Weather, Whether, Whatever!

I spent the first 16 years of my life living in the southernmost tip of the Philippines. In a disaster-prone archipelago, Gensan, my hometown, seems to have had the most luck of not being in the proverbial typhoon path. I’m stating this while knocking on wood copiously, because in this era of climate change, one can never foretell how the weather will turn. In the immortal words uttered by movie star-turned-mayor-turned-governor, Vilma Santos, ‘you can never can tell’.

In the 70s and early 80s, weather patterns were more predictable. Guess that’s how it is when you have only two: dry and wet season. The wet season ran from June-September (sometimes ending as early as August), while the rest of the year was ‘dry’, with April and May being the hottest and most humid.  With Gensan being so close to the equator, cold weather was an alien concept to its residents and real only to those who lived on the ‘other side’, i.e., the mountainous northern tip of the country.

Back then, the rains were a welcome respite from the scorching heat. Seeing our school grounds littered with tiny rivulets would always give me a strange sense of serenity. Those hypnotic ripples! The rains knew when to halt and the only damage they caused was on my mother’s laundry, which she had left outside to dry. 

While being virtually typhoon-free, Gensan was not spared from the occasional earthquakes and landslides. One earthquake I would never forget was in 1976, which struck at around seven in the morning, just as I was getting ready for school. Our display cabinet that was filled with precious Noritake dinnerware had toppled over, scattering debris of precious porcelain broken into smithereens. I was only eight years old then, but I mustered enough courage to not show any grief, as I gingerly helped my parents gather the broken pieces. It must have been heart-breaking for both of them to see an entire ‘made-in-Japan’ dining set, complete with serving pieces, shatter into utter uselessness. Moral of the story? Don’t keep your nicest things for display. Use them for as long and as much as you can, because if they get damaged or lost, you can at least say you’ve used them for what they were worth. After all, they’re just stuff. Then, move on. But, I digress.

My typhoon experience started when I moved to Manila for college. Each Signal Number 3 warning would be greeted with jubilation because it meant that classes in all levels were suspended. One would think that the most sensible thing to do was to stay home to be safe and dry. Instead, we would make a beeline to the nearest mall to watch a movie and eat burgers and fries afterwards. Guess one can afford to be brazenly idiotic while still young and living away from the parents. But I do remember the post-disaster relief operations that our university would organize: soliciting and packing relief goods for distribution to areas heavily damaged by the typhoon. Our school campus was strategically located on top of a hill and from there, one could get a panoramic glimpse of the entire Marikina Valley submerged in floodwater.

Fast-forward to the new millennium when the seasons are no longer predictable, when the summer heat gets unbearably worse after each passing year, when typhoons pay visits during the holiday season. One casualty of climate change that I can audaciously claim is the annual LGBT Pride March. Previously held in the month of June to coincide with the global pride celebrations (which had its roots in the Stonewall riots in NYC in June 1969), the organizers decided to move the event to December precisely to avoid the rainy season. The other main reason was that it was closer to International Human Rights Day, which was commemorated every 10^th of December. Lo and behold, our parade also ended up getting rained on in December!

2005 LGBT Freedom March: The party tent, umbrella and raincoats say it all.

By far, the strongest typhoon I experienced in Metro Manila was Milenyo (International Code Name, Xangsane) in 2006. Thanks to the internet and local cable news TV, we were amply forewarned that landfall would be at around ten in the morning, with the eye of the storm directly hitting Metro Manila. Like clockwork, by mid-morning, the winds started howling in ghoulish proportions, the skies darkened into a somber gray and the rains began pelting down. I can confirm how destructive Milenyo was, because for the first time ever, freakish gusts of wind managed to spray water into the ceiling of the second floor bedroom of the apartment that I was living in. Outside, it looked like raging behemoths had crossed paths: tree branches were scattered all over the streets, sheets of galvanized roof were flying about and electric poles were dangerously teetering from side to side. But the typhoon left as fast as it came. Two hours later, the winds had calmed down and the sounds of the rain were reduced to a soft patter.  But oh, the destruction and the havoc that Milenyo wreaked in the metropolis. In just two hours! And don’t get me started with Ondoy, Pepeng, Sendong, Pablo and the entire alphabet-soup of tropical storms that have hit the country in the last decade.

On an annual basis, there are 19-20 typhoons that enter the so-called ‘Philippine Area of Responsibility’. Of these only a third actually hit the ground.  But, as if we’re not pummeled enough by these storms, we also have our share of volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and floods. Guess, we’re not in the Pacific Ring of Fire, for nothing.

