Expert driver

Each driver has his own unique way of parking...this is my favorite.
(I passed this car at the Compact Road on my way to Melekeok in Palau
sometime in 2007.)

Locked Out!

HAVE you ever experienced being locked out of your car, where no matter how much you tried fitting in the key won’t work? We did, a week ago and it was not pleasant. It was getting late and both fellow reporter Junhan and I wanted nothing more than to be home from a day’s brain-draining work. We stopped by H-Mart along Middle Road to pick up a few groceries for a late dinner. I insisted on locking the car because I left my laptop on the seat (don’t want to tempt others) but when we were ready to go, the car doors won’t simply open.

Short of smashing the windows and after an hour of poking, praying, twisting, and finally swearing in vain, I decided to dial 911 for help. I know that rescuers have special instruments to poke locked car doors. A male voice answered my call.

911: Hello may I help you?

Me: uhmmm (trying to make my voice sound as “un-emergency”-like as I could) do you offer assistance for locked cars?

911: locked car? Is anybody inside the car?

Me: no, no one’s inside but we can’t open it from outside.

911: where are you?

Me: in front of H-Mart in Middle Road

911: don’t you have a key?

Me: yes we have, but it won’t---- ( LOUD CRASH on the road interrupts my conversation with 911, then my jaws dropped as I saw a scooter fly and two individuals flying in different directions…

Me: oh mG! COME there’s an accident come quick! (gone was the un-emergency sound in my voice, replaced by a screech. I took the cellphone away from my ear)

911: hello, hello (from a distance) an accident? just now?

Me: yes just now come quick!

911: what’s your name?

I think I never answered that question, or if I did, I can’t remember what name I said because I was already rushing toward the middle of the road where a Ford pick-up with shattered headlight stood. A few meters away were the red remains of what was once a scooter. A woman lay flat on the road, blood oozing from her head. She was struggling to keep her fingers moving. A few feet away lay a man who had a concussion but was forcing his way to limp to check on the woman.

The next thing I know, a crowd had gathered at the sides, everybody seems to be whipping out his or her cellphone to call 911 while an onlooker who said he was a medical practitioner struggled with the man to keep still until help arrives. “Can anybody speak Korean here? Tell the man to stay put! He is injured,” the medical practitioner bellowed. A Korean-speaking onlooker talked to the injured driver, but shook his head and said the driver won’t listen. Several police cars with blue lights flashing arrived on the scene to manage the flow of traffic. It took about 10 minutes before the ambulance arrived to take the woman away, and more minutes before the second ambulance arrived to take the man to the hospital.

Finally only the pick-up that hit the scooter remained with the police cleaning the road of broken glass and shards. Then I remembered we were locked out, and we just left our purchases on the hood of the car. Thankfully, no one bothered to take them home for us, and thankfully, as though it has tested our patience far enough, the passenger side gave in to Junhan’s non-gentle poking. Thankfully, too, I always have delayed reaction in emergencies. My knees and limbs started trembling only after I had dinner. What a night!

I flunked culinary class!

So what’s new with that? I have never been at home in the kitchen, whether to eat or to cook. I mean I’m not a hearty eater (ever hear of the phrase I eat for survival?) I cook for survival too. Living alone for as long as I can remember has its effects and one of those is developing the habit to buy ready to eat or order from a fastfood whenever hunger strikes. Which is not very often in my case. The best and must-not-meal for me is dinner. Breakfast and lunch I can go without, but not dinner.

Anyways, I signed up for a culinary class for overseas Filipino workers at the OWWA office in Susupe a couple of months ago with 'ranch-mates' Junhan, Raymond, Tita Lits and Terri. What never occurred to me was that the classes would require five Saturday afternoons because if I did, I would have relegated my slot to somebody else. I know I just don’t have 5 consecutive Saturday afternoons free.

We missed the first session which was soup making. The second first session was into Japanese cuisine. Haha when I came into the class I felt I flunked right away. Everybody had an apron and a head gear or hair net. It never even occured to me to get one huhu.

Not a big fan of Japanese food myself (or any other cuisine in that matter) I just observed as Hermie the instructor whipped up sushi and all those rolled Japanesy-foods which I always thought comes in ready made packages.

I kept notes but now I can’t even read what I wrote. If I give it to a pharmacist Im sure I will be given prescription medicines. Tasting time proves rewarding for everybody else except for me.

