bad news, good news!

first, the bad news: THIS BLOG IS DEAD!

now, the good news: I HAVE A NEW BLOG!

if you're interested, catch me at http://kspy65.blogspot.com.

the crustacean diaspora in surigao del sur

As a child, I always believed that crabs would never run out in Tago, my hometown in Surigao del Sur, even if they were peddled in the streets morning, noon and night.

Back then crabs were readily available that when a surprise visitor arrived minutes before lunch, my mother would tell our maid to boil water before leaving in haste. Just as the water began to bubble, she would be back with crabs dangling in her hand in one hefty bunch.

Then about three years ago, crab supply began to dwindle. Alarmed, Mayor Hermenegildo Pimentel Jr. investigated and learned that juvenile crabs—matchbox-sized crabs that swim or walk at the bottom of the muddy bay—are being transported on the sly to Zamboanga del Sur, Lanao del Norte and Capiz provinces. There, they are sold to fishpond operators. This explains why our crabs have become dearer, smaller, and rarer that we have to order them days in advance.

Realizing that Tago’s repute as Surigao del Sur’s crab capital was at stake, Mayor Pimentel met with crab gatherers and traders and pointed out to them that in effect they were selling crabs to extinction because if these crablets don’t reach maturity, who would create the next generation of crabs in the freshwaters of Tago?

He also stressed that this practice, if not stopped, would threaten the balance of ecology and Tago’s legitimate crab industry, and make losers in all of us. But these explanation proved too complex to be understood by crab gatherers who sell crablets at P10 each to survive.

“Three crablets already mean a kilo of rice for our family,” they said.

The municipal agriculturist reported that about 10,000 crablets are brought out of Tago weekly. If a crablet is left to mature in the wild, it would weigh an average of 900 grams. If a crab sells at P200 per kilogram, then each crab is worth P180. With 10,000 crablets, you have P1.8 million in foregone sales weekly or P93.6 million yearly.

Imagine what this amount would do to the economy of Tago, a third class municipality of 37,000 people with an internal revenue allotment of P45 million.

Aware of the problem’s enormity, the municipal council enacted in March 2006 an ordinance that prohibits the catching, selling, and gathering of crablets and berried mud crabs and stipulates a penalty of P1,500.00 or imprisonment of six months or both.

But it seemed that the ordinance, like its duplicate passed by the provincial board, lacked administrative feasibility because the crustacean diaspora continued, even metastasizing to other crab-rich towns like Hinatuan and Bislig.

Tagon-ons were quick to offer solutions. One was for the local government to buy these crablets at a competitive price, partner with nongovernment organizations, and go into innovative system of captive crab culture in pens among mangroves that abound in Tago.

Another idea, however, was so out-of-the-box that the mayor could only chuckle because it called for crabs to apply for exit visas. This way, they said, Tago could earn some bucks for itself.

Poverty being the overriding issue, everybody thought he’d never see the end of this dilemma. Then early this year, in what many believed at first to be mere attempt at sound bytes, Gov. Vicente Pimentel Jr. and Mayor Pimentel launched an offensive that both deploys the police to crack down on violators and dangles an attractive reward system for informants.

So far, the approach is getting positive results and gaining community support as thousands of crablets had been confiscated and returned to their natural habitat where they are expected to grow to adulthood, which means, having a carapace of at least 10 cm.

Crabs are back on the streets of Tago. And as supply increases steadily, Mayor Pimentel thinks of brokering a marketing agreement between crab gatherers and owners of hotels, resorts, and restaurants in Manila, Cebu and Davao.

“This way, the crab gatherers could earn good money,” he said.

But these changes aside, Mayor Pimentel remains on his guard. “The battle is far from over because I still receive reports of crablets going out of Tago,” he said.

But then he was quick to add that it’s now down to a level that doesn’t make him crabby.