But geography is not destiny! Yes, our country has everything to offer when it comes to disasters, just like SM Shoemart’s earworm of an advertising slogan in the 1980s, ‘We’ve got it all for you’. Yet, it does not mean that we have to resign ourselves to this unfortunate fate. We have learned to live and survive with disasters – be they ‘natural’ or human-made. When Ondoy struck in 2009, I blogged about it – extolling the Filipino spirit of resiliency, unity and cooperation in crisis situations, but at the same time, deploring the lack of disaster preparedness and management on the part of government.

As the country prepares to face the aftermath of Typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan), which just hit Central Philippines, I am reminded of this tongue-twister in my youth. This, among many others, was taught by my high school Speech teacher, who just died a couple of days ago (and this is my quirky way of thanking her).

Whether the weather be fine 
or whether the weather be not,

Whether the weather be cold 
or whether the weather be hot,

We'll weather the weather, 
whatever the weather,
 
whether we like it or not.

KALAG-KALAG and How Not To Disturb the Dead

Kalag-kalag, Bangkok-Style

‘Kalag’ is the Ilonggo word for soul and 'kalag-kalag’ is the act of remembering the souls of our dearly departed. When I was growing up, this was how my family would spend the first two days of November. It meant saying prayers and lighting candles -- one for each dead member of the family. On my mother’s side, it was her four brothers, who met tragic deaths in their youth. One had died from food poisoning, while another was hit by a falling tree, that killed him instantly. On my father’s side, I cannot remember. All I knew was that six candles had to remain lighted throughout the day. Once a candle had melted to its last bits, with the wick barely aflame, it had to be immediately replaced. This was done so as not to disturb the ‘peace of the soul’ it was burning for. For safety reasons, we had the lighted candles positioned outside the house, but near the doorway, where they could be easily seen. For best results, it was recommended to use tall bulky candles, which burned for hours and hours. Apart from the candle-burning ritual, there were intermittent trips to the cemetery, if only to assuage our dead that they were not yet forgotten.

There was nothing festive about the whole thing. In fact, if it wasn’t for the suman (glutinous rice cooked in sugar and coconut milk and peppered with latik) being prepared and served for the occasion, it seemed more like an abridged version of ‘holy week’ --  in that, it was a time for silence and contemplation. Then again, maybe it was just my parents. Not that I stayed silent and contemplative during those times – but I do remember being admonished to keep still and refrain from horsing around. 

So no, I can’t relate much to all the revelry of ‘halloween’ and what it has evolved into today. Yes, this whole costume-party frenzy and trick-or-treating are as alien as easter egg-hunting to me. While I am not vehemently against these borrowed traditions, it’s the mad consumerism of it all that I can’t stand.

After I left my hometown to study and live permanently in Manila, I reenacted the same annual kalag-kalag ritual. And, when I started working, the solemnity of the event started to dissipated. Instead, November 1 and 2 became holidays to look forward to, especially if they fell close to a weekend, because it meant longer days off work.

Throughout the years, we accumulated more dead relatives: a cousin, my grandparents, uncles and aunts. So, I would faithfully light the candles –though I eschewed the whole-day burning ritual. I mean, I had other things to do than make sure I wouldn’t burn the house down. And other than my dead relatives, I eventually also lighted candles for departed friends, especially those ravaged by cancer or AIDS. But when the number of deaths increasingly became more frequent (and unbearably so), especially before ARVs became available, the candles just weren’t enough. So I made a cosmic pact with those beloved souls that one candle could represent them all at once -- a set of friends, a number of relatives, and important colleagues. And yes, I also lighted candles for River Phoenix and Michael Jackson.  

Remembering Nelson Mandela and the 'Closest' Encounter I Could Ever Have with Him

"It is never my custom to use words lightly. If 27 years in prison and 27 years of silence in solitude have taught me anything, it is how precious words are!"

I distinctly remember frantically scrambling my way through the bushes and flowerbeds, just so I could get a clear glimpse of this frail, but magnetic and eminent man named Nelson Mandela. That was during the Closing Ceremony of the XIII International AIDS Conference in July 2000, which Durban, South Africa hosted. Mandela was a demigod revered by all of Africa and the rest of the world – at least that’s how I remember it in that conference. The welcome song, the chants, and the cheers did not seem to end, as he slowly entered the main hall.

And when he spoke – every word was like a mantle of wisdom and hope cloaking the entire audience. Some were even in tears, that it seemed all too surreal. That’s when I fully comprehended the meaning of awe.

