The Bridge to Nowhere No More

Now the tired of waiting residents can slowly croon the famed refrain of Six Bridges To Cross made known worldwide by the inimitable style of Sammy Davis, Jr.; though more accurately for Cagayan de Oro, five bridges, because that is how many ways people can cross over to the city’s poblacion from other parts of the city.

The not so new but still untraveled bridge that links Puntod to Kauswagan from across the Cagayan River can now be negotiated by car, albeit the fact that it is still not officially opened and work on the Western approach continues to chug along.

Frustrated by the heavy afternoon traffic during my drive home eastward, I threw caution to the winds yesterday and headed toward the bridge that could markedly improve your drive if you were coming from the pier area and were living across the other side of the river.

Though the bridge itself was completed way before the newest one in Carmen, problems with property owners, or more accurately I am told, with one stubborn property owner, on the Western approach has stymied the bridge’s prompt opening.

One city administration had since passed before this soft opening, or at least, what looks like an opening, could become a reality. There are no signs to signify that the bridge is indeed open, or will be opened once the unfinished approach is done. Government construction equipment is still on site.

A ready-made community will be at hand to welcome this bridge’s eventual traffic. Already, scores of old and new houses line up on both sides of the approach, encouraged by the access provided by this infrastructure. Resourceful little sari-sari stores eagerly anticipate the quick inflow of business once the bridge is fully operational. From a distance one could easily recognize the steady parade of jeepneys passing through the road in Kauswagan, one way going toward Carmen and the other way toward the beach community of Bonbon.

Personally, this new bridge ought to hold some childhood nostalgia for me since the family used to own large tracts of land on the Puntod side of the bridge. In the accompanying pictures, the imposing grain silos of LKKS, reputedly the biggest in the Far East when first constructed, stand on real estate that used to be owned by my father, and which estate used to be their family’s ancestral home prior to being inherited by my father.

The Lowly Tambis Tree

This morning as I sat on my comfy bench parked on a shaded side of the house, wearied from the early morning heat aggravated by another electric blackout, I espied the tambis tree of the neighbor and was immediately transported to my youth. By the way, this neighbor’s lot used to be owned by an elder sister who was responsible for planting this tree when she still owned it.

The tambis was starting to fruit, laden with a lot of blossoms that will eventually become the pinkish ripe juicy fruits very characteristic of the tambis in these parts. I had though to exert some extra efforts to first of all properly identify the tambis to those unfamiliar with it. Thus, learned second-hand that its scientific name is Svzygium Aqueum. And in the process also learned a bit of confusion about whether tambis and macopa, another local fruit tree, are one and the same. In our old hometown, we had both, bearing different looking fruits, coming from two different looking trees, and definitely not one and the same.

Here’s a bit of the confusion as brought out in this site, and one commentor’s statement was most telling:

Tambis & Makopa are not the same fruits! In the Visayas, Philippines, we have both. They may come from the same family but are definitely two different fruits. Makopa has a smoother skin while Tambis’shallow furrows are more pronounced. Makopa’s fruit is finer but has a faint tart taste. Tambis fruit is coarser & no tartness. Makopa has a deeper red color. Tambis is lighter like pinkish red.

This necessary distraction has made me veer away from the reasons why I was reminded of the tambis and its tree.

So, meanwhile back to the ranch ……

As an adolescent but not quite a teen yet, I was kept mostly indoors or within the confines of our small house, credit a rather solicitous mother for that. Our house stood at the corner of a common lot, owned jointly by two other sisters of my father. While one sister had also built her residence flushed to one side of our house, the other sister who lived out of town left hers vacant. This became our playground, the only playground for nine kids bursting out of a house that measured only 100 square meters.

In the middle of this vacant lot was an old tambis tree, whose age we never bothered to find out so long as it kept bearing fruits when its season was due. As maybe a giveaway for its ancient age, beside it was an old rusted and overturned steel safe that served as planter. It was a remnant of the last war, we were told.