On our second (and my last alas) session we were into pasta making. Alas, I never cared that much for pasta. I eat them but I can't or wouldn't die for pasta. We were taught how to whip up red and white sauce, spaghetti, soba, and the whole noodle family. I just sat on a corner feeling so drowsy for five hours of staying in one room (*ewww you don’t know how hard that was) The fourth Saturday I had to be on Tinian to cover the Poker tournament at the Tinian Dynasty Casino, so another absent.

Funny but I took more photos of my classmates and of the food and ingredients than what my mind absorbed. I still find it still easier to just point what you want and leave the messy job of food preparation to the expert chefs in the kitchen. I was a misfit in the kitchen. Maybe I was thinking of photography class afterall when I submitted my application form.

The graduation was last Saturday. Only Junhan and Teri were able to make it. We three flunked the classes because we had more than two absences.

Somehow there are some people who could never be at home in the kitchen and I am one of them. My sis and my brod took that talent when I was away and only two were given to each family I guess…

What I would have wanted to join though was the bread baking and cake decorating classes. That im sure I wouldn’t feel drowsy but the list is long and the next classes may be held next year yet.

Maybe I will just have to content myself with taking photos of food, not preparing them.

Missing Davao

Staying in an isolated island like Saipan does not necessarily make one a full-pledged islander. Maybe this does not apply for all but in my case, I guess the feeling of being a complete islander have not yet gotten into my system.

Having spent a huge number of years of my life in the urban areas which pulsed with life especially at night, a nocturnal being like me still finds it hard to momentarily settle for the rural life in this island-even after my five and-a-half months stay here, plus 19 months stay in Palau.

I wake up six mornings a week disoriented and grumpy, wondering why on earth I still keep the alarm clock whose screeching sound regularly wakes me up at 6:30 every morning. Maybe a lifetime habit of being nocturnal could not just change that easily despite constant clashing with my ex-boss, who was an early riser and could not understand the logic of working late in the night and waking up late, too.

Here in Saipan, one does not necessarily feel being a stranger because Filipinos are everywhere- in offices, stores, schools, construction companies, night clubs and anywhere. Some have stayed in this island for as long as 30 years and have totally adopted the island lifestyle, thinking only of going home to the Philippines for vacations. They have completely become islanders. Well, to name a few of the tastes, sights and smells I miss in Davao that’s hindering me from adopting the island life:

Never-ending stream of traffic. Looking at the flow of vehicles occupying every inch of the road is just fantastic, and riding on a jeepney and being a part of the traffic has never irritated me. In fact, getting squeezed in a heavy traffic jam gives me the perfect opportunity to day dream. (Need i mention how many times a week do i have to get a ride back because I already passed by my destination???)

Tsokolate and pandesal from Bankerohan. Here the pandesal tastes just like any ordinary, oven-baked bread. It’s extra hard that if you hit your head with it, a lump will grow so fast before you can blink. I miss the fluffy yet crispy and salty pandesal cooked in a pugon. At our barracks, (which I baptized the named Ranch House), a pandesal vendor toots his horn on early mornings. Once in a blue moon, I would be up and catch him but oftentimes i would lay in bed in wishful thinking hoping that he can read my mind and drop a bag of pandesal for me. Of course, he can't read my mind, otherwise he won't be selling pan de sal so early in the morning but out there making a fortune for himself. I would still be half in dreamland by then. By the time I decide I want that pan de sal, the vendor is long gone.

Tinolang native manok at the food stalls in Magallanes. Thinking of the huge slices of chicken here makes my hair stand.

Barbeque batikulon (gizzard) at Bankerohan side walk where I always buy three pieces on a stick for P5.

Manggang hilaw (green mangoes) with bagoong. You can buy a smallplastic of sliced green mangoes from street vendors for five pesos.

Durian. This is something I haven't seen on Saipan. Surely because it's prohibited. I miss our durian sprees at Magsaysay park.

The sight of news boys folding the Super Balita and Sunstar late at night in the office, and the newspaper-littered streets early in the morning as newsboys collate them ready for loading on their bicycles. (yes I'm up on some mornings).

Noise of internet cafes. Having no internet connection at Gwen's house, I had to walk exactly 300 steps to nearest internet cafe to do my research and bear the noise and smell of the kids as they swear and curse loudly while playing online games.

