Ano'ng gusto mong gawin ngayon?

I buy goods from the grocery, I'm forced to cough up an extra 12% for every item (1.5k a week? So that's around 72k a year, of which something like P8,600 goes to the treasury) ...

I put gas in my car, same thing, I pay 12% in taxes (for an average of 1k a week, 4k a month, 48k a year, about P5,700 goes to the goverment)...

Somebody hires me for the services I can render, they automatically take away 10% from my professional fee... (if one's earning an avergae of 10k a month, that's 12k annualy para sa kabang bayan)...

I eat in a restaurant, 12% of the total cost is forced out of my pocket...

I buy pasalubong for my children, 12%.

I buy clothes, 12%.

I want cable, 12%.

I want electricity, 12% on top of other questionable charges the power companies force me to pay.

And to get away from it all, I watch a movie, and it's not 12%, it's 30%.

I brought my wife, who accidentaly slipped and hit her head on concrete, to the Baguio General Hospital to have her head checked, and perhaps x-rayed if necessary. We entered the emergency room, we approached what looked like a doctor and told him about the situation. He goes, "ahhh, sa surgery 'yan," and walks away. We then approached a nurse and told her about what happened. She goes back and forth between a clipboard with what looked like patient forms and her puch bag which had a really cute, colorful pad of post-its, and after deciding that it's the post-its for this particular case, she asked my wife for her name, age, address (and signature and drop in drop boxes), and what exactly happened. A resident arrived and looked at the tiny sheet of pink (or was it yellow?) post-it, and proceeded to ask my wife to start her story again from the top.

RL: ...and then I fell back and hit my head on the corner of a concrete step.

Doctor: Hmmmmm.

RL: (Waits a while for a reaction, a reply, a question, and getting none...) And then I felt dizzy for a moment and everything looked blurry for a while...

Doctor: Hmmmmm.

RL: (Does the same thing as above) And then a while ago I felt like vomitting, but I already took plasil and I feel a bit better now...

Doctor: Hmmmmm. So ano'ng gusto mong gawin ngayon?

RL: I don't know, maybe I could get my head x-rayed?

Doctor: Alam mo naman na ang ipapakita lang ng x-ray e kung may fracture o wala, hindi naman makikita ng x-ray kung my internal bleeding...

RL: Hmmmmm. (Waits for her to at least look at the bump at the back of her head while waiting for her recommendation... nothing.)

Karlo: (Walks towards RL and whispers into her ear)... I'd love to be the one, but I think it's better if it's you... can you ask her what her recommendation is then?

RL: So doc, what do you recommend instead?

At that point the aforementioned calculations suddenly crowded my head and I thought, damn, a good part of that money pays for this doctor's salary and this is what we get? Ano'ng gusto mong gawin ngayon?

I kill myself trying to put food on the table and pay that damn 12% tax forced on me because those damned people in government said the country needs it to better serve the people, and this is what we get? Ano'ng gusto mong gawin ngayon?

And I just hope that this resident did not go to U.P. as a student for that would mean that aside from paying for her salary now, I also paid for her education then, and this is what we get? Ano'ng gusto mong gawin ngayon?

When I heard her ask the question, in my head, I wanted to answer her: Ano'ng gusto kong gawin ngayon? I-untog yung ulo mo sa kanto ng sementong hagdanan, tapos sasakay ako sa time machine, tapos babalik ako nung 16 years old pa lang ako, at tatalikuran ko ang teatro at mag-aaral ako ng medicine, tapos magre-residente ako sa BGH, para pag nagpunta ka dito para ipacheck yung ulo mo, sasabihin ko sayo, Ano'ng gusto mong gawin ngayon?

Just like everybody else

Pwede na ‘yan – I used to tell members of our theater group how I hate those words. To me it means giving up on the chance to do something great, or at least worthwhile, and giving in to mediocrity. And when it comes to my craft – theater, it’s almost inexcusable, as the case may be in other aspects of life.

