Of Creatures Big and Small

Just the other night, I watched a TV show that featured the on-going “dog trading” in Cavite. These poor dogs were caught in the Southern Tagalog areas and sold for “asocena” meat in the North. I so pitied the poor dogs whose snouts were tied shut, front legs broken and tied back to prevent escape. My only consolation is that this illegal operation has been busted and the offenders will be prosecuted under the Animal Welfare Act. For all my work with marginalized sectors and special causes, animal rights is something I shall be adding to my agenda soon, although I already am a self-avowed animal lover.

My fascination with animals began early in my life. From the day my Dad gave me my first puppy named “Bracie,” there would be a succession of dogs and puppies that followed. Except for Ate Annette, who at some point kept a rabbit and two Guinea Pigs, plus that wayward turtle that Manong Butch’s fraternity brother left in our garden, no one else would surpass my penchant for keeping pets. Even Manong Snokum who kept three different sized aquaria for a time, never went beyond dogs and tropical fishes. But my affinity for creatures great or small transcended all theirs, and by the time I was in second year high school, I had my trusty Japanese Spitz, Julie, an aquarium of tropical fishes, some white mice, a couple of hamsters, and a few pigeons. So my weekends were busily spent bathing my dog Julie, washing and cleaning the different aquaria and cages. The only other concerns that took me away from my pets, besides school work, were my books and movies. So yes, I was kind of an introvert back then.

This menagerie would eventually be reduced as I left for college. But my Mom took over my aquarium and Julie while I was away. She said my pets made for great conversation pieces with her amigas. But as soon as I was back from University, my animal collection would include two cats which would keep away the giant rats from the creek that plagued us. Over time, an occasional white mice or rabbit would be given to me by friends or neighbors, but only dogs became “staple” pets at our home as I started work and entered law school. Even when I left home a couple of years later, I would always yearn for a pet to take care of. And that would be an additional qualification for my partner – that she would be an animal lover as well.

I actually have some interesting anecdotes about my childhood pets. Julie, my Japanese Spitz, actually “babysat” my white mice and hamsters when I cleaned their cages. I would leave my mice and hamsters running around on my bed, and if they were about to fall off, Julie would gently take them in her mouth and put them back in the middle of the bed. When I got back, they would all still be there, with Julie watching over them. Julie, was with us for a good ten years or so. Some of my high school and college friends would be familiar with her name. My whole family loved Julie, and it took a while before I had a dog like her again. And that would be my late Dachshund, Hannahgirl.

Singaporean Sojourn

2006 was an exceptionally difficult year for me, and I was only momentarily distracted from my pains by the occasional trips that came my way via international trainings. The first of these was in June through a legal pluralism conference in Indonesia. An old friend who worked in the field of alternative lawyering had regularly heard about it, but this was the first time that “gendered perspectives in law” was to be an actual panel. We both threw our hats in, sending abstracts in the area of sexual orientation law. When our acceptance letters arrived, they even came with a full scholarship. Our plane fare, accommodations and lodgings were to be fully sponsored and reimbursed!

I was both excited and afraid. It had been more than a decade since I last traveled outside the country – at least 15 years in fact. And there would be some plane transfers during a stopover in Singapore. Of course that shouldn’t be a problem since I could read and speak English, but I was really, really poor in navigation and in getting directions. Plus, I would be traveling all alone this time. My friend was also accepted to a special pre-conference training and would be leaving ahead of me. I was following him to Indonesia two days later.

My problems were slightly eased when the office allowed me to go “on official time” to this international conference. Hence, I got to have an official (red) passport and free travel tax at the airport. But I had to get tips from my stewardess sister about other airport decorum – immigration requirements, terminal fees and check-in procedures especially for baggage. The tedious security checks and other pre-departure rituals seemed simple enough until I got into my seat on the plane. On the flight, all I had to deal with was airline food and the claustrophobia-inducing toilet.

The minute we landed in Singapore, I knew I was on another planet. It was too clean and orderly. And the airport was HUGE! Changi airport was really one of those terminals where you can actually set up residence. Besides the many restaurants, shops, lounging areas with cable TV and movies, there were massage chairs for weary travelers, free internet service for the extremely busy and even a gym with a shower room for those with enough time to kill. All this I learned from the map I got from the information booths. I mean, I am just in the airport and I already need a map? I haven’t even been outside the terminal to see the rest of Singapore!

While I was thoroughly amused by the different indoor gardens they had set up for a little “natural and outdoorsy” atmosphere (there was a cactus, orchid, and fern garden), I began to realize that such a big space would also mean longer walks to farther departure areas. Of course, they already made this easier by providing “walka-lators” (the horizontal equivalent of escalators) for passengers en route to their departure gates. I had seen, and used, one these before in Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong and thought they were just for the elderly or the extremely lazy. But in Singapore’s Changi airport, one would be smart to take advantage of this contraption.

As if that wasn’t enough to awe me, I was instructed to ride the “train” for the other terminal where I was supposed to get my connecting flight. Take note, it wasn’t a bus or a shuttle, but a high-speed train on a real railway system connecting the two terminals. I walked, got on the “walka-lators”, tried both the stairs and elevators, before finally boarding the train which will take me to the other terminal.

Eventually, I managed to get on my flight for Jakarta. I was somehow comforted by the thought that on the way back, I would be traveling with my old friend, Gary, and meeting up with my Mom and stewardess sister in Singapore. Problem was, my Mom and sister had booked flights and accommodations already, while my friend and I only had our return tickets via Jakarta-Singapore-Manila with delayed flights. But we were assured there were many backpacker hostels and really cheap bed-and-breakfasts in Singapore.

Three days of the conference passed like a blur to me. From Jakarta international airport, we were whisked by our student guides to Depok, an area just outside the capital. We were cooped up at the University of Indonesia (UI) campus both for the conference and lodgings, so I didn’t really get to see much, although it did remind me a lot about my own alma mater, the University of the Philippines in Los Banos. And except for a quick pasalubong shopping spree in one of Jakarta’s biggest malls, that was as much of Indonesian culture that I was able to soak up at the time.

