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Aswang

Well, I’ve not posted awhile now, a long while, work has kept me busy.. busy.. and when I’m not at work my new son has been eating up most of whatever other time I have. BUT when I have gotten a minute or two to myself I’m been busy writing a book.The book started out as yet another one of my true to life, personal adventures like so many I have written herein before. The story started out as one of my adventures in Bohol when one night I decided to walk to the graveyard and look for Aswang. You see, night in Bohol can get very boring and I thought that searching for Aswang would spice it up a bit.
Like I said, it started out as non-fiction and for some reason I decided that it would be fun to write a fictional story. So I wrote and I wrote, a little time here, a little time there and soon wala! I was finished… so I thought, hardly… You see… I let a few people read it and the story was so well received that the readers wanted more, one reader wanted me to kill off my uncle for laughing at me in the book, right kill my uncle? “are you crazy?”
So now I’m off writing more, not modifying the existing story, but writing what amounts to a whole new story. It’s going to be kind of cool because when I’m done I will join the two stories into one book. They are two stories that tell a story of Aswang the first a story (the first story I wrote) as viewed by a person being stalked and attacked by Aswang. The second a story of the life of an Aswang, told by an Aswang.
I finished the artwork for the cover as well. Even after all these years I still love Photoshop. On nice Sunday I took my wife on a drive around cemeteries here in San Diego where a took a bunch of photos, then filtered pictures of the moon in a blood red.. well here see for yourself…
Besides that I was finely able to make contact with the “Sons of Calape” a Boholano group I’m been trying to make contact with to join for a long time. But that's pretty much what I’ve been up to.

Mga palaka (Frogs)

Things so common in the Philippines seems such a rare treat when you happen upon them here in Amerika. The frogs that are in our garden, who’s croaking can be heard in the quite of the night are one of those treats. Although frogs, indigenous most places in the world where the environment can support them, my memories are of frogs found in the rice fields of the Philippines.
Memories now important, that were then simply another warm evening in our darkened second story bedroom. The squatter’s karaoke and drunken voices singing an obscure Barry Manilow song have finally fallen silent, at first the only sounds in the room is that of my wife sleeping and the tic tic tic of the electric fan rotating too and fro pushing air to keep us cool. With the days events and those of tomorrow processing in my mind a gentle solitaire croak of a frog in the rice field interrupts my thoughts, buurrum it calls.
buurrum, where are you my love the frog repeats. Soon the stillness of the night, the sounds of my wife sleeping and the tic tic tic of the fan are replaced by the sounds of hundreds of frogs forming a chorus chirping, buurrum, buurrum, buurrum, buurrum, each I imagine calling; where are you my love, I am here my darling …. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
One of the frogs in our garden.

The Power of Money

Uncle Macario (Uyoan Cayong) was of all my grand uncles my favorite. When others would pay me no mind, Uncle Cayong would take the time to spoil me in ways others never would. How excited I would get when I would see Uncle Cayong.
“Billy, how are you? Do you want to buy ice cream?” Uncle would say as he rubbed my head with his warm hand, Oh YES uncle! I would respond with a giant smile on my face. “Okay, you go to the car” he would say motioning with his hand toward his car parked at the curb.
Uncle drove what then seemed like huge shiny black car that had big heavy doors and windows I was to shortto see out of. I would have to stretch my tiny body upward pushing on the seat with my hands to look out the window. "Here we go" uncle would say as he started the car, jetting the gas just a bit. Vroom, the engine would roar and off we would go driving down the street to the local ice cream shop.
It was he, my Uncle Cayong, who would be the one to teach me;
“The Power of Money.”
I was playing outside my Lola’s house on 11th avenue in the San Francisco Richmond District when it happened again, as often it did, and like so many times before I would run crying and holding my nose thinking I was going to die. But unlike time before Uncle Cayong was visiting.
I ran up the star case, opened the front door and ran in the house. I ran to the bathroom pushing a bathroom door open with a thump as it hit the wall. waahhhhhh I cried as I pulled toilet paper from the roll. "Hoi! What’s wrong! "Uncle Cayong said. Blubbering with tearing eyes I turned toward him and lean my head back to show him. My nose is bleeding uncle, am I going to bleed to death? I asked.
"Huh!" he said as he inspected my bleeding nose, "no you will not die". He laughed, "Come with me, I will show you some magic uncle said". He led me to the living room. "Here you lay down to the couch" uncle instructed. As I laid there sniffling back the blood that was still streaming from my nose, Uncle Cayong reached into his pocket and produced a shiny liberty silver dollar. "You see this coin?" Yes uncle I responded, " This is a magic, okay, I will put this coin to you forehead and in awhile your nose will stop to bleeding". Uncle placed the coin on my forehead, smiled and said; "when your nose stops to bleeding you can have the coin".
Uncle walked back to the kitchen where my Lola was and there I laid trying to roll my eye up attempting to see the silver dollar on my forehead. Soon I had forgotten about my nose bleed and was thinking about all the candy I would buy with that shiny silver dollar.
And just like magic, my nose bleed stopped and off to the store I ran with my shiny silver dollar. The power of money, a lesson I have never forgotten.
Uncle if you can hear me I love you and miss you, see you in heaven when I get there.

