The Good Ol' Days..

Homage to a town and a friend

maxmos611 — Sun, 11 May 2008 23:22:25 +0000

By Rina Jimenez-David

Small-town life has its banes and blessings. In a place where everyone knows everyone else, it is easy to keep track of one’s coming and goings, with secrets only barely kept hidden before they are aired out to dry on the grapevine, perused, analyzed, embroidered, enlarged.

But even as it can be stifling, small-town life can also be affirming, giving one the assurance that there are family, friends and neighbors looking out for one’s welfare, ready to lend a hand, offer wisdom and sympathy, or just the time to sit and listen.

For many, the best compromise has been to strike out on one’s own, leave the small town behind to find one’s luck and calling in the “bigger” world, and push the boundaries of one’s life beyond even the most extravagant dreams woven in one’s reveries. And then, when one has found success elsewhere and life has become too complicated, to return and revisit one’s roots, dredging up memories and old friendships, remembering simpler times, simpler dreams.

The movie “Ploning” marks writer/director Dante Nico Garcia’s return to his hometown and to his childhood. Even by Philippine standards, his hometown is smaller and more remote than usual, being the island of Cuyo in Palawan province. So isolated is the town that its people speak their own language, Cuyonon, which sounds like a mish-mash of Visayan and Tagalog, with a smattering of Ilocano.

At movie’s close, the filmmakers dedicate “Ploning” to everyone who continues to speak Cuyonon, but most especially to the younger generation who are beginning to forget their unique tongue. I suspect it is Garcia talking to himself, his way of preserving the Cuyo he once knew, while appreciating the Cuyo that is changing before his eyes, and mainly because, having left Cuyo to establish himself in the entertainment business, he now sees the town with new eyes.

But while “Ploning” is a homage to Cuyo, it is likewise a homage to the writer/director’s close friend and collaborator, Judy Ann Santos, who among her generation of actors has established a career marked by both box-office success and critical acclaim.

“I have been listening to Ga [Garcia's nickname] talk about this story for years now,” confides Carol, Judy Ann’s mother, with whom we had hitched a ride from “Ploning’s” preview to the site of a dinner that “Juday” herself had prepared. “But since he would begin talking about it only after some drinks, I thought it was just usapang lasing (drunken talk).” He’d been spinning this “movie in his mind” for so long, Garcia told the press, “that I felt I had to make something of it or my brain would just explode!”

“Ploning’s” story, says Garcia, is “loosely based” on the stories of the most important women in his life: his mother and his grandmother, his surrogate mother on the island. It was also inspired by his friend Judy Ann, for whom he had vowed he would make a movie on her 30th birthday.

This embodiment of the women in his life Garcia has named “Ploning,” which is also the title of a haunting Cuyonon folk song about a woman waiting for the man she loves.

And that is where we find “Ploning” as the movie opens: standing on the shore of Cuyo, looking out to sea, clutching the dried seed of a local fruit, a talisman of hope and anticipation.

Ploning is the daughter of the town’s biggest landowner who has started her own business making cashew brittle. Admired by her town-mates, Ploning is everyone’s friend and adviser, ever-helpful, ever-reliable, and who has in fact assumed the duties of surrogate mother to Digo whose own mother is half-paralyzed and must spend her days in bed.

And yet, while always available and on-call to her friends and neighbors, Ploning remains something of a mystery. She has told no one about what has happened to Tomas, her boyfriend who left for Manila years before. And while she is warm and loving to Digo, she is strangely remote to her own aging father. Then one day, Digo overhears talk that Ploning is about to leave for Manila to search for Tomas. He tries everything to stop his “Nay Ploning” from leaving, and when on the day the rains come and it seems like Ploning has indeed left the island, Digo makes a move that triggers a tragedy whose repercussions will be felt even decades hence.

As Ploning, Judy Ann Santos assumes the look and demeanor by which we first knew her. “It’s back to her ‘Esperanza’ days,” commented film critic Mario Hernando, referring to her first soap opera which made her famous.

