The act repeats itself, a testimony to the truth that we have more than one heart, and the best argument why we can’t spare that many.

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.

From Legaspi, I took the two-hour GTExpress trip to Naga City (P125 fare), then another two-hour trip to Daet with another GTExpress van (P145 fare). No need for entertainment, I assure you that you’re senses will be constantly teased and tested the entire time.

I met up with Iona, JP (her hubby and the ex that I never had), and their daughter, monster Aya, in Daet. Bagasbas was less than 15 minutes away from the city (one may take a tricycle for P50); JP drove, each curse from him an indictment of Daet’s messy streets.

It was my turn to hurl invectives when we reached Bagasbas.

No, not at the boys (Never!). It would be my first time to surf, and the waves were screaming punyeta. They could easily trash a wimp like me.

Once there, I got introduced to the entire group. It was a motley crew – Iona, JP, and the baby; Iona’s brother, RJ, and his friend Rod; and Iona’s cousin Tony, with her friend Jewel. Some of us were Bagasbas newbies, while the others have been there several times, even before the spot became popular.

Bagasbas has its own local surfing community. We stayed in Surf Shack – the name self-descriptive – and it is open to surfers and surfing enthusiasts. It has an old poso (water pump) where one could wash, a toilet, and enough space to accommodate several tents. Surf Shack is comfortable enough if you are used to the outdoors, otherwise dressing up would require a little bit of talent.

The restaurants in the area are worth exploring. Leo’s serves tasty buttered chicken (P125) and other cheap meals, and don’t miss the whale bones on display near its front window. There are cheaper karinderia meals near the beach, and for P10 to P15 one could get a generous, delectable servings of laing (taro leaves in coconut milk) or kinunot (a spicy dish made of shredded sting-ray or shark meat, also in coconut milk). 

My first lesson, courtesy of Iona, was on boogie-boarding (also called body-boarding). It is shorter than a surfing board, and in bodyboarding you ride the waves in a prone position. It looks simple, and you could actually do several tricks with a boogie board. In my case, I discovered that one could get trashed and pounded by the waves with the use of a boogie board. Cool.

Surf gang: me, JP, Iona, Rod, RJ with baby Aya, Tony, and Jewel

There was a surfing festival that weekend – thus the crowd, which can be subdivided into the boys and the chicks and the ogling mob in between. For P500, I enrolled in the surfing clinic (which included a session with a trainor, a free shirt and a pair of sandals). I used a long board, the operative word is long: it is twice my height, and more stable. I managed to stand up a few times (ehem). 

Later, we went to San Jose, a village near Bagasbas. It was less crowded, the waves bigger, and the current so strong it could drag you from one side of the beach to a separate republic.

San Jose, for me, is pretty hardcore. For surfers, though, it is just ‘solid’ or ‘steady’, the equivalent of ‘keri’, ‘kerms’, ‘kerminess’, and ‘keribell’ in surfer slang. For example:

Question 1: “Kamusta ang mango shake?”

Surfer Answer: “Ayos, solid!”

Question 2: “Kamusta naman dito?”

Surfer Answer: “Ok naman, steady lang.” 

Solid or steady, Bagasbas can hit you, and hit you hard. My first surfing experience happened just when the waves were at their furious peak. After the demonstration and armed with an obnoxiously looong long board, I went out into the sea, the water level up to my chin but the waves reaching much higher, screaming “Midget!” as they rush and break into the shore. I was told to get into the board, and I did, and I was told to paddle, and paddle I did until I could feel the board riding the wave. I pushed myself against the board, and for a few glorious seconds I was able to stand up, gliding, riding: the sensation of being carried by a monster.

Suddenly my left foot slipped into the water, and I was under, the liquid air tasting salty, sand and shards of broken corals scraping my body, and my face assaulted by fierce and restless bubbles. Then, finally, the act of initiation: the long board hit my head, the sound of which, I was later told, was so loud it was heard by someone in my group. I got thumped on the head, and like a beast I got branded. Bagasbas has etched itself in my mind, and at that moment all I could think of is that I want more.

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.  

Traveling to Caramoan was an orientation of the rules that govern the Philippines’ public transportation system. There is no system in the first place. Expect hours of waiting, of haggling with drivers, of jeepney rides that affirm the laws of science. Ports seem to have been built without the help of modern engineering and without considering tidal movements: in Sabang, passengers have to be carried to the boat by muscular men because the pier is useless during low tide.

