A View of Lahaina

Remembering Maui

Maui in my dreams is always this: sunny days, cool wind wafting from the ocean, lavender colored horizons, and blue, blue skies. Take me back, country road, to the place that I love...

Haleakala, The House of the Sun

10,000 feet above sea level, and freezing cold!


The unholy hour, the circuitous road, and the other-worldly terrain was only a precursor to the sublime event of being at the top of Mt. Haleakala, the volcano that formed 75% of Maui, and whose significance is of folkloric value. The biting cold was both an affront to the senses, and an exclamation point to the uniqueness of the experience. I couldn’t guess how cold it was, but I couldn’t feel my hands, and I nearly thought my ears, nose and lips have frozen solid. We drove up around 4am to see the sunrise from the eastern side of the volcano. And like pilgrims on a religious journey, the many people that were there were talking in subdued tones as we waited for the sun to rise.



House of the Rising Sun

And there it was. The sun, peeking from the horizon, finally rose – triumphant and majestic.



Here comes the sun...


Clouds were below us, and the ocean from the distance was calm and the epitome of blueness. It was beautiful.

All About A Book

Finally...after seven years, the volume that has an interesting article (ahem) by me and a good friend, Brian Howell is out.

I'm a published writer!!!! Yay!!!!

Here's the amazon link so you can browse it: Book!

Home Coming Part 1

The trip back home is always fraught with mixed emotions – full of surprises, expectations, and even foreboding. It is a trip that is necessary – for one reason or another. Whether it is a trip eagerly anticipated, or dreaded, you find yourself preparing for a trip home. And I discover as one gets older (at least in my part), the more emotional the preparation and the trip becomes – a sentimental sort of journey embarked with the most hopeful of wishes, and the direst of apprehensions. One is filled with tensions that is both terrible, and yet enthralling, for one is no longer the youth that first stepped out to venture away from the home you have grown up in – and you know that you are no longer that person that left, for the passage of time, and breaking and mending of hearts, souls, body has left marks that can sometimes make it difficult to recognize our old selves. It is a poignant, bitter-sweet embarkation – for it is a glad reunion but also a time for grieving for the things we have lost along the way.

The trip back home is marred by a hellish 12-hour delay in the "newly opened, better than the old airport Terminal 3." Irate passengers, personnels bumbling and bumping into each other as there were yelling and cursing as flights were canceled arbitrarily, unexplained delays and irritations. Fun.

I. Davao


The familiar faces of old friends – somewhat older, somewhat , the easy laughter, and camaraderie make you feel a pang of regret. Why have you left at all? But you quickly get over this because things are the way things are, and it would not have been this way if you haven’t left. You find in them the genuine feelings of gladness. You soon revert back to the old banter, the fun and the sad memories relived, and there are moments when silence envelopes the group, and you don’t feel uncomfortable knowing that you are all lost in some collective recollection, and you heave a collective sigh. For you know you are in a company of friends, people that make up and reside in the deepest part of who you are, and what you have become.

Old friends. Good friends.

And the places – the places that have taken on mythic dimensions as they became the very backdrop of your embarkation, bringing with them recollections of the past, but also the promise of the future. These were places you knew – that were familiar and so commonplace before. They now take on new significance. They are imbued with meanings too deep and too complex to ever unravel, no matter how ordinary or usual they are: your old room, a forgotten favorite corner, the sight of a tree, the scents and flavors that once shrouded your days. They all come flooding back- memories, meanings, significance. But you find yourself not only in the spectacular places, but you find that there is greater attraction, deeper nuance in the ordinary scenes and corners you use to frequent: Pidok’s where you use to get the best beef steak, Dunkin Donuts along Duterte Street – where you can get good coffee 24 hours a day, before the advent of designer coffee places, the tucked-away second hand bookstore where you use to find dirt cheap but classic books, the best dimsum place where you use to indulge with your meager allowance, the movie theaters where you get lost in, caught up in a celluloid world that sometimes make more sense than your own life. None of these have greater significance than what you have attached to them, and yet all these lend a certain enchantment, allowing you to return, even for a moment to what was.


