A Nation of Entertainers

I rarely watch the local channels. I’m thankful that we have cable. If others would be snoring like a truck, watching Discovery, National Geographic, Animal Planet, History or Biography channels, I’d be wide awake, glad that there are still worthwhile shows my eyes and mind could feast on. If our local channels won’t stop airing telenovelas, showbiz talk shows, copycat reality and talent shows, and horrendous noontime shows, I’ll stick to cable. Having these kinds of shows is quite alarming if you think about the kids. They grow up wanting to be a celebrity instead of a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher or an engineer or a scientist.

Is it just me or do most Filipinos dream of becoming famous entertainers? Singer, actress, dancer, talk show host, disc jockey, rock star (and the list goes on) – whether it’s on the radio, the small screen or the big screen, it seems everybody wants his or her own 15 minutes of fame. But sometimes I can’t blame them – poverty could push one to find quick and easy ways to make money, and it seems the easiest way is through penetrating the entertainment industry. With reality and talent shows aplenty, now anyone can be a celebrity. What they don’t realize is that fame is short-lived unless you’re a prodigy like Mozart whose music, after more than 200 years, still captivates and moves people. And even if you get paid millions and millions of pesos to gyrate in skimpy clothes or to cry your eyes dry or to sing your lungs out until your voice runs out, if you don’t know how to manage your money, you’ll be back to that old, dilapidated shack in no time.

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Market Day With Mum

I used to hate going to the market, particularly the wet market. When I was little, I used to go to the wet and dry market with Mum downtown to buy meat, fish, fresh fruits and vegetables good for a week’s consumption. I can’t remember now whether she dragged me with her to the market or I went with her just because I was bored. Either way, I hated going to the market.

I didn’t like the smell of wet markets. It made me kinda dizzy, the smell of newly slaughtered cow or chicken or pig with their flesh precisely chopped into choice cuts; the smell of newly caught fish and other seafood that sometimes are still writhing on the vendor’s table, hanging on to dear life. I didn’t like how the smell stuck to your clothes, and you went home smelling like fresh meat. I didn’t like combing through wet markets because the uneven flooring, the gaps which were sometimes only bridged by flimsy wood boards, and the slippery surface made walking without slipping difficult. It didn’t help if there were a lot of people accidentally bumping into you or poking your ribs with their elbows.

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Say No to Firecrackers

New Year’s Eve is in two days. I already hear firecrackers from afar every couple of hours or so. In the news, people are flocking to Bulacan, the Mecca of firecrackers, to stack up on these. Also in the news, people are getting injured as early as now for mishandling firecrackers or falling unsuspecting victims, getting caught in the crossfire, so to speak. Firecracker factories and stores are being burnt to the ground because of negligence. Policemen are starting to pledge non-use of firearms this coming New Year’s Eve, hoping to set an example for other private gun owners. The Department of Health is starting to issue advisories regarding firecracker-related precautions and first-aid tips.

Every year, the scenario is like this in the country. Personally, I’m not a fan of firecrackers. I’m a jumpy person (too much coffee, perhaps?), and every New Year’s Eve I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack from all the explosions. When I was kid, I was scared of even lighting up a watusi, that small, short, red thing you run on the cement road to produce friction in order for it to light up and give snappy, little explosions. I became averse to it even more because of hearing in the news children getting poisoned from eating the thing, mistaking it for candy. I remember growing up, my parents and aunt used to light up the more “tame” fireworks like lusis, roman candle, fountain and trumpillo. We never dared to light up the firecrackers that aren’t for the faint of heart like the five star, crying cow, triangle, kwitis, super lolo, bawang, sinturon ni Hudas, sawa, labintador, pla-pla (and the list goes on).

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Why We Won’t Spend Christmas at Home Ever Again (and Maybe New Year Too)

In the province where I live, Christmas tradition dictates that during the 25th of December, Christmas Day, inaanaks (godsons/goddaughters) go to the houses of their ninongs and ninangs  (godfathers and godmothers) or, if the godparents are nowhere to be found, hunt for them, with one goal in mind - to empty their pockets or to expect a gift from them. Every Christmas morning, children litter the streets, plowing the streets in droves, clad in their newly received Christmas gifts (clothes and/or shoes). You instantly know they’re new because the clothes still possess their bright colors, not faded, and the shoes are spotless, not a speck of dust on them.

But aside from going to ninongs’ and ninangs’ houses, some children (probably those who failed to locate their godparents) go from house to house and greet the owners (more appropriately shout at them), “Namamasko po. Merry Christmas po,” over and over again like they were an audio recording placed on an endless loop and won’t stop until you have given them anything. And of course, these children are expecting money - new, shiny coins are good, but crisp, creaseless bills are better. Some could barely hide their disappointment if they receive anything other than money.

