Locked in the confession room

A one-hour notice last Friday brought me and four other companions to Manila to cover the final night of ABS-CBN’s Pinoy Big Brother (PBB) celebrity edition 2 reality show last Friday. With such a short notice, we missed our 7:30 p.m. flight but we stayed by at the Davao International Airport hoping for a chance at the fully booked last flight at 9 p.m. Luckily, the rain must have caused some passengers to back out and we were accommodated.

The day after the big night, the famous Bahay ni Kuya was finally vacated, and after an interview with PBB winner Ruben Gonzaga, we were allowed to come in the house we had seen so much on television.

I went looking for the only room I was so curious about, the confession room. It was a room which has been a mute witness to all the emotions poured by the housemates, the room where instructions, decisions, sentiments and punishments were meted out by the voice of Big Brother. Finally, I located it at the farthest end passing the bathrooms and the punishment room. We went inside the mirror-covered room and I felt as if I were inside a room from a Chinese movie.

The famous red-padded seat occupied the center of the room, facing a huge TV screen and a camera. I sat on the chair and tucked my legs in, putting the throw pillow on my lap.

To make the effect complete, I went to the open door and closed it for total privacy. The resounding click seemed to come with a sense of finality in it but I did not pay much attention. We were so busy taking souvenir photos, pretending to talk to the invisible big brother on the microphone. When we were ready to go out, a surprise awaited us. The door refused to budge.

I twisted the knob and poked and pried but nothing happened. My companions Cris of Mindanao Times tried, Althea of ABS-CBN tried, but no matter what we did, the door remained firmly shut. We called out to the persons who were outside but they couldn’t open it either. We were locked from within. It seemed unnatural as the door latch looked normal but I began to get worried in case it was broken and we would have to wait until somebody repairs it. Uneasiness was slowly creeping inside me in that windowless room full of mirrors.

A few minutes before we were allowed to go in, I kept saying what if we would be locked and would not be allowed to go out? I could just imagine hearing the voice of Big Brother telling us we could not go out but stay for the “PBB media surprise edition 1”. Ha-ha, what a comforting thought but I was sure that the Kuya must have taken a day off from his house after the 84-day session with the latest celebrity edition

After almost 10 minutes of banging and shouting, I heard another click from somewhere up and door opened. Our host had a big laugh to discover that it was us who were trapped. What we were not aware of was that the door to the confession room was set with electronic locks. Somebody has to go to the controls to unlock the door. Thankfully, it was Sunday and there was not much traffic going to the airport. Otherwise, we would have missed our flight again and that was an idea I did not relish.

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 )

'Arrested’ at the terminal

Sunday, September 9, 2007
By Raquel C. Bagnol / Local Color

A WAVE of nostalgia swept over me as I stood inside the Ecoland bus terminal a few days ago, taking in the whole scenario and noticing a lot of changes after just 21 months of being away.
Gone was the jovial atmosphere when the terminal served as a huge arrival and departure area, bustling with life and activity and filled with people from all walks of life. The whole place is now fenced and strictly secured, serving only as a mechanical jump off point for passengers.
Everyone is required to go in through only two entrances and one exit point, bags will be checked and passengers frisked. Nevertheless, it was still the same terminal which I considered my second ‘home’ before I decided to settle for a regular job in Davao.

Finding the urge to capture human interest stories to file in my image bank, I excitedly fished out my point and shoot 'toy' camera from my shoulder bag and looked for an interesting angle. Little did I know that just two shutter clicks later, I would be 'arrested', right at the place I called 'home' for a long time.

The first frame captured passengers about to board a bus, while the second captured the familiar row of small stores displaying pasalubong and food items. Turning around, I trained the focus on a vendor busily selling waffles in a stall and was about to press the shutter when my target unexpectedly went out of focus and a uniformed Task Force member filled the frame. Surprised, I looked up and heard a shout at the same time.

