Beloved President. Icon of determination and honesty. Symbol of pro-God living and prayerful attitude to everything. Woman of moral and humble leadership. Mother of our democracy, freedom and liberty. Our Jean d’Arc in yellow.

I remember when you took your oath of office at the Club Filipino at Greenhills in February 25, 1986. All of us there outside —mostly men, few women— were quiet and expectant. When your voice rang through the public address system, saying, “I, Corazon Cojuangco Aquino…”, many of us bowed down, gazed upward, or stoically looked ahead, not looking at anyone, because most, if not all, were trying to hide a tear or two. Some were even sniffling, others were silently weeping, because finally you were to become president. All of us realize we are at a historic moment, and although President Marcos also claimed the presidency, we know you were the one we voted for, the one really true leader of the nation.

I remember you during the rallies at the Ayala, Makati area, the only ones I was able to attend because of my work. I remember following your request to boycott the products of several large companies who supported Marcos, and drank the beer of the other company even though the beer has a bitter aftertaste I don’t like. I remember believing whatever you said because I can feel your sincerity in and the rationality of what you were saying. I remember getting out of office earlier, or dawdling in Makati, just to join a rally you called, and wanting to hear you speak.

I remember my readiness to join protest rallies if Doy Laurel were chosen instead of you to be the presidential candidate against Marcos in the snap elections. The rallies were being contemplated by some people who were affronted by Laurel’s attempts to grab political ‘leadership’. I would have joined if they called for the rallies, because the rallies would have been for you. We wanted you to lead the nation politically, as you were leading it then morally and democratically. We were one nation – a unified people– when you were there to lead us.

I remember going to EDSA during the Peaceful Revolution only because Enrile and Ramos were against Marcos and therefore should be for you. I would have participated actively instead of being just a passive witness if more action from the people was needed at the time. I considered myself then to be just part of the ‘reserve’ of the ‘unarmed forces’ waiting to fight for you and your leadership if needed. But I was glad when it did not become necessary.

And I was happy when I witnessed your taking oath, realizing that at last the fortunes of the country and the Filipino people was taking a turn for the better. At last with your presidency we can look to a better future. And we were very proud to have you as president, even though we realized that after Marcos it will be a very difficult time for anyone at Malacanang. But we had faith in you as we continued to have faith in you afterwards, long afterwards, and even today.

I tied some yellow ribbons in my motorcycle to demonstrate my wish that you stay with us, perhaps the only vehicle with yellow ribbons in Puerto Princesa City for a few days. But my –our– wish was not granted. In the end, it was His desire that you be with Him.

So good-bye, Tita Cory. We would have wanted you to stay with us longer, but God maybe has other plans. With the nation and country in great uncertainty these days, many of us may want you to lead us again, but that was not to be, for God may have intended otherwise.

Good-bye, Tita Cory. It is a privilege and an honor to have lived a life in the historic days where and when you were the central figure. The nation loves you and perhaps will never forget you. Good-bye, Tita Cory. May God bless you as He blessed us with you. Even for just a while. Dominus tecum.

My Father’s Fishing Line

by tbdtbd925

 The gillnet had been laid out in the water, and, as our practice, we were to fish using the reliable handline. My father got busy with his lines and bait, but I just sort of leaned back on the seat. Father said, “Aren’t you fishing?” “No. We’re over sand so we’ll probably get nothing here. Why bother?” was my reply. “We’ll, you’d definitely catch nothing if your hooks are in the boat,” was the retort. Faced with superior logic, I cast out two handlines.

 Fishing is the greatest thing my father taught me. It is an activity that, though very common, is at the same time very complex and for us, very necessary. Fishing is not simply throwing out hooks with bait; it is studying the tides, the moon phases, the sea’s surface and below it, and the fish themselves, to determine how best to fish.

 Fishing is learning patience, because it is largely a waiting game. There is not much to do in a boat as big only as your bed, so you keep still. You don’t see what lies beneath your boat, you don’t know what might grab your hook and when, so you wait and hope, and wait some more. Sudden changes in fortune are not uncommon.

