Life In A Bag

One of my favorite exercises at LFS was in Kevin Hull's directing class. It was called "Life In A Bag." Armed with a DV camera, we were sent out with the mission to get strangers to spill out the contents of their bags and in so doing, spill intimate details about themselves. After a brief orientation on how to work our video and sound equipment, my partner Mike and I immediately scoured the cobble streets of Covent Garden on the hunt for potential subjects.

Both Mike and I confessed to not being good at approaching strangers. We spent our first thirty minutes just standing around and occasionally stalking people who looked kind enough to indulge us in our unusual request. Suffice it to say we were unsuccessful in our first few attempts. We finally scored when we met a kind looking 50-year old man resting in St. Paul's Church's lovely courtyard (the Actors' Church situated right across the Covent Garden Market). The man had an impressive looking SLR and was quick to volunteer that he was a photography enthusiast. He was obviously a tourist and had a heavy backpack with him. Imagining the wealth of information he'd share with us, Mike convinced the old man to grant us an interview. I volunteered to operate the camera since it was Mike who sealed the deal.

It went well, that interview, though it wasn't as good as we would've wanted. James Nash, the photographer tourist, did answer our questions, but he was clearly reticent. Soon, we said our goodbyes. The gracious old man handed us his card as he bid us farewell, and it was only then that Mike and I found out that he was actually a reverend.

When my turn came, Mike and I have wandered into Trafalgar Square. We were certain we'd find a willing subject for me amongst the hundreds of people who frequent the spot over which the London National Gallery imposingly looms.

It was there that I approached a beautiful middle-aged woman named Yena. Her features easily gave her away as Latin American, but I didn't immediately assume that she was a tourist. Not even when she spoke English with a bit of difficulty. This was London after all, melting pot of all melting pots. I introduced myself as a film student and showed her my ID. After a few more pleas, she agreed to be interviewed. Mike quickly set up the camera as I started getting acquainted with her.


I found out that Yena was from Colombia. She is here in London pursuing her Master’s Degree. Like me. She went straight to emptying her bag, perhaps hoping to get the interview done with. She fished out a bottle of water, a hair brush, an emptied sandwich bag, and a map – for navigating London's most popular spots. She only arrived the Sunday before and wanted to see the sites before her classes started in two weeks. She disclosed that she's here on a scholarship from the school where she worked as a librarian.

I enjoyed talking to Yena, learning more and more about her as she fished more and more from her bag. A book by her favorite author. Yena said not many people in her country read which is why she valued her books and never left home without one. Prior to becoming a librarian, she taught preschool kids before and even authored a textbook. A UK sim card. For calling her 23-year old son, her only child, who was studying Biology back in their home country. I found out that she’s divorced from her husband, and that she’s excited about her future. While she’s anxious about her stay here in London, she looked forward to being appointed as the library’s Director when she finishes her MA.

I felt a genuine connection with Yena. In Yena and her son, I saw my mom and myself. Just them two in the family now, where a minimum would usually be three. I also felt Yena and I were on the same boat: Students toiling to have better prospects for their careers. Strangers on a foreign land struggling to settle in their new home.

Yena telling me that she had two more things to show me, after I wrapped our interview and gave her my thanks.
A pocket mirror... and chapstick. My embarassing response? "To keep the men interested, I suppose?"

It’s been almost four months since then when something happened that made me recollect that class exercise and my encounter with Yena. This incident made me think about how I would've fared had the tables been switched on me, wondered how accurately my life reflected from the contents of my bag.

Here in London, I alternately use two bags. The first is a rust-colored Piquadro rucksack my mom sent me from Italy. It's quite big, with four zipped compartments, more than enough room for all my trinkets. The first and largest one can fit books, notebooks and legal-sized school documents. It also has a padded slot for my 15-inch laptop. I use the second compartment for my laptop's accessories, like the power supply. The third, I use to keep my umbrella, scarf, gloves, and when shooting, an extra shirt. The fourth one is for things I need quick access to - chocolate bars, handkerchiefs, and my Moleskine London City notebook.

That bag is obviously quite heavy, so I usually bring my other bag. A green Belfast mailbag with a huge zip-up compartment and two buttoned pockets in the front. In it I'm able to keep the following things I never leave home without:

• My school notebook, which doubles as my all-around idea notebook;
• Since I'm in the middle of a school term, I also bring with me my first-term notebook so I could review my notes from the the previous term;
• School documents (scripts, readings, and equipment manuals);
• A 100+ GB portable external hard drive where I save copies of documents I've worked on my laptop (which I usually leave in my flat) so I can print them in school when needed. This hard drive also happens to be where I save my entire iTunes library;
• My 80 GB iPod, the JBL earphones I recently bought for maximum enjoyment of my music, and the attachable voice recorder I use when I need a quick way to chronicle my ideas;
• My favorite Ray-Ban sunglasses (friends know how I'm never without them - the night owl that I am);
• A Bridge umbrella;
• A book. Nowadays, it's a Guy de Maupassant book I have yet to start (since I just emerged from a novel);
• A scarf;
• A Parker pen;
• A bottle of water;
• A lip protectant;
• My house keys - the front door's and my room's;
• And of course, my wallet, containing my credit cards, debit card, postal ID, London Met ID, discount cards, ATM receipts, and usually, about £20 cash.

That's admittedly a lot of stuff for someone to bring around with him everyday. I’m actually more used to traveling light in the Philippines. The difference is I also have my car there, which is where I’d leave most of these things. As such, when I alight, I only have my wallet and iPod with me. Being a commuter here, I have no choice but to dump all of those in one bag.

