A burned tongue is no fun!

Do you know the feeling of sipping really hot coffee or chocolate that it burns your tongue so bad? Opps make it thrice that bad.

We were attending this regular weekly forum in Tagum City last week. A special table was set for lunch allocated for the speakers and the VIPs while the rest of us ordinary humans would line up and get food from a buffet table.
When I looked back, the special table was deserted because the guests decided to skip lunch. (We learned later that it was the birthday of a politician and our most of our guests trooped there).

I pointed to the empty table and eight of us proceeded to the table, patting our shoulders for being spared the agony of falling in line just to get food. As usual, I skipped breakfast and was quite hungry so without wasting time, I picked up my spoon and dipped it in a small bowl of chicken soup. I concluded that it must have been cooked that morning because it looked very cold already.

I took a sip of the soup and became the first victim.
I was taken aback because the soup was so hot although it looked cold and so calm on the surface. Tears welled in my eyes as I bravely put down my spoon and quietly bore the pain by rolling my tongue to sooth it.
If I had a choice, I would have made a frantic dash to the refrigerator to get ice to cool my burned tongue. I was embarrassed to tell anyone so I kept quiet and tried to eat my supposed-to-be delicious lunch, which by then had become tasteless.

The next thing I knew, the person sitting beside me did exactly what I did earlier and I was immobilized because I just knew their was no stopping him. He sipped chicken soup from his spoon and I just watched in helpless facination because I knew what would happen. My seatmate was momentarily stunned, then pretended nothing happened. He decided to keep quiet and so did I.

When Noynoy, a publisher from Tagum picked up his spoon and dipped it in his soup bowl, I raised my arm to warn him but I came too late. He became victim #3. Realizing that I knew what was happening, Noynoy burst out laughing after he guessed how I knew. It turned out that almost all of us in the table experienced a burned tongue because of those innocent-looking bowls of chicken soup.

I carried the tasteless feeling with me and went hungry for several days, never getting satisfaction because everything I ate seemed to feel like cardboard.
On the other hand, my tongue, which is a tough worker (what with all that talking, mixing food, germ fighting, tasting, and swallowing) finally got a rest.

I remember a tale my friend told me when he too, became a victim. He ordered a cup of hot chocolate at a sidewalk cafe early one morning on his way home from an internet cafe. The cup of chocolate looked so cool that he sipped it directly without testing. After a gulp, he spit it out and told me that whether I would believe him or not, the gabi leaf on which he spat upon just withered!

Lesson learned: Never underestimate a cup of coffee or chocolate that sits placidly on a table. It could be hotter than your tongue could bear, and #2, don't wait for experience to teach you this hard lesson.

A date with 'Carlo Rossi'

I was first introduced to 'Carlo Rossi' on a bright Sunday afternoon when I went with a group of media people who were out to get footages of a 'hito' farm in Los Amigos Palaisdaan in Mintal, Tugbok district.

Earlier that morning, I boarded a Crosswind with media friends Gwen, Kuya Ross, Riel, Jimmy and Doc Alcantara of the City Health Office.

We encountered some difficulty in finding the place. After negotiating a barely passable road a few kilometers off the main highway, we passed by a signboard with the words
"Private Road" inscribed in black ink.

That's when our doubts were confirmed: We were lost.
Sure enough, we ended up in somebody's private drive. Blame it on the people who pointed with their lips when we asked for directions earlier. One of the lessons I have learned in the past is never to trust somebody who points with his lips for that would surely mean an indefinite distance.

Finally, we found a man who pointed the direction with his forefinger so we were sure we were heading for a definite direction. Crispy fried hito and huge plates of newly cooked rice awaited us.

After the meal, bottles of wine materialized out of nowhere, (in celebration of Kuya Ross' birthday) and the guys handed Gwen and I one shot each (which was really a glassful) of Carlos Rossi burgundy, assuring us that it won't make us drunk.
"Walang tama yan," Kuya Ross assured us.

I downed my glass and cringed at the acerbic aftertaste, cringed some more when the glass was refilled. Not used to alcohol, I could feel my senses start to reel so I refused the fourth refill.

A few minutes later, Robert, one of our companions remarked that my eyes have grown heavy-lidded and sleepy while Gwen had grown red-faced. Indeed I was sleepy, (groggy too) and to think that I still have to file my news stories at the office!

The trip back to the city was short and uneventful, except that I had a very hard time keeping my eyes open. I grew weak-kneed and my vision doubled.

Back at the office, I stared glassy- eyed at the computer. The monitor seemed over-bright and blinking. Infact, everything in the office seemed to be over-bright and blinking. My eyes swam yet I had to finish writing my news stories, or else I would be the recipient of a memorandum early the next day.

