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

Flight

I am too near
for him to dream of me
there is no ocean
holding up the flight
of wind

Daughter country

THERE is a place in China called Daughter Country. There are no husbands and every night, men knock on women's doors looking for a warm bed.

I am sure that there are favorites, given the privilege of flinging open unlocked doors in the short hour between afternoon and darkness. For them, the bed comes with a cooked meal and warm lips to kiss after a shared shot of mao tai.

The children will then be sent to bed with quiet admonitions of respect and equitable distribution of attention for significant others. And the adults will play, maybe even weave dreams of life together.

Or will they?

In Daughter Country, how can you scheme to fill a bowl of rice for next day's evening meal when there is no certainty as to whom you share this bowl with? This day's catch is yours, but tomorrow's could be handed over to the lady next door. Then again, your bed will still be warm, if someone else knocks.

"Will someone knock?" you ask yourself. The trick is in recognizing his. Rather heavy because of callused working hands, the slight shuffle of feet as he waits for your greeting. What happens if you open your door and find his friend smiling sheepishly?
Do you close the door on his friend's face and wait for that right knock, except that you hear it answered next door?

Ah! Many envy the lives of women in Daughter Country. Imagine, being able to choose the man you wish to be with! Your prerogative to have someone different every night or just one for the whole week.

But that is cold comfort.

We all live for forever. Chucking our choices for that one favorite who sees himself growing old beside you. A choice between hangover mornings and quiet nights nursing coffee with a shot of brandy. A choice between comparing notes and conversations about growing mangoes.

But still, how I envy the women of Daughter Country! Their ability to ask for no more than a night, a quick toss in the hay without so much as drunken good byes in the morning. Instead, we are tied to the burden of generations of tiyas and their unwritten rules of womanly conduct. One night has to mean forever.

Or, should it? Who says we have to hide under the cover of tequila and vodka? Unhappy spirits that fling the cloak of repression off our shoulders. Throw the rulebook to the stars and ask them to rewrite it! Maybe they will laughingly fling it back at you and say there are more interesting things under the night sky.

Kissed By Someone Else

Sometimes I wonder how it feels like to be kissed by someone else. A fleeting erotic brush with someone you've not pledged undying love to.

How is it going to be, I wonder? Maybe it should be after evening goodbyes, just as the night is ending and you can both dismiss it as part of drunkenness.

That way you can say the next time you meet, "The alcohol got into my head."

Or you can credit it to raging hormones, the moon cycles, or the blatantly musky perfume he wore. But why find an excuse for two adults sharing a pleasurable biological moment?

I remember old maid grand aunts who died one after the other, one cold December. I'd always wondered if they ever "made it" with any of the muscled island boys who went spear fishing before dawn and tilled earth by break of day.
Did Lola Blasa ever hide in the shadows of banana trees for a quick stolen kiss on the way home from the farm? Or, did Tiya Ling ever sneak out at midnight to exchange perfumed touches with high school classmates?

How I wish they did and felt the fire of passion stir in their loins.

It is unbearable to imagine them leading ascetic lives confined to hearth and earth. There must be more to farm living than cooking, baking, washing, and waiting for tired brothers and fathers to come home.

For sure, these questions do not even enter the minds of single women today. Questions change in these times when high school girls consider it a disgrace to graduate without the memory of their first kiss.

Ahhh ... the first kiss. Where did you have yours? Did he bend your will to his in the backseat of his parent’s car? Or did you wait for that special moment, the requisite sunset, glass of wine and you dressed in a sheath with just a flimsy wrap around your shoulders? I hope you let your hair fly free, let his fingers run through the strands.

If you've not had your first kiss yet, just wait and allow yourself the choice of time and place. This memory is for rocking chair moments, when arthritis has gripped your knees and forced you to live on warm tea and solitude.
Other than that, I still wish for the pleasure of stolen kisses. Especially when it rains, just when you are about to say goodbye, and most of all ... with someone you don't share anything with other than a cold night. That way, goodbyes are sweet and final.n

yay for originality

I got pissed today. One of the account executives (well, okay two...joy & joy) walked in waving what i thought was a poster. Horrors! It was the pale attempt of former employees to copy the magazines we are publishing. Oh well. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery?

The new team (see above). Way more experienced and better attitude. Cheers!