II. Tacurong

Tacurong is my geography. It is the land that shapes my heart, and its contours become the landscape of my lucid dreams, its dust and features forever etched in me. It is the primeval place I return to, and no matter how far I have traveled, no matter what accomplishments I may have achieved, I revert back to a self I thought I have long lost. Although it has been so long ago that I have been here for a significant amount of time, it is still home. But if you ask me what makes this place unique, what is it that has caught hold of me, I would be hard pressed to come up with a definite answer. All I can tell you are random events, vaguely recollected memories, and fuzzy feelings that are like swaths of clothing that can only make sense seen in a patch-work quilt. Ultimately, it is nothing more than what has gathered in my heart, a treasure locked and protected, peered and visited at odd times and when comfort can not be found anywhere else. This is where home is, and home is a collection of odds and ends, leftover from childhood, relics and remnants from a life no longer existing, a gallery that evoke powerful imagery, and ultimately where your roots are deeply planted.

Home is a ramshackle testimony of our family’s various enterprises: a renovation here, an addition there during bursts of exuberance and optimism long overtaken by the realities of tragedies and broken hearts. It has taken on the patina of past decades; the rough and unfinished places became charming features that lent character and history. The moss on the concrete fence softened the harsh lines and coarse veneer. The heavy pieces of furniture are testimonies to my dad's creativity and workmanship. They are mute and ponderous witnesses to the saga of this family's triumph, loss and re-emergence. It smells, it feels, and it certainly looks like home to me. That night, I sleep in my old room, in the bed that has been mine since I was 10 years old. I dreamed of dreams that was the scenery of my childhood, and I wake up feeling like I have just been hugged.

One of my earliest memories of my dad is him driving somewhere

My dad is always a busy man, and I discover if I didn’t make an effort, I would not see him the whole day. He would be off somewhere - somewhere I have always thought fascinating, interesting. His world can never be my world, and so I have always felt alike a stranger whenever I tag along with him. His world is far too exotic for me. I remember as a young boy going with him to whatever project he was involved in. I would listen to his conversation with others, the raucous laughter, the witty repartee, the grown-up world. I remember having a conversation with my siblings as what would be our equivalent of a grown-up world, and we came up with a far less exotic world than our parent’s. Anyway, that day, I purposely said I will go with my dad and spend the day with him. It was a flurry of activities: he went to see a mayor, a governor, a congressman, and several pastors came to find him – and that was only in the morning. It was a dizzying day, but my dad was in his element and he does what he does best. Older now, more fragile since his last health scare, my dad continues to devote himself to pursuits we have so long ago gotten used to.

For lunch, I dared ask him to bring me to a place we have never seen for 21 or more years. It was nearby I told him, forgetting childhood sense of time and geography aren’t necessarily the same as a grown up. But he said yes. It is a place of implication, for whenever my parents, in the old days, felt they want to splurge, or enjoy a day out, we would go to a very simple place unassumingly called “Chicken Hauz.” It was quite a distance – we make a day out of it usually, and we usually have a good time. And during the years my mother fell sick, in the rare days she would have an appetite, she would ask to be taken there. And there, my dad would nurse her, feeding her with comfort food, a momentary relief from the pains and the horrors of her sickness. My dad has not returned to this place since my mother passed away in 1987. And so it was a surprise for me, and felt a sense of poignancy when he said we would have lunch there.


The food, like the name of the restaurant was unassuming: Tinola, Fried chicken, done the old fashion way. The first sip of the broth brought back memories of careless fun in the sun, of simpler, less complicated days. Simmered to perfection, the chicken is tender and tasty, the papaya is soft, and the sili leaves subtly pungent. No sophisticated techniques here, no complicated ingredients. It was just hearty, simple meal that reflects best the people that made and imbibe them. A moment of strange significance, and yet so mundane: while eating the decidedly delicious meal, an old man comes striding in, bringing with him a bunch of chickens tied up together. He is making a delivery. Talk about the food being fresh. Within hours these live chickens will be served as dishes that made this venerable place famous and well-loved. It is a bizarre juxtaposition of the ordinary and the out of the ordinary.