(published by the Philippine Daily Inquirer;08/31/2008.)

chapter one of a new story

LOOKING AT THE STARS


"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." Oscar Wilde



CHAPTER 1: THE END

No, he can’t be dead! Cynthia Orozco-Acevedo stared at the text message in her cell phone and thought of Jovanie just as the room began to spin. Later, when the initial frenzy had subsided, she couldn’t recall which came first---her tears or the trembling of her hands.

She sat on a chair, stunned. To her right was the bedroom where Lito, her husband, was sleeping with their only child Lancelot by his side. Lito had gone to bed early as he would leave for Cagayan de Oro the next day, but Cynthia now wanted to wake him and tell him about Jovanie. Lito knew Jovanie was her favorite because two years after he joined Tago District, she made him head teacher of Caras-an Elementary School.

The cell phone in her hand lit up, then a message alert tone. Cynthia pressed a button to read the text message. But in the puddle of her tears, the letters collided, and all she could make was that of Jovanie’s body being found in a rocky section of a secluded beach in Cagwait.

The room spun faster. Cynthia clasped the cellfone to keep it from slipping and went to wake Lito.

The yellow clock on the narra wall said 9:35. And somewhere, a dog barked.

they don't watch movies the way we did

I’ve always loved movies. And I'm lucky to have parents---God bless their souls---who considered movies as a medium of learning.

Back in elementary, usually on a Monday, Mama and Papa would give us money, on top of our usual baon, to embark on a business selling popcorn to our classmates. And because we had sacks of corn from our farm, all we had to buy were cooking oil and the brown supot. Come Saturday, we'd account our money and go watch a movie in Tandag. And if the money was not enough, Mama and Papa would pay for the balance.

Then on the following Monday, the cycle began again.

Watching movies in movie houses has become a lost art, and it saddens me. It’s over 10 years now that Tandag's Timber City and Moonglow Cinemas had closed their doors to cineastes like me. I remember watching movies during the last dying years of Timber City Cinema, braving the heat and cigarette smoke, the scurrying rats the size of cats, and raindrops falling from the holey roof. During heavy rains, a puddle would form at the orchestra floor, in the space between the first row and the screen, and I would watch the movie unfold not onscreen but on the puddle’s reflection.

For me there’s no greater experience than watching movies the old fashion way. Time was when the thought alone of going to Tandag to watch a movie was enough to make me pee from excitement. And upon reaching either Timber City or Moonglow Cinema, I’d lose myself in a visual feast, gawking at the “Now Showing,” “Next,” and “Coming Soon” still pictures that were tacked on both sides of a large plywood. Swirls of smoke smelling of grilled bananas, popcorns, peanuts, and melted butter would fill my nose. Sliced mango and pineapple displayed on tables would seduce my eyes, and it would take a greater resolve on my part to hold on to my extra money---which my parents intended actually for my snacks----because I had decided to use it to buy Hiwaga Komiks at Chona’s Reading Center.

And when the metal gate of Timber City Cinema creaked open, I would run to the ticket booth ahead of the rest so that I would be the first one to enter the movie house and get to choose the prime seat, which was the balcony’s fourth row.

The music would play as people streamed inside. And once the light dimmed, I’d be ready to be transported to a world distant and unknown. But the moment the screen lit up, that was when my heart would quicken because I knew that the lady with a sword would emerge, like this--



or the lion would roar, like this---




or the globe would spin, like this---




And when the movie ended, I would again linger at the lobby, squinting my eyes from sudden exposure to light, to find out if every single still picture was shown in the movie. And if there were some that weren't, I’d feel shortchanged. I was too young then to know that still pictures are taken long before the film goes for final editing and that some stills don’t make it to the final cut.

Watching movies of yore needed focus and undivided attention. A little distraction here and there would mean missing a scene or a dialogue. And because unlike today’s technology where instant playback is possible, I had to “review” the movie, which meant another three hours of waiting because it was always a “double program.” When this happened, it was a painful choice between watching the movie all over again and missing the last trip to Tago. The latter would mean I had to walk with faith in my heart all the way home and make myself part of a live movie where Pitang lived, one that involved flying coffins and starred in by spooky creatures of the night.