Lola's Donuts

One of the family recipes that I never was able to get was that of my lolas donuts. The donuts were round, the size of golf ball the exterior of the donut was dark drown and was covered with sugar. Breaking open the donut exposed an off-white almost yellow dough, a wonderful smell and I slight puff of steam would emanate from the donut if they had just come from the deep fryer. I have fond memories of these donuts, as they were an integral part of my childhood memories.
More often than not, I would be outside my lolo and lola’s house on 11th avenue. Most time playing with Hines and Deter, the German kids across the street or secretly looking at the Playboy magazine that my cousin Mark and I hid, something we were more curious about then stimulated by after all we were kids and girls were still somewhat icky and believe me I know icky I had five sisters well, four at that time.
It would be then I would hear my Lola’s voice call… Billlllll—lee, in the long drawn out manner I had accustomed my ears in hearing…. Billll-lee Doughhhh-Nuts… that’s all that I would need to here and I would stop doing whatever I was doing, even stop mid-stream in a sentence and run full bore as if I were Flash Gorden, for the house.
I’d climb the granite stairway to the house open and fly though the door and closing it all in the same motion, I’d run down the hall way and into the kitchen and there, yes there, on the square kitchen table a hot steaming batch of donuts would be stacked in a large bowl.
How excited I would be, feeling as though I could jump out of my own skin! DoNUTS!... donuts donuts donuts my brain would be screaming… I would grab one and bite it then while holding the rest between my teeth I would fill my pants pocket with as many as they could hold. You could see the grease from the donuts oozing though my jeans and the tell tale bumps of donuts within. I would run sort of stiff legged, so as not to crush the donuts I had stuffed into my pockets, down the hallway to the front door to go outside and enjoy. As I left the kitchen I can remember hearing my Lola laugh..

The Closet

In my grandparents house on 10th Avenue in the San Francisco Richmond District there was a closet located at the top of the stairs that led from the entrance way. The room was no larger then 5 foot by 8 foot and was used to store miscellaneous house cleaning tools such as brooms and vacuums. It also contained 100 pound bags of rice which my Lolo and Lola sell, but the most interesting thing is the closet was an alter which in which the Virgin Mary and a crucifix were displayed.
It was here as children we would receive our discipline. We would on occasion for an indiscretion that would upset our grandparents be exiled to “The Closet.” It was here we were to kneel and ask for forgiveness for whatever it was we had done, depending on our transgression, sometimes we would remain in the “The Closet” for hours, sometimes so long we would fall asleep on the bags of rice.
For me visits to “The Closet” seemed a monthly or at vary lest an bi-weekly ordeal as often when I thought I was being smart or slick, I was not and would end up getting caught by an adult in the house. It never occurred to at that time these highly intelligent, mind reading adults knew EXACTLY what I was doing almost all the time and getting caught doing, whatever I was doing, was inevitable.
For most people spending time in “The Closet” would be a time to reflect on what they had done wrong, that is MOST PEOPLE. For me this was a test to see what I could do to amuse myself in a small space. Once I was so bold as to hide a book within the closet because I knew it was only a matter of time before, “I was blamed” for something [it was never my fault at that age] and ended up in the closet yet again.
There was a window in the closet and if memory servers me right I think it was of stained glass. Outside the window was nothing but a space where you could look down one story and up one story, seemingly escape proof. It was one summer day when put into the closet I discovered that a large pipe ran up and down the entire height of the house. The pipe started at the bottom or what was the top of the garage, which was below the grade of the house and ran all the way to the roof.
It was not long that before I squeezed out of the window and scurried up the pipe to the roof to explore the outside world. I had found a refuge an escape from my punishment! The trick was timing, knowing how long I could stay on the roof before someone came to the closet to release me. The time in the closet was proportional to the indiscretion made or INDISCRETION + SEVERITY = TIME TO BE SERVED. Time after time I would journey to the roof when I was suppose to be asking for forgiveness. I would play with the small pebbles on the roof as if they were sand on a beach, I would sneak to the edge of the roof and look over tossing one or two pebbles on cars and people passing by. It was during one of these adventures I herd the yells, that horrible sound a child hears when he is found doing something so bad that he knows his punishment is going to be painful, a fear so great you cry because you know and there is nothing you can do about it.
My punishment was walking on my tip toes while my ear was being forcibly twisted and torn-off or so it seemed and the shear delight of kneeling on mongo beans till I fell asleep with forehead on the wall from crying.
Future visits to “The Closet” found the window locked so I could not escape for another adventure.
And now; my 9 year old son Jon, is a living testament of who I was at his age and I am the highly intelligent, mind reading adult who knows EXACTLY what he is doing almost all the time and getting is inevitable.

