I WENT to the house of a friend I was staying with one noontime after conducting an interview for a special assignment, trying to ignore the hunger signals my stomach was sending and nursing a headache from lack of sleep. I was forced to get up early, missed my breakfast and I was feeling grouchy.
The sound of screaming kids playing games in the street right below the house drummed through my eardrums, aggravating the pain in my head.
Although I know it was cruel of me, I prayed it would immediately rain hard to stop the screaming and the noise so I could grab a few hours of sleep before reporting to the office for work.
Looking up at the sky, I knew I was wishing for the impossible because it has stifling hot, but suddenly, as if in answer to my wish, the sky began to darken and it was not long before large, fat raindrops came pouring down
The kids disappeared like bubbles when the rain fell, and albeit feeling a little guilty, I heaved a sigh of relief. I munched on a pack of soda crackers, deciding to eat a full meal after I've grabbed a few hours of sleep.
I was just drifting off to dreamland when noise erupted, drowning the rythmic pitter-patter of the rain on the roof.
The kids again!
I got up, my sleepiness flew out the window and my headache intensified. I peered out, and sure enough, from the surrounding houses children of all sizes and colors emerged, all shouting and eager to take a bath in the rain!
Talk about peace and a rest free from the kids' shouting!
I didn't intend to be mean. I was once a child who grew up in a neighborhood full of children. Maybe family planning was an unheard of thing that time, because every family seemed to produce children faster than we can count. In fact, in our whole neighborhood, mine was the only family that had only four children. The rest had six or more. One even had 13 kids born in rapid succession, popularly termed as 'do-re-mi' referring to the musical scale.
And how we all loved taking a bath in the rain! It was one of the best times of our lives. We enjoyed it so much that even if there's no rain, we splash water on each other.
(I hate to admit that water system was not yet installed at our houses that time and the water we splashed on each other came from a spring located far away from our homes, fetched by our parents or elder siblings, or by somebody they paid to fetch).
I loved the feel of raindrops hitting my body, and the refreshing sensation of coolness the increased speed and movement of each raindrop brings. I enjoyed having my soggy clothes stick to my body and the feeling of having rivulets run down my arms and legs. We would chase each other and play games until our fingers turn blue and our jaws would quiver with cold.
The rains promised us hours of splashing in puddles. But not all children are fortunate to have experienced the joys of taking a bath in the rain. That is out of the question especially for people whose children are always accompanied by 'yayas', whose umbrellas and raincoats materialize as soon as a small droplet of water fall from the skies. They missed a lot.
One day last year I decided to take a bath in the rain again, longing to recapture my childhood days (alas, how long ago that was) under the pretense of cleaning our backyard. Short, fat raindrops tickled down, and I was eagerly expecting for the refreshing feeling I always get when bathing in the rain as a child to come back, but I had barely become wet when the rain stopped.
Just like that. A few drizzles then the rain was gone. I developed a headache, followed by a three-day cold and runny nose instead.
It had been a long time since I have taken a bath in the rain. I guess somewhere along my journey into adulthood, baths in the rain have lost their magic.
My mind has formed new associations with the rain: the complete disturbance of plans, disruption in transportations, neglected garbage dumps, floating filth in waterlogged streets that no one in his right mind would be tempted to wade in, much less take a bath, the eternal water and power problems, and the carrying of umbrellas, a task I have never learned to love.
Instead of offering the bliss of solitude, the rain reminds me of the irrevocable loss of the innocent pleasures of childhood.*
***
August 10,2003
Watching the sunrise
By Raquel C. Bagnol
I awakened from a deep slumber to the sound of flying pots and pans, smashing of plates and shattering of window panes.
Earthquake! I was alarmed, having developed a phobia for earthquakes in my elementary grades. However, instead of the expected tremor, a female's high-pitched voice shrieked. I could clearly pick out a string of profane language and swearing, punctuated by smashing of things on the floor and the walls.
A man's counter-shouting followed. A few seconds later, the wailing of two kids roused from deep sleep added to the noise.
The shouting match that followed isn't fit for the ears of the general public and requires parental guidance for young audiences.
Here they go again! I know I should get used to the young couple's brawls next door at the most unearthly hours of the night but I had just fallen asleep. And besides, why would they want the whole world to know that the man caught his wifie with another man in a night club while he himself left their two kids sleeping to go on a till-morning drinking spree with his friends?
I mean the whole neighborhood already knew about that, why do they have to announce it over and over again? I thought angrily.
I covered my ears with my hands and buried my head beneath the covers to shut out the noise, but to no avail. I have an appointment at 10 a.m. and I needed sleep in order not to look like a worn-out rag doll discarded from Sequijor the next day.