Had I been approached by people who wanted to go through the contents of my bag, it would be apparent that I'm a student and that my life in London revolved around my studies. From my full iPod, they'd probably deduce my love for music, and from my book, that I liked reading. They'd know that I'm not originally from London since I kept as proof of identification a Postal ID issued in the Philippines (with details like my birthday, birth place, occupation, height, weight, and even my distinguishing mark - 'mole on left eyebrow') instead of a UK-issued driver's license. If they browsed through my notebook, it's possible for them to infer my background as a writer since I've scribbled down on it dozens of random ideas. And if they looked hard enough, they'd find where exactly in London I lived since my address is also written somewhere in that notebook.

So yeah, it's fair to say that my bag reflected my life here in London. In fact, you might even say that my bag is my life.

I realized that when I lost my bag three weeks ago.

Nep and I were on a spree for winter clothes in Oxford and Regent Street. As we were crossing Regent Street to get from Top Shop to the Gap, I felt light, like I was missing something. We had already been to Selfridges then, so I had with me a number of paper bags containing our loot. I checked the bags I was carrying and was assured that I had all of them. At the Gap, I was excited to find some really nice winter coats that fit me perfectly. When I was about to pay at the counter, I realized that I WAS missing something. I didn't have my green mailbag with me anymore. It had the regular contents of my bag, with the addition of a knitted headgear and £40 more than the cash I usually kept in my wallet. I don't usually bring that much money here in London as I always transacted with my debit card anyway, but we just finished shooting the week before and that money was left over from the petty cash I had to have handy.

I believe I manage well during crises. Even then, when I lost my bag, I was considerably fine. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt depressed. I could afford to lose everything except my notebooks. I was also worried about my house keys and the fact that my address was in my notebook. And that somewhere in the bag I had ID's containing personal information. This is London after all - where crime is rampant and identity theft is common.

I chose not to not to tell people from home, particularly my mom. I didn't want them to worry (plus I was avoiding a scolding considering they remind me to take care of my things without fail). Instead, I emailed my friends and made fervent requests to pray for me and the bag's miraculous return. I even had specific requests for them to 'not let up' and continue praying - hopeful and faithful that while it may not be returned soon, it could still be returned, however late.

The following day, I went back to the store to follow up. No bag. Three days after, I called the store to inquire again. No bag. They said I was welcome to visit or call again to check, but the fact is lost items were usually handed in by the end of the day. Beyond two days, there was little chance of its return. So I decided to simply continue praying while starting to let go. Inspired by my friend's wise advise, I started praying for the bag's return and the important things in it. I wasn't hoping to get all of it back, as long as I got the ones I truly valued, which were my notebook and my hard drive). If He wills it. In my pleas I started adding that if it wasn't meant to happen, then I pray He grants me the grace and strength to let go.

It was hard, but life had to move on. I've to carry on, find a new bag, and in it, rebuild what I lost from the other one.

***

Five days after, just when I've given my bag up for lost, I got a surprise call from the person who found my bag. She was a staff member in the shop where I left it. They've been waiting for me to come back for it and was avoiding to open it until I did. Soon as I could, I came down to the shop and thanked the girl profusely. When I checked my bag on my train ride back to the school, everything was still there. Not a single page from my notebook missing, not a pound from my wallet. I was incredulous. Our prayers were granted.

Life, and my bag, is back. Just as it had been before this ordeal.

KWENTONG PEYUPS: Growing Up To Grown Up

(You may have to click on the picture to enlarge it if you're interested in reading it though.)

GROWING UP TO GROWN UP

My first semester in UP, I remember how one of my blockmates was reprimanded in Comm 1 class for her wrong grammar, and how we were then sternly reminded that we ought to speak in proper English. E nung hayskul pa naman, ‘I spoke medyo mixed, like ganito.’ Taglish kumbaga. Shet, ibang level to!

A couple of meetings after, we had to write an essay on adolescence. To make matters worse, our professor, Neil Garcia, required us to read our essays in front of the class. When my turn came, I stood in front, shaking. It wasn’t simply nerves as I’ve spoken in public countless times before. I think I was terrified they’d judge me on my thoughts on the subject. As evinced by the same tentativeness in my Taglish, I realized that before college – before UP – I had reached puberty without really growing up.

Baduy Day in Neil Garcia's class. The same spot where I stood in front of the class,
trembling uncontrollably as I read them my essay on adolesence.

Note the distinction between UP and college. In my mind, UP is unlike other colleges. It’s the microcosm of Philippine society. It couldn’t be truer than in the Diliman campus, my alma mater. After sitting through my first ever class in the wrong classroom, I realized how naïve and unprepared I was for the real world. No wonder I trembled during that recitation. UP had yet to teach me what adolescence was about.

theCouncil reenacting our first day in UP. PH306. Maling klasrum!

To be fair, it wasn’t all UP. It was a confluence of many factors. Less than two years before my college life commenced, my father died. Being an only child whose mother worked overseas, I was sheltered, pampered, and suddenly, I had no choice but to be independent. The decision to move to a new city, a new place, all on my own took that rite of passage to another dimension. UP was my chance to live independently in the real world.

As if I missed out on high school, I rushed through all of life’s lessons during my stay in UP. I learned to treasure every hump and bump I encountered along the way: my first failing mark (P.E. lang naman). Crashing my car. Singing, dancing and acting on stage. Losing my virginity. Falling in love. Getting hazed applying for an org. Getting drunk as a skunk and passing out. Smoking a joint and passing out. Smoking. Making out in my RAV and getting flashlighted by the UPDP. Voting. Ousting a President. Impressing professors, infuriating even more.

Batchmates ko sa hazing (wala lang si Angge).

