masquerade

it’s bizarre how we'd sometimes feel to have lost something we had never actually owned,  i thought while i was carefully examining the colourful masks in a souvenir shop, feeling lost and suspended in the middle of the wandering crowd of tourists along a narrow Venetian alley.

* * *

it hurts!  and it was painful not because i was abandoned for someone else...  it's heart-breaking because for a few years, love seemed to have had me visually impaired only to realise, after all, that everything about my past relationship was a masquerade!

clearly, grieving was supposedly inessential; ridiculous as it might seem, i lamented over losing someone that wasn’t even mine.  that moment i wondered if me sobbing, in its real sense, was a sign of a weakness or a strength; then i'd find solace in the thought that it’s the coward, not me, who'd suffer more.   they’d say that enduring an interminable misery might, in the end, imperative should one choose to remain a coward— the one who’d bravely keep on hiding behind a stern face just to get applauded before the critical eyes of the society.

so mysterious these masks, when one's wearing one; how colourful and lovely to look at from the outside but it's horribly uncomfortable from the inside, i thought as i moved on to check out the next shop— determined to face and embrace the promise of a renewed life after this unknown period of my voluntary exile.

--------------------------- 
typed on a mobile phone, 02 November 2018; one sleepless night while in one of the rooms of Hotel Ca’ Del Campo, Venezia, Italia. 

Blood-red...

The colour of the blood oozing from the bullet wounds of thousands of young soldiers, most of them in their late teens and early twenties, must have been similar to the colour of this rosebud I photographed at the park this morning.

I salute those boys and girls for their bravery in facing definite uncertainties as they sailed off to fulfil their first mission which, for most of them, sadly ended up as their final duty for their country.  I commend them for having the courage to leave not only their loved ones and their beautiful land, but also the promise of the bright future they could have had— had they opted to stay at home.


SO I ASKED myself.  Where was I when I was on my late teens and early twenties?  What was I doing?"  

I recalled I was studying to become a vet in a school not far from my hometown.  And yes, I had just completed that four consecutive years of the, then, compulsory military education and training for Filipino students...  yet I would not have been able to display the necessary gallantry had there been a call for me to be on the line of duty for national defence.  The coward in me could have just boldly or, better yet, easily convinced myself to rather stay and never ever dare to confront any bullet that could potentially shatter the dreams I had for my future.


BUT LOOK AT those young ANZAC heroes who, after getting off from the boat at dawn, selflessly weathered the torrential rain of bullets from the offending Ottoman armies, withstood the unutterable pain of wounds or burns, and down to the last drop, spilt their life-giving blood on the slopes— flooding the shores of that cove in Turkey more than a century ago.

For me, it is not just enough to only remember them.  We should be truly grateful for having this fair degree of peacefulness and freedom we currently enjoy in this world.  It may be admirable to emulate their heroism as we face any war in our modern era.  Aren't we luckier, somehow, to have received the command to stay and face this battle against the virus in the comfort of our own home?

The Barista in Me

These days, nightfall comes early and temperature (in 'C) would drop down to single digits overnight.  Having tired eyes from staring at computer screens the whole day, I put my vintage table lamps out soon after supper last night, just in time when Mr. Snoffles was coming in from his evening hunt.   I 'hit the hay' and as I was settling comfortably under the quilt, this tabby cat hopped on top of my bed and tunnelled his way under my blanket.


I FELT SATISFIED after a full night sleep.  I got up at six, gave Snoffles his morning 'bread', put my cool-weather gears on and walked down the sleepy streets to get some flat white from my newly discovered coffee bar.  I love their brew— the smoothness of the coffee flavour, the sweetness of the perfectly heated fresh milk in it... those natural tastes  that were gradually released as the barista meticulously worked on his machine.  So like a thirsty camel who has found its oasis, I've been coming here since Saturday to grab a drink!

Earlier, while I was across the counter watching the young barista preparing my order, I asked him about the secrets in making good coffee, "...is it the barista, the coffee beans or the machine?

"A bit of each," he casually replied and handed my take-away flat white to me.

As I walked down the sycamore-lined street, intermittently sipping some hot beverage from a holed cardboard cup clasped in my hand, I remembered my younger days back in the barrio when my late father would ask me to make a cup of instant coffee for him.  Yes, I was once a barista and I had a customer who genuinely loved coffee.  He'd tell me that I make delicious coffees; but, honestly, I would only follow his suggested techniques...  I'd only use briskly boiling water to re-hydrate a teaspoonful of freeze-dried coffee, then I'd add a rounded spoonful of powdered milk to it, stir and hand my brew to him.

