playing santa yet again

two boys came to me last night to borrow something they can wear to their graduation at 8:00 am today. one, a rising basketball star from duma-duma, had to borrow everything: white longsleeves, black pants, tie, belt, black shoes and socks.

while i'm thankful for this opportunity to be of help, still i wonder what role his parents play in this significant moment of his life.

Tandag: from a formidable cotta to an emerging ciudad!

There’s little in Tandag that says it’s now a city. Unless the yellow tricycles that bear the mandatory “Tandag City” imprint on their header and some spanking sports utility vehicles in red plates count for urban indicators.

But this is expected. After all it was only in June 2007 that Republic Act 9392 converted Tandag from a first class town to a fifth class component city, making it Surigao del Sur’s second city after Bislig. And now that the annual internal revenue allotment has leapt from 60M to 218M, Tandaganons expect their officials to implement projects that will boost Tandag’s new status.

Actually things are looking up. From January to August this year, Mayor Alexander Pimentel had issued 820 business permits, up by 16% over the same period last year. The Department of Trade and Industry had also registered 163 firms that generated 50.43M investments and 539 jobs, noting positive growths in the manufacturing (300%), processing (36%), production (1,173%) and service (88%) sectors. Only the trading sector shrank by 42%.

That the service sector accounted for 60% of investments and 40% of jobs explains the mushrooming of restaurants, hotels, resorts, coffee and specialty shops, enterprise and cooperative banks, financial transfer entities, lending investors, pawnshops, couriers, internet and gaming cafes, and other information technology facilities. Construction will continue to boom as most vacant lots carry an “on-this-site-will-soon-rise” sign.

Mayor Ayec Pimentel bared that a dual-structure, two-storey city hall will be erected three kilometers north of Tandag, near the airport in Barangay Awasian, on a 1.6-hectare lot acquired for P8.1M. Construction starts on November this year and ends in 150 calendar days, with Land Bank of the Philippines financing two-thirds of the P62M project cost.

As tourism centerpiece of Tandag, the Esplanade is being constructed. Part of Tandag City’s shore protection project, it stretches to about 2.6 kilometers. So far, only 150 lineal meters had been completed, costing P25.7M.



Tandag is rich in history. One of the three former Spanish military outposts in Mindanao, it was once the capital of the Spanish region known as Caraga comprised mainly of territories extending to the east of Gingoog City and some parts of Davao Oriental. Although early records show that a few Recollect friars settled in Tandag in 1622, there’s evidence that the Spanish cotta called the Real Fuerza de San Jose de Tandag or the Royal Fort of Tandag was established much earlier, in 1609, by a certain Juan dela Vega.

The fort stood where the present commercial complex sits, near the town plaza. Made of piled anapog rocks about five fathoms high, it faced the twin Linungaw Islands, the better to provide the Spanish soldiers with a vantage view of the sea that Moro pirates took as route to attack Tandag. Within this stone wall, a settlement was established from where the town of Tandag rose.

Moro pirates were said to raid Tandag frequently to snatch their brothers held captive inside the cotta. This prompted the Spanish soldiers to fit it with more cannons and reinforce its stone walls. But still the Moro pirates overran it in September 1757. Subsequent raids---in 1758, 1761, and 1767--- however failed because the natives and the Spanish fort defenders fought off indefatigably the Moro pirates. And it was only in the Second World War that the ancient Real Fuerza de San Jose de Tandag was completely destroyed, leaving not a stone in place as developments encroached on its resting place and buried most of its remnants.

Tandag became the designated provincial capital and seat of government of Surigao del Sur in 19 June 1960 when then Congressman Reynaldo P. Honrado authored House Bill 3058, also known as Republic Act 2786, which divided the province of Surigao into Norte and Sur.

As emerging city, Tandag is fast changing its landscape. But traces of Spanish and pre-war architecture can still be seen particularly in the residences near the town hall and the San Nicolas de Tolentino Cathedral.

*******
(note: On the week that Inquirer was to publish this last year, the Supreme Court handed its decision reverting Tandag to its municipal status. the Inquirer-Mindanao bureau chief told me to recast it; I haven't because my good friend, city councilor/topnotch lawyer/furniture designer/grammar police Andrei Andresan, has yet to provide me with the details of the Supreme Court decision and Mayor Ayec's gameplan.