Siling labuyo

In Americka the Sili you buy at the Asian market is labeled as Sili but are not my beloved Sili, at least not Philippine Sili. Back in the Pinas, one Sili measuring ½ in length contained enough fire to cause not only your forehead to bead sweat but also the parietal area of your head to seep large droplet of sweat too.
Here in Americka, Siling labuyo is just not the same, it was routine for me to eat spoonfuls of this “imported” Sili. I would line both sides of my hotdog with them, I would eat five or six to a spoonful of rice and adobo. I would in essence eat a whole 12oz. jar in less then one month and my acid reflux would hardly notice.
Janet, my loving wife, remembering her husband (me, who else) while back home in Bicol picked and pickled 2 quarts of Sili (see picture) that her mama and papa grow in their garden. While picking them papa was shocked that I ate the Sili like it was candy. When Janet told me this I laughed and said “those are not even hot.”
When Janet returned home and I was able to sample them I found that these Sili were INCREDIBLY HOT. I found that the green, light green and red were hot right off the bat. The yellow or beige ones were mild and white ones sneak up on you; at first you think they are bland and then all of a sudden your mouth is on fire, your face will flush and your whole head will seep droplet of sweat.
Last night, I don’t know what I was thinking. I ate an assortment of these Sili on two ham sandwiches made from left over from thanksgiving. I had placed 8 Sili on each sandwich for a total of 16 Sili
Today my stomach is rumbling and my lower exit hole is burning so bad that if not for the fear of getting frost bite I would shove a whole tray of ice cube up my personal lower orifice………… I am in trouble……. For lack of a better description my ass is on fire.

Not Filipino But....

My mom came down from San Francisco to spend thanksgiving with my family and me. My wife and I have been wanting mom to come down for long time, my wife and mother get along great and always have a good time together, we always planed to take my mother in to Mexico to a place called La Bufadora. La Bufadora (The Blowhole) is an amazing natural marine geyser that is located in Baja California Mexico not far from Ensenada.


We took mom to La Bufadora and afterwards treated her to lunch at Mariscos Playa Azul restaurant which serves some of the best seafood in Ensenada. My family and I have eaten allot of places in Ensenada and always return to Mariscos Playa Azul restaurant because so far it has the best seafood in the area. I should say that there is better seafood but it is at the food cart street vendors and there is no place to sit and enjoy company.

After filling our stomachs with good seafood we took a walk down the main drag to a little store called The Spirit Gallery, that sells allot of different things. Not the same crap found in the other stores, the typical Mexican tourist articles you find from TJ to Cabo, but real art from around the world. Janet and I visit this store each time we go to Ensenada regardless if we went just to buy fish at the Mercado or to take family or friends on a tour. This was the first time I had met the owner of the store, a kind man who I could tell had a love for spiritual items. He spent allot of time with us showing us the items he had and explaining their origins and backgrounds.

Janet and I have had our eye on a 3 foot statue of the Buddhist Goddess Kwan Yin for a long time now. We want to put in the entrance way of our house so it is the first thing you see as you walk in the house. As much as I want to buy this statue Kwan Yin it will have to wait until I can find a new job and save up for it as it costs > $300.00 US.