Bud judging from the intensity of the shouting match next door, I knew sleep would be next to impossible.
By force of habit, I immediately fumbled for my tape recorder beside the bed and turned it on. ( I had developed the habit of recording the frequent quarrels of this couple in the past few weeks which I planned to play for them when the need arrives, like the need to blackmail...but of course I knew I could never do that.
Glancing at my alarm clock, I was pissed off to know it was only 4:45 in the morning! I had barely slept for a couple of hours.
I'm a night person. I mean I think best in the evening. In the early evening, after the sun has gone down and the world is preparing to turn in, my metabolism is finally moving at top speed and I begin to blend in with the night.
My sweetest sleep would be from 2-9 a.m. While the world is starting to get up, I would be burrowing deep under the covers to get the best sleep. Wake me up at 5 a.m. and you'll be dealing with the grumpiest being on earth. I'm very unproductive at this time I could hardly remember my middle name. (I'm writing this at 12 midnight and my middle name is Cuaresma).
I'm not even fully awake at 10 yet. Prior to finally getting up would mean several resetting of my alarm clock (I have to put it away from reach or elese I'd grope for it in my sleep and turn it off).
Not wanting to hear more, I turned off my tape recorder and groggily got off the bed. After putting on a pair of jogging pants and a shirt, I headed for the beach, not caring that it's Times Beach (not ideal for a whiff of fresh morning air I know, but it's the nearest).
A handful of people were already taking a dip in the sea. I sat on a deserted cottage, thankful that only a few souls are around. (Not enough to stir the pollution yet).
Very soon, the sun started to come out in all its glory, spreading its red, yellow and orange glow on the smooth surface of the sea. It was a wonderful sight, a sight I had almost forgotten.
Fon't get me wrong, I don't live in a dungeon and I know the sun rises everyday. It's just that I very, very seldom see it.
How long ago have I seen the sunrise, I can't really remember. In fact, I remember seeing only a very few sunrises in my whole life. I'm more acquainted with sunsets. I know sunrise is a sight worth seeing, a symbol of the promise of a new day.
For once, my next-door neighbor's early morning fracas did something good for me.*
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Panic packing
Only intense pressure at the eleventh hour can make me tick in packing up my things for any trip I take and this had always worked for me in the past but last week the system failed. I knew the trip I was going to make was to be an exemption from all other out-of town trips I’ve taken because I was leaving the boarding house which has become my haven for the past three years for good.
Our flight for Manila was scheduled at 7 a.m. on Tuesday last week. On Monday evening I went to NCCC mall to buy a bath towel and other necessary items, lined up at several counters to pay for my purchases while the precious time I should have spent doing final packing ticked by.
Minutes later, I was frantically stuffing things into my luggage bag, knowing that my choices were either to take them or leave them behind, never to see them again. My sentimentality won, and I had a hard time trying to coax the zippers to close as my luggage bag was loaded with unnecessary items.
My cellphone kept on ringing, messages flew in and I was getting irritated because I was under intense pressure. I should have been wise enough to turn it off or turn the ringer to silent mode to be able to concentrate on the task at hand. Multiple messages came from Grace, chiding me for still not showing up when the despedida party they were holding was for me.
When the clock struck midnight,I was almost finished but still had to deliver a roll of newspapers to columnist Jojie Alcantara at her house. Thanks for buddy Jun who came to the rescue and delivered me in his motorcycle.
At 4 a.m. I was still in Lanang, groggy with all the drinks the group plied on me since we went bar hopping when Celina texted she was going to fetch me from the boarding house. I barely made it home before she arrived stopped by and caught struggling with the huge luggage bag down the 12 steps of stairs.
Domestic flights passengers were only allowed 20 kilos of baggage and mine totaled 30 kilos. I painfully paid P367 from my wallet for the excess 10 kilos. I had to drag my super-heavy luggage bag over to the second floor of the tenement where Kuya Ariel, hubby of news editor Gigie lives in camp Crame that day and drag it across the hallways and down the stairs again the next morning.
I texted my younger brother in Marikina to come and save me from the excess baggage but changed my mind when we were informed that international flights allow us to check in 70 pounds of baggage.
I wondered what made my baggage too heavy but I dared not open it because it require me two weeks to put it back together. I hate to remember the agony I went through in dragging the heavy luggage all over the Ninoy Aquino International Airport until I was finally able to check it in. Whew, relief!
