Temporarily rubbing off buildings, traffic and other signs of urban decay from the view, my Sunday began with a bus ride to
Aguinaldo Shrine
Built in the early 1800’s, the house’s interior was a representative of the time—big, open windows, hard Molave furnitures, spacious bedrooms and a multitude of dining areas. It originally belonged to Aguinaldo’s parents but when they died, it was handed down to him who, then, made some minor changes with it. Aguinaldo, apparently not poor like Bonifacio, got himself a swimming pool and two bowling alleys inside his home. Not to mention, he owned one of the earliest models of Volkswagen.
But that’s not all. Being a leader of a revolution, Aguinaldo hid guns and spears on the back of chairs, and had a tunnel dug under his house for escape and defensive purposes. My class was still stuck in one of Aguinaldo’s sibling’s bedroom when I decided to tour the house on my own.
I went into the piano room, the coffee room (yes, he had a coffee room) and even the maid’s room. Since I wasn’t allowed to go to the balcony, I settled to imagine what it might’ve looked like from the point-of-view of Aguinaldo when he declared the country’s independence.
I read yellowed manuscripts and touched paintings, old cheese cloths, and silverwares. And I found joy in touching them, perhaps only in a degree less than that of Amelie when she touches beans and legumes of that sort.
We left Aguinaldo Shrine, and I felt both disappointed (I still hadn’t taken enough pictures) and happy (I was getting bored, anyway.) at the same time. Curiosity swelled within me and being there allowed me to learn things I seldom read in history books. A little trivia: Aguinaldo’s middle name was Famy, and his favorite tree was
Fungus for Lunch
Leaving the home of Aguinaldo, we headed for Tagaytay. But with our stomachs whining and our mouths dry, we had to take a stop.
Mushroom Burger. From the name itself, you can instantly guess what the fast food is serving. Mushroom soup, baked mushroom, mushroom burger, mushroom cheeseburger, steak with mushroom sauce--- everything mushroom, delicious and to die for.
I ordered myself mushroom lomi. From my bowl, I watched the mushrooms swirl in a dance that excited steam to diffuse in the room. The mushrooms were practically bigger and fatter than the cabbages, so I hadn’t managed (although I tried with tiresome effort) to take one of them in a single gulp.
Never have I, in my life, eaten in a fast food which holds mushrooms as the main ingredient in dishes. And never have I also been in a fast food, or in any food stores for that matter, which displays not only pictures the edible fungus, but also highlights real, live, cultured mushrooms in a glass container just inches away from the comfort rooms (go figure!).
But the thing is, the food was sumptuous. Hot, heavy and sumptuous. Just the thing I need to go trekking in Tagaytay.
USAFFE Base
Tagaytay, or taga-itay, as original settlers once called it, was nestled near
It was much smaller than what I had in mind. The USAFFE base did not have canyons or anything of the sort that I used to see in other bases. It only had one open room in the middle of the ground, bearing the names of all those who died in the Japanese revolution. Naturally, I looked up letter “M”, sought for “Magallanes”, and found one. Only one. In a sea of the forgotten names of heroes, there was once a Narcisso Magallanes, who may or may not be one of my ancestors, but who died for my country.
I felt a surge of pride and sympathy, which were later replaced by the urge to take more pictures.
Picnic Grove
Finally, the last destination: the unhistorical Picnic Grove. Jam-packed with people, the Grove looked like a public park full of sugar-high children, running yayas, vendors, college students out on a field trip, and lovers who give no damn to the world that sees their every lick and gyration as they made out.
Vanessa and I decided to take the long walk to the peak of the place. At three in the afternoon, walking under the angry sun, with annoying vendors trying to get money from me, I was tortured.
But when we reached the top and
I stayed there, looking at the volcano, breathless from the walk and charmed by the view. For a few minutes, I stared at it and got lost in my thoughts. It was as if all space and time felt like a dream when I got there.
The wind blew and I awoke from that daydream. Vanessa’s voice became more audible every second, and I knew we had to leave. And we did.
We came back to the bus, rode back to
BLUE SKIES enveloped our home as my brother took this picture on a long forgotten summer
afternoon. I wonder where the birds are?
All I know about exam week is this: You loathe it with such intensity that you think of ways to avoid it, thinking that maybe, just maybe, your professor might forget it’s the midterms.
However, it seems that exam week always gets the better of us, either through our raccoon eyes, or through our (almost) flunking grades. Tragic? It’s possible. Familiar? You bet. How do I know these things? Let’s just say the exam week is kicking my ass. My big, fat, grade-conscious ass.
