In the same slideshow were related photos of the flooded streets of Metro Manila and Iloilo, due to the same typhoon Frank.

Perhaps others would just casually look at those photos and forget about them in an instant. But as for me, the photos bring back a lot of memories.

You see, my entire childhood was practically spent in the municipality of Navotas, where floods are as commonplace as the balut vendors on the street. Our subdivision was built on reclaimed land by some half-brilliant developer, and with each succeeding year the place sank deeper and deeper. It didn’t take too long before the adjacent river overflowed each time there was a high tide, and pretty soon the water level got high enough to enter the houses. Kids from the squatters’ area would splash and frolic in the waters as if it was their personal swimming pool. (Photo credit: Yahoo! News Photos)

Classes start in June, which ironically coincides with the rainy/typhoon season. It was the curse of my life as a student. Everytime it rained hard, the flood waters would come. When I was in elementary I would always bring with me a towel so that I could dry my feet after wading in the waters, just to get to school. The tricycles which I normally rode to take me to school would double their fare, much to my chagrin. So I usually walked instead of paying twice for those opportunistic blood-suckers. But that was okay. It only took me about 15 to 20 minutes to walk to school.

Then it got worse when I started going to college. I had to commute all the way from Navotas to UP Diliman. Everytime it rained hard, the flood waters would come, and the jeepneys would become as scarce as honest officials in the Philippine government. The poor commuters would form kilometers of lines at the jeepney depots, waiting for the few remaining ones that still manage to ply their route. I remember spending hours standing in line in Monumento under the pouring rain while waiting for the Malabon-Monumento jeepneys.

I remember that there were jeepney drivers who would sometimes charge double for the fare, and just drop off passengers at Francis, grumbling that it would be impossible for them to get us all the way to our destination, Punong Hulo (the nearest part of Malabon which was near our place), because the flood was too high.

It is astonishing that whenever flood waters rise, all sorts of people taking advantage of poor commuters would appear. Some of them would make these makeshift “bridges” where people can walk on and not get wet…but at the end of the bridge they would be there, collecting payment like evil trolls. Drivers of all kinds - from jeepneys to pedicabs - would charge exorbitant fares or shortchange their customers by dropping them way off from the agreed destination. One man’s misery is another man’s treasury.

When we moved to Tondo a year later, I realized how much worse things could still get. One time, I experienced walking all the way from Balintawak to Monumento. When I got to Monumento the situation was really bad - all the jeepneys were full and I couldn’t get a ride anywhere. So even though I had to pay a bit more, I took the LRT (Light Rail Transit) to Blumentritt. But I ended up being stranded in the middle of Blumentritt - no jeepneys in sight, not even pedicabs who were willing to go all the way to Balut (not even if you bribed them). The reason was that the flood was too high - the water level was way over my knees high, and on top of that, it was still raining hard. Those who wanted to go home had no choice but to wade in those dark, murky waters. At first I hesitated at the thought of wading in the water, because I’d heard of people getting stuck in uncovered manholes and all that (oh yes, only in the Philippines!). But it was a choice between being stuck there for the rest of the night, soaking wet and cold, or braving the waters for about an hour or two but at least getting home as a reward. I chose the latter. But oh boy, it was a nightmare! From time to time there would be big trucks passing by, which would create these huge waves and would almost make me lose my balance - ay, caramba! It was hard enough as it is to wade in the water. And to think of all those God-forsaken, unnameable things floating in the water…. I tried my best to ignore those and concentrated on getting home…fast.

I got home past midnight, much to the relief of my Dad, who was overly worried all this time about me and my safety. I was wet, cold, and hungry. But I was home. That was all that mattered. And fortunately I didn’t get sick as a result of that experience.

From time to time, a large truck courtesy of some generous barangay captain would also appear in our neighborhood, and would offer free rides from Balut to Blumentritt. Some dude would make the announcement on a megaphone, brandishing the name of our gracious barangay captain who made it all possible (all the better to remember him come election time). My guess is that it was a kind of truck for hauling large containers to the sea port. The top was uncovered and there were railings around. I had gotten in that truck so many times, I lost count. Usually there would be a lot of desperate people like me on board, people who need to get to school or work and couldn’t get a ride because of the flood. We would stand extremely close to one another (read: dikit-dikit, lagkit-lagkit) that we did not even need to hold on to a railing for balance. We just swayed and heaved forward as one mass. Ever seen trucks hauling cattle or pigs? You could say that I now have a fairly good idea how those animals felt like!