To be continued…

Brown Envelopes

The brown envelope filled with hope, snapshots of dreams and fervent prayers was the emblem we carried, we who stood beside this iron gates, milled about while the hawkers plied us with their trade – black ball pens, instant photo id, dreams – for we were in the market. We were flushed with the chips we have cashed in –we had sold our land, we gave up everything and willing to pay at any price for a dream. We are in pursuit of a fantasy, a vision that seized us- a land of plenty beckons us -so far and yet so within our reach. Like many other Filipinos that early morning, I was at the U.S. Embassy hoping to receive the stamp of approval – the take off of our flights of imaginations. It was cloudy that morning – Manila bay obscured by metal gray mists, and palpable desire. At the crack of dawn we were here: the hopefuls, the dreamers, the desperate and me. We were waiting for our numbers to be called, and in the giant lottery of life we just might be up for the grand prize. There was an air of camaraderie in the air, a sense of belonging. We were all in this together. Strangers talked with strangers as instant single-serve friendships were made. Silences and nervousness were overcome with small talks, and jokes about the country they wished to leave.

I had to quell the need to ask these people their stories – what brought them here, what lead them to these gates, and whose doors have they knocked in order to get here. I was dying with curiosity. Here was this woman – there was no need to ask her, for she was telling anyone willing to listen, or in fact anybody within earshot why exactly she was there that morning. Her fiancé was petitioning her. She’s pretty sure she’ll get the approval of the embassy. An awkward young man with an awkward haircut was wearing the most awkward necktie stands there, well, awkwardly, hoping I guess, that the necktie would impress the consul, or at least take pity for that heroic effort of wearing a stifling accoutrement. Some came in their office/company uniforms. I saw one with a hurriedly sewn-on company logo on his shirt, and around his neck worn like a necklace of pearls, his company I.D. You might think he snuck out of work to be here for the interview. A whole family came, the two little boys in matching animé shirts, the dad making last minute instructions while the mom was silently smiling. I noticed most of us were not rich people with money to spare if they were rejected, that the price alone for getting the appointment is more than half of an average person’s monthly salary, and there is just no way that this will not hurt. But who wants to think about that.

I am not making any judgments here. I no longer have the interest to rail and rant, denouncing the reasons why earnest and talented people would have to ply their dreams to foreign countries. While not giving up the fight and the hope for a better future for our country, I also understand the need for a few more bucks for the family, for the down payment for a future held in deferred payment plan. I understand. After all, I was with them this particular morning, although not for the reason of trying to find a job in the land of proverbial milk and honey. I wanted to attend a conference, and to get there means I need to get a visa. I have always been fortunate in my travels – travel arrangements and visa applications to the countries I’ve been to so far did not necessitate the need to queue, or it has always been facilitated by accommodating hosts and others. No such conveniences here. This line is the great equalizer – the noble and the ignoble were all in this together-to be rained on, or burn with the fierce tropical sun. The wait was both short and long. Short enough to be spared the infernal limbo of anticipation, but long enough to fray at the already frayed nerves from tension and desperate expectation.

There is an air of efficient bustle the moment you stepped on the grounds- probably from years of having to facilitate the American dreams of so many Filipinos. The embassy people know what they do, and they do it well – a gracefully choreographed ballet that flows and glows and steps on no one’s toes. Forms were scrutinized, corrections made, and numbers dispensed. Mercifully short, we sit at a great hall and I eavesdrop on conversation. I watch people. Captivated, I pass the time looking at people as they come and go, the well-dressed, the casually-dressed and the over-dressed. Soon enough we were ushered in to the inner sanctum – where dreams are made or broken, where copious tears are shed, and where the hum of the air condition and the silence of the waiting crowd belie the thousand nagging thoughts, the wildly beating heart. The muffled conversations that take place between the glassed-in consuls and the person standing outside it is both fascinating and horrifying. Finally, the bell rings, you see your number flash and the window where you are supposed to have your interview. You stand up, take a breath, and take those steps toward your dreams.