But it is Esperanza with a difference, for while Judy Ann goes back to her simple dresses and long locks, she gives Ploning maturity and ripeness, a depth of character that hints at a life lived fully and well, and in certain shots, she appears as if she is actually glowing.

The cinematography, in fact, assumes a character of its own. I especially loved the flesh tones, especially in the fading afternoon sun. Charlie Peralta, I am told, enjoys quite a reputation in the business, and in “Ploning” he employs his gifts to create breathtaking sceneries of Cuyo and moving portraits of its people.

There is no leading man in the movie to lend it romantic buzz, but Judy Ann is supported by a most able cast, the royalty of Philippine indie cinema, in fact. In addition, Garcia tapped some local Cuyonon actors, whose naturalistic acting sets the tone for the rest of the actors, most notably Cedric Amit as Digo, and Boodge Fernandez as the mysterious visitor.

Moving, dazzling, and yet intimate and comforting, “Ploning” is a worthy tribute to small-town life and mores, to women of heart and bravery, and to filmmakers of courage and integrity. Judy Ann is lucky to have found a friend in “Ga,” for no one could have gotten a better birthday gift.

The senior citizen me

maxmos611 — Sat, 10 May 2008 22:44:31 +0000

I know i am a senior citizen when:

I forget to bring my senior citizen’s card. If I do bring my senior citizen’s card, it’s always a photocopy because I have already lost the original twice, and which fortunately had been found by good souls—like the radio dzRH “Operation Tulong” taxi driver who took it to my house after announcing the matter over the radio.

The cashier at the supermarket waits for me to extend my palm before she hands my change and then counts aloud as she gives it to me.

Young people tend to ignore me when I enter a restaurant, while customers with white hair notice me and even smile at me.

The order-takers at fast-food chains always ask me if I want orange, tea or light cola—not expecting me to order regular Coke, which I prefer.

Waiters stare worriedly at me across the buffet table when I partake of the “lechon” and the “kare-kare.”

Doctors tell me not to eat foods that are sweet, salty, oily, saucy, or those with seeds, and a lot of others that make life enjoyable—leaving me to wonder what on earth is there left for me to eat.

I encounter a lot of strange relatives when I go out. Vendors, taxi drivers and bus conductors for instance, call me “Lola” [Grandma] even though I have just dyed my hair medium brown.

The little boy who answers my telephone call to a friend’s house exclaims, “Lola! Where are you?” upon hearing my voice which probably sounds like his grandmother’s.

I am delighted whenever I get to read the nostalgic articles written by Behn Cervantes in the Inquirer.

I am regaled by Tia Dely’s late-night weekend radio programs where I get to hear such hits as “Lawiswis Kawayan,” “Ang Bakya Mo Neneng” and “Ang Pipit.” And I can listen for hours to the other radio programs that feature old-time hits such as “Bluebird of Happiness” and “Ramona.”

My housemates are wary about letting me put things away for fear that they would have to ransack several rooms should I fail to recall where I put them.

My little grandson refers to my makeup paraphernalia as “Lola’s disguise kit.”

People are surprised to see me texting skillfully (I developed the skill to economize on voice calls) and those who have not met me but receive my messages with the usual texting lingo—gud am or gud pm; bdw for by the way, “w8 for wait, 2moro for tomorrow, 4get for forget, syl as in see you later, smiley sign, “copy,” etc., are surprised when they see me afterwards in person.

I am able to easily fend off persistent credit card agents and other promo salespeople, such as those following shoppers around the mall, by declaring my age to them. (Septuagenarians are often no longer eligible.)

I get to call our maid by a different name.

I run the risk of taking my once-a-day pills twice, my twice-a-day pills once, or totally forget taking any of them unless I put them in the pillboxes (marked S M T W T F S, signifying the days of the week) sent to me by my sister in the United States.

I receive telephone calls in the wee hours of the morning from fellow insomniacs who have just had a snack or have just gone to the bathroom and can’t manage to go back to sleep.

After dialing somebody’s telephone number, I cannot recall who it is I’m calling.

First time visitors to our house ask me, “Who is that?” upon seeing my portrait on the living room wall.

