scenes on a bus

Iligan, Cagayan! Larga na ta hapit!

Grabbed the ailse seat on the sixth row, bag on the overhead compartment. After the Kumalarang bus hold-up, I seldom pick the first five. 6.30am, forgot to ring an alarm. Iligan it will be, Cagayan will be too late. Damn stone mill, I could buy a new pair of pants for the thousand.

Few passengers on this trip. Only three or four when I got in.

Itlog! Mineral! Saging! Cookies!

30ish lady comes up, sits on the front seat. Asks driver what time expected to arrive in Cagayan. 1pm or so, Manong driver replies. Sound of egg shells cracking. Calls outside, mineral gamay tag-pila? (How much is a small bottle of mineral water?) Checked for my liter, a new part of my travel gear. Somehow learned to finish in three gulps. Good boy, doc will be happy.

Manang and young daughter come up, settle on the row next to mine. Daughter looks outside while Mama puts bags in the compartment.

Ako si takuri, gamay og dako...

A rhyme from pre-school Flores de Mayo. I tried to follow the verse but they soon become indecipherable. How many of those songs can I still remember?

Engine comes to life.

In minutes, we pass by my side of town. Didn't tell Mamang I'm seeing the uro again. Why cause some more worries? This is just routine, one of those times, perhaps still many times until I learn to watch my manners. I tell my sisters instead.

B U T T E R S L Y, butterfly!

The rhyme makes my first morning smile. That little kid's singing. Childhood perhaps is the happiest point in our lives when we have the least care about the world as long as we get to sing nursery rhymes, no matter how garbled the lines can sometimes get. We just go with what our senses evoke.

B U T T E R S S Y, butterfly.

Tried to take a nap then a text message - I am such a 'lousy' friend. I tried to compose but realized no point in sending a retort. I have other things to worry about.

Manang hushes little girl, 'other passengers will be disturbed'. Little girl hums Leron, leron sinta. It's ok, I thought of saying but the droning lulls a tired soul to rest.

Bus halts to the first stopover. Another bus from another line tails behind. Barkers lure the passengers to their transports. A blind man in wooden crutches comes up, strums his crude ukelele and sings Mutya ka baleleng. A younger boy tries to guide him through the ailse, a can clanks with coins in one hand. I am glad that I only have back pains but I am not glad that life can sometimes be so limiting like this pauper's daily treks up the bus and ukeleles giving off beat strums of life's prejudices. There should be greater purpose for this man of broken chords than just make passengers like me feel thankful about what's put in my platter. With the noise of these issues in my mind, I drop my donation and it doesn't make a sound.

At the next bus stop, Manang comes up and looks for an empty seat. 'Linda?', the lady behind me calls up. 'Myrna? Oy, kumusta na man ka?' starts the long chat. Classmates from grade school years, haven't met for more than twenty years. I close my eyes but scenes of their early life flash in my mind: the dance in the municipal plaza, a certain Temiong (I recall how my mother gets giddy at Robert Redford), how their marrried lives fare and children. I haven't seen a pal from more than twenty years in quite a while. The last one I saw was with a pregnant wife on a jeepney ride to home and shared stories of life at war. This brings about some nostalgic sense.

Another lady hails the bus to a stop. We stay for a while while Manang's kinhason are loaded in the compartment below. She checks her list and then barks to a buyer on her cellphone. The propellers of countryside economy. If only for that, I'll stand by the stink. 

A short nap and finally, we reach Iligan. Other scenes are then waiting to unfold.

(If I travel by land, I use to pick the air-conditioned bus since they by far offer the convenience not given by the regular buses. But I was grateful for taking this one trip – regular buses have more stories to tell. I hope in my future land trips, if my patience allow, I'll be on another regular bus.)

waiting for the choo-choo

I used to frown at the morbidity of talking about death and when a conversation of that sort pops out, the instant reflex is to steer the chat to a different direction. I reckon I'm still 'young' to entertain thoughts of that degree when I have not even started the bottom fourth of the items I stuffed on my bucket. There's still a whole list of places to go and things to do. So thinking about the train ride to the twilight zone should still be lightyears away.