As many times that I have been in this store I never noticed that all the way in the back, behind the small office area there is a patio. It was not until my son, Jon, said; Dad, there is more in the back, I look and him and looked in the back and wouldn’t you know it the sign says “More in the back.” Excited, I walked in the back and the first thing to strike me, seemingly pulling me toward it, was a bust of the Goddess Kwan Yin. It is beautiful! I yelled to Janet to look at it. The detail is exquisite and just looking at it gives you a sense of calm. We both fell instantly in love with and put it on our list of things to purchase when we have the money. I was all the way on the other end of the patio looking at other things when I notice my mother talking with the owner of the shop, she was purchasing it! I said Mom, no! But the next thing I knew she had paid for it and told me it was my Christmas present.

I was originally going to make a shelf for it between our living room and dining room. But, because it is so beautiful and makes me feel a sense of calm and peace, my wife Janet and I decided it would be placed on the end table where Kwan Yin would always be seen. I can not thank my mother enough for this Kwan Yin bust.

If you are ever in Ensenada Mexico make sure you visit called The Spirit Gallery, you will not be disappointed.

Info/Ref: http://www.crystalinks.com/chinamythology.html
KWAN YIN
Goddess of mercy and compassion. A lady dressed in white seated on a lotus and holding an infant. Murdered by her father, she recited the holy books when she arrived in Hell, and the ruler of the underworld could not make the dead souls suffer. The disgruntled god sent her back to the world of the living, where Kwan Yin attained great spiritual insight and was rewarded with immortality by the Buddha. A popular goddess, Kwan Yin's temple at the Mount of the Wondrous Peak was ever filled with a throng of pilgrims shaking rattles and setting off firecrackers to get her attention.

What do you say to the children

What do you say to the children, when you see them in the street, living under benches and selling flowers so they can eat.

What do you say to children, standing in the rain, because they have no home to go to, no shelter from the rain.

What do you say to children, begging on the street, hoping for a peso or two to buy something to eat.

What do you say to children, who eat glue to kill the pain, the pain felt by hunger inside their body each day.

What do you say to children, exploited by adults, raped, molested and sold like someone’s goats.

What do you say to children, who live out in the streets, children without dreams or hope for what the future brings?

What do you say to children, who want to be held and hugged, to have a home and parents, a place they feel loved.

Why is it you cry when you see them by the road.
Why do you avoid their eyes by looking too and fro.
Why is it you walk right by when outreached are there hands.
Why is it you wont buy them food if your money they can’t have.

Why is it you can’t take sometime to give a helping hand to show a child you care or to hold his tiny hand.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-=-=

For all the good times I’ve had in the Philippines the one thing that always comes to mind is the children you see begging in the streets. Most of the time I would be in the province or away from the main parts of the cities, so people begging of any age are less prevalent, if any at all, that is not to say there is not poverty, poverty is always present no matter where you go.

It is Manila where my heart drops and I feel the most helpless. The number of children living in the streets and graveyards are too numerous to count. You see them sleeping under benches on the sides of the street to shelter them from the rain, you see them in doorways of closed office building, in corners and alleys. You see them late in to the night selling necklaces made from Sampagita flowers. You see them walking down the street holding out their tiny hands, their eyes void of hope.

Yes, I understand that some of these children are being exploited by adults or even in some cases parents pushing them in to the streets to beg. I understand all of that. But that still does not discount the fact that these are children, children that you can not deny are hungry, helpless and can’t even afford a dream of a future.

The paste glue that most of us used in grade school for our art projects is a meal for most of these kids. For the money they are able to beg for, they can buy more glue than they can rice in this way they are able to stave off hunger longer. For most, the tattered cloths they ware and the tsinilas worn with holes to the soles are the only cloths these children own.

So why am I writing this? I don’t know; I sat down here in front of our computer, to look for a job on the internet at the time is was feeling down because I no longer have a job to support my family. And it occurred to me that I was lucky and so is my family to at least for now to have a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs and the knowing that I will find work, eventually.

I was remind that things could be worse for us but never as bad as things are in the Philippines and other places where poverty is; it reminded me of the children and I just started to write.

It started as a poem, like so many I’ve written before and mutated in to what you see now. So what can be done about the poverty and the homeless children in the Philippines? I honestly don’t know, I feel helpless and know that this problem is larger than any one person or group of people can attempt to solve.

In the past, when I had a decent employment, I paid for schooling of people I’ve never met in the Philippines; I’ve joined and sponsored children though organizations like Children International. I hope one day I will be able to do that again. As it stands right now my wife sponsors one young lady attending university in Bicol, I hope I will get a job soon so that too is not jeopardized, my wife’s job is our only income right now.