This article must not be used, in part on in whole, without my permission.)

of medals and graduations

On my way to school back in the 70s when I was in elementary, I always stopped in front of the Baldemor residence. The second floor window opened wide to the street, revealing a wall that heaved from frames crammed with medals of the Baldemor kids.

The House of the Baldemors emboldened me to aspire for greater honors. During my time, I coveted medals because they were true badges of mental prowess as only the valedictorian, the salutatorian and the first honorable mention deserved them; us lesser mortals only got ribbons. Year after year, during closing ceremonies, I made a pact with myself to do better next year, if only to know how rewarding it would feel to have a medal sparkling on my breast.

But all that has changed!

Last year I had the chance to be a commencement speaker. And I was aghast to see that over two-thirds of the graduating class received medals for this and that award! The school had to reward worthy students, yes, but it was taken to such extreme that the significance of the medal as symbol of excellence had been diluted.

To be meaningful, awards---or medals---have to be carefully thought of and given with enough restraint. But in that occasion, one couldn’t appreciate fully his medal because almost everybody got one, earned either as “band majorette” or “number one solicitor” of the year. There was even one for “general services.” Go figure!

Some awards were superfluous. One student received five medals for winning either second or third place in the unit, district, provincial, regional, and national table skirting contest.

As I sat restless and bored, I felt sorry for the valedictorian who received so many awards that all her family members, including a cousin who was just starting to walk, had to mount the stage nine times. By the time the last award was given, the valedictorian had turned osteoporotic from the medals’ combined weight. And because some of them were the size of saucers, I imagined her smelling of Efficacent to soothe her aching neck as she welcomed her guests during her “blow-out” that evening.

This award system, which obviously panders to parents and students, has to be evaluated because aside from trivializing the medals as symbol of excellence, giving them all out eats up a lot of time.

I waited for about three hours just to deliver a 7-minute speech.

vincent jan rubio

when i opened my inbox this morning, it contained this email to our e-group from palanca winner-slash-book author rhandee garlitos:

"Guys, I have received news that VJ (Vincent-Jan) Cruz Rubio, our co-fellow at the 2001 Iligan National Writers Workshop passed away. While details are not very clear at this stage, please do keep in touch with me, especially those who are based in Manila or near environs through this number: +639275179239.

i am deeply saddened by his death. We have been together in many different writing projects. He has always been there for me. Tears will not bring him back to life, but justice will restore his dignity. Please pray for him."

back in 2001, at Elena Tower Inn in Iligan City, VJ was the youngest in our batch of 12 writing fellows who stood on the shoulders of philippine literary giants. sharing a room with rhandee and eldric perido (then a UST seminarian who would later become a laywer and an occasional writer for the Inquirer) VJ was then a graduating student of creative writing at UP-Diliman. short in height but not in talent, VJ was always smiling, making him everybody's favorite younger brother.

at 28, VJ had done much. but he could have done so much more.

so long, VJ.


****
for a sampling of VJ's writing, click the link:
http://likhaan_online.tripod.com/08242001archivesite/lit10-10.html

and somewhere here is a pic of VJ:
http://filipinatravels.blogspot.com/2008/09/omg-i-won.html

Armani via Facebook

I'm wearing an Armani on my wrist! And thanks to Facebook.

Let me explain.

Somewhere in this blog, I said that I'm no fan of internet social networks. In fact, I've declined---okay, ignored!---invites from well-meaning friends to this and that clique in cyberspace, including Facebook. But then came an invite from a friend who's so special I simply could not say "No!"

I go back a long way with this friend; we were classmates at the University of San Carlos in Cebu City. Pretty in a sweet way, quiet and very intelligent, she graduated cum laude and became a CPA six months after graduation in 1985.

She worked with PAL for sometime. And because we lost contact, I didn't know she had resigned.

And so I was pleasantly surprised when I received her email in 2007. When I asked her how did she get my e-addy, she said: Haven't you heard of ZoomInfo?

We played catch-up. I found out that she's now in California where she's doing fine; that she has had life changing experiences but has since then moved on, putting everything behind her; that she has remained beautiful and younger looking, making me suspect she has genetic defect that makes her age in reverse.