Instead of taking five after my English exam, I spent my Wednesday locked in my room and buried under all those Chemistry books. With Nescafe Ice as a friend, I thought I can finish my problem sets overnight, but I was mistaken. I thought reviewing for Chem was a cinch, but I was wrong again.
At Thursday, Physics was not very sympathetic to my down sloping academics. It bombarded my brain with more Einstein stuff, and I felt like I was a computer with an information overload. In Kas1, my reaction papers were piling up and I am now imagining myself as a rabid typing monkey, trying to beat the deadline. And Math—well—everybody knows Math is hard.
So you see, my life has been reduced to a small ball of academics. It is the only ball that I’m juggling, and yet, I still find the stunt very hard. My professors aren’t helping much and now it’s the exam week a.k.a. hell week.
Right now, I am chalking it up to the fact that I’m in UP. But no matter what I do, something always takes the toll for my acads. Take my routine for example. Sleep, eat, study. Sleep, eat, study. A routine designed for heightening my academic performance but also a routine that doesn’t squeeze fun and friends in the picture. In fact, I’ve been so absorbed in my acads that this routine almost sounds like a mantra. Sleeeep, eeeeat, stuh-deeee. Sleeeep, eeeeat, stuh-deeee.
Come to think of it, I have done a loadful of eating and studying, but not enough sleeping. Perhaps, I too have embraced the ideology that sleep is for sissies. In this digital age, more and more people exist in nonstop wakefulness that would turn most normal human beings into drooling zombies. Sadly, I am becoming one of them.
According to Time magazine’s article Why We Sleep, our body is fighting us when we try to stay awake, even if we have the aid of a giant thermos of coffee. We think we are awake, but we experience bouts of microsleep--- moments when we zone out for anywhere between two to twenty seconds and drift out of our lanes and find ourselves rereading the same passages. Whether we realize it or not, our brain has already checked out for the night.
I read the article and it amazed me how much research people do about sleep. They, however, might be just another sleepless scientist like Thomas Edison, the inventor of the lightbulb. The creator of the new science of wakefulness.
True enough, my health suffers from my lopsided routine. And because of that, my acads which is the heart of it all, may suffer just as well. And so, I take my cue from Time magazine. I need to change my lifestyle.
UP Naming Mahal
UP naming mahal
Pamantasang hirang
Ang tinig namin
Sana'y inyong dinggin
Malayong lupain
Amin mang marating
Di rin magbabago ang damdamin
Di rin magbabago ang damdamin
Luntian at pula
Sagisag magpakailan man
Ating pagdiwang
Bulwagan ng dangal
Humayo't itanghal
Giting at tapang
Mabuhay ang pag-asa ng bayan
Mabuhay ang pag-asa ng bayan
Not every Filipino movie can carve its niche into a watcher’s mind---movies have yet to whet the crowd’s attention in order to win a Famas. Ironically enough, one movie has managed not only to have local critics fawn over it, but have international critics turn their heads as well.
Bayani---a full-length feature made by independent filmmaker Raymond Red--- was a highly visual chronicle of the rise and fall of revolutionary hero Andres Bonifacio. Played by Julio Diaz, Bonifacio was depicted as a determined leader who founded the KKK (Kataastaasang Kagalanggalangang Katipunan ng mga Anak ng Bayan) in pursuit of the country’s freedom, but who was later slain by the very group he has formed.
Narrated from the point of view of an ordinary Katipunero, the story gave a down-to-earth impression to the audience. But like most of Red’s works, the film was not so much about the spoken word than it was with its imagery. Noted for its heavy stylistics and painstaking attention to filmic detail, the movie also tackled the events surrounding the Philippine struggle against Spanish colonialism.
Being Red’s brainchild, the film was his personal and visual impression of history, where history was made up of bits and pieces of icons and ideas. For Red, making and watching the film was like plunging himself into the Filipino psyche. Since I was looking for a quick way to earn extra points for Kasaysayan1, I jumped at the chance of watching it.
The film started out as a docudrama, showing the death of the three priests known collectively as Gomburza. Reviewing our history, it was this event that triggered people like national hero Jose Rizal to demand for reform. But because the film was to revolve around Bonifacio, scenes shifted from Rizal’s writing life to Bonifacio’s making of the KKK. After the makings of the famous group came, of course, the war. I was pleased to find out that Red creatively injected his own fiction as to how Bonifacio must’ve slept and dreamt during the peak of the bloodshed.
As the movie progressed, I sometimes found myself recounting history—for a few times, missing a hero’s name or guessing an event portrayed on a scene. It was as if I didn’t know my own history. I tried to chalk it off at first, but when Emilio Aguinaldo entered the movie, I admit, I finally got confused.