The cleanliness of the University of the Cordilleras campus has become legendary. People who have visited the school almost always mention how notably clean its surroundings are. A lot say that going to the bathroom in U.C. is like going to a 5-star hotel bathroom – sparkling, spotless, and surprisingly good-smelling considering how school bathrooms are notorious for being smelly and unsightly. I’ve always had run-ins with the person responsible for U.C.’s famed cleanliness, Ms. Beng Ledesma. Whenever I’m the one renting the school theater for one of my productions, my being a smoker places me in her list of undesirables and suspicious, and she hounds me: making sure I, or my co-workers, do not smoke where we’re not supposed to, and to make sure our make-up tissues and empty plastic water bottles are in the trash cans and not scattered all over the dressing rooms. She’s the one who inspects each and every chair at the school theater to make sure each one of the 500 chairs are clean and properly aligned. She’s the one who stays late to finish an evening performance to make sure her cleaners do their jobs the way she does them in her own home (this I learned from her son, Nico, who swears by her mom’s home’s superb sanitary conditions). I have seen janitors at other public places go through the motions of mopping or sweeping the floor, and I have seen Ms. Ledesma’s wards ensure that no dirt remains on the surface. I have seen other janitors indifferently operate a floor polisher, and I have seen how they sweat it out to make the floors gleam at U.C.

My point? Ms. Ledesma could’ve surrendered to mediocrity and go about her job the way everybody does: she won’t get fired, she won’t get demoted, she won’t get screamed at by the boss, she would’ve been fine without the extra effort, she would’ve been fine being just like everybody else.

Just like the policeman who turns a blind eye at the jaywalker or the erring taxi driver because it’s too much trouble to run after someone, especially when you have an over-the-top waistline, and that policeman will not get fired, he’s fine, just like everybody else.

Just like the teacher who goes through the motion of lecturing straight out of the textbook and does not exert any effort to inspire his students to gain wisdom instead of merely memorizing names, dates and places, in turn, we see students who celebrate hitting a mere 75% in an exam, and the teacher and the student are both fine, just like everybody else.

Just like the Senator, or the Councilor, who does not lift a finger to craft brilliant laws or ordinances that would significantly change the lives of his constituents, because just by merely being present in the chamber and raising one’s hand when it’s time to vote, by building waiting sheds and water tanks and painting his name all over it, he believes he’s already doing his job, and he’s fine, just like everybody else.

Just like the chief executive, of a country or of a city, who simply punches in in the morning, punches out in the afternoon, and in between signs checks for disbursement and motherhood statements and hallow executive orders, cuts ribbons at business launches, delivers forgettable speeches at conventions, sings the National Anthem on Mondays and goes on junkets on weekends – he’s fine, no impeachment nor recall elections, he’s doing his job and he’s fine, just like everybody else.

There are opportunities for greatness all around, we just take them for granted. It doesn’t matter whether you’re an ambulant vendor, a jeepney or taxi driver, a bank teller, a farmer, a garbage collector, a CEO, you can try to rise above the norm and maybe even be the best at what you do whatever it is that you do, and if we take grab those opportunities to go beyond the mediocre, then maybe we can make this world a much better place.

Or have really clean bathrooms, at least.

("Tales From A Hill Station", Cordillera Today, April 6, 2008 issue)

On the eve of Zari's birthday...

A few days ago I got a text from Zari: "Happy birthday to me." Thinking it was Zari-ese for, "you forgot it's my birthday!" I immediately replied with a greeting. And then she replied: "Sa Monday pa, excited lang ako." I was in the middle of running the opening ceremonies of that CPAs' convention at the Baguio Convention Center. That morning started out slow - arrived at 8am to get a headstart on the many things we still needed to do before the house opens at noon.

Focus lights.

Sound check.

Finishing touches on the set design.

Polish opening dance number.

Finalize backstage traffic.

One last runthrough of the sequence.

By 8:30AM I've had two cups of instant coffee, on top of the two mugs of our home brew earlier. I needed it, I had to stay up all night to finish editing that 9-minute video for the opening dance number. At 9:00AM MV arrived with his LCD projector, the one we're gonna use for the center screen (there are two other on either side of the stage). Idol's supposed to bring the extra two projectors, and he arrived half an hour later. Still no lights and sound crew in sight.

I start clipping the papier mache foliage in the back, moving the papier mache tree trunks here and there and the dancers started showing up one by one. It's almost 11:00AM, do you know where your crew is? No. Nah, I did, but I wasn't sure. I fire off text messages one after another: none meritted a reply. F. arrived at, though earlier than most, a wrong time, since I was ready to explode. I regret not having the ability to be pleasant that instant, the memory of the last time I wasn't in a holy mood was still fresh.