The Customs in Palau answered the puzzle. They are not equipped with x-rays and had to literally and manually inspect all items in your suitcases, and I mean EVERY item. The Custom official took everything out, shook my clothes and blankets and jeans and scrutinized all items, including underwears while everybody looks on. It made me cringe inside but was hardly able to suppress my laughter when I realized that I forgot to change the five and 10 peso coins, and more loose change totaling to almost P400 from my alkansya to bills. I couldn’t put them in the garbage can, so I have no choice but to stand watch as the huge Customs official tore through the newspaper wrapping and saw my loot.
I also brought a stuffed monkey curtain hugger (couldn’t leave him behind as he held my curtains for the past two years), books, and an odd assortment of objects no sensible traveler would ever think of carrying.
Our flight for Manila was scheduled at 7 a.m. on Tuesday last week. On Monday evening I went to NCCC mall to buy a bath towel and other necessary items, lined up at several counters to pay for my purchases while the precious time I should have spent doing final packing ticked by.
Minutes later, I was frantically stuffing things into my luggage bag, knowing that my choices were either to take them or leave them behind, never to see them again. My sentimentality won, and I had a hard time trying to coax the zippers to close as my luggage bag was loaded with unnecessary items.
My cellphone kept on ringing, messages flew in and I was getting irritated because I was under intense pressure. I should have been wise enough to turn it off or turn the ringer to silent mode to be able to concentrate on the task at hand. Multiple messages came from Grace, chiding me for still not showing up when the despedida party they were holding was for me.
When the clock struck midnight,I was almost finished but still had to deliver a roll of newspapers to columnist Jojie Alcantara at her house. Thanks for buddy Jun who came to the rescue and delivered me in his motorcycle.
At 4 a.m. I was still in Lanang, groggy with all the drinks the group plied on me since we went bar hopping when Celina texted she was going to fetch me from the boarding house. I barely made it home before she arrived stopped by and caught struggling with the huge luggage bag down the 12 steps of stairs.
Domestic flights passengers were only allowed 20 kilos of baggage and mine totaled 30 kilos. I painfully paid P367 from my wallet for the excess 10 kilos. I had to drag my super-heavy luggage bag over to the second floor of the tenement where Kuya Ariel, hubby of news editor Gigie lives in camp Crame that day and drag it across the hallways and down the stairs again the next morning.
I texted my younger brother in Marikina to come and save me from the excess baggage but changed my mind when we were informed that international flights allow us to check in 70 pounds of baggage.
I wondered what made my baggage too heavy but I dared not open it because it require me two weeks to put it back together. I hate to remember the agony I went through in dragging the heavy luggage all over the Ninoy Aquino International Airport until I was finally able to check it in. Whew, relief!
The Customs in Palau answered the puzzle. They are not equipped with x-rays and had to literally and manually inspect all items in your suitcases, and I mean EVERY item. The Custom official took everything out, shook my clothes and blankets and jeans and scrutinized all items, including underwears while everybody looks on. It made me cringe inside but was hardly able to suppress my laughter when I realized that I forgot to change the five and 10 peso coins, and more loose change totaling to almost P400 from my alkansya to bills. I couldn’t put them in the garbage can, so I have no choice but to stand watch as the huge Customs official tore through the newspaper wrapping and saw my loot.
I also brought a stuffed monkey curtain hugger (couldn’t leave him behind as he held my curtains for the past two years), books, and an odd assortment of objects no sensible traveler would ever think of carrying.
Police phobia
SEVERAL years ago, my father was recruited for work at a palm plantation somewhere in Malaysia, which he reluctantly considered due to pressing economic necessity.
Since they were there without proper documents (backdoor), they were constantly on the lookout for Malaysian authorities for if they were arrested and could not present the necessary papers, and worse still they could not express themselves in the Malaysian dialect, they would be deported.
In his two-year stint there, he had seen many Filipinos who were imprisoned, shaved and sent home penniless after they were arrested by Malaysian policemen.
Immediately after leaving Zamboanga City, they had to act like fugitives. They boarded a 'kumpit' (a small motorized banca) and my father experienced his first stab of fear as they all jumped into the water when the revolving lights of the Malaysian coast guard was trained on them. They all held onto the sides of the 'kumpit', routinely submerging their heads completely under water when the lights hit them and only resurfacing afterwards. Only the motorboat operator was seen by the coast guards.
They docked at a secret wharf in Malaysia at dawn, and right from the 'kumpit', they made a mad dash towards a truck which was hidden in the bushes, its top decorated with thick branches and leaves of trees as a camouflage, that transported them to their shelter.
My father lived in a bunkhouse in the middle of the palm plantation with other companions from Davao City and neighboring provinces. They would work under the palm tress as silently as they could and hide under the bushes when they hear the sirens of police cars passing by, going out only after they are sure of safety.
