Inglesera ka ba?

Inglesera daw ko. Siguro sakto sila apan kini nga pagmatikod pirmi nato makit-an sa mga dili Bisdak.

Huna-hunaa ug lawom.

Ako lumad nga taga-Sugbo apan ang akong lingwahe saksak sinagol kay ang akong inahan gikan sa Masbate ug ang amahan kay gikan sa Biliran. Sa balay dili na mi makamatikod kung Waray, Sugbuanon o Masbateño ang gigamit. Mao kini nga nanginahanglan ming magsu-on nga mosulti ug pinaka-simple nga Bisaya sa among mga higala. Para lang gud dili kataw-an.

Dugangan pa nato ug Filipino (Kay dili man jud ko mosugot nga Tagalog ang atong opisyal nga lingwahe. Gikan ba diay ang "hinay-hinay" sa Tagalog"?) nga gitudlo gikan grade one hangtod grade 6. Usa ra sab ni ka subject. Ang uban kay gitudlo gamit ang Iningles.

Mao na ni karon.

Ang mga Bisdak maghuna-huna gamit ang Bisaya. Ang ikaduha nato nga lingwahe kay Iningles. Ang Filipino kay ikatulo ra jud. Kunga kita molangyaw sa laing nasod, pirmi nato gamiton ang Iningles. Kung makakita ta ug Pinoy, mag-Filipino ta apan sa pagsinulti-ay ug dugay masipyat jud ug Iningles.

Inglesera jud ang mga Bisdak noh?

Kung sa mga Bisdak lang, wa jud na problema kung mag-Iningles ang imong ka-storya. Bahala na ug barok nga Iningles, go jud dayon. KAY MAS BAROK man ang atong Filipino. WAAAAAh!!! Apan sa mga dili Bisdak kini nga tungod ug tinguha :-) usa ka dakong sagpa!

Ngano kaha?

Paminaw nako, didto sa ilaha ang mga mag-Iningles kay kadto ra jud mga trying hard nga pa-sosyal. Maski ang Iningles nimo tarong ug sakto, wa gihapon na nada kay sa ilahang huna-huna nagpa-sosyal ka.

Ang akong amigo nga usa sab ka Bisdak (sa Ateneo mi-skwela ug naa na sa Canada nag-masteral) mas ngilngig ug huna-huna. Matod pa niya, dako ni nga-issue sa mga dili Bisdak tungod kay didto sa ilaha ang maayo ug Iningles kadto ra jud ang naka-adto ug mga nindot nga eskuwelehan. Ergo, sosyalin og adunahan kuno by nature.

Way pugsanay oy. Lisod mag-translate.

Kay bungoton na akong egg cells (because my egg cells have grown beards)

I once promised myself that I won´t have kids anymore after 30. Then that year passed and I compromised with 35 (rationalizing) that the World Health Organization has raised the primipara child-bearing age to 40). Well, that is also about to pass and now I am faced with the prospect of "hey, there might not be a gene bag to pass on the smarts to." You see, before considering raising a tiny version of me (horrors!) one needs a willing sperm donor. Willing in the sense that he must be participatory in the kid´s moulding into a productive member of the community. There lies the crux of the matter.

All this thinking and muttering came about after I viewed the friendster profiles of my friends Mariliz, Ogi and Joyce Lureñana. Always, they had pictures of them holding up their greatest achievements. Hmmm...I have no great achievement really, other than being the source of amusement of friends who marvel at the lengths I would go to run away from the ordinary. Well, not having kids is certainly not ordinary...far from humdrum really...I mean, I get to borrow and return the kids to their parents??!!!!???

Maybe I am just bored now. A little antsy from waddling around my new empty flat trying to figure out how to lift a heavy table without breaking its legs and my back. It was not so bad back home but now I am missing a few things with a vengeance!

I miss Larsian barbecue (tami-is ug makasakit sa tiyan)
I miss Talisay seafoods (kanang sinugba nga kitong)
I miss the smell of the sea (the sea here does not smell of salt)
I miss San Mig strong ice (naa diri miabot pale pilsen og light ra)
I miss drinking wine with Mama in her garden (naa siya Thailand karon)
I miss fighting with my sisters ( kay layo sila duha: Bangkok ug Zambia)
I miss going to the movies in the afternoon (kay gabi-i ra ang sine diri)
I am missing a man (one in particular)
I miss talking to Philwide staff (and maybe also scolding them).
I miss my Dad (maski gahi og ulo og sige mangasaba)

I am in short, missing all the things I am supposed to have but cannot because there are some things I must do. Responsibilities have caught up with me. I just wish the World Health Organization is right about the 40 thing.