The sound guy is taking forever setting up six microphones on individual mic stands on stage. And the lights guy is running around like a headless chicken. I don't have a copy of the script, not even the sequence guide. I call for a company call.

The gyst of what I said is: If everybody else is preparing for the same show I'm preparing for, then that show should be ready in an hour, and I'm wondering why everyone seems to be taking their time and at the rateThey go back to their respective areas of responsibility with a bit more sense of urgency they're going, they're not gonna make it in time for my show. this time.



The rest of the staff arrives: I got my script, my sequence guide. I'm happy. These days, it takes so little to make me happy.

The client comes up to me and asks if we could take down the two extra sheets of greenery we hung at the back the night before... I looked and saw that he had a point, and said yes. He goes up on stage and starts taking it down, A. asks me if I knew about what the client's doing, I said yes, I did.

Finally, the set's ready, but focusing the lights took a while. As soon as I'm done focusing a set of lights and move on to the next, a spot light or two would go off for unknown reasons. They said it's the white lady that lives at the Convention Center (the one that was caught by a camera phone the previous night). I didn't know whether to climb up the ladder to check on the bulbs myself or to do a ritual to appease the soul of the lady. But after going back and forth the two light towers, we finally focused all the lights. And the set looked good - it looked so much better than how I saw it in my head when I put it down on paper. For how the set turned out, the staff's blood, sweat and tears weren't in vain. Let it be said, I appreciate it very much.

The next we knew, we had to open the house already. And the rest of the afternoon was like a blur: an opening production number, a prayer, a march, opening remarks, welcome remarks, the symbolic key to the city brought in by a guy on horseback, another dance number, and blackout.

There were mush less people the next day: a certified public accountants' national convention should be a walk in the park, though it took a while to get the walk-in-the-park rhythm going, we got it on the second day.


J. didn't have to be there, but was there anyway to take photos and double as impromptu deputy stage manager. E. and D. assisted backstage. JC showed up and did a great job hosting the evening's program (with two song numbers that brought the house down, to E.V.'s virtuosity on the guitar).

As the thousands started leaving the theater when the house lights went on, I scanned the slowly emptying theater: on that same stage I've performed a monologue in Ilokano, directed the first musical I wrote, staged a Broadway hit, directed a beauty pageant, and planned to do a production later this year: Serapio in-the-round. That would have to be put on hold for a long while. The walk in the park was really exhausting, it would take some time to recover from it. And I will.

Aren't we supposed to go out with a bang? Zari asked me on the eve of her birthday - we were at a friend's son's birthday eating menudo and candied tamarind and chocolate cake.

Nah, I said, a period would do.

Today is Zari's birthday. Happy birthday, Zari! May this day be the beginning of something great for you (as I'm sure it will be).

*photos by Jojo Lamaria

Curtain Call

“ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE. AND ALL THE MEN AND WOMEN MERELY PLAYERS…”

Looking back at over twenty years of life in theater, I heave a sigh, unsure whether its one of relief, happiness or to exorcise regrets and other demons. From performing in front of crowds aiming at bringing a dictatorship to an end in the streets of Manila, to the glitzy, chandeliered theater lobbies of the capital’s various cultural centers, to obscure towns in the boondocks and lowland town plazas, I have dedicated a good part of my life to telling stories on stage.

A good story hits you, and it won’t let you rest until you’ve shared it with others who share the same passion for telling stories, and you gather round over cups of strong coffee and cigarette smoke to plot how to share this story to a much bigger crowd. For weeks on end you get together, slowly bringing the characters of the story to life, painting backdrops and making hand props, sewing strange looking clothing, “…AND ONE MAN IN HIS TIME PLAYS MANY PARTS.”

The high of hitting upon a good idea and everyone agreeing that it is so, or of finally moving on to work on the next scene after struggling for so long with the previous one. The joy of putting that script down for the first time and delivering lines with your hands free making gestures to add color to the literature –
fingers slightly bent as you reach out to the light up ahead, arms spread out to let it all out, or wrapped around shoulders to keep it all in.

It has brought me hundreds of kilometers from where I learned about it and where I grew up to a highland oasis that I now call home. There are no fancy cocktails on opening night, just the excitement of finally completing the art process by presenting it to those who believe that the collaborative effort was worth taking time away from the rest of the world and sitting in the darkened hall of multipurpose building to listen.