Upon hearing a song, say “Tennessee Waltz,” I can picture in my mind the image of the singer but I cannot utter her name (Patti Page).

I receive calls from co-forty-niners who engage me in lengthy reminiscences about our high school days and then say “Thank you for calling” before putting down the phone, leaving me to wonder as to who initiated the call.

I find myself waiting anxiously (at times with a vague feeling of uncertainty) to be picked up by my son whom I used to fetch regularly after his kindergarten classes and who himself became anxious whenever I would be late.

My neighbors are not scandalized when friends drop me off at our gate late at night. (I hitch rides with friends occasionally after attending high school reunions, “balikbayan” parties, etc., where we sometimes have emotional goodbyes.)

When provoked, I am tempted to answer, “Tatanda rin kayo!” [You too will grow old!] (But I don’t, because that would be rubbing it in.)

I am in a hurry to get something in the kitchen but I can’t remember what it is when I get there.

There are times when the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

I am getting to be an expert in getting 40 winks while sitting down anytime, anywhere.

I forget to follow Deepak Chopra’s advice never to say: “I’m too old for that!”

There’s one thing I never forget to do, however. It is to pray day and night to the Lord and thank Him for my bonus years.

Priscilla Gonzalez-Avenir, 77, is a retired teacher, textbook author and freelance writer.

Emancipating leadership

maxmos611 — Sun, 04 May 2008 14:18:34 +0000

By Minyong Ordoñez

My most provocative and soulful moments during trips abroad happen when I have a close encounter with the spirit of a fantastic leader, a unique human being who liberates his country and its people from physical and mental slavery.

Recently I came face to face with the greatness of the late Vietnamese President Ho Chi Minh as I stood before his mausoleum on a gray rainy day in Hanoi.

Instantly I felt reverence, admiration and gratitude for “Uncle Ho,” a skinny old man dressed in loose village clothes, flashing a poor man’s smile, his flowingly long white goatee hanging limp as if to symbolize his sacrificial love and absolute service for the Vietnamese people. This frail-looking man with a high forehead is the single most heroic person who caused the downfall of Western colonizers’ predatory rule in Asia.

Ho’s ill-equipped Vietcong guerillas defeated the mighty French Occupation Army at Dien Bien Phu in 1954 and the tech-savvy American armed forces with the fall of Saigon in 1975. These two wars shocked the world for the brutality and carnage inflicted by Western powers on the village people of Vietnam.

In India 30 years ago, I experienced the same sense of awe when I visited an old wooden house in Bombay where the great Mohandas “Mahatma” Gandhi stayed. “Bapu” [Father] Gandhi accomplished what seemed to be an impossible task: that of uniting the hearts and minds of people living in a complex society composed of a multi-layered caste system which pre-destined injustice and prevented social mobility within the vast Indian society. The problem was compounded by rigid sectarianism within many religious sects that bred intolerance and fanaticism. All these complexities existed under the imperial hubris of India’s British masters.

Gandhi had two difficult audiences: Indians engaged in religious and social conflicts, and British colonial sahibs brandishing their style of English chutzpa.

Gandhi’s big idea? Unflinching moral suasion. His implementation strategy? Civil disobedience. Personal sacrifice through days of fasting to dramatize his protest against the injustice of British rule. His private and public persona? Ascetic, spiritual, devoid of material trappings. His tone of voice that of a peacemaker, His secure, turn-the-other-cheek calmness. His achievement? Independence for India in 1947. His legacy? Pride, honor and dignity for all Indians.

Uncle Ho and Mahatma Gandhi’s emancipating and transformational leadership styles captivate and inspire to make the whole nation feel proud and dignified. Their pro-people ideology and uniquely individual magnetism create adherents who think and act as one—a character transformation, which makes me green with envy. How I wish a leader of human virtues will emerge from our dark landscape, someone who can emancipate us from our mediocre politics of self-destruction and transform our people into a mature constituency.

Ho Chi Minh and Mohandas Gandhi were not beholden to political blocks or vested interest groups. Ho Chi Minh and Gandhi broke rules. They imbued their leadership not only with visionary seal but also with the transcendent and spiritual faculties innate to Asians.

