OF KEEPERS AND THEIR WARDS

OF KEEPERS AND THEIR WARDS

(Destination)

Nestor Alagbate

J216

                    Not having seen a place again after so many years, we wonder how much such place has changed. Sometimes we return to it not so much to see the changes but its sameness after all those years. What might have changed is our sense of attachment to the same place. Having aged gracefully, we have acquired new outlooks at old sights, new realizations about familiar places. These sentiments brought me back to Manila Zoo. It feels nostalgic that this time it was my turn to have a toddler in tow. Ages ago I was the  toddler.

                    Though far from being a veterinarian myself, I found the park an animal lover's must-see place - in terms of what animal enclosures should not be. The sorry state of the establishment is an animal activist's very argument. For a starter, the first thing a visitor meets is a balding ostrich. Across the paved pathway is the controversial Sri Lankan elephant Mali.

                    Orphaned at three years old, she was transported to the Philippines in 1977. She celebrated her 40th birthday last year, as indicated in a greeting on a tarpaulin streamer.

                    An information board describes her as a good swimmer, yet she is enclosed by a shallow moat. Described as "highly sociable and mainly travel in groups of 5-7," she is doomed to be a solitary old spinster. She is described to "favor areas with grass, coupled with low trees and other woody plants, mainly scrub forest" Looking at her present environment, one wonders if the information board is meant as a joke.

                    Calls are mounting for her release to the wild, but Mayor Joseph Estrada won't let go of the park's crowd drawer (the other, a giraffe, died some nine years ago). Public Relations Bureau Director James Dechaves is "awaiting partner to be donated from Sri Lanka." Might as well pray for a miracle a la Sarah and Elizabeth of the Bible. With 250 Sri Lankan elephants killed every year, I wonder if the Sri Lankan government would permit another casualty in the remaining population of 5,879 (figure four years ago). Meanwhile the limping old lady (veterinarians call it "favoring": she avoids standing on the left forelimb, and favors the right; her hind limbs tend to lean on the left) whiles away her remaining years with sakate, banana, pineapple, and occasional carrots.

                    Another information board describes a hebra's (a cross between a male horse and a female zebra) habitat as "open grassland and woodland areas," yet one sees a pair of hebras on gravel and sand, maximizing the shades of practically decorative trees. The enclosure for the tiger is crammed considering their more than necessary number. The "king of the jungle" looked more like a condemned commoner in a much tighter cage - a testimony to the almost 50% population decline (figure thirty years ago) in its historic African range, of which 20% are actually occupied by the species.

                    As for the snakes, the glass enclosures are devoid of forest debris which could have provided warmth for the incubation of their eggs. The crocodile population far exceeds the ratio of comfortable space per head, and they have no choice but to be cramped in shallow ponds which look more like a token habitat. I wonder whether domesticated chickens and ducks on the banks of the boating area are city property or personal property of the park employees. I definitely would not pay one hundred pesos to see domesticated poultry.

                    Manila Zoological and Botanical Garden sprawls on a 5.5-hectare property at the corner of Quirino Avenue and Adriatico Street in Malate, Manila. Run by the city government since its establishment in 1959, it boasts of itself as the oldest zoo in Asia. Though entrance fees were hiked on January 15 last year, Director Dechaves claims the fees ares still lower than those of the main rival Malabon Zoo. For non-Manila residents, the entrance fee for adults is pegged at Php100.00, while that for children is at Php60.00. Manila residents, provided they present valid identifications, pay half the price.

                    Among the 106 different animal species found in the establishment, 60 are reptiles, 30 are mammals, and 13 are birds. With 15 tigers up for trade, Dechaves aims  for "more variety than quantity." Though birds abound in the aviaries, looming balete and dita trees are home to non-inventoried night herons, thanks to the lagoon to which they are naturally attracted. They come in colors blue (some with white spots) and brown. Park employees observe that egrets swarm the park when there are typhoon signals. Flocks of ash-colored bato-bato also frequent the park. This species looks like a pigeon, only smaller. Though signages remind visitors to refrain from littering, there are no warning signs pertinent to droppings from birds outside the aviaries.

                    Approaching the exit of the park, I realized that more than what kinds of animals I saw in there, I saw what kind of humans we are in seeking amusement at the expense of other creatures.

                    By the way, don't forget to drop by the souvenir shops. You might be interested to buy slingshots there.

A NIGHT WITH THE KABIHUGS

A NIGHT WITH THE KABIHUGS

(Personal Experience)

Nestor Alagbate

J216

wikimapia.org

                    The highlands of Camarines Norte is home to more than four thousand Aetas today, living a semi-nomadic life in small bands. These indigenous people, generically labeled Negritos by our textbooks, call themselves Kabihug which means "friend." Elderly lowlanders used to call them the derogatory name Abyan which means "unhygienic," a name which they understandably resent. Though the majority of them roam the shoulders of Mount Labo, bands are also found in the outskirts of the towns of Capalonga, Jose Panganiban, Paracale, and Basud. Small in stature, dark-skinned and kinky-haired, they have long given up their bahag (g-string) and tapis (wrap-around skirt) in favor of contemporary clothing. They still converse in the Manide language among themselves, but are equally conversant in Tagalog when dealing with lowlanders.