When she learned that I'm an occasional writer who reads a lot, she made me tell her the books I liked. And these she sent all the way from California!

Boy, was I lucky!

Since then we swap emails and chat online. Later when she invited me to Facebook, I accepted without second thoughts.

And now, this:




She brought it when she went home last February. And because we didn't see each other, she left it with her anesthesiologist brother who's the head of the anesthesia department over at the Philippine Orthopedic Center. Gingot got it for me (thanks Ging).

I'm no watch person. I went through high school and college without owning one. It was only during my Singapore trip last year that I began to look at watches with fresh eyes and bought three. Cheap, yes, but I really like them. And to me, that's all that matters.

But with this Armani, I swear, it looks good on the wrist.

Thank you so, so much Ms. Carol Macaranas!

pencil on paper

after a million years, am back to doing pencil-on-paper repros!

we've transferred to a new building and the stark white wall behind me screams empty. and because i don't have the time and the stamina to do oil painting, i decided to pencil sketch three madonna-and-child.

i'm almost done with the sketches. then, it's time to scout for cool frames.

can't wait to hang them on the wall!

"goodbye is such a sweet sorrow"

and so this is how it feels to watch your loved ones go inside the gas chamber!






today i'm sad because i'm burning over 60 well-loved books because while i was sleeping, weevils have eaten into them.

here's the face and the innards of one of my most favorite books of all time:



so long, my labs. we'll see each other in the afterlife!

thank you, bon

if you haven't noticed, this blog has a new banner. and all because of bonsal.

knowing him, i'm dead sure he's not done tweaking to make the image fit seamlessly to my chosen template. but already, i'm happy!

thank you so, so much bon.

i so like how the colors burst and come alive. and the streaks---yay---they simply capture my mental image of a vignette!

here's where i stole the painting: http://www.itsromanticpaintings.co.uk/images/amidtoneredonemg.jpg

ego booster

my post, "finally, my dream subjects," has elicited this exchange of comments:

*****
sweetie said...

hello sir, i was also excited that you will be teaching HRD this summer coz it is one of the fields that i really need to improve on. i was ready to cancel my summer plans when i found out after visiting dr. omas-as that it will be offered for MBA students since this subject is not in the MPA curriculum . kasayang gayud sir.


kampanaryo_spy said...

hi, sweetie.

oh, that's sad. i didn't know it's for MBA students because dr. omas-as didn't tell me.

what do you mean HRD is not in the MPA curriculum? over at USeP-Davao, HRD is a field of concentration for MPA. in fact, it's my major.

sayang. are you presently under me at SSPSC grad school?

thanks for visiting and leaving a comment.

sweetie said...

hi sir,

thanks for the prompt reply. presently, SSPSC has two MPA curriculum, the old one and the one without thesis that was just implemented last school year. i still have to check if any of these has HRD in the course offerings. regarding your query if i am presently your student, laong pa nila sir, YESTERDAY!

i have been a fan since my high school days and was religiously following your writings be it in the Inquirer, lurking in your old blog~ Lucid Intervals, your posts in the Tago website and now here in vignette. i hope you will not think that i am your stalker sir ha? and please don't ask for my identity kay sa una pa daan sir masipogi na ako sa imo.

continue inspiring us sir, you are doing a good job!

kampanaryo_spy said...

hello, sweetie.

thank you so, so much; i'm humbled. you must be present last saturday when i told my class i would teach even if i don't get paid because it's my passion and i get a different kind of high from it.

unsolicited comments like these are what keep me going.

and yes, judging from your very good writing (it has USC written all over it!), i think i know who you are. but this i will validate on saturday when we have our finals.

*****

if this post is self-serving, then sue me!

killing Friendster

Few sleeps ago, I advised all my Friendster buddies that my account would go kaput by March 15.

"Why?" they chorused.

Well, I'm tired of it.

I'm no fan of internet social networks. I couldn't even recall how I got into Friendster.

Over the last six years, I rarely check on my FS. Here are the stats: 47 friends (that's 7.8 friends a year!); a little less than half of these are kin; i hit "deny" more than i hit "accept."

Ninety-five per cent of my bestest friends don't have FS accounts. So what gives?