 Fishing is a study in and of logic. You learn to associate results with conditions, that you might expect the same results given the same conditions. And that’s why I said we won’t catch any when fishing over sand. Which of course generated the hook-in-the-boat riposte from my father.

 It might simply be a reaction from an irritated father, but that logic carried me through my school years and served me very well indeed afterwards. Phrased differently, it might be ‘no guts, no glory; nothing tried, nothing gained; who dares, wins’. Whatever, the essential message remains, “If you don’t reach for it, how can you have it?’. We obtain things by trying to get them, and not waiting for them to fall into our laps.

 In many instances, when I had to go for something but isn’t sure I can get it, that philosophical shrug of the shoulders often carried the day for me. Sometimes even half-hearted attempts can do. Once, I accompanied a fellow-student who wanted to apply for a writing job. Along the way, he convinced me to try out for it also.  It pays something, and as a student I’m always broke, so I said yes. I got the job, and lost the friend. He thought I put one on him.

 My father’s fishing line remained one great lesson in my life. If I must fail, let it not be for lack of trying, is how I understand it. And, by the way, that time? I caught a fish; he didn’t.

My father died a few days before Christmas 2006, never knowing that I was writing a short item about his legacy to me.  I wrote the first draft about a year before his death, but somehow I never got to publishing it anywhere.  So he will never get to read this, published or not, and will never know how much I love him, how profound my gratitude to him, because he taught me fishing. This is for him, and to his memory. HAPPY FATHER’S DAY,  ‘PANG!

Ever since Jose Rizal’s legend of Calamba town’s name became known to schoolchildren, most legends about the source of any Philippine place’s name followed the same trend: the origin is based on the name itself. So you have Antipolo being named after the tree tipolo, Batangas from batangan, Bicol’s Magayon for Mayon, Marinduque from the tale of star-crossed lovers Marin and Duque as examples.

The published so-called legend of Araceli, Palawan’s name, accepted —and  incredibly, believed— , by many is of the same pattern. According to the ‘legend’, the name came into existence when some Muslim traders came to the place looking for pepper, which was a regular part of their cuisine. The locals indicated there was none, by saying, ‘ara sili’. The term ‘ara’ is Cuyunon for none or no, and sili is Tagalog for pepper. So ‘ara sili’ literally translates to ‘no pepper’. The strangers took it to be the name of the place and it was known to be that ever after. That is, according to the ‘legend’.

This story was plausible enough to be believed by many, which is, as I stated above, simply incredible, but it has several flaws. The first flaw was that ‘sili’ was a Tagalog term, the Cuyunon equivalent being ‘catumbal’. Therefore the correct reply should have been ‘ara catumbal’, the Tagalog language being largely unknown, much more used, at the time. Thus, to use ‘sili’ to mean pepper was out of place, if the replying individual was a Cuyunon, which was eminently reasonable, because no Tagalog settlers were present in the community in sufficient numbers (if any) to influence the Cuyunon residents to use the term.  Rizal’s story has had influences way beyond what he may have thought then. 

Second, at the establishment of the community, the predations of the Muslim raiders countering the Spanish colonization of the islands were still rather prevalent. The Muslims of the Sultanate of   Brunei* were making all efforts to blunt the coming of the Spaniards by regularly attacking coastal communities and destroying the Spanish influence. Therefore, at the sight of approaching Muslim vintas the residents normally will run to the interior, leaving the ‘pirates’ to ransack the place. If the Muslim traders came as in the ‘legend’, there should have been nobody to welcome them, much more tell them no pepper is available.

The third flaw is that the ‘traders’ and the residents would not have understood each other, the visitors speaking Tausug/Maranao/Mappun (whatever)** and the locals speaking Cuyunon. So if they communicated by signs, signals and other non-verbal ways, the ‘ara sili’ reply would not have been made. Pepper will be very difficult to describe via hand signs, and to say ‘ara sili’ in signs will be as difficult. I wonder how they understood each other if ever they made the exchange that ‘ara sili’ were mentioned in reply.