His speech was a subtle, yet sharp rebuke to Thabo Mbeki, who earlier that week, spoke at the Opening Ceremony. Mbeki, who was then the president of South Africa, was greeted by jeers, boos, and placard-carrying protesters, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of the conference organizers (mind you, the protests were led by South African AIDS activists). Well, that’s what you get for saying that HIV does NOT lead to AIDS. That, and his refusal to see the value of ARVs, vaccines and treatment access.  

In his speech, Mandela admonished the importance of going beyond the conflicts between politics and science, adding that he believed Mbeki ‘takes scientific inquiry seriously.’ Chuckles. Heads nodding. We all knew what he really meant when he said that.  He also challenged everyone to address stigma and discrimination, move from rhetoric to action and ensure inclusiveness in the  fight against AIDS. Which meant including Thabo Mbeki, even when he was being a jackass.

More than a decade later, Mandela's words still ring true.

Thankfully, the global AIDS movement has progressed, even as we’re still seeing a spike of cases in a number of countries in the world, including the Philippines.  Alas, there were only a few video/digital camera addicts at that time; wifi technology was not in place; and, there was no live-tweeting or facebook updating that could have informed the rest of the world, in real time, what a great, great man, he was. He still is -- (and I'm saying that even if he only succeeded in addressing political, and not economic apartheid in South Africa).

One of the buildings in downtown Durban that was festooned with AIDS ribbons and banners.

This blog was originally posted in my FB Notes on June 27, 2013 at 10:51pm.

‘Never Again’ Means NEVER AGAIN!

I was four years old when Martial Law was declared on September 23,1972. My distinct memory of that period was the constant airplay of ‘Ang Bagong Lipunan’ (The ‘New Society) blaring from our transistor radio. It was a rousing tune that made me march along with it, oblivious to the ghastly implications of that presidential proclamation that would spawn more than a decade of political terror. Because I lived in the southern-most tip of the Philippines, which we then referred to as ‘Dadiangas’ (before it got the ‘Gensan’ monicker), we were somehow isolated and insulated from the political crisis that was infesting imperial Manila and the other main cities.

Throughout the 70s and on to the mid-80s, I would occasionally hear of the skirmishes between the Pulahans or NPAs (New People’s Army), the MNLF (Moro National Liberation Front – when its ideals and intentions were still somehow noble) and the Ilagas (Rats), the much-dreaded ear-chopping vigilante group. And who could forget Norberto Manero, alias Kumander Bucay, who sowed terror in Southern Mindanao, including his infamous murder of Italian priest, Fr. Tulio Favalli? He would later reveal that it was his brother Edilberto who pulled the trigger.

Growing up in an apolitical household meant that political issues were only furtively discussed in whispers, so that we could ‘go on with our lives’. Yes, we had to deal with the inconveniences of military checkpoints and curfews, but as a kid, I was totally incognizant of the grave social and political repercussions of Martial Law. During those times, we would hear of frequent encounters between the military, which was supported by para-military forces, i.e., the infamous CHDF (Civilian Home Defense Force) and its later incarnation, the CAFGU (Civilian Armed Forces Geographical Unit) with the underground left/communist movement.

It would be a decade later before I realized the full extent of the so-named conjugal dictatorship, and that was only when I came face to face with friends (and friends of friends) who were forcibly silenced, incarcerated, tortured and sexually abused. Some of them had joined the underground movement or were forced to a life of exile outside the country.

Four decades later, the Marcoses are back in politics as if they never left. As if the reign of terror did not exist. As if the Philippine treasury was never raided and as if the existence of the Swiss bank accounts, the staggering amounts of jewelry and cash and the lavish mansions were woven from urban legends and imaginary tales. They say you cannot bestow the sins of the father upon the son (in this case the Marcos children). But for them to disregard and rewrite the past, as if the Marcos era was the Golden Age of Philippine history, insults my sensibilities to the very core. Which is the same sentiment I have for Johnny Enrile (Martial Law executor) who has deftly evaded justice all these years and Kit Tatad (Marcos’s Information Minister) – both rabidly and fanatically anti-RH spokespersons. What makes the situation worse is that many young people, especially those born from the 90s onwards, have absolutely no idea or no clue about those dark days of the dictatorship. Hey, it’s not like this happened in the 18^th or 19^th century, no?

I am writing this to honor and pay homage to those who lived to tell their stories and to give respect to those who continue to lend their names, faces and voices to counter the lies and falsehood of those who benefitted and profited from that regime. I join them in exclaiming, ‘Never again!’   

P.S. And this is also why I will never vote for any Marcos into political office.