whyspeak.

I Get To See You Again

2007-01-07T10:28:00.000+08:00

I can’t help myself. I’ve got to see you again: I sing this in my head like a lover belonging to another. I sing this to the Banawe Rice Terraces after four years since that photo shoot upon the rice paddies. It’s been quite a while and I returned up North quite a changed woman; yet the reason for coming remains to be the same. I don’t think it will ever change, anyways. Even the feelings will not. I have no particular understanding why I am drawn to this place. I didn’t put much effort to do so; only the effort to take the bus for that 9-hour travel, and be among the Ifugao people each time: the weavers, wood carvers, mumbaki (medicine man), elders, earth stewards, the children with rosy cheeks who speak fluent English with a twang that never miss to take me aback. It would surely surprise you.

The weather is very cool. I am lucky to have this shot for it had been cloudy for days. I was told the sky cleared just I arrived with my friend. It sounded like good news to the Ifugao rice terrace keeper and his wife. Of course, everyone was happy having to see the rice terrace appear under the glory of sun that warms us a bit. Unlike before when I only got to talk to a (retired) Mumbaki about the terraces, this time, I get this chance to learn how to plant rice and understand its organic, down-to-earth science. This planting and pounding give me privilege to have the golden beads linger on my palms: the very grain our ancestors have planted 3000 years ago.

The Constant Regret

2006-11-14T23:38:00.000+08:00

I sit by this world where in a matter of time memories will fade. The constant regret is seeing you to be too beautiful in this place. You sit beside me and I recoil to my corner. The regret is not having seen how your tears have fallen, since I thought laughter is the only possible thing between us. Your kite flew like that dragon in your dreams. It’s amazing how you could easily let go. It takes a minute and half of a turn, and I am gone for good.

I sat by that world where memories have faded. My constant regret is having known I have lost what is too beautiful in you.

How Far is Heaven

2006-11-11T15:11:00.000+08:00

It was a dusky morning as we crossed Zamboanga Bay. The sky gave news of rain while waves tossed like catharting dancers on a vibrating dance floor. It took us less than an hour to reach Sta. Cruz Island where we are to see the Badjao graveyard.

The Badjao is our Muslim sea-gypsy people. The Sulu Sea, and wide ocean being their true home, is a shared universe which gracefully flows in their soul. ”Even the boat be with sail, it will not move if there is no wind,” the Badjao say. “And if the wind becomes wild, let your sail down.” (a practical yet profound teaching I attach to Bruce Lee’s “be like water”). The Badjao knows how to work with wind thus their culture participates in the great cycles of the sea. The Badjao concept that man is “but a peer of fish, bird, beast, vine, rock, and tree” justifies for “the exchange of subjugated people for grain and green.” In their culture is the premise where “common moral codes are not applicable to cultures where no clear distinction is drawn between animal, vegetable, mineral and human.”

A BOAT RIDE (AFTER) LIFE

The Badjao graveyard is a humble open territory, canopied by trees upon a stretch of beachsand and pebble. A wooden boat-shaped marker adorns a Muslim fisherfolk’s grave which is said to accompany the deceased to the afterlife. It is common to see wooden carvings rather than tombstones, and with such, I got the feel of sublime community and a boundless stream of connection to foliage, trees, ocean breeze, earth, water and sky.

How far would one go to reach heaven? I found some of the answers for myself here. It is not death that I see among the honored deceased. Nor a punctuation of life, arrested and perhaps conceived to have become meaningless upon the loss of breath. I look at the makeshift wooden boats and a look away is not a far distant moving sea. How can one fear death this way? Some wonderful underlying truth is given upon where my feet are: body offered back to organic earthen bliss; souls rowing farther off, leaving shore towards a big blue harmony.

Heaven is one but beautiful journey, it seems. Nowhere to be seen like that boat that becomes a tiny glint of sun and shimmer on the far horizon—-yet you know you want to head there. I catch wind with my breath. A bird swoops above and a cloud whispers: sail on. And so I do---sails up, sails down.

Evidence

2006-10-17T01:54:00.000+08:00

What is winter
to a man who knows
only of summer and rain?
Snow may not have fallen
on his skin yet he
may know winter exists.

There is evidence of meeting
when there is true understanding:
when foreign is befriended
thus a stranger no more.

