For Nodar Kumaritashvili

I was stunned to read online that Nodar Kumaritashvili, a luger athlete from Georgia, died today while on training run for the 2010 Winter Olympics. I am saddened by his death and could not believe this tragedy befell a young man who had a promising career in sports. May God bless his soul and lift up his family in this moment of grief.

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Images from New Territories

I snapped these photos while exploring a part of New Territories in Hong Kong during our visit last year. I was organizing our photo library today and thought I’d share these with you.

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Galunggong and Social Status

Photo credit: Salihan.com

Today we had galunggong for lunch. We fashionably call it mackerel roundscad in the United States. A glass of white wine to pair it with would be nothing short of fantastic. It is exotic, delicious, and pricey. It can easily sweep off a foodie’s feet at any time.

I ate it like how it’s meant to be eaten: with bare hands occasionally dipping the fish in sinamak (spiced vinegar) with soy sauce and bury it in a small heap of hot rice. It’s just the way I eat it — a poor man’s way.

Galunggong symbolizes “last resort” in the Philippines: when you have nothing else to eat, you eat it. It abounds the dirty streets of Divisoria and Quiapo where you see stacks of rubber-like gray fish covered with dust and [possibly] sweat from the vendors’ hands. Its appearance leaves nothing to be desired. The source is also questionable: think Pasig River, Manila Bay or some stagnant bodies of water in between. Yet, everyday, mounds of galunggong persistently wait for unsuspecting and hungry mouths to have them for dinner. They sell for less than 10 peso (roughly 20 cents) a pop, but if you’ll buy in bulk, you’ll probably get 50% discount.

I remember looking at them with so much aversion. Seafoods are dirt cheap in Iloilo where I come from that there’s no reason to settle for galunggong. (In fact, the fish is not at all popular in our province.) Until one day, a friend brought some and successfully coaxed me into eating it. I had a sudden change of heart on my first bite and never looked at galunggong the same way ever again.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon a pack of ready-to-eat smoked fish at the grocery. Galunggong seems to have found its place in the frozen sections of Asian stores in California, commanding the same price as premium crabs. Yet, people buy them because they miss home and some mini bites can easily transport them to the streets of Manila.

Like many Filipinos who venture for a better life abroad, galunggong realized its worth in America and currently enjoys the status that it otherwise will never get in the Philippines.

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Fighting to Live

My visit to Sausalito is unexpected, like intense rain in the middle of summer, but the city is gorgeous as always, even the weekend after Christmas: unusually quiet downtown, empty cafes serving freshly-baked bagels, and weary bikers patiently lugging their gears. I want to show Ivy — my high school classmate who flew in from Virginia — this beautiful town located just right off Golden Gate. When you live in a beautiful place like the Bay Area, you like to show off the best parts of it. I didn’t do the same while living in Manila. Don’t ask me why.

While strolling along the legendary jetty, a familiar face emerges. This time it is thinner, more wrinkled and greased, like a cacao pod dipped in lard, almost unrecognizable. A few steps from him is his dog wearing a holiday hat. Its waiflike, feeble body rests on dirt, a signal of loneliness, of defeat. I ask myself: are these the same twosome who entertained and made people smile?

I remember taking a picture of this duo in September last year during our family visit to Sausalito. The streets were jovial as the accordionist serenaded everybody and the man, with only the guitar as his most-prized possession, put shades on his mammal friend, held his limbs with both hands and pretended to strum some off-key notes. A puppy channeling Led Zeppelin. How cute, I should drop a dollar.

It was a crowd drawer, I remember. The man had a great day. Thanks to the dog, and to the accordionist who didn’t bother collecting her talent fee. For that short-lived show alone, the man got a hatful of crumpled dollars, around 50, I think.

Fast forward, the infamous duo battle the cold San Francisco weather. I wear a cardigan layered with a thick shawI yet I still curse a blue streak when the wind blows my hair. The man doesn’t have anything to cover himself except soiled clothes and the dog, his fur and his holiday hat. I don’t know how they survived the cold especially on nights when we count on our heater to warm us up ’til dawn.

I think if all you have is life, all you do is fight to live — that’s why they’re still there: alive and kicking on a cold winter day.

