A Matter of Trust: The May 10, 2010 Elections

In my last post before the May 10 elections, I contended that life in this modern age would be easy and comfortable if people trust one another. Life becomes difficult, stagnant and miserable if people operate on distrust.

Trust requires almost as a matter of necessity that those engaged in economic and social transactions will offer and give their best to their endeavor because that is the only way to guarantee and sustain a productive, stable, and meaningful relationship.

Trust was the raging issue during the last national and local elections.

On May 10, 2010, the Filipino people put in their right places the pessimists, the skeptics, and the doomsayers of the first automated elections in the country. The people put aside suspicion and doubts on the credibility and integrity of the entire electoral system and went to the polling places in droves, braving the burning sun or the downpour wherever they were found in the archipelago that fateful day. The voters’ turnout (38M) was high at 75 percent of the voting population. Many were dismayed though by the endless queues but a great number persevered to the end and experienced wholly or partially the novel way of voting electronically. And the entire nation was amazed –stunned by the quickness of knowing the results. By 11 p.m. the same day about 40 percent of the elections results were already made public and the ranks of winning national candidates were already established. Before midnight most of the elections in the local levels were already decided. In fact, in less than 24 after the close of the polling places, four presidential contenders already conceded defeat to the frontrunner. This was unprecedented in the 100-year history of Philippine politics. The gallant act added more credence to the integrity of the entire election exercise.

The many vociferous critics – journalists, opinion weavers, IT experts, church ministers and leaders, the business community, and the academics - were dumbstruck and were eating their words the day after. No doubt the operation of some PCOS machines experienced some glitches, but these were minimal and in most cases the kinks were ironed out before they could morph into a full-blown problem. There was no reported tampering of the machines, software hacking or hijacking in the transmission of the election results. It appeared that the system was almost foolproof as earlier assured by COMELEC and Smartmatic. There were, no doubts, some election-related violence, but they were very minimal, isolated and were effectively contained by the PNP and AFP and were only obtaining in places almost traditionally expected.

The last elections also displayed the ingenuity and resilience of the Filipino. Consider this. The Precinct Count Optical Scan (PCOS) machine in my precinct would disgorge filled up official ballots fed into it. It was replaced by another unit. But the same problem occurred. After about two hours of trouble shooting, it was discovered that the ballots in that precinct were oversize (wider) and were therefore rejected by the very sensitive PCOS machine. So what one of the Board of Election Inspectors (BEI) members did to resume automated voting was to cut some 2 cm off from the right side of every ballot before she would feed the same to the machine. This worked out but slowed down the process by some 30 or more seconds/ballot and had also sacrificed secrecy. But who cared about secrecy at that time when the important concern was for everyone’s vote to be counted.

At the interim, some 60 of us in that precinct bypassed the PCOS machine and dropped our ballots directly to the ballot box to save on time. Being the head of the Roving PPCRV Team who happened to be on the spot, I suggested, and the BEI and all political party watchers agreed, that we go manual in the casting of ballots until such time that the machine would become functional. We further agreed that BEI would later feed the manually cast ballots to the PCOS machine even in our absence for registration/counting purposes. We had to move on.

In many other precincts, the PCOS machines jammed after about 200 ballots had passed through it and disorderly piled up inside the ballot box and eventually blocked incoming ones. The right solution was to open the box and rearrange the ballots. This was tedious and rather time consuming. The common option resorted to was to press the ballots down with a stick or a handle of a broom.

By all indications, the last elections were still not clean and honest. Vote buying in various forms remained unabated. This continues to be a formidable challenge for the redeemed COMELEC and the entire Filipino people to address to next time around. What was solved by the automation was cheating right there in the polls and in the canvassing of results. We no longer heard of ballot padding, ballot box snatching, dagdag-bawas maneuvers, and garci-like manipulations in frustrating the will of the people. The speed of the automation process left no rooms for the scoundrels to operate.

After all has been sad and done, the most maligned government institution of the season, the COMELEC, as well as its hardware and service provider, Smartmatic, its deputized agents, the PNP and the AFP, were all vindicated. They did a fantastic and fabulous job of conducting an orderly, peaceful, swift and credible election in an environment that oozed with intrigues, distrust, mocking, and black propaganda. Kudos are also due to the dutiful teachers, the different volunteer organizations like the PPCRV, the ABS CBN Boto Mo I-patrol Mo, the Citizen Crime Watch, the CVOs and barangay tanods, and many others who all worked hard to insure that the last elections were something that we all can be proud of. Mabuhay ang Filipino!

Trust

If we now comfortably live in this modern time it is because we put so much trust, consciously or unconsciously, in people around us.

We take a jeepney or a bus or a plane to our destination without bothering to ask the state of mind of the driver or the pilot. We simply trust that he will deliver us safely to our objective.

We dine and enjoy our meals in restaurants trusting that the cook and the waiters will not do anything wicked or put anything harmful in the food we eat.

We take the elevator to the 101st floor of a skyscraper with nary a thought that the cables may snap or the tall building may collapse anytime. We trust and do not question the skills and professionalism of all those responsible for such engineering wonders.

We put our money into an ATM machine trusting that the system will record our transaction and give our money back to us when we need it.

We support a friend’s bid for a position of leadership trusting and believing that he will live up to our ideals and dreams he claims to identify with.

Society is built and grows on trust. It is to the advantage of every participant in an economic and social transaction if he offers and gives his best to a relationship. Such an effort would make every transaction mutually beneficial, lasting and sustainable. Once trust is violated the relationship established may flounder and irreversibly end. Thus, we stop returning to dine in an inefficient and unsanitary restaurant. We stop booking our flights in an airline notorious for its unreliable schedules. We stop buying our appliances from a company that negates on its warranties. And we shy away from friends who betrayed our ideals and frustrated our expectations.

There are always opportunists, scoundrels and scalawags in our midst. However cautious we may be, we at times succumb to their charm and wily schemes. But we need not sulk over our failed decisions or on the glitches of the systems around us. Life is never perfect. Yet it self-correcting. In the final equation of things, it still in our favor if we continue to trust and hope on the goodness of people around us.

To operate on trust, life is made easy, peaceful and comfortable. To do the reverse may yet turn life into a difficult, worrisome and miserable existence.

Overheard

During a break in the meeting of the MSU Board of Regents sometime in 1975, and aide pushed a heap of documents to Acting MSU President, Governor Ali Dimaporo for his signature. Without bothering to read the mountain of papers before him, the grand old patriarch of Lanao del Sur started to furiously scribble his signature on the pages where his name appeared declaring at the same time for everybody to hear:

“I trust people around me. But never ever betray me; I would become very violent.”

Code of Honor: Dogs and Underdogs

In dogfights an underdog is the dog that lies on its back after a fierce combat waiting for the final kill or mercy from its enemy. It has no chance of reversing the situation for reason of enemy’s size and strength or its brutal company. It remains on his back waiting for the inevitable. An underdog is a loser.

I don’t know if this is true throughout the dog kingdom but among native dogs or askal once the enemy is on its back and has stopped growling, the triumphant fighter or fighters (as dogs also have this instinct to crowd against an apparent loser) would start to withdraw and allow the defeated to lick its wound and limp home.

Indeed, dogs appear to have a code of honor that governs their behavior which they keenly observe at all times. I have watched several times male dogs rumbled over a hot bitch. The bloody fury is incomparable in ferocity. But almost always while the rest are fighting – mauling, maiming, and humiliating each other for the right to mount the bitch, one wily dog would successfully escape the fray and insert its maddening desire unto the burning aperture of the coyly bitch. When the brawling dogs notice this cunning success they would stop fighting and begin to disperse leaving the couple peacefully to consummate and savor canine ecstasy.

Conversation with a Taxi Driver

When ferried by a taxi to my destination I usually engage the driver in little talks to enhance my appreciation of the issues of the day. Taxi drivers have their ears
on the radio throughout the day and are fed with news and opinions that
make them encyclopedic on the affairs of the state. Many are aggressive
conversationalists with solid reflections on local and national issues.
Consider this exchange yesterday in my taxi ride from Bulua Bus
Terminal to the DSWD Reg. Office near Xavier Estate:

-Sir, who are you going to recommend for president in the coming elections?

-I don’t know I am confused. Do you have anyone to recommend?

-I think Gibo would make a good president. There is no doubt about his intelligence, his experience and preparations, and his sincerity of
intention. But Gibo has no chance to win. He is on the wrong side of
the fence and has the Gloria monkey on his back.

-So?

-The choice is actually reduced to Villar and Noynoy, between a self-made man and a man who is still making himself. I am scared of Villar making
it to the presidency: I don’t know how he would recover his billions of
pesos invested on his election. He may yet impoverish further our poor
and miserable country. But Noynoy scares me, too. He is not actually
prepared for the responsibility. He does not have the talents and
charisma of his father, not even that of his mother. He was simply
pushed by events to the challenge on account of the death of his
mother. From the start he has been a reluctant candidate just like his
mother before. At least Cory showed native intelligence; it is
difficult to read that from Noynoy. What would happen to this country
if we will have a president who until now could not even decide to
marry or not his girlfriend?

-So?

-I will vote for Noynoy.

-To a reluctant candidate, to a man who, as you said, is still making himself?

-Yes. He is honest and incorruptible. And the presidency may yet finally make him. There is no way it could unmake him (He was laughing after saying
the last sentence).

-That is banking so much on hope.

-You know, of course, the story of Moses. He was also a reluctant leader of the Israelites. He lacked self-confidence, was never sure of himself,
and he even stammered when he talked to the authorities. And yet look
what he did and what happened to the Israelites.

-They wandered in the desert for 40 years because of his poor leadership. They rebelled against him because he could not show them the right
direction to the promised land.

-But they did reach the promised land.

-When he was already dead and was no longer their leader.

Our conversation was cut short because we were already at the gate of DSWD. But he had a parting question:

-Sir, who shall we vote?

-Follow your own conscience.

Love or Quit Your Job

To the MSU System 2010 Graduates
Mindanao, TawiTawi, Sulu, Philippines

Congratulations for making it to the finish line! There would still be other races to run soon, but this last one is amply important because it outlines your basic preparations.Cheers!

I welcome you to the MSU Alumni Association in behalf of its officers. And I am taking this opportunity to say some few words hopefully to guide you in the next runs of your life.

