Streetcorner Society (55)

To be among kindred spirits is something one can always hold onto as the string though which the sense of 'ligare'--to bind--is not only felt but experienced.

And give life to.

My trip to Sanchez Mira is my first in the last 30 years or so.

Been to this famous place right after Claveria in the past, when my soul was kinder and younger, and my body and bones were more tender and supple.

A mission was beckoning, and it started when one good doctor, educator, and writer all rolled into one--Dr Freddie Padua Masuli--told me that their chief administrator of their school wanted to speak with and know more about Nakem Conferences, the movement we began in 2006 and has created some ripple effect among advocates of cultural democracy and emancipatory education in the Philippines.

I said, Yes! and that was the beginning of that 12-hour trip on land from the cemented jungles of Metro Manila to the monastery-like silence and charm of Sanchez Mira.

I wanted to see Pagudpud again, this town with its meandering cliffs that lead to the West Philippine See, its ravines filled with nothing but greenery.

And then, of course, Patapat, the famous zigzagging road that instilled in me a child's thought about the beauty of nature and its dangers too, what with a number of buses and jeepneys slipping into the bottom of its crevices in the past.

It was the break of day when I got past all these places of memory, that after decades and decades of not renewing that promise of re-membering and remembering, was beginning to take its form again.

July 25 it was, and I was among friends, advocates of cultural freedom, linguistic justice, and liberatory education.

One does not mind the long, long hours of sleeplessness when we have this experience in return.

And I thought that the talk I delivered somehow clicked.

Or so I hope.

---Sanchez Mira, Cagayan, Las Islas Filipinas, 25 de Julio 2013

Street Corner Society (54)


STREETCORNER SOCIETY. (54)

On to the next leg of a vacation-cum-advocacy work in the homeland. No, it is the opposite: it is advocacy work that looks like a vacation, which is good.

So there is only one way to go to Sanchez Mira, Cagayan, to the campus of the state university there, and I have to take the Florida bus, that bus that comes in baby pink color, at least that is how the cabbie I hired to take me to the terminal in Sampaloc described a Florida bus. It is a description that is applicable to all.

Which helped me remember how this bus looks like, the same bus we have taken to Banawe two years ago to attend the 6th Nakem Conference hosted by Ifugao State University. Except that, of course, I cannot figure out the shades of pink from pale of whatever kind to the dark of whatever kind.

But this is not about colors.

It is about the story of this young taxi driver, Lorezo Cruz (a coded name), who drives an old cab that makes the burumbumbum sound, and drags its body to kingdom come. Never mind that the door locks have to be prayed over first before they open, or before they lock. In this metro, I have learned to become praning with the stories of small-time criminal preying upon unsuspecting taxi passengers by holding them up while on their way to their appointments, and while on the cab.

To have the semblance of safety, one must lock his door right after getting on the cab. This big city has bred so many mutants whose genes are into criminality—as all cities are: breeders of criminals and criminal-minded outcasts, people who fall into the cracks and crevices of city life, or what passes for one.

Where are you from, I asked. The investigator begins his work.

From Calumpang.

You mean you are from here?

I have lived here.

Do you come from any province? You do not sound one like you are coming from Calumpang, or you are coming from Marikina. You have the sound of someone coming from the south, or something.

Ang tagal ko na dito, sir.

That is not what I want to know.

Are you from Bicol?

How do you know, sir?

I can sense you are from Bicol.

Yes, sir.

Dai ka magpararibok. Oragon ka. That is me, with my few Bicol sentences.

A, you know how to speak Bicol. He becomes happy. A while ago, he was forlorn, unable to make a transaction with me about contracting his services. I had flagged a cab before him and he asked that we make a contract because, he said, there is traffic and it is far.

I told him, Go off your greedy ass. I told him: You know, I can give extra but you do not tell me how much I will give you. I do not need your services. I go look for one.

And that is exactly what I told this guy, Lorenzo. Bring me to Florida. Have your meter on.

He scratches his nape.

I get in, put my two bags at the back, my reliable backpacks that contained all I need to get around in this homeland of my soul.

I do not know where that Florida terminal is. That is him.

Why so? That is me.

Been a cab driver for three months only, sir.

What were you before.

I drove a truck.

You do not know the city?

I know only some parts, but not the kind that taxi drivers should have knowledge of, not yet.

What truck did you drive?