With nine kids composed of 5 precocious boys one can bet that that mute and unmoving tree must have endured some form of abuse from the boys. And it did. I can recall that in instances where I pretended to be the famed swashbuckler Errol Flynn, I would do battle with the unmindful tree, thrusting into its gnarled trunk whatever I had in my hand that passed as sword or rapier. I can even recall using a big Moslem kris that I threw like a knife into its fleshy trunk and not being satisfied until the perfect throw landed the bolo’s tip deep enough into its trunk to quiver and stay in its place like in the movies. Who cared then about the welfare or life of that living flora. So long as it bore fruit when its season was due.

Because when its season was due, it was laden heavy with those luscious fruits, from the low-lying branches to the topmost skyward ones that must have towered two-storey high. The fruits surely were very tempting even to a pre-teen who could not rely on old siblings to do the picking.

So learning to climb that tree was the big challenge, a much more visible and urgent challenge then than learning to ride the big bike of an older sibling. Naturally, the first attempts were tentative and limited to the low-lying branches. But like most things in life, acquiring the most temptingly delicious ones involves more risks and dangers, and more scary heights. Thus a summer or two may have been devoted to the process of acquiring the expertise, but more importantly of generating enough nerve and courage, to climb to the lofty branches where those huge fruits seemed to arrogantly challenge my puny attempts.

The conquests were very exhilarating, and rewarded amply with very juicy fruits that went deliciously well dipped in table salt. Pretty soon, climbing that tree was second nature and the tree itself appeared resigned to its fate, bearing fruits that were easier to retrieve. Though at times unsuccessfully attempting by subtly hiding some of them in the thick foliage, playing a failed hide and seek.

Thus, the once mighty tambis tree of my early youth became the lowly tree of my teens, scarred not only with the ravages of time but with the many unheralded conquests made at its expense.

When my father’s sister decided to build on the vacant lot, that tree was the first to go, trailed behind by the old steel safe that must have been given away or sold for its scrap value.

From vacant lot to spanking new house, the memory of the old tambis tree faded from my memory, replaced with the many more worldly cares and recklessness of teen youth.

Until this day, when the heat of the sun joined by the fruiting season of the tambis tree . . .

November 30, 2012, today found an old picture showing part of the tambis tree of my youth, located on the right side of this picture.  This was our old house where we all grew up.

 

 

 

 

Instead of Hills and Rivers

Instead of taking pictures of hardly-changing hills and rivers of the old homeland as part of a nostalgic trip as suggested by one equally forlorn friend, I opt instead to write about things that have changed since we left in what seems as a generation ago.

During our days we never imagined that having or getting dogs would be initiated through a business, a thriving business at that. When we wanted dogs we simply waited for friends' or relatives' dogs to have litters, then we asked for one or two. And our concept of having dogs as pets then was generally as watchdogs, or as "askals" letting them loose in the neighborhood. Watchdogs forever alert but really ignored to the side, or as “askals” go, like an orphaned kid who may come home for need of scraps or whatever.

Now pet shops are clearly visible around here, in the malls and elsewhere. Where birds, cats, dogs, fish, or whatever live animal will catch the onlookers’ fancies. And trailing them are the accoutrements necessary for their care and maintenance – cages, carriers, feeds, vitamins, glass tanks, etc.

Since I wanted a dog in the house, simply as one barking dog who will alert the occupants of any intruder or what, I looked for one and found this.

Reasons for choice? One of course was the looks. This is a mix, or a mongrel, of a Shih-Tzu and Terrier. Simply Terrier I was told. The better reason? It was cheap at 4,000 pesos, especially compared to a pure breed pup that was selling at 22,000 pesos. On earlier searching expeditions, I found out that these dogs do not sell cheaper than 6-7 thousand pesos locally. Thus, 4K was a good bargain.

Thus she will now be called Princess, in response to my daughter who has a Maltese named Prince.

And The Lights All Went Out . . .

At exactly 6 AM Sunday, the world stopped for our part of the city, with no electric power for the next 12 hours. This fortuitous event coming without benefit of any prior notice or warning. As is typical I am told, it just happens.