Very soon you will be joining the rank of job seekers along with some other 600,000 college graduates of 2010 throughout the country. The competition is stiff and the opportunities are very scarce, so it may take sometime before you will find a job. It is most likely that the job you will get into may not be appropriate to your training and preparation. Don’t despair. I have a lot of friends in similar situation who made it to the top despite such predicament. I know of a marine biology graduate who is now happily managing the sales of health and beauty products. And a fishery graduate who is now earning much as estate broker. Appropriate or not the job may be to your training and qualifications my advice is for you to love it. Your first job is the most precious gift of God in this difficult and uncertain time. You have to give your best to it by learning more about it and by delivering your best performance possible.

However, if you realize that this job does not give you joy and satisfaction, by all means quit. Stop working and start looking for another one. What makes some people very miserable is holding to a job that they do not enjoy doing and does not give them any sense of fulfillment. They simply stick to it because it provides them security of income even if it scours and hurts inside. As the marines say “no guts no glory.” Be real. Magpakatotoo ka. Leave that false comfort zone, take the risk and venture out there if you wish to find new meaning to your existence.

A meaningful life follows from a life-defining and occupying activity, such as your work, that gives you joy and satisfaction in an environment that is enriching and fulfilling. In an oppressive, unjust and iniquitous environment your job, no matter how you value and cherish it, will eventually lose meaning and significance. You have a responsibility to anyone and anything you love dearly in life. You are expected to do something to improve their circumstances. In workplaces where dishonesty, deception, and falsehood dominate, it is your obligation to speak and expose the truth. In situations where inequity and injustice prevail, it is your duty to act and contribute to the effort of correcting them. Do not secure the comfort of fence-sitters to enhance your own survival. Avoid retreating to a neutral corner to save your own skin. Take side with the oppressed, the victims of lies, deception, and injustice and be counted in the struggle of the great Teacher if you wish to secure your destiny. You see, if evil men now appear to triumph around us it is because good men are afraid and are not doing anything to stop them.

Finally, always remember your Alma Mater, the university where you came from and made you what you are now. Honor her with praiseworthy and excellent behavior in whatever you attempt to pursue in life. When the right moment arrives, come home and offer to her your talents and your blessings so her torch will continue to burn and give light to those in darkness.

Eating, Living, Dying

We start living and dying at the same time.

We start feeding upon birth. The food that we eat nourishes and energizes the cells of the body, multiplies them, and spurs growth. The nutrients that enter the body determine our health and wellbeing. Unfortunately, the same nutrients, particularly protein and carbohydrate, that are supposed to strengthen and protect the body from illness and disease, bring poisons and toxins into the body triggering dysfunction, deterioration and decay of the body cells and their eventual death. The accumulation of sugar, fat, salt and the uric acid waste that goes with the nutrients that the body receives, is the major cause of weight problem, cardiac diseases, cancer, stroke, hypertension, sclerosis, arthritis, vertigo, premature ageing and many other debilitating maladies. It requires external intervention to prevent the dysfunction and decelerate the deterioration of the cells before their time.

Indeed, we are what we eat. The doctors advise us to reduce, if not to stop, eating this and that when we complain about pain here and there in the body. But many disobey any prescription that curtails the pleasure of eating. The doctors also advise us to detoxify our body by doing some regular exercises. Many simply shrug this off too. What most want are a prescription and regimen that result to immediate and miraculous cure without sacrificing bodily pleasure and comfort. But this is ambivalent and is asking for the impossible in the protracted fight against the diseases of abundance.

To reduce or to stop eating something for sometime and to meditate and do regular physical exercises reduce stress, detoxify the body and may lengthen our days on earth. I lose weight from 3 – 5 kg during the Holy Week when I eat nothing but fruits. After two days of fruit diet the waste that comes out from the body losses its foul smell. IF I want to I need not change a shirt for two days because it still smells fresh despite the Lenten and summer heat. I really feel clean, body and soul, after one week of meditation and fruit diet.

I also feel clean, refreshed and recharged every time I play rounds of lawn tennis, when I go swimming, and after two or three hours of mountain biking. The feeling of wellness is just great.

Try it. It is never late.

Escape to Bohol

The Professionals

The family trip was hatched months earlier. Two days after Christmas, we finally took a boat to the province of Bohol, ending a long period of anticipation and excitement. The boat, Cebu Ferries Vessel 1, was neat, clean and cool. It has spacious corridors one of which was transformed into a playground by my two little grandsons. The crew was courteous, helpful and accommodating. The meals served in its cozy restaurant were worth their prices. The boat punctually left the port of Cagayan de Oro at about 8 in the morning, traversed the Bohol Seas in 5 hours and 30 minutes, and docked at Jagna exactly at 1:30 PM, the estimated time of arrival (ETA) printed on our passage tickets.

The disembarkation was almost like a solemn church procession. Everybody silently fell on line and was patient and amiable in waiting for his turn down the gangplank. There was no rush. There was no noise. The porters were polite in negotiating their trade with some passengers.

Outside the pier, I looked for a vehicle for hire. I found none. A vendor informed me such vehicles were not allowed at port area. They were parked at the bus terminal, some half a kilometer away. I returned inside the pier to collect the members of my family who floated leisurely towards the gate with the bulk of disembarked passengers.

I was amazed by what I observed. I marveled at the punctuality and the professional services of the vessel. I was moved by the discipline exhibited by the passengers of the ship, by the porters, by the tricycle and taxi drivers, and even by the welcoming public that patiently waited outside the gate of the port. I am in the Philippines, I told myself. I am not dreaming. This is too good to be true!

Weird Sense of History

My family is very Filipino in size: 2 sons, 4 daughters, a daughter-in-law, 2 grandchildren, my wife and I. Eleven in all. Notwithstanding our number we fitted in surprisingly inside a tricycle, which hauled us, luggage and all, to the bus terminal.

For P2, 000 we got an air-conditioned L300 van to ferry us from Jagna to Panglao Island, a distance of about 85 Km, with stopovers for sightseeing at the Baclayon Church and at the Blood Compact monument.

A wedding was in progress at the historic church when we dropped by it. While the rest of my party viewed the relics in the museum, I moved around and took some pictures of the happy couple and the interiors of the old building. The glow of the Christmas lights tempered what otherwise would have been a solemn atmosphere inside the cavernous church.

At the Blood Compact monument in Bool, Tagbilaran, tourists took turns in taking their pictures with Sikatuna, Legaspi and their consorts. The monument saddened me because it is one manifest of our weird sense of history. Like our annual celebration of the ignominious Fall of Bataan, here in Bohol we honor and immortalize with the monument the deception and betrayal of the Filipino natives by the Spaniards who declared friendship but coveted our people and our land. Meanwhile, the people in the town of Loay wanted to correct history, claiming that the true site of the blood compact is not in Bool, Tagbilaran City but in Hinawanan beach (now Villalimpia), Loay. Similar monument would be erected soon in the place.

Panglao Island

The skies were a tinge of blue and grey after a downpour and before sunset when we arrived in Panglao Island. The island is very close to mainland Bohol and connects to Tagbilaran City via a relatively short concrete bridge. It has two municipalities: Panglao and Dauis. The white beaches of the island and the rich scuba diving sites nearby made the place a tourist destination beginning in the early nineties. Resort hotels of different stars and dive shops congregate and define the economy of the island, particularly that of the municipality of Panglao.

Most of the high-ends hotels and tourist establishments are located along Alona beach. Dive and dolphin-watching boats are moored near the beach giving the area a picturesque postcard beauty. Tourists from different accommodations in the island flock to the beach at dinner time to savor foreign and local cuisines and enjoy nightlife of music, dance, chats, and wine. Alona beach is awake and alive at nighttime, busy at dawn for the dolphin-watching trips, and is asleep the rest of the day.

Alona Beach

Alona beach was Tawala beach, being located in Barangay Tawala, before Alona Alegre in her almost naked beauty frolicked on its shimmering shores in the shooting of a Fernando Poe, Jr. film “Esteban” sometime in 1973. Alona is an elder sister of action star Philip Salvador. She is the daughter of actor Lou Salvador and Inday Jalandoni.

Accordingly, life stopped in Tawala during the shooting. All eyes were on Alona. When she rolled and crawled on the sand in all her breathtaking assets, Panglao changed and was never the same again. One day on the film site, a local fan planted in the sand a makeshift poster of cement sack scribbled in pentel pen with the signs “Alona Beach.” The name stuck and since then has been used by entrepreneurs to identify their tourist establishments. So there is Alona Beach Resort, Alona Palm Beach Resort, Alona Kew Resort, and Alona Tropical Resort to name the more familiar. The barangay where Alona beach is located remains though as Tawala.

Our accommodation was in Alona Studio, located in the inner section of Tawala, which is a 15-minute walk from the beach. The hotel was undergoing expansion and its 20 or so rooms were all occupied by Europeans, mostly Swedes. It has an 80 square meter triangular pool that was religiously checked, vacuumed and sanitized every morning. We were the only Pinoy guests in the vicinity.

The following day, a van arranged earlier by the hotel management at P2, 500/day, picked up and ferried us to the famous tourist destinations of Bohol. We first went straight to the chocolate hills and then made stops in the other tour sites on our way back.

Chocolate Hills: A Geologic Wonder

The chocolate hills continued to mystify me. It was already my third time to see the geologic masterpiece and yet I remained awed by it magnificent beauty and splendor. The dome-shaped 2, 268 hills that spread evenly on a 50 square kilometers landscape are really a wonder to behold.

On the human side, one could not just leave the place without also appreciating the very orderly and systematic manner the tourism staff handled the flux and movements of tourists. The tourist vehicles, upon depositing their passengers in a designated area in the viewing station, moved immediately down to the parking area at the foot of the hill. They remained there until the guards at the viewing station informed them by radio that their passengers were ready to exit. Thus swarming and traffic jams were avoided. Despite the economic crunch I noticed that the local tourists far outnumbered the foreigners who came to view chocolate hills.

We went back to the road and tried our nerves at the Sevilla hanging bridge in Bilar. The bridge was constructed with the assistance of the Australian government through AusAid not only to connect a local community to the road but also to enhance the ecotourism program of the province. The bridge is an interlaced of wire ropes and bamboo slats. It swung from side-to-side and up and down when crossed.

