-06T20:16:00.005+08:00

Nino is one of the entries in this year's Cinemalaya Festival. Directed by multi-awarded Stage Designer Loy Arcenas. Screenplay is by Rody Vera. Cinematography by Lee Meily. Production Design by Adelaida Lim. Art Direction by, uhm, this blogger :-)

Nino revolves around a middle class family that has seen better days. The resolve to cling to their 'old glory' lies on Celia (Fides Cuyugan-Asensio) a delusional woman whose past forays in the world of opera has left her in a world of her own. The only thing that brings her to the present situation is her nurturing duties to her bed-ridden brother, Gaspar (Tony Mabesa). Her 'not-so-single' daughter, Merced (Shamaine Centenera-Buencamino) tries to let the family realize the real situation they are in (financially, that is) but these attempts end up only in vain. Long lost son, Mombic (Arthur Acuna) appears one day with his 5-year old son, Anthony (Jhiz Deocareza) and stirs the already volatile, dysfunctional set-up.

When Gaspar suffers a near-fatal heart attack, the family is now confronted with the choice whether to sell the ancestral house or not. Gaspar's one and only direct heir, his US-based daughter, Raquel (Raquel Villavicencio) is summoned immediately back to the Philippines to help decide matters pertaining to the fate of Gaspar's property. Raquel's americanized son, Reinhardt (Joaquin Valdez) reluctantly tags along but is indifferent to the family's squabbles, instead he explores the city of Manila in search of the one thing that he thinks will make him happy.

Old gripes and grudges are unearthed. Deep, dark secrets are revealed. All these viewed through the innocence of Anthony, who is renamed Nino (and dressed like Sto. Nino) by his Grandmother Celia .

Will Anthony/Nino save this family from crumbling altogether?

Nino will premiere on July 16, 2011 at the Cinemalaya Festival.

ODE TO JAN-JAN

2011-04-04T00:42:00.005+08:00

I was once six years old. Just like Jan-Jan.

Actually, when I was five years old, I had my first taste of humiliation. It was summer. My family went to Pangasinan for an outing in the beach. My mom had forgotten to pack my swim suit. She urged me to 'parade' in my birthday suit. I wanted to protest. My cousins all were clad in their swim wear.

But, lest I get stranded alone in the shed (the beach was a few meters down -- we were in Hundred Islands, after all) I went walking sans briefs -- people were laughing. Jeering. Maliciously. I cupped my genitals. I knew they were laughing at my nakedness. The more they laughed. My drunk father egged me on. He told me to be proud of my 'boyhood'!

There is a photo of this experience somewhere in the old house.

My parents were good people. But they were not good parents.

Children are smarter than you think. They know. You can't lie to them. They know.

They're sensitive. They know.

They know when they're being laughed at.

CARE DIVAS

2011-02-05T15:23:00.003+08:00

Five Filipino gay caregivers in Israel decide to form a singing group (in drag) and reach for the heights, i.e. to be regular performers in a club in Tel Aviv. The Philippine Educational Theatre Association's (PETA) most recent offering is Liza Magtoto's 'Care Divas'.

Truly an ensemble performance by the cast, 'Care Divas' is a wonderful romp into the lives of these Overseas Filipino Workers (OFW) -- we hear their travails, we delight at their little accomplishments, we sympathize with their homesickness, we laugh at their foibles, we snicker with them as they exchange retorts, we feel their pain -- and yet we triumph with them as they overcome the trials they undergo. Magtoto's script encompasses the OFW's plight. We see how OFW's are caught between their desire to provide for their families back home and their alienation in the country of their destination. The main characters may be gay, but they surely encompass the OFW experience.

Typical of PETA's productions wherein actors are made to play different characters, the guest actor, Paul Holme charmingly transforms from Daddy Isaac to Captain to Club Manager and back and forth. DudzTerana as Thalia is reminiscent of Lisa Kudrow's Phoebe on the sitcom 'Friends'. Thalia's one-liners consistently elicit guffaws from the audience. The true standout however belongs to Chelsea (Melvin Lee). Chelsea's heartwarming interaction with his ward Daddy Isaac, his subsequent relationship with Faraj, his struggle to be the catalyst of the Care Divas, and his recollection of his coming-to-terms with his homosexuality -- are portrayed with a depth and sensitivity that comes forth in Lee's every movement, gesture, nuance, look.

The script's strengths are in the main characters' details. The insecurity/paranoia of Shaina with regards to his mother back home, the helplessness of Kyla upon realizing the prospect of deportation, the steadfastness of Jonee, the naivete (not to mention the kleptomaniac tendencies) of Thalia, and the resolve of Chelsea. The exchange between the Jewish Mother and son, however, was a tad indulgent, if I may say so, and comes out not to have any real purpose in the end.

Vince de Jesus, the composer and lyricist, gives us a bevy of musical numbers that cunningly gets its inspiration from other musical genres but definitely comes out originally and stands out on its own merits.I particularly liked Chelsea's last solo number -- the purity of emotion evoked in the lyrics. Oh, Vince de Jesus, by the way also portrays Shaina.

Kudos to the direction of Maribel Legarda. Her treatment of the script does not patronize nor trivialize the OFW experience. Ditto the gay lifestyle. It was good judgment on her part to exercise restraint so that the production does not come out too campy. The Care Divas' musical numbers are at the opposite end of the usual gay-comedy-bar-routine of excess, slapstick, and coarse jesting. Legarda's overall direction (along with the choreography of Carlon Matobato) is a fresh respite from the usual brouhaha and empty bravado we are bombarded with daily on local television.

'Care Divas' will run until March at the PETA Center (behind the QC Sports Club). The musical will definitely merit a repeat viewing from this blogger.

(photos grabbed from Vince de Jesus Facebook Album)

I WILL NEVER EAT IN CHOWKING AGAIN!!!

2011-01-21T19:10:00.004+08:00

After an exhausting day, I go to Chowking along JP Rizal Street corner Reposo in the hopes of getting a satisfying, warm, quick meal. And so I order Chicken Noodle Soup, 3 Pieces Shanghai Lumpia and Regular Iced Tea. The girl by the cash register said Iced Tea would be 'automatic pong large' -- I did not bother to ask why.

I pay and she gives my Iced Tea and a number corresponding to my order. I take my seat after about two or three minutes, the Shanghai Lumpia arrives. After I pour the sweet & sour sauce over the Lumpia, I receive a text message on my cellphone and I promptly reply. The time on my phone registers 6:15pm. The Shanghai Lumpia is eaten in less than 5 minutes. More text messages come and I reply to them.

By 6:26 -- my Chicken Noodle Soup hasn't arrived yet. My stomach still grumbling from hunger pangs which the Lumpia failed to sate. Did I mention that the Lumpia tasted rancid? I put it at the back of my mind because I was really hungry.

By 6:30 I am starting to get pissed. My face getting redder with anger and hunger and frustration. I mean, I rarely eat in fastfood joints, tonight was an exception because I was really hungry.

At exactly 6:35pm --20 minutes after I replied to that first text message when I sat down -- I decide to stand up, bring my half filled glass of Iced Tea, my receipt and the Number they gave me and go towards same girl at cash register. My voice almost cracking, but I did control my temper, I told her: "Miss, it's been 20 minutes since I gave my order, you should've told me it was going to take this long then I would've ordered something else, I am sooooo hungry..." I then put my glass down in front of her, along with the number and my receipt and continue, "...but never mind, I am NEVER (with matching hand gesture) EVER going to eat here again.

She looks at me, gets my receipt, the other girls behind the counter go near her and look at my receipt, they whisper something like "Ano ba ang in-order nya, blah, blah, blah..." and then, nothing! Did they try to appease me? No. Did they tell me that my order will be coming out soon? No. Did they check with the kitchen? No. Did they offer to reimburse me? No. Were they busy? No, the place was half-filled to think it was dinner time.

