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Archive for the ‘Travel’ Category

In Bagasbas, one does not denounce the crowd. One just ogles.

With plans to return to Caramoan cancelled, I got invited by Iona, my officemate, to a surfing trip to Bagasbas. The town is about 15 minutes away from the chaos of Daet, the capital of Camarines Norte. Since I was already in Legaspi City, I decided to go.

Incidentally, the trip to Daet could be described by the building blocks of Pinoy erotic stories – masikip, mainit, minsan may amoy. From one point in the region to another, one has to take GTExpress vans, a proof that sardine cans can indeed be used as instruments of transportation. These vans also uphold Al Gore’s principles on ecological interconnectedness: a case of flatulence inside these vans is a good reminder that indeed we share what we breathe. Read the rest of this entry »

Because Jae omitted certain details, I feel compelled to make this confession: somebody farted in the van. Not once but twice. It was so strong and life-threatening, but the driver adamantly refused to open the windows, as if he wanted his passengers to have a bonding moment. It was only after the second assault that he finally relented. By then Clang/Christine was already spraying her perfume all over the place to mask the coma-inducing odor.

We were on our way to Sabang, which is two hours away from Naga City. The boat ride from Sabang to Guijalo Port, the gateway to the islands of Caramoan, would take another two hours. We junked the tour package that would have costed each of us around P7,000 for a Do-It-Yourself trip, and in return we had a weekend of adventure, scented road trips, hours of chismisan and Jae’s constant shrieking.   Read the rest of this entry »

Today is the 40th day of the sinking of the MV Princess of the Stars, a maritime tragedy that led to the death of about 800 passengers. An unknown number of bodies remain stuck inside the ship, along with several toxic cargoes, and the ship is still visible just a few meters off the shorelines of Sibuyan Island, its hull sticking out of the funereal, otherworldly calmness of the sea. For several weeks now, our office has been participating in the congressional inquiry on the disaster.

If the congressional inquiry has led to anything, it is this: a tragedy of that magnitude couldn’t have been an act of God or fate. Ignore the grandstanding of legislators who could only think in terms of soundbites. Some questions that were raised during the hearing actually point to the root of the disaster, and they tell us that the archipelago is actually littered with floating coffins.

For instance, why are roll-on, roll-off (Ro-ro) ships like the MV Princess of the Stars being used in the Philippines when in fact they are not suitable for open seas? Evidence points to the fact that Ro-ros are among the most dangerous ships to use for navigation. They are strictly regulated in other countries: they can’t sail for more than 10 miles, are only allowed to sail in inland waters, and only if they are near the shoreline. It is not appropriate for the wave height of open seas even under normal weather, so just imagine how difficult it was to steer MV Princess of the Stars when it was already in the middle of the storm. Compared to other types of sea vessels, Ro-ros sink fast because of its design; survivors of the recent tragedy all said that the ship sank fifteen minutes after the ship’s master issued his abandon call. Read the rest of this entry »

You don’t know what it means to be Filipino until you’ve met Filipinos abroad. Our sense of hospitality is amplified when we are in foreign lands: we cook improvised sinigang, with lemons replacing tamarind, to feed fellow Filipinos, even if they are virtually strangers. We once met a Filipina in the northernmost part of Sweden, and after the initial excitement she nonchalantly invited some of us to do our laundry in her home. We don’t let go easily of our faith as well. We troop to and fill up Catholic churches abroad not only to fulfill religious obligations but also to satisfy our desire to gossip.

Airports are fascinating laboratories of our diasporic quirks. In a short lay over in Brisbane, and due to the airport’s frustratingly disorganized state, I met a Filipina mother who, with tons of bags and two kids, was also struggling to find the Qantas flight to Melbourne. It turned out that we have to transfer to the domestic airport, which was about a few minutes away by train from the international airport. Taking the train, however, meant that we might miss our flight, so we decided to get a cab instead. I helped her with her luggage while checking in, and she paid for the cab. Nifty. But it turned out that she didn’t have enough Australian dollars, and I hadn’t had my money changed yet, so she gave the driver an additional 500 pesos. He politely refused, and took whatever Ozzie money she had.

The meeting was still pretty charming at that point, and her kids – one was five years old, the other was three – were really cute. Then she became seriously inquisitive, an adjective that only Filipinos could ever justify. Indians are argumentative, but inquisitiveness is a patented Filipino trait.

“May asawa ka na?” she asked. Brutal, straight to the point. Read the rest of this entry »

G.P. Koirala, the leader of the Nepali Congress Party, is back as the country’s Prime Minister. After weeks of demonstration, Nepalese King Gyanendra decided to hand over political power to the civilian authority by reconvening the parliament that he unceremoniously dissolved early 2005. People across the globe celebrated the victory of People Power in Nepal.

I hope that this victory would lead to concrete democratic gains. Nepal has suffered so long from deep poverty and a protracted insurgency, the latter partly a result of dissatisfaction over the monarchy’s strong political and economic influence in the country.