These are events in my life which happened some 20 years ago. Looking at the pictures in that slideshow, I could see that nothing, absolutely nothing has changed when it comes to the perennial problem of flooding in Metro Manila. I imagine that those kids who used to splash and play in our neighborhood every time there was a flood might now have kids of their own and may very well be splashing and playing in the flood themselves, just like their parents did.

The ordeal is still there, as real now as it is then, and lots of people are still suffering, year in and year out. Something must be done about this, you could hear people crying time and again.

But just as the floodwaters recede, life somehow goes back to normal, and everything is forgotten. Until next flood season, that is.

Daddy and his pouty little girl. Trip to Baguio, 1976

If I were describe a specific memory with my Dad that is fondest to me, it would be the time when I got back from Baguio during the Holy Week of 1995. I was spending the Holy Week in Baguio with my Mom and cousin, but I had to make an emergency trip back because I went down with chickenpox. (I know, I know, I was a late bloomer!) Prior to the trip, Daddy and I were not on speaking terms because he had just found out about my relationship with Baggy. I kept it as a secret from the rest of my family because I was afraid that they would not be able to accept him. He was very mad at me, and he was really hurt because I had somehow “betrayed” his trust.

When Dad opened the door to our house that night when I arrived, he gave me that dagger look which sort of demanded, “What the heck are you doing here?“

In a meek voice I told him that I had to go back home because I came down with chickenpox. He just shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “So what does that got to do with me?” You see, Dad had always been the one to tend to us when we got sick. He was always the one who took pains to prepare meals and bring it to our bedside, forcing us to eat even if we didn’t have the appetite. He was the one who got up in the dead of the night to check our temperatures and see if we were alright. He couldn’t sleep if he knew that we were experiencing discomfort or pain.

Clearly, to say that he was still mad at me was an understatement. If Daddy were mad, he’d talk our ears off until he felt better. But the silence was another. It was something that I’d never seen him do.

At that time, I wondered if Daddy would keep up with the cold treatment all throughout and completely ignore me during the rest of my sickness. But know what, I was proven wrong. Even if he was emotionally hurt, he didn’t let that keep him from fulfilling his parental duties to his sick daughter. Daddy would always be Daddy, and in spite of my shortcomings, he tended to me like always, and made sure that I get enough rest while I recovered.

One night, while he was lying on the sofa, probably exhausted from the day’s chores, I mustered the courage to come to his side and try to make amends. I gently caressed his forehead with my hand and said, “Daddy, sorry.” Those were my only words. I don’t remember anymore if I cried, but I do remember that Daddy himself was teary-eyed. It was a very emotional moment for both of us.

After a while, he gave a nod and hugged me. And that was it. I didn’t have to explain anything, and neither did he demand any explanation. Everything was forgiven.

This was what I learned on that day: whatever my faults, whatever wrong I had done to him, whatever I had done that displeased him, his love was always big enough to forgive me.

Nevertheless, it would take another four long years before Daddy would give his permission for Baggy to visit me at home. It didn’t mean that just because he forgave me, the same would be extended to my boyfriend. Hey, don’t feel too bad about that, after all, we did end up together. On my wedding day, he proudly said in his message: “I did not lose a daughter; instead, I gained a son.” The happiest words I heard on that day.

Now that Baggy is also a Tatay, I could only hope that he and Aya will also have that special kind of relationship that I’d had with my Dad.

This brings to mind another incident about two months ago. In almost the same manner, someone ran amuck ala Rambo at Arakawaoki Station (Joban line). So, no, it’s not as popular as Akihabara, and it didn’t get covered much except for the local news. But just the same, it was where 8 people were tragically killed stabbed at random by a man, and at least one person died. That station is just about five kilometers from where we live, but when that incident actually happened, we were just 5 minutes away from the station. When we heard the news, it sent shivers down our spines.

Prior to the incident at the station, a few days before the same suspect apparently stabbed to death an old man who lived near his place. I forgot how old he was exactly, but I think he is also in his twenties (someone correct me if I’m wrong!). That initial murder sent waves of fear throughout the schools and daycares. On the day it happened, I remember that evening when I fetched Aya from the daycare, and I noticed that all the lights in the rooms were turned off, save for the wing where the remaining children were. We were immediately told to go home and be wary of any suspicious-looking persons.