I walk out. Proceed to this internet cafe.

New Year's resolution come February 3, the Chinese New Year: I WILL NEVER EAT IN ANY CHOWKING, JOLLIBEE, RED RIBBON, MANG INASAL OR ANY FASTFOOD JOINT TONY TAN CAKTIONG GOBBLES UP!

And to think I was very patient with those Binondo Chinese the past two days while sourcing props for an upcoming event, despite their condescension towards me!

JUST SAY NO

2010-12-17T18:13:00.001+08:00

With the acquittal of Hubert Webb, et al. by the Supreme Court all over the news media, I was reminded of this letter sent to me by my sister.

(names of places and people have been omitted/changed to protect the privacy of those concerned)

"April 9, 1994
Dearest Martin,

This would be my nth attempt to write you & tell you about what's been happening since time stood still between the two of us beginning January...

... A really strange thing happened to me in the past month. I was at a flower shop in the mall and a guy entered, bundles of roses under his arm, smiled at me and called out saying he was delivering roses. So the guy at the shop attended to him while I sized him up. Can't be a delivery boy. There was something about him that told me he was rich. Must have been the flowers all around me. And the scent of roses. I felt I was in an ad. So I asked him if he owned The Flower Shop and so our friendship began. We exchanged numbers and he introduced me to his sister who was managing their flower business. So we had a phone relationship going on. I started ordering my wedding requirements for roses from them. Every now and then invite them to church, Music Hall or Strumm's. Once, Marge, his sister asked me to call him. And when I asked why, she just said: "Basta. Just make kwento with him or something." After that I called him up but he was in a rush. And I never called again. About two weeks passed and I called to order roses. You know me, I don't read the papers, nor watch TV. Imagine my shock, Martin, when their maid told me that they couldn't deliver roses just yet because there was an "accident". She told me to read the papers that day. Louie, in a drugged state, had shot his mother dead. I cried myself that night, Mart, because I knew he needed a friend but I didn't push it. I didn't want him to think I was out to snare him. I visited their home the next day, met their father, who was still in the stage where the facts had not dawned on him. They're a very neat, old rich family. Looking good on the outside, crumbling inside. Louie is in Makati Med for psychiatric treatment. They're pleading insanity to spare him incarceration. For a few days after that, his face would flash in my mind, constantly. It's changed me in a way, Mart. From now on, I'm going to be a friend to people. I don't care how I may look to them -- people need people. I still keep in touch with Marge, order roses from her. I'm praying I be allowed to visit Louie soon.

April 28, 1994
I'm ending this letter now. I have been allowed to visit Louie -- I just need to schedule it. Been ultra busy lately, fixing up weddings. Hope you've gained back the pounds that I heard you so quickly lost. I'm praying that by some stroke of good fortune, I can come visit. (Or go visit). We miss you very much & we love you & we're longing for coffee talks with you!

Joy"

World AIDS Day 2010 - The Ribbon/Cucumber Timelapse

2010-12-03T18:13:00.000+08:00

I sent two photos for this project. One of me wearing a white shirt, the other wearing a red shirt as required by the project coordinators. You can see my photo (me in red shirt) towards the end before shot zooms out to reveal entire mosaic.

I shit you not.

YIPPEE! I'm on youtube!

THE OLD BAGUIO

2010-11-09T19:01:00.002+08:00

(Photo courtesy of Kevin Engle. On left is Felicidad Reyes to her right is her sister, Manuela Vargas)

(I am posting excerpts from my Uncle Gras Reyes' essay "Embers In My Father's Fireplace" which saw print in the Ani publication The Literary Journal of the Cultural Center of the Philippines, Jan-April 1991 Edition. Kevin Engle a friend I recently 'met' on Facebook recently posted an album featuring old photos of Baguio City. In the album, I was surprised to find two photos of my grandmother, Felicidad Reyes, included. Those photos reminded me of these excerpts...)

"My father (Atty. Francisco 'Ikong' Reyes) married a market vendor, a "career" she started when she was a grade schooler. She would not be allowed to go to school unless she sold rice cake early in the morning. Before sun-up my grandmother would already have cooked rice cakes (puto) ready to be sold while hot and steaming.

"Her father died before she finished intermediate school. In his deathbed my grandfather advised my mother never to be without merchandise. Thus, my mother became a vendor all her life, selling fruits and vegetables in the city market. My father once told her to stop being a vendor because his law practice could provide more than enough for the family but my mother refused. My mother countered: 'Don't ever introduce me to your rich clients or your friends in high society because many of them happen to be my customers. When they learn that I am your wife, they stop buying from me.' but how could my father avoid introducing my mother to people?

"Elected as president of the Rotary Club of Baguio, president of the Lawyers League of Baguio, once a city councilor, organizer of the departments of law of the Baguio Colleges and of St. Louis College, and either chairman or member of several boards and communities of civic organizations and reputedly the number-one practicing lawyer in the city of Baguio during his heyday, my father had to attend important social functions where he had to bring my mother. My mother hated dressing up like society matrons, but she had to. And when she did, she was completely transformed into a pretty, affluent looking woman.

"My father once asked one of his clients in a party if his client knew my mother. 'Of course, I know her,' said the client. 'I met her a couple of times in other social functions. Besides everybody knows anybody's wife in this small city.'

"' No, you don't know my wife,' my father said, whereupon he pulled him close and told him to take a closer look at my mother.

"'Yes, of course, I know her. What's the matter with you?' said the client. My mother tugged at my father's sleeve and motioned him not to tell the client, but it was too late. My father said, 'She is the person you buy your vegetables from in the market.'

"The client turned pale. Aghast, he said, 'Oh, no.' The reason my father told him who my mother really was could possibly be the client's way with my mother when he bought vegetables and fruits from her. Not knowing that my mother, the vendor, was one and the same person as the wife of a successful and popular lawyer, he was discourteous and bossy and ordered my mother as though she were his servant. 'Put those vegetables and fruits in the bag. See to it that nothing gets crushed. And bring the whole bag to my car. I don't have time to go around the meat and fish sections. Buy me some meat and fish. I will wait here in my car.' My mother would quietly obey. That was how she maintained him as a customer. But due to my father's revelation, she lost him as a customer. The client became a mayor of Baguio in spite of himself. People say, however, that it was during his term that Baguio plunged into its most decadent period. Gambling and prostitution became rampant.

" As a toddler I was brought by my mother to the market and allowed to play on the cement flooring while she tended to her store. The market, she said, was clean, 'Peep under the stalls and you can see the market from end to end -- no trash. It was common to see mothers pushing prams while doing marketing.' My mother also said that she could leave her store untended and nothing was stolen; she would come back the following day and her fruits and vegetables would still be there as they were when she left them. Sometimes she would leave petty cash in her cash box and no one bothered to open it nor steal a single centavo. By today's standards, that was too good to be true. But my mother said it was that way in Baguio before the outbreak of World War II.

"Incidentally it was my mother who first made and sold straw flower garlands, better known as cuentas nga everlasting. She also introduced strawberry jam, as taught by an American missionary. The Good Shepherd Sisters used to buy strawberry jam from her and later they made their own.

"The public market was never crowded except during the Holy Week when many visitors from Manila came up to Baguio. During the Holy Week Baguio was transformed from a sleepy village into a bustling city. After that burst of activity the city once again slowed down. And when the rainy season set in, the place became cold and gloomy. For me the dreariness was compounded by the beginning of school days. Relatives and friends who stayed with us during the the months of March, April and May all went home to Manila after the 'summer' session of the Supreme Court and Court of Appeals in Baguio. The gaiety of three months -- the picnics, excursions, movies, games, parties and rain-free days -- changed overnight into gloomy, somber and tedious school days."