Please excuse my ranting.

Voices in my head

Sitting at my desk I hear in my mind.... Bill_IEEEE! Mark_ieeeee! I don’t hear you! what are you doing?

Its been 29 years since my Lola passed away and I still hear her in my mind. I feel like crying.. I miss my Lolo and Lola





GALON, MARIA Birth 30 Mar 1906 Death Jan 1977

GALON, EZEQUIEL Birth 8 Apr 1907 Death 26 Mar 1990

---

Sunset

To the north of Tagbilaran City there was at one time a seawall, from the age of it you would have to guess it was built sometime during Spain’s rule, but I don’t know this for sure. Regardless of age it is a place that I loved to go late evening to sit and watch as the day’s sky change in to a multitude of colors until the final color black with glittering stars and sometimes a lover’s moon would be natures display.

It’s here where you can sit and enjoy life simple solitude. As dusk closes, the ocean seems to calm and the sun falls oh so slowly behind a point of land that extends out in to the bay. As I sit and ponder I suddenly hear a plopping sound. I look and can see the fisherman in their boats trolling their nets and plopping the sea with a tool made from half of coconut shell attached to a stick used in attempt to scare the fish into the net. As the sun disappears behind the trees of the point, all that can be seen is their shaded outlines and the occasional bird landing in them to retire for the night. The setting sun watched from a white clouded mountain top is nothing compared to the beauty of this sunset.

I think about my forefathers and family who have past, those that I had never known, I think of my Lolo and Lola and wonder; is this the sunset they had watched in days long past? I feel them with me now and hear them tell me yes, we have seen the same.

Night has fallen and the only light is that of the stars and the fishing boat lanterns. The light of lanterns glistens and dances in the ripples the water and in them you can just see the outline of men tending their nets. It’s not long before you hear a scraping noise along the seawall, the sound of hermit crabs dragging their shells, where they are going and what they are doing? only they know.

As I gaze out in to the darkness of the night my heart is content and soul is at peace; I will always remember a sunset in Bohol.

The Wet Market

I woke up early this morning and I heard a rooster crow. My thoughts went back to those mornings in the Philippines when you hear the early morning footsteps of people and tri-cycles passing by. No doubt most, if not all heading to the wet market.

I remember getting up and getting dressed so that I too could get to the wet market before the days heat began. While dressing I would hear people busy in the kitchen, the rustle of pots and pans and mumbled talking. Dressing and knowing full well that hot coffee and pandsal would be there to meet me when I descend the stair and enter the kitchen. Sitting at the table on plastic chairs more common in America to be use on the patio outside then in the house, I sip my steaming hot coffee and eat warm pandsal. The maid is making hot cakes or other such food items for Jan-Brian who’s still sleeping in his bed and Janet is busy preparing for market, but takes the time to kiss me and say good morning. Dogs bark, rosters crow and the occasional croak of a gecko hanging on the wall. The sounds of vendors passing bye shouting what food or drink they have for sale. All now, fond memories.

The morning is cool and it’s still dark out. The walk is short to the place where we will wait and eventually hire a tri-cycle to take us to the wet market. While we wait I hear the scrap, scrap, scarp of an old woman and her broom made from palm sweeping debris in to small piles that she will later pickup and dispose of or burn. My thoughts are broken as I hear Janet talk to the driver and ask if he would take us to the wet market.

Its lighter now as we ride down paved and unpaved roads in the tri-cycle, a tri-cycles who side car is a bit short for me due to my height. My head would bump the roof now and then when we hit a pothole or a ruff section of road, reminding me to hold my head lower. We are in a busy section of town now, you know this almost immediately as the sounds of life abound and of course the ever present exhaust fumes pumped in to your lungs from tri-cycles and jeepneys that abound in an areas such as this.

The tri-cycle comes to a halt with a slight yawn and jerk, I grab the pipe that’s welded to the front of the side car to aid me in getting out, my knees grateful to be able to stretch. Janet pays the driver the 3.25P fare and a peso as a tip, a sign that he’s been of service and gracious driver.

I love the wet market and as we enter I smile because I remember that the wet market is the place I took Janet on our last date on my trip to the Philippines prior to this one. Life is everywhere and the sights, sounds and smell of the market are fantastic. We pass the vegetables, row and rows of them cascades of colors fill you eyes as you pass by them and you can smell the freshness of the harvest.