Meanwhile, my stewardess sister, Giselle was already preparing to visit Sentosa Island. Unbeknownst to us, my Mom had her own contacts in Singapore and was also making plans to see them. Besides shopping, our mother had a mind to visit some friends from our parish.

Gary and I arrived in Singapore late in the evening and discovered the free airport shuttle only drops off travelers near the big hotels like Raffles. Since we also didn’t realize it was the Singapore Holiday Shopping Spree week, the really cheap places were all fully-booked. Fortunately, the lady at the airport information desk was really helpful and found us reasonable lodgings for our limited budget. Interestingly, it was in the red light district.

So the adventurous spirit in Gary and me kicked in; we believed it won’t be so bad. It would mean the area would be still alive and kicking even in the late night. And given its 24-hour nature, surely there would be some really cheap eating establishments as well.

True enough, the streets were still littered with people when we arrived past midnight. At the reception, we saw couples coming and going, alighting and boarding the elevators to the privacy of their rooms. Once, a pair of Asian-looking girls came in, looked at us and started talking in Tagalog. “Sige na, kunin mo na yung isa o…”, the older one said, gesturing at poor old Gary. It was then we realized the truth behind the rumors about domestics in Singapore moonlighting in the skin trade on their days-off. I was both saddened and shamed by the hard realities of daily life of fellow Filipinos abroad.

The next day, we rode the famous inner-city trains and got a view of the rest of Singapore. We met up with my family at their swanky hotel beside a nice park. Even with the clear use of infrastructure and industry by the Singaporean government, they were equally deliberate about keeping some “green space”. Besides the parks and gardens intentionally inserted within housing and business areas, street pavements were lined with trees and shrubs to maintain that “environmental” look.

I realized that for such order and cleanliness to have been possible, the Singaporeans would have to be so “disciplined” as a people. That wouldn’t be so difficult in a country where autocracy and dictatorship was a by-word for many years. They can even attribute their apparent economic success to that kind of leadership as well.

There were at least three things we needed to see in Singapore – the aquarium, the zoo and the botanical garden. We took a cab for Sentosa and rode the free tour bus around the island. First stop was the famed Underwater World which rivaled Hong Kong’s own Ocean Park aquaria. But while Ocean Park had ceiling to floor glass windows to view the various sea creatures (at least that was what I saw in 1990), Singapore’s Underwater World actually features a long glass tube where tourists are moved by a walkalator to view various fishes and sea mammals swimming above and around. Their collection of water animals was also quite extensive, including sea horses, jellyfishes, squids, cuttlefish and other crustaceans. My Giselle, who used to dream about becoming a marine biologist, absolutely loved it and was in complete awe. Last time I saw her get so excited was when we went to Bais City, Negros Oriental in 2005 and she saw live dolphins. My Mom, on the other hand, was quite fixated on the deep-sea, spider-like Giant Crab. As she stared lustily after it, I knew other things were on her mind since crabs were her favorite seafood after all.

The nearest attraction after the aquarium was Fort Siloso. Much like our Corregidor Island, Singapore’s Sentosa Island played quite a role during the Second World War. At Fort Siloso are remnants of the old encampment, it’s guns and cannons, and look-out towers. Inside are various photos of World War II as it happened in the Asian region - the battling Japanese and American soldiers, the European and Asian civilians caught in the crossfire and imprisoned in the underground tunnels, the ships and aircraft carriers that dominated these waters. There is even a life-size diorama of how the Japanese Navy surrendered to the joint Allied Command that retook Singapore and other Pacific islands. Although it was quite interesting to know about such historical facts, it was too much like our own Corregidor for anything else to impress us.

Somewhere along the way, we got that token visit and photo session with the Merlion and the Carlsberg Tower before Mama started acting up because she was already getting tired. She insisted we take a taxi back to the city proper instead of the cable car or the shuttle bus. Fortunately, Giselle and I were still in high spirits and we managed to visit the Botanical Gardens. Being graduates of UP Los Banos, we greatly appreciated the “nature trek” through the gardens which had a great display of orchids and other ornamental plants, as well as the herb and spice gardens which featured “basic” ginger, garlic, and onions, as well as basil, oregano, sage, tarragon, rosemary and thyme. The Botanical Gardens covered a great area and except for a few photos and a walk by the lagoon, we had to rush off to see Singapore’s famed zoo. Since it was along way off, we got there pretty late and missed the last tour.

By some happy coincidence, however, we were right on time for the Night Safari. Much like our own Subic (Zoobic) Safari, there was a ride that allowed you to get close enough to the animals, provided one did not get off the vehicle. The Night Safari of course featured most nocturnal animals, and once more Giselle got so excited. There were some big cats and predatory birds, like that panther which flashed its eyes at us as we passed by, and that big owl swooping down on a small rodent that will serve as its meal. Meanwhile, we also caught some animals during their feeding time and watched them drink from their waterholes.

By the time we finished, we weren’t very interested in the cultural show that followed and simply wanted to go back to our hotels to rest. Giselle finally caught up with Mama at their hotel after dinner, since Mama had finished visiting her own parish friends. On the train, I was already falling asleep on my feet, so Gary left me at our humble accommodations to do some “Singapore nightlife” by himself. I spared myself that since we had an early flight back for Manila the next day.

Indeed it was a hurried, and harried, tour of Singapore after all. But it had served its purpose well – some international traveling and quality time with my Mom and sister. And for a moment, I was taken away from the realities of my troubles. It was a “sojourn” in every sense of the word.

Quezon City's "Hidden" Treasures

Lately, I’ve rediscovered my penchant for the outdoors. First, it was just because of my need for exercise and the close proximity of the La Mesa Ecopark to where I now live. The clean air had been good for my lungs and I haven’t been having asthma attacks in quiet a while. All the greenery also reminded me of the University of the Philippines campuses where I studied – both in Los Banos and Diliman, where I used to enjoy long walks whether alone or with company.