YOU'RE SO VAIN

2010-11-09T15:53:00.001+08:00

Lately I have noticed how members of the younger set seem to be so vain. I'm talking about those gays in their late teens to early 30s who preen and check themselves out in any reflective surface available, every chance they can get, which is about every minute.

It is impossible to keep a conversation with these types because they never really pay attention to you as they are busy touching up their overly-smothered-with-products hairstyle. They fold their sleeves and tuck in their shirts in the most contrived manner. They accessorize more than Madonna (during her Material Girl days) and they retouch their make-up so often they end up looking like espasol from Laguna.

The Vain Gay (VG) is easy to spot. He obviously works out as his toned body in fitted clothes would attest. He wears the latest styles, preferably the designer brands. He doesn't smoke and doesn't drink too much. He is too poised to make a fool of himself when inebriated so he prefers to keep his alcoholic drinks to a minimum.

When you refer to his being gay (you assume he is gay because, uhm, he is sooooooo gay) he puts on a defensive stance and claims he's 'experimenting' or 'versatile'. But then you see him checking out all the more straight-acting guys in the bar. Or the cafe. Or the mall.

Here are 10 Tips To Annoy The Vain Gay (VG):

1. When VG cuts in while you are having a conversation with a potential mate, feign concern and ask VG: 'Is that a zit on your chin'?

2. When VG enters bar, cafe or mall and obviously shows off his newly purchased outfit, go up to VG and praise his sense of style then scream: "OMG! My sister bought the same pair of pants from the ukay-ukay for only 100 pesos!"

3. When you spot VG in the mall carrying his shopping bags of designer goods, mention to your companion/s loud enough for VG to overhear: "Hey, I just read in the latest issue of Vogue that (pick a brand among VG's shopping bags) is no longer hot!"

4. When you and your friends are enjoying yourselves in a bar, laughing and exchanging witty conversations and being the center of attention; and VG tries to join your group, quickly change the topic and discuss the difference between Pure and Applied Mathematics.

5. Tell VG that his brand of cosmetics/facial care was recently found to have cancer causing ingredients.

6. Find out what VG is allergic to. Spike his drinks/food with it.

7. Feign sincerity and ask VG: "When did your parents find out that you were boring but beautiful?"

8. When VG steals your boyfriend, spread rumors that VG has a small dick from all those muscle-enhancing hormones he's been using.

9. Spread rumors VG has athlete's foot.

10. Tell VG a new Reality Make-Over Show will air on TV soon and that you entered his name as one of those who want to have a make-over.

FUN WITH FOOD

2010-11-06T21:38:00.001+08:00

It's not what you're thinking. Stop snickering. Sorry no eggplants in this chapter. Everyone remembers playing with their food at one point in time. And who can forget the lashing we all got from such activities. My friend Dondi told me of how he and his siblings would gather by the dinner table, each with a spoon in his hand. As the hot rice was served they would all place the back of their spoons on the scorching rice and wait a few seconds. As the spoon would heat up they would then 'brand' each other on the face or other exposed body parts. What a racket they would make till their yaya or mom would break up the fracas and thus they would begin to eat. Day in and day out. Same routine until they got older and tired of the silly game.

Aside from the bahay-bahayan and tinda-tindahan my cousins and I used to play, we loved play-acting as well. We would peel suha seeds or patani and with its natural adhesiveness attach these at the base of our inner eyes and pretend they were teardrops. On and on we would emote and ape the dialogues we would hear on the radio dramas. Improvising our very own soap operas. Red chiclets were our lipsticks. We would lick our lips and generously rub one chiclet on them until the chiclet was plain white. Our lips were now coated with the red coloring. Sometimes Nips would be used and we'd end up with yellow, green or even brown lips. But chiclets had a moist better quality, enough to rival Mama's precious, imported lipsticks. I would cry out "Mama, I didn't try your lipstick, I ate chiclet!!!" Every time we had chiclets my younger female cousins and I would play Charlie's Angels.

Sometimes we would lock ourselves in a room, and with blankets and bed sheets as gowns, we'd play Ms. Universe with Lolo's rattan cane as our scepter, the piano's keyboard muffler as our sash and from old shoebox cardboards we fashioned a crown. Chiclets of course served as lipstick but were also now used as rouge and eye shadow. Santol or any hard, round fruit in season we would tuck in our shirts for breasts. That's why we had to lock the door. For jewelry we had Jack 'N Jill Chippy. The curved ones we would attach to our earlobes as earrings and insert some in our fingers to serve as rings. I believe my mother knew of these games and would prevent us from locking ourselves in the room lest we scatter crumbs on the bed. But of course I knew the real reason was that she didn't like the idea that her son had dreams of becoming a beauty queen.

One favorite food my cousins shared was the Nissin Cheesesticks. These came in a plastic bag tied with a gold string. The cheesesticks were really salty and went well with cold soda. My cousin Carla discovered a great prank with these. Once she quietly hied off with some cheesesticks in her hand. When she returned she gave a big smile revealing cheesesticks arranged vertically inside her mouth. She looked horrible at the same time funny. She was like that evil nemesis of James Bond -- Jaws. Recalling it now, she resembles Hannibal Lecter with the steel helmet and the steel bars covering his mouth. I would later repeat the cheesesticks prank when I was in college and it was a sure-fire hit among friends in the canteen. (Folks hoping to try this should have a glass of water handy just in case they choke from all the laughter once they try it).

In sophomore year at the UP Baguio High School, we were introduced to Greek Mythology by our English teacher Ms. Leonida de Leon. We marveled at the stories of Medusa, Arachne, Pan, and Narcissus among others. Batches before us told of the culminating event of Greek Mythology class, a Greek-inspired foodfest. This was one of the highlights of sophomore year. The class would be divided into several groups. Each group had to come up with dishes inspired from the stories we learned in Greek Mythology. We would then invite other teachers to judge which group had the most appetizing, original and inventive dish. Batch after batch had 'Medusa's Hair' or spaghetti with meatballs, the presentation or execution making the difference. The redder the sauce, the more terrifying, but spaghetti nonetheless. 'Ambrosia' was fruit salad served on a carved-out watermelon. During my time, Ms. de Leon banned spaghetti and fruit salad altogether and admonished us to be more creative and original. I forget now what my group cooked but here's a proposed menu to top all other entries. Batch '84 should be proud of me.

For starters I'd have 'Narcissus Soup'. A clear vegetable broth flavored with thyme and oregano. So clear you could see your reflection in it. Perfect for the ever self-conscious adolescent. Next course would be 'Aphrodite's Bread & Fava'; freshly baked bread with dollops of pureed, creamy, yellow split peas as homage to the fair Goddess of Love. Alongside I'll serve 'Arachne's Fritters' (or critters); deep-fried locusts (okay, okay locusts are not spiders, I know) accompanied by avgolemono; a lemon-and -egg sauce. After which I would lay-out 'Poseidon's Eels'. Eels fresh from the Greek Streams (-Of- Consciousness). Poseidon must have had, I surmise, domain on inland bodies of water as well; the eels spit-roasted with tomatoes, their drippings mixed with ground nuts, sesame seeds and crushed garlic as sauce. Next course, 'Perseus' Guts'; or Garthoumba -- chopped liver and innards wrapped with lamb intestine fresh from the oven. Main course: 'Zeus Moussaka'; a hearty meat and vegetable stew. For dessert I'd serve 'Atalanta's Golden Apples'; poached apples with a rich chocolate sauce enhanced with gold flakes from a famous liquor. YUMMY!