Tagbo (Meeting)

He called it a summer moon. Warm nights when the wind forgets to stir grass blades and the air is pregnant with raindrops. Often, he would stop everything and declare an exploration. Visiting hidden valleys and conquering hills, leaving a trace of burning in his wake. But he only explored the familiar and forgot other valleys to explore.

She called it hunger. Parched earth, dry leaves and clear starlit skies promising colorful daybreaks. Often, she would head for streams and wait for his passing, looking for patterns as the water eddied around rocks. She would sit and sing with frogs, calling for rain.

Stepping off the boat, Rosario paused and looked up at the darkening sky, silently wishing for it to be summer again. It’s been five years since the last family reunion and they were about due for another one. This year, she volunteered to be the main contact person, hence this visit to Buenasuerte, the family resort. There were many things to accomplish: rebuild temporary huts, clean Lolo’s deep well, sweep the beaches and dig shallow ditches around the bonfire site.

The softest shadow of a smile stole into her face—there will be bonfires in Buenasuerte again.

Her cousin Lucio’s harsh cry broke into her thoughts, “Manay, will you be taking the pumpboat or the jeepney?”

“The jeepney ‘Yoy. How many times do I have to repeat myself? It’s always been the jeepney…you know how I hate to waste time!”

“Well then, you have to run. It’s about to leave and there’s room for only one more at the roof. Topload, Manay!”

Rosario slung her knapsack over one shoulder. Half-filled with canned goods, the bag was too heavy for running. But she ran and beat a Peace Corps volunteer trying to scramble up the roof. Panting heavily, she turned, waved and gave the volunteer a wry smile. She still has the touch. As they say, with probinsiya survival tactics, it is like riding a bike. Your instincts take over.

Taking a more careful stock of her precarious position, Rosario shifted slightly for balance. The first three miles confirmed her suspicion. The grade-A municipal roads the Congressman’s pork barrel fund already paid for, was simple fiction. It was going to be a rough ride and she will sneeze mud at the trip’s end.


The frogs never heeded her. They sang their own songs, unmindful of the rhythms and cadences of her chant. But their songs were for the same things: rain and wind to feed parched earth. She had been through a similar summer. Just before the mountain in the old land blew fire and wept hot mud. The whole town took off in small boats, heading for the opposite island. Here there were no tall mountains, only valleys and hills. Water flowed fast and clear in streams. No forests, but thickets giving welcoming cover from the heat of the midday sun. And the mangroves teemed with fish and snakes.

He called himself tindero, slurring his r’s, tongue-tip touching the roof of his mouth. They called him dayo, a stranger selling colorful blankets, steel pots and pans clanging from his pack. But he heard her singing with frogs and drank from the streams.

Before the breaking of the next round moon, they were wed.

And the rains fell.


Buenasuerte’s gate was hanging on one hinge. The sign propped by earth-filled milk cans. Only ‘Nang Cordia was still up, holding aloft a small Petromax lamp.

“Aring, is that you Aring?….I expected you three hours ago. What happened? Did the jeepney break down? Ahhhh, you must’ve gotten on Runner…. Elmer should take better care of his jeep! But he’s at Tanya’s. She has a new betamax tape. They say it’s x-rated and all the men finished up early to see it. Ahhhh….they will have more than a movie tonight. After all, Tanya has always been the perfect hostess.”

It is amazing how ‘Nang Cordia can fill one in on barrio gossip with just one breath. With half an ear cocked to ‘Nang Cordia’s prattle, Rosario breathed in and looked around slowly.

With every visit, the resort always had something different to show her. A newly discovered hollow carved by the crash of waves on the shore, a hidden bower of sampaguita blossoms—its heady scent filling the night, or a bench newly planed, the surf playfully brushing its legs. Five generations of de la Peña’s, and nothing permanent to show for their presence, except for the headstones and their epitaphs.

‘Nang Cordia can no longer keep up with the weeds and bokbok eating the pillars of the huts. The small family cemetery just off the main path appeared dim and unwelcoming. But for her the cemetery has always been a place of refuge. Many afternoons were spent reading epitaphs, running fingers over familiar names and remembering their stories.

“ You will have to sleep at our house tonight Aring. Last week, we saw a snake hanging from its eaves. Also, you need to talk to Tasyo tomorrow. We’ve heard whistles and running feet on many a moonless night…basin…they say it is the engkantos at play.”

“Ay, Manang…let them play. Maybe one night I will go out and join them.” Rosario smiled to herself. She’s heard similar stories before and always respected them.

