Where is Calderon Street?

There are “No Parking” signs all over the place: along the side where Prime Hotel is, across it where Skyworld used to be, at the triangle a little further in, so why is Calderon street filled with parked vehicles all day long?

On any given day, during the afternoon rush hour, this is what welcomes you along Calderon: Going up the road from Harrison Road, you’re stuck in a gridlock because there are no traffic lights which comes as a surprise considering how busy that intersection is: perhaps at least half of all the jeeps in the city pass there, add to that the taxis, the private vehicles that are either passing through, or filling up at the gas station at the corner, or getting a carwash across it.

Finally you get out of the jam and your vehicle crawls at an agonizing 5-10 feet per minute if you’re driving. After several minutes, you finally go past Burnham Hotel, and see the reason for your misery: More cars, most of them imposing gas-guzzlers parked right next to “No Parking” signs. Out of nowhere, “parking attendants/watch-your-car boys” appear from nowhere flagging you down to offer you a parking spot. And because it’s 4PM and they can’t park along Session road anymore, and they don’t wanna pay P25.00 to park inside SM, or around P50.00 at the Baguio Cathedral or Porta Vaga parking lots if they’re gonna park for more than a couple of hours, those who accept the services of one of these “parking attendants/watch-your-car boys” are led to where? Another “No Parking” spot.

It’s a jungle out there, anarchy rules all day long. Delivery motorcycles spilling out towards the middle of the road, next to that an illegally parked armored vehicle surrounded by intimidating heavily armed guards, and if that isn’t enough to create a road traffic mess, those who are too lazy to walk more than 10 feet to where they’re going from their vehicles would double park right next to the illegally parked cars leaving hardly enough room for vehicles to pass through. That leaves you with no option but to overtake and go into counter flow, which brings you head on with oncoming vehicles turning right from Session Road going the other way – a pissing match begins:

The car ahead honks his horn at you, and you do the same to the double parked vehicle. The driver of the car ahead sticks out his head and shouts obscenities your way, you stick out your head and shout obscenities at the driver of the double parked vehicles (if there’s a driver in there, otherwise your screaming at a non-living thing).

In the meantime, the car in front of you continues his honking, the cars behind it are honking, the cars behind you are honking, you’re honking, and suddenly a “parking attendants/park/watch-your-car boy” appears from nowhere to save day. NOT. He goes right in the middle of the snarl not to untangle the mess, but to signal for everyone to stop for a client of his getting his/her illegally parked car out.

And then you see a couple of police officers at the corner, taking out license plates from one, two, three or four illegally parked cars on Session Road and you wonder why they’re not doing the same to all those illegally parked cars on Calderon Street.

And then you stop wondering when the “parking attendants/ watch-your-car boy” collects his fee from his client, and walks away leaving you at the mercy once again of the car ahead of you, the cars behind it, the cars behind you, and the cars behind them… etc.

Where is Calderon Street ? Is it far away from the center of the city that would somehow make it understandable that nobody in authority notices the anarchy that goes on there everyday?

Nope, it’s right there. It’s just that there’s a big difference between not seeing something and looking the other way.

(Tales From a Hill Station, Cordillera Today, July 13 Issue)

CCP Complex

CCP (Cultural Center of the Philippines) Complex – a sprawling haven for culture and the arts located along Roxas Boulevard that includes several world-class theaters, museums, galleries and home to the country’s supposed best arts and culture companies.

CCP Complex - Also a psychological condition that makes the afflicted believe that any artistic output that comes from beyond the boulevard and the breakwaters of Manila Bay is inferior.

I must admit I too once had the aforementioned condition, until I stage managed a production that toured the whole country for a whole month and got exposed to the artworks in the regions, from Baguio to Marawi. I knew then that I would get out of CCP soon after the tour. And I did. And I moved to Baguio , around 12 years ago.