Back in the mid-80's my mother and I once decided to catch a screening at the old Pines Theater along Session Road. It was still early evening we had just come from the market with some ripe bananas and a bag of bread, but decided to catch the comedy despite not having seen it from the start. Upon entering the dark aisles we could hear laughter from our right side, slowly and slowly, the entire balcony had begun laughing. I wondered what was particularly funny with the scene when there was no dialogue exchanged but was merely a montage of traveling shots. As my mother and I found our seats, the viewers in our aisle were snickering uncontrollably despite their efforts to suppress their laughter. It then dawned on me, the entire second floor was laughing at us for as we traversed the aisles, our silhouettes had clearly shown we were each carrying a bunch of bananas. The movie being shown was 'Bad Bananas Sa Puting Tabing'. Terribly embarrassing.

Speaking of movies, don't you ever notice how Filipino cinema has incorporated the partaking of food as a major development in a movie's plot? Consider 'Lollipops and Roses at Burung Talangka'', one scene shows Nora Aunor stubbornly eating burung talangka, licking her fingers mockingly as Don Johnson complains in the background about her nasty habit and the stench from her preferred food. This was the precursor of events that would lead Nora Aunor to end up with Cocoy Laurel. In 'Madrasta' the eating of lobster was used in two separate scenes to divaricate the steaming animosity between Sharon Cuneta's nuclear family against the one she had tried so hard to fit into. Although lobster was cooked the same way in both instances; in the former, lobster was relished with a casual almost comical ambience as opposed to the latter wherein they ate the crustacean formally and in a stiff manner. These dramatized Sharon's character's ever-growing alienation.

The love affair between food and cinema is not totally Filipino. Western movies have exploited food in their themes as seen in '9 1/2 Weeks', 'Like Water For Chocolate', 'Chocolat' and even 'Fatal Attraction' wherein Glenn Close cooks Michael Douglas' daughter's pet rabbit to prove her point that she wasn't 'game'. Lately in the Philippines however, we have taken the relationship of food and storyline to extremes. With 'Patikim ng Pinya' and 'Kapag Ang Palay Naging Bigas, May Bumayo' , I rest my case. Have we so lost our cinematic tastes? And will we ever produce another great movie chef the calibre of Brocka?

(I wrote this essay ca. 1999 - 2000)

MY VERY FIRST BROWNIE

2010-11-01T19:40:00.001+08:00

I learned to bake at an early age. Like most kids, my first venture into baking was the brownie. It was my cousin Pia who gave me the recipe and taught me to bake. Later on I graduated to making banana bread, scones, muffins, pastries, cheesecakes. Everyone has cooked brownies. Brownies with cashew nuts (or other nuts), marshmallows, raisins, etc.-- or a combination of the above. One summer my cousin Dimbo stayed all day playing in the sand at the beach. He grew so dark we called him 'brownie' the rest of the year.

At the UP College Baguio in the 80's we sometimes made and ate 'adult' brownies. My dear friend Joji (bless her soul) gave me my first brownie. Although I am not/wasn't ever really gung-ho over marijuana, I do have fond recollections of the organic stuff. Joji was batches older than I was but had stopped school for some years and by the time she got back to the university we found each other sharing same classes, our major being the same. That particular morning in the campus, I saw Joji yet cramming for another exam and had joined her. She was nibbling on some brownies (at 730 in the morning) and offered me some, with a wink. I got a small piece, with a smile. We started out studying, sharing our notes and books but ended up talking, laughing, tripping on the grass (the grass growing out of the pavement in the front of the lobby), smoking our cigarettes continuously and still laughing some more. Our light-headed giddiness carried over to our classroom wherein our teacher in the middle of the exam asked us to leave the room with our bluebooks and all. We both did pass the course just the same. And became good friends.

Joji was way out cool. She had a nice shag, comfy jeans, hi-cut reeboks, and an old beat-up chedeng she inherited from her father. One time she picked me up from the house and brought me to the top of Wright Park past the lake of Mansion House. Once there, she got a bottle of rhum from her bag and toasted to yet another boring schoolday. Yes, she introduced me to rhum too. Rhum that we drank by shots followed by coke. (The softdrink, mind you.) Or whistles when no chaser was available.

Joji was the first friend I 'came out' to. It wasn't at all dramatic. Although my other friends in high-school and college had probably known I was gay, just like in my family, the matter was never discussed. With Joji however, out of the blue, she one day asked me, "Do you have a boyfriend?" She sensed my unease and apprehension (I was a tight-lipped closet case) and continued to rib me; "C'mon Marts, you can't be a virgin all your life!" That did it. She broke the ice. We laughed all morning. She talked about her present love life, I talked about my fantasies. We drank some more. I trusted her not to tell any of our other friends. She didn't say a word.

We drifted apart after college but during Baguio's earthquake I sought out Joji. She was now renting a room in Jungle Town and had camped out with the neighbors in an open lot in the area. She introduced me to her new friends over bottles of Tanduay. She was still the same old, jolly Joji I thought. We vowed to keep in touch and we did occassionally. We got together at least twice a year. She eventually had two kids by her boyfriend. Two adorable kids who competed with me for Joji's attention whenever I would visit. It was during this period when I was drinking my heaviest and at the brink of a major depression. But Joji picked me up. Reassured me that all will turn out for the better. She had this sense of calm and a way with words that made me feel secure. She wasn't doing all that well either but she had optimism and confidence that we would both get out of the rut we were then presently in. Wherever she is now I am grateful to Joji for instilling in me a sense of hope and the resolve to fight pressing exigencies.

A friend of mine has the following as one of her earliest memories of her childhood. She once owned a dachshund whom she really cared for. Once her (groovy) mother cooked 'adult' brownies and left them on the table to cool. A few minutes later, my friend saw her dog lying on its back, seemingly lifeless. He wouldn't budge or even move when his name was called. He neither did flinch when cradled. My friend saw traces of the brownies scattered on the table, chairs, floor and on the dog's mouth. My friend cried out to her mother; "What did you do to my dog?!" To which her mother screamed; "What did your dog do to my brownies?!!!" End of story.

CAFE AMAPOLA PART 2

2010-10-27T20:30:00.006+08:00

(Photo Courtesy of Ernesto V. Enrique)

I must have been in Freshman High School when I first stepped into the Art Gallery on the second floor of Cafe Amapola. Michelle Soriano, a friend of mine who was a year ahead of me in high school, had asked me to accompany her to the opening of a group exhibit. She had to choose an artwork and submit a critique of it for her English Class assignment. And so we went and had just caught the tail-end of the opening ceremonies. It was late afternoon and there were people crowding all over the space.

Michelle was drawn to one particular artwork. It stood out amongst the rest because it was drawn on an oversized intermediate pad -- the ones kindergartners usually use to practice writing the alphabet. It was lined in blue and red. The main artwork was like a kid's scribbling or doodling. I nonchalantly told Michelle: "But, I could do that?!" She answered: "But you didn't think of doing it first!" I left it at that. I Looked at the other works on exhibit and went back to the one Michelle had singled out. She leaned over my back and whispered "See, you can't get your eyes off it?! It's the idea (or did she say 'concept') behind it."

I then thought : AHA! The work was by the then budding artist Rock Drilon.

In college, the Angel's Trumpet Bookstore was replaced by The Pub. It was more like a piano bar where blind musicians would play. At one point, Dave Tabligan (bless his soul) would play the piano. And then he suddenly disappeared from the Baguio Scene only to come back in the early 2000's and play the piano at The Manor. Medical students from SLU would also hang-out there. I remember Dr. Dennis Flores, then a medical student, take over the piano and play while his buddies would take turns singing.