Last, the story was so overly simple and so flawed it seems to have been concocted by an elementary school student. The actual story of how this ‘legend’ came about went like this:

A boy of five or seven years asked his grandfather how the town of Araceli was named. The old man, in jest to the child, related the story of the Muslims seeking pepper and the resident’s reply that became the legend of the town. It was imaginative enough, so like Rizal’s kalan banga story as Calamba’s legend, that it was accepted as truth by many people, surprisingly including those who should be leery of it. But, of course, legends are just that: legends and not necessarily true.

The truth is that the full name of Araceli, Palawan is Nuestra Senora de Araceli (Our Lady of Araceli). This denotes the town was named after the Virgin Mary (the patron saint) in Arcaeli (Arcoeli?), Italy. And since the name was religious, most probably the name-giver was the Diocese of Palawan. If you consider that the nearby town of (now) Roxas, Palawan was formerly named Pilar (Nuestra Senora de Pilar?) and listed so at the Diocese’s map, the religious origin of the name is bolstered considerably. I remember that the town of Roxas was named only so in the early ‘60s or late ‘50s, but I didn’t know its former name until I saw it in a map at the Diocese office sometime in the ‘80s.

So there were most probably no Muslims and pepper that figured prominently when the town of Araceli, Palawan was named so. Who decided on the name and why will be another story, which I hope to discover in the farther future. In the meantime, let the ‘ara sili’ legend stay a legend. It adds some color to the literature of my town, implausible the story may be.

He was always taking me fishing when I was young. In our town no one had any way of preserving food other than cooking and drying. Though we own a kerosene-fed refrigerator, its space was usually reserved for cooling drinks and such for our store. There was precious little we could use to freeze fish for the next day. So everyday –okay, almost– we’d fish to feed the family and guests. Mostly these are teachers from the barrios who’d congregate in our house for some days preparing their school year-end or –start reports.

I was the younger boy, and early on I’d shown a penchant for the marine piscatorial pursuits, so I was elected to go fishing. And of course I learned from my father, who learned from his, who learned from his. You might say I am one in a long line of hereditary sportfishermen —no one really had to fish for a living— but sadly the line would probably end with me. I failed to teach any of my four boys to take to fishing.

In all those growing up years, my father took me fishing: handlining mostly, but also gillnet and trolling. We’d haunt the nearer reefs, and sometimes the farther ones, when conditions are said to be good. Halcyon days of innocence and simple joys, or perhaps memories colored rose by years gone by.  We never single out dates when we remember, and years turn to months, but days become years. That is the way I remember them.

Then I went away for high school and college, returning only every summer, and sometimes not even. My father also gradually lost his eyesight, that when I returned to work for the family after marriage, he was completely blind. He would not want to fish, because when we tried the holes and points we fished have been overfished or silted over: fish no longer abide there. Yet he remembers them as they were, but I can see they were not anymore. I went fishing with friends.

When I finally stayed in the City and family, I can return only every five or so years, sometimes not even, and each time I did I wanted to take my father fishing. I bought a good trolling reel and showed him how it works, but I failed to spark his enthusiasm, or probably he just didn’t show it, and I was too superficial to see it.

Each time I planned to go home, I would convince myself to convince him to go fishing. But when I was there, I always failed. There was always a friend to see, a bottle to drink, some little thing to do, in the limited time I had. There were even days I didn’t see him, busy was I in my other ‘pursuits’. Then suddenly it was too late; I could never take him fishing no matter how much I want to. Except in memories of those years when I was young.

 Maybe one day I’d see him, and we could go fishing together like before. Maybe we’d enjoy each other’s company as in the old days. Then maybe I could take him fishing, like he did with me long ago, where the seas are always calm, and the fish always bite. There must be such time.

But before that I wish I could take my boys fishing, too.

One day I finally caught a fish, a very small –about a centimeter—bugaong, on hook and line.

That day, I can’t find any wire paper clip, and thought of ‘borrowing’ my father’s small fishing hook and line. Without much ado, I got the set from his fishing basket and took it to the shore. Like before, I collected a few hermit crabs and broke their shell houses. Proceeding to the just-bigger-than-a-puddle seawater-filled depression where small and tiny croakers were trapped, I baited the hook and lowered it. In a few moments, tiny croakers were feasting on the bait and the bigger ones were circling. I stayed very still so the larger fish can grab their share, and would yank and hook whenever one does.