All those experiences, mundane and profound, carried with them lessons big and small. Ngayon, alam ko nang tumba na ko sa limang baso ng rhum-coke. Na ang uno sa mabait na professor ay mas mababa sa dos ng magaling na mentor. Na pwedeng lumusot sa anumang uri ng gusot. Every exploit was invaluable, and UP did it by introducing me to people of every possible vocation and tradition, in the skin of my professors and classmates, the visiting lecturers, staff members, orgmates and friends. Sina Manang fishball sa Mass Comm, Ate Xerox sa Lib, Manong Guard sa may entrance, Kuya Bantay sa AS, at Sir Pulis na nang-flashlight sa kin.

I soaked it all in, excitedly, and even grudgingly at times. I started to love my country even more. UP made me cherish my identity as a Filipino not only because my education was paid for by my fellow countrymen’s hard earned taxes (though that remains a huge part of it) but because of the pride instilled in me by simply surrounding me with greatness. Greatness in both the excellence of the alumni whose footsteps I follow (pa’nong hindi kung yung prof mo sa BC 121 ay unang Pilipina lang namang nagtrabaho sa BBC?) and the nobleness I recognized in the non-academic members of our community. It made greatness not only a possibility but also a responsibility.

In short, UP was the manger on which the real me was birthed. In being comfortable with all kinds of people, I came to better comprehend what the real world is like, and I learned to be proud and comfortable with who I was. I nurtured a deeper sense of empathy and a more profound identification of my place and role in the society. If you’d met me in high school, you probably wouldn’t think I’d end up as a movie scriptwriter whose currency, apart from imagination, is skill in interacting and empathizing with people. Who would’ve thought all that could be done in just 500 hectares of land? Sa UP lang!

The 2001 Graduates, with my Mom :)

Since then, no matter where I went, I was assured of who I am and confident of what I could be. Like when I was a Freshman representing the Philippines in a youth forum in Japan. Or when I was traveling all over Mindanao making a documentary on issues faced by journalists covering war and terrorism. Or as a Fellowship student in Singapore. Even now, as I pursue further studies here in Great Britain, I’m mindful of how I represent myself as well as the Filipino people. Such awareness drives me to be the best version of myself. I owe it to my country, my alma mater, and myself. UP ata to. Matapang, matalino. Walang takot kahit kanino.

Kaya ngayon, pag recitation, di na ko nanginginig. At dahil nasa London, syempre proper English!

So anong kwentong Peyups ko, exactly? Is it how UP was the scene of my adolescence, or how it made me value my being Filipino? Or is it how it taught me to survive in the real world?

Baka magalit pa professors ko, sabihin para kong hindi taga-UP. Let me sum up this way, then (and in straight English):

It was in UP that I grew up to be a Filipino who is grounded in the realities of the world.

Lusot ba?

***

I composed this the weekend before the start of our second term at LFS. I originally called it, "A U.P.-Grown Grown Up on Growing Up" - a sort of word play which I didn't really expect to be adapted as its title upon publication. I had some time in my hands and wanted to contribute to my Alma Mater's celebration of its centennial.

I honestly thought this wouldn't get published because I didn't feel like it was what Campaigns & Grey wanted for the series. You'd notice I wasn't very specific about the experiences I recounted in the article. It's more like an abbreviation how my UP life was kasi. I've read a lot of the articles published, including my friends'. They, however, wrote of specific life episodes while they were still studying in the campus. I realized my article wasn't like that after I made my friend Jean read it, which was after I had emailed the article. I thought of writing a new one but never got around to doing it. Classes started and I got busy. I figured, I can always post it in my blog anyway. That's why I was surprised when I was woken up by Norman's text (at 7AM on Saturday!), saying "Yours is today's Kwentong Peyups! Congrats Ü"

Thanks to my cousin Majah who took a picture of the article to send to me. There it was...

100 Kwentong Peyups
Growing Up To Grown Up

Raz Sobida de la Torre
BA Broadcast Communication
97-18393 U.P. Diliman

I'm glad they printed this anyway. Among the reasons for my apprehension in leaving the country to study in London this year is the thought of missing out on all the festivities. Seryoso, sobra kong bad trip na wala ako sa Pinas para sa Centennial Lecture Series (though I was lucky enough to attend Sheila Coronel's during my summer vacation there), Homecomings, and the UP Pep Squad's defense of its title, among other things. This certainly helps make up for my absence :)

Wave of The Future

Like always, I did my morning rituals while watching the show Breakfast. One eye on the telly and the other on the mirror. I miss Umagang Kay Ganda and Alas-Singko Y Media but I don't have TFC, so I have to settle with BBC One. I caught this feature on the world's first ever wave farm. The Pelamis wave machine, a gigantic, segmented phallic structure that floats off the coast of a town called Agucadora in Portugal, was launched just recently. Its aim is to harness power from the Atlantic's powerful waves. I thought that with the rising oil prices and the Philippines' huge dependency on crude oil, and considering our long coastline (longer than the States!), this is a viable alternative power source our national government could pursue (if it hasn't).

I remembered this instance a few years back when the Philippine Daily Inquirer featured two photos on top of each other on its front page. I was immediately drawn to the first one on the top half of the newspaper because it was unmistakably familiar. When I read the caption, it confirmed that it was a picture of the Caliraya Lake in Cavinti, Laguna, my dad's birthplace. On the photo, you could see a man walking in the shallow part of the lake, which was smack in the middle of the lake bed because the water levels were extraordinarily low that time of the year.

When I scanned further, I noticed that the second photo below featured the power plant in Tiwi, Albay. I found it amusing because Tiwi is where my barkada/thesis partner Joni Mosatalla hails from naman. Kaya nga pala mura ang kuryente sa kanila. Rates were subsidized because the plant was within Tiwi's territory.

That PDI issue featured both our home towns on the front page because both were sites of alternative power sources. The hot springs of Tiwi generate geothermal power, while the man-made Caliraya lake provides hydroelectric power.