Except for those college years in UPLB, I have lived in Quezon City for most of my life. It’s only now that I realized how fortunate I was to be living in Quezon City. Besides being good for exercise, QC parks can also be cheap alternatives for other recreational activities, especially these days when “hanging out at the mall” can be very expensive. Movie theater admission fees are now worth five times what they used to cost, mere “window-shopping” eventually makes you buy something anyway, and to get seats to rest your feet, you need to eat something at a restaurant or even just the food court. For simple economic considerations, “free” entertainment seems the better option.

In UP, you can jog, walk your dog, or cycle around the Sunken Garden or track and field oval provided you bring your own equipment. There are also a lot of spaces for some amateur badminton, Frisbee throwing or other ball games in the area behind the Oblation and the Lagoon. At the QC Circle, there are bikes for rent – for adults or kids, singles or with a sidecar provision for passengers. There used to be a roller skating rink too, a few decades ago. Nowadays, teenagers still bring along their in-line skates, skateboards and wave boards there but are no longer restricted to certain areas.

For residents of nearby Kamias, UP and Teacher’s Village, QC Circle boasts of the daily “free” aerobics sessions at its center area near the Quezon Memorial itself. I even heard the latest fitness program includes the “sponsored” ballroom dancing sessions for senior citizens at the different pavilions. Owing to Charito Planas’ initiatives and the QC local government’s support, QC Circle’s “attractions” have also expanded to tiangges, garden shows and various restaurants. Of course, the open areas are perfect for family picnics. Kids can run around and play, while adults can just sit or lie around in the grass. This many UP alumni still do with their families at the Diliman campus, although in QC Circle, there are even modern and safe playgrounds now.

If you are willing to pay a little extra for entrance fees, QC’s most recent development is the “Circle of Fun” amusement center. With the closure of Cubao’s famed “Fiesta Carnival” a few years ago, today’s QC kids have this alternative for their childhood memories. Opened just a few months ago, Circle of Fun has the same reasonably-priced rides and “fun houses” Fiesta Carnival used to boast about. However, the caterpillar rides of my youth have since given way to faster and “cooler” roller coaster rides which can turn upside-down, the spinning cup-and-saucer ride is now more of a complex “octopus” ride, while the “swinging” Ship-Ahoy or Crazy Galleon ride just became bigger and even “crazier”.

Meanwhile, also at the Elliptical Road is the Ninoy Aquino Parks and Wildlife, located between North Avenue and East Avenue, where it has two entrances. The black sun bear of my childhood named “Bruno” is no longer there; neither are the live pawikans or large sea turtles at the center building and the “monkey-eating” eagles (now known as the Philippine eagle) housed at the giant aviary. Renamed “Ninoy Aquino” Parks and Wildlife in the late 80s, it is now home to rescued exotic animals under the care of the DENR’s protected wildlife bureau. Some are neglected “pets” while some are endangered species being smuggled by opportunistic traders.

Besides various sea eagles, parakeets, owls or kuwagos, there are migrating “swamp” birds like herons, storks and egrets called “tiklings”. There are also snakes in various shapes and sizes, and our unique salt-water and fresh-water crocodiles. Occasionally, there are mammals like our local monkeys, deers, and wild boars. Recently, there was a local relative of the squirrel and the civet cat, also a musang and an alamid. And like the La Mesa Ecopark, our indigenous plants and trees there are named and marked, such that walking around is like a biology class, only more fun. They have also expanded the man-made lake, complete with cement benches and a viewing “dock”. It’s now more of a lagoon, but I hear fishing is allowed there.

On the other hand, La Mesa Ecopark is still by far the largest park in QC and the most “modern” in its attractions. It’s main objective is not just preserving the site as a watershed and natural reserve, but also to generate environmental awareness and responsibility among Filipinos, especially Metro Manila residents. It’s main hall or reception area is an Ecocenter where organic products are sold and waste management lectures are given. Just in front of it, beside the Super Ferry-sponsored boating area, is a vermiculture farm and herb garden. Further down, which is actually the entrance to the Ecopark proper, are indigenous trees like narra, acacia, and apitong which usually populating watershed areas for their big roots and expansive foliage. There are also the common fruit-bearing trees like pomelo or suha, coconut, mango and santol trees, interspersed with sturdy mahogany and the colorful “fire tree”. “Bottom-growers” like ferns and grasses also abound, but here each flora and fauna has a purpose, even the birds, bees and butterflies.

What makes the Ecopark more exciting is the additional features it has. Entrepreneurs have been allowed to sponsor the paintball, zipline and wall-climbing activities which private companies utilize as part of their Team-building. Meanwhile, below the long staircase-viewing deck of the dam itself is a fishing area. The old pool is now for pre-arranged functions only, but two new pools are located at the Aquacenter. One is designed to appear like an infinity pool, where its “trimmed” gutters make it safer for kids along with its “invisible” barriers beneath the water line. The other pool is designed for swimming laps and is arranged in lanes, so here is where most of the adults swim. There is also some horseback-riding now along the old fitness trail near the orchidarium, and an ampitheater has been built for other open air events. Of course, the old pavilions are still being rented out for private functions, while there are now some blind masseurs at a tent near the Rent-a-Bike and food stalls area. Although some families still bring their own food for picnics, there are available food items sold at the handful of kiosks dotting the Ecopark proper, including an organic and health food outlet.

For me, besides the regular exercise, I have taken the opportunity to practice some amateur photography as well. I’ve always been partial to taking “nature” photos, and after some striking views of the trees and waterways, animals have proven to be quite interesting subjects too.

So indulge me, as I mix together a few things that presently make my life more bearable - nature-tripping, writing and basic photography.