Delivery truck. I drove for many years, but I was under an agency, and I was paid Php430 a day, no benefits, no overtime. And the work is for 12 hours.

You are telling me the facts?

Yes, sir. And so I quit. Got married less than two years ago, and now I have a son. We could not survive with that salary. Before the 15th or 30th, we would be in debt, and we have nothing left.

How much that would give you each payday?

Less than five thousand, sir. But with a small son, and with my wife not working because she takes care of our kid, it has been a hard life for us. The small savings we had before, we have used up all of that.

What about now?

It is a bit better. I can earn a Php700 minimum if I am lucky. And we can save a bit.

You like driving a cab now?

It is better, sir.

Okey, take that road, I instruct him.

And than began my one hour of instruction to him on how to get to Florida in Sampaloc, the passenger instructing the cab driver where to go.

--Sampaloc, Las Islas Filipinas, 24 de Julio 2013


Streetcorner Society (54)


STREETCORNER SOCIETY. (54)

On to the next leg of a vacation-cum-advocacy work in the homeland. No, it is the opposite: it is advocacy work that looks like a vacation, which is good.

So there is only one way to go to Sanchez Mira, Cagayan, to the campus of the state university there, and I have to take the Florida bus, that bus that comes in baby pink color, at least that is how the cabbie I hired to take me to the terminal in Sampaloc described a Florida bus. It is a description that is applicable to all.

Which helped me remember how this bus looks like, the same bus we have taken to Banawe two years ago to attend the 6th Nakem Conference hosted by Ifugao State University. Except that, of course, I cannot figure out the shades of pink from pale of whatever kind to the dark of whatever kind.

But this is not about colors.

It is about the story of this young taxi driver, Lorezo Cruz (a coded name), who drives an old cab that makes the burumbumbum sound, and drags its body to kingdom come. Never mind that the door locks have to be prayed over first before they open, or before they lock. In this metro, I have learned to become praning with the stories of small-time criminal preying upon unsuspecting taxi passengers by holding them up while on their way to their appointments, and while on the cab.

To have the semblance of safety, one must lock his door right after getting on the cab. This big city has bred so many mutants whose genes are into criminality—as all cities are: breeders of criminals and criminal-minded outcasts, people who fall into the cracks and crevices of city life, or what passes for one.

Where are you from, I asked. The investigator begins his work.

From Calumpang.

You mean you are from here?

I have lived here.

Do you come from any province? You do not sound one like you are coming from Calumpang, or you are coming from Marikina. You have the sound of someone coming from the south, or something.

Ang tagal ko na dito, sir.

That is not what I want to know.

Are you from Bicol?

How do you know, sir?

I can sense you are from Bicol.

Yes, sir.

Dai ka magpararibok. Oragon ka. That is me, with my few Bicol sentences.

A, you know how to speak Bicol. He becomes happy. A while ago, he was forlorn, unable to make a transaction with me about contracting his services. I had flagged a cab before him and he asked that we make a contract because, he said, there is traffic and it is far.

I told him, Go off your greedy ass. I told him: You know, I can give extra but you do not tell me how much I will give you. I do not need your services. I go look for one.

And that is exactly what I told this guy, Lorenzo. Bring me to Florida. Have your meter on.

He scratches his nape.

I get in, put my two bags at the back, my reliable backpacks that contained all I need to get around in this homeland of my soul.

I do not know where that Florida terminal is. That is him.

Why so? That is me.

Been a cab driver for three months only, sir.

What were you before.

I drove a truck.

You do not know the city?

I know only some parts, but not the kind that taxi drivers should have knowledge of, not yet.

What truck did you drive?

Delivery truck. I drove for many years, but I was under an agency, and I was paid Php430 a day, no benefits, no overtime. And the work is for 12 hours.

You are telling me the facts?

Yes, sir. And so I quit. Got married less than two years ago, and now I have a son. We could not survive with that salary. Before the 15th or 30th, we would be in debt, and we have nothing left.

How much that would give you each payday?

Less than five thousand, sir. But with a small son, and with my wife not working because she takes care of our kid, it has been a hard life for us. The small savings we had before, we have used up all of that.

What about now?

It is a bit better. I can earn a Php700 minimum if I am lucky. And we can save a bit.

You like driving a cab now?

It is better, sir.

Okey, take that road, I instruct him.

And than began my one hour of instruction to him on how to get to Florida in Sampaloc, the passenger instructing the cab driver where to go.