One noontime, they had just finished their lunch and were relaxing a little before going back to work when Ondoy, the 'clown' in their group who had stayed in Malaysia for quite some time already saw a man approaching the bunkhouse.
He peered at the man for a few seconds then without warning, leaped towards the door and ran away as though he was chased by demons.
Alarmed, everyone followed suit, scampering in all directions. Others leaped over the low windows and sought hiding places under the thick bushes nearby. The bunkhouse was empty and silent in a jiffy.
My father, who was new to the routine, wasn't able to run far because his foot got tangled in the root of an old tree jutting from the ground. He only managed to hide behind a big water drum very near the bunkhouse. He waited what would happen next, his heart hammering so loud that he was afraid the man would hear it.
Nervously, he peered from his hiding place and saw the man knock at the door. When no one answered, the man looked around and went around the bunkhouse, peering at the windows but left afterwards when he saw no one was about.
Everyone emerged from his hiding place, expelling huge breaths of relief that the man was not a spy from the government and that there were no policemen who came to arrest them.
Suddenly, Ondoy, who was the last to emerge from his hiding place started to laugh, and very soon he was helplessly rolling on the floor holding his tummy while his companions just stared at him as though he'd gone mad.
When he'd finally stopped laughing, he explained that the man was a Pakistani trader whom he owed several ringgits (Malaysian currency) for a set of mats and blankets, and since he didn't have the money or the desire to pay for it, he fled.
Since they were there without proper documents (backdoor), they were constantly on the lookout for Malaysian authorities for if they were arrested and could not present the necessary papers, and worse still they could not express themselves in the Malaysian dialect, they would be deported.
In his two-year stint there, he had seen many Filipinos who were imprisoned, shaved and sent home penniless after they were arrested by Malaysian policemen.
Immediately after leaving Zamboanga City, they had to act like fugitives. They boarded a 'kumpit' (a small motorized banca) and my father experienced his first stab of fear as they all jumped into the water when the revolving lights of the Malaysian coast guard was trained on them. They all held onto the sides of the 'kumpit', routinely submerging their heads completely under water when the lights hit them and only resurfacing afterwards. Only the motorboat operator was seen by the coast guards.
They docked at a secret wharf in Malaysia at dawn, and right from the 'kumpit', they made a mad dash towards a truck which was hidden in the bushes, its top decorated with thick branches and leaves of trees as a camouflage, that transported them to their shelter.
My father lived in a bunkhouse in the middle of the palm plantation with other companions from Davao City and neighboring provinces. They would work under the palm tress as silently as they could and hide under the bushes when they hear the sirens of police cars passing by, going out only after they are sure of safety.
One noontime, they had just finished their lunch and were relaxing a little before going back to work when Ondoy, the 'clown' in their group who had stayed in Malaysia for quite some time already saw a man approaching the bunkhouse.
He peered at the man for a few seconds then without warning, leaped towards the door and ran away as though he was chased by demons.
Alarmed, everyone followed suit, scampering in all directions. Others leaped over the low windows and sought hiding places under the thick bushes nearby. The bunkhouse was empty and silent in a jiffy.
My father, who was new to the routine, wasn't able to run far because his foot got tangled in the root of an old tree jutting from the ground. He only managed to hide behind a big water drum very near the bunkhouse. He waited what would happen next, his heart hammering so loud that he was afraid the man would hear it.
Nervously, he peered from his hiding place and saw the man knock at the door. When no one answered, the man looked around and went around the bunkhouse, peering at the windows but left afterwards when he saw no one was about.
Everyone emerged from his hiding place, expelling huge breaths of relief that the man was not a spy from the government and that there were no policemen who came to arrest them.
Suddenly, Ondoy, who was the last to emerge from his hiding place started to laugh, and very soon he was helplessly rolling on the floor holding his tummy while his companions just stared at him as though he'd gone mad.
When he'd finally stopped laughing, he explained that the man was a Pakistani trader whom he owed several ringgits (Malaysian currency) for a set of mats and blankets, and since he didn't have the money or the desire to pay for it, he fled.
Pride and durian fever
A TEXT message from fellow reporter Gwen interrupted my two-hour futile attempts to drift off to dreamland. The luminous hands of my bedside clock pointed to 3:15 a.m.
I groped for my cellphone in the dark.
"Raqs, di ko katulog oi, perting inita akong lawas lami kaayo iambak sa swimming pool (I can't sleep. I feel so hot if only I could jump into a swimming pool)," Gwen's message read.