In all my years of friendship with Joni, preluded by all 4-years of college in UP (including an intense adventure making our thesis on our senior year), it was the first time that this curious coincidence of our towns being cradles of alternative power generation was brought to my attention. You'd think it would've come up at least once. Joni and I always joke about how there seems to be nothing left to talk about when we're with each other, and yet there we found this one, perhaps insignificant, detail that we've managed to overlook.

It's nice to be proven wrong. Comforting to be surprised by incidents like that, when you realize that with great, genuine friends, you'll never run of out of things to talk about. True, some of them are most likely to be not new, but I never find myself bored. In fact, I often find myself listening to stories that Joni's told me previously (and not just once, on most occasions!) I'd listen intently and wait for her to finish before letting an impish grin escape and breaking to her that I already know all about it. It has actually become a running joke that whenever she starts telling me something, Joni would always introduce a story with, "Sabihin mo kung nakwento ko na to sa yo ha?"

Once, during an an impromptu getaway to Puerto Galera with Mark and Forsyth, after realizing there's no new story to share, Joni and I even took to asking each other unlikely, thought-up questions. Tipong, "If you could only among the people you had flings and almost-romances, excluding actual exes, who would you want to ultimately end up with?" Cheesy, I know, but until now, that evening by the beach remains to be one of our funnest, most memorable conversations. And it was about a barrage of nonsense that we found sense in.

Come to think of it, even presence alone suffices. I'm glad there's a select circle of people like Joni with whom I'm able to bear silences. It's a luxury I take for granted but am eternally thankful for. These friends generously sate my desire for conversations as much as my need for comfortable, pressure-free tranquility. Either way, in the pleasure of their company. This I think is why I'm friends with my friends, why I see myself being friends with them long into the future.

***

I think the Portuguese may be on to something with their pioneering venture. Alternative is the way to go. The Bangui Wind Farm that supplies power to the Luzon grid is enough proof of this. There's potential in ethanol, but as Time Magazine's feature has revealed, the environmental cost of cultivating corn and sugar cane farms for this could just be as damaging as burning oil.

Perhaps wave power is really the wave of the future.

Anong Bastos Sa Pagsuot Ng Flag? (A Response)

This is a actually a response to Rey's post in his blog, "Anong Bastos sa Pagsuot ng Flag?" I started to compose a reply, but like Norms, felt embarrassed that its length made it look more like a post on its own. So I decided to publish my reply here.

(Of course, among friends like Rey and the people who responded in his blog, we know better than to think that this constitutes picking a fight - as other people are inclined to intuit. I guess it is simply a natural consequence of keeping an opinionated company like the one I have).

Going back to the object that inspired Rey's post, lemme just say: I love that jacket. The one Adidas released a few months back, brainchild of a Filipino designer working in the Adidas HQ (in Germany I think). Nandito pa lang ako sa UK, nabalitaan ko na tungkol dyan sa Internet. Nagpabili nga ako para ipadala sa kin dito, pero ubos na sya nang magpatanong ako.

Having said that, I must say, I agree with the law (the Philippine Flag Code). I know that tailoring the flag into a shirt or a jacket does not necessarily constitute disrespect. The tricky part, however, is knowing the clear, definite line that tells us when we've gone too far. Kumbaga, when do you start to say that it is? Disrespectful already, that is?

I'd also be wary in arguing under the banner of "freedom of expression." I think we all agree that the flag deserves no less than utmost respect. I find it a bit incongruous if we are to defend our manner of 'expression' as a form of respect, as in the case of that jacket. Being asked to preserve the proper form and depiction of the flag is not the same as preventing someone from expressing his respect for it. One might even say that adhering to the prescribed formalities constitutes part of that deference.

Whereas on the flip side, abrogating that law could eventually allow for underwear and swim suits to be adorned with three stars and the sun, and that might be in bad taste. Some of our Kabayan might even take offense in it. (Liberal naman ang panlasa ko sa ganyang bagay, pero kahit ako, medyo mababastusan kung magkaron ng Pinoy counterpart yung Union Jack swimming trunks).

Moreso with the National Anthem. I think enough argument against the amount of liberty we previously gave to the singing of "Lupang Hinirang" can be found in the tragedy that Jennifer Bautista was.

I can perfectly see why Rey thinks the way he does (after all, I'm still bummed that I didn't get to buy that jacket. At kung meron ako non at hinuli ako ng pulis... I'd argue the same thing - that I am not wearing it as a sign of disrespect. Quite the contrary). But should none of my points fly, I guess I'd be content making my case by saying that I'm simply a stickler for traditions. I believe there are things that must not be compromised in favor the human spirit's predilections.

Balikbayan (Unang Yugto)

My bursting-at-the seams summer holiday-slash-Pinas homecoming (depending on which side of the globe you'd like to see it), last 22 August to 04 September 2008. Celebrating momentous occasions and touching base with the important people in my life :) Best to let the photographs speak for themselves.

Rest, Manong!

I first met Manong Gilbert Perez while working on the script of the Piolo-Regine movie. Carmi, Van and I were co-writing with Emman to flesh out a story he conceptualized. I liked working with Manong, and truth be told, I was kind of awestruck whenever we met with him. His reputation precedes him. Besides, it felt to me like a huge privilege to work with an established director like him while I was just breaking into the movie industry.

Manong was quite easy to work with, though the whole process wasn't exactly devoid of bumps. In the end, that script was passed over for another story. Eventually, our team was dropped from that project altogether. About a year or so later, the Piolo-Regine project became "Paano Kita Iibigin."