                    Myself and three other companions alighted in Barangay Malibago in Labo town along the Maharlika Highway, and unloaded bags of used clothing intended for the Kabihugs of Barangay Malaya. Two Kabihugs were waiting in their log canoe on the banks of Palale River some half kilometer from the highway. They instinctively helped us load the baggage into the only mode of transportation they are comfortable with, but which I was apprehensive of. Devoid of outriggers, the canoe was loaded to the brim. Baggage unloaded on the other side, the literally breath taking twelve-kilometer steep hike began. Though that one January afternoon was cooled by Amihan breeze, the sun was searing my nape.

                    Having been oriented in advance that it was advisable to bring bolos with us, I brought one myself. I was busy cutting eight-foot talahib grass which hampered the hike along the narrow trail, when one of the Kabihugs authoritatively commented, "Ay, gagabihin." They, being small of stature, would just ease themselves into the bush, let the grass grow in peace, and save precious time in the hike. Requesting my companions that we took some rest, I asked the Kabihugs how far we still were from their camp. "Mga tatlong sigarilyo pa," one calculated. The concept of kilometer being alien to them, they measured distance by the number of cigarettes they consumed during the hike.

                    Arriving at the camp, we were met with mutual curiosity. The place was a clearing in the forest, planted to root crops, corn, and vegetables. The conspicuous absence of ornamental plants, coconut and other fruit-bearing trees attested to the Kabihug's semi-nomadic subsistence. They cleared areas of their ancestral domain alternately, allowing time for the forest to replenish itself. Their butukan (shacks) were built in close proximity to each other, with anibong roofs penetrated by smoke coming from the stoves.

                    A presumably respected elder invited us into his shack, the biggest in the camp. I asked him to gather the band around, and my request was met with puzzled eyes. Inasmuch as their shacks were almost adjacent to each other, they were already gathered as far as they were concerned. "Wala namang nasa malayo," he had to tell me the obvious.

                    Having distributed the goods towards dusk, my exhausted companions thought it was time for a well-deserved dinner. We had with us canned goods for viand, and to our surprise, the Kabihugs consumed them without rice or any equivalent carbohydrates. The civilized in me realized that the concepts of viand and three square meals are lowlander fixations. The Kabihugs enjoyed the freedom of eating carbohydrates alone at their pleasure, or viand alone for that matter.

                    It was evening and two naked toddlers were frolicking on the equally bare ground. The Kabihug casually smiled, the concept of pulmunya being alien to him. If frolicking naked on bare ground were bad for babies' health, we would have not found any surviving Kabihug there in the first place. Looking at the babies, I wondered how they were born without the benefit of cotton and alcohol. I was told of cutting umbilical cords with sharp bamboo skin, which I thought, being organic, is guaranteed tetanus-free. I was told of treating wounds with with ash (being a product of fire, is guaranteed sterilized) to control bleeding. I was told of the ulaw system of communication with faraway bands in times of emergency - charge-free, load-free. I was told of rubbing snake bites with pepper - no cuts, no sucking. "Ang nakamamatay ay ang takot," I was told, the elder preparing another mouthful of nganga (betel nut) from his takupis (locally woven pouch).

                    I realized that I was, a teacher at that, who had to learn much from the Kabihug, and not the other way around. I found an unexplored mine of a gem called indigenous wisdom, rendering all my knowledge wanting. Nocturnal birds and insects orchestrated a lullaby of calls and chirps. I surmised such exotic sounds inspired the tune and rhythm of the Kabihug tribal  music adopted by the mayor of Daet for the Pinyasan Festival. I shivered into the night an enlightened man, the Kabihug earning my highest respect.

travelthon.blogspot.com

A BARKER'S BRUNCH

A BARKER'S BRUNCH

(Travel and Cuisine)

Nestor Alagbate

J216

                    Crossing Aurora Boulevard along E. de los Santos Avenue in Cubao, one could see Aurora Overpass over E. Rodriguez Avenue. A light blue smoke made a distinct presence amidst the polluted mid-morning air. It emanated from the island beneath the towering LRT 2 tracks, from a shack made of salvaged materials. The patch of green provided by the island offered one's tired eyes a much needed relief from the monotony of the concrete jungle. The shack on the island evoked memories of some faithful nipa hut in a faraway province, sentiments strong enough to drag one's feet to the place. One wonders what was cooking. 

                    Two men were seated on an outdoor bench which looked more like a bed. The fat guy in his mid-forties, bare from the waist up, sported tattoos on his body. The execution of the designs suggested an amateur artist from some detention facility. He had a long scar on his left side, which made one wonder if he had sold a kidney. The other guy, in early thirties, certainly was a hawker judging from the bundle of towels on his left arm. One just could not resist curiosity about what sort of brunch displaced persons like them could have been preparing in such a place. 

                    The fat guy introduced himself to me as Taba for obvious reason, and introduced the younger guy as Bernard. Asked if he was a barker, Taba answered in the affirmative. "Have just been done with my turn," he explained. Bernard assured me I was safe in the place, and further introduced themselves as "Bisyang", as Batang City Jail gang members called themselves. "We are originally from Tondo," Taba added, "but moved here where work is."