Beer was 8 pesos a bottle. The Molo Soup and Camote Bread were favorites for us students. I usually ordered Reuben Sandwich for take-out when I would travel to Manila. I'd wait at the Cafe for the midnight Dagupan Bus Trip and eat the sandwich at the stopover in Pangasinan. It was at the cafe where I first tried eating artichokes. No big deal. I think they must've served the canned variety. Churros con chocolate on sunny afternoons or rainy evenings was perfect.

Amapola was the drinking place for us UP Baguio students. We would walk from campus and converge either in the pub or outside by the sidewalk. We hobnobbed with local artists the likes of Tommy Hafalla, Willy Magtibay, Rene Aquitania, Santi Bose. The cafe was bohemian in character. The old structure was refurbished by its new owners but kept the old flooring and basic structure. There was an old jukebox by the entrance and loads of mounted posters of art films or exhibits lined the walls. By the entrance of The Pub was a table fashioned from driftwood and stools to match it. The winding, wrought-iron staircases complemented the vintage mosaic tiles of the comfort rooms.

The Pub had a mezzanine where throw pillows were strewn for a more relaxed atmosphere. The cafe's logo/font was art nouveau reminiscent of the Paris Metro. The cafe attracted rightists, leftists, artists, homosexuals (latent and otherwise), foodies, fashionistas, backpackers, etc. all converged there. There would be the occasional 'artista-sighting' -- like Richard Gomez or Aga Muhlach -- whence we'd give them the Baguio-snub and act like we didn't know/recognize them.

Sometime in 1987 or 1988, while we were drinking outside, a group of 8 or 10 Americans stepped into the cafe. They seated themselves in the table directly across ours although the glass pane separated us. Suddenly, one of us pointed out that one of the men looked like Tom Cruise. This was no coincidence since we knew that Tom Cruise was filming "Born On The Fourth Of July" in Ilocos that month. We figured he must've taken a break and come up to Baguio for some R&R. We were all excited and were trying to convince each other to go inside and ask him if indeed he was The Tom Cruise! But we chickened out. We were shy. Despite the beers we had drunk, we didn't have the guts to go inside. The Americans of course were basking at the attention and fuss we were 'throwing' their way. My female friends were acting 'kikay' just to get their attention. I could swear that that was Tom Cruise! We never got to validate it though.

It was at Amapola where I affixed my name and signature in the petition seeking One Million Signatures to convince Cory Aquino to run in the 1986 Snap Elections. My mother was active in the Cory Campaign. Along with other relatives and friends, and the Coryistas from Manila -- Mama would go join the rallies, fund raisers, motorcades, leading to Election Day that February in 1986. I remember the night before elections, Mama and my Auntie Tessie were busy preparing sandwiches to be distributed to the poll watchers. They delivered these sandwiches along with other donated food stuff at the basement of Cafe Amapola where it was transformed into a Yellow Base for the Cory Supporters. A few days after elections, somebody threw a rock (?) and broke the window on the Pub side. It was supposed to send a warning to all the Cory Supporters. The owners of the Cafe were not intimidated and punctually replaced the window pane and put up a steel accordion gate on both the Pub and Cafe sides. Business as usual.

We, UP Students had friends from SLU who were also habitues of the cafe (mostly my Brother's Barkada) -- there was Arel 'Lamang' and Steve Limpin and the rest of the Limpin Clan. I remember Steve and his motorbike. He would allow us at times to ride with him at night. Once, he hitched Nina Ledesma as they went zooming across town. Nina however had to pee really bad and so they stopped at the funeral parlor along Naguillian Road, Nina steps off the bike, enters the first chapel she sees, gives her condolences to the people inside, hurriedly goes into the Chapel's comfort room to relieve herself, then bids everyone goodbye! HAHAHAHAHA!

There were also the Fil-Am Boys from SLU who were friends of Ferdie Balanag and later on got to hang-out with the rest of us. Emma and Jimil became an item. The Fil-Am Boys would bring their US Passports during Election-Liquor Ban nights and would be served beer. They would then pass on some to us, Philippine Passport Holders.

The Cafe saw relationships come and go. I know of several couples who first met there. I know of at least one couple still going strong today. They were both reeling from their failed marriages when they first met at the Cafe. But, more than twenty years later, they're still in each others arms. Awwwwww!

The sidewalk tables were perfect for people-watching. Baguio then was not so populated nor polluted. During Christmas we would see Karla P. Delgado (Her mother Peachy Prieto owned Cafe Amapola) on break from Harvard University. All the boys had a crush on mysterious, angelic Karla. But they were either too torpe or too stoned to muster enough guts and introduce themselves. I can count on my ten fingers the number of boys who were broken-hearted because of Karla.

My best friend Carol and I would hang-out at the cafe almost every evening. The last night we were there, we had agreed to meet up again the next day at 5:30 pm.

We didn't make it. The next day was July 16, 1990.

(Photo Courtesy of ramny.toralba's photostream on flickr)

CAFE AMAPOLA

2010-10-26T16:11:00.003+08:00

The pre-earthquake Baguio had Cafe Amapola at the top of Session Road. Beside the cafe (in the same building) was 'The Angel's Trumpet Bookshop'. It was a first in Baguio that carried esoteric and art books. I used to tag along with my mother to the establishment, she being the accountant of both the cafe and the bookshop. At the onset, my mother supervised the inventory of the bookshop. We had to list down each and every book, magazine, catalog, map, artwork or whatever was being sold there, a fairly easy job for a grade 5 student like myself. I liked going to the bookshop because I was in awe of all the characters there. The 'Angel's Trumpet' had attracted a number of artists from both Manila and Baguio. Free spirits who dressed outrageously, had long hair, worked on the set of 'Apocalypse Now' and clutched in their hands a copy of Ermita magazine all dog-eared. During inventory breaks we would have snacks at the cafe. We partook of freshly baked camote bread or churros con chocolate.

There was a curiosity on top of the piano though, a glass jar filled with what looked to me as some sort of fish or meat in some even stranger sauce. I thought it was some offering to whomever those artists were venerating. And while I was intrigued by it, I dared not speak about it. Or even stare at it for a long time thinking it possessed some magical powers. On our last day of inventorying the bookshop I went next door to the cafe to ask for a glass of water. While waiting for the waiter to hand me my water, I marveled at the glass jar. Its contents gleamed with the sun's afternoon rays. The waiter must have caught me staring at it and asked me if I wanted to try it -- the salsa monja.

With eyes open wide I imagined an old, evil nun stirring a brew over an open fire. The waiter must've seen my scared expression and hurriedly offered me my glass of water and promptly sat me down probably thinking I was about to faint. He assured me it was delicious and said I should try it with a piece of bread. He entered the kitchen and later came out with a slice of bread on a plate and holding a spoon with the other hand. He got the jar from the piano, opened it and asked me to sniff the contents. He did it as if the jar was a puppy and he was asking me to pet it.

The salsa monja had a rich, briny aroma. It smelled like olives, star anise, and even anchovies, its pungency both revolting and appealing. The waiter scooped out a heaping tablespoon and poured it beside the bread on the plate, dripping the last few drops on the bread itself. Not an ounce wasted. Images of the evil nun flashed before me once more but now morphed into a wicked queen awaiting my consumption of her nasty potion. It must be really special and expensive I thought instead to shake me out of my stupid fantasy. The waiter then instructed me to dip the piece of bread on the salsa monja. I remember closing my eyes upon putting the food in my mouth, preparing myself for what I thought the waiter would reveal to me. Here I go again, I figured I'd rather not look at the frog's legs, newt's eyes or whatever it was that was in it.