The next time I met Manong was when I was brought in to help out in "Supah Papalicious." While our previous encounter sailed smoothly enough, writing for this movie was more turbulent. Coming in late in the project, smack in the middle of production, my participation was naturally wrought with problems, creative and otherwise. It culminated in a rather painful misunderstanding. The worst part of it was that though it involved me and Manong, it didn't really happen between us. Suffice it to say that he felt bad about things I did, and I felt bad about how he reacted, but we never discussed it between us. It was a huge issue for me, but the other people involved in the Vhong-Makisig movie thought that it wasn't as big as I'm imagining it to be. Maybe that truly was the case. Manong, after all, is known to be as temperamental as he was talented. Perhaps its the Catholic virtue of guilt nagging at me, but I still hoped to eventually get the chance to talk to him.

Today, I learned that Manong has passed away a few nights ago.

I feel bad that I was never given the chance to clear things with him. To tell him that despite the unfortunate circumstances, I still deem it a privilege to work have worked with him.


In his passing, he joins Galo Ador, Jr., another genius of a writer with whom I wrote Agent X44. Another loss in ABS's roster of talents.

















Rest in peace, Manong!

Springtime In London

A very close friend of mine recently emailed to our barkada egroup to say that she's safely arrived in Perth and is well on her way to starting her post-grad studies. Like me, she was a bit rushed into her move to Australia. Unlike me, however, she's had this trip planned months ahead. As I've said before, my plan to go to London to study did not take proper shape until three weeks before the start of the summer term at the LFS. Jean was rushed because she just underwent an operation and had only three weeks to rest and recuperate before she finally flew to the land down under.

I was encouraged by Jean's email to finally write about my great London adventure. I've been itching to compose a journal of my experiences here but never really got around to doing it. Firstly because I've been really busy with school. The LFS's twelve-week terms (semesters if sa Peyups) is considerably more brisk than the pace I'm accustomed. Secondly, I'm still sort of adjusting to my new lifestyle. Last and most notably, I don't really know how to go about recounting my story thus far.

Jean and I, we're obviously on the same boat, so I know how tough and exciting and sad it can be. Based on her stories, I realize London's not far different from Perth. Jean complains about the cold weather there right now. When I arrived in London, it was spring about to turn to summer. I too was jolted by the temperature. When I was de-planing, I had my thick parka hanging on to my camera case (which, together with my usual red travel luggage, consisted my hand carry stuff) and the Chinese flight attendant told me to put it on because it was 10 degrees outside (Celsius, evidently). It was that cold the evening I arrived, but the next few days, I was lucky to experience a good run of bright, warm, sunny days.

I was excited to be in London for the first time. Every minute I spent there thrilled me more. At the arrival hall waiting for me was Nep, my guardian angel here in the UK. It was such a great, comforting feeling to see a familiar face after a 16-hour flight. It was even more special since it's been more than two years since we last saw each other. Though we were great friends in college, we didn't manage to keep in touch as much as we wanted to, and before I knew it, she's relocated to the UK to study.

Nep and I took the tube from Heathrow to the station near what was to be my home in London. That station was Paddington, which sounds familiar as it is where one can find the famous Platform 9 and 3-quarters. I made a quick stop at a Sainsbury, which like Tesco, M&S, and Waitrose, is a chain of supermarkets/convenience stores you find everywhere here, as ubiquitous as the 7-11's, Ministops, SM Hypermarts, and Rustan Fresh Supermarkets back home. I make an effort to note this because these stores were to be credited for my continued survival in the coming weeks, thanks to their microwaveable, on-the-go meals. We then hopped on one of those famous black London cabs and was soon settling into my new flat (pictures in my previous entry "Of Flats, Filipinos & Friends"). Nep was kind enough to give me a house-warming-cum-welcome gift - a new set of beddings. She helped me put on my new sheets and left soon after cause had work the next day.

And then I was alone.

After all that exciting flurry, the reality of what my life in London was going to be took form. Cold, cramped, lonely.

I woke up at 7AM the following day cause I wanted to have enough time searching through the streets of Central London for my school. It was already May 1 by then, which meant that I was already a few days late for my school's summer term. Classes started on April 28, the Monday before. See, all my previous attempts to get help from the school's admin for assistance prior to my departure yielded nothing. As such, I had no idea how to get to my school exactly. I don't think they even knew I was coming that day, or if I was coming at all. I could only rely on an address and my Moleskine city journal's London map.

Luckily, LFS was just one bus ride away. I got there at 9PM, a full hour before our classes were to start. I was buzzed in by the front house manager and was soon talking to our School Secretary. She handed me the school's handbook, told me about an out-of-school class later that afternoon, and then she introduced me to the other members of my term. That consisted my official welcome.

There were 14 people in our term. I was the fifteenth (and one week later, another student joined us). They were mostly Westerners, so it was quite intimidating to be coming in this late. Had this happened at the beginning of the term, when we were all newcomers and were thus on the same footing, I wouldn't have felt that awkward. Coming in late meant that they already knew each other and worse, they've already started forming their little cliques. God knows what a challenge it is to anyone, penetrating those damn cliques. Suddenly, it felt like kindergarten all over again.

So that went on for a few weeks. I truly hated it, being the only southeast Asian in the group. Not knowing, seeing any Filipino in school. Having to endure not being called during attendance because I was too embarrassed to call attention to myself. I didn't eat and sleep enough, and I didn't have friends and family to talk to at least. Worst, I was well too aware of the things I had to give up just so I can be miserable and cold halfway around the world.

It all got sorted out in the end of course. I now revel in being the only southeast Asian in the group. I think I even enjoy being the only Filipino most people in LFS know. And yes, I'm now listed in every professor's attendance list. I eat normally now and no longer crave for 12 hours of sleep. I'm friends with all my batchmates and the old, reliable ones I have back home are just a phone call away. The truth is, it's not really as bad as I make it sound. For one, I could've arrived here in winter and that would've frozen not only my confidence but my balls as well. But it truly was a struggle to get to the contented, fulfilled state I'm in right now. Maybe it's tied to the seasons? It is summer now, after all. Perhaps things had to take its natural course. I guess it was unreasonable for me to expect things to just fall into place. Like the chilly spring that needed a little getting used to, I warmed up to the people, the city, and my new life. And like the weather, it eventually warmed up to me.