On our way back to Naga City, we took a jeep because we no longer wanted to be gassed. Perhaps thirty minutes into the ride, a woman hopped in with a thick roll of barbed wire, which was wisely put on the floor of the vehicle. In a clear demonstration of Newtonian physics, the barbed wire would slide back and forth as the jeep sped along, a portable instrument of torture that was bent on teaching us a lesson.

island hopping in Caramoan

In front of a public hospital, a young man carried by his mother and another man boarded the jeep. The mother explained that her son met an accident while riding his motorbike, which earned the sympathy of the other passengers who willingly scooted away to give the man some space so he could lie down. A few minutes later, he vomitted. The jeep suddenly smelt of alcohol. Everybody was cursing, sympathy quickly turning into irritation. The mother explained that his son is not a drunkard, na-barkada lang.  A lady sitting near the man moved away and sat beside Jae, and soon enough she was covering her mouth, acting as if she, too, was about to puke because of the stench. Which brings me to another public transportation rule: each ride is a feast of the senses, and treat each trip as if it were your last.

The climb to Matukad's peak.

Caramoan is all about adventure. On our second day, we went island hopping despite the bad weather. We took a boat that could accomodate five people, and the waves were large enough to convert me into a god-fearing heterosexual and Jae into, well, a shrieking version of herself, which is quite normal. Clang/Christine was hungry after the boat ride, and that, too, is normal.

Matukad Island is by far Caramoan’s destination par excellence. Forget about Gota beach, which only became popular because Survivor France was shot there (they are currently filming Survivor Israel in Gota beach, and later, Survivor Turkey and Survivor Bulgaria). Inspite of the big waves that we had to endure to get there, Matukad was worth it – it was secluded, with a long stretch of fine, white sand, and if you are willing to climb the  razor-sharp limestone formation at the end of the beach, you’d get to see the hidden and allegedly enchanted lagoon inside. The top of the island also offers  a rewarding view of the Caramoan’s islands, only that when reached the peak our hands were actually shaking due to stress induced by the climb.

I suppose one goes to Caramoan for its roughness –  No fine print, everything in bold letters, all matters amplified, from the friendship that prodded you to get there to that wanderlust that gave you the final push. If the act of abandoning one’s self has another name, it is Caramoan.

From L to R: Clang/Christine, Bagas, and Jae

(Now that I’m done with *nix stuffs, SQLs and ftps – I am just trying to impress you – I’ll probably be spending a few more days looking for new themes and doing some widget-shopping. Will definitely update in a few days.)

And so yesterday, after pigging out in Binondo and while we were walking to Cartimar, we discovered the Magdalo bar and restaurant (and carwash). Now that the political grapevine is again full of rumors of another coup attempt, I wonder if the Oakwood Mutiny and the Manila Peninsula Siege were nothing but an exercise of culinary espionage? After all, why launch coups d’etat in hotels? Rumor has it that one of the mutineers escaped through the kitchen – was he stealing a recipe, or doing a quick taste test?

In high school, I got bored with flip charts showing the fallopian tube, the vans deferens (duh!), and all these organs. But with bees and birds – dude, my dear Bishop, I get the point. It’s so raw that it gets me off – no need to commit premarital sex, or in my case the dreaded immoral, infernal homosexual sex – and I do get the message instantaneously: the birds shouldn’t get the bees, they should get married first and promise to each other that the bird won’t eat the bee and bee won’t sting the bird. Commitment before the stomach. See?

I also wish you would always bring that nifty anti-abortion poster of yours, that one with Grim Reaper and his Sickle of Death carrying a baby. The caption “Born Free” perfectly captures the attitude that young Filipinos should have towards sex. It is so… natural. Reminds me of the lioness that inspired the song. The image alone would make each and every horny teenager throw away their condoms and think of marriage everytime they have sex. And pregnant teenagers would not even contemplate taking morning after pills or going to underground abortion clinics because the poster alone would remind them of the… lioness.

My dear Bishop, nobody gets pregnant in the kind of sex that people of my “inclination” engage in, but we have decided to abandon using condoms because we firmly believe in your doctrine. Condoms prevent procreation. And more importantly, one must not waste the seeds of procreation. If the HIV incidence in the Philippines increased this year, then we must spend more to have cleaner toilet bowls and implement a more aggressive mosquito eradication program. Surely, with the help of god, the number would dwindle next year.