I started drinking coffee and got addicted to caffeine only later in life, so, back then, I hadn't had the slightest idea how a great coffee should taste like.  Like the barista this morning, I didn't get to taste those doses of caffeine I handed to my only 'customer', I just trusted myself, believing that I made it right.  Consistency and love; I guess these were the important ingredients I added to my own brew back then.

Having spent his life in a secluded village— in a hut humbly standing in the middle of the ricefield, I wonder if my late dad, before at least facing his life’s untimely expiration, ever had the opportunity to taste and enjoy barista-made coffees during his regular visit the city to see his siblings... to enjoy this relatively sophisticated kind of brew that have become my favourite these days.  If he did have, then I’m sure, like the fluffy McDonald's pancake we, together, once had in Ilustre St., Davao, he would have been raving about this flat white.

Macaroni (a memoir)

I CLOSE MY EYES... and using my tongue, roll a heaping tablespoon of  short, curved, hallow pasta generously smothered in mayonnaise, hint of pickles, bits of pineapple, nata de coco, sultanas, tiny cubed cheddar and strands of boiled chicken breast in my mouth.  I completely ignore the starch and sugar contained in this dish as I start chewing it, alfresco, like having an amnesia— forgetting everything about that low-carb diet I’ve been following, after savouring this sort of a plat du jour from my own kitchen.

Sitting on this outdoor timber bench, I then sip some flat white, feel the, thankfully, cool January morning breeze as I watch my pet cat Snoffles sniffing and stalking around the garden on this quiet and bright new year’s day.   The potted succulent sitting on the matching timber table in front of me simply appear to be ignoring the cuts and scratches on its leaves as it raises its younger blades positively upward as if welcoming 2020 with much hope and delight!

I do look forward to the new year, praying for both mental and physical health as well as complete healing from the wounds of 2019, in short hoping for a happy and healthy days ahead but this macaroni-chicken salad I’m having for breakfast instantly take me back to how our family would celebrate the New Year in my childhood days.


HAVING SOME CHILLED MACARONI salad for breakfast would be a typical first day of the new year for me and my younger brother (I have a sister who’s seven years younger than me, could be the reason why she’s not present on this particular memory).  Unlike me who’s born in August— budget wise, the most challenging month for a rice farmer in Mlang, Cotabato, I’d think as a child that he was much luckier than I was.   He was born on a New Year’s Eve so he hadn’t had a birthday without a celebration, well, at least for me that was a ‘celebration’.  

I’d say that New Year’s Eve was more exciting for us than Christmas Eve, especially at dusk, set off by a faint audible sound of a motorcycle gradually becoming louder, heralding the arrival of our (now deceased) father from the town centre.  As children, my brother and I didn’t really care how and where would the resources come from, what was important for us was that our father had brought us a banquet for his birthday celebration!  There’s this roasted pig head along with its pleasant, distinct smoky aroma, the fluffy chiffon cake, the sliced white bread that would come with peanut butter contained in disposable cups covered with foil, and a box of sparklers which we would eagerly light at Media Noche.

Unlike most of the Filipino families, we seldom have a traditional collection of thirteen ‘round’ fruits at home.  If we’d have some, like calamansi or guava from our orchard, we’d arrange them in a tray and proudly place it on our modest, rickety dining table; sometimes, it’s not even a dozen.  Sadly incomplete!  Perhaps my mother was not a believer of such fortune these fruits would bring to the family who gathers these or most likely, we just couldn’t afford to buy that much variety of fruits on New Years Eve.  So what I could recall was a mom who couldn’t be bothered collecting colourful fruits but someone who’d try to put together the ‘cheapest’ ingredients so we could have our favourite macaroni salad as we welcome the new year.

I’d usually avoid using the word ‘cheap’, would prefer using ‘affordable’ instead, as the word cheap doesn’t only mean inexpensive but also inferior quality.  Something that is substandard.

But this time, ‘cheapest’ would be the most suited word to describe the ingredients our salad was made of as I could remember those curved, hollow, dried pasta packed in transparent plastic bags that didn’t cook and taste as great as Royal® Elbow Macaroni.  What our family could afford was something inferior than del Monte’s® macaroni, even cheaper than Fiesta® macaroni.  It was a macaroni without a brand, boiled and cooked as gracefully as we could under the canopy of banana leaves in our backyard using our big, old kaldero.

There were New Year’s Eve when we wouldn’t have enough cream and mayonnaise, obviously due to lack of finances even if my parents would choose not to purchase the first class Lady’s Choice®.  But as long as there were red and green kaong, some bits of pineapples, unbranded raisins, a small box of Eden® cheese—patiently cubed, and heaps of condensed milk, it was still called macaroni salad, wasn’t it?


