Ka-Blog!

Iloilo City–If I could fight droopy eyelids, I try to see "Air Crash Investigations" on National Geographic Channel when it’s on and I am home.  The other day, our plane almost became a candidate subject in a future episode.

    I took what was supposed a routine early morning flight from Manila to Iloilo — one of the many I regularly take to this lovely city nowadays– aboard Cebu Pacific Flight 5J451.  Little did I know our flight would become a major radio and newspaper story here a day later.

    Since the flight was just a short hop anyway, I resolved to read through the proferred newspapers rather than taking a nap and waking with a headache later.  Besides, I shared a row with four giggly Korean girls who were taking pictures of everything and everyone with their tinny digital cameras. 

    But as soon as we hit cruising altitude, I saw that the clouds were extra heavy.  I knew we were going to have some serious turbulence along the way.  After a few minutes, we did.  Just then, the cabin lights started blinking.

    We descended after 30 more minutes and when we broke through the thick soupy clouds, all I saw below us were the frothing waves of Guimaras Strait.  Visibility was very poor and we ran into a torrential rain mercilessly overdrenching the entire Panay Island.

    The pilot made his approach for Iloilo Airport’s lone runway.  But with only less than a hundred feet to go, he aborted the landing and pulled up.  The jet engines whined and the plane strained and rattled hard.  Our windows were heavily streaked with rainwater which made it harder to peer outside.  I realized we just had a failed landing.  Then I began to remember all those air crashes I saw on TV.

    Giving the airport a wide berth, Capt. Mike Zamora lined up for another try.  That was when he addressed the crew and the passengers that he is making another approach.  His metallic and barely audible voice over the plane’s address system did not calm anyone though.  As we were descending once more, I saw ant-sized cars with their headlights on below us on the twisty streets branching out from the city center.  The newly-planted ricefields were deep green while the rivers were dark brown.  The villages looked neat, beautiful and peaceful, belying the violence we passengers and crew were being subjected to inside the plane.

    Our second try was much worse.  We shook and rattled and the folding table tops behind the seats popped open.  I stole a glance at the stewardess seated behind me to my right.  She had a smile on but I knew she was having her worst flight too.  She sat with her back straighter that most of us and she was looking out the rain-streaked windows every so often.  Like me, she was also clutching her armrests tight. 

    The Koreans were silent by now.

    The pilot pulled up earlier this time.  But as we were climbing again, the turbulence was heaviest.  We shook hard and the plane dipped several times.  We suffered for about two minutes until we broke through the clouds over Negros Island.  Capt. Zamora then informed us that we had two failed landings because of bad weather and that we were en route to Mactan International Airport to refuel. 

    The weather from Negros to Cebu was clear.  I knew that the rising sun looked gorgeous over the clouds but I didn’t care.  When we landed and were berthed, everyone whipped their cellphones to call wives and husbands, parents, children , bosses and drivers.  I called my wife.

    It took us an hour to refuel and to await word about Iloilo’s weather.  We were not allowed to deplane.  I would have loved to buy danggit at the airport’s pasalubong center.

    Then we took off again.  Over Negros, thick clouds enveloped us again.  Over the PA, the captain said he received word that the weather was improving.  I did not believe him.  The manangs had their rosaries out and were loudly praying.  I hoped the pilot knew what he was doing.  I did not want to regret not getting off in Cebu when I already had the chance.

    But while our third attempt was tense, it went well in fact.  I wasn’t able to buy danggit in Cebu, but I sure am glad we did not become danggit ourselves had we bellyflopped on Guimaras Strait instead.

    And less "Air Crash Investigations" for me from hereon.

    I never got to meet my maternal grandfather. He was assassinated–shot in the face–at the
height of the’69 polls campaign period. He was a mayoral candidate in our old, feudal, poor and fractious little
town. Killed by a rival’s goon, my
Lolo’s senseless death was later avenged when his rival’s mother and aunt were
stabbed to death themselves. No, my
family did not have anything to do with their murder.

    All I knew of my grandfather were a few faded sepia
prints. But I often hear old folks tell us
that I look like him. I am dark, like he
was. I am overweight, and he was
too. We have the same facial
features. My Lolo must have been
handsome.