After a decade or so since that very first walk on part, it inspired to form a ragtag group of kindred souls, Open Space Projects, a group that struggled no matter what to get it to opening night every time that that one good story came along. The vision of the group can be expressed simply: A good story must be told, and told well, so let’s.

From rehearsals in the comforts of my living room to cold rainy nights in different covered areas of the city’s public parks, a theater brimming with students required to write a paper on the presentation, or one with more people onstage than in the audience, we journeyed from one good story to another.

The lives of the characters in the script intertwined with the life of each storyteller, and each storyteller’s life intertwined with another’s, where at times it forms a strong bond or, at other times, a tangled mess. We shared laughter, cried together, loved each other, and at times walked away from one another with nothing more than a shrug and a cold shoulder.

We’ve told the strange beautiful story of enduring love, of heroism, of a young girl’s tragic journey to seek her one true love, of passion, of children’s right to happiness, of one man’s dream to go beyond what society expects of him, of an actor’s nightmare, or an artist’s lament, and every single time we thought we all agreed: art for art’s sake.

But every now and then I wake up realizing that the group never changed from the day it was formed: it still stood firm for the principles on which it was built upon, but the individuals’ faces have changed time and again through the years: I did what I could to nurture the group and make it grow by taking care of every single person in it, and now I realize that that may not have been the right way: though the group endured, it stayed as it was and always has been: a ragtag group, and though the philosophy, the guiding principles, the aspirations of the group may satiate the souls its members, it won’t fill their stomachs, and choices and drastic decisions have to be made.

Open Space has a vision, nay, it is a vision, one that will remain for as long as there are those who believe in it. That vision does not have ups and downs, good times and bad times, unlike people. And if the people who make up Open Space aren’t there primarily for what it stands: then it ceases to be.

I say thank you to those who, at one time or another, then and now, journeyed with me and Open Space Projects. It’s been rough, but no regrets, it was good while it lasted.

“THAT ENDS THIS STRANGE EVENTFUL HISTORY, IS SECOND CHILDISHNESS AND MERE OBLIVION, SANS TEETH, SANS EYES, SANS TASTE, SANS EVERYTHING.” - William Shakespeare.

“Taga-Baguio lang naman kayo a, ang akala ko piso lang ang ticket niyo.”

Some years ago, a member of our theater group was nervously seated inside the principal’s office of a school in Baguio . Though the principal hasn’t given him the exact number just yet, this particular transaction could be the group’s biggest marketing coup ever, for if having a half-filled Bulwagang Juan Luna of U.P.-Baguio, a theater with a maximum seating capacity of about 350, in the past already meant a successful marketing effort, the principal was counting by the thousands as she scanned the paper listing the school’s entire population.

Finally she looked up, and said to our member/actor/marketing assistant: reserve three thousand tickets for us. That was ten years ago, and tickets to our plays then were priced at P25.00, which apparently came as a shock to the principal. “P25.00 yung ticket? Taga-Baguio lang naman kayo a, ang akala ko piso lang ang ticket niyo,” the principal said before canceling her reservation.

Just a couple of months later, that same school sent their students to watch a play brought up from Manila with tickets priced at P100.00.

Stories of this sort are familiar to most artists in Baguio – when it comes to artistic talent, anyone and anything from Manila must be better than the homegrown variety. I can understand if the discrimination comes from a Manileño: growing up and having learned the craft from institutions in Manila, I have to admit I once harbored the same bias against anything and anyone coming from beyond the toll gates of North and South Expressways. That is until I met and interacted and worked with artists from the regions, and realized how wrong I was. And so I left Manila and moved to Baguio .

The late Santiago Bose, a Baguio-born and raised artist who consistently depicted his native roots in his works, an internationally-acclaimed and multi-awarded artist, was given the outstanding citizen recognition by the city posthumously. And only after a bit of lobbying for as one city hall employee remarked as I was handing her Bose’s curriculum vitae together with a book on him and a catalogue of his works, “sino ba ‘to?”

The Baguio Country Club imports theatrical acts from Manila , the city government awards major event management contracts to groups from Manila , a significant number of the creative outputs we see on local print and television and hear on the radio are done by Manila artists. More often than not, a local talent would only be hired when the budget won’t allow for the much more expensive Manila variety.