And I say yes to requiring prescription for condoms! Sex, after all, is a disease. Only perverts engage in meaningless sex, the type that requires condoms. Normal people think of pregnancy everytime they engage in sex. It’s true even for gay men. And while we are at it, you really should require prescription for lubricants, too. And also for guys4men membership – I don’t mind telling my doctor that homosexuality is a disease, so could I please be given a reseta to be a member of g4m?

So here: I will attend your sex education workshop. Please be warned that, given your expertise on sex (I feel so inadequate, you guys must be sexually active!), I might ask the following questions:

• What exactly is rimming, and will it make me get pregnant?
• Are you top or bottom? Is it true that versatility is akin to being in purgatory, and must we decide with finality where we really are?
• Just to avoid confusion and unnecessary sexual reaction, when you mention the “flesh of Christ” during communion, which flesh are you really talking about? Also, is He a bird or a bee?

Sincerely,

Fullman

I was with E. and N., leaders of an organization of Filipinos with HIV/AIDS (PLWHAs) that has been providing support to positive Pinoys. They were about to lose their office this year due to lack of funding, and since 2006 they’ve been trying to get the Department of Health to provide a little office space in one of its facilities for free. Their appeal went through a complete bureaucratic life cycle – it was approved in principle, was referred to several public health agencies and facilities, was suddenly denied, and was being re-considered. When Akbayan heard of the case, we brought it up in a congressional hearing, finally compelling the Department of Health to see if there’s a spare room that the organization could use. It was decided that a hospital in Manila would host the organization for the meantime.

There we were, me, E. and N. negotiating with a team of doctors and hospital personnel. The doctors wanted to know the furniture that the group would bring, while the hospital administrator computed how much power each appliance – an old computer, a water dispenser, etc. – would consume. The hospital would not be responsible for any equipment that they might lose, and they were advised not to keep anything expensive in the office.

Revisions were proposed, amendments stricken down. Technicalities can be numbing. Right before the meeting, I was still smarting over the fact that a simple request had to be raised in a congressional inquiry to get a government agency to act on it. But even that dissipated as we went through the provisions: I was, for that moment, a mere government employee helping refine a legal document.

Until one doctor suggested that we should include ‘significant other’.

She was referring to Section 2.7, which states that the organization “shall coordinate with families of dying clients” and help refer funeral homes that are accredited and trained in handling HIV/AIDS cases.

Everyone agreed. The doctor explained that there have been cases where families would refuse to claim the body of a dead AIDS patient. The hospital, one of the few public healthcare facilities that specializes in infectious diseases, has no refrigerator; it is severely, embarrassingly underfunded. The body can only be kept for 12 hours, and after that it has to be disposed.

Even in death, despite its absoluteness, some of us are denied of decency.

And if there is no ‘significant other’, who claims the body?

“We pass the hat,” they said. The organization would solicit money from other NGOs. The doctors, underpaid as they are, would also contribute. Their condition may be revolting, and yet they would pool whatever they have just to give a lost friend, a lost acquaintance, a decent burial. I couldn’t help but be moved by this sense of humanity.

Section 2.7 was amended to include ‘significant other/s’ and ‘NGOs’. We discussed the other provisions and assigned someone to finalize the document. We later went to the room that would house the organization for the next few months, until a more suitable arrangement could be found. We went to the ward handling HIV/AIDS cases (the director could not even use her own room because the roof is leaking), and later I visited the organization’s current office to meet some of its members and clients, most of whom are MSMs (men who have sex with men).

For many of them, life indeed goes on. We talked about their jobs, about love, and how fattening and perfectly irresistible a piece of greased pork chop is. About why some of them don’t want to take ARVs, about guys. It is silly how we have blamed a virus for so much, when in truth the act of dehumanization can only be committed by conscious beings – a virus is just a virus. It may sound silly, but this, too, is true: that resisting the virus and its stigma is a celebration of life, that we are each other’s significant other after all.

Not that I haven’t gotten over with the US elections, but I just have one question: What’s ‘country first’ nga in Filipino?

And when are we going to hear about the ‘Obama-Arroyo’ regime? Tagal naman…

Hello, Chicago.

If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It’s the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen, by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different, that their voices could be that difference.

It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states.

We are, and always will be, the United States of America.

It’s the answer that led those who’ve been told for so long by so many to be cynical and fearful and doubtful about what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.

It’s been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this date in this election at this defining moment change has come to America.

A little bit earlier this evening, I received an extraordinarily gracious call from Sen. McCain.
Sen. McCain fought long and hard in this campaign. And he’s fought even longer and harder for the country that he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine. We are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader.