Respect and non desecration
Is evidence of community.

Trees bowing to wind
with days circling the sun
When rain showers the
ever thirsty roots--

There we both meet
With evidence
That we both live
For the same reason
on this earth.
:: Maria

Why Speak?

2006-10-16T23:20:00.000+08:00

Why speak indeed.

Why should I speak to you of
the sacred things I know.
Why should I talk about
these things you already know:
A child’s laughter,
the sun rising and setting,
the morning dew on the grass.

These things all contain a lesson,
held sacred to me in my heart passed down
to me from thousands of years back.
Should I risk telling you of these things.
Will you read it and forget about it just as quickly?
like tear drops in the rain.

Will my words help you to soar higher
like wind under your wings.
Or will my words go over your head,
and under your feet.

Most of my elders are gone
Travelling their journey on the wolf trail.
They left me behind to teach
what they taught me,
the things that have been held sacred
for thousands of years.
Why speak of these things.
How can I make your hands
respect the things the Great Spirit
has created for us.

How can my words make your
eyes and ears sharp to see and hear
the Great Spirits words and visions.

Why speak indeed

I must speak of these things
I too am growing older.
It won’t be long before I follow
my elders on that wolf trail.
I tell you now my brothers and sisters
treat each other and all things
on the face of mother earth
with respect.

Have great respect for mother earth
for she lent us these bodies to use,
these shells will return to her when
our spirits are ready to move on.
My brothers and sisters we should
all work together for the
greater good of mankind,
not the benefit of the one.

Look after your mind and body
to keep them strong,
not to beat your enemies but to
help those who are too weak to
make this journey called life.
Give a share of what you make
expect nothing in return
for what you do in life
comes back to you always.

But you already knew of these things....
didn’t you?

May my message find you well
my brothers and sisters.

Richard Runs Amongst Buffalos.

HeartBeat

2006-10-12T16:28:00.000+08:00

There is a beautiful reason behind creation. There are wonderful hands that weave a tapestry of movement. Behind every creation is a heartbeat that flows to that eternal river. Where water meets heart is a river that meets oasis, a place where no dry well exists. Loving abundance is a beautiful seed behind creation: a swelling tide that rises to the golden sun and purple moon, moving along night and day, blind and seeing. Three reasons perhaps why we live: to learn, learn more, and love eternally without fear of emptiness.

A heart without a heartbeat is not dead. A man without a heart is.

Ang alab ng puso ay ang mabuhay ka at magbigay ng kahulugan sa araw at dilim ng panahon. Pikit mata o’ mapagtanggap, ang gintong araw at buwan ay hahalik sa butil at alon ng iyong nilikha. Ang matuto, gumanap at magmahal na walang pag-aalinlangan, walang takot sa pagkawala: siyang bitaw ng pusong nararapat sa iyo na mapagmahal at mapanglikha.

Treasure of a Minority

2006-10-11T21:57:00.000+08:00

AMBAHAN No. 234 (last 5 lines)

from the TREASURE OF A MINORITY

If united we remain

and our bond is strong and pure,

you and I, far as we are,

it's like holding hands again,

it's like sitting side by side.

No siwalo tagduman

Urog kantag saayan

Ud kawo ud ako man

No bilang dis tuwangan

No bilang dis taytayan

~collected and translated

by Antoon Postma

The Ambahan is the traditional poetry of the Hanunoo-Mangyans in Oriental Mindoro. It is usually recorded on bamboo by means of the Surat Mangayan, the centuries-old pre-Spanish script. The syllabic script and the Ambahan poetry have complemented each other, thus preventing their becoming extinct and forgotten.

Mangyan Heritage Center
http://www.mangyan.org/

True Hue

2006-10-06T18:58:00.000+08:00

Is it beyond black and white if we keep a steady glance, lingering more than usual. The world is beyond black and white and at the core is Nothingness perhaps: a nothingness that be of anything, or everything. Do you see black in white. Do you count white among black. Or do you see a rainbow in between.

Process color. Is it real or did we just imagine everything we held on to.

:: Maria Largo

Badjao

2006-09-26T20:23:00.000+08:00

ZAMBOANGA TO ME AS A YOUNG GIRL WAS THIS SCRATCHY MYTH: the way my father would tell me about his stories of his travels there. The Badjao and their VINTA: boats with colorful festive sails, are the things that made me hold Zamboanga in my imagination as a young Manilena.

