I THOUGHT I WAS CALLED BUT I WAS NOT CHOSEN

Me as a Dominican novice:
I am not in costume, he he; I thought I was called but I was not chosen.

This was in the late 80s. Back when I thought I had the calling. Maybe I had but the Dominicans did not choose me in the end. I felt so numb when it was announced, ironically, on the Feast of the Anunciation. It finally sunk in a few days later and I felt so unwanted, so useless, so unloved.

Rejection has a way of making you feel like the world is crashing, and you're at the bottom of the pit. It does not even match the feeling of being dumped.

In any case, after a period of depression and "wild" days, and of staying away from the Church, an insight seeped into my fogged mind: the Dominicans may not have chosen me but it does not necessarily mean, God didn't too.

This insight lifted my spirit and my bitterness gradually disappeared. I forgave the Dominicans and I forgave myself. I would like to think, God had forgiven me too.

My notions that I could be a priest started during my childhood years in Daraga, that town in the province of Albay in the Bicol region (south of Manila), which boasts of the majestic Mt. Mayon as a backdrop. Daraga also boasts of a beautiful church on a hilltop, dedicated to the Virgin Mary, so that the Church was officially called Our Lady of the Gate Church. Climbing the steps to get to Church was like going through a bit of hardship to get a reward.

There were three ways to go up the Church: one was through the fairly new (at that time) concrete steps, the old road and the old back road - both of which also allowed vehicles to pass. I remember that as I used to climb the concrete steps, I would pass by several houses, one of which sometimes had a band rehearsing with the usual instruments of drums and electric guitars. It was always loud and jarring but it was an entirely novel experience for me as a young boy so sometimes, I would stop and gawk.

It has been said (but I never verified it really) that the Church atop the hill was built so that it will not suffer the same fate as that of the Church in Cagsawa which got buried up to its belfry in lava during one of Mt. Mayon's legendary eruptions.

Blogger and heritage conservation advocate Ivan Henares, in his blog, Ivan About Town (www.ivanhenares.blogspot.com), describes the Church and its "uglification" thus:

Daraga Church is indeed a sight to behold with its very elaborate facade. As I mentioned earlier, if there should have been a national cultural treasure, it should be this church with its elaborately-decorated facade. But the interior is as modern as it can get an this may explain why the National Museum no longer considered the church. Only the baptistry (below) has remnants of the previous interior and you can see from the carvings on the wall, the remaining patches of paint, and the blue ceramic tiles on the floor that the inside was equally elaborate as well.We were told that a former parish priest had the interior renovated and even sold many of the priceless antiques to fund the said uglification. Horrible this [sic] priests who leave a mark by wasting church money, selling off priceless works of art which end up in private homes most of the time to pay for useless and ugly renovations so that they will be remembered.

There are other panoramic photographs of this Church in Daraga but thanks to Ivan anyway for this particular shot.

My mother and my other siblings who were also born in Daraga (there were five of us in this "set"), made it a point to hear Mass on Sundays at this Church. We would be dressed in our finest clothes (no kidding) and my mother would sometimes get our photographs taken at a nearby studio. I also remember eating out afterwards.

But growing up, I found myself going to Church alone. Fr. Servulo San Martin, he of the Society of the Divine Word missionaries, was the Church's parish priest then. The priest was obviously a Spaniard although I never gave a thought to verifying it at that time. He was imposing, had a pinkish face and a really reddish nose. He conjured up images of the stereotypical fraile of our history books.

He had this special Mass for children at about 2:00 in the afternoon and I usually joined this Mass. As a curious child, I would wander about the Church building and the convento. I remember the convent to be really old but gleaming and polished, the staircase so wide and the balusters, massive.

As a young boy, I remember frequently gazing at the Church' ceiling during Mass as it was painted with a lot of clouds on a blue sky, a lot of men's faces with beards, a lot women in long clothes and swirling fabrics and a lot of babies and children with wings.