The Magic of Bali

Almost everyone dreams of going to Bali, that exotic Indonesian island just off East Java. The promise of sun, sea, and surf is the reason most Caucasian tourists are drawn to it. And indeed, for all its worth, IT IS a vacation spot to die for. During the day, one can swim, shop and go sight-seeing. And in the evenings, one can drink, dance, and party all the night long. By some ironic twist of fate, I was lucky enough to visit the place at a time when I was in dire need of some personal healing.

During my Applied Study Program in 2006, an invitation to attend Bali’s annual Queer Film Festival was extended to our Surabaya hosts by the local LGBT organizers. But the short trip was by no means a “pleasure trip”; it was business-as-usual for us interns-trainees. Our three-day visit would be jam-packed with activities - film showings including an exclusive “private” screening of a documentary, visits to local gay groups working on HIV/AIDS advocacy, and some mentoring sessions from Dede Oetomo of Gaya Nusantara.

Besides, being the only female and lesbian in our group, I was really getting fed up with all the testosterone from hanging out with straight and gay men all the time. Thus, I specifically requested our lesbian host in Bali to introduce me to a nice, English-speaking lesbian who could show me around the island’s LGBT hotspots to help me with my project study. True to Indonesian-style “hospitality”, she succeeded in hooking me up with a young lesbian based in Bali. I didn’t realize then that she would play such a vital role in my memories of Bali.

While we had other companions from Surabaya, they were taking the cheaper, more tedious land-trip with ferry transfers, much like our local RORO (“roll-on, roll-off”) system. At the time, a weird phenomenon was occurring somewhere in the outskirts of Surabaya. A local oil company building its pipeline had punctured some natural underground tunnel, and made hot mud spew out. The hole continued to emit lava-like material even after several days already, and with no signs that it would ever stop, it has started to contaminate the nearby communities’ water supply and waterways. Travelers and motorists have been diverted to a different path since the lava flow had also affected a national highway. Our poor friends had to take a longer route that would take them almost a whole day’s travel.

So my group took a domestic Garuda flight instead, shortening our travel time to a maximum of an hour or two. Flying over the rest of Java, there was a great view of one of Indonesia’s active volcanoes. Just like Kawa Puti in Western Java, I was unimpressed only because I was Filipino and we had Taal and Mayon volcanoes to be so proud about. Nonetheless, the volcano appeared majestic from above, with small puffs of smoke billowing from its crater to join low-lying clouds.

Arriving in Bali, I wondered about its rather small airport for international tourists. It was like our ordinary domestic airports in the provinces. I thought our international airports in Cebu and Davao were much bigger and at par with modern standards. Then again, their local carriers were also tiny, dragonfly-like contraptions like we have in the Philippines for domestic, inter-island flights, so who am I to judge.

The hotels and beach resorts were off to the coastline still, so we had a bit of a drive to make before we could check into our rooms and refresh ourselves. We were informed in the van that since it is expensive to stay in Bali, we were to share our accommodations with our Gaya Nusantara partners-guides. But because of Indonesian religious and cultural practices, and I was the only female in the group, I was not obliged to share my cottage with anyone. What luck!

Upon checking in, we immediately headed for the famed white sand beaches of Bali. Kuta Beach is a known surfing area for its big waves. Soft, almost powdery, granules under my feet, wind in my hair, I watched the giant waves intermittently rise and rush the shores. For miles on end, the even coastline and coral-less waters stretched as far as my eyes could see. It would really take a while to walk or jog from point of the beach to the other. I didn’t dare try to swim in those crashing waves; instead, I got myself my first henna tattoo from a resident artist on the beach. Some ladies also offered body massages and a combination manicure-pedicure service right there on the beach, but we didn’t have much time anymore as dusk was slowly gathering around us.

Bali’s sunsets are also quite something to see. While sunsets are always ideal to see on the beach, there are just some places on this earth that provide the best views for a setting sun. Watching that orange orb transform the horizon from yellow to orange to hot pink, before falling into a gentle blue-gray and finally, black with wisps of white light, one can just stand there mesmerized, unaware of the passing of the minutes. There is such peace that falls upon everything, and you find yourself letting go of all the day’s troubles, knowing that tomorrow is another day, another opportunity.

After a bit of rest and a quick shower, we were suppose to grab dinner and head to the first screening. But my new lesbian-friend offered to pick me up at our beach resort and take me for dinner at a really famous restaurant.

The restaurant she took me to, Made's Warung, was quite popular with expats and tourists. Their menu offering was extensive and included Western choices. After eating fried tofu, assorted veggies and chicken for days on end, I yearned for something closer to Filipino cuisine. In fact, I desperately missed my pork diet. Asking me what I wanted to eat, I told her that I was dying for some grilled babi. She laughed and explained that Bali is culturally Hindu-dominated, so eating pork is allowed while touching beef is not. After almost three weeks of not having pig’s meat, I finally got my wish. But something about my order still reminded me that I was in Indonesia - the dish was still spicy hot! But this time, instead of creamy, chili-hot much like our Bicolano dishes, this sauce was swimming in chili-infested oil. It was all reminiscent of that spiced-up soy sauce used for wantons and siomais.

The food was still great of course; tasty and delicious. Really yummy, in fact! And the restaurant itself was quite impressive. The atmosphere alone is an ambience worth spending for. Candle-lit tables abound, but were always filled up too quickly. Huts like our bahay kubos were a more private option for dating couples, but this was not so fascinating to me anymore because it was commonplace in Filipino restos and beach resorts. The restaurant also had a fancy bookstore and souvenir shop to browse from while you wait for your dinner, or right after your dessert.

Meanwhile, the Queer Film Festival was being shown in the club strip. Heavy traffic always occurred in the area since the different bars were always filled to the brim with guests and customers. While most of these clubs appear “unisex” or for straights, there are some which are clearly “identified” to be for LGBTs. And while in the Philippines, we have “GROs” and “escorts” that front for our subtle skin trade, in Indonesian bars, bartenders and waiters/waitresses blatantly flirt with you to send a clear message. I would also learn that certain massage services in hotels also “dummy” for the sex industry. Around this time, except for known “bath houses”, I believe spas and massage centers in the Philippines have not yet been popularized enough to double as prostitution dens for LGBT customers.

