Hope

I have traveled along the Vito Cruz Area for a while now, and have become acquainted with many of its old houses. I have a particular affinity for structures that have been ignored by the passage of time, and with these houses, even more so. They carry a connection to the past that, for me, is too important to be forgotten. They offer a powerful sense of history which gives hope.

When a friend of mine asked me to write an article about these old houses, I wasn’t enamored of the idea. Though I think of them as small historical treasures, I find I have too little knowledge of history to give an accurate account and perspective; one I wouldn’t be embarrassed to have other people read. But I realized that knowledge can be overrated, and that a sincere and honest rendering of the quality these structures can stir on a person can sometimes be more important than an accurate retelling of history, so I decided to at least give it a shot.

What is it about these old houses that make them so extraordinary? At first glance, you merely see the dirt, the crumbling walls and their insect-infested pillars. Their age is clearly evident. Aside from the obvious historical value these houses provide, why give them a second thought? In fact, why even write about them? There has to be something more; these structures must have something essential to give us, something we could learn or need.

Quite frankly, it is difficult to get past the dirt and decay, but I realize when I look closer, there is a beauty that can only come with age, and these houses have it in spades. Age offers for a common person the opportunity for nostalgic musings; and in this case, a more than hopeful rendering of a severely wished-for past. The Vito Cruz area is, for some people, a window to a past that is more beautiful, polite and cultured than the present. An age where adults take time to look and dress better; where Filipinos, at the very least, offer a semblance of graciousness when in the company of other people. The Vito Cruz area then becomes less of a historical site, and more of a door to a positivism that, at this moment, Filipinos severely need.

Change can be a dangerous thing, and the passage of time has been particularly difficult on these old houses. They have been largely forgotten, and people would rather escape to the more modern establishments than reminisce about a past too difficult to imagine. But, though I acknowledge that progress would eventually push on these houses their eventual death, we need not forget them. In them lie a connection we should not let go of; to remember them is to have light.

I do not know if this idealization is the real past; it is probably merely a dream brought about by a hyperactive mind. Still, for me, the Vito Cruz area offers a connection to a place that gives hope a permanent residence; and living in a country seemingly ruled by chaos, that is more than we can wish for.

*An old article published in a now defunct travel magazine.

Photo taken here.

Nature and Healing

“Diretso lang po. (Just go straight ahead.)”

Slightly disoriented by the heat, I stared at the half-naked young man, one finger pointing at a gently sloping rocky trail that wound around the majestic stone mountains of Montalban. Perhaps it was his cool indifference to my apparent confusion, or maybe he was just mocking me, that it was not without some trepidation, I picked up my bags and made my way upwards, not fully knowing what awaited me at the end of the trail.

I realize it says something about me, that, having lived all my life in Montalban, I have not visited the Wawa Dam except for that long lost time in my childhood when, as my mother recounts for me, we spent the day there in the company of family and friends. I have always been an urban rat, preferring the security and relative safety of huge metropolitan centers like Makati or Ortigas, in comparison to the disorder of fierce Mother Nature. So when my editors informed me of the planned shoot in Montalban, I was apprehensive. There was a slight interest, yes, but there was also fear. Nature and I just don’t mix, or at least I didn’t think so. Days later, the childhood memory again slightly taking form in the recesses of my mind, I guess it is not without some irony that I find myself climbing up the dirt road towards the great white wall residents call the Montalban Falls of Wawa Dam.

It was hot, and the summer sun was beating down hard on my skin. I was contemplating the merits of that wonderful invention known as sunscreen when I took a short turn, and came face to face with what was one of the most beautiful views I have ever seen.

The waterfalls cascading down the rough walls of the dam created a beautiful backdrop to the scenery before me. Above it was the clear blue summer sky, cloudless and infinite. Beside it were two stone mountains, gray with spots of green, immutable and strong. The dam itself was punctuated at the side by an ancient tower that offered a frame to the beauty before me. I was speechless. How could something so beautiful escape from my memories so easily?

I walked on, my eyes trying to capture as much as it possibly could. Huge chalky white boulders, which were marble as someone informed me later, dotted the landscape. Quaint small huts, placed strategically at different points in the place, offered some shelter for the common tourist. The water, flowing downwards from the dam, covered most of the spaces until it stopped short of several meters from the small village at the foot of the mountain.

A few minutes later, I came across an interesting card which simply stated “Paa ni Bernardo Carpio” with a small arrow pointing left underneath. Staring at the direction of the arrow, and boosted by a very fertile imagination, I guess the small body of water below the trail could maybe pass off as a print of a footstep of the mythological giant.

By the time I got to the shoot, the models were already aboard a small bamboo raft, gamely posing with the horn and trombone. Gianna was particularly luminous, her small frame clad in the pure white fabric studded with Swarovski crystals. The interplay of the modern sensibility in the clothes contrasted quite nicely with the raw imagery provided by the water and the mountains. It was breathtaking.

By lunchtime, the models found themselves on top of the old 40ft tower by the waterfalls. The four guys were teasing each other, trying to trick the other into jumping towards the green crystalline waters below. Then a white flash that seemed to come from nowhere and a loud splash. I quickly ran to see who jumped. It was Gianna, quite brave, wet and laughing, glad to show the guys a thing or two about fearlessness. Needless to say, the guys soon felt the need to jump and followed soon after.

When all the proper elements are in place, there is something about nature that allows us to connect to some stronger energy, some higher power that can give us strength and allow us to see more of who we are. Perhaps it is the rawness, the potency, the primordial power it represents, or perhaps it is something else entirely. Considering the amount of work each person had to put into that photo shoot, the fact that we never bit each other’s head off was nothing short of a miracle. Nature is a healer, definitely, and gifts us with a powerful connection, both to ourselves and to each other.