The rest of the Church building however, such as the parish office, was modern, having been renovated early on. Ivan was right in his lament above that the only thing original in the Church, apart from the inside of the convent that I saw, is the facade.

In renovating the Church, the altar was shifted to the side, thereby shortening the path from the door to the altar, to the consternation of brides who wished they had a longer procession on their wedding day. He he.

When I reached high school, I graduated from the 2:00 pm Masses into the 7:00 pm/evening Masses (about time huh), which were usually in English. I found the evening Masses to be more solemn too because of the low lights. And I got to read the Epistles during these Masses. I don't remember how it happened but I became a fixture at those Masses. During this time, there was already another priest who was Filipino, who was in charge.

I remember too that the evening Masses had better choirs.

When a brother got married in this Church, two things remain distinctly clear in my memory until now: the way my brother kissed his bride after they were pronounced man and wife (he tenderly cupped her chin and planted an equally gentle kiss on her lips), and my parents posing at the Church's entrance in their finest - my father in his jusi barong and my mother in her mestiza dress. They looked so sosi. My mother's dress was so elegant, that when she died a few years later, we made sure she was dressed in it.

But I completely digressed, didn't I?

I carried my Church-going habit even at my own high school. If on Sundays I will be at the Church in Daraga, on schooldays, I would be at the chapel in school, serving not only as Epistle reader at times but also as an acolyte at Mass.

In college, I became a fixture at the Church of the Risen Lord, the Catholic chapel in my university's compound. It was a special chapel, having been designed and built by Leandro Locsin who eventually became a National Artist (of the Philippines). It was a unique chapel in that it was shaped liked a spaceship and its altar has the images of Christ on the cross and Christ resurrected hanging back-to-back on a beam from the chapel's ceiling. It also had the stations of the cross painted mural-like on walls around the chapel. It was as much of an art work as it was a chapel.

It was at this chapel that I met Fr. Robert Reyes, the so-called "running priest". This was before he became the vocal activist that he had been in recent years. Last I heard, Fr. Robert has since been relocated to China.

I also assisted at this chapel, sometimes as an acolyte, sometimes as a reader and sometimes as a writer of those prayers for the community. I also got involved in some chapel-based activities even if I was never a full-time member of any chapel-based organization.

In other words, Church-going and being involved in Church activities, had always been a part of my life. In addition, I also had, or so they would tell me later, this facility with speaking to people, like I was a preacher on a pulpit. I also admired the flowing robes that some priests wore. A priest's white frock also conjured up images of purity and holiness for me.

It was not so difficult to convince me that I should try becoming a priest.

And so I did, so I did, with quite disastrous results. He he.

BLOGGING

Ang pagsusulat ko ba ng blog ay para sa akin lang? Bakit naman hindi ko maiisip ito gayung mukhang ako lang yata at paisa-isang kaibigan o kapamilya lang ang nagbabasa nito? Kahit na nga ang Bebe kong naturingan ay hindi parating nagbabasa ng aking pinagpalang blog. Tinanggal ko na nga ang bilangan upang hindi ko na mapunang hanggang ngayon pala, wala pang sampu bawat linggo ang nakakabasa nitong blog ko?

Madali para sa akin ang magtagni-tagni ng mga pangungusap upang makabuo ng isang makabuluhang kwento o kaya'y sanaysay. Ngunit sadyang mahirap magsulat ng blog. Uubos ka rin kasi ng oras upang isipin kung ano ang magiging paksa ng blog mo minsan. At kung gusto mo pang magsama ng makabuluhan ring mga larawan, hahalukayin mo din ang mga naitago mong mga imahe sa kaloob-looban ng computer mo.

Naisip ko, kung mahirap magsulat ng blog, ano pa kaya ang pagsusulat ng isang column sa isang pahayagan? E isa pa mandin ito sa aking mga pangarap sa buhay. Mahirap din siguro, sa palagay ko. Mas malaki pa ang mga kakaharaping pagsubok.