The Bilar-Loboc Forest: A Man-made Miracle

Our next stop was in the man-made forest that nestles across the towns of Bilar and Loboc. The forest is a dense single species plantation of mahogany trees in 8.5 square kilometers of steep and rugged hills. Most of the trees were about half a century old planted some time in the sixties and early seventies. The trees and their saplings were evidently competing for sunlight and their branches were reaching for the skies like human hands in the act of supplication. It was cool underneath the overlapping corollas. Inside the forest you’ve got this phantom feeling that the rain would fall any moment.

The Bilar-Loboc forest, together with the biggest (1,756 ha) man-made mangrove forest in Asia, located in Banacon Island, Getafe town, is a tribute to the foresight of the people of Bohol. The forest is truly a miracle because it is a human intervention in the environment made decades before everyone talks of global warming and bio-diversity conservation.

Kan-anan sa Suba

It was past 12 noon. We rushed to the mouth of Loboc River in the town of Loay where our driver earlier reserved, via text message, lunch for us in one of those mobile river restaurants. Our “floating restaurant” was an enclosed 8 x 7 square-meter bamboo platform that was roofed with nipa shingles and mounted on top of two catamarans. A separate motorboat pushed and moved the contraption along Loboc River. Actor Cesar Montano made the Loboc River famous with the shooting there of his 2006 WW II romance film “Panaghoy sa Suba.”

The restaurant served a buffet meal at P300/head. For the picking were pork barbecue, fried chicken, grilled squid and fish, ginat-ang lambay, adobong tangkong, ginat-ang nangka, leche plan, pineapple, watermelon, and bananas.

The restaurant moved upstream. A balladeer strummed his guitar and belted some native songs and old (60s & 70s) favorites while we were eating our lunch. After some 30-45 minutes of riverbank sightseeing, we dropped anchor at an Aeta village where some members of Aeta families danced for us in a square with the beat of a drum. Some boys tried to get our attention by their stunts of diving inside a ring of fire. Tourists took pictures with the village people with their weapons, python and bayawak. For everything, the Aetas were all smiles and asked nothing. A small donation box though was visibly ensconced on a 3-foot bamboo pole at one side of the square.

The Lazy Python and the Gentle Tarsier

Upon disembarking at Loay we drove to Albur Animal Sanctuary to see “Prony,” accordingly the biggest python in captivity in the world today. Prony, named after its captor Sofronio Salibay, was only 5 feet tall and weighed 5 kilograms when captured in October 1996. After 14 years of loving care and generous feeding Prony has grown into a 7-meter and 200-kilogram + behemoth. It is fed with 40-60 kg of healthy live pig once a month during the full moon. Prony just sleeps and hardly moves at all after devouring its meal.

Despite the risk, son Eric and three of the girls – Melanie, Augie and Cecile, entered into the cage and had their pictures taken with the giant python.

On our way back to Tagbilaran and Panglao we dropped at a tarsier garden to see the tiny, gentle and friendly primate. Tarsiers are night creatures with very large round eyes. Though probably tired and sleepy a tarsier was game enough to perch one at a time on the arms of the kids for picture taking.

Thus ended the sumptuous sight-seeing for the day. The following morning the kids went dolphin watching near the Balicasag island marine sanctuary. My wife and I could no longer join them because we ferried to Cebu and took an afternoon Cebu Pacific flight to Davao City. We had to abort our gallivanting in the land of Dagohoy to celebrate life, that is, the wedding of a young friend in the city that heavenly stinks of durian.

Boracay

One of the many little surprises in my life was to see a widescreen still picture of the sparkling white beach of Boracay inside a movie house – of all places - in the City of Sheffield, United Kingdom in July 1994. It was definitely a travel tour ads UK-based with this come-on line (If memory does not betray me): “Visit and enter paradise: Boracay, the Philippines.”

My lady companion, another British fellow from the Philippines, failed to hold her amazement and blurted quite loudly “Wow, that’s our country!” All heads within hearing distance turned to us and nodded approvingly.

On our way back to our respective flat we hardly gave notice to the performance of Hugh Grant on “Four Weddings and a Funeral” but talked endlessly on beautiful Boracay. “One day,” she sighed dreamingly, “I will bring my entire family to Boracay.” Because she grew up in Manila and most likely had seldom gone to the coastal areas, the wish was understandable.

Although the ads of the darling beauty somehow lifted my spirit with pride and joy the idea of exploring it someday never occurred to me. My birthplace in Hinunangan, Southern Leyte has two nearby small islands with equally wonderful beach resources. And although the sand is a little course and is not white, the beach of my adopted hometown in Naawan, Misamis Oriental has clear and unpolluted waters and is just a 5 minute walk from our cottage. Boracay did not register long in my consciousness.

Some years later when I would find myself in the pre-departure area of Manila Domestic Airport, the going and coming of planes to and from Caticlan-Boracay at short intervals, swallowing and disgorging a multitude of Caucasians and almond-eyed Asians intrigued me. I learned that special flights are even organized in peak seasons to fly more foreign and local tourists to the enchanting island. The coliform scare in the late 90s did not scare at all. The island began to fascinate me.

The opportunity to have a real glimpse of Boracay came some three weeks ago when Bing and I visited Nanay Padang (my dear 82-year-old mother-in-law) in Bugasong, Antique. Nanay Padang was seriously sick, was even in coma, last January but miraculously survived the ordeal and was so hale and sound on our arrival on May 31. So we decided to leave her two days after and were in Caticlan, the jump off point to Boracay, after a 2-hr bus ride from Bugasong.

The weather was mean and it was no longer the peak season for tourists, yet we have to wait for two hours for the 10 minute fast craft ride to Boracay. The Caticlan ferry terminal was swamped with mostly young Korean tourists in unbelievable number. When our turn to ride the sea craft with some of them came, the weather went wild and the waves turned monstrous and tossed and punished our vessel with stomach-wrenching blows. The Koreans panicked and demanded for plastic bags to avoid the embarrassment of puking. But the trip was very short and we were soon in Boracay port at no time at all.

Bing and I were “peso” tourists. A cousin guide had earlier reserved us an accommodation at Faith Village Resort Hotel at P350/person/day. The room is air-conditioned with a comfort room/bathroom and additional wash designed to accommodate 8 tenants. We paid P1400, equivalent for 4 occupants, and the room became an exclusive use for us for the duration of our stay.

Our accommodation, located in Station 3, Barangay Manok-manok, is only a 3-min walk to the White Beach, the very heart of Boracay tourism. The Faith Village Conference Center is organized by a Christian group that offers religious retreats, seminars, conventions and conferences to different publics. Its dormitory facilities, with family rooms, with air-conditioner and fan amenities, accommodate a total of 270 persons. Its Function Hall sits 300 participants. It has a restaurant on buffet service.

Our partial explore of Boracay showed us the two faces of the island. The 3 km or so stretch of White Beach, from Station 3 in Barangay Manok-manok to Station 1 in Barangay Balabag, is the tourist hub of the island where all of tourism related businesses are found – hotels and resorts of different stars, restaurants, nightclubs, bars, pubs, banks, money changer shops, tour travel offices and many other amenities and services. A beachfront pathway separates the beachfront establishments from the shore. Cheaper accommodations are found in Station 3. The nightlife funs that last to the wee hours are generally in Station 2. Station 1 offers the high end and classier hotels, is less crowded and a comfortable distance away from the noise of Boracay nightlife.

Some 5 km away from Station 3 is Barangay Yapak. Two high end impressively big hotels, Alta Vista De Boracay Hotel and Shangri-La s Boracay Resort and Spa are nestled on its rocky but lush forest far from the hoi polloi and the maddening crowd of the island. The wonderful thing about Yapak is that its equally white beach borders immediately with a rocky forest and is free or is sheltered from establishments. It has remained unspoiled, almost spotless, and is wrapped with an ambience of a deserted paradise. When we strolled and bathed at the place from 7 – 10 in the morning in the second day of our stay we could only count with our fingers the people who went there. The place is so serene and meditative. If you are a bookworm, you may spread a towel under some coco trees and read to your heart’s content. If you are an adventurous soul you may try crawling inside some mysterious caves beneath the coralline rocks.

Boracay is not really that expensive as touted. You have a lot of options to enjoy the place within your budget. Near our accommodation was a little restaurant that served home cooked dishes – plenty of vegetables and fish at very affordable prices. You can have your fill at P60. At the main street of the island there are litson manok stalls that offer other dishes aside from their litson at prices common in urban centers.

We only stayed in the island for some 24 hours but had seen enough to convince us to return there by the last week of December and explore the place further with the entire family.

Clean, Honest, Peaceful and Inexpensive Elections

Unless we can have clean, honest, peaceful and inexpensive elections we can never ever stop corruption in this country. Until we successfully get rid of corruption in all levels of government our country will never see progress and the people will continue to wallow in poverty.

Scandalously Expensive, Dirty

And Dishonest Elections

Election is essential in a political democracy. It is the process that translates into behavioral activities the democratic principle that the governed participate in their very own governance.

The process requires that some people run for elective posts in the government while the rest makes and legitimizes the choice through the ballot.

However, because our legal and moral norms are twisted, to run for an elective post in this country is to engage in a very expensive enterprise. The higher the position sought the greater is the expense to incur. So much money is needed to run and, much more, to win a campaign.

Consider for instance the current electoral contest for the presidency. Even prior the campaign period, i.e., from November 1, 2009 to January 31, 2010, six of the ten presidential aspirants already spent a total of P2.1B on TV ad spots to gain public visibility. And to think that these politicians are vying for a government post that offers a measly compensation of only P762, 300/annum!

Villar topped TV ad spending at P1.1B, followed by Teodoro, P407M, Aquino, P269M, Gordon, P245, Villanueva, P90M, and Estrada, P84M. With 30% discount mandated by the Election Code, these candidates may pay only 70% of the of the actual TV ad value. Yet that is still a lot of money and the campaign period has just begun. To remain in the public mind, it is estimated that a serious presidential candidate has to spend P2M /day for eight 30-seconder prime-time TV spot ads. For a country where 70 percent of the people are poor, the huge expense for media projection alone is already vulgar and scandalous.

Much more money is needed to litter the highways and byways with one’s avatar and promises, to finance provincial sorties, to contribute to local campaign funds, that is, to buy votes, and to grease to one’s favor the operations and activities of the military, the police, the media, the teachers and the COMELEC functionaries.