"Why are you taking pictures? Where are you working? Did you ask permission from our chief?" were just three of the barrage of questions the soldier fired at me that registered. As can be expected, a crowd started to gather around me and I did not like it a bit. I thought the soldier's attitude out of hand as he brought me to a police officer and reported as though he was very sure he caught a spy or a terrorist red-handed. The two started to lecture me on security protocol, blah, blah within earshot of the crowd even after I presented a couple of reporter's identification cards and handing over my camera. I told them they can just erase the two photos if it was going to cause too much trouble but they insisted on taking me to their chief. I saw no problem with that so I went with them. Thankfully, the chief listened and explained it was just security measure. He told me nicely that I if I wanted to take photos, I only need to coordinate with them and there's no problem. He let me go after a few minutes.

I wanted to tell that TF member that if I had wanted to “plot,” I don't need a camera because I had spent a good part of my life in that very terminal, helping my stall-owner friends serve coffee to customers and sleeping on folding beds each night, suffering the cold rain or the bite of mosquitoes and waking up at 5 a.m. when all folding beds have to “disappear from sight.”
I wanted to tell him that the daily routine of the place was familiar to me from the time the first bus leaves or the last bus arrives, even the passengers' mixed reactions of anger or irritation as the vendors grab them and shove durian candies at their faces.

Most of all, I wanted to tell him that I know how shocking it feels to jolted out of your sleep because of an explosion, because I was there, a few meters away from the first bus which was ripped it to pieces by a bomb a few years back.
I guess homesickness prompted me to take photos of everything -- the streets, the jeeps, hotels and buildings, food, children, trisikads, sidewalk vendors, parks, durian, and almost everything that is Davao. I still take photos but I'm now cautious because I don't fancy capturing a uniformed soldier again or face an interrogation after.
Maybe posting 'no taking of pictures inside the terminal premises' signs can prevent others from doing so without proper coordination.

Ah, I miss the old Ecoland terminal where men in uniform were still scarce because although they present safety and security, their scarcity before meant the non-existence of the threat of terrorism.
http://www.sunstar.com.ph/weekendDavao/09-09-2007/story1.html

Underneath the 'ukay-ukay' heap

I SAVE money through buying second hand clothing, the ukay-ukay. Those who have not ventured into these ukay-ukay you'll be surprised to discover a lot of awesome clothes and other items there, including designer clothes at incredibly discounted prices. It helps a lot of you dig in.

When I have the luxury of time I usually rummage in the ukay-ukay stalls in Claveria, Magsaysay Avenue and in Bankerohan with no intention to buy anything but usually I find a lot of stuff worth buying at such low prices.

I would willingly overturn a big mountain of ukay-ukay upside down over and over again simply to kill time, or for just the sheer enjoyment as other customers would watch and pull whatever items took their fancy.

Ukay-ukay prices nicely fit my budget. Who would have thought that t-shirts priced at P150-P300 at department stores could be bought at P35 each, or 3-for-P100.

I'm not particularly brand concious but I'm particular about the appearance of the clothes-they must not look over-used, no stains, no tears, and most of all, wallet-friendly.

In the past I would often buy clothes and items I really don't need but put them up for re-sale to someone whom the clothing would suit, earning a few pesos in the process.

In one of my ukay-ukay ventures in the city just recently, I unearthed a white-flowered blue scarf with tassel from a huge mountain of newly-opened (kuno) ukay-ukay. It was about one meter long and except for a small tear in one corner, it looked almost brand new.
It could be used as a blanket, towel, mat, skirt or even a head cover. When I inquired about the price of the scarf, the saleswoman immediately said P35.

Wow! Talk about luck! I hastily dug into my wallet and paid for the scarf in case the woman might change her mind and increase the price when she finds out just how pretty it was.

I was so proud of myself when I left the stall with my 'find'. Unfortunately, I was just a few meters away from the ukay-ukay stall when a woman came running to me and claimed that the scarf was hers.

"But I was the one who unearthed the scarf from beneath that huge mountain of ukay-ukay!," I argued.