While 6AM may not be the time to start worrying about heat, nevertheless Mr. Sol wasted no time and began exerting its excruciating dominance by the time 8AM rolled in. No problem because I did not have to stay long inside a powerless house. I was set to accompany a couple of young electricians who might be commissioned to finalize the electrical connections to a couple of storeys of a building.

But getting back to the house after that abbreviated chore, it was not long when I started to dribble off sweat from my head, face, and body, even while sitting outdoors to try to cool off. No respite from the quickly sweltering heat. So decided to head on to the mall with a most convenient pretext. I needed new batteries for my camera. The cool ambiance of the mall was such a welcomed delight. Bought the batteries and a few other grocery items all designed to blunt the effects of the heat, like soda, all 3 big plastic bottles of them.

But there are only so much of the mall environs that I can tolerably sustain. Big crowds of total strangers, high-decibel noise, and overall dizziness in the atmosphere tend to bring on ennui for me very quickly. So before long I was out of there, heading where else but home. Had to deposit the groceries.

Again, a few minutes inside the “toaster oven” and heat-precipitated wanderlust had set in. So off I went, getting some immediate relief in the truck’s cooling system.

Bought some clay planters and had them loaded on the truck bed, then I was chugging away toward the city’s main market, Cogon Market, housed in a relatively new building. So crawled to an almost stop around its perimeter and took some quick shots while driving. That’s one of the “beauties” of driving around here – you can go as slow as you want, straddle between lanes, and literally stop in the middle of the road for some errands, like taking pictures.

Having parked in a safe place with my trusty camera case slung tight around my shoulder and positioned for a quick draw, this soldier was ready to walk for some breezy place, to the city’s main cathedral which sits imposingly from a distance on a hilly bend of the river, elevated from the river by at least 10 meters. But what confronted me was not what I had expected – not throngs and throngs of people spilling out into the huge park outside the church, clusters of them milling around the tennis courts situated on the street leading straight to the entrance of the cathedral. And still a lot more gathered around all sides of the church, though many in a festive or a day in the park kind of mood most of these people were actually attending the Mass services in progress inside. But by looking at the pictures one would not get the holy impression that the people were here to attend Sunday church services. So are Filipinos by nature religiously inclined? Looking and judging by the crowds one would think so.

Big crowds of strangers, disturbing high-decibel noise, and overall dizziness in the atmosphere, all but prodded me again to move on after taking the shots. And after all the 12 hours of power disruption was almost done. I should be getting home for some air-conditioned rest and comfort. And indeed this entry is written with no more traces of the aggravation this day heaped upon me.

The Almighty sure works wonders, reminding one of the wisdom of “this too will pass”.

Still More Quick Takes On This Slow Journey

A People Pure or Compromised?

More random musings from an ex-pat long gone from the old hometown, and earnestly trying to rediscover it but necessarily using a different analytical prism, and with changed attitudes and perceptions acquired form living too long in a first-world country.

But this early on I admit that had I been earnest enough I should have been forewarned and alerted. Forewarned and alerted by the different ways that home-grown compatriots reveal themselves in the ways they write, expressed their attitudes and values, as revealed for the world in the Internet through blogs and etc.

No sooner after deplaning does one get assaulted with the unique ways things are done in the old homeland. Low-level bureaucrats of either the airline or airport expect extra compensation for simply doing what is listed in their already short list of duties, at most times with hand and palm up ready to be greased. What for? – so your transfer luggage which is anyway tagged to your final destination can be cleared for loading to a domestic connecting flight. And while being manually frisked as a security measure upon entering the domestic airport, your searcher cannot help throw around blatant suggestions for some pasalubong, or snack money, or something because he welcomes you back. And do the restroom watchers/cleaners qualify as low-level bureaucrats? One asks because they appear to also be riding the gravy train, asking something in return for handing over to you a few pieces of toilet paper for your after use.


But once in the provinces, things change dramatically. Services are rendered without any perceptible traces of a string attached. Everybody addresses you with a disarming smile and a Sir or a Ma’am, and the addresser may be a professional, a professor, or your ubiquitous domestic helper, or your low-level bureaucrats in city or provincial governments. Decent tipping or gratuity in most eating places is almost a non-practice, regardless of the services rendered. Surprisingly, the waiters expect no more or less.