Kill Friendster. Now!

finally, my dream subjects

As I drove home yesterday, I got this text message from Dr. Omas-as, the Vice President for Academic Affairs of Surigao del Sur Polytechnic State College:

Gd pm Mel. u hv 2 subjcts ds summer 2009: adm of communication n nformation and human resource mgnt.

I almost released the steering wheel!

Been wanting to teach these subjects at the graduate school but what I get are usually "spoils," subjects that are either "new," ergo no established syllabus yet, or those that professors find "hard" to teach for reasons known only to them.

Not that I don't enjoy my present subjects---Public Administration and the Economy and Public Administration and Social Change---, it's just that I like better the new subjects because I feel I have so much to share, especially in the area of Human Resource Management, which is my forte.

Bring summer on. Yay!

i'm sorry

The problem with having a blog whose comments need to be moderated is that I miss approving some. Like the three below:

Anonymous said...

K_spy,

You are so true about Tago. I even wanna be buried in Tago when my time comes. I have to put that in some kind of a will. Nways, a visit to the USA would be greatly appreciated. Keep writing! You rock! Next vacation of mine would be a refresher course with your english/grammar101. Get me?
February 20, 2009 1:01 PM

Anonymous said...

Hmm....
February 23, 2009 3:12 AM

Anonymous said...

Interesting ...
February 23, 2009 3:10 AM

To commenters, thank you very much. And please accept my apology for approving your comments just now. I have responded to all your comments in the respective blogposts that you commented on.

I promise this won't happen again. I just wonder though because I used to receive a notification email every time somebody commented on my blog.

my favorite teacher

March means many things to many people. But for most of us, it’s all about graduation. And when I think of graduation, I think of my favorite teacher.

I was lucky in the sense that I had excellent teachers, without exception, at Falcon Memorial Elementary School. I had excellent teachers too at Purisima School, most notably the SPC nuns: Sisters Suzette, Cecilia, and Carmen. I had excellent teachers too at the University of San Carlos, particularly Ms. Romeo, the speech goddess.

This is a tribute to my favorite teacher, coming as it does 30 years late.

She's prim and proper to begin with, but because her pleasant face rarely smiles, there's a certain mystery to her persona. But she's no snob, she's no typical “terror” teacher who paralyzes students with fear. And she's not mean.

The moment she enters the room, we fall into a hush. On the table she puts her things: the cellophane-covered yellow class record, the books, the rectangular red Maxam soap box that contains her eraser and chalk. And when she says, “Good morning, class,” that's when she begins to enthrall.

Hers is a unique teaching skill that makes a student realize that Math is not that hard as he thinks, that’s it’s not necessarily a curse. And so it is with patience and understanding that she guides us through angles, algebraic expressions, formulas, theorems and algorithms.

She teaches English too, making her a rarity in the context of a common assertion that English and Math don’t mix. Once, she called Isidro to give her an example of a sentence. He froze in his seat. But because she encouraged him to stand up and say something, Isidro rose and said, “I do not know, Ma’am.”

She wrote “I do not know, Ma’am.” on the board, looked at Isidro, and said, “Thank you Isidro for giving me an example of a sentence.”

The class applauded as Isidro scratched his head in confusion and embarassment!

She never raises her voice. Or scolds. When the class gets unruly, she doesn’t like students telling their classmates to keep quite because it makes things worse than they already are. She herself never says “Quiet!” or “Silence!” Instead she launches into her signature demolition method, which is this: she turns quiet, the chin grows tense with the skin at both sides expanding like a cobra’s, and the eyes blaze as she gazes at the culprit and holds it until all that remains is cold silence.

This is what I like about her. Other teachers impose discipline by being vocal and physical and still get mocked. My favorite teacher doesn't do any of that and yet inspires “fear” and respect.

Back then, my handwriting must’ve been excellent because she always requested me to reproduce the logarithm table on the board because we couldn’t buy it locally. And so while my classmates studied for the test, there I was, standing on the table and writing multi-digit values on rows and columns that occupied the two block boards’ length and width. And I say she’s fair because I never felt that my grade was unduly increased by such requests.

It was during our senior year when she transferred to a government school and Math for us was never as enjoyable as before.

