Breathing Lessons

“Wake up, wake up,” I heard a whispering voice within my pillow. Stop it. I’m awake. I’m not yet sleeping. Torrents are pouring down in Paranaque. I had to close the window. It was one o’clock in the morning. Sleeping on a serene cold rainy Sunday will be heaven for anyone. Not for now. Five beeps from my cell phone revealed text messages which shared the same content from Emily and Ate Phongs, both cousin and friend in Daraga. “People are frantically evacuating again to higher places due to heavy downpour here…” Swept away from one hellish chapter, I grasped the bleak of the wee hours before dawn with a question.

Is it over?                                                                                  

It was the first day of December again. Flashes of memories are taking me to that day. I was back to that place again. I rushed outside to see that everybody’s awake. Maybe, they never slept too. People on the streets were busy. One car is being dragged out of a mud deposit. A BayanTel telephone pole and steel electrical post are being taken parallel from obstructing the road. At least the first ten people I viewed were barefooted, bodies are caked in sludge. One neighbor across street cleaning the front yard smiled at me. It will be a tough day for her and the entire family. The roof of their house was trashed on the rear yard. One tree rested on inside their house. Looking away in dismay, I went down into the community near the river channel to check on its condition. Walking slowly towards the setting was like slowly pacing into a death march. I pass by people sad, while some were sobbing. Some were just staring at me, while others busy drying wet household things. I wasn’t walking that much when I stopped. There was no river. To my surprise, the road ended there. It’s an ocean of sticky mud, accented with various types of roof structures floating like umbrellas. This used to be our playground. I was still imagining an imaginary concrete road that leads to a quiet river bank with concrete retaining walls. It was a waking moment where everything modestly built by the townspeople came to ruins. After typhoon Reming, there’s instability. There’s still no time to sleep.

By nighttime, our house was inhabited by some homeless people temporarily assumed by Pa. Children were noisy playing around. The elders were drinking gin and tonic. Alcohol will surely put them to sleep in that weary time. Some of them were talking about proposed relocations; moreover aid of the national government for rehabilitation. The continuing fear of mud slides coming from the debris deposited at the volcano will force people to look for new land. It is feared that our place will be a case of infamous “Mount Pinatubo Destruction Part II” like in Pampanga. But where will all the people go? I heard my Pa lamenting to his comrade, “It’s so sad that these young people will no longer enjoy what we had those times. I am already sixty-three years old and I have seen what Mayon Volcano has to offer. Maybe it’s not yet in my lifetime that our beautiful little town will finally be erased like the ancient Spanish colonial village of Cagsawa back in 1800s. Oh, poor young people…”                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Those words finally moved me poignantly. Daraga, along with other cities or towns in Albay are currently living in fear. Located within the radius of sprawling Mayon, there’s the tendency of being buried anytime as Mother Nature will dictate. Albayanos thrive with tourism and agriculture as major industries. Who can resist the splendor of Mayon? It’s the only one in the world compared with the snow-capped Mount Fuji in Japan. My Japanese boss even dubbed that Mayon is better than theirs. Having a mountain with almost perfect cone, being adjacent to the beaches open to the Pacific and owning fertile soils for large crops are already factors valid to live a cool life. People worked hand in hand with Mayon in the building of towns and cities. Its culture, literature, arts, and sounds are also influenced. Even when I was a child, my mother will scare me that bad children are being blown by the gods up to the hot crater of the volcano. Ha-ha, I believed that ‘till I was eight! Now that I’m an architect, on projects within the kingdom of Mayon, I will always put a sacred viewing place in my building designs showcasing the vista of the ethereal mountain. I remember my college professor threatened of giving me a failing mark because I positioned a solid concrete wall, windowless, up north where the view is unspoiled. It made him quite furious. I realized that Mayon is a part of everyone’s landscape. She was like a piece of massive sculpture that everyone claims possession. From shopping centers to flea market; schools to vacation houses, everything must revolve around her. Everybody must live both blissfully and dangerously with Mount Mayon.

On my bus ride going back to Manila, I can’t help but be hurt inside. I’ve seen elegant houses in Daraga buried in remains. Some subdivisions near the creek were erased. One Christian Church with its neighboring compound in the town of Camalig was swallowed in half. One community in Guinobatan was put to silent. We will never know how nature strikes at us. As I recall visiting Legazpi City, it was ironic that the old Albay Cathedral was left untouched by the typhoon, but its nearby younger structure, the city jail was mercilessly left with crumpled roof. See the oddity? This wrath brought by both the eruption and the super-typhoon deems already proof that God works in mysterious ways.