Independence Day

Since the time it started to matter, most people have always thought I was independent. Perhaps it was an inevitable conclusion my friends arrived at considering my personal circumstances.

I was born in Lipa, but in my toddler years, we lived in Cubao, Quezon City. (Perhaps that's the reason why I was drawn to QC later in life). When I was around 4, we moved to San Pedro, Laguna, a suburb at the perimeter of Metro Manila. My mom left to work in Italy when I was only a year old, while my dad ventured into a small enterprise selling ready to wear clothes (RTW). He even named the business after me, which is the reason why as a child, my dad's friends had taken to calling me "Raz Marketing." ("Aba, ang laki na ni Raz Marketing a!" "Ano, Raz Marketing, ilan taon ka na?"...). The business flourished and dad was encouraged to open another one - a small vulcanizing shop that later expanded to selling tires as well. That's where our tire business got its name - Port Area Tire Center.

Both my parents found successes in their ventures, but it also meant their only child was growing up mainly in the company of helpers and immediate relatives. I usually got to see my dad early in the morning before going to school and on weekends. My mom, on the other hand, flew back from Italy on a yearly basis - either in May, for her birthday on May 2, or in December, for a sweep of my birthday, Christmas, New Year, their wedding anniversary on January 10, and my dad's birthday on January 12.

My dad eventually moved his business to Muntinlupa which was much closer to our house in San Pedro. When I was 8, he ran for an elective post in his hometown in Cavinti, Laguna. (I remember joining the campaign sortie, tricked by my dad's friends into shouting, "Vote Allan de la Torre! Walang asawa, walang anak!"). He was elected municipal councilor. That meant he didn't only have the business to run in Muntinlupa, he had to go back to Cavinti every Friday for the sessions with the Municipal Council.

That setup lasted till my early teen-age years as my dad eventually ran for Mayor and won. In high school, I went home to my aunt and a helper.

In junior year, my father died. My mom started going home more often than she did before - around twice a year. Not long after that, I left home for college. I rented a condo in Katipunan. Our home in Muntinlupa was left to the care of the helpers, until eventually, they were let go for practical purposes.

The solitary nature of my living condition led most people to think I was a fine example of how it was to be independent. It was flattering to some extent. It accorded me confidence that seemed to go hand in hand with independence.

The truth is I've always doubted whether I was really being independent or if I was just faking it. After all, I was never really without any kind of support. Even when I was living in QC by myself, I didn't have to do my own laundry, even if laundromats already proliferated then. I never had to go pay my own bills. I had regular visits from people from home. I never suffered the burden of financing my own lifestyle. Even though I did my own share of cleaning the condo, driving my self to school, going out and occasionally cooking (microwaving) my own meals, I was, in fact, still dependent on my mom and my home support group.

Even when I started working, that setup remained the same. Even when I moved into my very own house, that was still the case.

It really wasn't until I moved here to London that I felt really independent. I do everything here myself, and there's no one to run to when I need help. Even if I needed it, here in London, I can't really depend on anyone. I do have a few friends here, but they too struggle to keep the gears of their daily lives well oiled, and I'm too aware of that to add my concerns onto their plates.

Here, I feel what it's like to spend my own money and not have it replenished by benefactors. I feel what it's like to be sick and not have anyone to call so they can bring me medicine. I feel what it's like to come home without any food to eat, and have no choice but to sleep hungry or go out again to buy something from the nearest grocery. Here, I get to know what it's like to live by myself, and just live with it.

I can't help but give myself credit for how well I'm able to handle it all. I guess I really had no reason to doubt myself before. If there one thing my personal circumstances taught me, it was how to be emotionally tough to survive this chapter in my life. Nep, my friend who moved here two years before me, said that she cried herself out in her first month. I'm proud to say that despite feeling the urge numerous times, I haven't shed a tear. I've managed to stave off any bubbling miasma of depression or despair.

I realize there are two ways one can be independent. I'm finally learning how it is to be independent in the practical sense. Now I can proudly and confidently own up to the virtue, considering I've been independent in the other sense all my life.

***

Maligayang araw ng kalayaan, Pilipinas!

The Butanding Experience

This trip to Bicol was one of my last out of town trips before I left for London. We were originally aiming to get all the Manila-based Council members to go, but Concep was also going to Legaspi the following weekend and Jean found out that she was already dilated despite only being 7 months along (she’s given birth to a baby boy last June 5 – Council’s first baby!). In the end, it was just me, Alexa and Joni who went.

We decided to fly in to Legaspi instead of taking a 12-hour bus ride. We arrived early Saturday and was met by Joni's sister Joan and brother-in-law Neil at Bicol's pride, Bigg's. After breakfast, we took a quick side-trip to Cagsawa. That was really for Alexa who was the only one who hasn't been there. Unfortunately, we only got to see the majestic Mayon for a few minutes as clouds quickly covered it up. (Malas kasi si Alexa - everytime nililingon nya yung Mayon, natatakpan). What's most striking though is how much the surrounding areas have changed. Upon getting there, we were greeted by kids who hawked pictures of both the Cagsawa ruins from decades before, when more of the buried church's tower was intact, as well as pictures of the devastation caused by the typhoon Milenyo. It’s tragic how badly affected the area was, but it’s amazing, almost miraculous, how the flash floods from Mayon seemed to avoid the Cagsawa ruin itself.