"Walang tama, ha!" I made a mental note to reproach Kuya Ross the next time we met, which I did. He answered with a laugh, "There's always a first time. Masasanay ka rin"

My first real introduction to alcohol (if that's how you would consider Cali Shandy) was when I developed the most knee-shakingly intense crush possible on an engineer fifteen years my senior. I was still a struggling high school sophomore flaunting tons of flabs in my whole body while he was already famous (locally nga lang) with a flourishing career, and a super-gorgeous girlfriend (agay!), which meant that any form of romance was out of the question.
All I could understand was that some great some great curse had descended from the heavens and rendered me, a mere 14-year old mortal, totally helpless.

My "knight with a drafting table" was nice to me and ignored my flabs that I was sure I had fallen in love with him.
For weeks, I lived in a dreamworld but my resultant bliss lasted until the night when sought me out with a message that he has something "very important" to tell me. (You're right if you think I was expecting he's going to tell me that he had dumped his gorgeous girlfriend and that he can't live without me. It later turned out to be one of the five worst nights of my life).

I remember feeling the need to be inspired by a chemical lowering of inhibitions and dragging my closest friend to a nearby cafe to drink a bottle of Cali Shandy each. What a laugh it had been when I ended up vomitting infront of my "engineer-knight" and discovering that all he wanted was to ask me to help with the decorations for his coming wedding!

As my long-gone buddy James once said, "if you're not capable of experiencing hazy, torrid nights without outside assistance, I'm terribly sorry for you".

Anyway, after much effort, my stories came out just fine (judging from the silence of the editors while going over my stories). One thing I can say, Carlos Rossi (or any of his other names) don't mingle well with work.*

A midnight tunnel visit

Scary thoughts were running through my mind as we picked our way deeper into the tunnel. What if the statues would all come alive at the stroke of midnight? Or what if the guard or Edith, our other companion who prefered not to go in would turn off the lights and lock the door of the tunnel?

I BET not too many would dare enter a tunnel at fifteen minutes before midnight. It was eerie and I felt a mixture of fear and apprehension, yet I know it was a chance I wouldn't allow to pass.

I was embarassed to back out because in the first place, it was my idea to explore the Japanese Tunnel located along Diversion road in the middle of the night.

I braced myself and tweaked the nose of one of the two Japanese sentinels standing outside the tunnel entrance just to make sure he was really a statue. He looked so real that I almost imagined he blinked his eyes when I made a double check and pinched his arm before descending the few steps down to the tunnel with fellow reporter Gwen and a lady guide last week.

The interior of the tunnel was damp. The ceiling was high enough to comfortably stand beneath, and wide enough for four people to walk by side by side but I experienced a feeling of claustrophobia.

I've always hated enclosed spaces but there's no going back, I know. A few meters away, the tunnel branched off where two Japanese statues were seated at a low table, as if in deep conversation. The guide told us that was the conference room used by the Japanese.

"It must have been here where they cooked up ideas and strategies for battle," I told Gwen.

Scary thoughts were running through my mind as we picked our way deeper into the tunnel. What if the statues would all come alive at the stroke of midnight? Or what if the guard or Edith, our other companion who prefered not to go in would turn off the lights and lock the door of the tunnel? Gwen even suggested an earthquake and I shivered at the thought of those tunnel walls closing in on us and that would have been the last night of our lives.

Such frightful thoughts made me walk faster, determined to finish the exploration before midnight.

We walked for several meters through the tunnel, pausing now and then as our guide hurriedly pointed out objects and points of interest. I sensed she must have been in a hurry to get out of the tunnel as much as we do.

She was just one of the staff whom the guard happened to call on since the official guide had long ago drifted to dreamland. (How was he to know that a couple of weird female reporters would decide to explore the tunnel at midnight?)

We passed by a big rectangular hole half-filled with water, and protected by iron railings on top. Our guide explained that a buried treasure had been recovered from the area.

The tunnel provided me a glimpse of what life was like for the Japanese during the battle, although that happened years and years before I was born.

I was too busy trying to balance my steps and avoid stepping on the puddles while still managing to ask our guide a few questions. At one point, my wits almost deserted me when I looked up and saw a Japanese woman sitting behind grill bars. She looked so real and alive in the dimness of the electric bulbs that I felt my hair stand on end.

The female statue was at the end of the tunnel. We hurried to go back, grateful that no untoward incident happened, or that not one of the statues decided to scare us by coming back to life.

We were about halfway out when we heard the unmistakable prolonged howling of a dog. I grew up with the belief that when dogs howl, especially during full moon nights, they have seen ghosts.