Comrade

She swallowed gray
a mouthful of false hues
drawn from weeping women
baking sorrow from scratch
...later
she joined them in the making
of gaudy gift baskets
for other women
who wish to swallow gray

Heading for downtown Reykjavik

He tells me
that women should
speak their mind
and ask men
for temporary loving
in the shadow
of fierce fires burning
inside bottled lust

He says to pour out
heavy sorrows
and let the wind do
what it wills
throw up droplets
or pull down rain
from clear skies

Maybe

He has forgotten
that tangos
are danced best by two
and if sorrows or lust
come together
it is not of their choosing

and always, always
it is the beat that matters

(for Gudjon who thinks so and Siggi who believes celibacy is not a choice)

If it could be twilight forever

I could maybe brave
the winters of loneliness.
Find solace in the silence
of a land, cold and warm
to new things thrown
on its icy shores

Tongue

THEY say that the best way to learn a language is in bed. Unfortunately, I am stuck in a timezone where names are far nowhere near moan-able. That being a criteria in my quest to conquer a tongue, this method of knowledge acquistion will have to be trashed. Tell, me...how do you very sexily say in the throes of passion..."oooh Sven, that´s it Thrxqjwhatchamcallit...." I´m a teeny bit scared of doing permanent damage to my throat.

When I arrived, eavesdropping in conversations was pretty much the norm. I could not understand anything of course but watching hand signals and eye movement quickly became a favorite sport. Divers will understand. It´s close to being underwater except that you are on dry land. It also seemed as if there was no gap between syllables. As the natives did their tongue acrobatics, I patient waited for a break...except that there wasn´t.

After 3 days, you begin to discern words. Being a woman, the first thing I learned was "Utsala" or sale. Then you learn things important to basic survival' borða for "come eat," myndd for "picture", nuna or "now," kokka for "coke...the soda," kukka for "to take a dump," lykki for "key"--the handcuffs part I will look up in a minute. You get my drift.

Today I tried to learn the colors. What I really wanted to learn were the bad words. But how do you try to sound intelligent and serious and worthy of being a co-worker when all you´ve been dying to learn were the colorful parts of a difficult language. Hmmm...maybe I should start with the body parts.

I am sure that given time, I will learn. This means actually speaking the language. One vow...learn the language before taking a holiday. I hope it won´t be too long because more than a year of being away from white sand tropical beaches can be a stretch.

The Bigger Need

Tomorrow, I start at the hospital. Once again, my nursing training will come to fore and rule my life. A real departure from my "old" life of words and counsel. Well, maybe not. Aaah...there are so many questions going through my head. Fear races to my throat but I quickly swallow it back in slow resolve lest it race out my mouth and shout out to the world that here...here is someone who pretends to live. I am strong, I keep telling myself...hoping against hope that in time my brain believes and sends signals to the tips of my fingers and toes. YES she is strong and she can make it.

Back home, I had a social life. Family, friends, colleagues who believed in what I know. They allowed me to lead them and their families little knowing that I had fears in leading myself. Now, in this new country, I cannot be strong for anyone. I have to be strong for myself and THERE lies the test.

This new life is for forever.

It is for my mother who needs care. Sisters who pursue their dreams. A father who holds family honor above all else and yes, for myself--my dream of growing old by the sea, a roomful of books and Internet access. How simple our dreams. How difficult the path to accomplishment.

In Transit

Everyday I have been blogging in my head. Whether it is about the weather or the tests or the driving, I have been blogging. Still, writing is once more new to me...publishing has ruled my world for a while and the business of putting out a publication has occupied my time. I will keep writing though...just so you know that I am alive.

There is so much public art in Europe. I spent 8 hours in Copenhagen with nothing to eat except Blue Skies crackers (I was too lazy to go hunting for a money changer and too stingy to keep changing money). The picure on the left shows the lounge where I parked myself in while waiting for my flight to be called. Yoou can see on the wall is a huge installation (is that how it´s called)...had miniature sculptures of figures in different poses. I seem to get the feeling that the figures were of women. Maybe it was the shape of their tummy (looked pregnant or just pregnant) or the graceful way their arms "moved". The whole airport was replete with these public art, although I felt so lost. It´s the first time ever that everywhere I looked anyone brown skinned was not the norm.

On the airplane to Iceland (Icelandair) I had the feeling that everyone sorta knew each other. Maybe it was all in my head after knowing that the entire population of the country was 350,000 or so. The plane was also not that big...maybe like the smaller ones that travel between Cebu and Manila. Hahaha...the language was also terribly foreign and terribly Scandinavian and while everyone spoke English the points of reference were different. So, there I was wanting a glass of white wine and given tea...bugger!

Getting into Iceland, I was pretty confident that I had been dressed properly. Temperatures in Copenhagen hovered around 18 to 20 degrees Celsius and seeing that Iceland was just 2 hours away, it could not vary that much eh? Wrong! Temp was at 10 degrees Celsius and while I was not that warm, I was not that cold either. Bugger the sandals. I kept following the signs that said "Ut" or exit...thinking that at some point there would be passport control or that at least someone´s gotta check my baggage. Yikes! I kept going and going until I EXITED into the waiting area! What? I mean, I could be a smuggler you know...but my aunt was there waving a bunch of flowers and all smiles...and the temperature was EIGHT degrees!