2006-09-26T20:18:00.000+08:00

That myth was blown to wind on the day I stood on a wooden, makeshift weather-beaten bridge in the middle of the Badjao community in Zamboanga. A boy wearing a red shirt, as school uniform, gracefully rested his chin on the school window. I was just standing beside him on the other side of the wall: me looking in, him looking into me. Slowly, color was fading in, fading out with old memory. Memory of my imagination, to be exact. I regard him as a brother regardless of a religion that separated us.

2006-09-26T19:58:00.000+08:00

I need not really walk very far to know how they live. Being on the outside, tells a lot already. The Badjaos are the seafarers of the south: a tribe wellknown for living their culture in boats sailed at sea. Sea is their home, their life--boats only drift them through it. It's a water culture I deeply understand, since I am Tagalog, belonging to a tribe of the river, however the river more flows in the spirit in me rather than in my outer environment.

2006-09-26T19:34:00.000+08:00

COME IN. As I stood on this footbridge, I felt I could certainly walk into that house. On my immediate right is the Badjao school hut, busy and in progress with the kids. Home seem to feel empty when the children are in school, yet I felt the comfort of real community here. You need not worry about traffic, of kids being late or lost on their way home. This narrow walkpath is uneven which made me uneasy. I took my shoes off and it felt better.

2006-09-26T18:43:00.000+08:00

IT WAS 10 IN THE MORNING as I entered into the Badjao village. I am also Filipino like them, yet I was obviously this alien visitor in their eyes, especially for the children. In an instant, I felt I entered a kingdom, a paradise, a kaleidoscope of images quickly wanting to be captured. I carried with me only an instamatic camera but it never mattered. Not at that moment. Everyone was curious yet very accomodating of their spirit. Smiles where everywhere. These children were in the middle of their morning lessons. This hut, a community school where they learn to read and write their language. I walked alongside its walls with the narrow bridge to support me under my feet. The children hurriedly ran to the window to greet me and offer me their most beautiful smiles. I disrupted their class but it was alright with them. Their teacher was happy. Saying "hello" was festivity.

2006-09-26T18:14:00.000+08:00

CATCH 22. Badjao children are known to be fantastic swimmers. They are often seen on boats rowed near piers where they prod people to toss coins for them to catch underwater. To some it is simply perceived as begging for alms, however entertained they are with this cultural practice. This was taken at the pier near Zamboanga Bay. A ship just docked at the berth, and so, the kids await to "perform" for the local travelers. The boys never missed a coin. /Maria Largo

Beautiful

2006-09-20T21:14:00.000+08:00

Why do i find you beautiful in your lonelyness, she asked.
Cause truth hurts sometimes but i choose to see it, he answered.

Then he smiled

Freedom Never Cries

2006-09-20T13:55:00.000+08:00

[9/11]

I NEVER LOVE A SOLDIER UNTIL THE WAR IS WON: someone sang.

How would the dead know what kind of world we want if we don’t live it? With liberty spoiled, the world faces the challenge to return, if not die, for a land of peace. With the blue skies turned into warzones too, skyscrapers bear witness—air and fire with metal. However the white feathered dream flies, still, forever soaring with birthright. It says: the freedom of tomorrow begins today.:: Maria Largo :: Image/TOMORROW by Jacob Zocherman

What's Your Victory

2006-09-18T17:27:00.000+08:00

/Jacob Zocherman

2006-09-18T17:26:00.000+08:00

In war, whichever side you may call the victor, there are no winners, but
all are losers. :: Neville Chamberlaine

2006-09-12T19:50:00.000+08:00

Philippine-American War

Brown Man Walkin'

2006-09-12T18:06:00.000+08:00

[Lapu Lapu]. The conquistador arrived. He didn’t discover, or rediscover this country. He simply arrived and found something sacred and beautiful. An autonomous pristine culture it was, throbbing with magic: Gold. Beautiful tanned maidens. Bronzed warriors. The Islands were filled with the elements. Apparently, we weren’t seen with tails between our legs. Or a hairy tribal cult. We had ongoing business, an exotic language not necessarily spoken: written on a leaf, made into music of brass, we danced.