My hair stood on end as we sprinted through the remaining steps out of the tunnel and open air, only to find out that Edith did the dog howl imitation to scare us. She succeeded in scaring me but I didn't give her the satisfaction of knowing that. The relief that I felt as we emerged from the tunnel was overwhelming.

That actually was not my first time to explore a tunnel. In fact I've gone through far more frightening and challenging caves in Bukidnon during my college days, but it was done in broad daylight.

I've entered caves where we had to crawl on our stomachs to be able to enter, where stalactites and stalagmites were everywhere and a single movement could send bats of all shapes, sizes and colors flying in all directions.

In one cave, we even had to wade in waist-deep water and pass over super-narrow passages (traffic congested due to our fat classmates who couldn't pass though the "slim test" passage), or through a deep cliff whose distance was to far to jump. Sharp stalactites protrude at the bottom, ready to welcome anyone who falls down with their sharp tips.

We were only able to pass through the cliff when two of our bigger classmates made the supreme sacrifice and offered their shoulders as a stepping stones (we remembered to give them alaxan that evening).

I always had one goal when exploring caves: That is to get out of the cave alive in one piece.

In life we also have to chart different caves of trials and tunnels of temptations. They come in all forms and hardships but it is comforting to know that there is always light at the end of the tunnel, and that no matter how complicated the tunnels or caves are, you always have the chance to surmount the obstacles and come out into the light to breath the air of freedom and relief.

A night on the streets

MIDNIGHT. My hands grew cold and clammy as I stood on the dimly lit pavement of San Pedro Street.
I shivered as a gust of cold wind blew up my spine, hugging myself as I felt the cold seep through my tight-fitting jeans and spaghetti-strapped shirt. I knew I should have been in dreamland hours ago but I've gone too far and it's too late to back out. Besides, Jeany (not her real name, of course) wouldn't hear of it.
Strike a pose and smile, there's a prospective customer coming," Jeany said. I grew hot and cold all over at the same time.
Oops...excuse me, I am not that financially desperate to earn money this way. I just pestered Jeany (she's a "Pink-card holder" who lives in the same boarding house I live in) the whole day to allow me to accompany her to get the feel of how it is to be a streetwalker. Now that the moment was at hand, I was shaking and felt like running away.
I watched as Jeany approached the obviously drunk guy and hooked her arm though his. I thought they were going to leave me but to my horror I saw him whisper to Jeany and pointed to me. I was dumbfounded with shock and fear. What will I do now?
Jeany handled the situation in a manner I admired. I overheard the guy asking Jeany how much is my price. Very calmly she replied, "One-five."
One thousand five? For her? Are you kidding?" the guy asked, his eyes popping. He looked at me in disbelief and mumbled to himself, "I must be more drunk than I thought I was," before staggering off.
Jeany and I laughed our heads off as I flagged down the first taxi that passed by. I was still shaking and didn't want to carry on with my adventure. What if the next guy would have no qualms about the price?
That I was not willing to risk finding out.
Jeany is just 19 but she'd been in this business since she was 15 years old. Already, she is a mother of two children with different fathers and is two months pregnant. The children are a sorry sight, obviously lacking nourishment.
But, what can Jeany do? Her live-in partner, who she admits is the father of the child in her womb, does nothing all day but drink. He even finds customers for her and she couldn't even see a shadow of her income. He gets them all. He beats the children and even Jeany mercilessly.
I feel my blood boil whenever he does that, but she would always say that she has nowhere else to go.
Jeany is an orphan who grew up in different homes of relatives. She can't count with her fingers how many times she'd ran away. She didn't finished third grade. She can't read and write but she can hook three to four customers a night. Sad to say, the maximum amount she earns from each customer is P200. She'd be lucky sometimes if her live-in partner is too drunk to beat her if she does not give him her night's earnings.
Jeany is only 19, but she looks too old for her age. She's become a master at the game of stalking and hooking men on the streets. Her life is filled with misery but it's the only life she has known.
Every night, there are thousands of Jeanys who stalk the streets to earn money for survival. She doesn't know the joy of having parents who takes care of all her needs. All she knows is that there is no other way to earn money for food except to lay her wares in the streets at night.
A few months from now, starvation will be her biggest enemy as her stomach will grow and she has to temporarily stop "working" not because she wants to but because she has to. What future awaits her and her children is a question that hangs in the air.
(Raquel C. Bagnol writes for Sun.Star Davao)

Thursday, April 03, 2003 Sun.star Cebu)

Fright night

(Published in Sunstar Davao, October 29, 2006 issue)

Time really flies fast, especially when you’re away from home. I woke up one morning and was surprised to notice cotton cobwebs behind ghosts, skulls and goblins displayed in grocery stores. It meant the approach of Halloween, (and it also meant that I’ve been here in this island for a year and 16 days to be exact) and I decided to use Halloween for my special feature for our anniversary issue.