I was bit by bit coming to drone. Thoughts of home cradled me to sleep. When I think of home, I think of Mount Mayon. I’ve always been proud of living at the foot of an active volcano. I was never afraid. Why should I? Loved living with fire underneath us. You’d be watching a sight to behold every time you wake up. Hmm, sounds exciting. Wherever I go, I always have some stories of my hometown in my pocket. Someone will ask me, “Where exactly do you live in Bicol?” I’ll briefly answer with glee, “in Mayon Volcano!”

I missed home. I packed. I took a trip. I have seen it all.

Everything was so clear and beautiful on that day before the end of November. After several months of wistfulness and working on the eleventh floor, I’m apparently in the province. Aged lush trees, fresh air, and my mom’s cuisine – I can’t wait Daraga! It seems like Mount Mayon welcomed me with a smile without its silky clouds. Walking towards the house, I saw old faces beaming at me. Teresa and Vangie, our lavandera greeted and asked why I’m abode. I grinned and whispered “I missed home!” The house got some improvements, huh. Of course it’s a Don Robert masterpiece again. Though I did not like the curved entrance arches and intricate concrete mouldings, I am happy for my father’s effort. Wow, I loved the fish-pond landscape at our door step! I was smiling in awe and reminiscing when momma came. I got so excited and we hugged. I was blabbing with her non-stop when an announcement from morning TV divulged a public storm signal number two warning. My momma looked scared. They’ve just recovered from typhoon Milenyo, and here comes another. I frowned. “Don’t rain on my vacation,” I was murmuring with eyes sharply glancing at the clear skies reflected on the window. I just disregarded the news and nonchalantly said, “It’ll just pass by.”

I was wrong.

On the thirtieth of November, ten in the morning, typhoon Reming (“Durian” international name) came thumping at everyone’s door at Signal #4. I could still hear audible hammering from neighborhood preparations on their houses. The streets were empty. Houses were visibly well closed. I was peeking from the window and everything was vague with fog. The apertures of our house were heavily pounding – like there was some ogre trying to break in. With more than three hours of profound grave rain and ghastly winds, storm water came inside our house. We were frantic and cold. We were experiencing some sort of "the end of the world drill." The rabid uproar won’t stop. After an hour, I peeked outside to watch people from the riverside being dragged to a large dump truck full of soaked and chilling individuals, teeth locked and grinding. I was concluding that they are saved from the highlands near Mayon. I heard that the river overflowed and threatening us with mud flows! I eventually went out to witness people evacuating further from their homes. It was scary. What if our second floor roof give-up? Our steep gable roof may not survive. Where’ll we go? I was in panic. Trees, telephone poles, electrical lines, and roof debris were knocking down outside. My Pa’s kumpare came in shuddering, uttering that his house was already buried in mud. We received strangers and neighbors in sodden clothes to stay over at the house for awhile until the wild "wind-shakings" are over.

Terrified of watching dread all over our little town, I went inside to utter some pleading prayers in front of my mom’s altar. Momma came in shouting and demanding me to find the menthol (Katinko) because one survivor brought in was unconscious. Like a blind man, I clutched the thing from the drawer. I went out instantly and saw a three year-old boy being revived by my Pa and others. My momma won’t go near the child because she was too nervous. I helped in. I grabbed his feet and placed it under my shirt. It was so cold. By doing that, I wanted to contribute some warmth. I don’t want to see a dying child in our arms. I was shaking. All of us were hugging the boy until he cried and regained some color. On the other corner, an old lady was slouched on the chair almost lifeless. My aunt grabbed her stripped out the soggy clothing, put some dry overalls and covered her in blanket. One boy dropped a chunk of biscuit on the floor. Quickly, the old lady snatched nibbling it directly into her mouth. I shouted, “Pa, she needs food!”