I asked my friends if they knew what really happened, but I just found myself sandwiched between two people who, like me, either don’t know why Andres Bonifacio died or just forgot who General Mariano was. I have always thought Emilio Aguinaldo ordered the murder of Bonifacio, but from what I have seen in the movie, something has gone terribly wrong with my knowledge of history.
I confess, my knowledge of Philippine history is rusted and my appreciation for it is even more pitiful. I know more about glam girl Paris Hilton than Ina ng Katipunan Melchora Aquino. Grades and extra points aside, I don’t think a lot of students would opt to watch a movie about Philippine history when SM cinemas are ready and available for all the fans of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Garner.
Every now and then, I would hear somebody from the back ask who Antonio Luna was and whether or not he was portrayed in the movie. I would hear fellow students babble inane answers, uncertain if they were correct. So when director Raymond Red said, “I hope you’d stay throughout the film. It’s only eighty three minutes,” it sounded to me as if he was asking a favor, when knowing one’s history should have been a favor enough for us.
On my seat, I tried to rack up reasons why we forgot our history. Was it because we weren’t educated? We study in UP, surely we are educated more than enough. Was it because we easily got confused with what was fact and what was fiction in the film? We were aware of it the whole time. Was it because we were ashamed of our past? I’d like to believe that we are not that shallow.
I left the place feeling awful at myself. The movie was splendid but I was unworthy of watching it. Call me an ingrate, call me a hypocrite Filipina, call me whatever you want, but if an iskolar ng bayan like me can be apathetic to the blood that had been shed for our freedom, how much more can the rest of our Westernized nation?
In this place and age where everybody has the same myopic
And this is just what we did during Kalayaan Residence Hall’s annual Pasalubong Festival held last January 5. Pasalubong, a word which refers to a gift coming from the place where the giver has just been, was surely apt in depicting the event.
Residents arriving from their own provinces brought tons of food and decors, actively taking part in the activity. I, for one, had three luggages, one of which was full of malongs and inuls, T’nalak purses and B’laan beads, and lots and lots of dried fruits. Since it was just a little after the Christmas break, everyone rushed to set up the booths, plan the presentations and cook one’s region’s delicacies.
By Wednesday morning, the basketball court was so full of exhibits and so adorned with multicolored sarongs and pabitins that it morphed into a little cultural haven. The activity didn’t start until four in the afternoon, but everyone was excited and perhaps, also a bit jittery. Even our dorm manager, Ms. Alma Tirona was already up and about the court checking and double-checking everything.
As the clock struck four, everyone got ready and got themselves armed from the swarm of Korean international students with their colorful regional costumes. It was not long that the court was filled with people, and the event started.
During the presentations, songs sang in their native languages, Spanish dances from the North, and neo-ethnic, often Muslim-inspired dances from the South were common. Other presentations were re-enactments of the local festivals like that of the Aswang Festival from Capiz and the Fiesta ng Senior Santo Niño from
The event, however, did not stop there. After the presentations, everybody went around the court and into the different booths and exhibits of each region. Foods were served, and my mouth almost watered to discover the taste of new foods. I got to eat the sweet pili nuts of Region V, the sumptuous pastels of Region 10, the durian (although this fruit is also abundant in my region) of Region 11, and of course, the dudol (a Muslim delicacy) from my very own Region 12.
But the Pasalubong Festival can never be called such, without—well—the pasalubongs. So as I munch my way into my otaps, I was busy giving out brochures, postcards and beaded B’laan bracelets. It was a bit chaotic, but we had fun.
The two-hour activity compressed cultural shows, talent events and food and trade fairs all into one. It was done to showcase the uniqueness of all the geographical regions of the country, highlighting our country’s diverse cultural splendor.
The activity was not as tiring as island hopping and you know what? I had fun while learning. I got to eat free food, get free stuffs and rediscover my country through the efforts of my co-residents.
Personally, the event allowed me to speak straight Hiligaynon, my native tongue, and a little bit of Bisaya without the language barriers brought by being in a largely Tagalog-speaking university.
Collectively, it allowed a kaleidoscope of cultures to shine, revived a rich spirit of diversity and provided a venue for oneness. With the Pasalubnong Festival, we discovered that the country has witnessed more history than we thought. And with history comes the interweaving of lives. So perhaps it was not just about culture. It was a sharing of lives.
| << January 2005 >> | ||||||
| Sun | Mon | Tue | Wed | Thu | Fri | Sat |
| 01 | ||||||
| 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 |
| 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 |
| 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 |
| 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 |
| 30 | 31 | |||||