I was hunkered on some stones there to weight down coconut leaves used to make shingles, and the fish were just below me, near my feet actually. They were a marvel to look at, all agog with the presented free food and competing with each other in getting their portion. Each one will dart in, take a bite then swim away a small distance then ram itself into the bait again to bite. Every now and then I would yank on the line trying to impale some fish, but to no avail. The fish were just too small to take the hook in their mouths, even if the hook was a Mustad Round Haddock number 27, so that there was no chance I can hook one.

Then finally after such a yank I saw a small croaker wriggling at the hook, struggling to get off. But the barb held it securely, so I, at last, am a fisherman! At long last I finally caught a fish on baited hook and line, a live, struggling real fish! Except that it was hooked through its operculum –the gill flap. But it doesn’t matter! A hooked fish is caught fish, no matter where it was hooked, and I got one.

Full of pride and bursting with self importance, I threw away the left-over bait and brought the fish home, intending to show it to my father and whoever is interested. But no one –not my grandma, my mother, my father, my sister or my dog— was impressed with my first-ever catch. It was just too small to merit even a second look, so in frustration I skewered it with a piece of coconut midrib and broiled it over some embers.

Only the cat got interested in my prize catch, and so he got my life’s first piscatorial trophy. I didn’t even know if he enjoyed it.

My earliest memories of fishing were the times I very patiently tried to catch bugaong (croaker) with a wire paper clip and a piece of string. I’d pilfer the clip from my teacher mother’s school supplies and the ball of string from my grandma’s crochet set. Going to the seashore, I would collect several hermit crabs and break their shells with a stone to get the succulent part of the crab. Then I’d open the clip, tie it to the string, impale the crabs’ soft rear after pinching off the hard pincers and legs, and toss the clip to the group of croakers.

The time of day does not matter: morning, noon, early or left afternoon, but I usually went ‘fishing’—if it can be called such— during low tide, when the water has receded to about two hundred meters, leaving some wide, shallow pools wherein small fishes, caught unawares, were left marooned. There were tiny croakers, mullet, whiting, and some bottom-walkers. Sometimes, instead of ‘fishing’ for them, we’d chase them around and kick them off the water, catch them while they are flopping on the sand and bring them home for the cat or dog, since only they will be interested in the tiny fishes. You know, just for fun, or simply the children’s exuberant attempt to amuse themselves. But when alone and fishing strikes my fancy, I’d steal some thread and paper clip and do my thing.

The smaller ones would attack the bait first, the bigger fish would soon follow, and all will have a field day because no matter how often or how strong I yank back on the string, I never caught a one, never hooked any fish. But I would persist, rebaiting and tossing the ensemble back again and again, until all my bait is gone, or the sun has grown too hot, or the dark has come and I can’t see the fish anymore. I would go home with nothing to show for my efforts, perhaps beaten for the moment but surely undefeated, because I go home with the hope that maybe tomorrow or the next time, I will finally catch one.

One will be enough for me, for that one –a single fish—will prove to me, myself, the world and all who are interested, that I am a fisherman. Or, more accurately, a sportfisherman. That I belong to that special tribe of people who believe that fishing is a noble pursuit, that matching wits with the piscatorial species is a wholesome and honorable endeavor, and that the fish is not important: the sport of catching it, is. The fish is only a trophy and the proof; nothing more, nothing less.

But if that singular desire is amateurish or too pedestrian, then I must tell you that at the time I was only six years old.

nong oscar was a negrense, and gabby. he can tell stories of almost anyone in his neighborhood, or tell you fishing tales galore. still sprightly at way past 60, sunburnt, and i guess lonely because nang basing (his wife) has died some years back. although he lives among his three children (two more live away), i think he needs companionship not possible with his children who have their own families. so he keeps his own motorized banca despite the prohibitive cost of gasoline, because he needs to lavish attention on someone, and failing that, on something. i am fond of the man, not only because of what he is, but also because long ago, when i was younger he took me under his wings to go fishing. and i loved those times. i hope he lives forever at that age. 