--Sampaloc, Las Islas Filipinas, 24 de Julio 2013


Streetcorner Society (50)


STREETCORNER SOCIETY (50)

The story of Rene Castaneda (coded name), from Dupax de Norte, Nueva Vizcaya, an Isinay-Ilokano who drives a cab in Metro Manila, is an example of people who have not benefitted anything at all from the President BS's presidency.

Worked for an oil company for 10 years, then separated with by reason of consolidation and merger. Paid some small amount, which he used to buy a lot in Payatas, the dumpsite that saw hundreds of people dead a decade ago.

____

I flagged his cab from Meralco in Concepcion, down from the boondocks where I live.

When I feel like talking to cab drivers—when I want to clear my thoughts of so many things that get in there simultaneously—I sit by the passenger side in front. You see me seated in front, it means only one thing: You ought to be prepared because the investigator-cum-interviewer is ready to do his work.

Which I did.

Had done errands for the 8th Nakem International Conference, paid here-and-there bills for this this, met with suppliers, and now ready to go for another meeting in one of the posh hotels in Pasig, close to the posh but architecturally ugly malls of rectangles and boxes where the poor like me go to forget our poverty.

So, how is the situation on the road? That’s me. It is SONA time and having been a veteran of the SONA (or anti-SONA) force, I knew this would create jamming on the road.

Jamming here has nothing to do with joyful singing and sweet laughter and rowdy celebration.

It has everything to do with fighting for your rights, and fighting for the truth of that life but insisting that these leaders ought to be transparent and honest with us wretched citizens of the wretched land.

Which means demonstration.

Which means rally.

Which means carrying those banners and streamers and chanting those quick, cadenced, rhythmical slogans addressed to the perpetrator of the greatest crime of all: social iniquity.

Even while living abroad, I had attended those at Commonwealth.

I got past the sentry by walking and by wearing some kind of a press ID as a journalist.

Not so long ago, I saw Mar Roxas the presidential wannabe (in 2016) directing traffic.

He was a senator at that time, with the smallish lady as the president (of course, she lied a lot too in her SONA), and so many benefitted from her lies until one day, a general-turned-minion could no longer see hope that one day, yes, one day, he decided to quit life but blowing his head off at his mother’s grave in Loyola.

Ilokanoka? Ah, I smell Ilokanos wherever they are. That’s me the investigator-cum-ethnographer. (What is a better way to justify one’s questioning than assuming an ethnographer’s role?)

Yes, sir. And Isinay too. That is him, this barbangisit man whose skin, dark and glowing, suggested living in the far reaches of mountains and rivers and fields and Ilokano breeze.

From where are you? Ah, do not tell. You are from Cagayan Valley. You have a different way of saying things.

From Nueva Vizcaya, sir.

Ooops. Yes, I know. I recognize how Vizcayanos say things. Which part?

Dupax, sir. Del Norte.

That explains your being Isinay then?

Yes. Parents are mixed. So we know both.

I know a famous Ilokano writer there. I tell him of the famous Roy Vadil Aragon who hails from that place.

I heard of him, sir. But I had not met him. You read those names on magazines and newspapers. I know some others. But all in name.

His car is tuned in on 90.7 and lo and behold, we overheard something, a male teacher talking, in a comic but tragic way, which runs like this (not verbatim, but rephrased):

“Ah, class, this is you assignment. But before I give you your assignment, this is what we are going to do first. You buy from me. I have puto, bibingka, suman, siopao, tuyo, tanginge, spaghetti, pancit, ice candy.” (Well, the list is endless.)

We both laughed—and laughed so loud.

We know that scene, and we know that narrative underlying that anecdote of the hard life of teachers, particularly public school teachers in the provinces.

They make ice candy in the evening, these teachers.

From their liquid form, they have these tube-like sweet things packed on their freezer until solidified. 

In the morning, they put them on their Styrofoam bucket and bring them to class.

Oh, it is not a giveaway. It is to be sold, and sometimes, some children bring this all over the school and sell them in behalf of their teacher.

That is entrepreneurship.

Good Lord, I said.

That is true, sir, he said. And he laughed more and more.

I sensed he had not laugh for a long while, not with a passenger like me.

We were in inching our way to C5 to go to where we can take a turn to that posh hotel.

But the roads all lead to jamming—not to anywhere else.

I glanced at the meter and it kept on ticking and ticking, and the meter reached two hundred even with this short distance that we had covered.