Travelling

There is something sublimely attractive in traveling. In the unfamiliarity of a new place, you stand on the verge of two worlds. One world you intimately know – one that does not necessarily speak of a geographical location, but one that is in you – the you that you carry – your thoughts, your identity, you memory, your world. And then there’s the world that you behold in your travels. In that world you are different. You are taken out of your ordinary context, and what appears to be ordinary to the inhabitants of that place appears appealingly exotic, dramatic to you. Not just the way they eat, or wear their clothes, or the way they drive right instead of left, but more so, because things are different, yet hauntingly similar. You are dislocated, you could be a different person, a totally new creation, but you are still you. You carry with you your world. It is both a thrill and a disappointment. The thrill comes from the sense of being there, and a disappointment because you perceive that world as yourself. One hopes that in traveling you become a different person; that somehow you are transformed to a person fitted for that place, but you remain you. You have the same way of thinking, same way of perceiving things, with the same tastes, assumptions. One would hope that in some way you are transformed by that visit, by your contact with you alien surrounding, and I’d like to think we do indeed come out changed. We do not remain as we are. In fact, to travel does not just mean covering great distances, or reaching far and exotic destinations, but more so, it is a learning process, a discovery. A pilgrimage of some sort, where we travel the byways and highways toward a goal, a destination, a place that God has told us of. Travel means being reminded of our own impermanence, of the challenge to discover more, to see what’s beyond.

“Blessed is the man whose strength is in you, whose hearts is set on a pilgrimage…” Psalm 84:5

A Beautiful Look for Zerzura

Yay! Thanks to Nechie Velasco, Zerzura has a new (old world?) look! Best blog tweaker ever!

Zerzura

. . . You will find palms and vines and flowing wells. Follow the valley until you meet another valley opening to the west between two hills. In it you will find a road. Follow it. It will lead you to the City of Zerzura. You will find its gate closed. It is a white city, like a dove. By the gate you will find a bird sculptured. Stretch up your hand to its beak and take from it a key. Open the gate with it and enter the city. You will find much wealth and the king and queen in their place sleeping the sleep of enchantment. Do not go near them. Take the treasure and that is all.
– Author unknown, 15th century

The mythical city or oasis of Zerzura (Arabic: زرزورة‎) was long rumored to have existed deep in the desert west of the Nile River in Egypt or Libya. In writings dating back to the thirteenth century, the authors spoke of a city which was "white as a dove" and called it "The Oasis of Little Birds". More recently, European explorers made forays into the desert in search of Zerzura but never succeeded in finding it. Notable twentieth-century explorers Ralph Bagnold of Britain, and the Hungarian Lászlo (Ladislaus) Almásy (whose fictionalized life is the subject of the famed movie, The English Patient) led an expedition to search for Zerzura from 1929-1930 using Ford Model-T trucks. In 1932 first Patrick Clayton, then the Almásy-Clayton expedition found two valleys in the Gilf Kebir. In the following year Almásy found the third of the "Zerzura" wadis, actually rain oases in the remote desert. On the other hand, Bagnold considered Zerzura as a legend that could never be solved by discovery.*

*taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zerzura

Welcome!

This is my alternative blog. This blog will be about my travels, both of the philosophical kind and the geographical kind. It will be about my take on spaces and places I've been to - my impressions, and descriptions of the textures, scents, flavors and sights. The travels and the places need not be exotic or far-off. It could just a short jeepney trip downtown or across the sea, it could be walk in the public market here in Baguio or at the gold souks in Dubai. I will write about them - mainly so that the memory will stay with me, but also to share with you the experience.

See you on the road!