The seeds for social transformation planted by Ho Chi Minh and Gandhi are now bearing fruits in a new globalized economy.

North and South Vietnam, formerly with conflicting political ideologies (communist North and democratic South) are now united as a socialist republic exercising a strong political will. Government officials are constantly aware of Ho Chi Minh’s admonition that uplifting the people of Vietnam is a continuous self improvement struggle for both the government and the governed. Vietnam is now a fast-tracked country, second only to China, en route to become a powerhouse economy in the Asian century.

Gandhi’s India is securely moored in democratic institutions. Its huge manpower population has intensified the acquisition of cutting-edge knowledge in information technology, medical science, mass transport and uniquely niched lifestyle products derived from the rich Indian culture. India and Vietnam are in sync with the globalization paradigms.

We had a glimpse of Ho’s and Gandhi’s leadership virtues in our late President Ramon Magsaysay, an authentic man for the masses, a heroic guerilla fighter, and savior of democracy. There was also genuine and palpable patriotism in Luis Taruc, that poor and humble khaki-clad village revolutionary obsessed with uplifting the lives of the poor farmers. But fate denied Magsaysay and Taruc the tenure to fulfill their dreams of pride and dignity for the Filipino people.

What’s our prospect for a great leader beyond 2010, someone who will liberate us from a sick and dysfunctional government? Extremely dark, if the current crop of the pretenders are it. They are all run-of-the-mill politicians, behaviorally subservient to a political culture of warped values and a graft-ridden system. They will only perpetuate our never-ending spasms of collective hopelessness and injustice. They’ve damned us before. They’ll damn us again. In 2010 and beyond.

Minyong Ordoñez is retired chair of the Paris-based Publicis Communications Group. He is a freelance journalist and member of the Manila Overseas Press Club. Email: encarbordonez@yahoo.com.ph

The White Handkerchief

maxmos611 — Thu, 01 May 2008 02:40:58 +0000

By Maugan P. Mosaid

After graduating from the primary grades, my parents enrolled me to the public central elementary school in the poblacion. For the first time, I saw the so-called outside civilization where houses were so close to one other. I had tasted a cold sweet tasting bottled liquid which they call lemonade. Everything was so new to me. I thought from the first day of class that I will be out of place as I imagined that most of them were brighter than me. By the end of the year, I was among the top five in class.

Months and years passed and everything around me seems to be moving and changing fast. I was also learning fast to adapt to the so-called civilization. When I was in first year high school in a private sectarian school I could enroll on my own. I don’t want my mother to go with me everytime I enroll. I wanted to prove to her that I was maturing fast to adolescence.

I felt that I was already a young man even in my third year in high school. I had learned to feel ‘crush’ every-time I see my ‘beautiful girl’. I wanted to court her but I had a problem. I feared the moment that she would turn me down because I was a Moro. I also feared the day that my mother would know that I was courting a ‘kafir ’ (infidel, as they call a non-Muslim) because it was taboo that time. Until late 1960s, marriage between individuals of different religious affiliations was not tolerated by the Muslim culture in our place.

But I was seriously falling for my beautiful girl. And so I wanted to test the waters, so to speak. I wanted to find out her initial reactions. I gathered all the energy that I could muster but my knees would tremble and no words would come out of my mouth. This must be the real love at first sight! After several attempts, it was all the same. There was only one thing that I was progressing through in terms of level of confidence and that I was beginning to feel that the feeling was mutual. She would no longer turn down my invitations for snacks at the canteen. And so we were talking to each other on topics of mutual interest except about ‘love’.

Finally, I said the words and expressed how much I love her and she turned around without saying anything. Until we went out of the refreshment parlor she refused to say a word and would not look at me. I must have offended her, so I thought. I don’t want to ask for forgiveness neither would I follow up what I said earlier. Maybe it was just good that I had expressed what I feel for her. Maybe time will decide in my favor.