At the local level, election has become a field contest for the most effective strategy in the use of “gold, guns and ghosts” to win a campaign. Such that in recent memory the country had been rocked by political scandals and tragedies, the most abominable of them were the Jocjoc Bolante fertilizer anomaly, the “Hello Garci” election scandal, the missing Bidol and his election paraphernalia, which was eventually capped by the monstrous Maguindanao Massacre.

Election Spending, Corruption and Poverty

Pera’t Pulitika (PAP) came up with these estimates of the campaign expenses for the major electoral posts in the country based on its study of the 2004 and 2007 elections, namely: Presidential campaign, P2.5B – P5B; senatorial campaign, P150M -P500M; congressional campaign, P3M –P100M; gubernatorial campaign, P5M –P150M; and mayoralty campaign, P1M-P100M.

Take note that these ground estimates transcend the campaign spending caps set by law which is P10/registered voter for presidential positions (president and vice president) and P3/registered voter for all the rest of the positions, the total amount of which may differ on the size of each constituency. In other words, with a current voting population of 50M, a presidential aspirant is allowed by law to spend only P500M plus P250M from party contribution (P5/registered voter) or a total of P750M. At P3/registered voter, a senatorial aspirant is only permitted to spend P150M.

Although the regulations on campaign spending are unrealistic and never strictly monitored and controlled by the COMELEC, they have been imposed supposedly to level the playing field for candidates. The fact remains, however, that the cost of running for a political position is very prohibitive. And from the look of it, only the economic elite have actually the opportunity to participate and have the biggest chance to win elective positions in government.

The political race naturally spawns fund raising activities from various sources and in different forms the dire consequences of which may subvert and frustrate the national will. Politicians dip their fingers into sources of funds other than from their own pockets. For incumbents, funds may come from the coffers of the government through the like of the notorious fertilizer anomaly and through pork barrels and over-priced and sub-standard public infra projects that materialize few months before the election season. Contributions to the campaign kitty may also be solicited from big business, lobbyists, gambling and drug lords, and from big-time smugglers. It is also no accident that a year or so before and during elections, bank robberies, kidnappings and plain banditries become very pronounced in different parts of the country.

Our kind of political election evidently does not serve the purpose for which it is undertaken, that is, to produce democratic and socially responsive leaders and lawmakers to lead our country to progress and peace. Instead, it has become the mother of all corruptions that prostitutes our morals and values. It has become a nasty business where people trade their souls for some economic incentives. Decision-makings are thus compromised and governance is sacrificed in the altar of payback development. Sadly, the citizens have lost the moral ascendancy to criticize or demand anything right from the government because they are, in the first place, greatly responsible in putting the wrong people there. So long as corruption remains in our electoral process, our government will remain inefficient and ineffective in the delivery of public services. Consequently, the people will remain marginalized and dehumanized. And the cycle of poverty and corruption goes on and on to eternity.

Clean, Honest, Peaceful and Zero-Spending

Selection of Leaders

The only way to break the cycle of poverty and corruption is to have an honest and responsive government. We may be able to have this kind of government if we reform our electoral system by expanding and leveling the opportunity of participation and reducing to zero the spending for those who aspire for political posts. To do this, let us drop election as a method of choosing our leaders and replace it with selection through draw-lot method of pre-screened and qualified candidates to any position of leadership and decision-making in the government.

Basic Selection Policy

We envision an ‘electoral law’ that strictly prescribes the highest or best qualifications for any contested position of leadership and decision-making in the government. In this highly competitive and globalized world where we have remained laggards, we need leaders who do not only know how to read and write but must have the capacity to think creatively and critically, and must have the necessary experience to manage resources and to produce results. The higher the position sought the more stringent will be the qualifications required of the aspirants.

The primary role of COMELEC, or however this body to conduct the selection process may be called, is to screen the candidates to the various positions based on established qualification standards and to set up open, public and the most transparent draw-lot mechanisms in their selection. The church, the media, the academe, and civil societies may participate as watchdogs of the entire process.

Consider, for instance, the selection process in a municipality. Let us assume that the following qualifications are prescribed by law for the position of municipal mayor, vice mayor and members of the Sangguniang Bayan, to wit:

1. At least a college graduate
2. At least five years work experience, either as an employee, an entrepreneur, or as self-employed worker
3. Resident of the municipality for the last five years before the selection day
4. Mentally and physically fit
5. Not convicted of any crime punishable of one year imprisonment and higher
6. Shows willingness and commitment to serve

The COMELEC shall receive applications and screen applicants on the basis of the above qualifications. The CVs and supporting documents of aspirants to the different positions shall be submitted to the COMELEC one year before the selection day. The COMELEC shall find ways within six months to verify documentations and to conduct interviews of aspirants if necessary. After six months, it shall publish the names of qualified candidates and those who failed to qualify. Within the next five months, it shall settle and resolve protests on the candidacies.

The Selection Day

The selection of candidates employing a draw-lot method shall be held in a public plaza. An elevated stage that is visible from all sides and covered with closed circuit televisions (CCTV) shall be installed in the center of the plaza. A clear glass selection drum or tambiolo shall be placed in the middle of the stage for everybody to view. On the moment of selection, a COMELEC official shall show the name of every qualified candidate to the public via wide viewing screens and drop the ball bearing the name into the tambiolo. Once all the names of candidates, say, for a mayoralty position have been dropped into the tambiolo, it shall be closed and allowed to roll for five minutes. Afterwards, a mechanical arm shall pick up at random a name from the tambiolo and place it on a verifying machine for everybody to see. The person whose name was chosen in that random manner shall be declared by the COMELEC as the winner of the mayoralty post. The candidates for membership in the Sangguniang Bayan shall undergo similar process.

The selection method may also be applied in filling up other political positions, say, at the provincial and national level, with corresponding strategic modifications. The selection for higher positions may, for instance, be done by stages of elimination. Suffice it to say that there is a need to reduce time in the verification of the identity of the candidates, in assuring that all names of qualified candidates go into the process until eliminated or finally chosen, and in ascertaining that the conduct of selection remains random, public and absolutely transparent.

This method of choosing political leaders will certainly do away with mud-slinging, expensive self-advertising, vote-buying, terrorizing, and in degrading of the environment in the wanton campaign for votes. The preponderance to cheat and rob the government and the people to get back election investments may be greatly reduced if not totally eliminated. Therefore, the delivery of basic government services will also greatly improve. And this country will experience peace and finally march to progress.

A Teacher to Remember

His reputation was always ahead of him – a caustic, insulting and inconsiderate instructor who flunked 70-80 percent of the members of his English 4 classes. His tall lean frame gave him that mean and hungry look which further terrorized future students in “Contents and Style.” Naturally he was avoided by second year students who had to take the course during the second semester. When they went to the Gym to communicate with God on Sunday afternoons, they never missed in their petition the immediate recall to the US of Peace Corp volunteer Douglas Griffith. But the Lord was so busy at that time with the deteriorating situation in Vietnam to attend to anxiety of incoming English 4 students. So when I enrolled in the course in my fourth semester stay at MSU Marawi campus, I noticed that 8 out of the 13 members of the class were already fourth year and graduating students.

The senior female members of the class who weaved scary tales about Mr. Griffith called him “the pelican.” They never explained why. Probably, because he was always solitary and walked with his shoulders hunched a little forward, his bespectacled eyes hardly leaving the ground.

During the first meeting of our class all 13 of us occupied the last row of seats in one of those small classrooms in the old Gym in front Raja Indarapatra Dorm. The pelican arrived and was apparently amused by our cowardly position in the room and immediately barked:

“You should not change this sitting arrangement. You should remain in your exact position till the end of the semester.”

He moved with his back to the door and of a sudden kicked it with the force of a provoked horse, shaking precariously the tender walls of the room and sending the chalk powder that accumulated at the bottom of the blackboard in different directions. He thereupon bellowed:

“I would not allow anybody in this class to drop this course!”

We were given a diagnostic writing exercise on the topic “On Education.” I wrote that education does not improve the individual and the character of a nation. For instance, I argued to support my thesis, the most educated people in the world today are the Americans. But look what they are doing in Vietnam…blahblah…”

The result was devastating. My paper was bloody red all over. So many faults found: problem on antecedents, wrong tenses, wrong infinitives, dangling modifiers, so many passive and kilometric sentences, wrong punctuations, unnecessary and inappropriate words, spelling, etc. The sickening point was the remarks:

“You are a damn ass. You have nothing to say. You are simply playing with verbal garbage!”

The papers of my nearest seatmates were graded 3- , 4+ or 5. I could not locate my grade with all the red embellishments on my paper. Then my classmate and roommate, the late Mar Pagang, spotted it. It was the biggest 5 I ever received in my life. The mark actually occupied the entire page – starting with a long line on the top most border of the paper from right to left, moving along the left border down to the middle, crossing the center to the right border, moving along the right border down, and then curbed at the bottom back to the left border. It was amazing how he could shrewdly and artistically humiliate a person.

Doug Griffith exuded with dramatics that impacted on our consciousness. Our topic one foggy, muddy, cold day in November was definition. He began by asking the first student on his left side of the row: What is a chair?

“A chair is something you sit on,” she replied.

Almost automatically Doug dropped and sat on the floor, the bottoms of his white trousers, as well as his delicate hands muddied all over.

“So this is a chair!” He shouted. “Is this a chair?” he asked the girl while he was still sitting on the muddy floor.

“No Sir, that’s a floor.” She answered trembling.

“A minute ago you declared this is a chair. Fickle minded.” He rose and asked the next guy what his definition of a chair is.

“A chair is an object to sit on with four legs,” he replied.

“So this is a chair!" He cried as he climbed and sat on the table. “Is this a chair? He demanded.

“No Sir, that’s a table,” said the guy bewildered.

The next girl on the line defined a chair as an object with four legs with a writing arm. The instructor pulled from a corner a classroom chair with a missing leg and put it in front us. He looked at the class and looked at the chair and then kicked it like a football raging: “So this is not a chair!” The chair bounced on the wall and broke another leg. The girl grew white in fear.

So the questioning continued down the line. There was no satisfactory definition of a chair; the last ones were suffocated with details that begged a distinction between a chair behind a table, a bench and a writing chair. “Now, now, you, “he said addressing to me at the end of the line, “after hearing all their definitions, what is your definition of a chair.”

I didn’t know what to answer. To repeat what they said is catastrophe. After some seconds of hesitation I replied:

“My definition of a chair is a combination of all their definitions.”