I congratulate him; I congratulate Gov. Palin for all that they’ve achieved. And I look forward to working with them to renew this nation’s promise in the months ahead.

I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart, and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on the train home to Delaware, the vice president-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.

And I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last 16 years the rock of our family, the love of my life, the nation’s next first lady Michelle Obama.

Sasha and Malia I love you both more than you can imagine. And you have earned the new puppy that’s coming with us to the new White House.

And while she’s no longer with us, I know my grandmother’s watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight. I know that my debt to them is beyond measure.

To my sister Maya, my sister Alma, all my other brothers and sisters, thank you so much for all the support that you’ve given me. I am grateful to them.

And to my campaign manager, David Plouffe, the unsung hero of this campaign, who built the best — the best political campaign, I think, in the history of the United States of America.

To my chief strategist David Axelrod who’s been a partner with me every step of the way.

To the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you’ve sacrificed to get it done.

But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to. It belongs to you. It belongs to you.

I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn’t start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington. It began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston. It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give $5 and $10 and $20 to the cause.

It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation’s apathy who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep.

It drew strength from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on doors of perfect strangers, and from the millions of Americans who volunteered and organized and proved that more than two centuries later a government of the people, by the people, and for the people has not perished from the Earth.

This is your victory.

And I know you didn’t do this just to win an election. And I know you didn’t do it for me.

You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime — two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century.

Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us.

There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after the children fall asleep and wonder how they’ll make the mortgage or pay their doctors’ bills or save enough for their child’s college education.

There’s new energy to harness, new jobs to be created, new schools to build, and threats to meet, alliances to repair.

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there.

I promise you, we as a people will get there.

There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won’t agree with every decision or policy I make as president. And we know the government can’t solve every problem.

But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And, above all, I will ask you to join in the work of remaking this nation, the only way it’s been done in America for 221 years — block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.

What began 21 months ago in the depths of winter cannot end on this autumn night.

This victory alone is not the change we seek. It is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were.

It can’t happen without you, without a new spirit of service, a new spirit of sacrifice.

So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism, of responsibility, where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves but each other.

Let us remember that, if this financial crisis taught us anything, it’s that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers.

In this country, we rise or fall as one nation, as one people. Let’s resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long.

Let’s remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House, a party founded on the values of self-reliance and individual liberty and national unity.

Those are values that we all share. And while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress.

As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, we are not enemies but friends. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.

And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn, I may not have won your vote tonight, but I hear your voices. I need your help. And I will be your president, too.

And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces, to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of the world, our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand.

To those — to those who would tear the world down: We will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security: We support you. And to all those who have wondered if America’s beacon still burns as bright: Tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope.

That’s the true genius of America: that America can change. Our union can be perfected. What we’ve already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that’s on my mind tonight’s about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She’s a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing: Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn’t vote for two reasons — because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she’s seen throughout her century in America — the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can’t, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women’s voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs, a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that “We Shall Overcome.” Yes we can.

A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination.

And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change.

Yes we can.

America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves — if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment.

This is our time, to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth, that, out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope. And where we are met with cynicism and doubts and those who tell us that we can’t, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can.

Thank you. God bless you. And may God bless the United States of America.

I have never been fond of American politics, not until this election. This has been a very moving election, and for all the gaffes and its divisiveness, it has shown what politics should be about about: it is eminently about the people exercising their sovereign will – in this case, a clear rejection of the politics that Bush represents and yes, a movement to make American politics truly color-blind. No illusions should obscure how we look at Obama – we still have to see how he is as President. But the symbolism should not be missed: to borrow a feminist metaphor, a glass ceiling had been broken today, and that alone is a cause of celebration, of exuberance.

It is tragic that Filipinos viewed this election with indifference. Are we racist enough to miss the fact that the election of the first black American President is what the American Dream is all about, a dream that is deeply ingrained in our colonial mentality? Equally tragic is that this apathy also displays how hopelessness has paralyzed us in such a way that we cannot even relate to a very moving political phenomenon. Has desperation gnawed that deep into our collective soul that we can no longer feel any sense of solidarity?

The moment CNN announced that Obama won in Florida and has enough votes in the Electoral College to win the presidency, I felt so moved. The first thing that came to my mind was a poem by Langston Hughes:

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went
down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn
all golden in the sunset.

A very moving election, indeed. Congrats, Obama!