Then somehow, things happen and you get a close encounter with death through the loss of a dear one and reinforces the reality that the train arrives at an unexpected time. The closest experience I have of grim reaper's stroke was the tragedy of my father's death many years ago. That time, I thought the train wheeled on the wrong track.

***
We were a very young family then. We were six children, our eldest was 16, the youngest 3. He was the sole breadwinner so imagine how everything turned upside down after he died: from not having enough food in the table to the threat of letting our dreams go down the drain by having to stop schooling. Death's aftermath can sometimes be a long, treacherous process.

***
Recalling my father's death still stirs some poignance that has never been filled by the passing of time. It happened twenty years ago yet Novembers still evoke a familiar sense. It's been twenty years of sailing in an open sea without even learning how to paddle a canoe; at times strong winds blow and you barely manage to shift sails that they get blown and torn. You wished there was the captain to tell you which rope to pull, which way to turn the rudder. But it's been twenty years of learning the motions of the wheel on your own. I didn't want to be a sailor yet but it's good to know which sails to raise when the clouds darken on the distance.

***
While re-painting my father's tomb, my brother pointed to a new 'neighbor' left to my father's chamber. 'Very young, only 16. Bone cancer, already stage 4 when diagnosed'. The kid's family hung a portrait of him just above the tiny altar where a lighted candle is dying out. I also noticed that Papang had a few other neighbors who weren't there yet a year ago.

Somehow, Novembers remind me of my RS 101's cliches on how short life is. This one from Crowfoot I remember by heart – (Life) is the flash of the firefly in the night, the breath of buffalo in the wintertime, the shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.

***
Late last year, I was finally convinced to purchase a life and memorial plan. (My boss and I had been planning to buy a memorial lot but I could no longer afford it.) I guess I learned to welcome the idea of death as an inevitable something that should be prepared for, like that certainty of a trike stopping by when I'm dressed up for work. There are two sides to this statement: one, something that takes a lifetime hence harder to do, and another one which is easier and will just take a few bucks. I took steps to at least ready the easier one so there'll be one less worry for those I will be leaving.

***
Mr. Crabb hinted that we often look at death as something that happens to others, until it happens to us.

And because the train doesn't choo-choo when it comes, it's best to have a ticket ready.

parable of two fishes

A buddy toured me to his backyard pond where he grows freshwater breeds, but mostly tilapias. When he threw some palay bran into the pond, a number of tilapias the size of my palm surfaced, their mouths grasping the dusty fibers of food. After, they swiftly plunged back into the murky abyss. They did this in repetition until the pond's surface was clear of residues.

We have rounded the pond when one tilapia re-surfaced for another grasp of the bran but immediately plunged back when it saw that everything had already been consumed. I was urged to throw a fistful.

'That one's quite hungry', I exclaimed.

'They're due for harvest next week', my buddy replied, 'that one must have known that I'm hoping for few additional pounds. Come back and you'll get few pieces for free', he cracked. I knew he would be selling the excess from their provision.

A few weeks after, I caught up with a neighbor while cleaning up his aquarium. The goldfishes were temporarily put in a large basin. After the cleaning has been done, the fantails were put back in the glass case for feeding. After a few minutes of grasping feed pellets, one piece bloated as a ping-pong ball played dead to the glee of this neighbor. 'This one loves to show off to visitors', he says. 'Taking care of these things relieves me. I guess that's why they're created'.

The encounter with these two fishes stirred questions about meanings and purpose. That things are not much as a matter of choice as a consequence of pre-ordained calling: a tilapia for food, a goldfish to embellish.

If you happen to pass by the Sto. Nino de Paz Chapel in Greenbelt, you will notice a school of fish on the pond where it sits. If you happen to look closely, you will notice that a gray tilapia swims among the colorful kois. Good if you happen admire the tilapia too among the kois. I do not. To my thinking, its swimming in a pond that is intended to be admired for its colorful inhabitants doesn't achieve the tilapia's purpose. But I digress from those who mock the tilapia for where it is. It might not have been a choice for that tilapia to make.