And yet in most instances, poverty stares at you uglier than you can find within a certain radius of the nice places in Makati and other upscale areas. Beggars and mendicants of all sorts abound in the provinces – in public places, along heavily-trafficked main streets, near stores, even in your own residences when itinerant ones travel their routes. Traffic stops are littered with them, some without limbs crawling about risking life and limb (oops, sorry) daily for a few tingling pesos, and oh I refuse to forget, under the blistering sun made worse with the hot emanations coming from concrete roads. Idle kids will pool around you, looking for something to do for you in exchange for a few coins. Anything at all. Dispose of your garbage, push your car, clean your car, your shoes, etc.

But amidst all these, many still cling to their innate dignity and earned self-esteem, and thus, will no doubt resort to instead begging you to give him or her work to earn their keep. And they do very good work, maybe not even compensated properly, fairly, or justly. Just as along as there is gainful work to be done, regardless of how thankless, hazardous, or risky. Or how unjust the work environment may be. Whether they are carpenters, masons, plumbers, electricians, and many of them anyway, have all of these skills rolled into one person.

Extreme penury also does some strange things to people. Some would gladly go through your dirtiest garbage to scrounge or fish for whatever value can be mined from it – any steel material, copper, any recyclable, magazines, anything at all, including but not limited to rotted wood or lumber, or any used household item.

But the resultant dark and rarely-discussed underbellies of such a deprived society show themselves in more subtle though visually arresting manners – like most houses are built like fortresses or prisons to preclude unwanted intrusions. All because petty thievery and/or porch climbing is as common as people taking a breezy stroll along quiet neighborhoods scouring around precisely with such a nefarious design in mind. Outside electric and water meters are not only bolted down but caged in iron bars. It is not enough to have high concrete fences topped with iron grilles and embedded broken glass, barbed wire has to be added on top of all these. I often wonder what the population of dogs is in the old hometown, and I do mean watchdogs, and not lapdogs or pet dogs. Dogs to bark and hopefully bite when intruders come and the owners are asleep or away.

And of course, corruption in government is so endemic and known it is taken for granted, so SOP that it is actually called SOP. Thus, you pay SOP to get normal business done, or to get scores settled or clandestinely ignored.

I once dropped a cheap plastic pedometer clipped to my shorts when I was jogging with scores of other, both young and senior, physical exercise enthusiasts. Jogging breathlessly around the dusty public oval I noticed the loss almost immediately upon checking my progress, so continued around the oval hoping to spot the contraption where it fell. It was completely gone from sight within a minute. Waited and looked still more, no results, no signs of it, completely vanished. A very common expected occurrence. Finders keepers practiced to the utmost degree. So I mischievously smirked and went my way. Another time, I had somebody removed a rusted angular-steel frame that once held a business signage of an old tenant in the building we owned. Laid it at the back of the pick-up truck and drove home. The truck was parked outside the fence while I went inside for lunch. Going back to the truck after lunch, the frame was gone, the perpetrator leaving little scratches on the truck bed as telltale signs of the deed. Another common expected occurrence. Another previous time, the items purloined were flattened cartons tied together and some old newspapers. Even the tin cans temporarily used as planters among hedges were gone, the soil with the tender plants emptied to the ground. All in a day’s work and experience.

Are these agonized perception of twisted aberrations or simply stark
versions of reality brought upon by harsh conditions?

Come to think about it, the poor cannot really be faulted or condemned for corruption, because after all they wield no power, whether real or imagined. It has to be those who wield some power, however, minute who will milk that power to derive the most good for themselves. Quite a simple equation really. Using greed, subterfuge, and whatever else necessary to survive and decently prosper in an environment where only the moneyed and rich appear to progress and thrive.

Nothing more than just an honest rendition of some laudable or ugly segments of everyday reality in Philippine society. Maybe the same is true in any comparable society.