After the film showing, we went our separate ways as the gay men and MTF transgenders went to the gay bars. I joined our lesbian host at an exclusive party which lasted until the wee hours of the morning. At 3AM, the bars and clubs remained brightly lighted and blaring with music at a distance, while the quiet and darkened beach cottages stood mute to the rhythmic roar of the ocean. Nothing could be more romantic than walking home under the moonlight, skies so clear that each and every star was visible. I slept, physically tired, but deeply comforted. I did not feel so alone or out-of-place anymore.

I woke up to an equally bright morning. The sun shining its warm rays on everything and the day soon became hot and humid. Fortunately, we were driving inland that day, towards the cooler, higher points of the island where we would have a private screening at a film director’s home. We were going to see her documentary entitled “The Last Bissu”, about the Indonesian counterpart of our Filipino babaylan, transgender religious leaders of the olden days which will soon be lost to the oblivion of ancient Indonesian traditions.

Although the drive only seemed like a Manila to Tagaytay travel, the place called Ubud is more like Baguio with its cramped, densely-populated environment and its reputation for being an artists’ haven. A market area had stalls set-up tiangge-style where an assortment of souvenirs were sold - from batik cloths to wayang puppets, to indigenous musical instruments and wooden house decors.

Meanwhile, from the film director’s home, we caught a view of the nearby villages which were still very much agriculture-based. A small community actually had a miniature rice terraces on the hills near a stream bordering their own homes. I guess the villagers knew about making the most of the rainwater before it causes a mudslide or flows into their water source, causing much siltation in their waterways.

On the way back, we took a late lunch at another popular tourist restaurant, Warung Murni. Besides trying out the local cuisine which was heavily-influenced by Indian recipes, we got to eat Balinese style – sitting on cushions and mats beside a low table about two to three inches from the floor inside a native bamboo hut. And I remembered stories my grandmother told me; about the old Ilocano tradition of eating meals before a very low dining table which now seemed to be borne out of our strong Indonesian ancestry.

After a brief shopping spree for souvenirs, we went to a large museum which housed paintings and sculptures of different Hindu gods like elephant-headed Ganesha and multi-armed Kali. A giant mural of the epic story “Ramayana” graced one huge wall. Interestingly, our mentor, Dede pointed out the sculpture by the pond as a depiction of an “intersex god”. The artwork clearly showed a figure with breasts on its chest, as well as obvious male genitalia.

That evening, before another round of film showings, we had a buffet dinner by the beach courtesy of our local LGBT hosts. Lighted by tiki torches all around, chairs and tables were set right on the beach. Food and drinks were in abundance – both Indonesian cuisine and Western choices, so I headed directly for the pork dishes. I ate the sate babi and babi guling quite heartily while watching the new films. After eating, I left early, joined by my new friend. I was totally enjoying the amenities of my beach cottage – the pool, the giant bathtub, the gigantic bed and efficient room service.

The next day, we were meeting up with at least two NGOs working on HIV/AIDS. The Indonesians are not so hypocritical about the skin trade even with their predominantly Muslim culture. They are also not quite so naïve when it came to safe sex practices and HIV/AIDS prevention. Tourist destinations like Bali are hotspots for the sex industry and the government and NGOs are not remiss in their duties about educating the public on STDs and HIV/AIDS. Both information and services are easily accessible, and condoms given out for free are a dime a dozen here.

Our last day in Bali was a “free day” for sight-seeing and shopping. There were some old ruins to see in Tanah Lot, best-buy souvenirs along Poppieslane, and that other fancy restaurant near Jimbaran beach with a breathtaking sunset. There were still so much to do, like bungie jumping and para-gliding, but with so little time left, we nixed those adventure activities.

Taking that last flight out that evening, I finally understood why I fell in love with Bali and the memories I took home with me will certainly last me a lifetime.



Bali Surf

what does it mean

when you miss more

than Bali's sun, sea and surf?

when all you remember

are the waves rushing to shore,

crashing unto the sand..

what does it mean

when a month's worth of memories

consist only of midnight walks

under a moonlit sky and

making love in the pale light of dawn..

you wonder why you miss

her warm breath on your skin,

her essence overwhelming your senses..

when you lost yourself to her scent, her taste..

why does it seem like you are the Ocean

to her Island Paradise,

waters ever urgent, insistent in reaching out

but pulled back each time

only to surge forth once more

why does it feel like

I may never ever leave Bali

or my memories of you..

Family Home

The Family Home

For twenty-five years or so, it was what I called “home” - the place where I grew up with my siblings, the place I returned to after college and dormitory life in UP Los Banos. It holds bittersweet memories of the past. And perhaps, as anyone talking about her ancestral house or hometown can get, I get a bit nostalgic writing about my childhood home. Maybe partly because of the controversy and family quarrels that were connected with the property that I rarely speak about it now. Still, many of my memories took place in that residence located at the dead end of a main road.

The Yard and Driveway

A good 400 square meters, it was a considerably large piece of real estate. There was an open frontage and a covered garage which could accommodate several cars of guests and relatives whenever we have a party. Remnants of an old basketball goal still hung on one fence-wall, reminiscent of a time when my uncles and cousins would even play basketball in the front lawn. Later on, in the early eighties, the yard became quite a storage area for my architect brother’s Vigan tiles business.

Given the large space, my Mom even had the luxury of a small garden once - complete with Bermuda grass, a few ornamentals like daisies, santan and sampaguita plants plus a small pine tree. But it was difficult to have decent landscaping though, with dogs and children always running around. There was a time when kalamansi and tomato plants were also cultivated in the garden. But these suffered the same fate as the flowers, since we kids always ended up picking at the fruits long before they were ever ripe enough.