If it's not much of a bother, please say a little prayer on my behalf.

scotch mist

Sometimes, nature gives you a sick sense of humor for a realization.

There's this guyabano outside of my room bearing several ripening fruits. 'Ignorable' guyabano is to me (I still go for mangoes when fruits) but I was drawn into stocktaking one day. There's this particular one that just got me: it is not the biggest (which would typically be the favored one) neither the most plump of the bunch (which would make for a pulpy shake) but I knew this tiny piece would just be right to 'satisfy' a craving in me. This one got me into daily morning visits and my anticipation was building for the 'right time' for this piece to finally ripen in the care of nature's elements. As they say, "masarap ang hindi hinog sa pilit" (what's ripened by time is more delightful).

Then the day finally came when I figured it's the right time for picking. I haven't climbed a tree in quite a time to note that the guyabano branch is not as sturdy to carry my weight and 'hantiks' (big red ants) had been guarding the trunk where 'my' fruit was hinged on. Quite a gamble for one 'ignorable' guyabano, but I was driven into letting loose of some defenses for this one glory - to my terms at least.

So how would you feel when you got out that morning mustering all hopes and find a flock of 'kulansyangs' (red-eyed black birds) pecking into 'your' fruit? Only the seeds which fell to the earth knew how long they had been devouring it.

A raging sense was all over you twinged with the eroding feeling of regret: I should have picked it 'yesterday'. Yet it was funny why looking at the birds cannot make you feel the audacity to drive them away. It's no longer of any use because even after you succeed in shooing them away and reclaim 'your' fruit, it might no longer serve its purpose since its flesh were already among the birds. What is there left for your planned guyabano shake?

Then you learn to take things as they are, maybe in the way they were intended to be. And finally, when you steered clear of things, you realize that you had no right to claim 'that' guyabano as yours: looking by the window you knew that the 'kulansyangs' owned the entire tree. They always did and never really left it. While my eyes were fixed on 'that' fruit, I did not notice that on a far branch, they had built nests. I couldn't know for how long they had been humming melodies for that guyabano to ripen.

What better thing to do but to retreat to your own confines. You cannot continue wallowing on that wee bit feeling of loss over that 'thing' that cannot become, had never been yours in the first place. What better thing to believe is to be persuaded in the thought that somewhere, other 'guyabanos' will soon come into bloom that no birds own. What better thing to realize is that you have the capacity to 'nurture' and have hope.

Outside, the rain slowly drip and I noticed that there are new buds coming into bloom. I hope in time, the birds will give me 'this' one piece.

thank God for Coelho

Funny how little things can make your day. Like say, a little comment to a post which appeared awkward at first but as you re-read it, it gives you some tingling effect like some sense of euphoria.Then it makes you realize that in life, there's always something to look forward to, that a fall is not entirely a damnation but a profound act of love, more like a necessary tool for a masterpiece in progress.

We are all a masterpiece in progress. No one should be saying you are a 'bad' art, not even after the job has been completed. That act of decreeing is not among our privileges. Ours is only the act of understanding and pardon. We all have tumbled in one way or another, the depths of which vary to some extent. Like what's been written countless times before, it's how we rise after the fall that matters and the lessons we get from the scratches or deep wounds. Cliche it may be but this gives me another refreshing feeling somehow.

***
Two weeks ago, I had my latest addition to my collection of hospital kits. My sisters see this weird. Forming and peeing stones appeared a bit weird to me at first but before I realized that I just got a sore taste of my own obstinacy. I have come into terms with the prognosis that I may be a stonemill (I certainly could still use a third opinion for this) but this is not conceding to the condition. My point is I no longer find any use for whining. I am thankful to doctors and nurses. I am thankful for the easy access to medical attention that is among my employment benefits. I am thankful for the makers of Acalka and the benevolent wi-fi provider outside my hospital room.

***

After many months of hiatus, I'm skimming through a book again. I'm on my third Coelho (this makes me an unfashionably late follower of the sage); The Alchemist and The Zahir both left indelible prints somewhere within. A Coelho is always a powerhouse. There's always something good to be picked in between the lines. His works are brimming with useful insights for the pilgrims in us, his adages a constant guide in my own trip.

