ODE TO HOME (II)

Jet and Jobert have quite a few things in common: they are both great closet poets, their names start with J and end in T, and they enlighten me on sayings like 'You Can Never Go Home Again'. Alas, while I was believing that the change was happening to 'You' - the subject - who can never go home again, they claimed the changes were actually happening to the 'Home' - the object - where you can never go to again.

That said, my home country must have really changed, a hundred years after I left it. Which brings me to the object of this post: to narrate some of my experiences about great spots, great food, great attractions in the Philippines, for who knows how much of them may have been partly or fully changed, altered, or obliterated. This, then, is my ode.

- I was on my way to Legazpi City for the first time and seeing Mayon Volcano was more important than the conference I was dispensed to attend. I was roused from sleep at about 4:00 in the morning and as I looked out the window of the bus, I saw a silhouette of a mountain. 'O, my God, Mayon Volcano!', I said to myself, unintentionally waking up the old lady seated next to me who was appalled by my ignorance and did not appreciate the disturbance. 'Go back to sleep, you fool,' she murmured. 'We are only in Camarines Norte!'

- The first time I saw the 'real' Mayon Volcano, it was covered by clouds. And when I finally set sight to the fullness of its perfection, I choked. It was so beautiful and its beauty was imposing; it must be the height which I did not imagine to be extreme. And while it was viewable from every vantage point in any open space, the best spot to see it in all its majesty was right there at the front doorstep of the City Hall, with nary a shade of visual distraction.

- About 2 miles from the junction in Tagaytay City was a native restaurant called Buhi. They served the best dish known to me of the tastiest freshwater fish I hoped was known to everyone, tawilis, caught from Taal Lake. Topped by a mountain of chopped tomatoes, onions, and ginger, wrapped in banana leaves and then steamed for some minutes, no fish dish could be as immaculately delicious.

- One time I braved to drive down to Talisay, Batangas using the dirt trail that started from the junction. It was worth the worn-out tires and the trip was unforgettable: wildlife in Tagaytay City must have been a well kept secret; I saw wild ferns and vines, there were falls and I wondered what body of water they came from, and I was surprised by a couple of wild roosters with tails that were yard-long. As soon as I reached the bottom, the experience was altogether different. We viewed Tagaytay City up above, and Taal Volcano was right there, almost within reach.

- The best 'overlooking view' in Tagaytay City was the one close to the Nasugbu border; the views were actually great on both sides, left and right.

- In Nasugbu, Batangas, there was a hidden cove in a remote place called Barrio Papaya. The sea water was not very salty, and it was teeming with squids. The mountains surrounding the secret beach were heavy with mango trees.

- My friends J and E and myself went to a beach in Currimao, in the Ilocos Region, to check out this little natural pool by the seashore. E dove without warning and came back to the surface, screaming. He stepped on sea urchins and hundreds of spines were imbedded in his foot. J and I helped ourselves on E's foot, we were feeling sadistic really, as we used nailclippers to remove the nasty spines. Each snap, each clip, elicited a moan from E who must have been feeling worse than during the urchin accident. We brought him to the Provincial Hospital, with his foot all black and blue, and the doctor said, 'All you have to do is pee on that foot'. E looked at us and yelled a lungful of f--- y-- while looking at an ugly and horribly abstracted body part that was then his foot.

- Cebu City was very pretty, and comparable to Makati in terms of chic hustle and bustle. But it had what Manilenos didn't: a huge Taoist temple by the edge of the mountain. And about an hour drive west was the City of Toledo, a place which I thought had a stronger Cebuano tradition.

- I had been to a lot of beautiful churches in the Philippines: Barasoain, Lipa Cathedral, Cebu Cathedral, those in Central Luzon and the Ilocos Region, but the most beautiful I've seen was the one in Taal, Batangas. The concrete structure was elevated, looking upon the entire town as father to his children, and the internal architecture was a wonder in itself. Around the hollowed contour of the dome were balustrades, constructed as if some angels were to glimpse from time to time, holding on to them while offering a chorus of songs to the awed congregation. Back outside, the plaza across the cathedral was brimming with people, mostly young, on Sunday afternoons, and the Church, the plaza, and the people remind me so much of Nicaragua, a country sharing the same faith, the same festive attitude, the same routine by its young people who find the Church grounds as the best place for courtships and intimate correspondences.

- Taal, Batangas, by the way, had a barrio which name was very well its own: Baranggay Balisong.

- And speaking of balisongs(fan knives), the smallest I owned was bought in Baguio City, 2 inches long from the tip of the blade to the bottom of the casing, an inch long whenever snapped closed, and it was in perfect condition that never failed to draw out a plea from anyone who saw it the first time: 'Can I just have that, please?'