BACK TO THIS FIRST MORNING of 2020, while enjoying my macaroni, alfresco, I start thinking.  Which is better: a not so great macaroni salad prepared and shared with my family or a perfectly creamy macaroni cooked al dente yet eaten quietly and alone on a new year’s day? 

Fountain of Youth

photo credit:  Shutterstock

Obviously exhausted from his 12-hour flight from Melbourne, his hands were tucked into his cargo shorts’ pockets.  James Celdran was standing next to the foot-board of the hospital bed while blankly staring through the only window of room 208.  The cloud was low, heavy and dark; a few coconut trunks and palms were visibly swaying in the wind— silhouetting against the grey skies!  As seen from the second level of Mlang Specialist Medical Center, a heavy downpour was imminent… but he didn’t seem to care about Typhoon Vinta at the moment.
  
James’ 71-year old grandma was ill.  In the past few days, the world for him was an absolute grey monochrome!  The dullness outdoors was permeating through the window glass panel, softly illuminating this heart-breaking scene in the room.  As the nurse gently administered a drug via an IV line, the patient groaned.

“It’ll be enough to alleviate the pain.  I’ll be back in 15 minutes to check her BP.”  The nurse left before James could even acknowledge.

He sat on the bedside bench, took hold of his granny’s wrinkled right hand and clasped it tightly in his.  It was pale and cold.  He squeezed it, looked straight into the eyes of his terminally ill grandmother and noticed those were welling up in tears.  James gently raised and placed his Lola Isobel’s frail knuckles on his forehead— as an absolute sign of Filipino respect and accepting a blessing from elderlies.

As the rhythmic beeping of the hospital machine continued to saturate the room, James got drowned in his emotions!  Then, gradually, those beeps interestingly turned into a ringing bell of an ice cream vendor peddling on the road thirty-five years ago…

That delicate hand he was currently clutching in the ICU was healthy, rosy, and warm back then.  It was the same hand that would hand him— a six-year old James— some coins so he could buy and enjoy his favourite ice cream flavour!  Those were the days when his granny’s creative hands would sew him countless pairs of comfortable pyjamas.  Those were the years when this strong and healthy hand would securely hold young James’ small hands while they were together doing their weekly marketing at the busy public market during Saturdays.


ONE SATURDAY MORNING IN April 1985, James and his granny were about to cross the street after getting off from a jeepney.  He, as a young boy, grabbed his grandma’s hand… but he wondered why her grip wasn’t tight enough?!

Then James suddenly realised that he’s back to the present time in that ICU— holding his ailing grandma’s delicate hand!

“A…a… I’m se… se… scared…” the patient mumbled.  Then a plump grain of tear suddenly ruptured and ran down her cheeks.

James couldn’t deny that his granny didn’t want to die!  Not yet, he thought.  Not at seventy-one; his Lola Isobel was still too young to die, indeed!


OUTSIDE, A HEAVY DOWNPOUR COMMENCED... gradually turning the town’s streets into infinite shallow streams!  At that very moment, James and his family could only wish that these flood waters would eventually turn into a fountain.  Yes, a fountain of youth.


.

Still waiting...

I TOSSED DOWN A GLASS of skinny latte and now staring across the wide window glass panel. I've been conveniently sitting on this bar stool, alone, amidst a crowd of cultured strangers that have been pacing back and forth while others are having a quick bite and taking their own dose of caffeine. There's a flat LCD screen on the wall-- inaudibly airing the news so I can't blame some of these outgoing passengers who opted to read the daily paper instead, while waiting for their boarding time.

This airline lounge has been bustling since I came in earlier this morning, and despite the orchestrating muffled sound of TV audio, the classic airport terminal voiceover and the continuous clanking of dishes, this themed room hasn't lost even an inch of elegance at all.


MY FLIGHT HAS BEEN DELAYED for two hours... and I was mocked by the irony of having a mobile phone that sent the alarm bells off to wake me up to get ready for my early morning flight but at the same time, the same device also informed me via SMS that my departure time has been moved.

Knackered from the five-day NZ 'workcation', I then decided to reset the alarm and buried myself in the softness of that meticulously-made bed with pillows dressed with smooth, bleached, immaculate linen! I dozed off for another hour.


NOW IN THIS LOUNGE, it seemed that a shot of caffeine from that latté had supplied enough stimulant to awaken my sleepy brain!

Instantly, under the gloomy Sydney sky, I now notice the aircrafts taking off, another three are taxiing on the damp tarmac, and there are passengers down there queuing to climb up the ladder to board a small plane...