Last night a colleague informed me of a group’s interest to feature our productions in a local institution that’s being re-packaged as a cultural and educational destination – they’re interested because it would be much more cost effective to hire a local group to stage a play rather than bring a whole production from Manila . Though I’d rather hear that they’re interested because they believe in what the local artists can deliver, beggars can’t be choosers. And this is among the reasons why I left Manila more than a decade ago to live in Baguio – I just couldn’t stand the arrogance of Manileños in their belief that the best things in this country can only be found in Manila , and everything that comes from beyond the toll gates of both the North and South Expressways are inferior. You patronize artists in the regions only when the budget can’t afford the Manila variety.

They probably haven’t heard the compositions of Ethan Andrew Ventura, and the way he plays his guitar. His work was featured recently in a concert in a mall and the music he composed for Rizal’s Me Ultimo Adios gave me goose-bumps. Or perhaps they haven’t been to a jazz jam session at Overtones, one of many places in the city that houses exceptional local talents. Too bad, most of them never get to sit down and listen to Emerald Ventura, Ro Quintos, Jef Coronado, Cholo Virgo, Yoshi Capuyan, Arkhe Sorde Salcedo, Ramirr Grepo, Jenny Cariño, Sunshine Gutierrez, Mary Raquel, Ron Ruiz, Patchi Viray, SLU’s Glee Club, the reggae bands in Baguio, or the rock ones in nearby La Trinidad, and many others whose music can blow you away.

Perhaps they’ve never been to an exhibit by the Tahong Bundok group at the Baguio Convention Center – watercolors of a beautiful city that hypnotize, or the ongoing exhibit at the Café by the Ruins – coffee on paper, different shades of sepia that calms the spirit, or the photography of local lensmen on Multiply.com that can rival those that hang on Manila’s expensive gallery walls, or the VOCAS group’s multimedia explorations that challenge and provoke the mind.

They’ve never sat in a local writers’ group’s open mic session. They’ve never been to an SLU musical. They’ve never seen Tropang Paltok’s street theater performances. The now Manila-based Pinikpikan charges to perform what one could normally hear for free on the steps of La Azotea or the Dap-ay of Café by the Ruins. Manila charges hundreds to thousands for what one could get into on less than a hundred bucks’ ticket price, or in most cases on a complimentary pass, as in most local theatrical presentations.

And the sad thing is, the community encourages the discrimination against local artists whenever it turns to Manila for most major artistic or cultural outputs in the city. The city’s upcoming centennial celebration is dotted with non-Baguio groups and individuals running this and that show, the institution I mentioned above included.

And what do the Manila-based groups do? Hire local artists to do the job for them anyway, they get the lion’s share and the locals get chump change. But maybe that’s precisely the reason why the local artists continue to produce great art despite the situation: the main thing the fuels them is passion, and just like love, all the money in Manila can’t buy that.

TONYO

The Rural Bank Of Itogon and The Office of the City Mayor, Baguio City

in cooperation with

Open Space Projects present...

TONYO - a performance art piece on the life of Gen. Antonio Luna by Rene Villanueva. Directed and to be performed by KM Altomonte.
June 28, 2008, Saturday, 6:30PM, The Atrium, SM City Baguio.

Admission is free.

Maligayang Bati, Pepe

I just came from the marathon annual tribute to the National Hero at Luneta Park initiated by the Rizalistas. I was introduced to the group by Kidlat Tahimik who has been helping them out with the logistics of their yearly ritual. Last year, the main event was the human flag – hundreds of people in color-coded clothes forming the Philippine flag. This year, they decided to do almost the same thing, except this time they would be forming the Philippine map. I was asked to choreograph the hundreds of people into position.

I brought local photographer, Jojo Lamaria with me to help me out. At the Luneta the day before at noon, the group has erected a hut in the middle of the grounds that served as the headquarters, next to it they have already outlined the 35 x 55-meter Philippine map with lime dust and marked the different islands with small red, yellow and blue flags. We met with the 12 members of the group who would be helping us as assistant stage managers the next morning, along with Reyna Yolanda, the group’s current leader.