Ngunit sabi nga minsan nang isa kong guro, si Isagani Cruz, ang pagsusulat ay isang angking talino at isang uri ng malayang pamamaraan upang maipahiwatig ang mga nasasasaloobin ng isang tao. Kung gayun, ito ay maaaring pagyamanin o hasain sa araw-araw sa pamamagitan ng tuwirang paggamit at paggawa. Hindi kailangan ng isang manunulat ang magkaroon ng inspirasyon upang makapagsulat. Ang pagkakaroon ng inspirasyon ay isang handog, isang uri ng pampagana. Ngunit sa mga oras o mga araw na walang inspirasyon, ang isang tunay na manunulat ay dapat makapagsulat pa rin.

Mayroong mga pagkakataon na ang isang manunulat ay dadatnan ng tinatawag na writer's block ngunit hindi ito dahilan upang ang isang tunay na manunulat ay tumigil sa pagiging manunulat - dahil hindi tumitigil ang pag-iisip. Ang pagsusulat naman ay hindi nagsisimula sa paglapat ng dulo ng panulat sa isang papel - ito ay nagsisimula sa utak at sa pag-iisip.

Sa pamantasan noong ako'y nag-aaral pa, maraming pagkakataon akong nakita upang maging mas bihasa sa pagsusulat. Nandyan ang mga taunang patimpalak (mga tipo ng Gawad Carlos Palanca) at mga summer workshops. Subalit wala akong lubos na tiwala sa aking kakayahan kung kaya't lahat ng mga pagkakataong iyon ay pinalampas ko. At madalas sa mga ganitong mga kalakaran, kailanga'y meron kang ipapakitang mga halimbawa ng mga naisulat mo na. At wala ako ng mga iyon.

Madalas kong sabihin na hindi ako ang tipo ng manunulat na bumubuo ng mga tula, dula o kaya'y mga kwento at mga nobela . Ako raw iyong mas sanay sa pagsusulat ng mga sanaysay. Sinasabi ko lang ang mga iyon hindi dahil wala talaga akong mga naipong mga naisulat na, kundi pakiwari ko ay lubhang wala akong ibubuga sa pagsusulat. Nagtatago ako sa likod ng isang hunghang na dahilan.

Kaya heto, nagkakasya na lang ako sa pagsusulat sa blog, na wala naman ding maraming nakakabasa.

Sabi nga ng Bebe ko, "Haaaaay!"

IT USED TO BE

The Penelope*Phone adds a new and distinct character to the HULGER collection.
They designed phones you would want to use in the street, bar, office
or at home on a long (free) VoIP call to your best friend on the other side of the world.
The lavish, sweeping, sensual curves of the Penelope*Phone conjure up images of a 30's deco opulence. This phone seduces the senses while engaging contemporary technology, allowing wireless connection to Bluetooth enabled mobile/cell phones and PC's alike, with an outdoor range of 10 meters. The phone will work with Bluetooth enabled devices. - from greenergrassdesign

There's now email, the Internet and the mobile phone, to get me connected to my loved ones in the Philippines and elsewhere from Riyadh. Add Instant Messaging, webcam or Skype to this list but I have yet to use these regularly.

It used to be that I had to write letters and send cards and use the landline phone for my overseas calls in order to communicate.

I remember decorating the walls of my porta-cabin room (during my first job contract here), with the cards I received from my family and from my partner then. It was a pretty sight and a constant reminder that there were people back home who remember me. I also remember writing long letters - I would type them in my computer and make prints, one to be signed and sent, and another to be kept on file. My letters had to be ready first thing in the morning so that it can be brought by our company messenger to the central post office downtown where our company kept its post office box. In Riyadh, as elsewhere in the Kingdom, street names had never been helpful in getting your mail delivered. Companies and even private residences need to have a postal address box.

Stamps cost two or three riyals, then as now, for ordinary/regular letters. We had to use envelopes that clearly marked the letters as Air Mail, envelopes that had the red and blue marks at the edges. At one point, someone asked why the need for this when all international mail is shipped by air? There were also the so-called Registered Letters but I thought I never really needed it.