The class was silent waiting for an explosion. It never came. The instructor clasped his hand behind him, moved back and forth in front us, and then announced: “Class dismissed.”

Until now I do not really know the value of my answer. It means nothing to me. It fails to define a chair. It appeared that it simply played on internal logic that Doug probably thought difficult to debunk. Anyway, there were many similar thought-provoking and emotionally jarring incidents after that to put across our teacher’s message that we should be sharp, definite and accurate in how we think and how we say it.

There would be plenty of writing exercises at the end of his topical lectures. We were required to maintain a journal, a thick notebook, where we jot down daily a paragraph or two on something - our observations on things around us, our reactions to facts and events, our fears, anxiety, doubts, confusion, love, hatred, impressions, imaginations, dreams, and what have you. He would diligently collect the journals Friday afternoon, read and correct them on weekends and return them to us on Monday morning. He introduced us an impressive thin book of 85 pages, “The Elements of Style” by William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White which he encouraged us to own a copy.

“Read this book,” he said. “Master this book. You don’t have to read any other books on writing after this. If you can master this book you can write on anything on any form because the essentials are here.”

Over time my impression on Doug changed. His “terror” stance, his dramatics and antics were after all designed to provoke his students into deep and powerful thinking to liberate them from the prison of shallow action-reaction thoughts and behaviors. I realized that his criticisms of one’s work were well-placed and his suggestions were directed to improve the expression of thoughts.

My change of attitude also changed the quality of my outputs. Soon, some of my papers were read in class. My grade also underwent radical metamorphosis.

Embarrassed

t was one hot Friday afternoon long time ago. I was absorbed checking the essay part of a midterm exam in my political science class at Agusan Colleges. All of a sudden the siren of the sawmill near our house in Golden Ribbon blasted the hour of the day: 5 pm. I was rattled. I remembered that I had a date at 5:30 that afternoon with Ms C. B., a pretty MSUan who was teaching at Agusan National High School. I rushed for a shower, changed my clothes, run to the street and hailed a motor-cab. The cab driver happened to be a boyhood friend and was just too willing to speed his rickety vehicle to the rendezvous place. He did not pick up additional passengers along the way when he knew of my predicament. He also refused payment for the special trip. I was so greatly grateful for the riding privilege.

I was only late for some 10 minutes. It was easy for me to spot my date in the newly opened restaurant in the heart of Butuan City. Ms C. B. was wearing her school uniform and was with an equally beautiful colleague also in uniform. They were all smile when I approached them. Introductions were made and I noticed immediately that Ms C. B. set up the date for me to meet her close friend.

The establishment was famous for its delicious siopao and halo-halo. We decided on that fare with a cola. The social chat that followed covered a lot of grounds – funny and challenging teaching experiences, the lingering talk on Marcos imposing martial law, student activism, the MSU students’ PAL hijack to communist China, the travails of writing, and the philosophical novels of Ayn Rand. My new lady friend impressed me with her grasp of the issues of the day. She talked with conviction but admitted she could not walk her talk because of family pressure. That would mean I could not invite her to political teach-ins and rallies. No deal.

It was almost 7 pm when we decided to call it a day. My new friend excused to go to the CR when I called the waiter for our chit. I reached for my wallet at the back pocket of my pants when the bill was handed to me. I froze with terror. It was not there. I was seized by extreme nausea and I supposed I turned pale as a result. Ms. C.B. was quick to notice it.

“Anything wrong?” She asked with deep concern.

“My wallet is in my other pants,” I said flatly.

She examined the bill and declared she had not enough money for it. But she reached for my right hand, squeezed it and told me not to worry. She walked towards the Cashier and returned in a short while to our table smiling.

“The Cashier is a sister of another close friend,” she explained. I told her I left my purse inside my office table and would pay our bill tomorrow.”

“Do you have fare money?” she inquired.

“Actually, none. I thought earlier that these keys in my pockets were coins.”

She chuckled and inserted something into the pocket of my polo shirt just before her co-teacher had returned to our table.

Seatmate

March 1990. I was the last passenger one day to board the plane bound for Manila and was seated beside a charming young lady at the rearmost seat of the cabin. I immediately fastened my seatbelt as the plane readied for take off. Then I noticed something: my seatmate was agitated and was sweating furiously despite the drop in temperature inside the cabin.

“Is there anything wrong?” I asked her.

“I don’t know how to do it,” she said pointing to her still unfastened seatbelt.

The plane was already taking off. I took and adjusted her seatbelt and locked it. She was totally relieved. She smiled rather sadly and thanked me.

“Is this your first plane ride?” I started a conversation.

“Yes,” she said almost in a whisper.

“Are you scared?”

“Yes…”

“No, you should not. Airplanes are still the safest mass transit vehicles in the whole world,” I assured her. “And in case of an accident,” I tried to make some joke to calm her nerves, “it is so quick and fast that, before we know it, we will already be in heaven.”

“I’m not afraid so much of the plane ride but what I will do when I arrive in Manila,” she explained.

“Why, is this also you first time in Manila? How old are you incidentally?”

Lourie was 15, a third year high school. It would be her first time in Manila, in fact, also her first time to travel away from home. From Manila she would proceed to Olongapo City to the family of her elder sister. Her sister was married to an American sailor, had two kids, and the family was very soon to leave for the U.S. Her sister wanted to leave all their home appliances and furniture to her parents in Bugo, Cagayan de Oro. These would be shipped home in a container van. But there were some small but precious items that she wanted her younger sister to carry personally home to Cagayan de Oro.

“Is there someone to meet you at the airport and send you off to Olongapo?” I inquired.

She opened her purse and showed me a name and a telephone number. It was a name of an owner of an appliance store in Avenida who also owned the movie house (the decrepit wooden movie house near Ororama in Cogon, Cagayan de Oro, demolished some 15 years ago) where his father worked as a movie projector operator. The instruction of his father was to call the number and wait at the airport for somebody to accompany her to the terminal for Olongapo bound buses, also located in Avenida.

“Have you ever met your father’s boss or any member of his family?”

“No.”

I perceived a problem. What if the store was closed and no one would answer the phone? What if everybody was busy and nobody would meet her at the airport?

Once I had gathered my checked-in luggage I towed the girl to a telephone booth. She was, however, hesitant to touch the phone.

“What’s the problem?”

“Actually, Sir, I have not yet used a telephone in my whole life. I don’t know how to do it,” she said obviously embarrassed.

To save time as it was almost 4 o’clock in the afternoon I rang the contact number myself. A guy answered that his father was not around and he could not leave the store because he was alone.

When I told her of the phone conversation she panicked and tears started to roll down her cheeks.

“Calm down,” I told her as I opened my wallet and gave her my business card. “There is only thing you should do: Trust me. We’ll get a taxi and I will accompany you to the bus terminal. But first let’s drop at our MSU office here in Manila where I could leave this box (BOR Naawan agenda matters) and my luggage.”

We could have gone directly to my hotel for the purpose. But the mention of a hotel might intimidate her. She had had enough of uncertainty and fear.

We dropped at the Antonino Building and took the lift to the MSU Liaison Office on the 11th floor. I did not ask her but I supposed that was also her first elevator ride. She was startled and held tightly at my arm when we started to move up. There were some MSU officials in the office and they thought that my young pretty companion was my daughter. The office was about to close. Dr. Manong Sarangani, then the Chancellor of MSU GenSan, volunteered to bring my luggage to our hotel (Jadevine) upon learning of my errand.

The girl and I took another taxi for the Olongapo bound terminal. While inside the taxi she showed me the location sketch of her sister’s apartment in Olongapo City. Accordingly, her sister had been telegrammed a day before of her estimated arrival and would be waiting for her that evening at the Olongapo bus terminal. Notwithstanding the information, I was still worried about her; I gave her my hotel’s phone number for whatever use it may serve her.

Once seated in the Philippine Rabbit bus, she just looked at me and said nothing. Then she gently held my hands and cupped her face with them for some moments. She closed her eyes and sobbed silently as she let go of me.

Early the following morning the elder sister called informing and thanking me for the safe travel of her kid sister.

The Man from Tugaya

My son failed to put enough pressure on the brake in that crucial moment and our old Isuzu Highlander slammed head-on to the left engine side of a sparkling Isuzu Crosswind that suddenly appeared in that intersection from nowhere. The crashing sound of the impact attracted people in that otherwise traffic-free intersection of Iligan City. They started to hover around the two vehicles like vultures waiting delightfully for unfortunate victims.

The driver of the Crosswind was quick to alight from his vehicle, halted and ushered his passengers to a passing jeepney. By his attire, my son figured that he had hit a car driven by a Maranao. His heart sunk and his feet turned into jelly. He remained on his seat for some eternity contemplating on his next moves. My wife, obviously shocked, started calling me frantically from her cellular phone.

But I was of no immediate help. I was beyond reach at that moment. I was on my mountain bike descending like a waterfall down a rough, steep and winding road carved from the mountainside of Balingtad, Manticao Misamis Oriental, about 46 km away from Iligan City.

My son finally summoned enough courage from within him and climbed down from his perch. He approached the driver who was inspecting the damage on his car and carefully put his left arm on his shoulders.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I tried but failed to avoid you. I am relieved that no one was hurt.”

“Well, it was an accident. I must admit I was a little fast because I did not want my passengers to be left behind by the Supper Ferry 11 a.m. schedule. Yes, we are fortunate that no one was hurt,” the Crosswind’s driver matter-of-factly replied.

My son, greatly consoled and comforted by the calm and friendly demeanor of the driver, introduced himself to him. The guy told him his name and showed him his driver’s license apparently to validate his information. His name was Sharif A from Tugaya, Lanao del Sur. He owned the Crosswind he was driving.

A radio announcer was on the scene just after impact and tried to manage the growing crowd. Using his two-way radio, he informed the City’s Traffic Management Office of the accident. Meanwhile, he requested unnecessarily the two drivers to remain calm and leave their vehicles on their exact location until the arrival of the traffic officers.

A band of Maranaos arrived and started talking excitedly to Sharif. They told him that my son was definitely at fault. Sharif looked at them and said that it was for the traffic investigation team to decide. They gave him their own estimate of the damage. He told them that the matter was for the insurance company to make. One claimed that the destroyed front light bulb alone would cost P7-10k. Sharif patiently told him that he bought it some two months ago in Davao City at P2.5k.