Ma-I to the Chinese traders, soon it came under Philip. How it got to be that way is nothing new in this day. Now the Brown Man walks among the giants inheriting war more than legacy: not knowing where it all began, how it was before Magellan set foot on this tropical moon. It’s a long untold story. Or maybe told yet forgotten too. The Brown Man walks everywhere in this world with blood in his veins fought hard way before. He carries vengeance, unknowingly. It's the silent and forgotten, unfinished war, we have yet to remember. :: Maria Largo

America Sold Me Jukebox

2006-09-12T16:17:00.000+08:00

+microwave +bullets.

1903

2006-09-12T15:25:00.000+08:00

22nd US Infantry Manila c1903.

Teacher Arrested

2006-09-08T15:09:00.000+08:00

NEW YORK—A public school teacher was arrested today at John F. Kennedy International Airport as he attempted to board a flight while in possession of a ruler, a protractor, a set square, a slide rule and a calculator. At a morning press conference, Attorney General Alberto Gonzales said he believes the man is a member of the notorious Al-gebra movement. He did not identify the man, who has been charged by the FBI with carrying weapons of math instruction.

“Al-gebra is a problem for us,” Gonzales said. “They desire solutions by means and extremes, and sometimes go off on tangents in search of absolute values. They use secret code names like ‘x’ and ‘y’ and refer to themselves as ‘unknowns’, but we have determined they belong to a common denominator of the axis of medieval with coordinates in every country. As the Greek philanderer Isosceles used to say, ‘There are 3 sides to every triangle’.”

When asked to comment on the arrest, President Bush said, “If God had wanted us to have better weapons of math instruction, He would have given us more fingers and toes.” White House aides told reporters they could not recall a more intelligent or profound statement by the president.

Oyi

2006-08-09T12:35:00.000+08:00

I spent dinner with Oyi one time over hot steamed rice and grilled milkfish and he told me of his childhood days when he was forced to work at the bay fishing so his family could eat. He promised to bring me fresh tilapia fish for a future dinner we both look forward to have. He ate rice with bare hands and gleefully prodded me to do the same. A hand-to-mouth dinner it was. Oyi shared stories of his father hurting his mother when he gets drunk. He wants to kill his father everytime he does this, Oyi claims. He went on to tell that his mom loves his father so much that she never complained. There is nothing for me to say. Oyi was perky as he shares his life stories. I could only laugh for the undertone of sarcastic humor he promotes as he babbled on. He questions nothing about his life but only tells it as it is. He asked me about love. I just smiled. Love, he says, hurts. :: Maria Largo

So, here I am

2006-07-29T00:58:00.000+08:00

So, here I am, back to submit my share of brain clutter to your discerning readership's picking and pecking. This time 'round I wish to test something I read about continuity and attention span. With all the 15-second commercials and MTVs around that have trained us to gulp down thick milkshakes of information in one breath, we no longer have to worry about continuity. We can jump from topic to topic and the reader/audience will supply the missing steps in logic or progression. The insignificance of significance. We are bombarded by significance in much the same way we are bombarded by extra-terrestrial particles as we hurtle unknowingly through space. Headlines, news, microphones and cameras, amplifiers and instantaneous communication. All scream "Important! Urgent! Pay attention! Listen! Watch! Buy! Join! Own! Seek pleasure! Win! Succeed! Stay young! Be comfortable! Be informed! Be part of everything! Plug in! Be hip! Be hot! Be cool! Be in! Be beautiful! Be sexy!"

Puro utos, mga kaibigan. Puro utos.

Ever listen to these radio shows where you can phone in and greet your classmates and relatives, friends and crushes? Well, in a fit of compassion one might call and start greeting people listed in the PLDT directory -"I'd like to greet Avillar Milagros of Project 6, Avillaste Cembrino of BF Homes Paranaque, the employees and staff of Aw Justiniano Commercial Entereprises . . . . ."

Ever listen to these radio shows where you can phone in advice on a total stranger's romantic problems? Who else can give advice on intimate issues but some totally disinterested but concerned peer? We can bare our soul to the phone, maybe use a pseudonym like "Scorpio" or "Pogi Boy" because it's safe. We become famous and still maintain anonymity. Baring one's soul face-to-face with a friend makes us vulnerable without the ego-stroking thrill of fame. Lugi.