- And then speaking of Baguio City, I was told to speak Ilocano whenever I go to the public market since the vendors charge tourists double, mind you! The magic phrase was supposedly 'Mano detoy?' for 'How much is this?' but when I went to this vendor, I could not hide my hip method of communicating. 'Mano todits, manang?', I asked, and the vendor quoted the price. I paid. I later found out she charged me double.

- I crossed the then longest bridge in Luzon, the Gilbert Bridge in Laoag City, which was so high whilst the river below was simply sand, dried to the bone. Then I heard that Gilbert Bridge was moved to Solsona. And did you know that the Philippines had a desert? The Sand Dunes in Laoag, setting for Nora Aunor's Himala, seemed like a cut out of the Sahara, except that when you walked a short distance you will find sea, the South China Sea. Laoag City also had another spectacle, the Raquiza mansion, and going towards it while riding a horse-drawn carriage (calesa) brought me vivid images from an unknown past.

- The best Papait I had was in this quaint restaurant along the highway leading to Cabanatuan City in Nueva Ecija. The tang was just right and the price was even righter. They also sold uncooked balut, by the dozen, and the embryo was cutesy small. I also discovered the best way to go to Cabanatuan from Manila was the scenic way, via San Miguel Bulacan through Arayat, Pampanga.

- I attended a fraternity initiation in Tanza, Cavite, and the most unparalleled experience was when we went to this fish terminal to buy fresh fish. They were doing silent auctions right there, right then, with the fish vendors and their customers buzzing around each other's ears like excited bumblebees, reaching up at a price acceptable to both and the vendors' nods have the same mercantile efficacy as an auctioneer's voice and gavel: SOLD. We cooked our fish, bisugo, and found heaven in paksiw , where the accent was in the strong taste of the sea.

- The Philippines had its own Montana, its own Big Sky, and it was Baras, Rizal, such beauty! The people were also very unassuming, like the place itself, absolutely natural and unpretentious. Binangonan, in the same province, had their own cable cars though unfortunately not for people but for articles, cement, I believe, which was the town's main income generator. There were other beautiful places in this historic province, like Montalban, which had a great mountain stream, clearer and probably cleaner than any bottled water.

- Laguna was my favorite province. But while I have bathed in the warm springs of Pansol, hiked the trails of Makiling in Los Banos, seen the inner sanctum of the national hero's ancestral home in Calamba, looked at old houses in old Santa Cruz, and driven around San Pedro and San Pablo, I have not been fortunate enough to shoot the rapids in proud Pagsanjan or smelled the fresh air of humble Majayjay.

- In Puerto Princesa, Palawan, there was a crocodile farm known as Irawan, a joint Japan-Philippines project. I was inside having fun, running from one group of crocs to the other, when I called out to my companions, 'Hey guys, come over here, the Congress is in session here', pointing to them some fierce-looking buwayas who seemed to be in some kind of an animal meeting. After I said it, the security guard looked at me with eyes as fierce as the crocodiles'. Then it hit me. The Speaker of Congress that time was Monching Mitra, an icon in Puerto Princesa. And in the city's wet market, I swear I saw oysters laid on concrete tables - they were as huge as family-sized pizza pies.

Ahhhh, Philippines, don't you dare change and be famous for pizza pies!

IN MEMORIAM

Certain sorrows, like certain cycles, can't be explained. Sometimes, the only way to deal with life's (and death's) mysteries is to suffer in silence and hope for the pain to dissipate and morph into a sacred and perpetual remembrance. When the thought, and throes, of death and loss are so deep, words need not be said. Alejo Carpentier wrote that we are succumbing to a surfeit of words even when the only promised land is that which a man can find within himself.

Wherefore, let my promised land be your peace, on your journey beyond, as we continue to grieve, more so for ourselves. And while all regrets are late, there is no reason to keep it: I'm sorry I failed to experience, first hand, the full essence of your virtues; somehow I pray for a tinge of your purity to dwell upon us...

Bye, Jonwee, we'll miss you.

AN ODE TO HOME (Part I)

If I remembered it right, it was the popular humorist/travel writer Bill Bryson who mentioned that one of the surest things in life is this: You can never go home again. I never found out the person who authored this line or what she really meant by it but as I thought about it deeply, I figured there must be as many meanings to it as there are searchers for its meaning. And I, despite my limited ability to find meanings, have developed my own.

Once somebody leaves home, she becomes different. Ask any expat of the most significant thing they gained while being away from home (positively or otherwise) and they'll most probably tell you this: a different attitude, a different vision, a different personality, a different soul - or in all, a different person. Wherefore, that somebody can never go home again as the same somebody who left it.