***
Finally, my MEG shares are on the rebound (I hope FGEN will follow suit). My sister hurdled the recent NLE...you see, there's never a dearth of things that we should be grateful for, even in the most unpleasant (weirdest) of situations. I just need to see past the grimes to perceive the good. I should be learning this fast.

story of a name

Overheard: a kolehiyala on a trike complaining about how her parents gave her a 'not-so-good-to-hear' name. In a way that she's sees appropriate, they should have given her a handle other than Maria Capra. Ok, I was kidding.

The chat with her collaborator on the front row of the trike did not divulge what her name was for my decree if it is at all ill-sounding but I heard similar stories; even a colleague once commented she didn't 'like' her name that much. (Personally, I think it's somewhat uncorrupted).

Each name is brought into life with a story. In my brood, it's almost about a combination of other names. Our eldest and youngest are combined names of our parents. My name and ditse's are from our grandparents; mines from my mother side, hers from our paternal old folks. Another sister's an ode to her birth month and a queen. My only brother is a namesake of a prince who only my father knows. (He says by the way that he doesn't like this name too).

This scheme appears to me as a sense of self-esteem, honoring forebears and those people we look up to.

More than what has been put in our records of birth, our entire being is reduced to that jumble of letters. How we walk through our waking days spells out the letters that will identify us; what we do is a character that will soon build up to a word. So how good or rotten a name may sound is not something that was given to us. It is something that we spawn ourselves.

There are many ways to create a 'better-sounding' name, one of them acting better than being snotty. It's still not too late. A friend aptly puts it: a name is all that we can truly have. I hope you got that Maria!

changes and nostalgia

The late afternoon air unusually wafts a sudden stream of melancholy as we go off to Nang Beny's garden for some fresh picks. I have trekked these tracks between ricefield and irrigation many times before but with two sisters, scenes of early years on this place somewhat flash in random.

We passed by the pond where we used to pick kangkong for food. One sister suddenly recalled the time when we had nothing else as ulam but this green thing three meals a day. I said, "at least now we get to have a choice between kangkong and ginamus" to which the three of us giggled. Silently, I recalled how I used to sigh about this being served in the table like, "again?". Yet unknowingly, this has become a favorite.

The turod (Ilocano for hill) had a different look now. One of its sides was ripped off a few years ago to fill a collapsed side of a river and now, it lost some of its crowns as well. They cut down some of the trees, including the mangga and salumagi (tamarind) where I held posts in childhood camp games. It was climbing on these trees that I negated the branding of being lampa; even as a kid you have to prove some strength to be deemed acceptable. But one buddy, igso and demi-brother constantly took on my side. Jojo and I would pastol carabaos together by the side of this turod, him teaching me how to tame my beast. In time, I had my own carabao budge at one slight tap on the side and my "ho!'s" were obeyed. On the salumagi, Jojo and I also owned branches as our distinct domains where we would camp while looking after our flocks of ducks after every harvest. We were masters of own territories, thing that may be impossible in the real world. But one thing remains true: I realized that proving your worth is really a way of life.

From Nang Beny's garden, I can already see the highway. Bamboos used to hide this from view but they were all gone now. The tale of constant taking without replenishing took its toll on the riverbanks (bamboos hold the banks from collapsing during floods).

Between the garden and the row of houses on the east, the vast field is green. This has always been a refreshing sight even as a kid. Now, more than appreciating the sight is its purpose and meaning in our lives and in the lives of many of my folks. On these fields is where we are rooted. We owe everything to these tracts.

After we picked camote tops, okras and patola, we crossed the wobbly bamboo bridge unto the other bank of the irrigation. I remember enjoying the swim in these muddy waters. "Burarog", they call it which denotes swimming the indulgent type. We didn't care about getting kagid (skin disease) back then. We simply had fun.

As we were heading back home, a flock of birds make a 'V' formation while hovering the power lines above. In the distance, they made a 'W'. Good that we still see things like these. Many don't get this opportunity.

Going home had its usual effects on me. I hope next time, I'd be able to see more of the spots and the memories they will rekindle.