I sent her an immediately reply with one word: "Mayra (You deserved that)."
I exactly understood and mirrored her feelings. I blamed it on the 18 seeds of durian each of us consumed the night before.
I challenged Gwen to a wager to eat as much durian as we could manage. I proposed a one-on-one or a seed-for-seed battle and whoever gives up must pay for the durian, otherwise, we'll split the bill fifty-fifty.
She took up the challenge and off we went to Magsaysay durian park. With zest, we started with durian number one, savoring the creamy golden pulp with relish. After just a few minutes, durian No. 1 was reduced to a pile of scraped seeds and peelings.
We started with durian No. 2 with as much gusto, inserting conversation in between mouthfuls. Determined not to loose the wager, I shifted to using three fingers instead of my usual two fingers, then four and finally five fingers.
When durian No. 3 was opened, I started to have difficulty breathing. I felt that my face was being pulled in all directions and my temperature seemed to rise to 42 degrees but I tried to hide it from Gwen but when I glanced
at her, I was relieved to see that her face too, was starting to turn red, and she was reduced to picking and pecking on her durian pulp.
I pretended to eat with the same enthusiasm but if the truth was to be told, I wanted to vomit. I monitored the pile of durian seeds whose pulp I've devoured, watching the pile grow higher as my body went weaker. I started to eye the remaining durian with disgust and hopelessness but I was determined to win.
Only my pride kept me from giving up.
Silently, I looked around for the vagabond boys that we shooed away earlier while we were starting to eat durian No. 1. They surely could help us consume it fast so that we'll get it over with, but they've evaporated.
As a child, I have always thought that only the rich could afford to buy durian, which some regarded as the "king of fruits"; the fruit with a controversial smell and fetches a very high price.
I've hungrily watched rich customers of a nearby fruitstand devour durian with such relish that their eyes would roll and only the whites would show. I vowed that I would eat as many durian fruits as I would when I grew up rich.
Those were a child's dreams. Now that the child has grown up -- alas, not rich -- she has realized that eating durian was not such a grand dream after all.
I started to sweat profusely. I was thankful for the sleeveless shirt I wore.
"The durian vendors should monitor customers who eat too much and advise them to take medicol or aspilets because they know better," I told Gwen, and she readily agreed.
Gwen must have been determined to win as much as I did, because in the end, we both won. We split the bill in half.
As soon as I boarded a jeepney for SM where I was to meet my buddy Sol, rain fell in torrents. I was soaked to the skin when I alighted from the jeep.
As a result, a developed a fever overnight, all because I didn't want to lose the wager. I learned too late that some things are not worth betting for.
I groped for my cellphone in the dark.
"Raqs, di ko katulog oi, perting inita akong lawas lami kaayo iambak sa swimming pool (I can't sleep. I feel so hot if only I could jump into a swimming pool)," Gwen's message read.
I sent her an immediately reply with one word: "Mayra (You deserved that)."
I exactly understood and mirrored her feelings. I blamed it on the 18 seeds of durian each of us consumed the night before.
I challenged Gwen to a wager to eat as much durian as we could manage. I proposed a one-on-one or a seed-for-seed battle and whoever gives up must pay for the durian, otherwise, we'll split the bill fifty-fifty.
She took up the challenge and off we went to Magsaysay durian park. With zest, we started with durian number one, savoring the creamy golden pulp with relish. After just a few minutes, durian No. 1 was reduced to a pile of scraped seeds and peelings.
We started with durian No. 2 with as much gusto, inserting conversation in between mouthfuls. Determined not to loose the wager, I shifted to using three fingers instead of my usual two fingers, then four and finally five fingers.
When durian No. 3 was opened, I started to have difficulty breathing. I felt that my face was being pulled in all directions and my temperature seemed to rise to 42 degrees but I tried to hide it from Gwen but when I glanced
at her, I was relieved to see that her face too, was starting to turn red, and she was reduced to picking and pecking on her durian pulp.
I pretended to eat with the same enthusiasm but if the truth was to be told, I wanted to vomit. I monitored the pile of durian seeds whose pulp I've devoured, watching the pile grow higher as my body went weaker. I started to eye the remaining durian with disgust and hopelessness but I was determined to win.
Only my pride kept me from giving up.
Silently, I looked around for the vagabond boys that we shooed away earlier while we were starting to eat durian No. 1. They surely could help us consume it fast so that we'll get it over with, but they've evaporated.
As a child, I have always thought that only the rich could afford to buy durian, which some regarded as the "king of fruits"; the fruit with a controversial smell and fetches a very high price.