I was told that in the late 60s, when my parents and older siblings first moved in, the front was merely dirt so that everytime it rained hard and it would flood, it got pretty muddy. Having too much dirt around also made it too dusty in the summer and was hell for our pet dogs whose ticks and fleas seemed to thrive in the dirt. After my Mom’s initial fascination with gardening, my Dad had the area cemented and it was by far the best decision they made. Besides making for better parking, my cousins and I could now ride our bikes, rollerskates and skateboards on the extended driveway. We got to play badminton, dodgeball and volleyball because the frontage was big enough to serve as a mini-court. Occasionally, we played piko, agawan-base, patintero (or its variation “running-on-the-line”) along the segmented lines which were actually mini-canals for rainwater run-offs. And no, taguan was not played much because the wide, open playing ground did not have proper hiding places for us except when there were parked cars.

The Main House

We actually lived in a “family compound” and my cousins and I grew up much like the Kennedys at Hyannis Port. My family and I lived in the main house at the front, while my other relatives occupied the three apartment doors and the expanded driver’s quarters at the rear. There were seven kids in my family and when an uncle moved out of one of the apartments, my two older brothers moved into it. My parents extended the house to get a bigger master’s bedroom with the adjoining room serving as a nursery for us three youngest kids. My two older sisters stayed in the other bedroom right above the living room, while the maids got the one with a dressing room opening to the upstairs bathroom. I believe this large room was originally intended as the master’s bedroom by my engineer uncle who designed the house. Since he and his wife only had one child, they probably never had a need for extensions of other rooms.

Another reason for the constant renovations was because my Dad really needed a workspace. He established an airconditioned law office beside our library cum study area. For a while, this served as a dress shop when my Mom had a small tailoring business. Eventually, that downstairs room had more use for our numerous books. Wall-to-wall bookshelves contained my father’s law books and legal journals, four sets of encyclopedia – two for general knowledge, one on basic science, and an actual medical encyclopedia. Schoolbooks ranging from high school biology, literature, and algebra to college textbooks on accounting, engineering, and nursing abound. There were also books on Gregg’s stenography, Spanish language books, and the Life and Works of Jose Rizal, as well as other Filipiniana materials. For leisure reading, there were classic hardbound books for the youth, “Little Women” by Louisa May Alcott, “Robinson Crusoe”, “Swiss Family Robinson”, several Nancy Drew and Bobsie Twins volumes, the original “Little Black Sambo”, an O’Henry short story collection, as well as an anthology on Greek Mythology. One summer, after my younger sister and I finished running through all the John and Mary, and Ramon and Nena elementary reading textbooks, I started flipping through the encyclopedia. That earned me advance study points when regular classes started since I was already familiar with world history, geography and English literature.

Since Dad’s office was the only room with an airconditioner, it was also the place they held mini-movie showings for the adults during parties. This was way before the era of Betamax or VHS. An uncle with an 8mm film projector would play scenes of Vivian Velez dancing seductively for a veteran politician from the North. How do I know this? It was because my cousins would carry me on their shoulders so that I could peep over the windows and tell them what the oldies were watching. Many a time were we caught and I was left dangling on the window sill as my cousins all scampered away, leaving me to my doom.

Meanwhile, the centerpiece of our living room area was the original German-made Weinstein piano where almost all of us kids “served time” at some point or another. Not even the boys were spared, since my brothers were also forced to take piano lessons in their younger years. However, it was somehow expected that the females would continue taking lessons and playing until way into their high school days. Like all kids, I detested these compulsory practice sessions and weekly lessons with grumpy piano teachers. Only later would I appreciate the advantage of knowing how to play at least one musical instrument in my lifetime.

Fishpond

Another feature of our home I fondly remember was our fishpond. It was quite special for having been both an outdoor and an indoor facet. It can be seen from our garage, but is part of our living room design as well. It had a connecting tunnel and pipes which my Dad would open so that the flowing waters would make for a miniature waterfall every time we had parties.

This was before kois and carps became the trend in pet-keeping, so my Mom kept some catfish in the pond instead. In my tender age, I considered these catfish as pets and even got mad at Manong Butch’s Beta Kappa frat brothers for puking into the pond when they got very drunk, thus killing all the poor catfish by alcoholic muck. I didn’t realize until later that my Mom would harvest her catfish once in a while whenever the family had a craving for grilled catfish.

That fishpond was the scene of many a childhood accident, too. Although its circumference was quite narrow, it was 3 ft. deep and quite dangerous for unattended toddlers. A few cousins actually fell in and got rescued a couple of times. My Dad came out of his office one day to discover Manong Vincent’s young feet waving in the air while half his body was under water. An aunt also had the misfortune of falling in herself after trying to save my younger cousin. Occasionally, a maid would somehow fall in as well - how or why is still a wonder to us even now.

My parents eventually decided the fishpond was too much of an attractive nuisance and had in filled in sometime in the late 70s. It then became a sandbox of sorts for us kids, where we can sit around in a circle and play with our miniature action figures, Matchbox cars or other beach paraphernalia. In the 80s, my Mom and our maids would fill up the pond with potted plants, including its cracks and crevices, and make it like a rock garden of sorts.

Parties

Suffice it to say that I greatly appreciated the extra space that we had whenever we had parties. I remember there were quite a lot in those days because my family loved entertaining guests. There would be the annual clan reunions with my Dad’s side, and with his 10 other siblings and their respective children, plus his cousins from my grandmother’s own siblings, our place was always filled to the brim. These occasions were opportunities to show off one’s culinary skills, and each family was required to bring a favored dish as potluck. Specialties would include molo soup, embotido, kare-kare, kilawin or kalderetang kambing, and pork barbeque. These family gatherings would start at lunch and finish after dinner. In between, there would be at least two mahjong tables set up, some drinking, and kids running about or playing.

