Province - Final Revision

I’ve been holding off visiting the barren countryside. Becoming so adapted to urban living, it’s hard to imagine that my Philippines consists of nothing more than architectural pieces and star bucks lattes. I was in for quite an awakening as I stepped on the bus for Jones Isabella, looking like a walking logo with my Lacoste luggage and Armani apparel, only to witness seats filled with farmers and housewives, others with their children sitting on their laps as means to save an extra bus fare. I had to smile at myself, feeling ignorant for thinking that this was another international flight off to some exotic location. Eyeing for my spot, seat 22 sided right by the window, I groaned at the lack of space, providing less than your economy flight.

After 2 hours of Wong Kar Wai films, I found myself dozing off, comforted by the rocking of the moving vehicle. I was awakened in the middle of the night . We were approaching the peak of the mountain that separates myself from my final destination. I daze out my window; greens illuminated by the blues of moonlight, trees kissed by the summer breeze, all overlooking the slopes and clouds. It was nothing short of romanticism evoking its hidden beauty at me once again. My eyes lingered once more to the sky, then into my head…

I was greeted by morning calls. The conductor announced our final stop over before we arrive at Jones. It seems every time my eyes open a new side of rural Philippines yearns to boast its beauty. The moon gave way to the East, peaking out of its corner with hues of yellow, progressively hovering over the rice fields and grumpy herds of cattle. If only my mornings in the West were like these…

Passengers horde the aisles, eager to see their loved ones, or just eager to finally be home. I approach the steps downward only to be barged with tricycle drivers. In the midst of them all a boy around my age reaches out his hand for my luggage. I look at him, dumbfounded, then behind to see if it was for someone else. I felt sudden embarrassment when I realized it was my uncle, an old childhood friend of mine. I was a mere foreigner once more.
Time seems to have stood still in the countryside. Generations of relatives still living under the same roof. Those who are fortunate enough to venture out are often reduced to menial labor in their neighboring cities. Old aged values of filial respect are strictly enforced, in which double standards and gender roles still prevail. As the night comes, the drunks and the condemned come out of their closets with gin, brandy, San Miguels in hand, toasting to their grievances. Returning urban workers use their meager earnings they have to engage in lustful acts, making use of the young to fill their own aging loneliness.

Prior to my departure I yearned once more to visit the source of all my fondest memories. The only modern work of infrastructure, I walk along the newly built bridge with an endless string of intertwining metals. I look across, below, to watch water clash against rocks, only to continue once more. Nostalgia was felt. My eternal summers were spent there, in the nudity of my childhood innocence.

Yet, the river roars, continuing to flow, perhaps the only thing that keeps on moving in this vast emptiness. Summers end, youth subsides, and winter comes.

And so I drop my sentiments. I go on back. Time keeps going.

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Hong Kong

You can give me the top 10 mega-cities of the world and I’ll choose Hong Kong anytime. There’s something so grandiose yet subtle in its beauty. At first glance, you’re enthralled by the skyscrapers of Hong Kong Island, surrounded by its mountainous geography of slopes and ocean. Once you work your way within its heart, lies its distinctive aura that leaves you paralyzed, stagnant in a river of pedestrians, the natural currents pushing them along to their purpose. Even then, it’s easy to lose yourself here, finding myself wandering between each crevice, building, and alleys, with a keen eye, observing the local flavor. What it lacks in its refinement (I.E Tokyo, seoul etc etc) compensates with its rugged diversity. Yes, the streets are often crowded, with sparse real state and shanty apartments towering over consumerist establishments, yet you’ll never feel that dull, homogenous feel of its eastern counterparts. It’s a mixed bag of Asian ethnicities, ranging from the usual Japanese tourists to Indian businessmen, harassing westerners with “sales” on suits, watches, and other counterfeit goods (which is why I often try to distance myself from Bryan haha). Hong Kong has always been best at night, saturated lighting of reds and yellows illuminate the compact spacing of shops and stalls, cigarettes puff amidst the contrasting smells of exhaust pipes, roasted ducks, and stinky tofus. The crisps burn, a symphony of stilettos chatter, slurping my noodles and cheap beer while the trendy beats of canto pop play, a myriad of taxis and trucks pass by, grazing my ears and back. However physically estranged I am from my homeland, I can still find that tangible warmth in a place where no one knows my name, nor speaks my language. There are those who find peace within the comforts of home, I find mine in displacement.

First Loves

A child braving the smoke and traffic approaches my window with swollen eyes, knocks and peaks through the tinted glass, asking for change. Only a poor upbringing could push such a thing through great extremes, rewarding his courage with the few coins I had in my wallet. I urge my driver to find an alternate route, only to leave our vehicle stagnant. How I loath watching the demise of this city, the far cries of its golden past long gone.

Apathy has been my approach nowadays. It’s easy to overlook the piling vermin by the roadside once the sun’s spotlight has burned out, leaving only the wonders of architecture that is Makati revel in its magnitude, towering over the flaws of its urban landscape. It is this place, this haven where I seek refuge for the night, away from the madness and chaos of my surroundings.

It’s nice to see my colleagues once again from ISM. They almost seem foreign, detach from the outside with their wallets dwarfing my mother’s financial assets. I like being around their kind. Their breeding may be different from mine, but my English proficiency camouflages my shortcomings. Conversations ranging from Prada’s latest seasonal collection to Yunhee’s brand new Porches allow only nods of agreement and the occasional smudges of knowledge I absorbed reading GQ. Absent are the issues on the urban poor and our dwindling middle class often discussed by their established relatives, guiltless in their unlimited pool of excess and extravagance. The gasps and giggles drown amidst the loud bass and rounds of drinks, trembling my eardrums and stomach. It’s time to call it a night, this atmosphere is too stifling for my meager tastes.

The door opens, the fresh air of diesel fumes and drunken piss suffocate my lungs. Even in the most posh of locations, the stench of third world poverty and politics remains. It’s unusually cold tonight, without a current of breeze. I dig into my pocket, pulling out wads of cash, crippled and stained with its lowest denomination in the four figures, those frugal cabdrivers are too stingy and conniving to offer me a large amount of smaller ones for such a short drive.

The outskirts beyond Makati’s concentration of wealth seem so condensed and packed with vendors, pedestrians, and myself wandering aimlessly. My stomach grumbles, empty, and I still need change. I settle for fine dining at a rundown eatery nearby, situating myself across a nestled group of college students, still in uniforms, drinking with delight. Slurping my congee without care, I look on with curiosity at their cheerful display. A dangling bulb overhead swings back and forth, offering glimpses of genuine interaction in between, its dim lighting enough to capture their joys and intimacy. I pay my bill, ready to leave until one of them stop me, aware of my disheveled state. I accept their offer.

It’s getting late, the streets empty of traffic, and I’ve never ridden pillion before. The motor sputters then roars, ripping through with exhilarating energy, down Malate’s dense placements of bars and whore houses, glowing with flashes of neon saturating the darkness, passing between Jose Rizal’s legacy and the bay’s pristine beauty, endless in its distance, gleaming against the fading moonlight.

I hold on tightly, such fleeting moments can only last so long. I urge the driver to hasten as hues of blues loom over the horizon, chasing us down to the ends of reality. The sun may eventually catch us, its glaring spotlight exploiting the humiliation protruding from the cesspits and landfills once again. We may never recover from the failures of our past generations, never contract the economic disparity that separates my two worlds, but right now, all I can see are traces of our history sparkling in momentary lapses of boastful pride. My arms envelop the warmth of a stranger’s generosity, beneath the somber tranquility of Manila, this is the city I fell in love with.