And we had yet to cover a longer distance, and then on to the business district in Pasig that meant more of those jams.

I never minded the meter after that.

That is familiar to me, sir. I lived in Dupax, in the barrio, and studied high school there, and these scenes are familiar to me. It happened in our place everyday.

Really?

Yes, sir. Before we start our class, our teachers announced what they have got. Ah, we would never go hungry in school because we can always take out a loan out of these goodies. That was how it was.

Did you learn at all other than eating the goodies of your teachers?

Oh, yes. We learned a lot. During our time, elementary and high school education meant you have to stay in school for the whole day. Today, they speak of MLE—what is this again? —but they cut down the school hours. What do you learn?

You mean the K-12?

Yes, this change they put in. Two more years. What is the point if you put in fewer hours? You will only have more people in schools, and more expenses for parents like me.

They say it is going to solve so many of our knowledge issues.

I do not think so.

You want to teach these kids, teach them well. We do not have good facilities. We do not have good books. And teachers sell good instead of teaching because they are not paid well. It amounts to the same thing. Or even worse.

You mean it is not the length of education in terms of years? That’s me probing, probing.

Not at all, sir.

The jam got worse. On top of us is a skyway that leads to Katipunan, on to Ateneo, Miriam, and UP Diliman.

I imagined groups of activists massing up at Diliman, their placards ready for waving, their bandana ready for the rain, or for the fire hose. Or both.

You were with a Petron company, you say?

Yes, sir. A subcontracting company. Ten years. I was a mechanic. Could have been a good life, but some things end. The company decided to merge with another, and the owner started another one. He paid us some amount. I used this to buy a right in Payatas. I have a small house there, but far better than having had to shell out rent money each month.

Payatas, of course, is this metro’s dumpsite.

The smell of the site is enough to kill you, and sometimes, it just goes through this physics of combustion and there, the smoke would kill you twice.

Those accustomed to these things are no longer bothered by it. Immune is that they call.

But those who lived with the breeze could not stand the smell, much more the smoke. People here have respiratory issues, a logical consequence.

What are your plans?

A cousin in America promised to start a two-cab company. I would be his manager. I know how to maintain cars so we will be partners. We will start with two units.

How much would a unit cost, franchise and all?

About Php800T, sir.

That is a lot.

Yes. But if you know how to cut cost, it can be done. I promised my cousin that I would take care of his investment. He will not have any worries with me.

As we hit Meralco Avenue, I saw him stretching, and fighting off drowsiness. It was now the midday hour, and farming people take a siesta after having a simple lunch of dinengdeng.

Ey, do not sleep I told him, as we wait for the light to turn green.

Yes, sir. Do not worry. Must be the farmer in me.

We headed to all those high rises in Pasig, past snaking roads and glistening windows and coiffured ornamental plants. So much for the artifice of a city.

I got down at that hotel so many hundred pesos poorer.

I was going to a meeting to advance the cause of cultural democracy and linguistic freedom. 

--Pasig, Las Islas Filipinas, 23 de Julio 2013










Streetcorner Society (49)


STREETCORNER SOCIETY (49)


Today is the nth SONA that I have heard since I became politically aware of what is happening to the county.

It will be another rite and ritual of our false democracy, with applause coming from the very people benefitting from our oligarchic life.

This applause among thieves is endless, and will be repeated, again and again.

The hegemonic center will remain the hands of those who do not have to work hard in order to live in heaven, this heaven on earth we call the Philippines of the rich.

From a meeting at one of the hotels somewhere near the hub of the economic life, to a light lunch exactly at that center courtesy of a friend who has been in this struggle for cultural democracy, linguistic justice, and diversity since the 60s, I decided to take a walk at those monstrous SM megamalls by Highway 54 (read: EDSA) just to see that kind of abracadabra these establishments of immoral capitalism have over the poor like me.

After this, I flagged a cab, and headed off to SM Mariquina to write there, recalling what could be recalled today.

And then I began to interview Cris Bogota, a middle-aged man (at 54) and a veteran of OFW life, and now drives cab for a living. He says old people like him do not have any place in OFW-land.

Manila-born from promdi parents, he knew Gasak the way he knows the back of his hand. Gasak, of course, is in the impoverished part of Welcome Rotunda, on the left side of Quezon Avenue when coming from the University of Santo Tomas and heading towards Cubao.