Halfway between Balingtad and Manticao proper my cell phone began beeping like mad. Seven text messages from my wife informed me and provided details of the accident. I immediately called her telling her that I was on my way and advising and assuring her to relax because everything would be all right. I also called my eldest son directing him to rush to Iligan to keep her mom and his younger brother company and to inform our insurer of the accident. Meanwhile, my biking companion and I decided to go back to Naawan. We negotiated the route back home at 30-35 km/hour.

In the race to Naawan some butterflies started to flutter in my stomach as the traumatic experience of my younger brother long time ago was refreshed in my mind. The company vehicle he was riding from an inspection tour of a road they were constructing in Tubod, Lanao del Norte, bumped a five year old Maranao girl somewhere in Kauswagan, Lanao del Norte. The girl, unmindful of the onrushing car, crossed the highway and ran after her grandma who was already on the other side of the road. It was too late for the old lady to stop her, and too late for the driver to totally avoid her. My brother picked up the bloody mess of a child and persuaded the grandma to accompany them to the hospital in Iligan. Upon reaching the Sanitarium, my brother directed his driver to surrender the vehicle and himself to the police station.

In the emergency room, the attending physician could not believe the results of the medical examination of the little girl. Despite the impact of the vehicle on her frail body she sustained no fractured bones. Except for the minor but bleeding wound in her forehead and the bruises in her tiny limbs, the child was in exceptionally stable condition. Nonetheless, the she had to be admitted in the hospital for a 24-hour medical observation. The child was about to be ushered to a private room when a throng of relatives arrived angrily demanding for the driver of the ill-fated vehicle. The medical team scampered to safety. Only my brother, the little girl and the grandmother remained in the room. Then a young man pointed to my brother telling the crowd that he was the one who picked the child up and pushed the old lady inside the car. My brother tried to explain but they seemed to hear nothing and started inching towards him. The guard informed of the commotion rushed to the scene and somehow stopped what could have been a tragic event. He was tailed by a tall fellow with a .45 pistol bulging on the left side of his waist.

“Are you the driver?’ the new arrival with the .45 asked with authority.

“No,” my brother replied. I am the passenger – the project engineer. The driver already surrendered to the City Police Station,” he explained.

“He should have surrendered to the PNP in Kauswagan where the accident happened,” the guy blurted out and demanded for my brother’s ID.

“My driver was entertaining that but I ordered him to rush here so that the child can get immediate medical attention. The life of the child was our primary concern,” he answered while handing to him his ID.

The tall guy examined my brother’s ID, looked quizzically at him, narrowed his forehead and asked: “Are you in anyway related to Willie A of MSU Naawan?”

“He is my elder brother.”

“O my God!”

He put his arm around the shoulders of my brother and immediately addressed the crowd, telling everyone that everything is Ok and to leave the stranger (my brother) alone because “I know his brother.”

I was waiting for the bus ride to Iligan after a quick change of clothing when by good fortune an unfamiliar car stopped where I was standing. The new car was owned by a son of a family friend. Thus I was in Iligan in just about an hour upon learning of the incident.

From a distance I saw my two sons talking to the insurance man and to another man whom I presumed to be the driver-owner of the Isuzu Crosswind. I approached them and introduced myself to the owner of the Crosswind.

The man was cool and composed. He showed me his driver’s license, his OR and the certificate of registration of his vehicle even without my asking.

“We are a little unfortunate today Sharif,” I declared.

“Perhaps, but only a little as you said Mr. Willie,” he replied. “To be honest, I actually consider myself fortunate because if it was I who hit your car I really don’t know where to get the money for the repair of the two vehicles. My car is not covered by a comprehensive insurance.

Only two months ago I also figured in an accident with this car while driving in Davao. Somewhere in Makilala, a big carabao suddenly crossed my path and I smashed into it. The carabao was unscathed but my car was heavily damaged. I walked the carabao to the police station nearby and requested the police chief to call for the owner of the carabao. Everyone in the community was notified to identify the carabao. No one claimed the beast. I returned the following day with a tow truck. The carabao was still in the police station ground. ‘Sir,’ the police chief told me, ‘the carabao is owned by nobody. You can bring it home.’ So the police helped me load the carabao in the tow truck. I brought it home to Tugaya and sold it for P15k. You know, I paid P80k for the repair of my car. I was still lucky I had the carabao.” He chuckled amused by his own story.

“Sharif, I am really fascinated by the way you take and handle things like this,” I told him. “You seem undisturbed by the incident. You appear to me incapable of anger. You are really different.”

“Mr. Willie,” he explained. “Nobody wants an accident. Not you and me. But you cannot avoid an accident. If it is bound to happen it will happen. Consider this: I was from Tugaya and your son was from Naawan. We did not know each other and never had an agreement to come to Iligan and arrived here today almost at the same time. There are many routes to the pier and there are other routes to the bank he was going. He chose his own route and I chose mine and we met in that intersection in a way that no one of us desired.”

“But by experience many people get mad in situation like this,” I said.

“One must be mad for the right reason and at the right time,” he mused. “To get mad you must have someone to blame and direct your ire to. But who is to blame for an incident that no one intended to do or even wished to do? Accidents might be divine jokes. This one was neither funny nor so cruel in anyway. Whatever, this is one of the things we have to accept in life.”

He gently tapped my shoulder and whispered a request: “Please put some pressure on the insurance and the repair shop to hasten the restoration of my car. This is my livelihood. I ferry passengers in groups (pakyaw) from Marawi to any parts of Mindanao. I hope I can drive this car again before Christmas or the New Year.”

I promised. The shop released his car to his satisfaction three weeks after the incident and two days before the New Year. Mine languished in the shop for another two weeks.

Textmate: Just for Once

1:37 a.m. The beeping of my cellular phone jolted me from my slumber. In this unholy hour this might be a very important message, ran my thought. But the number was not in my phone directory. Who could this be? I opened the message:

“I’m tired of you. You can go and rut in hell!”

“Why are you sending me to hell? I don’t even know you?” I sent a message back irritated.

“Who are you?”

“Is that all you would say after interrupting my sleep?” I switched my phone off and went back to sleep. I had still 2 hours to capture energy for my system before the 4 a.m. trip to Dinas, Zamboanga del Sur.

Along the way to Pagadian City the same number sent an apologetic note:

“Sorry Sir/Ma’am for my offensive behavior early this morning. The message was not intended for you but for my boyfriend. We quarreled after the office party.”

“No problem. But definitely I’m not a ma’am and please do not sir me.” I replied.

That’s how my one year textmate relationship with Elen started. She was 27 years old, single, and an executive secretary of a firm that installed telephone lines throughout northern Mindanao. Her boyfriend was one of the communication engineers of the company. I was then 54 years old, married, with six grown up kids. When she asked me what I was doing in Dinas, a peace-challenged community in Zamboanga peninsula, I told her I ran errands for my organization going to this and that place convincing people to protect and manage their coastal resources and environment.

Elen was thoughtful and sweet. Every time I entered a critical community where cell phones became useless and only one’s faith in God mattered, she would chase me with “Take care, ingat and God bless” before the signals disappeared. I regaled her with jokes and advised her how to handle her boyfriend every time they quarreled.

One day, I received a voice call from an unknown number.

“May I talk to Mr. William Adan?”

“Yes, speaking. Dr. William Adan, speaking. Anything I can do for you?” I replied.

The phone went dead. Then my phone rang again and Elen’s number surfaced; and she came ranting in Tagalog:

“Walang hiya ka. Niloko mo ako nang husto. Utosan daw, errand lang daw siya, extension worker, yon pala ay doctor. Siguro nakita mo na ako sa isang hospital dito sa Cagayan de Oro. Baka kapitbahay pa nga kita at matagal mo na akong minamanmanan at pinagtawanan…Bakit mo ito ginawa sa akin? Paniwalang paniwala pa naman ako sa inyo…”And her voice quavered probably in an attempt to suppress emotion.

That was the first time I heard of Elen’s voice. Despite her anger she came sweet and fragile. I was amused by her behavior.

“No, Elen, I told you the truth. I do extension works. Doctors run errands, too. And not all of them are working in hospitals. I told you once that I work in a university, remember? We have never met and I have not seen you yet. And you are not a laughing matter to me. I value your friendship. I have not taken advantage of you, have I? ” I explained consoling her.

There was a long silence. She sobered and then asked:

“Are you really married with six children and as old as my father?”

“Yes, I’m married. Yes, I have six kids. And perhaps I am old as your father.”

“If so, why have you kept me as a textmate? It’s difficult to imagine my father having a lady half his age as a textmate.”

“I’m not your father. And you started all this, remember?”

I thought the confrontation would end our friendship. On the contrary, our friendship blossomed. She did not only send text messages but began to call me now and then to update me of the happenings of their office and to inquire on my activities in the field. I learned that her firm had to close shop by middle of January 2004 as its work contract in Mindanao had been accomplished. Then one day a week before Christmas she called:

“I broke with my boyfriend and this is final and irrevocable. He is always jealous of me and accused me things I never did. I am always unfortunate in my relationships. I also broke with my previous boyfriends because of their consuming jealousy.”

“May be you flirted with the boys around you.”

“No. Boys moved around me but I never played flirt.”

“May be you are very beautiful and your former boyfriend was hopelessly insecure, and was always scared that someone would steal you from him.”

“Well, you really have to see me for that. My friends say that heads turn when I pass by. But you have to validate that yourself. Why don’t you see me? I have waited but you never asked for it. Now, I am requesting that we meet. Please.”

“But I am married and old.”

“What the heck! You don’t sound one and I don’t give a damn.”

“Now I’m afraid because you don’t give a damn.”

“Ah, that. Don’t worry I’m not going to seduce and rape you. And don’t overestimate your power over me, old man!” And she burst in chuckles.

“Bitaw, please just for one time. I’m leaving Cagayan de Oro very soon. I can’t leave this place without seeing you. I will explain when we meet. Consider it your Christmas gift to me, please?”

So we agreed to meet at 3 pm, three days before Christmas 2003 at Chowking, Gaisano Mall, Cagayan de Oro. She would be escorted by a female officemate and I would be accompanied by my wife and my 21 year old daughter who would be then shopping for Christmas. She would wear a light pink blouse and black jeans. I would wear a red t-shirt and maong pants.