"My advice to Lorna is, if he insists on making you prove your love for him by giving him everything, you split with him na kasi he doesn't really love you . . . he justs wants to use you to satisfy his lustful desires . . . ."

Familiarity breeds content. Notice how, once we get used to a song, it starts to gain significance? How a lie, repeated often enough, becomes the "truth"? Greetings, fellow extra-terrestrials. I know you hesitate to make public your presence hereabouts. Your problem is that you judge us earth-bound folk by our appearance. I assure you we're not all that bad. There are subtle justifications for the way we act. I know our entertainment is for the most part composed of blood and gore—but this is just play—we'd really rather experience slaughter in a non-threatening way. Only the truly desperate and lopsided actually engage in the real thing and they usually have to be paid to get violent. In fact, much of our resource allocations go to the institutionalization of violence because, may I stress, we are a very peace-loving lot. So much so that those who instigate violence often see to it that the violence cannot be traced to them.

The way it is.

With every breath we take, millions of living things in our lungs die. This is nothing to us. We do not recognize the personalities if any of these micro-organisms. If there is any recognition at all, it is our body's recognition of these as "enemy". Kill, therefore, or be killed. This is the way it is here on earth. One entity's life is another's death. One's exhalation is another's inhalation. One's body is another's food. Traditional dog-befriending chant

Here doggie doggie, come here now,
Here doggie doggie, come here.
Here doggie doggie, come here I
will not eat you doggie dog.
I eat the pig, doggie doggie,
I eat the cow, doggie dog.
I eat the chicken, doggie doggie,
I eat the goat, doggie dog.
I eat the fish, doggie doggie,
eat and eat, doggie dog.
But you come here doggie dog, I
will not eat you doggie dog.

:: Joey Ayala/28 June 96

By the road

2006-07-15T13:55:00.000+08:00

Manila. Philippines

Deep slumber on a pavement. He lays peaceful catching nocturnal contentment in between a night that is deep and seductively conniving. Far from dead. The road is narrow yet a freeway to the insisting spirit. Ermita. Red light district of neon lopsided dreams. Arresting and beating with a rhythm of its own fantasy. A streetbum and a crossdresser. One asleep the other on his winking toes. Both dreaming off to somewhere moved by longing and survival to feed a hungry bud. A bud between wither and bloom feeding itself to walk further down and around the concrete road. Jeepneys break the silent impatience. Passengers depart. And passersby move on. Some stop to revel in the dream. Take me s/he said. I am made for free. For you who can reach inside me. He-she mute and high on drugs. Yet I heard. By this road we met with the streetbum sharing understanding of what is painfully accepted. Something unspeakable with words that limit the spirit. Nothing direct to say. For it has always been this way. :: Words+Images/Maria M Largo

The Gold Dagger in the Heart of Sabang :1

2006-04-16T18:39:00.000+08:00

SABANG.PUERTO GALERA

PHILIPPINES

How do you know that you are loved
Is it when time sees you complete
With all joy and sorrow endured
Is it when someone has heard all these
And then you are never forgotten

:: Day 1

One reaches Sabang by boat which ferries tourists from the Batangas Port and back. Boat fare is cheap costing a traveler at least 150 pesos per trip. I rode the Lady Rhealine which left at 3.30 in the afternoon. There were at least 30 passengers, mostly Austrians, Japanese, Koreans, and Filipinos. Here I met a Japanese male tourist. He was very amused by the idea of having a girl in Sabang. And so entertained by his fantasy of a young Filipina dancing for him. He flung his arms in the air with childish whim, embracing the invisible in his attempt to convey a picture of such seduction. He spoke of this as if it was the most natural thing to do in Sabang.

He asked me, “Are you Filipina?” I said, “Yes.” I asked him, “Are you married?” “Once,” he replied, to a Bicolana he met in the Philippines. He flung his arms again in the air to draw the cone of Mayon Volcano.

It took the boat an hour to reach Sabang’s shores. The sun is cooler now and almost nearing to sunset. I sat at Eddie’s Place, an open café where Lady Rhealine stations herself. I am definitely in Sabang under this umbrella table sipping my first brewed coffee in this island. Across me is this little boy with a far look in his eyes. He sat with a caucasian male tourist. Saying nothing. Doing nothing really but sit with him. I stopped myself from thinking too much. But my heart sank. My eyes kept looking at the young Filipino boy. Behind me is a group of caucasians. A Filipina with her young son sat with them in joyful chat and talks about their bodies and kinky showers.