In school, she would try everything to avoid me. I wanted to look at her; she’s the apple of my eyes. I would try anything to corner her until I did finally corner her. Without much ado, I asked for forgiveness and went back to my old trick to regain her confidence. Several months passed and I was steadfast at winning her heart. “There is no rocky hill to a man with an iron will”. These words from an old sage were all I need to keep me going.

True enough, time was on my side. In our fourth year in high school, it was different altogether. Did the summer vacation made us long for each other? May be so. At last, my diligence finally paid for me. Several weeks before graduation, I heard from her what I had always longed for: a verbal confirmation that the feeling of love was mutual. And so I heard the sweetest words: “yes, I love you too!” What a beautiful world it was for the two of us.

And then, it was graduation day. More than the apprehension that her parents and mine would know about our relationship and the consequences that would follow, the fear of being separated from each other was a dreadful scenario I would not even dare to imagine. She knew that I could not continue to college and I knew that she would be studying in Manila.

The following day, immediately after graduation, I looked for her. I gathered all the guts I could muster to go to their house. That was the only place I would certainly find her. And so I went to their house and she met me at the gate. We agreed not to mention anything about our relationship so her parents would not sense anything. We were cracking jokes so we would feel happy and comfortable but the fear of being separated was enormous. What else can we do? Finally, we agreed to give each other small tokens that would keep us reminded of each other. We agreed to exchange white handkerchiefs. In school white handkerchief was a must for every student. It was checked every morning during flag ceremony.

We were together the whole day and really enjoyed each other’s company. As the sun was setting, she begged that I would dine with them in the house which her mother duly seconded. I had already lunched with them and I felt that it was already too much to stay until dinnertime. And so I begged off to just go, saying, that I still had to go home to the barrio, even if I knew that it was no longer possible. The last jeep must have left at 5:00 p.m. We promised to write each other – something that I would diligently check at the Post Office on market days (Thursdays).

In the beginning, we used to exchange letters. She was doing good in her studies in Manila while I was back to my old ways in the barrio: playing with playmates, pasturing the work animals, gathering firewood and helping in our tobacco and corn farms.

Months and years passed and this time, I would no longer receive letters from her. In short, our communication was cut. I deserve this, I sighed to myself. I was not going to school; there are boys in Manila who are certainly more good-looking (and good smelling too!); what will she get from me?

In the year 2000, the first grand alumni homecoming in the high school where we graduated from was held. The first person I was expecting to see was my ‘beautiful girl’, my high school sweetheart. I really came earlier to check on everyone arriving to make sure that I would not miss her. The thrill of seeing her after a long, long time was still there but this time it was more for curiosity’s sake. I was already 14 years married and I was sure that she must have married also.

Many had already arrived but she was not one of them. Not being able to hold anymore, I asked our classmates. One of them said, “you still did not know that Linda died of leukemia a few years back?” For a moment I was dumbfounded. “My God, everything in this world will certainly have its own ending,” I murmured. But why should death occur even at the wrong time? My hands slowly drifted inside my pocket to reach out for the white handkerchief. I remember that I had brought it with me. It was already having some stain but to me it was still so white as the intention that was associated with it was so pure. I felt that I was melting down at that very moment but I managed to keep my calm. I was unanimously chosen as the Guest Speaker from our batch. I was the next speaker and so I had to keep my composure. As I went up the stage, I used the white handkerchief to wipe some sweat in my face and maybe some tears disguised as sweat.

After the speech, my classmates told me that it was so passionate and eloquently delivered. I knew from the start that it should come out that way and quite naturally. I couldn’t be more affected and I was delivering that speech like I was cursing someone I don’t know and saying: “Why must it happen this way?”

Retracing the past

maxmos611 — Thu, 01 May 2008 01:43:49 +0000

By Gerry M. Edejer

I HAVE one lamp by which i have been guided. This is the lamp of experience — the accumulated past consisting of the various things and activities that we have gone through and that run the gamut of our successes and failures in life.

At the bonus age of 77, it is inevitable to look back and ponder. I have flashbacks. Sometimes, the flashbacks come in dreams, sometimes they come with people I meet or with an event in the unfolding present. And in those moments, I often find myself piecing together the mosaics of the past. Did a decision I made tip the scale in my favor? Did it really change my life?

