donger need food.

Sidewalks Are For People

Staring out the window of Gate 22 of Narita International Airport, I find it hard to come up with an adequate description for the inevitable question: “So how was your trip?” I don’t think pictures or words are enough to convey the emotion I felt on that last 90 minute drive from my Mom’s tiny little barrio/barangay to the old and worn down Ninoy Aquino International Airport. There’s just so much to say about my last two weeks, that the only thing that comes in clearly right now are those crisp words painted in blue paint on that virginal white wall on the road to the airport: “Sidewalks Are For People. Bawal Magtindahan Dito”. But if I keep trying, the memories start coming… first, a little trickle – “Bawal umihi dito!” painted everywhere; the sweet taste of freshly cracked rambutan on the side of a rain soaked road in the hills of Laguna; the sound of those roosters the first morning I woke up at my parent’s (new) house…

Then more: that smell in our bathroom (that reminded me of Holland) because of poorly constructed ventilation that my Dad fought over with the builders a year ago; the two little kids in Baytown sitting on the side of the road in pouring rain, washing their hair in the murky brown water that was splashed up by my cousin’s car as we passed; the two little girls that refused to let my mom close her door in Antipolo until we relented and gave them 5 pesos; the little dramas in our family that blow up into big scandals, and watching my Mom and her ate act as mediators and smoothing out the situations; how life slows down and time melts away when you accept the fact that everything is two hours away, no matter how fast you try to drive; the tears in my Mom’s eyes when we visited my Lola & Lolo’s grave; the sheer terror (and utmost respect) I felt as our various drivers skillfully weaved in and out of traffic, playing chicken with oncoming tricycles and jeeps; the goosebumps on my arm when my cousin told the story of when her two year old daughter woke up in the middle of the night, pointing at a picture in our grandparents’ old house saying, “Lola. Lola.” (she had never seen her before she died)...

And it’ll just keep on coming and coming: brightly lit fifty-foot billboards peddling stylish mega-expensive clothes, towering over some of the poorest neighborhoods you have seen; the huge lots in Taytay filled with trash, with people sifting through garbage; the beautiful solid wood floors and Noel Blanco paintings in an amazing P70M vacation home/compound; the amazing view from Leslie’s restaurant overlooking the Taal volcano, and the similarly amazing food; P100 Mangojitos at Mall of Asia; gaining what must’ve been at least 15 pounds from all the freakin’ food…

And then there was the sensory overload: those crazy frogs that were SO loud (there must’ve been a million of them singing in harmony) every night; the relentless smell of diesel fumes whenever you’re outside; the sheer ruckus of unregulated exhausts on tricycles, jeepney rooster horns, car horns, loud diesel motors, siren horns, whistles from traffic cops; the fireworks show at Mall of Asia that were about oh…fifty feet away, landing on cars and the street, the powder in your face; and that haze…everyday, ground-level pollution everywhere.

So I’m not sure what to say.

I take that back. I know I can say two things:

1. I want Rica Peralejo to be the mother of my children.
2. Filipino motorcycle riders have the biggest balls I have ever seen (and yes, I do mean the women too). Holy crap…we were watching one rider one night: no lights, in the rain, carrying (not wearing) their helmet, wearing only shorts, tsinelas and a t-shirt, passing cars left and right, even against traffic.

posted by VirtualErn @ 10:42 PM

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