I've hungrily watched rich customers of a nearby fruitstand devour durian with such relish that their eyes would roll and only the whites would show. I vowed that I would eat as many durian fruits as I would when I grew up rich.
Those were a child's dreams. Now that the child has grown up -- alas, not rich -- she has realized that eating durian was not such a grand dream after all.
I started to sweat profusely. I was thankful for the sleeveless shirt I wore.
"The durian vendors should monitor customers who eat too much and advise them to take medicol or aspilets because they know better," I told Gwen, and she readily agreed.
Gwen must have been determined to win as much as I did, because in the end, we both won. We split the bill in half.
As soon as I boarded a jeepney for SM where I was to meet my buddy Sol, rain fell in torrents. I was soaked to the skin when I alighted from the jeep.
As a result, a developed a fever overnight, all because I didn't want to lose the wager. I learned too late that some things are not worth betting for.
Reflections on some Chinese New Year's traditions
VIEWED from any angle, not a single centimeter of my whole being looks or resembles the Chinese yet I was all ears when businesswoman Edna Co, a feng shui expert, told us some traditions practiced by the Chinese in celebrating new year during one of the press conferences last week.
Let me share them with you. These includes some practical tips to welcome the new year on the evening of January 21.
* A week before the new year, everyone is advised to engage in spring cleaning, or "cleaning to the max", meaning to clean all nooks and crannies in one's house, including cobwebs in the mind and soul.
(Nah... I'm an eternal clutter, maybe by the time I finish cleaning everything, another year will have passed and I would have created more clutter. As for cobwebs in the soul, I think the layer is too thick it will require another year to clear them all.)
* On new year's eve, all brooms, mops and knives must be wrapped in cloth, tied with a red ribbon and must be hidden. No one is supposed to use them on new year's day to avoid conflicts and exchange of hurting words, and to avoid cutting the "luck" of the New Year.
* Buy red things with Chinese characters- they bring good things, Chewroh-Pin'an and K'ng Huat for peace for instance. Hang these in your house and you'll get whatever you wish for.
* Display ponkans and oranges in homes and stores. Tangerines are symbolic of good luck, and oranges are symbolic of wealth. (I surely could use both - good luck and wealth but I'm too stingy to buy them)
* Prepare wealth baskets. Get a small basket, lay a red cloth at the bottom and put one or two kilos of rice on the cloth. Next, get a red envelope (called Lai-See or Hong-Bao) and put money inside. If you want to be very wealthy, put money of all denominations inside the envelope and put the envelop under the rice. Place the basket beside a mirror so that the reflection will double the bounty in the wealth basket.
(Note: basket, red cloth, rice and envelope easy to comply with. The problem is I don't have a complete set of the denominations of money. As if you don't know how fast money slips through one's fingers. In short, since I have nothing, I will have 'double nothing' for the whole year! Uh-uhh...)
* After the new year, cook the rice and eat this with all members of the family to symbolize peace and unity. Even if a family member could not attend, an empty seat would be kept to symbolize that person's presence at the banquet.
(There would be more empty seats than occupied ones in my family because we're separated by distance)
* The money inside the envelope is not to be spent but be deposited in the bank. (This is the hardest part, don't you agree? The best advise I can give you is to go straight to the bank and deposit the money before the temptation to go malling gets too strong.)
* Speaking manners is very important during the new year.
The "It's-not-what-you-say-but-how-you-say-it" that matters most. Do not lie on new year's day, especially on money matters or you'll be lying your way the whole year through, moneyless, too.
(If you borrow money from me, I'll be honest and tell you sweetly that it is intended for other purposes, which does not include my letting you borrow some... urggh.)
* Prepare something for the kitchen god. By tradition, the Kitchen God or Zaowang leaves the house on the night after new year to report to heaven on the behavior of the family. To obtain a favorable report from the Kitchen God, the family will do everything possible, including giving him a ritualistic farewell dinner with sweet foods and honey. Popular in the Philippines is "tikoy", a sweet concoction made form sticky rice and sprinkled with sesame seeds. Some said this is to bribe the kitchen god and seal his mouth from saying bad things.
(Hehee- even though I'm not a kitchen god, I love to eat tikoy but it doesn't have the same effect on me. It only leaves me craving for more.)
* Another ancient custom during the new year is the Lai-See, also called Hong Bao, meaning Red Packet. This involves married couples giving children and unmarried adults money in red envelopes, to wish them goodluck in finding their future partners.
(I sure could use the money inside the envelope but I'm not so sure about the 'future partner' thing... Maybe I'll just take care of this matter myself...)
Kung Hei Fat Choi (Have a blissful New Year to all)!