Wet markets where you can buy fish and vegetables and where the vendors tried to outdo each other in making the loudest noise to attract more customers. I always cover my ears and rejoice in the loud humming they made.

Bulalo and hinalang na baka. Where one serving is oftentooo huge for me to consume.

Halo-halo at Chowking. I don't care even if it's 12 midnight or 3 a.m. when the urge to eat gets at me, I go out. The halo-halo I've tried here so far is from Shirley's. So far so good. Only the serving is not big. It's huge!

Instant McDonald meals or chicken feet from Mandarin tea garden. I'm a constant customer at McDonalds here, but somehow, although the food is the same, i miss the ambiance of the McDo branches in Davao. There's no place like home, nai?

A bottle of beer (s) shared with office mates at our favorite restaurant at Times Beach after work, where we take turns (give me a safer word than backbiting...lol) our other office mates.

The eternal blowing of horns from jeepneys and public vehicles. You only blow your horns here on exceptional situations like if the driver of the car you’re following failed to turn on his lights, or if his tires are flat, gone square or missing.

The noise of the kids next door in my boarding house at S.I.R. although everyone knew I wished to strangle them every minute when i was there.

Kids swimming like tadpoles at Times Beach at the Magsaysay wharf. *sigh*. I let a wonderful opportunity slip through my fingers when Sam of Sams Tours, owner of the biggest dive shop in Palau offered to give me a free open water diving lesson. Alas, that is after I LEARNED how to swim and he gave me two months time allowance.I flunked the challenge and forfeited the opportunity to go diving. The possibility of learning how to swim stepped back two planets away from my reach, andthe possibility of diving? about 15 planets away.

Well, nothing would come out of just staring intospace and missing home. I’ve got some serious thinking to do. If you can't beat them join them. I've got five months to decide...

street ice cream

ginanggang or banana cue

No time to relax

Sunday, October 14, 2007
Local Color
Sun.Star Davao

The city is in full red alert again, following two bomb explosions in Kidapawan City which claimed the life of a 10-year old and wounded over 30 people. In Digos City, government troops immediately deployed troops to patrol the terminal area. Check points are functional again, conducted in almost all entry and exit points in the different towns and cities. The idea of exploding bombs and body parts flying above pools of blood did not exist in the minds of people, but just seen in television and read in newspapers happening in the war-torn countries, but not in Kidapawan, not Davao or its neighboring towns and cities, and certainly not in my hometown Makilala.

The Kidapawan of my childhood is a peaceful place, free of pressure where people moved at their own leisurely pace, the sprawling and un-organized market teemed with vendors who can freely display their wares and merchandise in sidewalks and about anywhere they wanted to. I have had my share of sheer terror because I was in Kidapawan when a forgotten sheet of paper spared me from becoming a victim in a hand grenade explosion at the very terminal I was heading for, but I was hit by bits of flying stones just the same. I remember staring in shock when horrified shouts rent the 7 o’clock evening air, a bloodied student passed by me holding a dangling and bloody hand.

Just about a couple of months before that, I was riding a bus and we had just arrived at the terminal in Kabacan when an explosion racked the public market a few meters away. I stared helplessly as bloodied people scrambled to all directions, while the unfortunate ones were left dead. The sight is not pleasant. I was at the Ecoland bus terminal when the first bombs ripped two empty Weena buses respectively, and sad to say that was just the start of the succeeding bombings. I was assigned to cover at the Davao Medical Center when the Sasa wharf was bombed. Believe me it’s traumatizing to see doctors come out of the operating room, erase a name from the wounded list and transfer it to the list of dead persons, and this will be followed by deafening screams from family members who waited hopefully for the victims to survive. That sight is something that will haunt me for as long as I live.

Not too long ago I wrote about being "arrested" at the Ecoland terminal for taking pictures but last week, the Task Force member assigned at the female entrance to the terminal barely glanced at my bulging shoulder bags. There’s no time to relax against the threat of terrorism. Maybe not until the perpetrators can formulate a bomb that would choose its victims, or shrapnel that would automatically dodge when innocent people are near. After an attack, the perpetrators will wait for our guards to be down and when everybody’s not expecting it, they will strike again.