The plan was simple: I divided the whole area into twelve, assigning a segment to each of the assistant stage managers. We were to meet the hundreds of people who would fill up the map’s outline only on the day itself, but at least each of the twelve would only have to focus on a small specific area. Jojo and I left after the meeting to return later that night.

After deciding that being there a full 12 hours before the event won’t do any good, we went back to Luneta just after midnight. I have scheduled a production meeting at 4am with the group for last minute instructions, so we had a few hours to spare to get to know the Rizalistas.

A mass was about to start when we got there, at around 3AM, the Quirino Grandstand were filled with people in white – Reyna Auggusta was at the podium calling on all members to get ready for the mass. Moments later, a Babaylan entered and the mass began. The altar was set against a flag bearing the words, Tres Personas, Solo Dios. Across that on the wall of the altar are portraits of Rizal with different inscriptions at the bottom telling the hero’s various vocations: artist, writer, scientist, businessman, etc. the Babaylan ended the mass by blessing the crowd and performances followed.

One caught my attention: on one side of the stage were three singers: I was moving around a lot so I couldn’t hear every single word but they seemed to be singing the history and the vision of the group. On stage were dancers who moved in subtle movements to the rhythm not unlike that of the moro-moro. The performance lasted for I believe more than ten minutes and I was quite amazed by the ease in which the dancers executed their movements and the singers narrated their story – one wouldn’t fail to notice how much they have internalized the words and the music.

By sun up the group proceeded to the monument for the wreath laying ceremony. Problem: the guards of the Rizal monument refused to let them in for they “didn’t have a permit.” This is the only group, as far as I know, who seriously celebrates the birth of our national hero and honors him on the day of his birth and they wouldn’t let them in. A bureaucracy problem and burueacrat shows up. Bayani Fernando to the rescue, he makes a phone call and the group was finally allowed to honor Rizal.

I had my twelve assistants in position, and though the organizers allotted a couple of hours for us to finish forming the map, leading a group of indigenous peoples from various parts of the country, two ati-atihan groups, a marching band, members of the Rizalistas, into position took only about half an hour. And there it was: the first human map of the Philippines .

Just as the clouds partly covered the morning sun, from behind the grandstand a helicopter appeared and as it flew over the map, flower petals were dropped and the more than one thousand people that fromed the map raised their red, blue and yellow flags in the air in celebration.

The crowd dispersed towards the grandstand for the politicians’ speeches and closing ceremonies, and just as the last few souls left the flag, the clouds slowly moved to reveal the sun, and the rays that shone on the empty map gave me goosebumps, and then this:

A street child stood in the middle of the empty flag, and his eyes seemed to be asking: Now what?

For photos of the event, visit my site at www.altomonte.multiply.com.

Post Script to Pag-ibig Sa Tinubuang Lupa

When our group was invited to do an Independence Day performance at the mall up there, the idea of performing for a pedestrian audience was quite a challenge for a group that’s used to performing in a regular theater set-up: proscenium stage, audience quietly seated on the other side of the theater’s proverbial fourth wall. Up there our audience would be constantly moving, faces constantly changing, minds wandering from one commodity to another, one sale price to

another. Our ideas would be competing with the loud speakers blaring out of every shop wanting to grab a customer’s attention.

And I thought: that’s exactly who we should be reaching with the ideas our performance wished to communicate.