Let me share them with you. These includes some practical tips to welcome the new year on the evening of January 21.
* A week before the new year, everyone is advised to engage in spring cleaning, or "cleaning to the max", meaning to clean all nooks and crannies in one's house, including cobwebs in the mind and soul.
(Nah... I'm an eternal clutter, maybe by the time I finish cleaning everything, another year will have passed and I would have created more clutter. As for cobwebs in the soul, I think the layer is too thick it will require another year to clear them all.)
* On new year's eve, all brooms, mops and knives must be wrapped in cloth, tied with a red ribbon and must be hidden. No one is supposed to use them on new year's day to avoid conflicts and exchange of hurting words, and to avoid cutting the "luck" of the New Year.
* Buy red things with Chinese characters- they bring good things, Chewroh-Pin'an and K'ng Huat for peace for instance. Hang these in your house and you'll get whatever you wish for.
* Display ponkans and oranges in homes and stores. Tangerines are symbolic of good luck, and oranges are symbolic of wealth. (I surely could use both - good luck and wealth but I'm too stingy to buy them)
* Prepare wealth baskets. Get a small basket, lay a red cloth at the bottom and put one or two kilos of rice on the cloth. Next, get a red envelope (called Lai-See or Hong-Bao) and put money inside. If you want to be very wealthy, put money of all denominations inside the envelope and put the envelop under the rice. Place the basket beside a mirror so that the reflection will double the bounty in the wealth basket.
(Note: basket, red cloth, rice and envelope easy to comply with. The problem is I don't have a complete set of the denominations of money. As if you don't know how fast money slips through one's fingers. In short, since I have nothing, I will have 'double nothing' for the whole year! Uh-uhh...)
* After the new year, cook the rice and eat this with all members of the family to symbolize peace and unity. Even if a family member could not attend, an empty seat would be kept to symbolize that person's presence at the banquet.
(There would be more empty seats than occupied ones in my family because we're separated by distance)
* The money inside the envelope is not to be spent but be deposited in the bank. (This is the hardest part, don't you agree? The best advise I can give you is to go straight to the bank and deposit the money before the temptation to go malling gets too strong.)
* Speaking manners is very important during the new year.
The "It's-not-what-you-say-but-how-you-say-it" that matters most. Do not lie on new year's day, especially on money matters or you'll be lying your way the whole year through, moneyless, too.
(If you borrow money from me, I'll be honest and tell you sweetly that it is intended for other purposes, which does not include my letting you borrow some... urggh.)
* Prepare something for the kitchen god. By tradition, the Kitchen God or Zaowang leaves the house on the night after new year to report to heaven on the behavior of the family. To obtain a favorable report from the Kitchen God, the family will do everything possible, including giving him a ritualistic farewell dinner with sweet foods and honey. Popular in the Philippines is "tikoy", a sweet concoction made form sticky rice and sprinkled with sesame seeds. Some said this is to bribe the kitchen god and seal his mouth from saying bad things.
(Hehee- even though I'm not a kitchen god, I love to eat tikoy but it doesn't have the same effect on me. It only leaves me craving for more.)
* Another ancient custom during the new year is the Lai-See, also called Hong Bao, meaning Red Packet. This involves married couples giving children and unmarried adults money in red envelopes, to wish them goodluck in finding their future partners.
(I sure could use the money inside the envelope but I'm not so sure about the 'future partner' thing... Maybe I'll just take care of this matter myself...)
Kung Hei Fat Choi (Have a blissful New Year to all)!
Restroom tales
IF restroom walls could talk, they would have been a rich source of gossip and information that would have filled huge volumes of books when recorded.
Restrooms are the places in department stores, schools and any other establishment where ladies (men, too) flock, stare in the mirror, brush their hair or retouch their makeup and exchange the latest gossip on almost any topic under the sun.
I don't know about the men's restrooms because I haven't dared visit one but in the ladies' restrooms, there is more talk and more women crowd the mirrors.
It is interesting to stay in the restroom if you want to keep up with the latest trends in clothes, makeup, cellphones, housekeeping tips and learn about whose dating who.
People rarely use the restrooms to answer the call of nature because few could dare to drop a hard round "log" on the bowl and spread the odor for all to smell.
I went to the restroom in a department store in Cotabato City one morning to relieve my kidneys but found a long line of women waiting for their turn. There were only two bathroom stalls and one was out of order. To add to that inconvenience, there was no water.
Oh sheesh! Talk about sacrifice.