At this “senior” age, peace of mind is the highest among my priorities; I am not going to exchange this for any material comfort. Peace of mind rejects all arguments justifying people’s mad scramble for enormous wealth or for power.

Affluence generally breeds greed. In the process, it prods people to crave for more and more, turning many, if not most of them, into slaves of Mammon. Yes, nobody has ever turned away from money, but pursuing it like one goes after an obsession is not always a fruitful and rewarding endeavor as imagined.

As age advances, one goes through the experience of rekindling many childhood memories. This is perhaps dictated by human nature. I personally find myself often recalling many “stateside” experiences, having spent around 30 years in that part of the world.

Flying there for the first time, I had mixed emotions. I was very excited and I was a little bit scared, uncertain of what was in store for me there. Thirty years is one full generation of being painfully away from folks and hometown buddies. Everything went well, thank God. I had a job that I enjoyed and kept it till I was ripe for retirement.

Meanwhile, I was able to visit beautiful tourist spots and historical landmarks of the United States. And I was able to visit Mexico as well, where I found life slow-moving and the culture almost similar to ours. With a close friend, a “compadre,” I was able to see practically all the states of Mexico, from the Distrito Federal down to Guadalajara.

Today, no longer bound to the daily responsibilities that come with a regular job, I have more than enough time to enjoy life, to do the things I love to do — and not supposed to do. With a prayerful heart, I take each step of the way as a blessing from that Someone above, who has always carried and supported me. I have come to an age, from which looking back to past years always reminds me of many of lessons in life that I could not have learned within the confines of a classroom.

I have also seen that life could be a close call, a matter of timing. I once took a Korean Airlines plane that made a stopover in Anchorage, Alaska. I later read in the papers that the same aircraft was shot down after it was mistaken to be a spy plane. And I remember the ship M/V Doña Paz, which sank after a collision with an oil tanker. Some 4,000 people died in that incident. I once took a ride on that ship when I went to Tacloban City for a pleasure trip. I cannot adequately thank God for sparing me from close, fatal encounters.

Oh yes, the lamp exposes life’s caveats and disenchantments because the world is full of trickery that we should guard against. People fall into traps of deceit. Many unsavory deeds are committed every hour. Nevertheless, ours is still a wonderful world. There are still the virtuous, the God-fearing and the well-meaning.

The lamp of experience hasn’t dimmed a bit. The same lamp will ever light my path as I add more years to my life and more life to my remaining years. It’s always a golden dawn that ushers in a new day.

And I am reminded of these uplifting and soul-searching lines from Longfellow:

Trust no future howe’er pleasant
Let the dead Past bury its dead
Act, act in the living present
Heart within and God o’erhead.

(Published on Page A13 of the November 8, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer)

Win a few, lose a few

maxmos611 — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 10:08:25 +0000

By Eduardo V. Nievera

THERE are times when I get the urge to be profound, provocative, philosophical, or pugnacious. It depends perhaps on my hormones, enzymes and the weather.

My breakfast digestive juices are stirred each time I open the morning papers and read mostly the same mush of political circuses, never-ending wars, calamities, economic woes and catch-22 crimes. I turn to an inside page and obituaries greet me. During our coffee break, colleagues who belong to generations over age 40 complain about being hounded by dimming vision, middle-age crises, menopausal-climacteric symptoms and the feeling that time flies faster.

Going back to my favorite (though, honestly, not all the time) newspaper, except for some well-written columns, the editorial and features on photography and gardening, which are two of my hobbies, I can face the day only with some trepidation. The write-ups on horticulture, landscaping and the recent efforts to green the highways of the entire country are as refreshing as the proverbial morning sun and dew. They stir the embers of my passion for writing. Noticeable and uplifting are the occasional topics of hard-hitting and incisive columnists when they so exquisitely describe the native beauty and bounties of our land — which, sadly, are dissipating like the bygone days of fire trees and fireflies.