The best movie days for me however dated back to the time when Tandag didn’t have movie houses yet and we had to wait for this panel---




Waiting for the Darigold panel was like waiting for Christ’s second coming: We didn’t know when, but we sure knew it would come!

And when the panel eventually arrived mostly during Friday afternoons, we would be restless inside our classroom because we couldn’t wait to go out and tail the Darigold panel as it went around Tago, announcing that a movie was going to be shown.

Chaos would seize every home but all activities ceased at 6 o’clock when everybody would carry either a stool or a bench and head for the town plaza. And there, underneath the acacia tree or at the rotunda where the medium-sized screen was placed, Jess Lapid would pump lead into Max Alvarado’s nose, and then Jess Lapid would whack Pacquito Diaz in the face with his smoking cuarenta'y cinco. As the famous bemustached, arc-browed villain puked blood and breathed his last, we would clap our hands until they turned red and sore.

For the whole week Tagon-ons would rave about the movie, and my friends and I would tell the movie to each other as though one of us hadn’t watched it.

Until this very day, my love affair with the cinema continues. But I wonder when will I get the hang of watching movies in the confines of my home or my room. The concept of home theatre doesn’t appeal to me, and that’s why I make it a point to watch movies every time I’m in the city. Never mind if there are not enough still pictures for me to gawk at, point is, I can relive every single experience I had when I was young.

You say I’m a sentimental fool? Then sue me!

mornings in the 70s

In the 70s, waking up early was a pleasure because it meant joining Papa to buy either carabeef or pork in the market, a rickety building that stood where the present terminal is. The same building would press a woman to death when it collapsed from strong winds in 1978.

Near the left side facing the row of Bol-anon Stores was the meat section. It bustled with activity more than the stalls that sold tabaco in sugong, rice that formed a mound on wooden square boxes marked NGA, and supas like azucarada, rolling bayan, diyoy, binangkal placed inside cellophane bags that hung from tie wires.

My memory is a pastiche of faces and images: Tapingig, like a true war veteran, raising his bolo to chop meat; Nobing Pareja weighing entrails and extremities of beasts; Kulas Acevedo coaxing some tunes from his guitar while graceful smokes escaped from the Bowling Green tucked between his lips; dogs looking up, waiting for bloodstained manna to fall; the huge tree trunk that served as chopping board and whose top was dented from so much hammering; winged insects that ended their vigils in death inside the petromax that sat on an empty table.

I also remember the time when Papa and I would go to the tugbungan for this---




Fish then was sold not by the kilo but by tuhog (fish strung with a nipa midrib).

By the time we went home---with the sun still not out---people were already milling about at the intersection where Villamor Trading, Bert and Patring Yu’s Store, and Botica Curada were located. Many sat by the door of these stores that had yet to open while others stood and shared the day’s news. I would join all of them as we waited for this---




I couldn’t remember if that time there was a bakery in Tago. All I could remember was that pan de sal was brought from Tandag by a humungous, forest green delivery truck emblazoned on both sides with the word CASA. It was huge and tall, like a giant’s coffin.

As the Casa panel (until now it beats me why we call a delivery van a panel.) zipped past, I would run after it ahead of other kids until it stopped at the place where Alondoy now sells pudding. Always at this area!

I would position myself just an inch from the back door so that when it swung open, I’d lose myself in the aroma of oven-fresh bread. And even before I could open my eyes, people would crowd behind me, shouting a babel of monetary values to the man who put bread inside a brown bag made of pattern paper, securing it by twisting it at both ends. (I wonder why bakeries don’t pack bread like this anymore.)

I’d bring the pan de sal to our hovel of a home, which was where Curada’s garage now stands, and there I would open the brown pattern paper bag and engulf myself once more with the sweet aroma.