A Filipina woman probably in her 40s offered me lodging. Room rates can be hard for the pocket if one intends to stay long. And it seems tourists come here staying for many days. Most of whom know each other and befriended many of the locals. It is a community where people do make an effort to make each other happy. So it seems. But I look harder. And I see desperate lives. Very desperate people. Filipinos. The prostituted. Filipinas sitting on foreign laps which could offer them money that gives them a little of something to live longer this way.

The sun has set now and I got myself ready to walk the alleys with my friend who came with me on this trip. He comes from Sweden. Restaurants serve good food here but may be expensive for the local middle class tourist. Food servers are mostly Filipinas dressed fittingly well for some hot summer fantasy. Sabang offers five girlie bars. Two of which flaunting foreign identities with one showing off a painted Swedish flag on its walls saying “Welcome” in Swedish. Another proudly flaunts the American flag with the Philippine and Swede emblems. Foreigners with sex workers are a main sight in this place. They exist in every nook, corner or alley along with souvenir merchants by the shore, boatmen and many young children who make Sabang their playground.4::IMAGES/Jacob Zocherman

The Gold Dagger in the Heart of Sabang :2

2006-04-15T00:34:00.000+08:00

SABANG. PUERTO GALERA

PHILIPPINES

There could only be the laughter of children
With the sun-kissed faces of angels
Giving the one true light to this dark island

:: Day 2

I can’t help to think of these children. Blessed witnesses are they of Sabang. Mothers carry their young as they entertain their customers. Simply because nobody is there to look after their own as they earn a living as sex workers. Some children have mixed blood, a coddled hybrid product of their mother’s plight in the sex trade. I stop myself from embracing them pretty angels. For I find them so beautiful.

There is not much support for the prostituted Filipinas here. In Sabang, basic needs requires money. Food, water, electricity, room and toilet use have to be paid for every single day of this life. Sabang is an industry by itself throbbing in the illusion of community and interdependence, while making itself exist merely by the most corrupt and vile manner and intention that can ever be. Nothing here is for free. And nothing much for the locals to claim their own due to little choices of surviving by the comfort of their own customs. For a while they say it was fine to have tourists come to the island. Now, they regret it. But silent apathy is what lingers here. Hardened women. Young girls. Men. Have they forgotten to cry for themselves?

Maybe they have for a time wept. But maybe, once you are too near Sabang’s salty ocean for too long, tears come to be forgotten.::IMAGES/Jacob Zocherman

The Gold Dagger in the Heart of Sabang :3

2006-04-10T07:05:00.000+08:00

SABANG.PUERTO GALERA

PHILIPPINES

Beautiful you are in every face that I meet
In this symphony of the elements sung everyday
The sun rises no matter who spoils nature here
Kind you are to bear these many faces
And give harmony where it is useless

:: Day 3

Uphill near the local wet market is a village of posh mansions well kept but not much lived at. From that vantage point, one sees the beautiful Puerto Galera sky and sea while evening embraces the glittering lights of a classy resort hotel. Hearing busy construction has become a part of my morning ritual in this island. A four-storey concrete hostel is being built just a few meters from shore. A filthy shore that is, if you inspect close enough.

An orange pipe extends to the sea just in front of Italian-inspired Café Portofino. This orange intestine so obvious of a wasteway intending for the Galera ocean to be Sabang’s giant wastebin. Sabang speaks of more than 40 commercial establishments along the beach. Restaurant-inns, cafés, disco-bars, resorts, hostels, internet shops, beauty parlors, spas, stores, diveshops and billiard halls comprise the solid labyrinth built upon its sandy grounds. Electricity is shortly cut daily at five in the afternoon like a habitual shortage of energy of this dying kidney. Electricity shutdown for Sabang’s nightlife is probably a doom idea but it is a dark reality here. Last night, as I walked the alleys, power shutdown struck this little compact helltown. It seemed like techno inferno on a standstill.

With this pause, moonshine came so natural as it kissed the walls of this maze. And the breath of the ocean waves were heard from afar. Suddenly, life is heard. Naturally. Making way for the breathing of this tropical lullaby sung by nature’s tender existence.