And what about that other incident some time ago, involving a minor this time, who pushed someone to his death on the train tracks at the station? The victim was a salary man, and was just waiting at the tracks for the train to take him home. He had a family. He had wanted to buy a house of their own in the future.

In the minor’s own words, “Dare de mo yokatta…” He didn’t give a damn who he killed. He just wanted to kill someone, it didn’t matter who. He is only 17 years old. No history of drugs or alcohol. Kept mostly to himself and played a lot of video games in his room.

These are very, very disturbing incidents. In my country, from time to time there would also be news reports of people killing several people at the same time, but there always seemed to be a motive: revenge, money, love, you name it. Or if there were no clear motives, perhaps it was because the suspects were either 1) under the influence of drugs or alcohol, or 2) simply deranged.

But what about those people, like the ones involved in the stabbing sprees here in Japan, who are level-headed, thinking straight, and clearly in control of their actions? What about them? They just got tired of their lives and decided to make themselves a blip in the history of time. The unfortunate thing is that just because they thought their lives were worthless, they considered other people’s lives to be just as worth trashing.

It’s a tragic thing when you have your whole life ahead of you, and suddenly some whacko decides that he wants to punctuate your existence on earth with a swipe of a knife. And everything else that you’ve ever done, all your accomplishments, all your being, ends senselessly on a clear day on the streets of Akihabara. Outrageous.

So, folks, what exactly is happening here in Japan? You tell me.

Anyway, I’ve uploaded a couple of videos to YouTube. The first video is where she played “Kawaii Hanataba.” (Go figure what it means in Japanese…kawaii is cute, and hanataba means…uh, I dunno.) The second video is where she played three short songs which she learned in Primary 3: Aoi tori, Ohayou, Koguma no Ma-chi, and Rondon Bashi (London Bridge).

Do forgive the mistakes. After all, perfection is not achieved overnight.

This year, FAST presented Singkil, another famous folk dance in the Philippines which employs bamboos. As far as I know, the only other time Singkil was performed by FAST was in 2002. Compared to the Tinikling, Singkil is much more elaborate, and involves more performers. And yes, more bamboos.

I’m not good in dancing, and I never perform in these FAST presentations at the Tsukuba Festival. But I do get tapped for emceeing once in a while (like once every three years har har har). I’m not that good in Japanese, and for sure I read and pronounce some of the words in the wrong way…but it seems that I am the only one gutsy enough to do it. You’ll find me as one of the emcees in the video, where I gave the Japanese introduction of Singkil and the song Ako ay Pilipino.

Without further ado, here’s the performance of the FAST members in the recently held Tsukuba Festival 2008. Kudos to everyone! Yoku gambarimashita ne!

For photos, check out the FAST website at http://fast.bagarinao.com

I lost a friend. This song has been playing in my head for the past few days, and deep in my heart I wished that I knew how to save a life. If only I knew…

However, if the phone rings, 90% of the time it would be one of those persistent callers from our dear motherland who are forever hawking their products, or trying to sweet-talk us into subscribing to Filipino channels on cable TV.

Sometimes they would speak in Japanese, asking if there were any Firipin-jins at home. When I’m in a playful mood, I’d go along and speak to them as if I were Japanese, not Filipino. It amused me to no end to hear the caller struggle in Japanese, not knowing that they were actually talking to a kababayan.

*Spam = unsolicited email. In the same spirit, I now refer to telemarketers as spam callers.

Sometimes they would ask for my name. I’d give them various names, even the name of my daughter. Thus for a while I became known as “Ma’am Aya.” The poor girl would ask for “Ma’am Aya” in her subsequent calls, much to our amusement. Quite recently, though, one of them actually asked specifically for me, giving my full name. How the heck did they get my name? I have a feeling that the cargo door-to-door service I used to send a balikbayan box last year is a prime suspect for leaking customer information. I was really piqued about this. Our conversation went something like this:

“How did you get my name and phone number?” I asked the caller.

“Ma’am kasi ganito po yun, binibigyan po kami ng mga list ng pangalan at telepono, ginagamit po namin tong list na available sa amin.” (Ma’am it’s like this. We are given a list of names and telephone numbers, and we use this list that is supplied to us. - Duh? You call that an answer? I sure am enlightened.)