Once while performing a concert at the Art Park of Camp John Hay, a tourist asked us after the show which company we belonged to in Manila , and he was really stunned to learn that the performers were all homegrown talents. And so what happens to a lot of local exceptional artists? An extraordinary musical director with a degree in the arts is now back in school for a second course taking up nursing; several gifted performers are out of the spotlight and are instead awake all night facing the glare of a computer screen teaching some technologically-challenged American how to play a CD on his computer. That is, if they do decide to stay in Baguio . Otherwise, we lose them to advertising agencies, theater companies, repertories, publications, production outfits, etc. in Manila and beyond.

And yet, amazingly, and luckily, Baguio continues to produce competitive artistic talents despite the lack (if not complete absence) of support and opportunities in this “haven for artists,” and so the city continues to enjoy having world-class talents in its midst. Though they rarely get the support of the local government and the local corporate community, the city still enjoys the occasional outstanding exhibition or performance, every now and then a local literary effort is published and local compositions get recorded on CD.

And, if you’re still wondering why our local artists either leave their true calling if not the city altogether, wonder no more, for, afterall, “Taga-Baguio lang naman kayo a, ang akala ko piso lang ang ticket niyo.”

Baguio when it rains

It's been hot in Baguio

Tiong San Department Store on Harrison Road on fire, with the fire-damaged University of Baguio in the background.

The conspiracy theories about the recent fires that hit the city are really amusing...

Last Order Sa Penguin

It's been a while since I last went to see a play, and a couple of weeks back, I got invites to two productions: SLU-CCA's Florante at Laura and Dulaang UP-Baguio's Last Order Sa Penguin.

The last production of Florante at Laura that I saw was Tanghalang Pilipino's staging of the musical a long time ago (that was the production with the famous "magkakaroon po ng isang linggong pagitan..." a week-long intermission between acts 1 and 2 because the music was not done in time for the opening, so on opening night the audience got to see act 1, and were asked to come back a week later for act 2).

I chose to go see Dulaang UP's production since it's a been a while since UP Baguio last staged a play, and also because I haven't been to Penguin (an artists' haven in Remedios Circle, malate) in a long time, I was in the mood for a little bit of nostalgia.

RL and I entered the theater and we were quite intrigued by the stage set-up: they didn't use the stage but instead set up platforms at the opposite end of the theater which became the main acting area. I was eager to see the reason for this, so we decided to sit on the actual elevated stage, which gave a better view of the set.

The house music helped put the audience in a lousy mood: loud and the music had nothing to do with the play being presented. Even our group at times commit this mistake: lousy front-of-house management... from the ushers to the seats to the house music, these should all prepare your audience for the story that's about to be told. Well, at least the technical people seemed to be enjoying themselves toying with the sound mixer. Anyway...

The set was a disappointment - a play about an actual existing place and you would think the production designer would give the actual Pengui Cafe a look-see. The set looked more like Perk Cafe in Baguio when it just opened in th mid-90's. No leather couches where the regulars never fail to claim for themselves: table 1=theater people, table 2=ballet philippines, table 3=photographers and writers, bar=visual artists, the rest of the tables for hangers-on, young artists and poseurs. As a young boy I slept on those leather couches as my mother discussed what art is with (the late) Santiago Bose and how deep is deep with (the late) Pepito Bosch. As a young artist I hovered from table to table depending on my reason for being there on a given night: all tables to land a gig (whether acting, production/stage management, and just about anything), table 1 if I'm coming from an opening night and I'm with my colleagues from Tanghalang Pilipino, table 2 if I want Guiller, a danseur, to treat me to a beer, table 3 to update my mom's friends about how she's been since she moved to the Caribbean, at the bar with Santi Bose to gossip about the people on tables 1 to 3...

There were art works on the wall, which weren't (art works, that is). I've seen a Bose exhibit there, an installation by Boy Yuchengco, photographs by Ronnie Lazaro, paintings by Nunelencio Alvarado, so the "paintings" on the set, which the characters in the play tore to shredsd with their biting criticisms, were quite out of place. Not to say that there weren't so-so art exhibited in Penguin, but those garbage on the walls were over the top. Again, maybe a look-see by the production designer could've helped him/her come up with a better set design.

The play is like an episode of the now-defunct sitcom, Friends. A couch in the center, a group of friends pour their hearts out giving the audience glimpses of the lives of Penguin denizens. Oh wait, make that roughly 6 episodes of Friends, at the end of two hours, when the stage lights went out and the house lights came on, we were quite shocked to hear the voice over announcing the intermission. the play ran for approximately 3 hours! But I could sit through 6 straight episodes of Friends... maybe the script would've done better as a sitcom: by the end of it one is left asking, "What's the point?" And Friends most of the time has a point.