The final scene in the movie The Emperor's Club shows William Hundert back at St. Benedict's Academy, teaching the Classics to a new class that includes Martin Blythe's son, who is proud that his father was once Hundert's student. In the early part of the movie, Hundert broke his stance on integrity when he privately decided to raise the grade on the final essay of one student, thus edging Blythe out of the top three contenders for the “Mr. Julius Ceasar” contest. But even if Blythe learned abut this, he still entrusted his son to Hundert because he was his favorite teacher.

If time allows, I'll do the same for Bugsy because I know he'll do fine with my favorite teacher: Ma’am Teresita Deliezo-Alaan!

gaba

Science can’t explain everything. And this is good because if all things can be explained in purely scientific terms, then our lives would be devoid of magic and mystery.

Take for instance what happened recently to Bugsy and Trizzia.

Trizzia and Bugsy are four year-old buddies who specialize in disappearing acts, making their yayas frantic. They share street food, climb trees, ride a hammock, race each other in their mini bicycle, hunt for small fish in puddles near the dike, and---wherever chow time finds them---eat in homes other than their own. Yes, they are street-smart kids whose parents---biological for her and adoptive for him---don’t mind if they grow up the way they did, that is, among less fortunate kids!

One Saturday, Trizzia and Bugsy got sick. Like Trizzia, Bugsy had vomiting fits. Like Bugsy, Trizzia had loose bowels. Both Trizzia and Bugsy took medicines. But only Bugsy was flush and feverish. And only Trizzia went to the doctor.

Monday came but Trizzia and Bugsy’s condition didn’t improve. Where before their eyes sparkled, now they were dull; where before they devoured food, now they frowned on them; where before they were restless with boundless energy, now they were weak with near dehydration; where before they were garrulous, now they were mute.

I was worried when I went home on Monday seeing Bugsy sitting in a corner by the stairs. He looked miserable and his neck felt hot to my touch. The vomiting and the shitting continued, said the yaya, reason why Bugsy was absent from his class.

When I went to Trizzia’s, her aunt Japan said Trizzia’s condition had worsened that she brought her again to the doctor. And like Bugsy, Trizzia had lost her appetite and spent most of her time lying down.

Because they were always together, I told Japan that Bugsy and Trizzia might have eaten something dirty, thus making them sick. She said no, they might have contracted chicken pox because in one of the houses they went to, a boy was stricken with it.

It was already dark when I hurried home.

“Where’s Bugsy?” I asked Gly, my sister and Bugsy’s surrogate mom.

“Outside.”

“Outside?” I was annoyed. “He’s running a fever.”

“He’s fine now,” my sister said.

“What do you mean he’s fine?”

“I brought Bugsy to Boroboy,” she said, her voice growing suddenly tense knowing I frowned upon quack medicine, including homeopathy.

“And what is it this time?” I said, sarcasm tasting thick and creamy in my tongue.

“Gaba sa kuno,” Gly said. Despite her being a licensed medical technologist, Gly believes in these things and has no qualms submitting Bugsy, behind my back, to the ministrations of quacks.

Some people don’t believe in gaba simply because it has no English translation. Back in high school, Ma’am Bening said gaba means disgrace. In the bigger scheme of things, gaba is loosely translated as karma, the concept that one reaps what one sows. Or that one gets his comeuppance.

But gaba as a “medical” condition is different. It happens when one smells unintentionally the sweat of persons who are gaba-on, usually carpenters. Symptoms include feeling nauseous and weak.

Presumably, only the gabaon can cure gaba. And there are many ways of doing it, the most popular of which is letting the “patient” smell a whiff of the gabaon’s sweat. This is done with the gabaon fanning the “patient” seven times with the former’s soiled shirt.

“Go, fetch Bugsy,” I told the yaya.

When Bugsy returned, I was flabbergasted: He was back to his old talkative self, exuding boundless energy and with eyes that sparkled as he devoured food.

Amazing!

At the office the next day, Japan, who didn’t know of Bugsy’s unbelievable healing the night before, sent me a text message, saying that Trizzia got worse last night. She said that at about 10:00 PM, they were all set to bring her to the hospital. But then Trizzia’s mom, Maritess, asked Japan to bring Trizzia first to Boroboy before going to Tandag.