What are they up to? Probably a business trip extended over the weekend... or maybe going home to spend the holidays with their family?

How about this passenger sitting next to me in this lounge? He's on his phone and I could smell something 'romantic' going on. Most likely, somebody is getting his favourite meal ready the moment he steps on the doorway... and that lovely young lady over there, a loved one must be have been waiting to give her a tight hug as she gets to her destination.

How about me? Well, not quite.

Today is just another day. Another typical day.

A Pig's Tale

IT’S 7:14pm AT OUR CURRENT LOCATION on-board QF5 en route to Singapore; the 'flight path' board says this Airbus 330 has already flown three quarters of the total time to our destination.  While the majority of the passengers have been dozing off in the comfort of their fully reclined ‘cradle’, my mobile phone screen illuminates my face as I type this 'note' amidst the darkened aircraft cabin.

As usual, I'm travelling for work.  There's not much difference as to what I'd normally do except for this being an international flight this time (there’s actually been a few of these since I joined the company 22 months ago).  I'll be away for the next six days to attend a meeting that will basically cover a few things about pigs as well as their health.  Who would've thought that working with these 'lesser beasts' (as what Mark Essig calls them in his book ‘A Snout to Tail History of the Humble Pig’) could also take me to places?  Trips like this would definitely bring a lasting and memorable learning experience!


ACTUALLY, MY VERY FIRST OVERSEAS trip was when I left my job as a pig veterinarian in the Philippines to embark on an extraordinary journey as a piggery attendant in Australia. That venture didn't last for more than a year, though...  Things may not have worked out as planned but I'd say that that was definitely the gate that opened the path of greater opportunities that lead me to where I am right now.

This ‘career’ actually started more than three decades ago, though at that time—as a six-year old boy, I'd call it an ‘adventure’.  I remember in the late 80's, Auntie Manay was into backyard pig raising— looking  after half a dozen grower pigs.  I would join her collect some stalks of gabi (taro) or tangkong (swamp cabbage) from the swampy areas of the family property, chop these 'veggies' and, using a firewood, cook these outdoor in a big pot with binlæd (a waste product of rice milling).  The cooked veggies were called la-on and when cooled down and mixed with upa (rice hull shavings from a grain while milling), this was the staple diet of our pig herd back then!  When these hogs would reach market size, Auntie Manay would sell them to the public-market butchers; it would feel a bit sad at the start seeing my 'pets' squealing while being weighed using a traditional weighing scale but after receiving the payment it would get more interesting as it was then the time to go to Davao City to shop and dine.  Meanwhile, after slaughtering, the butchers would usually give our pigs’ liver back to us as a consolation and that was absolutely a special dinner treat for the family!

Auntie Manay would usually own at least one Philippine native sow those days, would have it naturally bred by an outdoor-raised Duroc-Pietrain boar owned by Uncle Simo in the property nearby.  Every time the pregnant sow would get closer to its ‘due date’, Auntie Manay and I would sleep in the barn with the sow so we could assist during farrowing (act of giving birth in pigs).  That was actually quite exciting as the activity would include a guessing game as to whether the total piglets born alive would get up to a dozen or more!  Night duties would then follow over the next 7-10 days so we could look after the cute little piglets (most of them black, some were brown with black spots) at suckling time thus protecting them from the danger of being laid over and crushed by their dam.  I'd also witness the young male piglets' surgical castration performed by a trained technician who, at that time, would call himself a 'veterinarian'.


ONE TIME MY PARENTS got a female piglet as a gift from a family friend; completely clueless about gilt (maiden female pig) selection, Nanay and Tatay decided to have ‘her’ naturally bred.  I remember the poor sow only had six piglets born, and didn't even have the ideal teats (nipples) a mother pig should have!  Day-old piglet processing wasn't practiced at that time; we had no idea of proper sow management post-farrowing so the sow suffered from a hard and swollen udder which made her difficult to lactate!  The poor piglets, who also hadn't receive iron injection suffered from malnutrition, gradually became lethargic and died one after the other.  I shed buckets of tears out of grief. 
After finishing high school I wasn't, actually, the one who decided to enrol at vet school; my parents did... they groomed me to become a veterinarian.  It worked and ended up really well, though, because at the moment I definitely enjoy and love what I am doing.


THREE DECADES LATER, here I am, still working with pigs but definitely not in our small village in southern Philippines.  I have, somehow, started conquering the world because of swine production and medicine.  The great things about it: while looking after the welfare and health of the swine herd, I could help feed Australia and the rest of the world. 



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