Last night, I clipped a small advertisement from our previous issue of the newspaper before leaving for the “Wicked Warehouse” somewhere in Malakal, a few miles from my boarding house. I stopped by our office to get the thousand-dollar Canon camera we only use for rare occasions (the fear of breaking it and having it charged against my salary is not a welcome though) and prepared to be frightened out of my guts.

Expecting to see a deserted warehouse and a few daring people, I was surprised to see cramped parking spaces and a long line of people extending all the way to the main road. A yellow line (police lines) served to control the chaos. Alas, I forgot that this is Palau and nothing much happens so a little variation like this would surely draw in crowds from their homes.
Shrugging off the notion of falling in line, I just went around taking photos of the crowd, mostly teenagers, waiting for their chance to enter the warehouse. Only about 10 are allowed at a time. Unexpectedly, one of the ghosts (whom I of course didn’t recognize because of his frightening mask) went out and saw me.
That ghost served as our passport and in no time at all, I and my buddy Robert became one of the screaming victims inside the Wicked Warehouse.
The warehouse was dark and smoky, each room creatively designed to really scare the wits out of people, complete with squeaking doors, coffins, skulls and masked ghosts who expectedly springs at us from dark corners. I know I was too old to be frightened but my concentration in taking photos was lost.

Then we entered a smoky cemetery. “Kamatayan” was standing in a crudely built stage holding his “karit” and waving it towards anyone who enters the door. Gravestones and empty liquor bottles were strewn everywhere. I read the inscriptions on the tombstones and understood that the producers were discouraging the young people to engage in drinking liquor.
In fairness, the producers have created a magical and horrifying world from a crude warehouse, and I guess the youngsters got the message they wished to portray.

Halloween and my article is not finished yet. I’ve got to prepare for the Deadman’s Ball on the eve of October 31st. If I win a prize for the most frightening mask, that would hurt me because I’m planning to attend au naturel.

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)

Sleeping in Court

Of all the things I want to avoid as much as possible in my work as a reporter, it’s being sent to sit in at seminars or trainings, or any gathering that requires me to sit still and listen for more than 30 minutes. I consider it pure torture.

Just the other day when I was about to start eating my breakfast at 10 in the morning, my editor called me to cover a controversial case at the Supreme Court involving the former president of the electric company in Palau. Expecting something like the trial courts in the Philippines, I left my baon and drove to the court, promising lunch buddies Celina and Denice to be back within 30 minutes.
The trial, which was the first one I covered since I worked for Island Times newspaper here started just as soon as I arrived.

I didn’t even sit down properly because I was expecting that one of the lawyers will file a motion for postponement or other motions that will delay the trial but I was in for a disappointment. The Attorney General (AG) began his delivery pointing out the merits and evidences why the defendant should be judged guilty of the 15 counts of cheating and forgery. The minutes ticked by and the AG was still blabbing on and on. I began to nod my head, not in agreement but because of extreme drowsiness. Exactly 45 minutes later, he stopped and the judge gave the floor to the defendants for the rebuttal.

I haven’t expected a full-blown court battle. At exactly 12 noon (can’t believe I was still alive after two hours sitting in court), I had shifted my buttocks in almost all positions available while sitting and had desperately fought my hunger and drowsiness when the judge declared he was not hungry and that the trial will go on till lunch.

Oh gosh! So the court trials here will depend on the stomach of the judges, I mumbled but I couldn’t leave. My buddies were waiting for me because I brought our food in the car. To divert my attention from hunger and wake up, I began fumbling with my cellphone inside my bag, turning it to silent mode before starting to send messages to Celina without looking at the keypad. I had mastered texting without looking at the keypad that if amazed my boss who doesn’t know how to text. Of course he didn’t know that my cellphone back in Davao is the last thing I hold before going to sleep and the first thing I touch when I wake up in the morning.

“Lady, you turn that cellphone off right this minute!” I was startled when a huge Palauan hissed behind my ear. I was irritated because I kept the cellphone inside the bag and it was in silent mode but I obeyed just the same, albeit grumbling.

It was the third day of hearing and the case was judged at around 2 o’clock that afternoon. So that’s how speedy cases are decided upon in Palau. I got another headache because unlike there in Davao, it is so hard to acquire copies of the decisions and other documents here. You have to go to the Clerk of court for it and have to squeeze blood from stones before you can get what you want. I made an appointment to talk with the AG (you can’t simply conduct ambush-interviews here, you’ve gotta make an appointment first) at 10 a.m. the following day to get more details of the case.
I showed up at the agreed time and was informed by the secretary that the AG took the day off and went fishing. Uh-uh.