My daughter Augie and I were already in a choice corner of Chowking 20 minutes before 3 pm. My wife continued her shopping and begged for a call once Elen is already around. At 5 before 3 pm, I knew it was Elen who crossed the threshold of Chowking: The guard’s mouth went agape, the utility boy stopped mopping the floor, the ice-cream man stopped scoping ice-cream, the ladies in the counter stopped receiving orders, and the customers near the door all turned their heads to her in an instance. She was about 5’6” tall , with almond eyes, fair complexion and a flawless skin. Her blouse and her jeans hugged her magnificent body that mesmerized everyone.

She looked around. About 10 men were wearing red t-shirts in the room. Finally she approached us, her eyes twinkling in anticipation:

“Dr. Adan, I suppose?” She ventured.

I stood and nodded breathing hard in excitement. She bent and offered her cheek for a buss. I wasted no time in imprinting a kiss on both sides. She smiled and then gave me a quick tight hug, saying in a whisper “there, there at last.”

“You are indeed beautiful. I can kiss you forever!” I exclaimed.

“Hey, your daughter is listening. I suppose you are Augie?” She addressed my girl.

“Yes. Papa is right. You are truly marvelous.” Augie commented.

My wife arrived and pleasantries were exchanged as we ate our snacks. Elen was bubbly and related easily to everyone as if we had known each other for a long time. She told us how her father, a Maguindanao Muslim, and her mother, a Christian Ilonga, fashioned her life. She was already betrothed to someone in an early age, but her father was willing to cancel the betrothal if she could bring home a respectable man worthy and deserving of becoming a member of the family. She studied in Manila under the supervision of a maternal aunt and was given 5 years after graduation to bring the right man to Cotabato. Five years would end on April 2004.

Augie and her mother left us later to finish their shopping. The officemate also joined the shopping crowd. Once we were alone she became forlorn.

“Willie, help me, “she trembled. “ I do not want to disappoint my father; he is very kind to me. But I do not want to marry a man I do not love.” She was silent for a while playing with her fingers. “Willie,” she whispered, “I’m still a virgin. I want to give myself only to the man I really love.”

Grief swamped over me hearing her confession. I scanned the recesses of my thought for wisdom and told her:

“You go home to Cotabato. Your father appears to me a sensible person. Ask for extension. Ask for more time to find your man.”

Her face lightened but she continued to play with her delicate and slender fingers. Then she startled me:

“Do you think I can find a man like you?”

“Like me?” I almost shouted. “Why do want an ugly dwarf who is as old as Methuselah? Come to your senses Elen. I want you to marry – if you are fascinated with older men, at least the like of Richard Gere. You should not lose your sense of balance.” I said this with Jelo and Richard Gere in my mind doing tango criminal in “Shall we Dance?” All of a sudden Richard Gere dissolved and became me dancing with Elen.

She smiled and her eyes twinkled again amused probably by what I said.

“I’m not physical. I like people who are intelligent, sincere, honest and understanding. I like you.” She mused.

“You don’t know me Elen. I’m not as good as you think I am. I can be stupid and mean. If you were my girlfriend and if you would become my wife, I would chain you to my side all the time. I think God made a mistake by making you so beautiful.”

She giggled. “What’s so funny?” I demanded.

“I imagined the reverse of what you said: you following me in chain while I do my shopping here in Gaisano!” And she chuckled again. “But you don’t really mean what you said. Anyway, I won’t mind being chained through life to the man I love.” And she was sad again

“I want to cry.”

“I want to drink beer.”

“For once, I wish we were alone in a place where I can cry over my misfortunes with you by my side, even if you were drinking your beer. But that is impossible. It’s time to say goodbye.”

She stood, gently pulled me towards her, kissed the top of my head, and disappeared from my life.

Dr QF Miravite, the Man and the Legend: A Close Personal Encounter

I had a love-hate-love relationship with Dr. QF Miravite.

When I arrived in MSU in 1966, Dr. QFM was already occupied with administrative functions as Vice President for Academic Affairs. He was no longer teaching but gave occasional lectures in civic and social training (CST).

One cold November at around 5 pm, the students in CST D, Current International Issues, were assembled in the gym waiting for their lecturer. It was a little dark in the gym because the busted light bulbs had not been replaced and the fog had also crept inside. Suddenly a dark smoking figure materialized in front of us and, after ascertaining that it was the gathering for CST D, started articulating on the conflict over Kashmir between India and Pakistan, the escalation of the Vietnam War, and the raging dispute between the Philippines and Malaysia over Sabah. The eternally smoking dark man in dark suit was no other than Dr. Quiterio. F. Miravite.

Dr. QFM cut quite an impression on me because of his nonchalant attitude and behavior expressed in the way he talked and bore himself. He wore a crooked smile, which came like a smirk, which put his listeners in quandary as to his seriousness of purpose. QFM was an eloquent speaker but came with a voice that was low and a little raspy probably because of the accretion of nicotine in his throat. He was puffing his cigarette with gusto while lecturing. After a while, the fog and his smoke mixed in what most likely was the first smog we knew that hovered around us for the duration of the one-hour CST session at the campus gym.

The Legend

The Miravites were a legend. Reality and myth intertwined around them. Those ahead of us on campus told us that QFM finished his Ph.D. in esoteric studies in India at age 24 and was an expert in yoga and hypnotism. They said that Rozalina, his adorable wife, the first known political activist in Marawi campus, could not have married him if she were not hypnotized by him. The Miravite couple, accordingly, had at any time a case of beer and coca cola under their matrimonial bed: the beer for smoking QFM and the coke for sweet Rosalina. Ma’am Miravite, her students claimed, would always bring with her two or more bottles of coke to her workplace. Dr. QFM had, accordingly, also a stock of beer in some cabinet of his office. He was intellectually productive, like Edgar Alan Poe, when a little tipsy, said many. That he could think and type very fast, I can vouch for it. I watched him one time typed a special order in a zip. I thought the typewriter would break into pieces when he did it.

The Master Strategist

QFM was a master strategist. His game plan was way ahead of everyone’s thought. The creation of MSU IIigan Institute of Technology (IIT) and MSU Sulu College of Technology and Ocenaography (SCTO), evidently with the blessing of President Antonio Isidro, was his branchild. He had probably foreseen that one day MSU Marawi would slowly lose its momentum for academic excellence because of the growing, pervasive and choking cultural atavism in the area that would eventually warp the vision, mission and goals of the University. At least another campus may rise from the fall, in case. The genius of QFM was manifested in the way he assured the development of the new MSU units by securing them special and reliable sources of funds. Under RA 5363, the MSU IIT was assured an annual allocation of 3 percent of the gross income from all sources of the City of Iligan for its operation and maintenance. On the other hand, MSU SCTO was to receive from the Bureau of Custom 5 percent ad valorem duty on processed imported marine products (RA 6060), collectible every end of each quarter. For whatever reason, either by new legal issuances or as a result of administrative mediocrity, MSU SCTO (now TCTO, where T stands for Tawi-tawi) stopped to receive its valorem funds after the declaration of Martial Law. And the revamp of the MSU Board of Regents after the EDSA I Revolution lost the Iliganon’s representation in the policy making body of the University and, consequently, stopped the flow of the City’s tax money to the coffer of MSU IIT.

At any rate, Dr. QFM managed to divert some funds from the ad valorem money of SCTO to finance the physical development and operational enhancement of a small marine research laboratory of the MSU College of Fisheries in Naawan, Misamis Oriental. The research lab which would be known later as the Institute of Fisheries Research and Development (IFRD), the forerunner of MSU Naawan, eventually became the birthplace of the Sugpo Revolution in the country. MSU Naawan developed the first technology in the mass production of the fry of the tiger shrimp, p. monodon, in hatcheries and their culture in brackish ponds early in the seventies. This feat of MSU Naawan was used by QFM to eventually corner and capture under MSU management the establishment of the Aquaculture Department of the Southeast Asian Fisheries Development Center (SEAFDEC AQD) in Tigbauan, Iloilo. The first wave of research workers of SEAFDEC AQD came mostly from MSU Naawan and partly from Marawi campus. The first Japanese shrimp experts conducted their preliminary production experiments at the MSU Naawan hatcheries. In 1975 when the formal management structure for SEAFDEC AQD was formally approved by its member countries, MSU’s supervision over the Aquaculture Department of SEAFDEC was ended.

Up Close and Personal

But let me backtrack a little. My first personal encounter with QFM occurred some three months after the student demonstration in August 1969 in MSU Marawi. My love for legends started to fade away.

The whole country then was wracked by student activism and the fever rubbed on us at MSU Marawi that gave birth to the Student Reform Movement (SRM). I found myself in the company of Jun Acut, Dan Lobitania, Dave Tauli, Willie Lazaro, and the late Rod Cadiente, Glenn Rosauro and Sammy Marohombsar, among others, in the frontline of the movement. The Marohombsar cousins, Rebecca and Myrna, were among our links to the Girls Dorm I can still remember. The Student Government headed by Abe Alonto joined forces with us.

The SRM led probably the longest campus demonstration and boycott of classes in the whole country at that time that lasted for 9 days, from August 6-15, 1969. It grappled on the issues and concerns that beset the scholars’ paradise: security problems – the increasing frequency of physical assault of boys’ dorm occupants, the slapping contests carried out by non-campus residents, and the thievery on campus; the inadequacy of learning materials, particularly textbooks, where in major courses only one textbook was available for some 15 students despite our textbook allowance; the invariant, almost nauseating meals in the cafeteria; the insufficient water supply whose share for the students flowed to the dorms at 12 midnight or 4 in the morning; and the low quality of health and other student services. Of course in the speeches of some student leaders, corruption in the University and the government were dished out along with the national outcry on American imperialism. I noticed along the way, however, that local campus politics took a ride on the student movement for change. The demand to oust President Isidro and QFM insidiously took the front seat of the struggle and put me in a moral dilemma because I was not personally sold to the idea. I did not believe it was necessary. Tension was mounting. The Board of Regents of the University had to hold a special meeting on campus to listen to the student’ demands and break the stalemate on the negotiation between the University administration and the student leaders in ending the boycott of classes. The Board’s chief negotiator with the students was alumni representative James Claude S. Mante. At the end of the day, President Isidro had to retire outside of schedule. QFM managed to hang on.

It was difficult to go back to study mode after about a month of freedom and disorder in one’s immediate environment. Nonetheless, I managed to pass in all my subjects and maintain my scholarship. When it was time to enroll for the second semester, I got the shock of my life: the faculty in the political science department would no longer admit me. I was given no explanation but was advised to see Atty. Jose Agbayani, the University Registrar. I went to Atty. Agbayani and was told to see Dr. Quiterio F. Miravite, the Vice President for Academic Affairs.