It was with some heaviness that I waited for the day to end. It ended well, the sky bursting into a multitude of brilliant colors, still cloudless, still infinite. We packed our bags and made our way downwards. There was a strong wind, and then a soft whistling. I looked around for the source of the sound and realized it was coming from the mountains, as the wind blew through its caves. I heard a tinge of sadness, weak but definitely there, and it was beautiful.

*An old article published in a now defunct travel magazine.

More Sketches of a Year Lived Next to a Red Light District

I was heading back up to my apartment when I encountered an old Arab guy and his Filipino girlfriend on the elevator. I was reading a book, so I didn't immediately notice that the old man was speaking to me.

"Korean? Japanese?" he asked.

"I'm Filipino."

He started to laugh, then began pawing my shoulders with his wrinkled hands. He was speaking in this weird language I couldn't understand. I backed away, while the Filipina took his hands and held it against his chest.

"I'm so sorry. He's drunk." The old guy smiled foolishly.

I gave her a half-smile. "No, it's fine. Don't apologize."

His hands wriggled out of hers and touched my shoulder. I backed off. She held him, and apologized again. I just shook my head, and hoped we'd get on my floor soon. She was smiling awkwardly, and I couldn't help but smile awkwardly back. My irritation melted. It turned into something I couldn't put my finger on until I looked at her. I realized then that I pitied them.

And I thought that it was the saddest thing, to be pitied.

***

One woman in particular broke my heart. She’s this dark-skinned girl who looks like she has Aeta blood, and who’s more than a little loopy in the head. When you pass through my red-light district, it’s almost impossible not to see her. She usually appears like she’s shouting at someone. Her hand gestures are huge, accompanied by facial expressions that would be comical if they weren’t so pitiful. She looked more like a caricature than an actual woman.

2am. I was in line at the 7-11 to purchase a lightbulb since the one in my bathroom conked out and I had to take a shower in complete darkness. Two foreigners were in front of me, while this crazy woman, was dancing, uhm, energetically near the entrance.

One of the guys said, "My friend thinks you're sexy. You should go do your sexy dance for him."

"Buy me a Coke!" she answered.

"Sure, if you do your sexy dance."

The girl shook her breasts and started chanting.

The guys laugh harder. I pay for my lightbulb and walk away, feeling uneasy. Perhaps it reminded me too much of kicking a person who's already down.

I was wearing my Persian-print pajamas. I didn't feel like changing into something more appropriate, and I figured I didn't particularly care if anyone saw me or not.

The bulb I bought wasn't as bright as the one I had before. I'd have changed it, but I figured I'm helping the world fight global warming by using less bright lightbulbs.

Photo taken here.

Sketches of a Year Lived Next to a Red Light District

I was halfway through law school when I had to move from my first studio apartment to a smaller space right next to a red light district in Makati. I moved because I was renting my first apartment for an incredibly low price and when the contract ended, the unit owner got smart and demanded 50% more than what I was already paying. I couldn’t afford that, so I moved to a small studio in a fairly decent condotel.

Living right next to several prostitution dens offers a variety of experiences that I probably wouldn’t have encountered in my first apartment. Most of the rooms were used to service foreign tourists who wanted to avail of the entertainment the red light district had to offer. I once shared an elevator with a huge dark-skinned man with doe eyes and a heavy beard, and two young women. The girls were leaning on him, different sides, and I noticed his huge hands, separately stuffed in the back pockets of the girls.

They were talking in broken English. When I realized that the topic was bl*wj*bs, suddenly the wall was the most interesting thing in the world. The small space gave me no choice but to listen, flaunting as that trio did their plans for the immediate future. It might have been okay if they were a good-looking group, but they weren’t, so I stood there wanting to stab my eardrums until I bleed to death.

***

Another time, I was in the internet place downstairs. I hang out there when I’m suffering from an unusually strong bout of insomnia. It was very early in the morning, and the place was empty except for me and two girls.

One girl was shouting, “P*ta, nakita mo na ba yung video ni Hayden Kho at Maricar Reyes? (Wh*re, have you see seen Hayden Kho and Maricar Reyes’ video?)”

“Sino ‘yon? (Who’s that?)” said the other, in an equally loud voice.

“Jowa daw ni Vicki Belo. (Vicki Belo’s lover.)”

“Anong meron? (What’s in it?)”

“Nagkakant*t*n sila. (They were f*cking.)”

“Magaling? (Was he good?)”

“Maliit, parang daliri ko, pero magaling. (Tiny d*ck, like my finger, but he was good.)”

“San yung video? (Where’s the video?)”

“Teka, hanapin ko. (Wait I’ll look for it.)”

They never found it. They did, however, find Hayden Kho and Katrina Halili’s rendition of “Careless Whisper”. As one girl so exquisitely put it, “Mukha silang durog. (They look wasted.)”

***

Another conversation. Same girls. Same place. Same time. Same loud voices.

"Yung customer ko kanina, ang kulit. (My customer earlier was so annoying)."

"Bakit? (Why?)"

"Sabi ko na ngang masyadong malaki, hindi kasya, pinipilit pa nya. (I already told him it was too big, it won't fit, but he was forcing it)."

"Anong nangyari? (What happened?)"

"E 'di pinilit nya. Sabi ko bayaran nya na lang ako ng extra. (Well, he forced it. I just said he should pay me extra.)"

"Tama lang. (Damn straight.)"

Photo taken here.