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This Christmas, happiness is a choice

On Christmas day, people at the mall genuinely looked happy wearing their best jeans and brand new sweaters with fixed smiles on their faces and carrying bags of gifts they tried to balance with their bodies. We saw scores of people beating the clock for a last-minute Christmas shopping, kids running back and forth, clothes getting flipped, rearranged and disorganized in record-breaking speed. It was chaotic at best but smiles didn’t wear off from the people’s faces. I’ve never seen so many happy faces since I got here. For a moment, I wished it were Christmas everyday.

To some, Christmas revolves around giving gifts, unveiling that gaudy and shiny box and crossing out items in their wish lists. Like this — the whole gift-giving checklist-crossing thing — is the nexus of the holidays. I was equally guilty: I used to pre-count my gifts based on the number of uncles and aunts, and godparents who seemed to forget but might have remembered me on Christmas. I opened each gift with excitement and marveled at items that I got. I understand that for kids, it’s the gifts that count. Now that I am older, married and have my own child, I see Chrismas from the point of view of a giver, a wife and a mom. I realized that gifts are just small drops in the bucket.

It’s all about sharing

I’m not surprised typing this: I don’t have the highest regard for gifts anymore. Of course I appreciate them — I eat, use, wear and parade them even — but it came to a point where I am more delighted to be the giver and I didn’t mean that by spending money to give but by sharing something more valuable: our time. It could be as simple as patting a friend’s back, lending an ear to the troubled, telling your friends how much they mean to you or giving the best hugs to your spouse or child. If we only have time to pause, we will know that these simple gestures mean more than anything than what we could buy off the rack.

Your presence is “the” present

Being away from home this Christmas did not stop me from feeling blessed and grateful. There are thousands of ways to bridge the distance if I want to. The Internet makes it easier for my loved ones to holler me anytime even when I’m out hiking a hill or crossing a lake on a boat. They make their presence known any time and I am glad for that. I also have a beautiful family that’s grander that many things. My son just discovered the joy of kissing our cheeks and he does it every minute or so, as if it were some sort of a funny game that never ends, and he thinks it’s the funniest when I giggle from his smooches but how should I react to the cutest and the most genuine of all kisses? Being surrounded by my family is more than enough.

Don’t fret, it’s just a gift

Don’t fret if you didn’t get any gifts or didn’t spend on any. How you celebrate Christmas depends on you and how you look at things. Focus on the joy and fun of the season: it could be the most unexpected greeting from a friend, the funniest thing you’ve heard today or the funny realization that you’re sulking in the dark corner for no reason. Look at yourself as the source of joy and inspiration for others. Instead of waiting for what others can give you, stand up and share a moment of laughter with loved ones.

And the whole point is…

It all boils down to choice. We have the choice to focus on tangible gifts or on what we have and be grateful about it. A friend told me a few days ago to count my blessings and that’s what I did exactly. I realized that I have so much to live for and this Christmas gives me the opportunity to thank them — they might not know it (especially the giggly little one) but they are why i am happy.

I think I know why those people at the mall wore the brightest of all smiles. It’s not the best pants and the newest sweaters they wore nor the crossed-out items in their Christmas wish lists. They were happy because they CHOSE to be happy. Genuine happiness showed on their faces. It just happened that they wore the best clothes.

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First dreams

Rice Fields in the Philippines, Photo Credit: Ken Ilio

Iloilo City, Philippines
May 31, 1987

Today is the last day of May. I turned seven three months ago. I had a big day: I donned my white dress with shallow pockets on both sides, my hair brushed neatly by the checkered pussy cat I got from my mother. I had three colorful chiffon cakes with edible multi-color flowers tied nicely with shiny ribbons. I must’ve been that good last year.