My parents were also members of the Lions’ Club, and when both of them were officers, club meetings would also be regularly held at our house. A spillover from this social connection would be the fact that my older sisters became members of the “Leos”, along with the children of fellow Lions and Lionesses. Thus, Ate Annette and Ate Marie would get together at home with the Santillan sisters (Sonia, Alma, and Mercy) and the Cruz brothers (Dennis and Bobot). And with Manong Butch as president of his college fraternity, his frat brothers would also drop by on occasion. And this being the era of “martial law” and “the curfew”, not a few of them would crash at our place when caught at the late hour. I especially remember that one guy named Minel with a curly Afro and motorcycle.

These teenage parties would continue until Giselle and I were also in college, and our Upsilonian brods and Sigma Deltan sisses would be our regular guests. These friends would mostly be from the South, if not from Laguna itself, and quite a few overnight parties were held in our time.

The White Lady

I have to be honest with you – my childhood home also had a resident ghost. Even while the whole compound was still under construction, carpenters were said to have seen a white lady in the grounds. She was usually seen traversing our long driveway up to the gate. One time my grandfather who often lounged in his butaka at the rear of the compound, thought it was my Mom leaving the house in her nightgown and got mad thinking she left us young kids all alone in the house. But peering inside the main house through the screen door, he discovered my Mom quietly having dinner with us and our yayas.

Our security guard and drivers were also known to have sightings of a shadowy figure with long hair and a long, flowing dress. A young Manong Richie was playing with his toy cars one afternoon when he ran screaming about a lady that suddenly appeared in front of him. I, myself, would have an encounter of my own, when one early summer evening when I was riding my bicycle I saw a silhouette of a long-haired woman facing me as my bike moved towards her. I blinked several times as the wheels kept bringing me closer to the dark figure, seconds seemed like minutes, until she disappeared just as I screeched to a halt. I fell from my bike, left it there and ran for my sisters and cousin who were in the garage. They saw my stricken face and asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t speak until I reached the front door and shrieked that I had seen a ghost.

Was the White Lady ever seen inside? Well, yes; my aunt (the same one who fell into the fishpond) once saw a dark figure sitting on their bed as she made my infant cousin some milk. Members of my grandmother’s household reported seeing the tail-end of a white, billowy nightgown going up their stairs. Years later, a tenant who rented an apartment door after some relatives had moved out of the compound, saw a smoky figure of a lady move from their toilet and up their stairs.

Floods

Let me just say that the rainy season played quite a significant role in my childhood home. Besides located at a dead-end, our property ran the length of a small creek on the side and which over the years became increasingly populated by urban poor/informal settlers or what we then called “squatters”. Heavy rains and typhoons meant regular floods which plagued us for years. Ate Annette told me, they use to ride salbabidas or tire interiors which serve as lifesavers and play in the floods when they were kids. Of course, the waters then were just muddy and not as dirty with assorted garbage and human waste as they became during my time.

Those annual floods became a great equalizer between us and our not-so-well-off neighbors. As soon as the creek level rose from the water run-offs all the way from Marikina, we all scampered to save our worldly possessions from damage. There were times when we heard of people getting swept away and drowning.

But so far, the worse my family ever experienced was a fence wall falling in during a strong typhoon. The sudden surge of high water almost swept away an uncle and some of our maids trying to help out another uncle’s family cope with the rains. The artificial wave caused by the crashing wall rushed into our house, breaking our glass windows. Since the waters came up so high, we were not able save some of our things from getting waterlogged. As such, the greatest damage came from our library cum study hall, and my Dad’s office. We spent days drying out the various books and encyclopedia which were worth saving.

Every year, we learned to open our gates just in time to move our cars to higher ground. That meant parking them a few feet away on an elevated portion of the street as our dead-end area became a swirling body of creek water. Of course, opening the gates meant some of our stuff floated out unto the street because they can’t be tied down. These included my Dad’s favorite driftwood couch, his liquor bar, and my older siblings’ ping-pong table. Each time, we retrieved these things one by one as honest neighbors pointed them out. But one year, our ping-pong table mysteriously never reappeared. We figured it probably served as a new wall for one of our less-privileged neighbors’ homes.

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Today, my childhood home has given way to both progress and penury. Around it still teem “informal settlers”, but a bridge that would connect Kamias to Cubao in just seconds has been built in the recent years. And while some relatives still reside in the compound, the main house has since been vacated by my immediate family. In its advanced state of dilapidation, it should already be condemned, but my other relatives have strangely decided to “sit on it” after many years of legal battles. During the last great flood which was Ondoy, the creek waters rose to such dangerous levels that reached the second floor windows of the compound. I heard many make-shift houses there were in actual danger of being swept away too. I was told our old fence wall is also said to be teetering on its foundations.

Hence, all that is left now are childhood memories of a once grand place. Drive by once, and see the old house under the bridge. It is said a white lady peeks out from behind one of the windows of the main house.

That Controversial RA 9994

During the press conference at the signing of the Implementing Rules and Regulations of RA 9994, Congressman Zialcita revealed that his inspiration for filing all these laws benefiting senior citizens was his own lola, who raised him and cared for him when he was younger.

For me, my friends would say it is quite understandable to be working for another marginalized sector like the elderly since I seem to have a penchant for supporting "underdogs" ever since. My passion for the law was fueled, and sustained, by my volunteer work with women, children, and sexual minorities. When I moved to the DSWD's Policy Development and Planning Bureau, it was no surprise I easily adapted to working on elderly concerns and issues of People with Disabilities (PWDs).

But like Rep. Zialcita, I too have a more personal reason for advocating senior citizens rights. My own mother is a senior citizen; still gracious at 70-something years. She takes advantage of her senior citizen's discount privilege regularly and reports to me "violators" of the law. I had a better appreciation of the gaps and problems in the implementation through her own experiences with various businesses. She was my inspiration for drafting a better and more comprehensive IRR that would clarify everything for senior citizens and private establishments alike.

When I first started as a focal person for senior citizens in 2007, I was getting it from all sides - angry lolos and lolas and complaining corporations who were tired of all the vagueness and ambiguity of the law. Meanwhile, most government agencies tasked with the senior citizens law's implementation were at a lost too and clueless about their respective responsibilities. It took a lot of special meetings and dialogues, several NCBM resolutions, and an amendment to the law itself to settle things once and for all.