Grains of all colors and textures in bins, buckets and barrels sitting side by side. The green of mongo beans offset by the tan color of a grin I can’t identify all melting in to so many varieties and sizes of rice.

I’m mesmerized bye the shear size of the area used to sell fish. A area the size if not larger that of one parking level in a Sears Roebuck parking garage. I stop often too look at the fish, some of which I have never seen before. This too, although smelly, is a colorful place gray and blacks, blues and yellow and the silver of course. Even the meat market has something to offer in the way of memories if not the smell of a slaughterhouse then the sound of each vendor competing for your business.

Most colorful and one that pleases the eyes is the fruit section. Bananas of every size and type. You can smell the sweetness of pineapple as you walk by the fruit vendors. They are cutting them removing the skin and eyes shaping them with spirals almost as if it were a works of art more than tasty treats to eat. Janet stops at a vendor and buys a small bunch of bananas, banana’s that are not much longer than my finger. She buys them because she knows I love to eat them.

I feel the shopping bags made from old cement sacks whose make shift handles are digging in to my hands. They are full and are beginning to get somewhat heavy and although I love going to the wet market, I’m glad when Janet tells me we are done.

How I miss the Philippines……………………………………

Everywhere A Moron

"Steve Hubbard" wrote in message
news:6369-3D83E8FF-626@storefull-2373.public.lawson.webtv.net...

> Just back from a week in the PI...what's up with all the
> urinating on the street corner and then waxing the
> Dolphin for good measure?...better get Gloria out to
> inspect her Troops! Its really a pervasive sickness that
> defies all commom sense and logic...but then again
> common sense is no longer common...

Mr. webTV Idiot,

It's really irrelevant what you think about the Philippines and we Filipinos. It is after all our culture and habits good or bad and I would suggest if you don't like them or if they disturb you than perhaps you shouldn't visit the Philippines.

You whine and complain, you belittle and ridicule, but yet you come here to a Filipino news group and visit the Philippines and in some cases marry a Philippine national. Yet, all you can do is write about the things that you saw that you dislike or find objectionable.

Its obvious that the problem is not with the Philippines or Filipinos it's with you and your thought patterns.

By your way of thinking the following is true;

"Americans [some] don't wash there ass after defecating, they simply wipe there anus with a paper napkin; now we all know unless you wash you don't remove everything you simply spread it and since the "typical" Anglo has a hairy ass the defecated waste matter is spread gingerly about. Therefore we can surmise; Americans are dirty with poor hygiene and they smell like crap."



Next time you shake someone's had ask yourself, did he wash his hands after wiping his nasty ass with a napkin?

Bill

I Miss My Philippines

I miss waking up early in the morning to the sounds of roosters crowing, the time in the morning when the temperature is mild and the sun is just starting to break. I miss strolling down the street to the street vendor who sells coffee by the side of the road I miss leaning against the buildings downtown in Tagblarian, Bohol sipping hot coffee and watching the people pass by and the smell of fresh made pandsal coming from the bakery. I miss the UBE lady who sells fresh UBE sticky rice outside the wet market.

I miss..... My Philippines...... I want to go home.....

I HATE THESE PEOPLE

----- Original Message -----
From: "Null"
Newsgroups: soc.culture.filipino
Subject: Bad News
> Bad news - your fellow Filipino will be waiting eagerly to screw you
> no matter where you go. Only local laws and customs prevent him/her
> from giving you the all out fucking that you would normally receive
> 'back home'.

My response;

Its amazing to me to read posts by people who come to SCF and have so much bad to say about the Philippines and Filipinos. These are people who really know nothing about the Philippines, our people or culture. In some cases they are even coconuts living in other countries.

They talk through their asses thinking they know about the Philippines because they visited there or because they are married to a pinay/pinoy. They think they know because they read this or that about the Philippines or from what they see on TV or what a friend told them.

You people don't know squat about the Philippines, our people and our culture and you can't because you are not a Filipino or haven't lived there in our environment. So everything you say means absolutely nothing.

So what if people in the Pinas talk bad about our government or the conditions. That happens in every country. So what if Filipinos want to live or work abroad so they can have a better life, It means nothing.

Even if a Filipino lives and works abroad very few would say they don't love the Philippines. I really wish there were some way that you could see the Philippines through the eyes of a true Filipino, and then you would see the good and the beauty of the Philippines, its people and its culture.