Most of the actors were really effective: a gay guy forever waiting for his boyfriend to text him back, a young woman with issues about her live-in boyfriend, another young woman who's biggest issue in life is her relationship with a "jologs", a drug pusher, the pesky flower-vendor, and Marcell, the waiter..

The actor who played Marcell actually looked like Marcell, a waiter in Penguin back in the 90's. Which confused me: the play was dated: turn of the century, and there were no camera phones yet back then as far as I remember (or maybe I'm wrong, I'm a late-bloomer whenit comes to cellphones, I tried my best not to own one for the longest time).

The friends gather, they tell their stories, and order their drinks in between: A half red? A quarter white? Coffee? Beer? I found it quite amusing when the waiter returned with a half and a quarter glass of wine: who orders a half-glass of wine? In Penguin, a half or a quarter is a half or a quarter carafe of wine.

The actors who entered only in act two, they were the characters being talked about in act one, weren't able to maintain the energy and performance level of the actors already onstage - RL and I agreed that had the play ended with act one, it would've been a better production: leaving the rest to the audience's imagination.

The movements of the actors onstage didn't make sense a lot of times, the lighting and the blocking didn't seem to agree with one another, and at times took away from instead of enhancing a scene. And until the end I didn't see any justifiable reason for having the performance area at the back of the theater. In fact, since the director had his actors kneeling and sitting down most of the time, it would have been better if they used the elevated stage instead: 5 rows from the front and it was quite hard to see the action on stage already.

Nonetheless, at the end of the at times agonizing 3 hours, I was quite glad to see Dulaang UP-Baguio on stage again... and if the actors who performed form their core group of performers, save for two or three who needed a good dose of basic acting, I'm quite excited to be there again on their opening night.

Photos of the performance right here.

Afternoon coffee: Sa Saliw ng Mga Gangsa

Years back, a friend offered for us to stay in her house for a few months while she traveled abroad. The house sat up on the left side of Asin Road, two bedrooms, an attic, and a porch encased in glass. A cup of Benguet brew at dusk on that porch once, I was treated to a magnificent performance: clouds from above and fog from below slowly blanketing the mountains in white, and in the distance was a wedding where the subtle symphony of gongs provided the perfect soundtrack to a perfect afternoon, and these words just came to me:

Unti-unting binabalot ng ulap ang kabundukan
Tila ba isang batang sa pagtulog ay kinukumutan
Kapaligiran ay tahimik, aking lang naririnig
Awitin ng mga ibong musika sa pandinig

I was writing a musical then, and these words eventually made its way in that play as a song. I was humming the tune in my head on my way to town this morning, making my way through the smog, the garbage and daredevil cab drivers, and I realized how not so long ago I fell in love with Baguio and chose to live my life here.

It wasn't too long ago when one can spend an afternoon on a knoll in Burnham Park with a book and the distant laughter of children playing, lay on the ground until the sun sets and take a walk through the park during magic hour, that magical moment between dusk and evening when the pine needles shimmer in the setting sun's golden light, or have a friendly game of darts, maybe a couple of hours of light banter, over a bottle of beer or a cup of tea, with a familiar face in a bar along session Road without worrying about getting caught in the middle of a mindless rumble between gangs made up of drunken minors raring to inflict harm on each other and innocent and complete strangers who simply happened to be there.

It wasn't too long ago when almost everyone didn't mind stopping in silence for a few minutes every afternoon when the bell tolls for the Angelus, and give or receive a friendly nod or smile to/from whoever is next to you, and you walk on afterwards with a feeling that somehow, no matter what's troubling you, everything is gonna be alright.

It wasn't too long ago when garbage was not an issue because the people cared enough for the city and nobody sneaked out in the middle of the night to dump plastic bags of trash in your neighbor's frontage.

I read somewhere about the economic miracles that Vladimir Putin did for Russia in the last decade, how he transformed a country on the verge of becoming insignificant in the world's affairs to one that is now once again among the world's superpowers - third to first world in the blink of an eye. No, I don't want to get into a debate about human rights and socio-economic policies, it's just amazing,that perhaps with determination and passion, how fast significant changes can be made in a society, maybe by its leader or its people, for better or for worse... and how fast we've transformed Baguio from being one of the most beautiful cities in the country into what it is or at least what it is fast turning into today: a decaying city. What was once the country's cleanest and greenest is now a city with a garbage and pollution crisis. What was once a city where everywhere is five minutes away is now city with a traffic problem. What was once a city where everybody knows everybody is now a city where crime is becoming a serious concern. All that in the last ten years or so.