                    A young mother of three was cooking chicken adobo. "My daughter," Taba introduced the woman. Noticing that the dish was all neck, one can surmise it was salvaged from some slaughterhouse. Devoid of vinegar, the woman had soy sauce from a sachet. Devoid of garlic, she made do with onion which looked more like rejects from nearby Arayat Market. Roaring vehicles climbing from EDSA muffled the sizzling dish, and smoke belching from exhausts rendered it odorless.

                    The two men were drinking Ginebra from a styropor cup, and "chased" it with water from a disposable plastic glass. Bernard ordered Taba to produce another bilog. "What was I your mayor for?" he reminded the older guy. Mayor is a term inmates address brigade leaders. Bilog (round) is a colloquial name Filipinos call the shape of the base of the smallest bottle of Ginebra San Miguel. This is to distinguish it from lapad (ellipse) and kantuhan (square). Taba returned in no time at all with another bottle of gin, and handed to me pieces of salted tamarind wrapped in yellow plastic. "Pulutan," he told me, referring to the finger foods that go with liquor. He placed the rest on the bench.

                    The woman and her three unkempt kids took part of the brunch. As the kids did not seem to be excited over the dish, one can surmise it was a barker's usual fare. The youngest, barely able to walk, fed a kitten which looked more like a stray than a pet.

                    The two men contented themselves with gin and salted tamarind. "You see this seed?" Bernard asked me. I nodded. "Do yo know where it came from?" "From some tree," I hesitantly replied, unsure of his reaction to my obvious reply. "Wherever that three is," he told me, "we will never know. I will throw this seed to the grass near that LRT post," he said pointing to the spot. "Take a good look," he said as he threw the seed. "Do you think it will grow?" he asked me. "Most probably," I replied. "Do you think it will bear fruit?" he asked again. "Well," I said, "if it manages to survive, maybe." "That's what city life is like for migrants from the provinces like us," he stated. "What do you really mean?" I asked. "I don't know where precisely you came from. Nor you know precisely where I did. By some chance we met in the city. After this drinking session, I'll never know what happens to you next, nor you will know what happens to me."

                    Any educator cannot but be amazed to find such a profound articulation from displaced persons under the tracks. Who would have thought that a lowly pulutan could eloquently illustrate one of the realities of life? Surely an all-neck adobo devoid of vinegar and garlic would have been illustrative of more realities. One could be certain that there is much to learn from a barker's muffled, odorless brunch. 

FAITH UNARTICULATED

FAITH UNARTICULATED

(Free Choice)

Nestor Alagbate

J216

www.choosephilippines.com

                    "Viva la Virgen!" the officiating priest proclaimed over a public address system. "Viva!" the vast multitude of believers responded. The crowd was so dense I could hardly see the image of the Virgin. I could only guess the distance of the bulk of the procession judging from the sound coming from the public address system. As shouts of "Viva!" grew louder, I surmised the image approached closer. I firmly stood my ground on the spot of the sidewalk which I gained with much grit, and defended my stronghold with the same amount of pious fortitude.

www.clickthecity.com

                    At last I saw the Virgin. "Viva!" I assented, my voice drowned by the thunder of the tumult. Her petite image swayed now to the left, and then to the right, with the faithful frantically shouting in alarm, for fear that the image might eventually succumb to the grasp of the beseeching hands of the devotees. They applauded every time the image regained upright position. The procession erratically inched ts way into the multitude, now darting forward, and then inching a few steps backward. The sea of humanity swept me away from my fiercely defended spot, and it took only a fraction of a second for the surge to dash my arduous hours of fortitude.

wallyocampo.wordpress.com

                    The three hundred year-old image stood firmly on a silver pedestal borne by barefooted men, and the smell of liquor filled the air. The men, called voyadores, drank before the grueling ritual to benumb their battered bodies. Their mesmerized eyes bore untold stories of supplication and thanksgiving; stories of faith as countless as the multitude of the believers chanting "Viva!" My own stories of supplication and thanksgiving joined theirs, albeit untold. "Se siempre la Reina de nuestra region," the faithful affirmed in song in profound gratitude for the countless favors she has interceded in behalf of "el pueblo amante de Maria" since 1710. Her crown as Reina de nuestra region, a title bestowed upon her by the Papal Legate in 1924, glistened under that September afternoon sun.

imkd.com

                     By sundown, she eventually reached the river where a flat-bottomed casco waited. Amidst unceasing chants of "Viva la Virgen!" the silver  pedestal was placed on an ornate pagoda on the frilled casco. The faithful on the banks either clapped or waved their hands with handkerchiefs bearing her image, while the weary voyadores vigorously paddled in their bancas pulling the casco upriver. Our unarticulated wishes and thanks sent her off to her sanctuary, while a heartfelt Resuene Vibrante resonated from the multitude. The sea of candles illumined the riverbanks as he voyadores dutifully towed her, until she vanished from our sight, as we made a faithful resolve to see her the next September.

www.choosephilippines.com

juliusatparam.wordpress.com