QFM welcomed me in his office with a handshake and his patented smile and said:

“Congratulations William. We have examined your academic records and noticed that you have already met the minimum requirements for graduation. Thus, you don’t have to enroll this semester. We have already considered your candidacy for graduation.”

I was tongue-tied for a moment. I did not expect this development. I felt, however, that I was being robbed of something. I looked at him and said: “Sir, I was able to maintain my scholarship and am still entitled to enroll this semester. There are still a lot of things that I have to learn and I will not be happy to settle with minimums.”

His reaction was immediate and furious. “Gago ka talaga. Kung hindi ka pa naman tanga, eh binibigyan na nga kita ng pabor, ayaw mo pa. Yong iba nga dyan, umiyak-iyak na, halos lumoluhod na para maka-graduate lang. At ikaw pa-ayaw-ayaw pa!”

“Sir,” I tried to reason out, “we have this scholarship contract. You can’t just dismiss it. I have the right to study and stay here for another semester.”

“The contract is subject to certain policies of the University. We have made the decision. If you insist, you can go to court,” he declared.

There was no way for me to go to court. I didn’t even have fare money to go home. At the end of the enrolment period, I went back to the Registrar and asked for development in my favor. There was none. I could not stay on campus and eat free meals without an evidence of registration for that semester. So I went back to QFM and told him that I gave up and that I was going home. But because I did not have fare money, I wanted that my travel, book allowance, and the equivalent monthly stipends for the remaining semester provided for in the scholarship contract be given to me. He agreed and in less than two hours I got my money and went home to Butuan the following day. That was how I was “kicked out” from the University and enjoyed my vacation ahead of the flock courtesy of QFM. Given this free time, I gave no second thought when invited by the junior faculty of MSU led by Yesnoy (formerly Nonoy) Macasantos to join the Movement for Better MSU (MBM). But this is another story that I may tackle in some other time.

The Encounter in Bongao

Two years later (1971), I accepted the invitation of Fred Santiago, then Director of the Sulu College of Technology and Oceanography, to help him in launching the college program in Bongao, Sulu (now Tawi-Tawi). I came to Bongao in the company of Elvira Ynion (who in two years’ time would become my wife), Corazon Uy, the late Gertrudes Licmoan, Alejandra Napil, Capistrano Tejano, Jr, Angelito Vizcara, and the late Artemio Bernardino (Dan and Helen Vicente, Manuel Lam, Ninpha Gayon, and Eldigario Gonzales followed us later). As the construction of the college buildings was still going on, we held classes temporarily at the Bongao MSU Preparatory High School and under the acacia trees. QFM was around in the first week of August 1971 to see the progress of the construction of the school buildings on campus and to serve as our guest speaker for the 2nd Founding Anniversary of SCTO on August 4, 1971. It was at this time that I heard the famous quote: “the center of gravity of MSU is everywhere and its periphery is nowhere.”

He was not in any way surprised to see me in Bongao but asked me some questions.

QFM: What are the courses assigned to you here?

WRA: I am initially hired as Teacher II. I am assigned to teach English and history subjects in fourth year high school.

QFM: You are a political science major. How do you teach English?

WRA: I want to develop my students in writing and public speaking. I have required them to keep a daily journal and I am correcting their works (sentence construction, grammar, tenses, etc.) every weekend. I am planning to come out with a student publication both for high school and college, to start in mimeographed form. To improve their public speaking ability, I have devised a draw-lot method where a student would pick up at random his topic to develop and deliver extemporaneously in 3 minutes.

QFM: Well, that is something. What do you want me to buy to enhance your teaching strategy?

WRA: A new electric mimeo machine for the student publication and a portable tape recorder with a lot of blank tapes and batteries for my public speaking classes (Bongao did not have electricity at that time but we have a generator at the Guest House).

One month later, Dir. Santiago brought with him to Bongao a new Gestetner electric mimeo machine, a portable Sony tape recorder and a Pentax SL camera for me. I immediately organized the editorial staff of the first student publication in SCTO campus, “The Sambatau (for Samal-Badjao-Tausog) Echo” and came out with our first mimeographed maiden issue at no time at all. The tape recorder was still a novelty at that time. My students were amazed and fascinated to hear their voices for the first time and were laughing at their speeches. Their shyness and apprehension gone, they started jockeying thereafter for priority position to talk extemporaneously in class.

The Encounter in Naawan

A year after the declaration of Martial Law, the local talents in Bongao wanted to run SCTO themselves. Fred Santiago returned to MSU Marawi and helped QFM in working for the establishment of SEAFDEC under the wings of MSU. Because I was critical of the way the campus was managed and was strongly identified with Fred Santiago, the new SCTO administration tried to find ways to ease me out of Bongao. One night, the MNLF assaulted Bongao and found ourselves scampering for safety. Jun Tumanda and wife, Farida Alibasa, Dan and Helen Vicente, Letty and her hubby, the late Fruc Escudero and I took refuge in Zamboanga City. When we failed to return to Bongao after two weeks because of the turmoil, the SCTO administrators terminated our employment. With the intervention of Dean Domiciano Villaluz, Pres. Mauyag Tamano reversed the action of SCTO management and facilitated the transfer of Fruc and Letty to the MSU College of Fisheries in Marawi and our (the newly-wed couples, Jun and Faring Tumanda and Willy and Bing Adan) transfer to Naawan as research assistants in May 1973. Dan and Helen Vicente would follow us soon.

In Naawan, Dean DK Villaluz made me his public relations officer and the first head of Training and Extension Program of IFRD. When MSU was finally designated by Malacanang as the implementing arm of the Aquaculture Department of SEAFDEC, Dr. Miravite came over to Naawan and sat with me to discuss a massive technology dissemination program on the culture and production of sugpo in hatchery and fishponds. He suggested that we develop a 3-day fishpond cooperators training program in collaboration with SEAFDEC Iloilo and the Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources (BFAR). The concept was to train fishpond operators with their caretakers, help them develop or prepare their ponds, and give them 10,000 sugpo fry each gratis to experiment the culture of the same in their respective pond conditions. MSU Naawan researchers would monitor the physical and chemical parameters of the production experiment.

I first balked at the idea because I was quite aware that the technology in sugpo production was still immature and was in fact still a hit-and-miss thing. But it was difficult to stop QFM. You either have to move with his traffic or be pushed aside. I decided to go with him. I personally convinced myself that it would take 5 years or more for the sugpo technology to mature in our laboratories. We took the unorthodox move of involving the users in improving the technology and have this same mature in their own hands. What we did short-circuited the paradigm of existing school of thoughts on technology generation, development, dissemination and adoption. It was a gamble that became the subject of my master’s degree thesis three years later.

The fishpond cooperators program was duplicated later in SEAFDEC when it started operating its shrimp hatcheries. At the conclusion of the program, only about 5 percent of those given sugpo fry to culture in their ponds reported different levels of success. But these successful innovators would soon become the source of improved culture and production technology to the neighboring farmers. Parallel to the pond production effort, we also trained fish farmers and their technicians in the operations of shrimp hatcheries. As a result, shrimp culture became a “sunshine industry” in the country and Southeast for that matter in the late seventies to the nineties.

The Last Encounter

I suppose Dr. QF Miravite was already out of SEAFDEC but ran a consulting firm known as Bio-Resources International (BRI) which was quartered at Zeta Building in Ayala, Makati, when I paid him a visit for a personal purpose sometime in 1983. BRI’s major project at that time was the Vitali Fishpond Estate of the Southern Philippines Development Administration (SPDA). Everyone was busy in the office when I arrived. Nevertheless, Nonoy (now Yesnoy) Macansantos, BRI’s chief of staff, ushered me to the plush office of QFM. Apparently, QFM was in a foul mood that morning. When I requested him for a road-right-of-way through his lot which was adjacent to my lot in Naawan where we were constructing our house, he became unnecessarily abrasive.

QFM: Ano, hihingi ka ng road-right-of way sa akin? Kon di ka pa naman gago, bakit ka bumili ng lupa na walang madadaanan? Ang dunong-dunong mo tapos nagkaroon ka ng problemang ganyan at ipasa mo ngayon sa akin. Sayang ang dunong mo!

WRA: Hindi ko ho alam noong una, Doc, na kailangan yon pagmag-loan ka sa bangko. Akala ko noong araw pwede na yong trail or pathway para sa gawin naming bahay. Babayaran ko naman ho yong road-right-of-way. Hindi ko hinihinging libre.

QFM: Hindi ko problema yon. Nagpakatanga ka, problema mo yan.

WRA: Bakit ka naman galit sa akin? Hindi naman kita pinipilit. Kong ayaw mo di ayaw. Bibili na lang ako ng helicopter pagdating ng araw para makapasok sa lote namin.

I left him without saying goodbye. I bantered for a while with his staff some of whom were familiar to me. When I was about to leave Yesnoy came to me and asked me some details on my request. I showed him the sketch of the lot, the location and the total area of the road-right-of way, and informed him of the prevailing price of land in Naawan. We agreed that I pay double of the prevailing price. I needed 70 square meters and I was to pay P2, 800 in manager’s check for the road-right-of-way. Two days later, I returned to BRI and handed to Yesnoy the manager’s check. He handed to me the road-right-of-way instrument, which was already signed by QFM, together with the land title for annotation purposes.

In a trip to Manila sometime in the second quarter of 1987, or four years after the encounter in Makati, I learned from former SEAFDEC Chief (Jan 1983-April 1986) Dr. Fred Santiago that QFM was sick and was closeted in his condo (Sunset Condominium) in Roxas Blvd. Jun Tumanda was with me at that time and we decided to pay him a visit.

Our arrival in his condo was unannounced. When he opened the door he was so surprised and pleased to see us. He was unnaturally warm in welcoming us. He gave us a hug and immediately offered us a choice of drinks. We settled for orange juice. Apparently, QFM was sorting his papers when we arrived and these were scattered on the table and on the floor. Then he smiled and walked towards the table and pulled out a document and said: “Willy, look, I have still here your manager’s check for the road-right-of-way.” He giggled as he handed me the check stapled on the land title.

That was the last time I saw the real man and the legend I learned to love again.


William R.Adan
AB Political Science, Batch 1966
MSU Marawi