I have no words to describe how the salsa monja tasted. Salty, aromatic, biting and sharp all do not give justice to the pleasure I had tasted. I would liken the experience to that first moment when you finally learn to ride the bike. Or learn to swim. That crucial moment when you know you are balancing on your own. No adult holding the bike at your back. Or when you first float sans the hands of your instructor on your belly or floaters on your arms. That fleeting magical moment of sheer joy when you know it is you and you alone making that bike go on or making you sway with the tide of the water. Extreme joy yet replete with uncertainty and danger. That very instance, suddenly alone, and no one or nothing seems important because you had crossed that line towards a new discovery.

That was the effect salsa monja had on me. I was oblivious to my surroundings, savoring each mouthful slowly, absorbing the textures in my palate, my tongue swirling the varied flavors. I hoped that the portion given to me would last longer but I was not willing to stop eating just the same. I kept that a secret for the longest time. Thinking I was the chosen one amongst many to imbibe an edible mantra of sorts. Selfishly guarding it from friends and family. I would never get to taste salsa monja again despite repeated dreams and fantasies of it.

In college, we would hang out at Cafe Amapola. The former bookstore now converted into a piano bar. While the molo soup, the oysters rockefeller, reuben sandwich or even the paella at the cafe were delicious, I still yearned for the salsa monja which now was absent from the piano top. It never really was on the menu. Years after I learned that the salsa monja at the old Cafe Amapola was cooked by my neighbor, Laida Lim-Perez. Her daughter tells me that she hasn't made some for quite sometime now. There still is hope. I hope.

In the early 80's my mother and I enrolled in French lessons at the second floor of Cafe Amapola. The second floor was also an art gallery. Our teacher was François Bocquet, a mime artist who was married to Stephanie a Filipina who was then writing her dissertation on Astrology. We were about twenty in the class, me being the youngest. Classes were held thrice a week, scheduled in the early evenings. We were given photocopied pages of a French language instructional that was more like komiks. After three weeks, we were informed that the classes were cancelled and that Monsieur Bocquet and wife had left for France. So that was the 'french leave' I had read about, I thought. The only thing I remember learning from that class was 'Voila! Un taxi!' which I would use each night at the sidewalk outside the cafe when my mother and I would hail a cab.

note: this is an excerpt from the essay "A Few Of My Favorite Foods" which I wrote ca. 1999 - 2000

(Photo Courtesy of Quaximodo Wye aka Roberto 'Boy' Yniguez)

LADIES WHO LUNCH

2010-10-17T17:08:00.004+08:00

I was sifting through my stuff last night and chanced upon one of my grandmother's cookbooks that I've kept. It is old, stained, dog-eared, torn, stapled with other hand-written recipes or cut-outs of recipes from other magazines. I am talking about "Our favorite Recipes -- Monday Afternoon Club" published by the same group in Baguio City, 1963.

Yes, the cookbook is older than me. It's as old as my brother. But he doesn't cook. Anyway, I read all the way through the book (it's not that thick, after all) and truly imagined how it was when slow-food was the norm. The foreword of the cookbook reads:

Monday Afternoon Club of Baguio was founded in 1933 by Americans living in the Philippine Islands. Now it is a cosmopolitan women's club, still predominately American, devoted to charitable aid to Filipinos in a number of widely differing ways.

It was thought that the favorite recipes of such a group of women would be unique in their international derivation, and would be of wide interest, whilst the sale of the book would bring much needed money for the charitable projects.

Some of the recipes have been contributed by friends of members generously giving the club their well-tried favorites. A few of the recipes are similar but none is exactly the same as another. The result varies slightly to suit different tastes.

To make the book readily understood by all, the editors have included a table of metric, avoirdupois and other equivalents, a glossary of foreign words and hints on adjusting quantities for altitude.

We in the Philippines wish you all GOOD COOKING!

Nowhere in the cookbook are we to find out, however, who the editors were. In the page fronting the foreword, there is on the lower right side the printer's name (Baguio Printing) and below it is written "Weaving by: Easter School". There are no photographs that accompany the recipes, so I presume the cookbook must have come with a woven satchel. Or perhaps a woven bookmark? The book is divided into sections like Hors d'oeuvres, Soup, Salad & Dressings, Bread & Rolls, Fish, Poultry & Sauces, Meat, Cheese & Sauces, etc. Below each recipe is the contributing member's name.

One would notice, that even though most of the members were American, the recipes they shared belied their European roots, and so you would see Swedish Cabbage, Berlin Doughnuts, Sauerbraten, Irish Stew Casserole to name a few. American regional cuisine is also represented in the likes of Bostonian Spread, Virginia Chicken-Apple Salad, Baked Salmon (New Orleans), North Carolina Brunswick Stew (this last one shared by Betty Ploeser wherein she writes at the end; "Tar Heels like this dish served with hot corn bread and a green salad").

There are a few Filipino dishes shared by some members. It is not surprising that these dishes are deemed classics when it comes to Filipino fare. And so you have Pancit Luglug shared by Joving Santiago, Coco-Chicken Adobo by Mary Ann Rosales, Morcon and Chicken Relleno by Jolly Serron, Pancit Molo by Margarita Kolodzik, Fried Lumpia by Martha Plagens and Empanadas by Madge Melton. I am curious to try two recipes shared by Violeta H. Adorable -- Potage de Garbanzos and Chicken Hinalog. The Chicken Hinalog being a dish gently simmered with tender leaves of the Tamarind and seasoned with patis.

Nowhere in the book will you find the mentioning of pressure cookers, microwave ovens, or non-stick skillets. Meat and Chicken stews were simmered for hours until 'meat easily separates from the bones'. Canned produce is rarely used save for evaporated and/or condensed milk. Other packaged items used were the usual flour, butter, baking powder and soda, sugar and salt of course, and the ever popular jell-o and marshmallows. Ditto raisins, dates and nuts and olives. Otherwise, all ingredients were deemed to have been bought fresh at the market. Pyrex was popular for the casseroles. Casseroles having the most entries in the cookbook.

My grandmother checked the recipes she had tried (the fountain pen's ink now a light brown) -- Empanadas, Ice Box Cake (the recipe called for peaches, but my Lola would use ripe mangoes instead), Pancake (from scratch) courtesy of the Baguio Country Club, Polvoron, etc. Lola didn't tick off any recipes for cakes or cookies, understandably so because Lola never baked. It was us, the third generation of cousins who would use the oven.

The recipes are easy to follow. Instructions are simple. Most ingredients were and still are available year round. That I think is the reason they did not include photographs. There is a recipe for The Original Chicken A La King by Ruth Pearson and is truly reminiscent of those toast cups filled with chicken that was popular up to the seventies during kiddie parties or luncheons. Baguio Country Club's Gazpacho and Raisin Bread are also included. The Twenty Four Hour Bean Salad and Roquefort Whirl Salad Dressing by Lourdes Gesner are both tempting.

Here are some curiosities: Coca-Cola Salad by Martha West is a dish made from Raspberry and Cherry Jello, cherries, nuts, cream cheese, crushed pineapple and 2 Coca-Colas (8 oz. I presume as there was no other variant then). There is also the recipe for Ginger Beer by Elizabeth Mackenzie wherein she warns: "Leave for 24 hours then strain and bottle. Keep in the refrigerator or the bottles may burst." Or how about the recipe for Bar-Talk! by Sally Nordstrom -- it is a concoction of Scotch or Bourbon, pineapple, grapefruit and calamansi juices and soda poured over ice then garnished with orange slices. Ms. Nordstrom adds; "For holiday sparkle, float aluminum cut-outs with lighted birthday candles." Could Bar-Talk! be a pun on the highand term for drunkard i.e. Bartek?! There are also recipes for Clay and Home Laundry Soap. (For the very bored housewife, I guess).