Coffee-dazed

For a non-habitual coffee drinker like me, a cup of coffee, however fancy its name is or how complicated it's mixed and served doesn't matter much. It's still a cup of coffee. I don't abhor coffee but I drink it very mild up to the point of dividing a single-serve sachet into two servings, no creamer and just a pinch of sugar.

But I envy those who savor their coffee down to the last drop, taking tiny sips between conversations or while reading the papers. I'm too impatient for that. I usually stir my coffee until it turns lukewarm and I drink it straight, bottoms up. Before, when I drink coffee my limbs would turn to jelly and I would develop palpitations which last well into the next day.

My taste buds started to develop a liking for coffee just last year because back in Palau my buddy Robert always saw to it that I have coffee in the morning, never failing to fix a steaming mug for me and putting it in my car so I have no choice but drink otherwise it will spill. It's noticeable that in less than two years, coffee shops trying to outdo each other in their specialties sprouted out all over Davao city. The concept of coffee shops has also changed, from simple places with a few tables to great comfortable and cozy places to stop by to grab a cup of coffee (or linger on it), hang out with friends or do some work on your computer as most of these coffee shops are wi-fi hotspots.

As part of its "come-on" charm, each coffee shop sports attractive menus advertising offers of espresso, cappuccino, mocha, whiteout, latte, macchiato, Americano or whatever mix of names the coffee shop owners come up with. I usually order the house special or the kind I haven’t tried yet. Internet caf‚s too are serving coffee to their customers, the aroma so tempting that I gave in to the urge while surfing the net in Claveria last week.

"Maam, that's a strong one," the staff told me when I gave my order. I told her I can manage, and was surprised when they served my order. The coffee (espresso something I can't recall) came in a teeny weeny tea cup, with just about two inches of black liquid topped with a creamy bubble. I even thought it unjust for the high price but what the heck it was still coffee anyway. I took a sip and hiccupped. It was so bitter. Served me right for complaining, albeit silently.

Just recently, buddy Gwen and I ordered coffee at BluGre at the Matina Times Square. We both ordered hot cappuccino. I toyed with the straw and stirred my coffee for a while. When I took a sip, it was all bubbles and delicious-tasting froth so I sipped all the way through. Then I stiffened. It was scalding hot and it burned my tongue. I said nothing and when Gwen took a sip of her own coffee, I didn't have time to warn her. She too was burned but unlike me, she was not quiet about it. I guess it shows I need a long time to educate my tastebuds to learn all there is to love and crave for coffee.

(Published in Sun.Star Davao September 23, 2007 )

Blind Coverage

Judging from the long line of cars parked on both sides of the steep road, I knew I came to right place sketched by my editor. I found a place to park at the very end of the drive, near the sea and made my way up to the Japanese cemetery, sweat streaming down my back in the noonday heat.

Although just a few meters off the road, I had never been to the place before because I didn’t have the guts to explore the very steep road going down. A false step on the accelerator would send you hurtling down towards the cliffs and rooftops of houses below.

It was then when I felt like walking into a strange scene in a foreign movie or an alien intruding into some kind of a ritual I was not a part of, a total stranger.
There was a huge open tent filled with many solemn-faced people. Somebody which looked like a foreign priest (judging from his clothes) was chanting in Japanese in front of an ancient-looking tomb surrounded with wreaths and freshly-cut flowers. Before the tomb was a table spread with smoking incense, wines, cakes, cookies, sweets, candies and other goodies with Japanese labels.
Everything and everyone was in Japanese, including the huge banner hang from a nearby tree. Not understanding the language was a huge handicap.

I stood uncertainly at a corner, not knowing whether it was alright to take photos or not. I was afraid to just go and shoot without observing first for fear I might be intruding or offending some service. Finally, one of the local doctors spotted me. He motioned for me to feel free to go around and ‘do my stuff’. Suddenly, it seemed as if every body moved and the latest models of digital cameras and videos came out. It turned out I came at a time they were praying.

Somebody stood up and talked at length. Very soon the speaker’s voice broke and he cried. There was silence among the audience and they too, shed silent tears. My mind was wondering what the occasion was. I concluded it must be the death anniversary of somebody important because of the presence of important people there, including the governor and the ambassador of Japan. I also concluded that the person must be old as at least 80 percent of the guests are aged 60 above.

More chants followed. Very soon everyone stood up and formed a line towards the table before the grave with flowers, taking their turns to look like paying tribute by pinching a bit of the powder and dropping into the burning incense, bow then returned to their tables.