By four o’clock the strong winds subsided, people were calming down. Our clothes were semi-damped. My feet wrinkled by the stinky flood rain ached. I was gradually sneezing. I was staring at the survivors. Their faces blank. Everyone have their own dreadful stories to tell. The rest will be written in their own histories. Some will be published in national news. By talking with the survivors, I did discover that the three year old boy and the old woman that we revived were saved waiting at least five hours on their rooftop, fighting the freezing wind and angry mud waters. One guy even dropped by the house and the teenager beside me pointed that he saved nineteen lives from the livid river. One old man passed by carrying a TV set coated in mud uttered, “No home, no things left, but thank God, I still have my complete family members.” That was bitterness tucked inside in exchange for self-consolation. I can’t imagine I was experiencing those scenes. It was like Spielberg’s War Of The Worlds without the aliens. Somehow, there was no rich or poor.  Heroes, victims and survivors shared the same goal that time: to live. Some people outside were walking back and forth like zombies. Some were homeless, while others were looking for lost family members. My distant relatives were whining about the destruction brought by the storm into their lives. Yes, the storm just ended. The frantic tension just halted. But I can see anguish in their eyes. Everyone was there not knowing what to do. They were just stucked up, static. They were waiting to know what lies ahead.

I sat on our damp sofa to put to rest my mixed emotions. In my mind, I was so thankful that nothing happened to our family and possessions. Recalling that episode of the day was hard to ponder. Amidst the exhaustion and shock, my face beamed. I was home. Leftovers of the cold wind touched my skin. I hugged myself. The perceptible squabbling from outside were not noises anymore. They were some sort of voices. I closed my eyes. Dusk slowly came in. The last surviving candle that flickered on the center table faded out. Everything was covered in darkness.

9 A.M.

The morning seems so bright with chirping birds, cool breeze and… hmmm, aroma coming from the kitchen. I woke up to discover something’s cooking. Alas! Spread in front of me showcased an attractive breakfast from my brother. It’s a non-working holiday so I don’t have to hurry up for Makati-work. I’m so happy. Everything seems oh so real.

Just a simple pancit made my waking-up a delight. Full of diced meat, carrots and cabbage, I got thrilled. I was requesting Ryan to buy us some soda but hesitated telling me it’s bad for the morning. I just chuckled. Until I sensed that we need some hot pandesal to complete the meal. I hurried to get my coin purse and ran to the nearest bakery across the subdivision.

The bakery owner greeted me with a smile. It was like living in the Truman Show or Pleasantville where everything is bright and beautiful. I smiled back and demanded for eight pieces of pandesal. That was all we could eat. But the lady told me she only got the double pandesal – the bigger version. I just said “ok.”

She came back with three pieces of hard over-toasted pieces of pandesal that seemed like leftovers from a dying oven. Wow. “I ‘aint gonna eat that,” I murmured to myself. “Please just give me a pack of those buns.” I saw from her old bread achives. “Sir, it’s because you woke up very late, eh” Please stop that, I was thinking of uttering. That’ll do.

I brought the coin purse so I got to pay her in coins. She smiled again until she took out a thing from her drawer - a radio speaker spare-part that seemed to be a large magnet. She put all my coins there and all my 25 cents got trapped.

MAGNET!

She said it’s fake and will not accept it. Frantically, I remembered the National News about the fake coins being raided by the NBI. I am just one of the hundreds of victims. Because of the continuing hard-life in the Philippines, even coins are faked! Poor me, it happened in my most wonderful morning. Whoa, the eight pieces of 25 cents would complete the amount of the bread. I was so embarrassed. There were other people staring. I don’t want to say I’ll just go back and get original bills at my house across street. I was so irritated, I wanna shout and call Super Inggo! Then, I retorted.

“Anyway, I don’t want to eat bread today!”

I was running and I didn’t notice the tricycle would nearly run me over. It was ok. My morning feel-good mood suddenly becomes dark and cloudy. I returned home with nothing and an empty appetite. Ryan didn’t know why I got so upset and told him about the commotion. I just ate the cold pancit in the dining table after my aching stomach complained “…grrr, I’m hungry assh_le.”

Horrid pieces of images still hang around my mind every time I recall that email message with morbid pictures of a man crushed by a bus along Ayala Avenue. I couldn’t afford to peek on the other scenes and immediately erased the sick message.

I just pray whenever the visual horror flashes my trance. Haunted by my fear of crossing a road, street, or highway, I have to preoccupy my thoughts on other things than thinking of the pictures. I became more of a parallel person because of that trepidation. That’s one of my phobias. I still think twice, glance thrice, and run fast on taking on a line. With those depictions, stream of memories will run fresh again. I had enough pain. I had my second life. I crossed that line.