The Buffet Supper For 100 contributed by Ditas Valles is as follows:

Smoked Beef Tongue

Roast Loin of Pork with Prunes

Rolled Roast of Veal

Ravioli in Tomato Sauce

Potato and Bacon Salad with Mustard Dressing

Sweet and Sour Red Cabbage

Lettuce and Sour Cream Salad

Cucumber Salad

Picked Beets

Pan de Sal Rye Bread

Dessert: Assorted Cheese Garnished with Fresh Grapes

Served with Crackers (salted & unsalted)

Fruit kabobs

Pineapple Chunks Fresh Strawberries

Melon Balls Lychees

Irish Coffee

(The recipes for the items above are seen in the succeeding pages of the cookbook)

There are numerous recipes for Apple Pie and its variants. Also loads of Chocolate Cakes. Towards the end is an Herb Chart naming various herbs and their more common and acceptable uses. There are also tips for High Altitude Baking (eg. Sugar; decrease for each cup -- for 3,000 feet -- no change; for 5,000 feet -- usually no change; for 7,000 feet -- 1 to 2 tbsps.)

In the section titled Treasure Pots: 40 tips for the homemaker is given. Here are the gems, I am suddenly reminded of Martha Stewart:

No. 2: Toasting bread on your waffle iron is a nice change.

No. 3: Place waxed paper over the butter knife to cut butter squares for serving.

No. 17: Potato peeling and vinegar boiled in a kettle will remove lime deposits.

No. 18: A handful of salt added to the rinsing water in winter will keep clothes from freezing to the

line. (Baguio had winter in the 60s?! See also number 37 below)

No. 20: Egg white is useful in removing gum from clothing or hair.

No. 22: To preserve bouquets: Put saltpeter in the water you use for flowers. Flowers will then keep

for 2 weeks.

No. 23: Tea towels starched slightly will leave no lint on dishes.

No. 35: Hot salt water poured into sink and drains helps to keep them clean and odorless.

No. 37: Keep windows free from ice in winter by rubbing the panes with a sponge dipped in

alcohol.

After this section is the page on Spot and Stain Removal Chart, which I am going to skip as modern day techniques/products abound. Or we're not just that attached to our articles of clothing as they were back then when clothes had to be made by the family seamstress or the tailor in downtown Session Road. Nowadays, it's off-the-rack, ready made, mall issued clothes for most of us.

I couldn't help but smile while reading the recipe for Beef Stew Margarita by Jerry Reed. It is written in a rush. She rattles off the ingredients and the procedure and mutters in the end; "Soothing for disgruntled males!!!"

hahahahahaha :-)

I leave you now with Lupita Coromina's recipe titled simply: DUCK

1 young duck, disjointed
Strong Beef Stock
Salt and Pepper
3 Doz. Olives
2 Onions

Chop the onions, duck liver, gizzard and heart with 12 stoned olives and mix well with sufficient hot stock to cover duck. Add seasoning and stir well until sauce is thick. Place pieces of duck in sauce and simmer for 1 to 1 and 1/2 hours. Add remaining olives and serve.

MONDO MARCOS

2010-10-14T17:12:00.001+08:00

Mondo Marcos now available in National Bookstore and Mt Cloud Bookshop! Grab a copy while supply lasts!

FABRIC8TED (Artworks by Carlo Villafuerte)

2010-08-21T20:42:00.002+08:00

All of the 17 artworks by Carlo Villafuerte have stolen the limelight at the group exhibit titled “Self-Distraction” that just ended last August 17 at the Victor Oteyza Community Arts Space or VOCAS at La Azotea Bldg., Session Road, Baguio City. Villafuerte’s framed works of hand-sewn fabrics with found objects are a wonderful respite from the usual ‘Cordillera-cum-Ethnic’ images predominantly made by Baguio’s budding artists. A mélange of polka dots, floral, paisley, op art, madras, tweed, denim, batik, cotton, wool, double knit, et cetera fuse together with metal scraps, buttons, stones, wire, and what-else, in artworks that are well thought out.

The 32 year-old Villafuerte, whose father is a carpenter and mother is a seamstress at a garments factory, learned to sew from his Paternal Grandmother. He would watch her pick up needle and thread (or the crochet hook) and observe her as she would labor the entire day. In Grade 4, a teacher once remarked that Villafuerte’s H.E. project resembled the handiwork of an experienced seamstress. Later on in college he enrolled in an Engineering course but transferred after his first year and tried his hand at Computer Science. Again, the calling for the Arts was too strong so he tried to transfer to the UP Baguio’s Fine Arts Program but was denied entrance because of one failing mark in his transcript. There was no turning back.

Villafuerte’s first foray into hand-sewn, one-of-a-kind functional pieces was in 2004. He would make bags and shirts and peddle them on the sidewalks of Session Road during the evenings. It was during this period that Kawayan de Guia (a member of renowned filmmaker Kidlat Tahimik’s family that runs VOCAS) had ‘discovered’ Villafuerte and encouraged him to further explore his craft. Back then, most of his ‘patrons’ were foreign tourists who took a liking to his painstakingly detailed pieces borne out from fabric scraps.

It took two years to amass the 17 artworks on display. (The numerous needle pricks on his fingers attest to the time and energy he poured into this collection.) Once he run out of his old clothes, he scoured the ukay-ukay for fabrics. Some were his ex-wife’s clothes that he cut up and included in his pieces. The found objects were gathered whenever he would walk his two sons to and from school.

Villafuerte stresses that when he starts on an artwork, there is no real plan at first. After gathering the materials in his room, he commences cutting up and sewing the fabrics. It is during these hours that “ideas just come to me”. Sometimes during a work-in-progress, when he feels that the piece is not going as he had first envisioned – “kelangan baklasin yung ginawa, tapos mag-umpisa ulit” (I have to dismantle the work and start all over again.)

There is an obsessive-compulsive feel to elements of his artworks. One will notice the equidistant spaces in his blanket stitches that evoke needlework samplers of the past. His pieces however elevate the homely craft of needlework into stunning art. On the whole, the artworks do not alienate the viewer rather, one is compelled to examine further the ‘stitching’ of images and textures into thoughts and feelings that these works evoke.

Villafuerte’s work titled “Clouds” is a profusion of circles of different textures and colors and sizes. It reminds one of a mandala. But then again, it is also Klimt-esque on second view. “Dreams” on the other hand was conceived when his 8 and 6 year-old sons told him of their, uhm, dreams. Ergo, unicorns and a cloaked agent of evil are part of the panoply of swirls and whorls and blues and greys.

Villafuerte’s “You Can’t Hurt Me Anymore” is obviously the most personal of the artworks. It is a direct reference to his failed marriage. The work however does not reek of angst. At first glance it is cathartic. But really, there is a certain epiphany when viewed again. Carlo Villafuerte’s Parents and Grandmother ought to be proud.

BEING DELFIN TOLENTINO

2010-08-12T19:58:00.007+08:00

BEING DELFIN TOLENTINO (with apologies to 'Being John Malkovich')

By Martin Masadao

My first vivid recollection of Delfin Tolentino's existence at UP Baguio was in the 80s. Ninoy Aquino had just been assassinated. There was uncertainty in the air. Rallies galore to attend. And fashion trends to keep up with.

I was in high school at the then UPCBHS. I prided myself to be the first student in the campus to own a pair of Sperry Top-siders. The quintessential preppy footwear for both sexes. I wore them with a striped button down oxford shirt, khaki pants and a woolen fair isle sweater slung on the shoulders, its sleeves knotted in a contrived manner to assume casual elegance and comfortable ease a la John Updike. Or Christopher Isherwood is more like it.