Boroboy---Elvis Balmis Agana----was playing tong-its with his neighbors when Japan, Maritess, and Trizzia arrived. Japan told Boroboy what they came for.

Boboroy remained seated. He transferred the cards to his left hand, licked his right index finger, and without even looking at Trizzia, touched her navel.

Then Boroboy went back to playing cards.

Even before they arrived home, Trizzia was already asking for food. An hour later she sweated profusely, after which she again asked for food. Another hour passed and Trizzia was back to her old self before falling into a dreamless sleep.

Incredible, yes. But still.

Purya gaba!

frankie's story-3

Frankie stared fascinated at the map which, under the fluorescent light that hung low from a beam, revealed some marks: lines, crooked and straight; stars; arrows; circles; Xs; and crosses.

A cock crowed. Scarface began rolling the map in haste as Orange struggled to stand. Frankie fled to his room, almost tripping on used Virgins huddled in one corner.

As he caught his breath inside his room, Frankie heard a door open. He looked at his watch: 4:53. He made moments pass before he went out.

The main door was ajar. Had they left?

He knocked at the papel de Japon’s room; nothing. He opened the door; no one!

He hurried outside. The red Nissan vanette was still closed: its windows fogged by the morning dew, and on its dusty side was written, “Nerissa boring!”

He went back inside and woke Nening to prepare breakfast.

***

At about 7:00, the papel de Japon returned.

“We went around. Nice place you got here,” Scarface said. Orange and Green nodded, as though they understood what Scarface was saying in Bisaya.

“You should have woken me. I would have shown you the place myself,” Frankie said.

“It’s okay. We didn’t lose our way,” Scarface smiled, showing some rotten teeth.

“But of course, you have the map to guide you,” Frankie wanted to say, but instead he said, “Where did you go?”

“Here and there,” he said. “You have a nice park. And an even nicer shoreline.”

If Frankie was surprised, he didn't show it.

“Breakfast is ready,” Nening called from the table.

The eyes of the papel de Japon almost fell off when they saw the table heave from all the seafood that Tago was known for. While he felt proud watching the Japanese eat heartily, Frankie could only hope that they would give him the money so he could pay for them.

***

“Is there some hotel here where we can check in?” Scarface said to Frankie. They were at the sala, after breakfast. Orange and Green were outside, talking by the van.

“But why? You can stay here as long as you want,” Frankie said, his voice competing with the wails his children gave as Nening bathed them.

“Thank you, but we need to transfer to a hotel.”

“Okay. There’s one in Tandag.”

Scarface looked at him, quizzical.

“About seven kilometers from here,” Frankie said.

Before noon that Saturday, Frankie made the Japanese check in at Shacene Pension House in Tandag. As they requested, Frankie stayed for the rest of the day in Shacene. But because they never invited him in, he stayed at the lounge. Except for a few times that Scarface went out of their room to check on him, they were holed up inside.

But in the few times that Scarface went out, Frankie had a glimpse of what went inside as he was seated at an angle that allowed him to see things when the door was opened. One time, he saw Green, sitting on the bed, his back against the narra headboard, holding and looking at the same map that Scarface had unscrolled back in Tago.

Later that evening, Frankie went home to Tago. On Sunday, he went back to Shacene and spent the day the same way he did the day before. When he asked one of the waiters if the Japanese went out, he said, no, they just stayed inside their room the whole time, always asking for room service.

***

Very early in the morning on Monday, the Japanese picked up Frankie and left for Butuan. “We’ll be back here on Friday,” Scarface said with certainty.

As the red Nissan vanette reached Victoria Junction and turned left toward Gamut, Frankie had a sense of where all this would lead to. Especially after what his fisherman neighbor said that he saw one of the Japanese early morning on Saturday go up the unfinished bridge, face the Pacific Ocean, and wait for the sun to rise. And when it did, he unscrolled a wide piece of paper, looked at the sun again, then back to the paper, but this time, he stared at it like it were an apparition. Then he turned this way and that as though he was dancing with the paper he was holding. After a while, he gestured with his hand to the two Japanese who stood waiting at the shore.

Moments later, he came down from the bridge, joined the two others, and together they walked to the direction that he earlier pointed to them---toward the cemetery of Tago!