Caution, however, should be exercised. The ball is now in the hands of the ruling Nepali Congress Party and its ‘split’ sister, the Nepali Congress Democratic. The international community has a role in pressuring both parties not to make mistakes as they did when they were still under one party.
Read the rest of this entry »

We went out of BBs, a bar in south Jakarta, a little exhausted from a potent combination of work and the city’s heat and pollution. Anja rightly remarked that in Jakarta, smoking is an unnecessary vice: the pollution gets into you, a lethal irritation that one has to accept, as if the city is a chain smoker too old, too stubborn to have its ways corrected.

In BBs, the food is great and the rats shameless – they scamper around, making their mock rallies in the wooden beams just below the ceiling and delivering their protest speeches just above our heads. We are in Jakarta’s well off neighborhood, and the vermins are there to openly defy the opulent houses, tall buildings and criss-crossing fly-overs that were built in one of the world’s most inequitable economic growth: they are there to remind us that not all forms of wealth can erase poverty and decay.

Lust, too, is nowhere to be found. Jakarta, despite being more metropolitan than the rest of Indonesia, is still largely an Islamic area. Lust, love, and intimacy are getting more invisible by the day. In the parliament, a proposed law against pornography is being pushed by conservative lawmakers. If it gets enacted, even corporal realities like the arms or the legs of women need to be hidden from sight to avoid tempting men.

But as in other cities, Jakarta’s charms and secrets can be found in unexpected places. This time, I found the most surprising thing in a street corner. Under the skilled hands of a vendor, I came upon the delicate art of moon-birthing: you just need a pan greased with about two tablespoons of oil, batter mixed with fragrant aromas and spices, melted chocolate or bits of cheese, and sweet butter. It is called martabak, or moonlight, a sweet cake that can give you celestial dreams. Just one bite and you get that strange feeling that the moon rises from your stomach.

What struck me most about the entire trip was the uncanny loneliness of the whole place. Mindanao is known for bloodshed and conflict, the cacophony of its forests replaced by gunshots and war cries. But traveling around the island made me feel its isolation; it is inhabited and yet primodial. I completely felt like a stranger; a visa would have been fit.

From Cotabato City, we went to General Santos City, then we left, via Davao, for Cagayan de Oro City. We then took the ferry in Misamis Occidental to go to Zamboanga Sibugay, and finally, to Zamboanga City, where I took the flight back to Manila. It was more than work: it was too moving.

In Cotabato City, a sleepless town, we went to a Christian university where the toilets for men are virtual advertisements for blow jobs (where you’ll also meet Istadz: a name you can’t trust, but a name you can crust crushed). The city – a proud site of rebellion against the Catholic Philippines – is made up of cultures so diverse that the people decided to speak the language of Luzon, bastardized and cannibalized, to understand each other. In General Santos City, we got off the bus in front of a barangay hall in the outskirts of the City, where gay boys were decorating the stage for Ms. General Santos City, taking turns in sashaying on the ramps of the stage, as if by doing it several times, or through the shrill of their voice alone, they would undress Mindanao of its muslimness.

In the border between Bukidnon and Davao (called Buda Pass), we were asked to disembark and step on some chemicals that would prevent the spread of the dreaded foot and mouth disease. I was so dizzy and sleepy from all the traveling that I didn’t notice the elevation of the place. I would have fallen off in the farthest corner of the country while dreaming.

And when we arrived in Cagayan de Oro, I was amazed by the city’s buzz and movements. There I met cross-dressing gay designers who professed their disdain for cross-dressing parloristas. They brought me to a beach a few minutes away from the center of the city, where the shore didn’t seem to end and the water didn’t seem to deepen. We hitched in a seminary’s van to go back to the city. Just before I left I met a man – generally, a rather rare incident when I travel – who, in his computer shop, made bold moves to get my number.

Time stopped and was subsequently discarded when we went to Zamboanga Sibugay from Cagayan de Oro. There, a hostility against order and promptness was the norm – buses and vans took their time because things just can’t be done sooner. It was even more slow when we reached Sibugay, and the isolation of Ipil, the capital town, which was attacked and razed by a group of atrocious bandits a few years ago, made me feel surprisingly claustrophobic. I wanted to leave the town the moment we were done and I felt so glad we did.

Finally, in Zamboanga City, I was accompanied by gay muslims and gay Catholics who gave no shit about what the Pope and Mohammed said. There, in a city known for its poverty and sharp divide between the rich and the poor, the Catholic Church built a cathedral that looks like an international airport and cost about 80 million pesos. My friend, God (or whomever he praises these days) bless his soul, was busy organizing the first-ever province-wide Gay beauty contest in Basilan, a few hours from the city and one of the most muslim places in Mindanao. It is also the bailiwick of the Abu Sayyaf, which is known to behead homosexuals.

Suddenly I pined for the constancy of my place in the mad streets of Metro Manila. And just when I thought I’d finally be free of the bizarreness of Mindanao, a street vendor approached me in Zamboanga City’s international airport. He offered, in the following order, some Hollywood movies (pirated, of course), straight porn, m2m porn (this he nonchalantly offered after I declined to buy the first two items), and later, erection-sustaining lotions.