The past couple of years, we have spent Christmas out of town, but this year we decided to have just a simple celebration at home. Come Christmas morning, when we were just enjoying freshly brewed coffee and Noche Buena leftovers for breakfast, children started flocking to the houses in our village. We have already prepared coins wrapped in brown coin envelopes to be given away to the kids who would come to our house. It becomes annoying when one group comes after the other, depriving you of time to go back to your comfy position on the couch. It also becomes annoying when they won’t stop saying “Namamasko po. Merry Christmas po,” even though they see you walking toward them, ready to give them something. It’s just deafening. The Christmas spirit in our home started to evaporate.

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Perya

Last time I’ve been to our ancestral home in Ilocos was in 2005. For the longest time, I’ve been wanting to go back there and have an epic trip down memory lane. When we were kids, summer vacations were almost always spent there. My paternal cousins and I were very close, as our ages are almost the same, add or subtract a couple of years or so. There was always the padasal for our dead grandparents and great grandparents. There was always the trip to the beach. There was always the trip to the family farm. There was always the visit to other relatives’ houses.

One of the fond memories that my female cousins and I still laugh at up to this day is our trip to the town’s perya. During town fiestas, the perya was always present anywhere you go in the country. It’s basically a carnival, Filipino style. We usually go at night, much to our parents’ disapproval. In Ilocos, the perya was just walking distance from the ancestral home, so we egged on our parents to let us go.

Cotton candy and popcorn were always sold at peryas. I also remember those betting games where we, especially my male cousins, would participate in, loose change in hand that were squeezed out of our parents’ pockets. You could win your money back and more or all sorts or things like a cheap stuffed toy or junk food or even plates. I never had luck in gambling. I always lost when I try my luck on these games, while my male cousins would go home, pockets heavy from the coins they’ve won. (more…)

Public Transportation Music

Here in the Philippines, or at least in Metro Manila and in other cities, traffic is always bad. Unless you live in the province or the suburbs, getting to school or to the office is always a five-times-a-week ordeal for a significant number of Filipinos. And whether you’re the driver or the passenger, you’d eventually get bored and/or sleepy because of the turtle-paced procession of vehicles. And what better way to kill boredom than to have a little music on, right? If you’re stuck in traffic, you had no choice but to listen to the tricycle/jeepney/taxi/bus driver’s music or radio station unless you had your iPod or MP3 player with you (when we were younger it was a Walkman or a discman).

After several years of commuting, I have come to the conclusion that there are only three to four radio stations most drivers tune in to, and those are the more, shall we say, mass-oriented stations. Most of the disc jockeys in those stations are so perky you’d think they had one cup of coffee too many. Even at 4:00 in the morning (yes, I leave as early as that sometimes to get to the office), they sound so perky I can’t help but think they’re on drugs.

And their laughter, it gets irritating when you’re traveling at 4:00 in the morning and you want to have some more shuteye before you get to the office, and you just can’t freaking sleep with these DJs roaring with laughter every five seconds. And what do they laugh at? Well, mostly tasteless jokes, unfortunately. And almost a hundred percent of the time I don’t find them funny one bit. I don’t know. It’s just not my type of humor. I prefer witty jokes to mindless ones like the knock-knock-who’s-there type of jokes.

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Only in the Philippines

Yesterday, around an hour before my shift ends, an announcement was sent by our company through e-mail. It was more of an advisory for those who are going home that afternoon and evening. What we thought was a normal day actually turned into something that would endanger the lives of civilians a few blocks away from us – Senator Antonio Trillanes IV and company’s standoff at the Manila Peninsula Hotel. Employees were advised to take alternate routes, as the Makati and Ayala Avenues were almost and would eventually be impassable. I was set that day to go home to the province since the next day was a holiday. Obviously, Buendia Avenue was the most convenient alternate route. There was already a multitude of people waiting anxiously for jeepneys, buses and taxis. I joined them, hoping I’d get lucky. After only five minutes of watching vehicles passing us by, people packed like sardines inside, I gave up and started to walk the Buendia Avenue stretch until I reached South Super Highway. I decided I’d just wait for a bus there because I can’t possibly hitch a ride to the terminal, never mind that I’d be standing the whole time as long as I get home.

I was already expecting heavy traffic because one, it was pay day for most companies; two, vehicles were rerouted due to the standoff; three, the next day was a holiday and most people are headed for the province; and four, it was raining. Almost 30 minutes have passed when a bus finally came. I was just expecting a few people standing but it was full to the brim. I squeezed myself in, politely excusing myself. Now, I know how sardines felt. So many people were packed in that the air-conditioning wasn’t getting any colder; in fact, it was getting hotter. The windows grew foggy as we inched slowly through the procession. I could smell the sweat of the man next to me, while I was standing back to back with another man. Good thing I brought a lot of patience with me that day and didn’t mind at all if a stranger was too close to me or what, but I was still cautious and wary of potential pickpockets.

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