I pushed the trolley very fast to her car and got in! Slight relief with a frozen smile...hahaha...summers in Iceland are like winters in southern China. The picture on the right is my first view of lava fields just outside the airport. Driving to my Tita´s house, I saw so much public art it was amazing. You suddenly see in the middle of a grassy field an interesting sculpture, amazing installations...just a whole lot of things that I wish to the high heavens can be found in our country. This should be something that ought to occupy our artists and corporate sponsors don´t you think?

Hmmm...a bit tired now and so many things to write about. Some other time eh? Am going out in a little while for a little fresh air and sun. Yes, the temps are easier to handle now for me. After all, this is an Icelander in training...oh well.

If I Die

If I die...will there be a wake?

Will someone cry quiet tears of friendship or weep great heaving sobs of pain over lost causes and missed opportunities? Or will someone dance his waltz of relief over my passing?

Last night I dreamt of vultures. Great flocks waiting for my dying. They were loud and swift. Chasing dizzying circles against a backdrop of blue. It was only when one broke away and made a dash for land when I woke up. Was this dream a harbinger of things to come?

Permit me then the luxury of a wish. When I die, wrap me in sorrow and allow only the chosen seven to see me as I sleep: my parents, my sisters, my cousin Grace and two of my closest friends--Trina and Mariliz. They are the seven who know my dark and light.

Then allow me the comfort of dark...close my coffin for the wake. And on the last day, cleanse me with fire...bright and swift. Gather the ashes in a porcelain jar, seal it and bring it to Buenasuerte where other relatives wait for my coming.

Write me an epitaph, write me a book of epitaphs...let them be truthful so that the world may know that I lived as I saw how to live. Let them say, here lies a bitch. Or, here lies someone who shouted out my incompetence. I am no saint and do not expect my epitaphs to say that here lies one.

Finally, let those who come be those who genuinely weep. Fair warning to those who come to gawk and point because I will come for you with my flock of vultures.

Don't run unless you're eating

THERE are just some nights that when you wake up, your skin is warm and the smell of a thousand dinners waft through a half-open window. Then, it is easier to pretend to be someone else, someone you can only recall with a drowsy eye.I am always this way in Hong Kong.For an instant I can be an innocent young girl, my sister sleeping, my father daydreaming his way through countless decisions, or my mother tending to her garden. Hong Kong allows me the luxury of that instance before pasting images and sounds together into a cosmopolitan hub.

All I know is this: Hong Kong first confuses, then comforts. The moment you are ushered out of the airplane, its “hugeness” assaults. You take a short “train” ride to immigration, wondering whether your luggage can catch up with the rush and hustle of electric tracks that hum past the window.

Then you sense the distance behind the courtesy of immigration personnel. Everything is efficient, tourism people mouth banalities (the weather, how long you’re staying), even trash bins are stringently labeled and sorted. You begin to buy into first world efficiency until you remember that many of your kith and kin are responsible for this without enjoying its benefits (a Cebuano taxi driver once revealed that Chek Lap Kok Airport was constructed by former Atlas workers).This confusion of feelings is temporary.

Out of the airport, your heart begins to race with envy at the pulse that drives this city. Familiarity in its strangeness Hong Kong is not a shopper's paradise--if you are a shopper hunting for bargains to rival Carbon's ukay-ukay finds. But if you are funky and value variety, Hong Kong is incomparable!

Walking around Park Lane (Hong Kong side), small shops compete with large Japanese chain stores for attention. Their only difference is that at the small shops you can attempt (and often successfully) to bring down the price to 1/4 of what it says in the tag. Here and there in the shopping districts (whether in Tsim Sha Tsui, Stanley Market or Mongkok) you hear snippets of Filipino, sometimes raised in anger over the antics of a pesky child.The streets are also full of anachronisms: Mobile wielding teens furiously texting in Putonghua, quail eggs in vats of boiling water (which we only see in dimsum baskets), fish balls sharing space with stinky beancurd, and a sign that says "Welcome To Tai O" (whatever that may mean).

Hong Kong’s rhythm allows residents to run while they’re eating.Still, it is these anachronisms that comfort. You are reminded that in Hong Kong, you can find characters to almost believe in.

In the end, the confusion encourages you to return. Hong Kong fascinates because it perplexes. The SARS episode only added to its mystique, because there lies its secret.Hong Kong makes us bloom, marking us and challenges what we believe is inviolable. There is never a simple plot in their lifestyle, no closure or unity that often arrives in another city's daily life. So, you return and do nothing except to record Hong Kong's stunning recklessness.

Leavetaking

Please
take your address with you
fold the sadness into your clothes
suitcases are ready
and there is no room
for goodbyes