It's too bad that most of you are too shallow to look beyond the bad, beyond the poverty and beyond what the media shows you. It's too bad that all you can do is be counter productive and so high on your own good fortune and life. It's too bad all you can do is flap you useless lips about something you know nothing about.

National Philippine Treasures

Last March when I went back home we decided to drive from Manila to Bicol. We made allot of stops along the way, orchard ranches, roadside eatery's, etc.. One place we stopped at was called Villa Escudero.

It seems Villa Escudero is a coconut plantation and a resort and that one of the original owners Mr. and Mrs. Don Secured were archeologists and collectors of artifacts; some of which are Filipino historic artifacts.

There is what they call a museum you can tour there and view allot of their collection. I was shocked to see things that I would consider National Philippine treasures; Original writings,among them some by Jose Rizal.

Although I felt fortunate to be able to view these treasures I couldn't help but wonder why these items are not in the hands of our National Museum where they could properly be cared for and preserved. Villa Escudero's Museum has no climate control and none of the things in there are in vacuum sealed cases or even sealed cases to protect them. The papers and pictures, cloths and linen are deteriorating.

It will be a shame that our future generations will have lost these treasures because they remain in "private" hands and collections that are not being cared for or preserved the way they should.

America's Occupation of Bohol

I ran accross something I wrote in 1997 thought I would post it here...

Like the rest of the Philippines Bohol would have a new invader, the Americans. In 1899 an American by the name Major Hale landed on the shores of Bohol with the three officers and a small band of men. from Bohol's shore these offices and men walked into Tagbilaran City.

There Major Hale and his men were escorted into what was the Government House. The president of Bohol; Bernabi Reyes, counsel, and chieftains offered their protest against the occupation of Bohol by the Americans. The protest stated that the then government of Bohol surrendered the island of Bohol to the Americans, not because it they wanted to but because it was being forced to do so. Since the Boholano's lacked weapons that could compare to those the Americans had, they could not resist without heavy loss of Filipino lifes.

The Boholano's had great respect and love for Emilio Aguinaldo but were ordered that all allegiance to Aguinaldo must be renounced, they were forbidden to honor, or help further Aguinaldo and no flag could be flown except for the Flag of the United States.

[ Note: Emilio Aguinaldo headed the revolt and later defeated Spanish forces in Manila, other parts of Luzon and the Visayas. On June 12, 1898, he proclaimed Independence from Spain. On January 23, 1899 he was elected as the first President of the Republic of the Philippines, and he convened the Philippine Congress which ratified the country's Constitution it's was not long after he would be fighting the United States. Pres. Aguinaldo sent Felipe Agoncillo to Treaty of Paris to plead the cause of the Filipino people at the Paris peace negotiations that would end the Spanish-American War. Felipe Agoncillo was not permitted to attend the conference. Felipe Agoncillo went to Washington where he tried to work against the ratification of the treaty by the US senate. The United States decided that it would still annex the Philippines. And so Aguinaldo once again took up arms to fight for his people and country and we enter the American occupation of the Philippines.]

Major Hale stated;

"The American troops had have come under my command Major Hale as representative of the Government of the United States to take possession of the island and to protect the people; we come as friends and not as enemies; but that all allegiance to Aguinaldo must be renounced, all contributions cease. Henceforth Bohol was to become a part of the U.S. forever."

During the occupation of Bohol by the Americans much of the same injustices that befell other Filipino's in other areas of the Philippines befell the Boholano's. In intresting note is that the first aggressions by Filipino patriots actually took place in the Visayas, However I don't know how much of them took place on Bohol.

Because of abuses and injustices by American troops warfare between the American forces and over 100 Boholano's lead by Pedro Samson, broke out in the hills near the village of Carmen on August 31, the Americans defeated and killed most of poorly armed Boholano's who were armed only with bolo's and old percussion and flint lock firearms. Pedro Samson, escaped with a small band of men and was able to raise a new group of patriots. This time Pedro Samson would not under estimate the Americans and would start battling the Americans using guerrilla type warfare, Pedro Samson and his ban of patriots would do battle and then disappear into the mountains and jungle. Because of this additional American forces were requested by Major Hale.

Capt. Andrew S. Rowan and almost two hundred men of the 19th U.S. Infantry, were dispatched and landed on Bohol. For a time Pedro Samson and his men controlled the interior of the island. But at the expense of the people who lived there. Abuses of the people by the Americans in Bohol continued and worsened.