My home is the Philippines. Where I live now is my adopted home (grander than saying "I am adopted by the country I am living in now", aside from being more accurate. The latter quote, I can never really be sure of). This adopted home is an ocean away from home and the distance alone assures me that I can never go home again within the context of my developed meaning. The place I live in does not even have many Filipinos, and carrying Filipino culture even as a sub is an act of a balancing nature.

One time I was in this department store, trying a pair of pants in the fitting room. From the cubicle next to mine came this dialogue, in Filipino:

Husband (must be): Mommy, dito ka lang, susukatin ko muna itong shirt. (Mommy, just stay here, I'll try this shirt first.)

Wife (gotta be): Pero daddy taeng-tae na ako. (But daddy I gotta go.)

Of course the couple did not even realize for one sec that somebody in the department store, let alone in that isolated fitting room, could speak their language. Being me, I made sure they will have to realize it from then on:

cbs: ambaho, sino kaya umetats? (hmmm, the air smells so fresh, woweee!)

The moral of the story? I don't know.

And so I really miss home, having been gone for a hundred years or so. Of course we have Oriental stores to instantly gratify our Oriental tastebuds, but Sinead O' Connor will tell you. Nothing Compares. I visited the produce section this afternoon and still could not believe there were no kangkongs (the Department of Agri cracked the whip!); the squid were as white as snow (the people here think ink is only for writing); the shrimps have no heads (before I left home, the last thing I could have imagined was that this country is teeming with shrimp head-hunters); and the daing na bangus (vinegar-soaked milkfish) have sore eyes and carry a million grams of sodium per horrible serving (the exporters tried to protect the perishable merchandise by exterminating the consumer in a series which CSI may call "Murder by Salt"). Wherefore, we have to make do with what's fresh, what's available: produce from Costa Rica and Guatemala, fish from Ecuador, nuts from Brazil (and I don't mean Brazilian peoples).

Gosh, I miss home!

THE MEMORY OF TREES

I barely listen to Enya - or to New Age music for that matter - but somehow I recalled this cd when life prof put my awareness to the inquest: Do trees have rights? I responded then, as I say now, yes they do, ma'am, yes they do.

We learned about trees and we learned about trees. We, the trees and us humans, breathe each others' wastes, we were told, carbon dioxide and oxygen, respectively, and this symbiotic relationship should presuppose a symbiotic responsibility: we have as much duty to respect the trees' right to live as they have the power to protect us from the ravages of the flood. Enya herself must have put the concept in synthesis - not just thru the harmony of vocals and synthesizer - but within the phrase itself: the memory of trees. It could be a cognizance of trees' higher degree of being, as possessors of intelligence, retainers of memory; or a cognizance of our deeper responsibility to them, the trees, as specific things remembered.

There is another thing I remembered (which almost prompted me to entitle this post: one-two-tree, an epic entry, but I realized I cannot make a tribute to corn, not being a tree!) and it is what I have heard not a few times: that there are 3 things in this world which every man should do in a lifetime, namely, 1) to sire a child; 2) to write a book; and, 3) to plant a tree.

I have developed a good argument against the first but life prof's testimony to me was of a higher worth, of a deeper meaning: You don't need to have a child who came from you to become a good father; you can be the father of a child not yours, and you can be the father of a cause. It is how you raise them and stand up for them that you will be judged in the gates of heaven.

The second thing is a good thing, a noble thing, but of course this is on the assumption that you will write a good book, a noble book. Besides, if every person were to write a book, imagine the volume of paper we have to use, the number of trees we have to cut down in the process - and this brings us to the third, which has got to be number one.

EVERYONE SHOULD PLANT A TREE IN HIS/HER LIFETIME.

I did plant a gardenia tree once but was not sure if it survived. It could be a tall tree by now if it did, already showering people with fragrance from its flowers, providing them with shade from its canopy. But when it comes to trees, my strongest memory is not just in the matter of planting them, or simply in knowing and recognizing them (yes, I can distinguish birch from aspen, narra from yakal, elm from sycamore) but in climbing them. I am a great tree climber and climbing trees was a passion acquired from the solitariness of my childhood -where trees were my refuge, my second sanctuary. It was, therefore, a moment of literary triumph (from my reader's perspective) when the great Alejo Carpentier, in Explosion In A Cathedral, wrote about a character's experience in climbing a tree years passed from his childhood, in the midst of a global revolution and while a significant chapter in world history was unfolding before his eyes.