Going to medicine, some articles appearing in the newspapers seem to be lifted straight from a book or medical journal. Whether in print, over the radio or on TV specially, I just dearly wish that the good doctors who guest in the programs would try harder to speak in less scientific terms so that the average (and majority) of the audience would appreciate better what is being discussed. Or, as much as possible speak in the vernacular, so the less educated would benefit, too, from the discussion. I quite understand that the discussants are more comfortable with the terminologies used in medical circles, but the average family member would fail to appreciate the gist of what is being discussed. It seems to be a waste of prime time.

Take music, as another example. To the older generation, soothing music and ballads having more sensible lyrics that are associated with old-fashioned romance and calmer days, are less vexing to the ears and the spirit. The lyrics of a favorite song goes, “Time is wasted on the young.” How true and how false, depending on your age, I guess. During the green years of one’s life, one can well afford to be brave, choose to put off doing things or just laze around. During the “September of one’s life,” one has the luxury of reminiscing and assuming a laid-back attitude. For the young, the louder the volume and the less decipherable the words, the better the music. Or as some wag said, is it because senior citizens have developed a more acute sense of hearing with age that they prefer to turn the volume dial counterclockwise and the decibels lower?

Way back during my post-graduate training, a mentor told me to develop, when writing conclusions in diagnostic reports, the habit of “sticking your neck out despite the danger of its being chopped off, and sticking it out to stand above the crowd.” Fine. But I later found out that a little prudence and, more important, solid training and experience are necessary ingredients. Which brings us to the state of education and test leakages, but a discussion of these things is better left for when we have a less dismal weather and the sun is out.

One day, while walking along the corridor of a modern hospital, I noticed on one wall an array of enlarged sepia pictures honoring the well-known physicians who already passed to the great beyond. Not many of the passersby and staff took time to read the plaques or glance at the photographs. Which set me to thinking: During their time, these were the giants of their profession. They gave their share of comforting and curing the sick as well as teaching and sharing their wealth of experience with the young. Like the faded pictures, their history seemed to be slowly fading with the passage of time. Who was it that said that if records of what one did and of any difference he or she made in this world in his or her lifetime were not kept, it is as if one never existed?

At the risk of being defensive and trying to cater to the young and the complexities of modernity, I actually enjoy the exuberance and inquisitiveness of their generation, the excitement of discoveries of new technologies as well as the tremendous strides in various aspects of modern living and communication. Include the fact that our young women (all right, include those above 50) are prettier and more beguiling because of natural gene selection, better nutrition and fashion. These are enough to make me wish I were 30 years old again.

Oh well, as the song (again!) says, you win a few, you lose a few.

Eduardo V. Nievera, M.D., 72, is with the Radiology Department of the Makati Medical Center.

Made in RP, but not in my country

maxmos611 — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 09:56:59 +0000

I have just returned from an assignment in Liberia to help develop the country’s untapped coconut resources, a project dubbed “Always Use Your Coconut!” My hosts were amazed upon learning of the coconut’s many income-generating uses, thanks to Filipino ingenuity and resourcefulness.

Indeed, I very proudly demonstrate that it doesn’t take rocket science for poor coconut farmers to earn a living from “the tree of life.” And yet when “Da Kokonut Lady” (as I am now known in Liberia) returns to her native Philippines—to the coconut hinterlands—she is confronted by the harsh realities on the ground that present a stark contrast to all the glowing platitudes about our innate virtues.

For example, many large and small community-based coco coir processing enterprises that benefit thousands of poor coconut farmers have suspended their operations because of delayed payments of receivables from highly publicized government infrastructure projects. So severe is the problem that these enterprises have been forced to focus on the highly-competitive export market: a glaring irony in landslide- and erosion-prone Philippines, which clearly stands to benefit the most from the use of locally-made, environment-friendly, and cheaper coco coir products.

It is nothing short of painful and ironic for someone who dispenses made-in-the-Philippines knowledge and expertise to help uplift the lives of the poor in other countries—and then to come home to find out that her very own people cannot avail themselves of such blessings.