    But I did see him once. When we were about to bury my Ande (his wife, my maternal grandmother
who helped raise me.  Or, more precisely, nagpalaki sa akin.) some years back, we got to see his bones. His cheekbone had a neat little hole where
the fatal bullet punctured it and ended his life.  His teeth were stll intact as were his
close-cropped hair.

    Petty barrio politicians swear during elections that they’d
do everything in their puny powers to bring back the days when my grandfather’s
word was the law in our proud and rambunctious barangay. I heard he could stare down drunks and make
them go home meekly. I heard he loved
being the master of ceremonies during dances and programs and that he would not
allow anyone unshod by shined leather shoes and not wearing barong tagalogs or
suits to enter the dancing saloon. I am
sure some of their stories were a bit exagerrated but how would I know?

    Those were the days and they are no more. True to their reputation, we’ve had a
succession of corrupt barangay officials who live a life of vice and
pettiness. But I should say no more about
them. They are either relations or
friends.

    Lolo was a school teacher. His last public position was division supply officer of the Department
of Education in Isabela. The desks that
are still being used in some classrooms in our province went through his own
desk.

    He graduated from the National University which gave him a huge
diploma that still hangs in our antesala. He was an alumnus of the then Philippine Normal School which became the
Philippine Normal College during my mom’s time and later the Philippine Normal
University during my wife’s abbreviated stay there.

    Ande saved a few of his prized possessions. He had a smoking
pipe, a buffalo ivory backsratcher, two
pairs of boxing gloves (I got my nose broken in a boxing match with those), two suits, a fedora hat, a wonderful wool sweater (I
use this), a trenchcoat, a harmonica and a maracas (he was a musician), an old and
moderately-sized house of hardwood and cement, some wonderful furniture,
several parcels of land, and some other thingamajigs.

    Six of his children survived him. The youngest was his only son. His daughters are all strong-willed and can
raise hell when slightly provoked.

    Why I am suddenly remembering all these I don’t know. I should be fetching my wife now so we could
go home. But I am too tired to go down
the office steps, drive, even eat. I am
parked in front of the computer and this is all I could do at the moment.

    Maybe because all I want at the moment is to have a
haircut. I sport a flattop do, too.
Like he did.

    Alas-kwatro ng hapon nitong nakaraang Biyernes umuwi ako sa
bahay.

    Pagdating ko sa aming kalye, nagtaka ang mga tao. Napakaaga namang ako ay pumaparada na sa
tapat ng bahay. Mas sanay ang aking mga
kapitbahay sa takipsilim kong oras ng pagdating.

    Pagbukas ko ng pintuan ay agad kong binuksan ang ilaw. Saka ko napansin, maliwanag pa pala.  Napangiti ako kahit mag-isa.  Mabuti na lang walang nakakita.

    Agad kong hinanap ang luma kong bakpak. Nakita ko sa ilalim ng aming aparador, inaamag
na sa tagal nang hindi ko pagkakagamit. Pinagpag ko at binuksan. Naroroon
pa ang mga lumang mga papel at ilang gamit—lapis, nutbuk, mga damit at libro.   

    Sunod kong binuksan ang aking kabinet. Kumuha ako ng apat na t-shirt, isang shorts
na pantulog, isang pares ng pantalon, jacket, briefs, medyas at maraming bimpo. Sinubukan kong tiklupin ng maayos at ilagay
sa bag. Pero bago ko pa tuluyang maisilid,
gusot-gusot na at wala na sa ayos ang mga tupi.

    Bumaba ako sa kusina. Kinuha ko ang aking mga gamot, sipilyo, toothpaste at mouth rinse. Inilagay ko sila sa bulsa ng bakpak, kasama
ng deodorant. Sa labas ng bag ay  isinukbit ko ang aking payong.

    Isinama ko na rin ang kani-kanina ko lamang ginawa na
awtlayn ng programa sa Ayala.

    People Power 3 na.

    Nakiangkas ako sa mga kasama ko sa Program Committee ng rali
sa Makati. Galing ng Kyusi, nadaanan namin ang EDSA
Shrine. Apat na taon pa lamang noong
halos patiran ako ng ugat sa leeg sa kasisigaw sa entablado para patalsikin si
Erap. Uulitin ko na naman. Ngayon naman ay para kay Arroyo.