He told me of the real SONA, the real State of the Nation Address.

_______


SONA or no SONA, the people of the streets tell us the real story of our everyday lives in this country.

From a meeting in a hotel lobby, to a light lunch at a club somewhere in the country’s busiest of the business district where the lives of the poor are decided by those with money and power, I ended up at one of the biggest malls of the metropolis, this abomination of anything architecturally magnificent.

It is just a rectangle of concrete boxes made majestic by the enchantment of goods the poor cannot afford.

At another store by Cubao, I glanced at a sale of a Nautica shirt, and it still had that abhorrent price tag, cut down to a sale price, at a little less than Php 4,000, the equivalent of a salary of a sales clerk for a month of back-breaking work that requires standing up for hours and hours on end to attend to the needs of prospective buyers.

I walked all the floors of the twin megamalls.

I have never been here for a long time, and I thought of understanding what magic these malls have of the poor, why do they come here only to feel more wretched, and what do these in that Bingo stalls up there are doing in the early afternoon hours?

What’s your name? That is me beginning my quizzing technique.

Cris Bogota. That is him, this cabbie who does not believe that this presidency has done something substantial.

What province did you come from? That’s me, always on the lookout for roots.

I am from Gasak. Born there. Reared. My parents came from the provinces, but I have never been to these places where they came from. I do not know any place except Gasak.

How is it like to live in Gasak?

Not the best of places. But one can live there decently. Just do not ask for something you cannot afford.

What do you think about this presidency?

From what point of view are you asking, sir? I have so many things to day. In fact, a while ago, a journalist going to the rallies interviewed me about what I think about the state of our life in this country.

What did you tell?

I told her about our becoming poorer and poorer. I told her too that not all the poor deserve to be pitied. Some are really capitalizing on their poverty to abuse what other people can give them, what the government can give them, what their miserable life can do to them. I have seen so many lazy people who are poor.

You mean this poverty that we see around us is something we blame on the poor?

No. What I am saying is that there are poor people who are doing all they can to get out of their poverty. But some are definitely not doing their part of a bargain.

The poor are poor because society has made it sure they would become poor.

Yes. But it does not mean that we have to depend on the governmet for all the things we need.

I understand.

But what do you think of this presidency?

It does not make any difference. He has not made our life a bit better.

You believe in what he would say on the SONA?

I do not believe anything about what these people are saying. I have stopped participating in elections. It is a waste of time. You give the poor people 500 pesos and they will vote for you. That is how cheap our vote is.

What hopes do we have?

There is not much. We have to do what we have to do to earn something for ourselves. Like me, I have wanted to become an architect. But we were so poor I could not even finish a year of college. So I worked in construction. There I learned the rudiments of carpentry, of building something, of stonework.

It was a hard life, yours.

It was. I even went around with a sack looking for metal discards, bottles, anything you can sell afterwards. Do not tell me that the poor should just sit there and wait for government assistance.

You have come unto your own.

I spent years working abroad. In construction. I am 54 now, and I have done my bit of work abroad, saved up a bit for my children’s studies. Three have graduated from college. There are two left, one in third year, and another in second year. Otherwise, I shall be done with my obligations.

You do not look like your are 54 at all.

I smile a lot. I do not wallow in all these miserable stories. I just keep on working and working. And I do not sit around waiting for some other people’s mercies. I drive a cab on the side so I can earn for my children school allowance.

I want to hear about your view of our leaders.

Are they leaders at all? They are all the same. All cheats.

Why so?

Look: in Gasak where I live, we have this beautiful and cemented road near our neighborhood. And they destroyed it so that they could put in new cement, new anything. Why do they destroy a good road when there are so many roads to be repaired, to be built?

And why so?

Ah, some people are making money!

What should we do?

The problem is that we do not have discipline at all.

Why do you think so?

Look at those traffic enforcers. All of them are greedy people. With just a little authority in them, all they do is wait for violators. They do not assist motorists so that the traffic flow will be smoother. Is that what traffic enforcement is supposed to be?

I do not know. You ply these roads each day.

That is what I am saying. Marikina was able to instill discipline among the people. How come this discipline cannot be done in other places?

And why do you think so?

Simple. You do not enforce the law equally, you have this problem.

Ah, the real analysts of this land.

Except that they are not in the corridors of power.

--EDSA, Las Islas Filipinas, 22 de Julio 2013/SONA Day