But with the new law came "new" provisions as well - expanded benefits and additional privileges for our Filipino elderly. It also required a unique talent for balancing the interest of all concerned. By carefully bringing together the private sector, government agencies and senior citizens themselves, they began to understand each other better and even agreed for compromises to happen.

Behind it all, I never lost perspective on what is meant to be achieved by this law and its rules. I think about my mom and her concerns, and everything is contextualized for me again. I always say government work is a thankless job, but I hope we made some senior citizens happy somehow...especially my own mother.

Out of the Country: My 1st Trip Abroad

My first trip abroad was an advance graduation gift from my parents in 1990. My cousin, Edlyn and I were sent to enjoy Hong Kong and Bangkok with her Abaya cousins and Tita Azon as official chaperone.

Besides learning about passports and traveler’s cheques, I became acquainted with immigration and customs procedures as well as basic airline etiquette. Mama accompanied me to DFA at Roxas Blvd. to apply for my first passport and then to Cocobank to get some traveler’s cheques. But she wasn’t there anymore as I learned how to operate the airline foldable table for meals, or the aircraft lavatory’s sliding door. The seatbelt was easy enough because it wasn’t my first time on a plane after all, having flown to Bacolod before with Ate Marie to meet her future in-laws. When the stewardess handed us some earphones, I also figured out where to plug it for some music. On the other hand, Edlyn complained that her earphones didn’t work, until I saw that they weren’t plugged in yet.

Immigration and customs are always such a hassle. You need to bring out your passport to check if the data you’re putting are correct. The same goes for your flight details – airline and flight number, country of origin and airport of destination. You have to be so careful with the information you put in, or risk further hassle at the immigration counter.

This became evident when after a day trip to Macau, Schenzen and Guangzhou, Edlyn and I were stopped at the Hong Kong immigration counter and detained for some intensive interviews. There was possibly two reasons for this: one, because this was right after the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre and Chinese authorities were on a look-out for students who were all trying to escape to HK; and two, because the beginnings of human trafficking of Filipinas was fast gaining ground. Although I doubt it that doting, conservative Tita Azon would ever be mistaken for a Mama-San.

To prove my point, once we got to Bangkok, that city known for its skin trade, Tita Azon promptly complained about the location of our hotel as being in the red light district. Heck, we were on a budget tour, you can’t really complain much about accommodations, but complain she did. She even asked her only son in Manila to badger the family travel agent to move us to different lodgings. Not getting what she wanted, she would proceed to rant and rave about our “unacceptable” lodgings.

After our dinner at the hotel, the waiter politely asked if we liked our meal. She blurted out, “No, it wasn’t good. I cannot eat it.” Embarrassed, the waiter asked again, “Was it too spicy for you?” But she was already walking away and shaking her head, clearly a discontented customer. When we got to the elevators, we found that one of them was under repair, and only one was functioning. Looking down at the dark and dangerous shaft, she expressed panic again, saying “Ano ba naman ito, papatayin tayo dito!”

But that wasn’t all I remembered about that trip. South East Asian tours are generally associated with shopping sprees, and shop we did. While bargaining for a lower price is allowed, once you touch the item and bargain for it, be sure you will buy it or the vendor will get very mad at you. In Macau, the sales clerk was so incensed with Tita Azon’s “negotiations”. Our Chinese-Portuguese tour guide intervened and said, “These are Filipinos, you HAVE to let them bargain…” In Hong Kong’s Mongkok district, I made the mistake of bargaining for an early edition Walkman and then changed my mind about purchasing it. The Chinese guy was so mad at me for wasting his time and blurted out a bunch of Cantonese words which I presume would be foul and blasphemous on my account.

One other thing I learned about traveling abroad is one begins to appreciate what she takes for granted in her own homeland. My first concern is always about food and knowing where to eat. In HK, the real Chinese restaurants were so expensive and the menus were all in Chinese you can’t decipher them. So we ended up eating at all the possible McDonald’s branches in Kowloon and Hong Kong Island for our meals. In Bangkok, we were also at a lost half the time at the incomprehensible offerings in the menu, but at least they had pictures so we just pointed at what we wanted to eat.

That’s another thing – language. In Hong Kong, the non-English speaking Chinese were so rude up to the point of shooing us out of their stores so they won’t have to deal with us. In Thailand, while more often than not the Thai people we encountered didn’t speak a word of English, they simply smile when we come to a communication impasse. So that’s something to remember: just because we Filipinos speak perfect, American-twanged English, it doesn’t mean we’ll be understood everywhere else in the world. Better get over that Americanized-ego of yours and learn some basic terms for your country of destination.

Finally, we forgot that something as culturally-imbedded as the exercise of religion could be so complicated once you’re abroad. To Tita Azon’s chagrin, Catholic churches are not at every block or street corner in Hong Kong unlike in the Philippines. We had to ask around whether there was a parish somewhere in either HK Island, Kowloon or Aberdeen where we could hear Sunday mass. We did find one; a very small Catholic chapel where most of the church-goers were also Filipinos, mostly overseas workers.

All in all, I had fun with that first trip abroad. In HK, we got to go to Victoria’s Peak, rubbed that Buddha’s tummy, saw the Ocean Park aquarium and rode the Crazy Galleon and ‘The Dragon” roller coaster. In Macau, we saw the contrast and combination of Chinese and Portuguese culture and bought jade for luck. Guangzhou and Schenzen were just like any rustic Asian countryside, even with the real 12-course Chinese meal and authentic Chinese beer we had at its popular tourist restaurant. While Bangkok is best remembered for its shopping opportunities, I liked our tour of the Rose Garden where the orchid exhibits and the elephant show were the highlights of the visit. (I found some of their native dances appeared too similar to our own Philippine “tinikling”). Thus, from that time on, every trip abroad is simply a reminder of what I miss about the Philippines - because there really is no place like home.