We went to Tiwi right after our quick detour and had lunch at Joni’s house. After a quick nap, we cooled down with the famous DJ’s halo-halo. Our agenda for the afternoon was Corangon Island off the coast of Tiwi. It was a small sand bar (smaller than the white beach sand bar of Camiguin, in fact) at the point where the tides seem to converge from different directions, which I suspected was the reason why that sand bar existed in the middle of the sea even though it was considerably far from the mainland shore.

The local government of Tiwi is very protective of the sand bar that they actually prohibit visits to Corangon. We were lucky to be with Joni’s mom and sister who were well-connected in Tiwi. After asking permission from the baranggay council, we spent the rest of the afternoon on Corangon. It didn’t have any structure at all so we had to bring our own umbrella and picnic mats, plus our afternoon merienda (snacks) of course. We had a great time despite the searing heat of the summer sun. The beach was lovely, and from the island, we had a beautiful view of the Mayon (well, beautiful if not for Alexa’s malas, which kept the volcano hidden behind clouds all day).

Later that afternoon, we attended Mass in Tiwi (which meant that I heard it in Bicolano). After which, I drove the Mosatallas’ family car to Tabaco to have dinner in a local videoke bar/restaurant with Lex and Joni. We retired at around 10PM only to wake up three hours later for our Donsol trip. We had to leave really early since the butandings were in the province of Sorsogon, while Tiwi was actually in Albay.

Chauffeured by Joni’s cousin Kuya Jake, we made it to the Butanding Visitors’ Center in Baranggay Dancalan at 7AM. Joni’s Bicolana alindog failed to get the registration fee waived, but we didn’t mind. Though there were only three of us to split the cost, we gladly forked out around P4000 for the registration and the boat and equipment rental. We were that confident every cent would be worth it. After all, our primary agenda was to see the butandings.

The outrigger boat took us to the middle of the ocean as our BIOman (Butanding Interaction Officer) ran us through a quick orientation. His most important reminder: Don’t panic! After drilling that in our heads, we put on our floater vests and were no sooner on the lookout for the whale sharks.

Within ten minutes of being at sea, our Bioman rallied us to the edge of the boat for what was to be our first encounter. At his signal, the four of us jumped off the boat at the same time, submerged our masked faces underwater and frantically scanned the dark depths for the gentle giants.

And there it was… our first butanding.

He was swimming in our direction a couple of feet below us. It was a magnificent sight, and it was an incredible feeling to be in its presence. Interestingly, like John Rae said of his experience, I wasn’t scared, which was what I expected to be. Instead, I felt I overwhelmed and in awe of… it. Or perhaps, overwhelmed and in awe of the moment - that we were swimming along side this extraordinary creature. The butanding was massive, yet unbelievably gentle. It was about 8 to 9 meters, our Bioman later told us. It was huge enough to gobble us up, but we excitedly swam with it, matching its pace and swimming right on top of it for a few minutes.

The butandings may frequent Donsol, but tourists are not always assured of an encounter. Our Bioman told us how some tourists spend all day at sea and go home without seeing a single one. So even though the interaction officers aim for exclusive encounters for every boat, they sometimes resort to sharing a butanding to ensure that all the tourists go home satisfied.

That’s what made that encounter truly special. Not only was it our first, it was also the only time in the trip when we had a butanding all to ourselves. Our next encounters were all shared with the other foreign and local tourists.

I remember in 2003, when I first visited Donsol, there used to be this life-sized replica of a whale shark at the Butanding Visitors’ Center. I didn’t quite trust its accuracy, thinking it was probably an impressionistic version thought up by the locals. The spray-painted patterns on the butanding model made it look, well, artificial. Our Bioman eventually told us that aside from the size, these patterns were how they distinguished one butanding from the other. In reality, the patterns on the butanding pretty much looked as it did on the model, though the real-life butanding looked so much better of course. With its imposing size and contrastingly mild demeanor, it just felt surreal to be in the water with them. I think my exact sound bite was, “unreal.” Something about the silence while swimming with a butanding underwater made it seem like a solemn affair.

On our third encounter, I decided to take off my life vest so I could swim freely. That was perhaps my best encounter, as I was able to swim with the butanding for what felt like forever (which in reality was probably only around 10 minutes). Our Bioman, Alexa, Joni, and I started out swimming with the other tourists, and by the end of it, I was by myself. I would’ve gone on tirelessly had the butanding not decided to swim deeper and out of sight. It was calming swimming with the butanding. It didn’t even occur to me how far from the boat I was, and how deep the water was.

Since the whale sharks swam so close to us, we had to resist the urge to just reach out and touch them. We truly were tempted, but we never attempted. At the end part of our 7th encounter, our Bioman gave us a treat. He took Alexa and Joni’s hand and made them touch our 7th butanding. Syempre, I followed suit :) (For those going there, I wouldn't advise you do the same though...)

Our 8th encounter was the biggest butanding we met, I think. More than 12 meters, our Bioman said. In total, we had 10 encounters in three and a half hours, which was pretty good. Exceptional even, our Bioman said. Despite having 10 encounters, however, we actually met just nine butandings. Our last two encounters were with the same butanding called “Lambing.” He seemed to be the most comfortable in swimming with humans. He swam undauntedly and really close to the surface. So close that we had to struggle to avoid kicking him. I was afraid that if I kicked one of them, they’d hate us humans and migrate to Australia, denying us Pinoys of the privilege of swimming with them. (Our Bioman said that there are also sightings in Australia, but tourists there can’t swim with them. They only get to see the whale sharks from helicopters).

I think the only time I ever felt scared was on our last encounter, when we jumped right in front of Lambing. That would’ve been okay since that already happened a few times before. What made that 10th encounter different was Lambing was feeding on planktons at the time, and so he had his huge mouth wide open, and swimming toward us. I had to let go of Lex as I scrambled to steer clear of its path. Luckily, he didn’t suck us in. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if we didn’t get out of the way. Certainly his mouth was big enough to swallow my feeble body. I actually wondered if he would’ve choked on me if that happened.