There was calmness. A silent reminder of what is denied. And in this while, hell on land had to give in.4::IMAGES/Jacob Zocherman

The Gold Dagger in the Heart of Sabang :4

2006-04-08T12:00:00.000+08:00

SABANG. PUERTO GALERA

PHILIPPINES

Is it from freedom you create your reality
Do you create only to be set free
The first coming does challenge the tides
In the darkness of a stormy sea or calm winds
This freedom to sail has always been there
To come again the second time around

:: Day 4

The morning sun is the message of another day. I breath in deep within me to be one with Mother Earth. I am still in Sabang and the construction workers are again part of it. There is progress in the air. Business is booming. Is this to say that more tourists are to come to Sabang? Is this foretelling of more voltage and fire to burn the melting veins of electric wires. More toxins dumped to clog the now filthy currents of sea. Does this tell us of more prostituted Filipinas ferried to this island? And the reality of more children made vulnerable by each day. It is business as usual here. But only one business that is. Sex. All sex and nothing else but more of it when possible. There is nothing else for the groins to do aside from plunging into the sea or eat, drink and sleep. You can sit still and keep watch. But nobody shells out money here to do just that. And nobody earns their keep enough to sit and have peace under the sky with the gentle breeze which come to you for free.

So I wonder.

How do you fight a greedy monster at your most desperate moment. Where all that matters is to survive by the day. Nothing much of a future to look forward to as it can be more painful to have dreams here in Sabang. In this piece of land, one can get stuck into thinking that this island offers liberation. That no judgments exist in this place. That sex is a commodity that can come in many forms as young as a five year old child that earns you your daily bread.

I walked past a small resort by the shore today. A small fountain-statue of a brown boy pissing into the pool caught my attention. At least five young boys were gleefully wading in that pool. A caucasian male was playing with them. A Filipino male is among them too. Innocence lost. Or is this place trying to capture it? Sell it as well. Make money out of it too. What would the children say? What would they really tell us if we stop one day thinking about ourselves and start thinking about them in Sabang? Can we really hear them beyond their loud laughters? Will we be able to listen beyond the white noise of our mundane timetables.

I keep wondering.

Sabang makes you ask about a lot of things. About conscience. Choices. Wisdom of elderly people which I cannot find here. Children. Mothers. Nature. Sexually transmitted diseases. Environmental destruction. Politics. Money. Dollars. Poverty. Wealth. Slavery. Good and Evil. Freedom. Salvation. God. Hope. Love.

I think about my country. I think about the world that comes so close to your fingertips. In bed. In the internet shop. At the billiard halls. In the alleys. Last night I played pool with my friend who came with me on this trip. We played pool with our bare feet touching the cool clay vigan floor. We befriended a beautiful Filipina who works here. We had to because she “owns” the pool table. Which by the way she calls the “challenge table.” We had to beat her in a game so we can earn the table for ourselves. Funny, huh. It sounded complicated to me. My friend and I just wanted to play pool with each other. Then it became complex. But then we suck with this pool game. And she is good. Kind as well to give us the table because we just can’t beat her throughout anyway.

I had fun despite the fact that a group of Austrians donning their national costume were busy kissing a lot of young girls. Well, what is new in this place. I keep seeing the same things: male Koreans treating Filipinas like slaves. White males acting like casanovas. Desperate young girls living by commercialized puppy love and romance made wild by despicable consumerism.

I am to leave Sabang today. I still wish to talk to some old folk. But there is none. Yesterday I had fun talking with the boatmen. They are simple people with simple lives. I think of that young boy again at Eddie’s on Day 1. The one with the lost and empty look in his eyes, not really knowing what to look at. I recall the cry of a young girl in her pink bikinis that cling wet to her tanned skin while her mother scolds her for not wanting to be with this foreigner. Also that young girl that sat still while her mother attends to the toes of this old foreign tourist. The young girl look disciplined, not ever moving in her still and erect posture. But that sitting seem to predict more. There was a certain wanting in the air. I never saw her face. Only her back standing straight with her long shiny tresses. She must be seven years old. She is not in school. I wonder what she thinks in that moment. I feel this child’s heart. She must be really wanting to be set free of this gold dagger tainted with blood dug so deep into the heart of Sabang.4::IMAGES/Jacob Zocherman