Pag-ibig Sa Tinubuang Lupa is a poem written by Andres Bonifacio, and the title of the show. First, we, Ethan Andrew Ventura and I, selected a few literary works by various National Heroes. After coming up with the final list of poems, we proceeded to set these to music: Bonifacio’s “Pag-ibig Sa Tinubuang Lupa” and “Ang Katapusang Hibik Ng Pilipinas,” his Tagalog translation of Rizal’s “Mi Ultimo Adios,” Amado V. Hernandez’s “Kung Tuyo Na Ang Luha Mo, Aking Bayan,” Jose Corazon De Jesus’ “Bayan Ko” and “Pakikidigma.” We decided that the best finale would be the “Lupang Hinirang.” It was a quite a struggle getting this one onstage, and in the last 24 hours before curtain time, this is how we got there:

Rehearsals ended early the night before, around 8pm. Ethan and I finished composing and arranging and recording the original music for some of the poems just a couple of hours earlier that afternoon. We decided to just perform the existing music composed for “Pag-ibig Sa Tinubuang Lupa” and “Bayan Ko”, I don’t think we could’ve come up with better compositions than what was already there. After rehearsals, I settled infront of the computer to edit the videos, which I expected to finish in a couple of hours. We’ve decided just days before to complement the performance with a multimedia presentation projected on a screen which served as the stage’s only production design element. The sun was already rising when I started burning the DVD.

It’s been a huge learning experience for us, perhaps way more than it has been for the audience: We struggled through the poems' meanings, the context in which this and that line were written, what was perhaps going through the authors’ minds when they were composing the haunting lines.

And when some of us had to look up the English translation of “Mi Ultimo Adios” to better understand the Tagalog translation of Bonifacio, it dawned on me: I don’t think we ought to celebrate Independence Day, for we are not yet truly free. We are still struggling to have the honor of having an Independence Day. We may have a Filipino president in Malacañang now, but our true identity as a nation is still buried under centuries of slavery and we are still governed by colonial mentality. Most of us have lost the ability to see ourselves through our own eyes, we seem to only comprehend the world around us if we look at things through western eyes, judge everything according to western standards. A lot of us believe that a song sounds good if it sounds foreign, a person is beautiful if he or she looks foreign, a product is good if it’s foreign-made.

We are proud of Jollibee because it’s like McDonald’s, we look up to Lea Salonga because she performs Broadway songs exceptionally, we admire APL because he raps like an African-American, and these days we search for local talents based on American Idol standards.

At five to six we were in a makeshift backstage for one last company call, with all those thoughts in my head. And I thought: this should not be the last performance of this piece, a lot of people need reminding that once upon a time, this country had its very own heroes. And they didn’t wear capes or masks nor did they have superpowers – their power emanated from their hearts, from their sincere love for their country. And because they loved this country so much, they are immortalized and their words will forever haunt us.

Aling pag-ibig pa ang hihigit kaya sa pagkadalisay at pagkadakila? Gaya ng pag-ibig sa tinubuang lupa? Aling pag-ibig pa? Wala na nga, wala. – Andres Bonifacio.

(Tales from a hillstation, Cordillera Today, June 15, 2008 issue)

Make a u-turn or straight ahead

A sign next to the Magsaysay flyover says, “To Baguio: Make a U-turn, Go To Trancoville Junction, Make Another U-turn, Proceed To Flyover Ramp.”

There are signs everywhere. Up on the sidewalks, on doors, motor vehicles: on windshields or bumpers, on paper or tarpaulin, on billboards: in neon, in color, or in black and white.

You’ve got nationwidest coverage? Sure. You‘ve got it all for me? Ok.Katas ng Saudi? Noted. Will I be there? I’m done with school, but thanks for the invitation. Kailangan pa bang i-memorize ‘yan? You’re right, no need to, and I’d have forgotten it had you not kept on reminding me all day that there’s no need to commit the crap you heap on my helpless ears all day to memory.

Sure, the stuffy central business district; with its roads filled with smoke-belching motor vehicles; its sidewalks crammed with people spitting, pissing, throwing up, loitering, littering and not minding whose toes they step on or shoulders they bump into; its once picturesque skyline now obliterated by giant commercial billboards screaming into our faces to buy this, switch to that, eat here, get drunk there, may be signs of a developed city. But from a different angle, these may be signs of a city painted all over with greed and shamelessness – a portrait of an abused city.