The barrio of Jagna was burned by the 19th Infantry on 14th of May, the same day an infantryman of that command raped a women, the Infantryman was found and killed by the woman’s finance. The rape enraged the boholano's and resistance towards the Americans heighten.

The men of the 19th Infantry continued to burn villages, towns and execute innocent civilians thought the rest of the war. At one point General Hughes and his Army of me burned so many villages and town the smoke could be seen and smelt all the way to Manila. The more the Boholano's resisted the more restrictive the Americans became. Bohol was cut off from the rest of the Philippines, their trade was stopped, and they endured forced starvation due to lack of trades in food goods from adjoining islands and their trade with other countries. Pedro Samson and his men surrendered to the American forces on December 23. But Americans never the less continued to torture the people of Bohol. The war ended, the 19th Infantry left Bohol, April 3, 1902 and the Philippines turned over to the people.

As the Americans were forced out a new era of peace and trade would begin. This would last only a few years until the WWII and the Japanese. Although the United States preformed unspeakable acts of aggression and murder upon the Filipino people, none was as bad as the Japanese.

Electroshock Therapy

On my last trip to the Philippines I really hurt my neck so I wanted to go get a massage. Well I ended up at this chiropractor whose office was in the middle of this small village and made from Nipa. I didn't think much of it at first as going to such places don't bother me, I wasn't expecting and office building and like I said I thought I was going to just get a good massage.

It all started out okay he had me sit with my back to him and he worked in the Chinese green oil in to my neck and back, still normal so far, then he put this heavier stuff the consistency of a light grease. It smelled like tiger balm but it wasn't. Then he had this tool that sounded like one of those big massage vibrators I didn't think anything of it until he pressed it to my back and my whole friggin side pulled in I was being friggin electrocuted!!!! ARAY!!!!!! I jumped out of my skin. The guy said relax, just relax, to me in Tagalog. NOW how the heckl do you relax when some body is electrocuting you?

Finely he stopped and I thought oh thank GOD! He even turned the damn thing off so I felt safe. He had me lay facedown on the table and did some adjustments and worked some of my muscles I was feeling better and relaxed then I heard that horrible BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ Oh my God I was being electrocuted again and I could see Janet giggling as my body spasmed every time he would run that thing up and down my back. By now I'm thinking to myself “please turn it off, oh please turn it off" I didn't know how much more I could take. Finely he turned it off and I felt at ease. When asked how I felt I said "GREAT! Everything is fine" who wouldn't? I was not about to get electrocuted again, I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Janet handed him 200P and we were on our way.

Janet was laughing at my comments about my electroshock therapy. Then it struck me, Janet had said she wanted a massage too. So I said; hey we have to go back! You wanted a massage too. She declined stating that she doesn't want it at seeing me get one and began to laugh.

Talking about Jeepneys

Talking about Jepney's I actually loved riding them but now only ride tri-cycles because I always get yelled at by some guy and he takes all my money. Besides Jepneys are to expensive to ride. When I rode Jepneys people were so nice!. I was riding the jepney sitting near the driver in the back. People would give me money, at first I thought it was odd but after a while you get use to it and just nod to them, I think it means thank you.

I was really lucky that those people gave me the money because I found out that riding jeepneys can be expensive. I'm not quite sure why yet, but what happens is when I tried to get off the jepney there was some guy standing in the back, a fair taker or something, anyhow when I get off he grabbed my arm and says some words really loud in Filipino! I finely figured out it’s because he was collecting fare. Like I said I was lucky people gave me money because boy when he took the fair, he took almost ALL the money that all those nice people had given me.

I tried to complain to him but he got a mean look on his face and I got scared, then he yelled at the driver and they drove away.

That's why I only ride tri-cycles now, the drivers are nice to me and they are only $3.75 they wrote it on the side car, I don't know why they want American money and not pesos oh well :)

(Note: I received allot of email on this story, my friends; this was all in jest this is not a true story I made it up for fun.)

THIS IS MY TABO

THIS IS MY TABO. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My tabo is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I master my life.

My tabo, without me is useless. Without my tabo, I am useless. I must use my tabo true. I must wash better than my enemy who is trying to wash better than me. I must wash him before he washes me. I will....

My tabo and myself know that what counts in this life is not the butt we wash, the noise of our utot, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the wash quality that counts.

My tabo is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weakness, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights, and its handle. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage. I will keep my tabo clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will...

Before the Tabo God I swear this creed. My tabo and myself are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.


So be it, until there is no enemy to wash, butt Peace!