“But I don’t remember giving you guys my information. Aren’t you aware that you are stepping on privacy issues here?“

“Ma’am gusto ko lang po kayong tanungin kung gusto nyo pong magsubscribe sa Filipino channel, at saka po ng mga beauty products.“

“I’m not interested.“

“Ah, hindi po kayo interested? Kung ganon po puede po humingi na lang referral sa mga friends nyo? Hingin ko lang po ang telephone number nila.”

“Why should I? As I said, there are privacy issues involved here. I will not give you any information.”

“Sige po, thank you na lang po.” If only I could see her face.

Sometimes I’d pick up a fight with them. As soon as they start talking, I’d say a hurried “sorry” and promptly put the phone down. One of them called back, and as soon as I said hello, hung up the phone without saying anything. Some people really just don’t know how to use their time productively.

Walang personalan, trabaho lang po. I understand that these people have to make a living. But after dodging dozens and dozens of offers and practically wasting my time answering those spam calls for far too many times, I am really running out of patience. But of course! I mean, how many times do I have to tell callers that no, I’m not interested in subscribing to ABS-CBN, and hell no, I’m not interested in beauty products by Vicky Belo?!! These people would even call at 7 or 8 at night, right smack in the middle of dinner. After a while we don’t even bother to answer the phone anymore. If it’s a valid and urgent call from someone we know, they would almost always leave a message or call back later.

But sometimes, we pick up the phone without thinking. It happens. The phone rings, you pick it up almost instinctively. It’s like an alarm clock beeping and you just have to shut it off.

Just this afternoon, some dude called, claiming to be from ABS-CBN, and I was unfortunate enough to be at the receiving end of that call. First he asked if I’d be interested in subscribing to their video-in-demand service.

“No, I’m not really interested,” was my reply.

“Ma’am, so you’re not really interested? Bakit naman po?“

“Not interested, why do you need to know why?“

“Ok, alam ko na po yung rason. Kasi siguro yung asawa nyo ayaw.” (Aba, he probably thought I was married to a Japanese! Hmm…let’s see: I’m a Filipina, I’m in Japan, so therefore, I must be married to a Japanese. What a perfect logic!)

I laughed. Cynically.

“Ma’am, baka naman po gusto nyo ng beauty products by Vicky Belo?” (I knew it!!!)

If I were to spend money at all, I’d rather spend it having my telephone number changed. Pronto. Surely that would be worth the peace of mind? But then again, if I were to ever use those cargo services, my information will again be circulated without my consent, and the same nightmare will begin all over again.

Argh.

And so we did exactly just that.

Not exactly the best-looking tulips around, but it’s enough to decorate my blog for a change. I lurv red tulips…and any red flower for that matter. I’m a sucker for red things. Now you know what my favorite color is.

Kafunsho or not, we’ll play outdoors if we want to! Here is Baggy playing badminton with Aya. He looks rather funny wearing that mask, lol.

Wham! Aya gave it her best swing, but…oh well.

There is only one necessary ingredient for quality time, and it’s family. It’s the one priceless thing that no amount of money could buy.

The year: 1995. I was hunched over my book, reading. Then one of the guys from our lab approached me from behind and exclaimed:

“Kathy, nakakalbo ka na.” (Kathy, you’re starting to go bald.)

I carelessly shrugged off the comment the way you would dust off dandruff from your shoulders. I have had super-thin fine hair for as long as I could remember. I wasn’t exactly blessed with glorious mane like my two wicked sisters. And I have this ahm…cowlick that looks like a gash right smack on top of my head. We call it puyo in Tagalog, I think. My “puyo” is so obvious, peeking through the barest amount of hair, that it makes me sort of look err…balding. Depends on which angle you’re looking. Not as bald as your Archbishop in your favorite church, but …you get the picture. Incidentally my puyo is conveniently hidden whenever I tie my hair into a ponytail.

Scene Two:

Fast-forward to the year 2008. I just had my hair cut really short, not so much in anticipation of the hot and muggy summer season in Japan, but more because I had wanted to get rid of the lower portion of my hair which had dried out due to hair dye (that’s what you get for getting artificial colors! Arggh!). And anyway I wanted to try a new ‘do for a change. As a consequence, I couldn’t wear a ponytail anymore. My puyo is finally exposed in its full glory.