I rushed through with my business when my turn came but soon found that the door would not open. I pulled the door but it refused to budge. I was trapped with the horrible smell. When I looked closely, I discovered that the direction of the door was outwards. I pushed the door with all my might and hit the face of the woman waiting for her turn. I hurried away after apologizing.
To answer the call of relief from my kidneys just recently, I excused myself from a press coverage in one of the establishments here in Davao city and sought the direction of the restroom.
It was not easy for there were countless branches in the corridors but luckily, I did find a restroom before making a mess of myself and wetting my pants.
It was obvious that the wing of the building was not used much and I had the whole restroom to myself. I felt uneasy and hurriedly completed my business. I was about to go out when I heard a girl enter the next stall and started talking to somebody in hushed tones.
The girl started giggling and I discovered that she was talking with somebody on her cellphone. She talked in a childish tone and asked whoever was on the other end of the phone to buy her a bracelet and change her cellphone with the latest model equipped with a camera.
The girl's voice was very familiar and without meaning too, I learned that she was involved in an illicit affair and she was talking to her lover.
Maybe the girl was thinking that she was using a private restroom or she may have thought that no one would use the restroom in that wing.
Afraid of being discovered that I learned too much, I stayed where I was and prayed that she (whoever she was) would go out soon because I was getting red in the face trying to stifle a cough.
With the poor airconditioning inside the restroom, sweat was already pouring from my forehead. It seemed like forever (if you consider 32 minutes as forever) before she finally bid goodbye, turned off her cellphone and went out of the stall.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I thought I was free at last but the girl still did not go out. She hummed to herself and stayed infront of the mirror.
When she finally went out of the restroom, only then was I able to release the cough I held. I went out after a few minutes and went back to the press briefing. Trapped for almost an hour in the restroom was not a pleasant experience and I got a hiccup for stifling my cough.
The next time you enter a public restroom, remember that the place is public and the walls have eyes and ears and can stifle coughs.
Restrooms are the places in department stores, schools and any other establishment where ladies (men, too) flock, stare in the mirror, brush their hair or retouch their makeup and exchange the latest gossip on almost any topic under the sun.
I don't know about the men's restrooms because I haven't dared visit one but in the ladies' restrooms, there is more talk and more women crowd the mirrors.
It is interesting to stay in the restroom if you want to keep up with the latest trends in clothes, makeup, cellphones, housekeeping tips and learn about whose dating who.
People rarely use the restrooms to answer the call of nature because few could dare to drop a hard round "log" on the bowl and spread the odor for all to smell.
I went to the restroom in a department store in Cotabato City one morning to relieve my kidneys but found a long line of women waiting for their turn. There were only two bathroom stalls and one was out of order. To add to that inconvenience, there was no water.
Oh sheesh! Talk about sacrifice.
I rushed through with my business when my turn came but soon found that the door would not open. I pulled the door but it refused to budge. I was trapped with the horrible smell. When I looked closely, I discovered that the direction of the door was outwards. I pushed the door with all my might and hit the face of the woman waiting for her turn. I hurried away after apologizing.
To answer the call of relief from my kidneys just recently, I excused myself from a press coverage in one of the establishments here in Davao city and sought the direction of the restroom.
It was not easy for there were countless branches in the corridors but luckily, I did find a restroom before making a mess of myself and wetting my pants.
It was obvious that the wing of the building was not used much and I had the whole restroom to myself. I felt uneasy and hurriedly completed my business. I was about to go out when I heard a girl enter the next stall and started talking to somebody in hushed tones.
The girl started giggling and I discovered that she was talking with somebody on her cellphone. She talked in a childish tone and asked whoever was on the other end of the phone to buy her a bracelet and change her cellphone with the latest model equipped with a camera.
The girl's voice was very familiar and without meaning too, I learned that she was involved in an illicit affair and she was talking to her lover.
Maybe the girl was thinking that she was using a private restroom or she may have thought that no one would use the restroom in that wing.
Afraid of being discovered that I learned too much, I stayed where I was and prayed that she (whoever she was) would go out soon because I was getting red in the face trying to stifle a cough.
With the poor airconditioning inside the restroom, sweat was already pouring from my forehead. It seemed like forever (if you consider 32 minutes as forever) before she finally bid goodbye, turned off her cellphone and went out of the stall.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I thought I was free at last but the girl still did not go out. She hummed to herself and stayed infront of the mirror.
When she finally went out of the restroom, only then was I able to release the cough I held. I went out after a few minutes and went back to the press briefing. Trapped for almost an hour in the restroom was not a pleasant experience and I got a hiccup for stifling my cough.
The next time you enter a public restroom, remember that the place is public and the walls have eyes and ears and can stifle coughs.
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?
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?
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