He gave up his wandering, hunkered down and waited for the greening of his fields. Chewing tobacco, turning earth, digging ditches for water to flow from the streams. He walked his land and watched his baskets fill with grain.

It was sixteen turns of the seasons before the summer moon returned.


At daybreak, Rosario hurried off to Tasyo’s hut. “Ayo…ayo….’Nong Tasyo. It’s me, Aring!” She heard the clinking of glasses and short shuffling steps before seeing Old Tasyo’s face peeping through the half-open door.

It was the same face. Dark brown and lined with wrinkles so deep they were almost like irrigation furrows in rice paddies. But Aring could see that he did not know her. An opaque haze covered his eyes.

She moved closer and shouted out again, “Noy Tasyo, it’s me Aring.”

“Ay, Iday…how long has it been since you last visited? My last memory of you is of a dalaginding (teenage girl) crying because she cannot go to the baile (dance)…,” Tasyo rattled on, oblivious to Rosario’s attempts at conversation.

Tasyo’s hut was as she remembered it. Clear bottles filled with oil and mysterious roots from the mountains. Near the door, a half-filled sugong that his son always made sure to deliver first thing in the morning.

“Noy, a month from now they will all be back in Buenasuerte…”

“Tanan? How can everyone fit into three small guest houses Aring? Will Grace and her Americano husband Kid also come?”

“That’s what I’m here for—to make sure that everyone will have a place to stay. and yes, Grace and Kid will be here. Even Martina, daughter of Noel and Inga who both died in Switzerland.”

“I suppose all your other cousins as well?”

“Noy, that goes without saying. Even Berto Bundokan.”

“So, why was it not Berto who made the arrangements? Susmaryosep! He just lives in the next barrio.”

“You know Berto…he has his hands full with ten children and a wife at home. But I don’t want to talk about that…”
“You will need me for the bonfires. Just give me some time to look for fragrant sangig.”

The oldest of their five sons had been bathing the carabao when he returned. He had just returned from the source of the streams and in the banks, he’d seen the carcass of frogs. Bloated, reeking and quietly feeding maggots. The wells were dry, even the one he’d dug up with his own hands.

Walking slowly, he entered his house. He never said anything to her for he knew that she had seen the frogs. Inside, baskets were filled with grain and hollow gourds with water. Together, they bolted doors, secured fences, freed what livestock they could not carry and with provisions lashed tightly to the back of their beasts, the dayo led his family and their harvest to exile.


Aring rounded up thirty workmen. Wooed them with better food, better pay and a generator to drive away the darkness when naughty spirits played. The workmen did not mind so much that they heard the whistles. They just hated the dark.

Only two weeks to go, but the huts were up and bonfire ditches filled with water. Tomorrow, she will hang the signs in front of each shelter. Five signs…one for every branch of the clan. Sprung from five sons. Aring knew that they will come. Not everyone, because the oceans are too wide and too deep to cross. Maybe not everyone at the same time…but sooner or later they will find their way to the Buenasuerte.


When two of his sons found warm lips to kiss, he knew that it was time to head for home. He heard that rain clouds had been gathering for weeks in the horizon. Parched earth will soon be wet and ready for planting. Time was ripe to make the journey home.

They arrived at midday. One side of the fence was down and the door of their house swung crazily in the wind on one hinge. Tonight, they will sleep outside. He will build a fire to drive away curious animals and the cold of night. He foraged for food, hoping that the few lagutmon he’d planted survived the drought. Later, with water from the well, his wife filled the pot, added sangig and malunggay for flavor. She whispered the chant she learned from her mother… “Sun and summer moon fade away until frogs once more call for your coming…may the frogs sit in the dark waiting for their turn to sing.”


The first day is always a riot. Martina arrived and no one could understand her English. Berto showed up with only nine of his children, the youngest was still nursing and could not make the trip with his wife. Bags, packs and boxes piled up on bamboo balconies. The shrill screaming of children rent the quietness of cool summer air.
Only twenty on the first day: Joanah, Roman, Miguel, Katrina, Martina, Berto and his brood, Consuelo, Sharon, Jose, Lucio and Rosario. One long table for dinner.

Later, cognac and coffee in hand…they headed for the beach bonfire. ‘Noy Tasyo was already waiting, a pot of water was boiling, the fragrance of sangig and malunggay hung heavy in the air. Quietly forming a loose circle around the fire they whispered a chant they learned from their mothers.

It is time to chase the summer moon away.