By PERLA LIMBAGA MANAPOL

(4331 Blackwood St., Newbury Park, CA 91320, USA)

The simple life

maxmos611 — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 23:37:41 +0000

By Cecilia Tobias Lopez

MOST of my childhood was spent in Mindanao. My family first lived in a timber concession in Davao. When the Japanese invaded the Philippines, we joined my father’s eldest sister and her family in Cotabato. As a bride, my aunt had settled with her husband in a little town quaintly named Pigcawayan.

Toward the end of the war, my father decided to bring his family back to Manila in answer to his father’s summons. However, we got stranded in Zamboanga as the battle for the liberation of Manila reached fever pitch.

Not too long after our return to Manila, my father shipped his family back to Cotabato as he could not afford to support us on his small salary.

We lived in a rather remarkable farm developed by my aunt’s husband. An agriculturist, he had the farm planted to seedless mandarin oranges that were unbelievably sweet, seedless “mabolo” fruits, and avocados that had thick, golden flesh that was smooth and creamy. Rice and corn were the main crops of the farm, but the orchard provided us kids our major source of delights — climbing trees, picking fruits, idling on tree branches, or playing numerous children’s games under the trees. Bananas of several varieties proliferated on the farm. What we could not consume or give away, we fed to the pigs. That was why, some time later, back in Manila, I was shocked when I paid 10 centavos for a small bowl of shaved ice, milk, syrup and a single banana.

Viewed from Manila standards even then, conditions were primitive not only at the farm but in most of Mindanao. No electricity, no running water. We dug a well in the yard and depended on it for washing clothes, bathing, drinking and watering the plants. Our drinking water was religiously boiled by my mother. We depended on kerosene lamps for light and firewood for cooking. My mother had commissioned a tenant to build her a roasting spit over which we happily broiled chicken, fish and other meat. To roast corn, we would build a bonfire and toss the corn, husk and all, into the fire. We did the same with “camote” [sweet potato] and bananas.

We retired early. On stormy nights, my mother would gather us kids around her and tell us horror stories that sent us screaming and diving under the blankets.

During harvest time for rice or corn, the children were allowed to participate. What we harvested we were allowed to keep and sell for pocket money. Buying goodies with our own money was a heady experience. And speaking of harvest, one of our tenants regularly harvested tuba in the afternoons. Do you know how sweet freshly harvested tuba is? My mother would usually beat an egg yolk in a glassful of tuba to produce a healthy tonic (or so she said).

The highlight of our bucolic existence was the weekly arrival of the Hiligaynon, the Ilonggo edition of the Liwayway magazine (usually a month late, coming all the way from Manila). We would troop to the only “sari-sari store” [variety store] in our community. I had been commissioned to do the weekly readings. Surrounded by the neighborhood elders and children of various ages, I would read the serialized novels in the magazine, complete with histrionic effects — anger, sadness, humor. My audience lapped it up.

Life was basic, life was simple, but life in Cotabato provided me a fantastic childhood. I have never again known such a stress-free existence. We found joy and pleasure in the simplest of things. Walking was the primary “means of transportation,” and the walks gave us the opportunity to communicate with Mother Nature and to enjoy the blessings she scattered along the way — wild berries, dragonflies that we chased among wild blooms, the chirping birds, young rice from which we sucked the milky, unformed grain. Modern life as we know it now was eons away.

A way of life so dependent on technology and gadgetry has terrible drawbacks when faced with nature’s fury. Recent calamities have amply demonstrated this. Life just stops when power fails. No light, no water, no TV, no air conditioners, no computers, no telephones, not even the minimal comfort provided by an electric fan. The wailings from the old and the young alike could make up the chorus in one of the great Greek tragedies.

At times like these, I look back to my childhood in Cotabato. Wistfully, I yearn for the simplicity of it all, when life was uncomplicated and sheer pleasure could be found in just being alive and being content with what Mother Nature bestowed on us.

Cecilia Tobias Lopez, 69, is a retired government employee. She worked part-time as a speechwriter at the Philippine National Police, and as an editor of the newsletter of the Armed Forces of the Philippines Officers Village Association Inc.

Hello world!

maxmos611 — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 23:32:23 +0000

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!