And so it was one afternoon as I was ascending the steps that connected the high school to the college buildings that I saw Delfin Tolentino at the top of the steps -- in the exact same outfit. I felt I was walking towards a full-length mirror. As I continued to go up the steps, it was clear that Del carried the style with more credibility. He was the preppy aesthete of Ivy League campuses. While I was the WASP-wanna-be. I quickly took the short cut to the left of the hill that led to the lower canteen lest I hear Del snort at my futile attempt to dress smartly.

Now dear reader, you all know there is really one thing and only one common thing between Del Tolentino and I... the predilection for, dare I say it, alcohol. I was fortunate to be a member of Del’s coterie of drinking buddies during college in the 80s. While some friends had chastised me for not enrolling in at least one subject under Del, thereby defeating the whole purpose of an education at UP Baguio -- a whole lot more people have told me how lucky I was not to have to suffer under his tutelage. And that I should count my blessings as such.

And so at the old Café Amapola Del and I would convene after school with other students and teachers and drink San Miguel Beer. This was the time Asia Brewery was going to come up with their own brew to rival the monopoly that San Miguel had on the market. And at a lower price to boot. I remember Del stating with utmost conviction, "If Gold Eagle tastes exactly like San Miguel Beer, I’m going to shift brands." It then struck me, hey, not only does Del not have an original fashion style, he has no sense of loyalty whatsoever. A true balimbing during those turbulent times.

So what was the 'thing' with Del Tolentino I wondered? While we continued our regular drinking sprees at the Café I still could not put my finger on Del's mystique. We discussed books, films, Linda Ronstadt collection of old standards, etc. I had a glimpse of Del's enigma and why he was a revered member of the UP academe during one theatre run at the auditorium. I was then a member of TABAK, the radical theatre group my friends and I had joined and we were mounting Chris Millado's "Buwan at Baril sa Eb Minor". During our critics' night, Del was the last to speak amongst other invited guests. I remember him uttering the phrase "it's poignant yet replete with tension" referring to the monologue that was the highlight of the play. Wow! How eloquent and precise, I thought. I wanted to be like Del in that respect. Now I get it, Del was the ultimate critic and the uber-authority when it came to the Literary Arts.

I tried to pry more information from other friends who were definitely closer to Del than I was. Del apparently had an enviable art collection in his tastefully decorated house along Leonila Hill. I had so fervently wished to be invited to that house for dinner and be with Baguio’s cognoscenti. Ay, conyo! I also found out that Del came from a landed old family of Baliwag, Bulacan. And the truth was that Del didn’t need the teaching job as he was already well-off but decided to relocate to Baguio for 'personal' reasons. My friend making quotation marks in the air -- "personal". Ha! So there was truth to those rumors after all. Talk was rife around campus that Del, brace yourselves, refused to join rallies against tuition fee hikes or salary increases for teachers because, in truth and in fact, Del Tolentino was a modern day cacique. Pa-art-art na lang sya. Nalito na naman ako. Disillusioned was more like it.

But oh how I yearned to be praised by Del. Because we all know how skimpy he is with praise. In the early 90s my friends mounted Rody Vera's Palanca Award-winning play "Kung Paano Ko Pinatay Si Diana Ross". This was to be my first major role onstage. I had to bear the brunt of calloused feet by rehearsing in high heels. Had to memorize kilometric lines and lip synch to a gazillon Diana Ross songs not to mention learn the choreography for each. Del had rewarded me during our critics' night by saying "Martin, your performance had many nuances. You were a surprise" -- this he said after everyone had spoken and after he commented on the other actors as well. I was flushed with pride. I felt that I had finally arrived. After the show we all went for beers in Rumours Bar along Session Road as our old haunt had perished with the earthquake.

In 2001 I had written the "Ukay-Ukay Handbook" and invited Del personally to the book launch. I had apologetically told him not to expect too much, that the handbook was nothing academic. "Mababaw lang", I said. To which Del remarked, "That’s ok, I'm sick and tired of academic stuff". He stressed it in such a way to make me feel that I will never be able to come up with any academic writing in the first place. Ang taray! Did I hear any praise for the work? Of course not. Such writing is way beneath THE Del Tolentino. It was like being slapped in the face. Obviously he didn’t get the campy irony of it all. No surprise there, I doubt Del goes to the ukay or engages in any activity that is enjoyed by the masa. A true snob he is, I must say.

A few years ago, my sister invited Del and Ben Tapang for dinner at her pad along Gibraltar Road. My sister had apparently been bumping into Del at a Japanese pottery shop on several occasions and she decided to show off her stash by hosting dinner. I was tasked to cook that evening.

I felt I had to engage in one-upmanship again. What exactly does one serve the Doyen of the Humanities College for dinner? I settled on fish lumpia (made from scratch) and pote that I learned from (that other doyenne of the arts and manners) my neighbor, Laida Lim. The pote is basically a beef stew with white beans, potatoes, chorizo, cabbage, etc. -- in other words a very 'sosyal nilaga'. To accompany this was red rice. And red wine that Del and Ben had so thoughtfully brought along with them.

Now I thought Del was not only a great Literary Critic, I assumed he was also an epicure. Epicure ngang talaga, bad manners naman pala! As soon as the pote was set on the table Del got the serving ladle, I presumed to pour broth onto our individual bowls. But no, he went straight for the biggest bone marrow, the chunk of meat and cartilage attached to it was fork-tender, the prized portion of the stew, and set it on his plate. My sister and I were in shock! I felt I was in Amy Tan's "Joy Luck Club" -- that part where the fiancé of one of the main characters goes to his soon-to-be wife's house and shocks her mother at the dinner table by getting the best part of the meal for himself. I mean, I admit, I didn’t read the novel, but at least I saw the movie! I realized Del was like that uncouth fiancé. And he showed no guilt at all throughout dinner. Maybe he thinks he's entitled to it. Or that he can get away with it. And now you all know why he was never invited to dinner again.

Last September, we mounted "Baguio Stories" at UP Baguio and Del comes up to me after one matinee performance. Apparently he's become too old to stay up late now hence the afternoon performance. Anyway, at curtain call I go up to Del and thank him for catching the show. Del then tells me, "Your performance was very nuanced." I smiled and gave him my thanks.

Wait a minute, I suddenly thought to myself while backstage for the gala performance that evening. "Teka, teka, teka, 'your performance was very nuanced?!' Eh yun din yung sinabi nya sa akin nung nag-Diana Ross ako ah?!" So, my theory is that Del has several phrases stashed in his head which he uses or gives when the occasion calls for it. I wonder how many times he has said "poignant yet replete with tension" or "very nuanced performance" and to how many people? YOU'RE A MYTH, DELFIN TOLENTINO! A FAKE! HOLDEN CAULFIELD WOULD SMOTHER YOU WITH HIS SUITCASE!

But seriously, these times we do need myths. Today when we can google our hearts to instant gratification, where politicians are brazen with their ambitions, where pop stars bare all even if there's really nothing to bare -- we most definitely need myths like Del.

Now here is my attempt at art criticism. Indulge me please. If Del were a piece of art, I'd say he would be a David Hockney painting. Definitely old but not dated. Accessible yes, but also profound. Precise but never calculated. Overt but not embarrassingly shameless.

Del's eloquence, restraint, and constancy are all worth emulating. Even if we only wish to mythologize our own selves.

There is one other thing common between Delfin Tolentino and this writer. Dare I say it?! (A very long pause for effect)

Cigarettes.

NOTE TO READER: This essay is part of the anthology "No Boxers, No Briefs: An(O)ther Compendium of CAC & Ball* (College of Arts & Communication and Bachelor of Arts in Language & Literature for you who were elsewhere beginning 2001)"

The Anthology was a surprise 60th Bday gift for Delfin Tolentino. Ben Tapang and Grace Subido were the project's initiators and we were willing co-conspirators. The irreverence of the essay was intended.