It wasn’t long before someone else said,”Kathy, nakakalbo ka na.” Then without batting an eyelash, added: “Ganon ba talaga ang mga doktor?” (Are doctors really like that?) Don’t you just love it when your true friends tell you exactly what they thought?

Yes, my dear. Those of us who burn the midnight oil also manage to burn our hair all in the noble pursuit of knowledge. As we delve into the study of science and the universe, excruciatingly picking apart thread by thread the very fabric of our reality, we unconsciously pick out strands of our hair whilst in the grip of quasi-orgasmic ecstasy induced by our intellectual discoveries.

No, I don’t use that much shampoo. No, I don’t have falling hair. It’s just the way I am. Poor, follicularly-challenged me. What else can I do about it?

Me, balding? I think not. It’s…the…cowlick…I…tell…you.

The hell with it. Give me a wig, quick! ;^_^

“What papers?” I asked him.

“Those papers which you have accumulated for the last twelve years,” he replied. He was referring to the piles of papers I’ve kept all these years, and are still awaiting Judgement Day in the boxes which we had used when we moved out of our old place.

“Oh, that.” I sighed. I’m an avid collector of memorabilia and other mundane stuffs. And that includes anything and everything. I love to go over old stashes of papers and reminisce the events associated with each one. Like that brochure we got from the hotel when we stayed in Narita, or Singapore, or wherever. Or the handouts I got from my first six months of Japanese intensive course in Tohoku U, complete with my doodles and notes. You get the picture.

But this is Japan - where space is precious, and we don’t have the luxury of spacious storage space in our house. We have to take the “minimalist” approach: retain only what is essential, trash the inessentials.

But for the life of me I couldn’t part with those itsy-bitsy pieces of my past. If it were up to me I’d collect them all, and maybe someday when I’m famous I could make money out of them. Or even if I’m dead but famous, someone would put everything in a museum and make money out of people who come to visit. Hey look, this is the piece of tissue paper where she wrote her famous equation.

Now there’s the teeny-weeny problem of space. I thought, wouldn’t it be great if I could just have a digital file of each of those papers? That way, I can get rid of the original paper, but would still be able to see it if I want to. Maybe even print out a hardcopy. Digitize everything, and get rid of the clutter. Forever. Bingo!

Anyway, this got me thinking. Thirty years ago or so, nobody has ever heard of a “digital” form for anything. There were no digital cameras, no scanners, and definitely no PCs (I’m referring to the ones we now use at home of course, not the dinosaur computers in some obscure labs). There is no PDF form of document to speak of. Everything was on hardcopy. If the original document was destroyed, it was hopelessly irretrievable.

If I were to be time-warped into the past, the people existing in those times would never believe me if I were to tell them that there is a different form for papers and documents, a form that cannot be destroyed by the usual elements (like fire, wind, whatever). They would probably think I’m crazy. No matter how hard I tried to convince them, I would most likely fail unless I show them some kind of evidence. (And of course I couldn’t because time-warping things from the future is forbidden, at least in my story. :)). It would take an enormous leap of faith for them to believe in something that they have never seen before, and which runs counter to their normal thinking and experience. Their context is simply different from the present one. The difference in context is precisely due to the 30-year gap.

I thought this would be a perfect analogy for our physical bodies and well, souls. For skeptics, it is hard to believe that something like a soul could exist. Does it have form? Where does it reside exactly? It is hard to believe that there may exist another form of ourselves that cannot be destroyed by physical death. Like papers, our bodies become brittle with age and will not last forever. Once destroyed, our bodies are irrecoverable. But like digitized copies of papers existing in our PCs, our souls can exist in another dimension. An entirely different dimension that runs counter to our normal thinking and experience. What dimension? A fifth, sixth, or seventh dimension? Who knows? Unless a soul would actually come back and tell us these things, how are we to know for sure? And just because we haven’t seen one yet, how do we know for sure that they do not exist?

I better start scanning before I end up philosophizing too much.

Postscript: I just realized, after posting this entry, that the correct title would have been: The Analogy Between Digital Form of Papers and Souls, or alternatively, The Analogy Between Papers and People. But, who cares. You got the point, didn’t ya?