The guests cried, applauded, laughed and nodded their heads when somebody talked in front but I did not cry, applause, laugh or nod my head because I did not understand what was going on. I just went around and snapped photos of everything and everyone while searching for answers to the coverage I blindly covered. My editor just called me to go to the event, only telling me there was something going on there.

Finally the program was finished, or so I guessed because everybody stood up and milled around, majority going to the table and hoarding the goodies in loot bags.

I finally found somebody to tell me what happened, a Japanese from Okinawa who regularly come to Palau every September 13. At last I was told they were paying tribute to the 3,432 Okinawans who died in Palau during the World War 11 in 1942.
At last, too, I was able to nod my head because I finally understood what I was covering.
I left the cemetery carrying a pack of something which looked like small round balls of deep-fried flour and a pack of square, orange candies which smelled more like air freshener I was not that sure of eating. Both packs were given by my news source, goodies from Okinawa, he said.

I still hesitate to eat the goodies because they were already offered for the dead and they might not like it if somebody else, a non-Japanese speaking person at that, to eat what was offered for them. I guess I need to learn a little Japanese. The goodies are still in the compartment under the armrest of my car. Maybe I’ll share them with friends.

(Published in Sunstar Davao, September 24, 2006 issue)

Runaway Bride

The hallway of the trial court was deserted. It was stiffling hot but I had to brave it to go to one trial court branch to get a copy of a case decision before leaving for the office to write my stories for the day.

I've always hated going to the third floor of the Ninoy Aquino Hall of Justice because all the outlets of the aircondition units in the different rooms are out facing the hallway, making the place feel like one huge oven but I couldn't altogether avoid going there.

As I turned a corner from the stairway, I heard the wailing of a child and wondered what a child could be doing in that hot inferno.

What I saw made me wish I had captured the scene on the lens because there, in the humid hallway was a bride in a flowing white gown, complete with a long face veil and make-up (alas, too heavy of it) carrying a child about a year old and trying her best to make the little boy stop crying.

She tried to dance the boy to silence, alternately threatening to throw him over to the open window and promising to buy him toys but the boy just went on shouting and wrestling with the bride, filling the hallway with deafening noise until everybody went out to help the bride with her difficult job.

After a few minutes, the boy decided to stop crying. Just like that and the group trooped back inside the courtroom to continue the interrupted wedding.

I peeked into the judge's chamber out of curiousity and discovered that the little boy would not come near anyone else but her mother, who was the bride.

After two years covering the justice beat everyday, we were already used to it and in fact we have learned to love the crowd and the various people going in and out of the building.

One morning Bobby (of the other paper) and I had to squeeze through a thick crowd of dressed-to-kill people in the municipal trial courts hallway who were waiting for their turn to enter the courtroom. The whole entourage were perspiring in their transparent barongs, the ladies in their long gowns. Soon two little flower girls starting screaming with the heat while mothers rushed to silence them.

The groom, a man in his late twenties kept fanning his bride with a paper fan. Colored perspiration was starting to run down the bride's face (from too heavy make-up) but there were just too many couples to be wedded ahead of them.

Also squeezing to pass through right behind us were four juveniles handcuffed to each other followed by two policemen, apprehended for petty theft, one of them answered when I asked him.
To sum it up, the hallway was a merry mix of people dressed silk gowns and barong, casual clothes and people in handcuffs and orange t-shirts (residents of the city jail).

Suddenly, there was a warning for everybody to vacate the trial court because a phone caller said a bomb was about to explode in a few minutes. Everyone scampered off to safety, except for Bob and me and some employees. Bomb scares at the trial court was not new for us but we went out just the same.

There before the small stalls offering photo copying services was the heavily-made up bride, running towards no particular destination while looking for her companions. She got separated from her groom-to-be in the scramble to get out of the building. I almost stepped on her trailing gown when Bob and I chased her for an interview but we were unable to because her relatives, who were also looking for her called her. She ended up being married to her groom under a mango tree outside the justice hall.

It would be wise for brides-to-be to think twice before investing thousands of pesos on an elegant wedding gown and be married in the midst of suspected criminals in handcuffs, police authorities who guard them, trial court staff and a lot of strangers, but whatever makes you happy, do go ahead, (expenses are yours anyway...). Besides it's a unique setting, don't you think?