I woke up early this morning in anticipation of a fun-filled day, along with a myriad of things in mind. This morning, I like what I see: hibiscus flowers bloom so gracefully before my eyes, dewy grasses overspread on our lawn, and wild violet flowers spring up along corrugated roads and glisten like sequins on a ruffled dress. I look up the sky and see some birds chase one another on branches of a star apple tree, their tweets blend in the shrill sound of bamboo broom that sweeps fallen santol and mango leaves. (My grandmother who does the sweeping in her usual batik duster, bends with one hand on her waist, the other holds the broom firmly as if not wanting to let go. She takes occasional breaks to puff her newly-rolled tobacco. She looks content.) The loud cry of a neighbor’s radio overshadows the fish vendor’s clanging bell, it miserably faints in the background. By 6 o’ clock, my aunt opens her store and a handful of customers queue to buy a pack of Nescafe, sugar, noodles, sardines, and eggs. Some are early to deliver juicy gossip: did you know that her daughter is pregnant with no husband? Did you know she owes money from our neighbor and she hasn’t paid for months? Did you know he lost his job?

Nong Biling, our neighbor whose small kids oftentimes run naked, does his morning ritual: walk in Foxtrot — his right hand clasp a bottle of Ginebra so tightly not even a seasoned snatcher could grab it away from him. His relationship with alcohol is like a neatly scribbled message on a Hallmark card: We are made for each other.

For my brother and I, it’s time for our field trip. We pack a bag of Nips, one big plastic of Porky Pig, a pocketful of Bazooka, some Bobot candies, and three PeeWees. We won’t forget to bring Mirinda. (Don’t worry uncle, we promise to return the bottles.) And, oh, don’t forget to list them under my mother’s name. She will settle on pay day.

Our trip to that tree by the irrigation road happens every summer. We always go in threes: me, my brother, and my mother’s cousin, Kenneth. All three of us parade towards the morning horizon — in polka dots and striped shorts — in sublime consciousness and half-sleepy eyes. It is a long journey to the big tree right by the irrigation road.

As we saunter on damp grassy walkways, I look at my toenails covered by pink Cutex. They are mantled with mud and I don’t like the feel of it. The ground is still covered by cold, heavy dew falling from leaves of palay. Grasshoppers hop lazily away from us, naturally afraid of their impending demise. We carry our sticks as weapons to protect ourselves from snakes and from that grumpy farmer’s big brown dog. He calls him Blackie.

We balance our thin bodies on narrow paths compressed by watermelon and monggo beds. We pass by farmers in wide-brimmed buri hats and greet them good morning. They recognize us — some work for my grandfather during harvest season — while some wonder why on earth are we out very early in the morning. One farmer asks how my grandfather is. Another talks about the wonderful weather. The crispness of summer air. The beauty of the rising sun.

The coitus of kalabasa flowers.

The sprouting of monggo seeds.

The funny-looking scarecrow.

Some talked about their back-breaking work in the field. They talk to us as if I were a woman and my brother and my cousins were men.

We say goodbye and, as we continue our walk, we suddenly feel their woes. We feel old from all the stories that we heard. We start to walk like old people. Old people in children’s bodies.

Three old people walking like dwarves.

A brown-skinned old dwarf.

A grinning chubby old dwarf.

A dwarf with gaudy toenails.

Finally we reach the big tree by the irrigation road. We rest under the shades and my cousin Kenneth whistles for air to come. My brother whistles, too. I couldn’t whistle so I sit still. I wait. Then, trees start to dance with air. Cool air at last.

Under the big tree by the irrigation road, we share our own jokes and laugh so hard our heads almost burst. Around us are lush vegetation and fresh greenery as far as eyes could see. We talk about what’s beyond that point in the horizon where skies meet the earth. I say matter-of-factly that there’s treasure at the other side of the horizon and we will surely find it if we walk far enough. If we want to, we will get there.

But we know what our uncle meant: there is a place bigger and greener than our most cherished rice fields. There is a tree somewhere that’s bigger than our favorite tree by the irrigation road. We want to be there. We know we’ll get there… don’t know when… don’t know how. But we will get there. We close our eyes and dream of lofty dreams.

My brother’s tummy churns. He takes out and uncover our loot.

Under that big tree by the irrigation road, we joyfully nibble on Porky Pig, munch on PeeWee, and chew on Bazooka bubble gum. Under the big tree we are happy kids. Under the big tree we eat the best junk food of the 80s.

And under the big tree, we dreamed our first dreams.

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