"Okay you found it, but THAT SCARF is MINE! I lost hold of it while rummaging through the ukay-ukay. Look, there's even my initials on the bottom of it- C.G., check it!" the woman insisted.

Left with nothing to do, I opened the plastic bag and pulled out the scarf, which by that time I had already considered as mine.
True enough, the letters C.G. which the woman claimed as her initials was scribbled in black ink at one corner of the scarf. We went back to the salesgirl to claim my P35 from her.

(Un)fastfood tales

BEFORE you tell me that not all people have problems with fast food outlets and their services, let me clarify: This is not a sweeping condemnation. Nope, not at all.

But its a stark reality that there are some fastfoods that would take almost a lifetime for food to get to the table from the moment it was ordered.

I went inside one of the 24-hour restaurants in San Pedro Street to fill my grumbling stomach after I came out from an internet cafe at two oclock one morning. Three waitresses were chatting with each other while a couple of others were flirting with two obviously-drunk customers. Another waitress was slumped on one table, asleep.

Nobody came to get my order until I was about to stand up and leave. One of the three waitresses came to me and handed me a menu. Too sleepy to peruse the menu thoroughly, I ordered egg soup and a serving of toasted bread to go with it.

"Hala mam, di man na parison (They're not compatible)!" the waitress said presuming a know-it-all attitude.

My eyebrows shot up and almost went over my forehead.

"Hellooo Miss, its no business of yours what I order as long as it's in YOUR menu, and I'm the one who will pay my order, not you!" I said in an irritated voice.

She went back to the kitchen grumbling that I was almost tempted to drag her by the hair to the restaurant manager.

In another occasion, I barely had an hour left before the last trip of the bus leaves for home when I ordered a take-out chicken meal at one of the prominent fastfoods in the city.

After 30 minutes, I still haven't got my order as the fastfood staff promised.

I called a passing waiter and asked him innocently if the chicken has been butchered yet. Not understanding my question, his mouth opened and his face registered confusion as he passed my question to another waiter who laughed heartily and came to my table.

"Ma'am, sori gyod naihaw na baya pero nakabuhi pa gyod," he apologized and told me he will follow it up in the kitchen.

Luckily I managed to catch the last bus for home.

Just recently, co-reporter Aurea ordered a mango shake as appetizer while waiting for our dinner in one of the beach resorts in the city.

We heard the whirling sound of the blender which stopped after a few minutes.

But no mango shake was served. We heard the sound of the blender again and I said maybe the waitress used unripe mango to require such a long time in preparation.

Several minutes later, a flushed waitress came out carrying Aurea's mango shake.

"Maam I'm very sorry for the long wait because I put iodized salt on the shake instead of sugar, they looked the same kasi," she apologized.

After a forty-five minutes wait, I swear the grumbling of our stomach could almost compete with the noise from the videoke machine when I remembered that what we ordered was just kinilaw and therefore needs no cooking.

I called the solitary waitress on duty when she passed by bringing a set of beddings towards one of the cottages and asked about our dinner.

"Hala ma'am, I forgot, kinilaw man to no? Kadali na lang gyod," she assured us.

The "just a few minutes" turned out to be another 15 minutes before she sheepishly approached our table, this time to tell us that the malasugui fish we ordered was no longer suitable for kinilaw. Imagine it took her exactly one hour to tell us that!

We opted to order fried tuna belly in lieu of the kinilaw and settled to wait some more. Thirty minutes later, the waitress aproached us and immediately, we panicked because we were not prepared to accept any more disaster stories from her.

She told us sweetly that the fish is nearly cooked but we knew she was not telling the truth because it took eight minutes before we heard the swishing sound of oil as the fish was dropped in the pan. Hunger sharpens the hearing and imagination I suppose.

Lesson learned? If you want fast food service, don't order from a menu. Go to a turo-turo eatery instead and get what you want in a few seconds.

Ahh, and I've always thought 'fastfood' restaurants were aptly named.

Watching the sunrise

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.*