My words will never compare with Carpentier's so I'll take the liberty to quote him, and I do this for none other than the memory of trees:

'Climbing a tree is an intimate experience which can perhaps never be conveyed. A man who embraces the tall breasts of a tree-trunk is realising a sort of nuptial act, deflowering a secret world, never before seen by man. His glance suddenly takes in all the beauties and imperfections of the Tree. He discovers the two tender branches, which part like a woman's thighs and conceal at their juncture a handful of green moss; he discovers the circular wounds left behind by the fall of withered shoots; he discovers the splendid ogives of the crown, as well as the strange bifurcations where all the sap has flowed into a favoured branch leaving the other a wretched sarment, ripe for the flames. As he climbed to his vantage point, Esteban understood the secret relationship so often established between the Mast, the Plough, the Tree and the Cross. He remembered a text from Saint Hippoolytus: "This wood belongs to me. I nourish myself on it, I sustain myself with it; I dwell in its roots, I rest in its branches; I give myself up to its breathing as I give myself up to the wind. Here is my strait gate, here is my narrow path; a Jacob's Ladder, at whose summit is the Lord" '

FROM JEPROX TO JOLOGS:
AN EQUITABLE EXAMINATION OF THE
EVOLUTION OF MY ROCK N' ROLL

"I wanna rock n' roll all night..."
KISS

And so did I. So did I. But that was a long, long time ago, starting from the days of the big hair and the bell-bottoms, ending in the days of the big hair and the bell-bottoms, a complete cycle, a full generation of fashion, a complete revolution of evolution. Those were the props, the complements, to the real issue of the post: rock n'roll.

There are two things I possess that are direct legacies from people around me: my love for books and my love for music. The latter bears telling.

When I was a kiddo, I was surrounded by a group of men probably 10 to 15 years my senior, the barometers of society, the dictators of fashion and the imperialists of music. They were kings of the streets and I was their protege, their prince. Together, the boombox was our scepter and the tapes were our crowns. If I recalled them thoroughly and analyzed the good things they contributed to society, I would probably be hardpressed to find one, but if I looked at myself closely and searched their one contribution to my being, there will be no second guessing - they were responsible for rockin' my mind n' rollin' my heart, and providing me with the foundation to cherish music as a melody from above. They were the evangelists of our place and it was their philosophy that musical salvation is at hand through a gradual osmosis of rock n' roll.

Bing, a real case of bling-bling, gave me a vintage Pink Floyd album called Meddle and asked me to listen attentively to its few songs while looking at the album cover and challenged me to state the concept of the songs and the object of the album cover. It took me a few hours to learn the songs. It took me more than that to find out that the picture on the cover was a close up of a human ear.

I had Peter Frampton's first album, Frampton's Camel, long before I read the classic novel Bridge of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder, and I was indebted to Nyol for lending me the former more than I was to my high school teacher who asked me to read the latter.

Noli introduced me to the biggest icon of Philippine rock music scene: The Jingle Magazine, and made me come into intellectual contact with my biggest heroes of the time, the writers Eric Gamalinda and Juaniyo Arcellana. I was wet between the ears, beyond Aldous Huxley's A Brave New World, but knowing by heart Arcellana's record review of John Lennon's solo album, I knew I was okay with the world. (I have a great memory, so let me try this one. In that review, Arcellana talked not only about Lennon's song Woman, he also made a little parody while listening to the record: he was enjoying his corned beef with lots of onions.)

Then came punk rock and a little reggae and I was still on the scene, my scene with guys Bling-Bling et. al. Nina and her Red Balloons made me pop and fly, the Police was truly arresting, Devo was great, divah?. Classical rock made a classical entry: Kansas' Dust In The Wind was whoozzing the wind like dust, that violin solo, shit; Styx was so uh-okay, you felt like going to music war with only sticks and stones; Steely Dan's Haitian Divorce was the greatest thing after Ricki Don't Lose That Number, oh man I love that song! And from Otom, avant-garde himself, who taught me to adore avant-garde music by way of Emerson Lake and Palmer's great album Pictures From An Exhibition. And finally, hoy Fredue, long before your Moby and his electronica, there was this French genius Jean Michael Jarre and his jazz electronica, this acquaintance through the benevolence of the great Nyol, not so great really because he pronounced the Frenchman's name sans Francaise, Dyan Mykel Dyare, dyahe!

And I could go on and on, so I'll stop here and say... Ahhh rock music, the decibels, the rhythms, the poundings, the hummings, in your face, in your ass, I will always have goose bumps whenever I hear Led Zep's Kashmir or R.E.M.'s Losing My Religion even if, despite my hallowed memories of good ole' Bling-Bling and Nyol and Otom and Nilo, I have graduated to a more serene sense of hearing and would rather spend the fireplace to the sound of Maurice Gendron's cello rendition of Camille Saint-Saens' The Swan from Carnival of the Animals.

After all, in these dispassionately uncertain times, classical music, through their passion and certainty and timelessness, discreetly became My Own Private Idaho.