My apprehensive reverie takes me back ten years ago, on that sunny day in September where people were busy at home for the coming town festivities. We had our chores during that time. Everyone was moving fast paced. Things were happening in festive flashes. I was crossing the main road on a fee highway and got hit by a car. I was unconscious. I just woke up in the emergency room with an excruciating headache, a deep wound in my left leg, and bruised body. I couldn’t hear anything because my left ear was filled with dust, my brain felt numb. It was very painful.

Back in the hospital a day after the accident, I was so eager to write an article for our school paper. My mind can’t work that time. I just lay down, staring at the ceiling watching the lines of the blinds crossing the checkered gypsum boards. How could the sunbeams passing by the window through every line of the blinds leave the ceiling unaffected? The color of the sunset decreases when another line formed after it was cut. Why is it safer to walk the line? Continue to go parallel? I might as well ask myself if there was meaning in my suffering. Pathetic.

Maybe, that time, I was in the state of mental delusion. On the other hand, I was very wrong. Witnesses of the accident told me that I didn’t go for the pedestrian lane. But the pedestrian lane in five hundred meters away. I didn’t allow myself to walk that far in order to traverse. Alas, my questions were answered. Everything has to pass through a line or several of it before pointing on a destination. I took pity on myself for spoiling the holiday because of my mistake. The festivities on that day would just fade out. Nevertheless, the experience would not.  I learned my lesson.

Today, I’m very thankful that whenever I cross a line in life’s grid-like pattern, I’m always spared. Thank God, I crossed several obstacles that make me realize every step counts.

Hurrah!

The beautiful Sunday morning of January 22 is declared as a Manny Pacquiao battle day. I postponed my morning long-nap, my mountainous laundry, and worse is my 10 AM church routine re-scheduled just for the game. A friend sent me a text message to go with him and watch the game in Megamall. There’ll be no commercial breaks and very live for P300! Wow, that’s too much for a boxing aficionado. No way. I declined. I’ll just stay over the house and rest.

I watched the match and cheered alone at home. It’s sad that Ryan left early before the Pacquiao event was shown in ABSCBN. I can’t have someone to share my angst and cheers watching the said entertainment. I was anxious if he’ll pin El Terible down this time. It’s actually a re-match that every Pinoy is waiting for. It was a fight worth watching. No wonder, after several punches and blows, Pacman defeated the famous Latino boxer Morales, KO in round 10. That was a feel-good fight. I felt relieved and happy for a Filipino boxing-idol. Manny would be a hero again and a Star on tabloids and broadsheets.

After watching the game that drained my time and patience, I went to SM Sucat to buy some stuff. On my way, the Pacquiao fight was the word of mouth in my FX ride. The driver was even listening to DZMM to hear about the good news. A guy even copies an action from the great bout. He was emphasizing the strong blows from the head of Morales. It was a sight to cackle on. It was real Pacquiao treat for the masses.

I went to Netopia Internet café to chat with Blessie. I wanted to see her in the web-cam to say my birthday wishes. It was also one of her wish to webcam-chat with me. A few minutes later, she sees me grinning and smiling. I cannot resist to peep on a fellow chatter next to me browsing a Manny Pacquiao website. Maybe, he’s looking for a game video stream or something. The Manny fever is very hot. I just shook my head and uttered to myself – arrgh, it’s really a Pacquiao Fest.

After an hour, I posed and stood by the window of Astrovision Video and saw the Academy Award winning film Million Dollar Baby on sale. Unconsciously, I was buying a Clint Eastwood boxing-drama movie! Wow, what a coincidence. I haven’t thought I was also a silent victim of the on-going boxing hysteria aftermath. I was just going to pay for the Hilary Swank starrer movie in the counter, and a man (maybe) in his late 30s is purchasing a Manny Pacquiao CD Audio Album! I could remember that tune played on the radio. I retained some bits of information that the songs included in that album were composed by pop-novelty songwriter Lito Camo.

Whew, alas, I couldn’t take that anymore. My face couldn’t hide the contained blush and hilarity about to burst. I hurriedly paid for the stuff to the next counter and hurriedly rushed outside. In the parking lot, like a crazed dog – I laughed all my heart out.