Waiting on the table was Mama’s tsokolate. Earlier she had put this heavenly concoction in a baterol where she twirled her grooved wooden boloniyo to make the tsokolate di mabugto, meaning thicker, sweeter, and creamier. Poison never tasted so good!

When we were done eating the pan de sal that we dunked into our tsokolate, I’d put the empty pattern paper bag over my head like a sailor’s cap, never really caring if the pan de sal’s pulbos blotched my face.

Ahh, to be a carefree kid in the 70s!

my first attempt at flash fiction

-(Note: On my return flight from Manila to Davao last 2 June 2007, I saw this one-page spread congratulating the 25 Journalism Graduates of the Manila Times. The name of one of the graduates struck me and became my muse for this first attempt at flash fiction. Word count is placed at 690.)



SPAGHETTI '88

“Spaghetti’s here,” says the man outside.

In your mind you see her lay on the narrow table the food that she always brings. Until now it eludes you why she does this when she knows you have stopped eating it since the incident. Perhaps it's her way of letting you exorcise your demon.

You met her father on this generation’s luckiest day: 8-8-88! You were at your favorite restaurant when he asked if he could join you. You were actually done but good manners aside, you didn’t want to foist bad luck on him by leaving just when he was about to eat.

His tray carried only spaghetti.

Outside, the Dragon Dance that you came to watch had begun. But then he spoke and time lost its sense.

Soon after that, you dated. And because you hated spaghetti, he made you learn to love it. A year later, you named your daughter after it.

“You hear me? Spaghetti’s waiting for you,” the man outside says.

You glance at the cracked mirror one last time, tuck a wisp of gray hair behind your ear, and head for the hall.

She’s a sight in a white sundress and you wonder if she would wear white to her debut in September. Or if she would finally wear---after a long while---the smile that reminds you of him.

As you sit, she opens a Tupperware that contains pasta and another that contains the sauce. Something grumbles in the pit of your stomach.

She mixes the pasta and the sauce just as he taught her. Spurts hit your dress but you bother not to wipe them as they blend well with the orange you’re wearing.

She fills two plates with spaghetti. “Here,” she pushes one towards you.

You pick up the fork, jab the spaghetti, and twist it. Then as always, you stop and close your eyes: The knife felt cold in your hand as you watched furtively in the dark. As orgasm gripped him, you raised the knife. But then he turned as though he knew, and the knife brushed past his shoulder, into the mouth of the girl under him.

He rolled out of bed. But the sheets tangled at his feet and he fell to the floor. You lunged and straddled him, and then you stabbed him everywhere, twisting the knife each time. Blood squirted on your face but your hand went up and down until you could no longer see.


“Ma, are you alright?”

You open your eyes and see that your knuckles have turned white from gripping the fork.

“It’s been three years," she says, reaching for your hand.

You look at her. And all you can see is the scar on her lips.

translations and gabby marquez

Fully Booked, at the Mall of Asia, is separated by a road from SM Department Store. When I entered it, there was but one customer at the corner stand, slyly tearing the cellophane that sealed The Buzz magazine.

Me (to the sales assistant): Do you have Dean Alfar's Salamanca?

SA: Sorry, Sir. Wala po.

Me: What about Vicente Groyon's Sky Over Dimas?

SA: Wala rin po, Sir.

Me: Any book then by a Filipino author?

He made me follow him to a shelf that carried, among other things: 100 Years of Solitude; Love in the Time of Cholera; and Memories of My Melancholy Whores.

I scratched my head.

Gabriel.

Garcia.

Marquez.

Oo nga naman!

***********************************

Translation is a tricky thing. This is why I don't read translated materials even how celebrated they have become. It's like this: No matter how the translator tries his best to be faithful to the original material, I just feel that something is lost in translation. Take this one, for instance.

Teacher: Juan, give me an example of a tag question.
Juan: Our teacher is beautiful, isn't she?
Teacher: Very good. Now, translate it to Filipino.
Juan: Ang aming guro ay maganda. Hindi naman, di ba?

There.