then there was my classmate who discovered a few possible mining areas in the town, and tried to engage a financier for exploration and exploitation. he was dreaming of great riches and humbly saying all he needs is just a few millions to be satisfied. yet when i said mining claim rights are sold for minimum of 50 million he literally sputtered in his drinking glass and was dumbstruck, because he has verbally agreed to sell it for only 5 million. talk about wanting only a few…

as normal he asked me a lot of questions, and bragged of his capability, having finished his graduate studies thesis singlehanded. when i assured him he can do the environmental impact assessment for mines he immediately accepted it. so almost everyday i was there, he was drinking with buddies (twice i was among them) dreaming of the big times coming. yet he has no plans on how to do the necessary things to achieve his goals, but talked incessantly of what he will do once he gets them. i can only emphasize to the last word that he first establish his claim on the areas…

in the meantime, friends who were supposed to be my fishing companions conveniently forget fishing when they get started on the bottle, which was any time: morning, noon, afternoon. sometimes just after waking up in the morning at 8 or 9. i left unfulfilled in my dreams of a fishing vacation. 

but the fishing –in the very few times i got to fish— was a lot better than before. the horse mackerel (galunggong) was back in force, and small tuna are being caught again. there was a load of king mackerel caught in gillnets before i arrived, and the price in our wet market dropped to P50 from P100 a kilo because there was little ice to preserve it for the main market in another town. the absence of large purse seiners and illegal fishermen as well as the vey high cost of fuel were the most probably causes of the resurgence, since community fishing was more energetic than before. stable markets for fish exist in the area and elsewhere, so fishing was a livelihood for many as it was ever since. probably one reason my friends don’t care about fishing: they can fish anytime they need to, and not according to my needs.

in that short sentimental journey home i rediscovered  what i knew long ago. my people will not change in their outlook in life and living, and therefore will stay the way they are economically. only a few who manage to hurdle this stumbling block of lethargy will rise to some higher levels, and consequently become the object of envy of others ‘less fortunate’ and also less striving, than them. if i live another ten years and return, i probably will find them as they are today, only grown older.

quo vadis, my people? i wonder…

i am not sure how true is this or to what extent the pcsd was (supposed to be) subsumed to denr, but if there is any truth in it, then that is the end of palawan’s control over its own environment. palawan’s future will be decided totally by powers that be in contemptuous disregard of what the palawenos themselves may want. and the so-called ‘independence’ of the province’s political leaders will be totally reduced to being ceremonial. they will be simple effigies of their positions: the governor, the vice-governor and the two congressmen. and via a simple executive order at that! if these people can take it, then they deserve their fate.

the pcsd is the biggest single reason palawan’s environment remains still a little green, because pcsd’s ecan law has established a framework by which that environment can be protected. yet, even with the law, the forests and seas of the province is disappearing at an ever-increasing rate. the law cannot even be imposed in totality, with the ecan in place! how much more if that law is disregarded by those who consider it a hindrance to what they want? it will only be a ka-law-kohan!

likewise, the ecan bars the exploitation of the areas dangerous to the people if destroyed. can you imagine if there is mining at the top of a mountain, and protracted rains induced landslides? the horrors of ormoc, infanta and negros will be the result!

tell me if i’m wrong, but can a republic act be superseded by an executive order?

the council head membership includes the governor and the congressmen. if the pcsd is subsumed to denr whatever they say or decide may be vetoed by the denr regional office. where in this nauseating philippine political scenario would you see a governor’s decision about his own province in his own province voidable by a national agency regional director? or a congressman’s desire about his own district for that matter? the governor and the congressmen will be figureheads in their own turf! hahahaha

i see a sinister force here. an unsatiable entity (or group) out to subvert the protection of palawan to feed that entity’s gargantuan greed. that entity is out to grab all palawan’s treasures and resources without regard for anyone else, least of all the palaweno. this is just a step; others will follow. if our leaders allow this, then to hell with them too.

now, the ‘environmentalism’ spirit is so strong in palawan anything that indicates meddling with ‘nature’ is anti-environmentalism. ‘nature’ here means trees and seas and forests and mountains and reefs and corals and more. we have been raised on ‘nature is beautiful as is, in palawan’ and that palawan has much of it we can hardly see beyond the status quo of everything. so we should not cut the trees down and catch the fish and cage the animals nor mow the grass…and certainly not dig the earth for the minerals it contains.

what are the reasons for the mining-bashing? the main ones are:

1. mining is destructive of the biosystem and the biodiversity and the natural state of things, because it will strip open the earth and therefore uproot the trees, kill the insects, drive away the wildlife there, and open the forests to intrusions of people. 