We enjoyed the butandings so much that we decided to stay in Donsol instead of heading back to Legaspi. We found a reasonably priced homestay lodging along the main road. There we met some European backpackers and lunched and dined on home cooked meals. Later in the afternoon, we went for a walk around town. Donsol was busy preparing for the Butanding Festival the following week. There was in fact a basketball tournament and carnival (read: perya) rides and games at the town plaza. We sampled those in the evening, after we went firefly watching in the river.

That whole Bicol trip was special. Swimming with the butandings, in particular, was just magical. Profound. Priceless. Miss Maya and Sid Lucero said something similar when swam with the whale sharks during the filming of Donsol (directed by my friend Adolf). You can’t help but be humbled by how a creature this great could be so gentle. I’m glad I insisted on going to Donsol before leaving the Philippines. I kept telling Alexa and Joni that we had to go there soon, afraid that Mount Isarog & Mayon’s eruptions would affect the biodiversity in that area and drive away these welcome visitors. I would’ve tragically regretted it if that happened without me ever experiencing how it was like to swim with the butanding.

Of Flats, Filipinos & Friends

It's been a month since I moved to London, and thankfully, things are just fine. As with any uprooting, foremost on my agenda was to find a dwelling place. I was fortunate to have a place I could call my own waiting for me when I arrived in London. Thanks to Nep, my close friend and orgmate from college, I didn’t have to bunk in with friends or friends of friends and spend my first few days going around town looking for a place to rent. Two days before my scheduled arrival, Nep secured for me this small flat that came with a bed, a telly (TV if I were writing this back in Manila), a closet, a desk, a bedside table, and a personal sink. Despite the cramped size, I loved my new flat, and for a fair number of reasons.

For starters, the rent is cheap. See, the whole city of London is divided into six different zones. The higher the zone is in ordinal number, the more expensive the real estate and rental prices. Imagine the whole Metro Manila being one city, and Makati being Zone 1. Mandaluyong & QC would then be Zone 2. Manila & San Juan Zone 3, Taguig & Pasay Zone 4, etc… They even distinguish travel from one Zone to the other, such that travel within Zone 1 is more expensive than travel within and between the other Zones. My house, which is number 86 in Bravington Road, is in Zone 2. It's right smack at the point where Shirland Road meets Bravington Road to form a 'T'. Even if that puts me in a considerably posh location, I only pay £85 for rent. (By the way, that’s £85 a week!). That’s expensive in Manila standards, yes, but here in London, that’s almost a steal.

Since I live in Zone 2, my house is not that far away from my school. From my house, there is a bus stop about four blocks away from which I can take the number 6. It would take me all the way to Strand St at Westminster, and from where I get off, it’s just a 10-minute walk to my school. LFS is located in the corner of Shelton and Langley in Covent Garden, right at the heart of Zone 1. The forty-five minute bus ride would make it seem far, but it’s really the traffic and number of bus stops that makes it so. And considering that it’s just one bus ride, I’d say that’s still pretty convenient.

Another great thing about my house’s location is that it’s also just one bus ride away from Notting Hill Gate and High Street Kensington – which I like comparing to Timog and Morato in QC. When I’m in the mood for fast food, a movie, or just lazing around, I walk three blocks from my house and take the number 28 bus to go to either place.

Just like New York, Hong Kong, Singapore and other highly urbanized cities, most Londoners commute around town using the train system. Here, they call it the Tube (MRT at LRT sa aten). At times when I’m running late for class, I swap number 6 for 28 and alight at Notting Hill so I can take the tube. It’s a more complicated way of getting to school, but it’s faster since there are frequent trips and the Covent Garden tube station is just one street corner away from LFS.



























I already said that my room is small, and I’m not being modest. It’s probably less than 10 square meters. Like I also said, the bed's provided already (dapat lang!). There's also a small desk by the foot of the bed, but because the space is so cramped, I can't really put the chair there and use the damn table as intended. I use it for charging my laptop and keeping all the other school stuff, since there are shelves above it rin naman. I also used that small spot for my shoes.



















There's a small window by the bed, right above the bedside table, which has a decent enough view of the outside. Good thing there's a tree outside so there's some foliage and color adding to the view. I think my neighbor's a pre-school or children's center of sorts, but I haven't seen any kids since I arrived. There's also a small sink inside, so I can do minor dish washing and hygiene rituals without having to go out of my room.

Nevertheless, I consider myself lucky to afford a room all to myself. I am able to enjoy enough privacy, even if I have to go out of my room to use the communal kitchen (with its communal fridge and freezer) and share the shower and toilet with some of the other tenants. But I don't mind that - especially since the shower and toilet is just outside my door. So it's like I own it, nakikigamit lang yung iba, hehe. The only thing I can really complain about is not having enough closet space for my clothes and shoes.
























The best part about the house is that some Filipinos are renting the other rooms. In fact, the house’s caretaker/landlady, Tita Josie, is also Pinoy. I didn’t think this would matter in choosing where I would live, but now I can’t imagine living in a place where I didn’t have any Kabayan. It’s refreshing and uplifting to run into someone and greet them with words that roll of my tongue more organically. Quite a number of times, I’ve even benefited received free meals from them, even though they know nothing about me other than I’m also Pinoy. Just this afternoon nga, Tita Josie took me to this birthday party she was invited to. Nakakatouch, though essentially nag-gate crash ako. I enjoyed it immensely even if I was the only non-Ilocano there (which meant I understood nothing of their conversations).

Actually, maraming Pinoy sa London. Sobrang dami, but I still haven't found me friends like the ones I have back home.