I wonder if we, or our local leaders, perhaps together, can bring Baguio back to its pristine state just as fast?

By the time I finished my coffee that wonderful afternoon at the porch of my friend's house, just as the wedding party was ending and the sound of gongs was fading out and the sun disappeared in the horizon, I had finished the song:

Huwag ka sanang magbabago, o mahal kong Baguio
Malinis na hangin, magagandang tanawin
Kayong mga kabataan inyong pangalagaan
Itong munting paraiso, huwag niyong pababayaan

That cup of coffee, that sunset, those images, that afternoon will forever stay in my mind... and the song ended in a prayer:

Sa saliw ng mga gangsa 'di ko malilimutan
Mga kulay mong magaganda, kayumanggi at luntian
Kami'y nananalangin, Kabunyan kami'y dinggin
Kalikasan ay i-adya sa lahat ng masama

("Tales From A Hill Station", Cordillera Today, April 6, 2008 issue)

Theater rush

The multimedia bug bit me early last year, and bit me hard. A good part of the past year was spent behind and infront of the camera, and it's been a while since I last went on stage, or brought something onstage, and then suddenly in the last two weeks we were rehearsing two productions to be performed only a week apart.

Despite the very limited/limiting budget, Jesus Christ Superstar, the rock-opera classic by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice, went onstage last Good Friday at the entertainment center of the mall up there. It was our group's first time to perform in that kind of set-up and it was quite an experience. We had no idea how the audience would react to something like JCS, a rock opera, and performed on a Good Friday at that. The group had only a full week to prepare, but with musical director Ethan Ventura's discipline, no time was wasted during music rehearsals. Though not being able to do a full dress rehearsal at the venue was quite a challenge, it took only the sight of a good crowd and the warmth of the par 64 spotlights to get the performers going. By the time Ethan made his guitar sing the first few notes of the overture, the stage was overflowing with energy, and the passion and dedication of the performers broke through the so-called fourth wall of the stage, and the audience responded very well.

Just a couple of days later and we were back at rehearsals, this time for the re-staging of our production of Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll for the Cafe by the Ruins' 20th Anniversary celebration. This production was what brought me to Baguio, actually, when I first staged it in 1996 together with local actor, Ferdie Balanag. Then, we rehearsed the play in some abandoned school building in Campo Sioco without any promise that the play would go on stage at all - we weren't sure how the audience would react to a play with such a provocative title, and content. But after a couple of weeks of line-throwing and blocking, we got a call from then BCF Arts and Sciences dean, Sonia Dao-as, who wanted to feature the play in the school's golden anniversary celebration. With a cast of two and a staff of three, we performed the play to a couple of full houses before bringing the play to UP Baguio for another run. Since then, Ferdie and I would perform the play in various venues including the cafe's 10th Anniversary in 1998.

And last Thursday, ten years later, we were back there, not sure if we can still pull off performing the characters in the play: 10 years does a lot to one's eyes and waistline. Again on a tight budget, and given only 1 hour to set up everything: band instruments, sound and lighting system, props: our group went in and did the usual dance of pre-performance preparations. Stage managers Freida Fernandez and Mai Fianza were at the Cafe's gazebo finalizing the sequence guide and the props, multimedia artist and costume mistress Madelyn Calventas was stapling trash bags for Ferdie's "Dirt" monologue, technical guys Andre Soriano, Boybi Sarmiento and Astrud Delo were laying out the wiring for the improvised par 38 spotlights, and Ethan began tuning his guitar. Production manager RL Altomonte and photographer Jojo La Maria prepped the cameras for the documentation.

And then we were on, in front of old and new friends who patiently listened to our stories for almost two hours. Kidlat de Guia gamely laughed when his name came up in one of the monologues, and filmmaker Mark Gary and choreographer Denisa Reyes couldn't get enough of it, and an hour or so after the last monologue one man whose name I can't remember anymore still didn't know what hit him: and I thought, great, that's what were here for: get you out of your comfort zone and throw that truth pie in your face - wipe it off or lick it up, it's all up to you.