Perhaps the ever growing bank account of the city is a sign of progress. But what kind of future does the city face with it and is it worth it? The signs that say “Don’t Be A Scofflaw,” put up by a corporation with a legally questionable contract with the city government that was found to be illegally occupying public property and usurping the powers of several government entities, can still be seen all over the city. There are still signs proclaiming the city to be the cleanest and greenest in the country, next to piles of uncollected garbage. There are no parking signs next to parked cars, no loading and unloading signs next to jeepneys picking up and dropping off passengers.

What’s a row of bars infront of an elementary school a sign of? What’s a row of sleazy establishments near the city hall a sign of? What’s a police car passing through a red light a sign of? What’s the sight of elderly locals with baskets of vegetables and fruits being chased by the government in our streets where legitimate shops selling illegal merchandise thrive a sign of? What’s the plan to provide elected officials with brand new cars while the same elected officials often cite the lack of money as the reason behind the failure of the city government to efficiently deliver public service a sign of?

I’ve said it before, walking down Session Road, one only has to stop and look at the signs to know where the city has been, where it is, and where it’s going.

The sign may say, “To Baguio: Make a U-turn, Go To Trancoville Junction, Make Another U-turn, Proceed To Flyover Ramp,” or we can simply say, “Straight Ahead.”

Or maybe the sign could’ve stopped at, “Make A U-turn.” Looking at where Baguio is today, that makes sense.

Make a u-turn or straight ahead.

A sign next to the Magsaysay flyover says, “To Baguio: Make a U-turn, Go To Trancoville Junction, Make Another U-turn, Proceed To Flyover Ramp.”

There are signs everywhere. Up on the sidewalks, on doors, motor vehicles: on windshields or bumpers, on paper or tarpaulin, on billboards: in neon, in color, or in black and white.

You’ve got nationwidest coverage? Sure. You‘ve got it all for me? Ok. Katas ng Saudi? Noted. Will I be there? I’m done with school, but thanks for the invitation. Kailangan pa bang i-memorize ‘yan? You’re right, no need to, and I’d have forgotten it had you not kept on reminding me all day that there’s no need to commit the crap you heap on my helpless ears all day to memory.

Sure, the stuffy central business district; with its roads filled with smoke-belching motor vehicles; its sidewalks crammed with people spitting, pissing, throwing up, loitering, littering and not minding whose toes they step on or shoulders they bump into; its once picturesque skyline now obliterated by giant commercial billboards screaming into our faces to buy this, switch to that, eat here, get drunk there, may be signs of a developed city. But from a different angle, these may be signs of a city painted all over with greed and shamelessness – a portrait of an abused city.

Perhaps the ever growing bank account of the city is a sign of progress. But what kind of future does the city face with it and is it worth it? The signs that say “Don’t Be A Scofflaw,” put up by a corporation with a legally questionable contract with the city government that was found to be illegally occupying public property and usurping the powers of several government entities, can still be seen all over the city. There are still signs proclaiming the city to be the cleanest and greenest in the country, next to piles of uncollected garbage. There are no parking signs next to parked cars, no loading and unloading signs next to jeepneys picking up and dropping off passengers.

What’s a row of bars infront of an elementary school a sign of? What’s a row of sleazy establishments near the city hall a sign of? What’s a police car passing through a red light a sign of? What’s the sight of elderly locals with baskets of vegetables and fruits being chased by the government in our streets where legitimate shops selling illegal merchandise thrive a sign of? What’s the plan to provide elected officials with brand new cars while the same elected officials often cite the lack of money as the reason behind the failure of the city government to efficiently deliver public service a sign of?

I’ve said it before, walking down Session Road, one only has to stop and look at the signs to know where the city has been, where it is, and where it’s going.

The sign may say, “To Baguio: Make a U-turn, Go To Trancoville Junction, Make Another U-turn, Proceed To Flyover Ramp,” or we can simply say, “Straight Ahead.”

Or maybe the sign could’ve stopped at, “Make A U-turn.” Looking at where Baguio is today, that makes sense.

*photo by Ric Maniquis

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.