    Kelan kaya ang tunay na pagbabago? Mahirap ang mapaos at matulog sa kalye tuwing
may traydor na presidente.

    Sandali lamang ay dumating na kami sa Ayala. Hindi pa kami nakakaparada, naririnig ko na si
Niño Muhlach na walang ibang isinisigaw kundi FPJ. “Teka,” isip ko.  “Buhay pa ba ang Panday?” 

    Ibinaba ko na mula sa likuran ng sasakyan ang aking malaking
bag. Pero bago pa man kami nakakarating
sa entablado, binanggit na sa amin na mag-uuwian na lamang muna at hindi na muna
itutuloy ang vigil sa Ayala. “Bakit?” tanong
ko. “Ayaw nila ng matinong programa. Puro FPJ at Erap lang ang sigaw nila,” sabi
ng napagtanungan ko.

    “Ano ngayon ang plano?“ ulit kong tanong. “Atras muna, ayaw
natin ng magulo.” sagot nito.

    Nagmartsa ang aming bulto at iniwan namin ang dating kuting
ng pinilakang tabing at kanyang mga kasama. Pagtalikod namin, wala pang limandaan ang naiwan sa kanto ng Ayala at
Paseo.

    Sa Miyerkules pa ang aming balik sa Ayala. At muli’t muli akong mag-eempake at babalik,
hangga’t hindi bumababa ang presidente.

    Hindi nangyari noong Biyernes. Subalit kaunti na lang, kahit hindi na sa EDSA,
tatalsik na si Gloria.

 

     I’ve been promising my wife an out of town trip, preferrably to a beach, for so long. It’s been years
since we’ve been to one and it was getting unfair.

     Since three weeks ago, the trip and the beach visit happened.

     My wife and I got invited to an
affair at Ming’s Garden in Tagaytay. Ming, of course, was former First Lady Amelita Martinez Ramos. The
curiously-named Fern and Nature Society were having a get-together and we tagged along. But these (mostly ageing) persons and personalities were serious about
their plants, as Mrs. Ramos is. Her
spread of several hectares were full of exotic ornamental flora and some fauna.

     Amid the greenery, the trip was memorable for two
things—first, I was with my wife for a whole day and, second, Mrs. Ramos’ own private falls.

     The falls is at the bottom of a deep ravine. Normally, the owner, her family and visitors
reach it by riding an exciting-looking train/cable car-elevator combo. It’s a
train/cable car because it rides on an iron track with gears and is controlled
by a cable. It’s an elevator because it
is no bigger than an elevator car and it goes almost vertically up and down.

     But it was out of order that day.

     So we had no choice but to brave the 134-step steep stairway
down. (It’s an Oro, by the way, if
you’re into such things.) Being
overweight and all, my wife and I had second thoughts whether the falls was
worth it. But sexegenarian Odette
Alcantara was already halfway down and shame on us if we did not go through the
experience like she gamely did.

     One must marvel at the adobe walls put up by Cordillerans
imported to do the job of securing the slopes and creating terraces that would
be hanging gardens in the future. Babylon and the Rice Terraces meet up in Tagaytay!

     But the garden’s gem is really the falls. At the base of those darned steps, one is greeted by
a crystal clear stream that is carving the valley ever deeper. We followed it upstream for
about 200 meters and, finally, the falls reveals itself shyly tucked behind a
bend and some green cover. It has two 10-meter drops.   At its base is a small and clear
pool about chest deep where freshwater fishes dart in and out of exposed roots.
Its gurgle soothed our aching muscles and repaired my frayed nerves from months
of overwork.

     After a few more moments marvelling at the falls’
understated beauty, we turned touristy. We struck poses with the falls
as our background and made our borrowed digital camera work extra hard that day.

     That was all that we could do anyway while in the bosom of this
pocket paradise. As the saying
goes, the poor must “only take pictures and leave only footprints” because the
earth’s beautiful spots are already privately-owned by the rich.

 
                                                                *-*-*-*

     Mrs. Ramos treated some of us to halo-halo after our tortous
climb back up. My wife, Tita O and I
took several rest stops on the way up. All the while, the vegetarian and beautifully fit “city forester” June
Alvarez was hooting at the top of the steps liberally commenting on the amount
of oxygen we were using up as we huffed and puffed on those darned steps. But he did no climbing, did he?