2. mining can destroy the whole fabric of life of the indigenous peoples upstairs there by exposing them to the ways and habits of strangers, killing their culture and way of life.

now all these are okay in principle. nobody will contest that. the problem is that it is double standard, filtered, prejudiced, biased, bigoted and what not. it looks only at mining to bash and not other similar actions that produce the same results.

for example, why don’t they bash road-building? it destroys the ecosystem wherever it passes through because roads cut down trees; deprive animals, insects and others of their habitat; do not allow plants to grow back; strip open the mountainside; makes possible the intrusion of people into the area, and disturbs all the anitos and engkantos and kapres there. and when the cement and the tar in the asphalt lose their serviceable life, don’t they leach their chemicals into the earth, and alter the earth’s composition? but why is there no roadmaking-bashing?

also, why isn’t farm-making bashed?  ricefields cut down trees; deprive animals and insects and.. ahhh, you know the drill. so why is there no ricefarm-bashing at any time?

then, why are house-building, or even subdivisions, business malls and similar things not bashed? they produce the same effects on nature and man, cutting down trees and plants, depriving animals and insects…et cetera, et cetera ad nauseam. why don’t they bash also their own homes and the supermarkets and the buildings they love to have?

WHY BASH ONLY MINING?

is it because mining grants the indigenous people a measure of financial capability, and also alter the life of the ‘underprivileged’ people in the lowland communities by giving them steady jobs, businesses and employment? and if those things happen they will cease to look up to the non-government organizations who espouse their ’cause’ because these ‘marginal’ people will then learn to fight for themselves and their welfare?

is it because mining ‘benefits only a few people’, conveniently forgetting that there are hundreds of workers and employees there who earn a living, and also support businesses and services that cater to the needs of these employees and workers, such as storeowners, farmers, fishermen, dressmakers, beerhouse girls and the likes of them? and that the bashers are not included in either group, and therefore feel left out, and take their frustration against mining itself, because they cannot do it against any individual, or they will be labelled deviants?

is it because mining is simply the newest subject to focus on by those knee-jerk environmentalists and the ‘spirit’ ? these ‘environmentalists’ went against the island-resorts built in north palawan sometime ago, saying these resorts will destroy the biodiversity and the reefs and the seas of the islands. but now shamefacedly agree they were wrong, because these resorts were the first to conserve and protect their own environments, which the so-called environmentalists did nothing about.

is it because mining pays, and pays big?

your guess is as good as mine.

1. we filipinos and we palawenos particularly wll be off limits there, as what shell did to malampaya natural gas rig in western palawan.

2. only the government and the biggest and most corrupt crooks in there will benefit from the extraction of oil, the taxes paid to the government wasted by the unscrupulous ones in the highest offices, as well as taken for personal requirements. we the small and ordinary citizens will be deprived of any benefits but praised to the highest heavens for our ‘natural riches’ and ‘incredible fortune’.

3. the americans will get the oil, the government crooks in malacanang the money, and we palawenos the heartaches and the possibilities of oil pollution. we eat the dirt they call cake.

4. exxon will get our oil so we can buy it from them at incredible prices with part of our money paid for the oil deposited in  malacanang. hahahahaha.

5. the tubbataha reefs will be raped, or will be declared outside of palawan’s territory. perhaps it will be declared to belong to the province of batanes…

6. the oil tax will not be given to palawan as the site will be declared by the highest office as in the national –not provincial– territory, as if the national territory is not composed of provincial territories which is composed of municipal territories and barangay territories. look what they did to malampaya natural gas…

7. we will be very proud to ‘own’ the oil so we can be happy not to receive any benefit from it… 

so what can we palawenos do? nothing. we are too diverse for unity; we are too poor to give it atention; we are too inured to government corruption as to be apathetic to anything; we are too uninformed as to be gullible. we can’t even give a damn about it.