Ka-Blog!

    Ilang beses na rin akong pabalik-balik at padaan-daan sa tapat ng Ma Mon Luk sa Banaue.  Mayroon kasi akong palaging kausap sa lugar na iyon.  Matagal ko nang gustong pumarada, bumaba at pasukin ang lumang restaurant na ito.  Ilang taon na rin naman noong huli akong kumain ng paborito kong siopao at mami ng Ma Mon Luk.

    Nitong nakaraang ilang linggo ay mayroon kaming malaking pinaghandaan.  Ilang araw ang dumaan na hindi ko pansin ang paglipas ng mga oras at ilang gabi na rin namang hindi ko kapiling ang aking asawa dahil sa dami ng gawain.  Natapos na iyon nitong nakaraang lunes.  Tingin ko naman ay maayos sa kabuuan ang aking trabaho.  Hindi na siguro masama ang magbayad ng P130 para sa ispesyal na siopao at mami ng Ma Mon Luk.

       Kinabig ko ang aking manibela pakanan at pumarada ako sa tapat ng pintuan nito.  Agad akong bumaba at sinalubong ng walang kaparis na amoy ng mami at siopao na aking paborito.  Umupo ako sa marmol na lamesang pinakamalapit sa pintuan upang mahangin-hangin.  Hindi pa rin kasi aircon ang Ma Mon Luk.

    Ang weyter na ang nagsabi, "Mami and special siopao, ser?"  Tumango na lamang ako.  Mayroon pa bang ibang kinakain dito?  Hindi ko alam.  Hindi na rin ako tumingin sa menu at wala rin namang dalang menu ang weyter na nakaputing polo at itim na pantalon.

    Ilang sandali pa, dumating na ang aking inorder.  Ambango ng beef mami nila talaga.  Hindi na ako nagdagdag ng patis o paminta.  Okey na ang sarap nito sa akin.  Mas lalong okey ang siopao nila.  Matambok, mapintog at kung iyong hahatiin ay punumpuno ng laman sa loob.  At ito ang ispesyal sa siopao na ito–himay na himay ang asado nito sa loob.  Malambot at malasang-malasa.  Hindi na baleng malakas ang dating ng sobrang betsin nito.  Paminsan-minsan lang naman ito.

    Pagkatapos kumain, parang gusto kong antukin.  Sana may Ma Mon Luk sa aming kwarto pagdating ko sa amin.

Three-stringed lute played on a stormy day
A white-faced geisha in purple kimono dancing
Torn red paper umbrella fending off raindrops
Wooden buckets elevated by a bamboo platform
                filling with water rippled by the rain
                and flowers fallen from trees
Crooked footpaths green with grass
Farmers dancing on drenched paddies
                breaking up the soil baked by the sun

Samurais in battle formations
With half-shaved heads and shiny black hair
                neatly tied-down
Rushing to their glorious deaths by a master’s sword
Singing like the wind on a stormy day

                                                    While watching "Zatoichi"
                                                    12:20 p.m.
                                                    Commonwealth, Quezon City

     the wife asks with seeming regularity why i always volunteer to be anyone and everyone’s driver.

    it’s true. i love to drive.

    but my love affair with wheels started way back–before i even knew what a driver’s license is.  i was in grade school in our dusty and rumbunctious barrio, still wearing shortpants to class and has just started wearing briefs, when i had the first taste of it. 

    someone pawned his rundown bmx bike to my mother.  it was painted black (or was it dark blue) and it had no reflectorized lights, no mudguards, no bells, no stickers. it had a chain that slips from its worn sprocket every block or so.  but that two-wheeler gave me my first and best joyrides. 

    since barrio elementary schools take two-hour lunch breaks, i would hurry home and jump onto the bike.  and under the heat of the scorching sun, i would make my rounds in our barrio at a speed that i imagine was very fast then. until the chain slipped again and again, that is.  i would be back before my schoolteacher-mom would be home for lunch herself, lest i get it.  but those were giddy and blissful minutes.

    the bike was taken back much too soon for my liking. the day it left my hands, i was heartbroken.   and i was back to borrowing my friends’ bikes just to have a minute of speed and bliss.   until my parents took pity on me, augmented my earnings from selling ice candy and bought me my first bike.

    we had to go to tuguegarao to buy  it. it was red; it came with a carrier; it had a foot brake; it was–is–an easy rider.  it was no bmx nor was it a shimano.  but it was mine.

    my father unloaded it from the jeepney when we arrived home.  by then, my friends were waiting by the gate and were raring to ride.  i jumped onto my brand-new bike’s seat (still tightly wrapped in plastic) and raced my friends to the barangay park.  halfway there, and with my proud father still looking, i lost control and suffered my first and most embarassing spill.  i looked back and saw him laughing his head off.

    my bike had its first scratch that day.  but it was no matter.  it was still the newest in the barrio.  and it was mine.  so i picked it up and rode it once again.  i did not go home until it was already dark that night.

    countless hours i spent with my bike. i rode it to places that i never knew existed in our town.  it forded rivers and streams, climbed hills and steep river banks, i visited cemeteries and abandoned warehouses with it, it carried me when i had to go to the next barrio to visit a girlfriend or accompany a friend visiting his.  and many times during my childhood and adolescense, it was my best and only friend.

    the bike is still with me.  its red paint has faded; it’s foam seat burst out of its seams.  and even if i pump air into its cracked tires now, i suspect it could no longer carry me as fast as i remember it could. 

    but when i go home to the province, when no one is looking, i go and take a look at it.   

    he turned 70 a few weeks ago.  he doesn’t know it yet but he will be feted–in absentia–by the friends and members of the NDFP on Monday, 25 April, a day after the Front turns 32.

    i wonder what he will say about the whole thing.  what will he say to both JMS and JDL when he finds out that the couple planned it out?  what will he say to Ka Coni when he learns that she went along with this?

    i sure would like to find out.  what i know is that he does not like these kind of things done for him. 

    but what does he like?

    he likes chicken bacolod inasal; alugbati stew with ground pork; meeting his equally ageing fellow priests in the diocese of bacolod; and seeing old comrade sacadas in the haciendas of negros.

    i am sure he will find this out before monday arrives.  by then, since everything is (almost) ready anyway, he will, very reluctantly, agree.

    will he cry?  i am sure he will stutter.  he will laugh, of course.  he will be embarrassed.

    mahirap din minsan kapag napakarami ang nagmamahal sa iyo.

The only bedmate i want to wake up next to;
the only friend i want to see me cry;
the only person i am willing to share a
toothbrush with;
the only girl i will allow into a
bathroom while i’m using it;
my worst critic;
my strongest refuge;
my keeper of secrets;
my best friend;
my wife.

dear visitor:

sometimes profound, oftentimes naughty, mostly political, and always personal.

welcome to my blog. hope you like what you read. judge if you must but enjoy as you should.

raymund