      I vaguely suspect that Mrs. Ramos makes her visitors climb
those steps to make her halo-halo much sweeter and desirable. Sweet!

     Anyway, we found out that Cardinal Sin’s Villa San Miguel in Mandaluyong City was once a Martinez ancestral home. In fact, the last time she and her husband
(former President Fidel) got invited to the place, she was moved when she saw the wooden floor (wide, thick and dark mahogany) of the mansion’s upper level.  She said she remembered that floor so well as she grew up in that house before the
last World War.

     Stories were told around the table that afternoon. Stories about the late Cardinal, Cory Aquino,
Loi Estrada, Gloria Arroyo, Mrs. Ramos’ former friends when she was still First
Lady. and her husband. I don’t dare to
write them down here lest I jeopardize my chance to have a taste of that
halo-halo again—for free.

                                                                         *-*-*-*
    Just as thousands were paying their last respects to the
Cardinal my wife and I spent five days together in Panay and Guimaras Islands.

 Aside from official business, the most memorable thing we
did while in Iloilo was to overeat ’til
we’re woozy from fresh seafoods and La Paz batchoy. (Hey, there’s this roadside eatery in Dumangas, Iloilo
which may be able to give Ted’s Old Timer Batchoy a run for its money
(see earlier entry entitled “Usapang Pancit”)). [Thanks to my buddy Toto Deduro
and his driver slash wife Carol who drove us around without a license.]

    The apex of our trip was our weekend at Guimaras.

 It’s wonderful that we can still go to these kinds of places
for virtually nothing–thanks to our Third
World economy. We
took a pump-boat from Iloilo City to the pier in Jordan
(Hor-dan) town across the Guimaras Straight for only P8.50! At the pier, we were the first to board the
jeepney as everyone was busy cheering the rowers of a boat race off
the wharf. Jeepneys are built like tanks
here. Their roofs have more iron
supports and braces than a banana leaf has ridges. They have to be.  They support entire barangays
on their topside and entire towns inside. 

 The P20 fare took us to the center of Jordan Town, to the
provincial capital district of San Miguel and to our destination of Nueva Valencia on surpsingly smooth asphalt roads. I
wouldn’t mind trying my cycling legs here once more if Ron Papag would lend me
his precious mountain bike. And the view
isn’t bad at all. Guimaras is still
green. Mango orchards straddle the road
and the route is punctuated by picturesque school campusess, reasearch centers and
monasteries. Too bad, mango harvesting has just passed.  We didn’t have a chance to see and sample the
world-famous, smooth-skinned and overly-sweet mangoes us ordinary Filipino only see on Japanese television. If we
had more time, we could have visited the many caves and falls large signs
point to every so often along the highway.

    It was Saturday, so the first and more famous resort we went
to was fully-booked. We inquired at the
resort next to it (which has the same beachfront) and got ourselves
the cottage perched highway up the hill jutting from the right border of the
beach. It was the highest-placed cottage
on the entire beachfront and I bet it had the best view of all.

    From our veranda, I could see every bather with my telephoto
lens. If I had an extra roll of film, I
would have taken as many pictures as I wanted but we were on a tight budget so I
was just clicking in my mind and pressed the shutter button only when I was
sure that the shot was good. In the only
private house along the beach, I saw a plump woman sound asleep on a chaise
lounge with her arms up and her nose firmly planted on her right armpit. What a way to relax—waves lapping at your
doorstep, the salty wind blowing from the sea, sleeping on a lounge while
sniffing at your armpit to ensure deep slumber.   

    Alubijod Beach
does not have the immaculate fine sands of Boracay but is still a sight to
behold. It has light-colored sand tinged with red that brochures
describe as “pinkish”. It is beautiful.   Plus. it is nowhere near as crowded nor as
polluted as coliform-laced Boracay. We swam, island-hopped and snorkelled to our
hearts’ delight. And the food was great,
too. Cheap, fresh and delicious–just the way I want them.

    The more memorable portions of our vacation can be read in
my wife’s blog. (See Pom’s “Queen
Fisher.” Try finding her in my list of friends.) This article is already too long for so short
a vacation.