No unnecessary issues, no unnecessary tension, nothing but pure passion for the craft: it was one of those nights when the first thing almost everyone asks after the curtain call is: what's our next story?

Ahhhh, theater, what a rush.

(A repost of my column, Tales From A Hill Station, in Cordillera Today March 30, 2008 issue)

Sigh

The sight of a group of policemen standing by the road, knee-high boots, Ray-ban sunglasses, holstered gun at the waist, the nobody-messes-with-the-guy-with-a-badge swagger, motorcycles leaning at the curb, never fails to startle me. Immediately I would feel for my wallet where my license is for fear that I have left it at home, try to remember if I have registered the car, look around for any traffic signs that I may have missed. As I get nearer, my heart beats faster, and will only slow down if they don’t flag me down as I go past them.

And then, after passing them uneventfully, I’ll realize that I didn’t have my seatbelt on. Which almost always makes me wonder, whatever happened to the seatbelt law? I remember when it was newly introduced – taxi drivers would refuse to move if you refused put on your seatbelt, jeepneys and buses installed seatbelts in their front seats, and the government made a killing apprehending violators. I remember the complaints of drivers of public utility vehicles, how cumbersome that darn seatbelt is, how they went out of their way to loop that seatbelt over their shoulders at the sight of a traffic cop to avoid being given a ticket, but never lock it in place, which would have taken them two seconds to do. Once I sat in the front seat of a jeepney and automatically reached for the seatbelt. As I looked for the clasp to lock the seatbelt in place, the driver, without even looking at me, said, “ipatong mo lang sa dibdib mo, ok na ‘yan, hindi na tayo huhulihin.” I wanted to tell him that I also wanted to be safe while riding his jeep, but I thought better than to argue with the man on the wheel while sitting in front without a seatbelt on.

The seatbelt brouhaha lasted a few months, a year perhaps at best. And now it’s forgotten. And it’s practically the same thing about most of the seemingly small things that are supposed to make our city, nay, our country, maybe the world, even, a better place. I wish I were exaggerating.

Take those signs that dot the barrier along the length of Magsaysay Road – “No Jaywalking, Violators Will Be Apprehended.” I wonder how many jaywalkers, those who are too lazy to climb the steps of the pedestrian overpasses, those who put their own and other people’s lives at risk by playing patintero with the swerving jeepneys and over speeding taxis and arrogant drivers in giant SUVs to cross the street, are apprehended. There must be a lot, since I it never fails to amaze me to see jaywalkers doing their thing right in front of policeman on stand by mode. In the same way they just do nothing about the motorists along Session Road, especially taxis, who play tag with pedestrians that actually use the pedestrian lanes to cross the road: you get tagged, you’re dead. Seldom do we see a car slow down as they approach those stripes on the road, a lot of times they actually go even faster.

I know that this community fought hard to uphold the law that says the streets are beyond the commerce of man, driving out an arrogant pay parking corporation slash milking cow in the process, but it breaks my heart every time I see old women carrying bilaos of vegetables being chased by operatives of the city government for illegal vending, while an ambulant cigarette vendor lights up a cigarette for a policeman as they brazenly go about their trade right in front of police substations.

Trancoville and Aurora Hill jeeps idling right in front of “No Loading and Unloading” signs behind the post office (again, right in the face of policemen). “Parking attendants” directing motorists to park in front of “No Parking” signs (again, right in the face of policemen). Cops on big bikes and delivery men on scooters going through a red light, and making u-turns where they’re not supposed to. All seemingly trivial, negligible, inconsequential infractions, perhaps. But how can we expect the community to respect our laws when they know these are not really being enforced? How can we expect the community to obey more abstracts concepts like saving the environment through garbage segregation when we can’t even enforce simple rules on crossing the road?

The law enforcers don’t care, the public stopped caring, and the policemen standing by the road, knee-high boots, Ray-ban sunglasses, holstered gun at the waist, the nobody-messes-with-the-guy-with-a-badge swagger, motorcycles leaning at the curb, didn’t care when I passed them with my seatbelt unfastened. I heaved a sigh of relief, then after a brief afterthought and images of illegal vendors on the road, garbage on the streets, smog in the air, I heaved another sigh, one of a different kind.

(A repost of my column, Tales From A Hill Station, in Cordillera Today March 23, 2008 issue)