Other OFWs also tended to write on special stationery which were popularly sold at downtown bookstores that catered to OFWs. Still others were wont to send audiotape messages instead of just letters or cards. To my mind, it was the height of kitsch, but hey, whatever floats your boat as pundits would say.

The postal system then in Saudi Arabia was part of the government's Ministry of Post, Telegraph and Telephone. It has since been privatized.

I rarely write and send out letters now via the postal system; I now use email and text messaging/SMS, although I have yet to try multi-media messaging/MMS. BlackBerry services are also on the horizon and I can't wait to use them.

To call overseas, our company receptionist, Mang Vic, would allow us to use his landline phone which was connected to a computerized recorder/timer. He knew exactly how many minutes you spent and the cost was deducted from your monthly paycheck inevitably. Mang Vic, who was as carinoso as any stereotypical Filipino uncle can be, would sometimes deduct a few minutes off your call so you can save some. Calls then cost seven riyals a minute. Then as now, a caller had to be mindful of peak hours and peak rates and so I would sometimes make my calls early in the morning to take advantage of lower rates in calling the Philippines.

Other Filipinos who did not have a Mang Vic in their companies nor in their lives, had to use the public pay phones. It was not unnatural to see Filipinos frantically sliding in several 1-riyal coins at a time at the pay phone's coin slots while simultaneously talking on the mouthpiece. It was funny in hindsight but such was the state-of-the-art communications then.

When GSM was introduced in the Kingdom in the late 1990's, a SIM card cost as much as twenty-five thousand riyals! And they were available to Saudi citizens only. Now, the cellphone has become as ubiquitous as an OFW and there are now even two mobile operators vying for subscribers, with a third licensee coming before the end of the year!

OFWs however did not readily embrace GSM technology in Saudi since the SIM cards were quite expensive when these were finally offered to expatriates. Ditto for the cellphone units. So for a while, illegal overseas calls thrived in downtown areas where many OFWs converged on weekends or on paydays. Also for a while, call cabins, which sprouted all over Riyadh, also thrived. But now that even the company janitor who barely earns a hundred dollars a month, owns a cellphone....

I joined the GSM bandwagon not soon after and I was fortunate enough to have been given a company-issued post-paid SIM card. Virtually, my local/national cellphone use was free; the downside was my GSM phone number can't call international, at least not until recently. I now even have international roaming on my GSM!

Indeed it now appears that cellphone use these times is no longer a luxury but already a necessity.

OFW life has genuinely evolved since the first time I set foot in the desert kingdom, at least in the ways we keep in touch. In fact, downtown shops that used to sell the latest stereo components or the latest jewelry styles in gold, have now converted their wares to cellphones and accessories. Some now also even offer repairs like cellphone centers back in Greenhills do.

We've certainly kept up with the times - OFWs now even have blogs!

RANDOM PHOTOGRAPHS

One of the better things about the Internet is the ready availability of images such as these that I unashamedly downloaded for my collection. Now, you're in it with me; you're a conspirator!

Chess set; I downloaded from Marvin's blog (Prologue of a Prince).

This one's not actually from the Internet but it's included in this set
as I have kept this in my computer for the longest time now.
It was taken by a former colleague of mine at work who also dabbled in photography.
This photograph won a contest.
It's a photograph of dates.

This one's from another blogger (Emachinations).
I like its pixilated effect.

This one's from a lifestyle/design blog I regularly read.
It's just so cute.

CALLINGS

In my youth, and even in my adulthood, I never knew what I really wanted to be in life. I never found my calling, so to speak, at such an early age. And this led to a few false starts.

In high school, I thought I wanted to be a dentist and so I took college entrance exams designed to let me into a pre-Dental Medicine course. That did not pan out. To stay in the university of my choice, I was left me with two options - to either be a social worker or an English literature major. It was a no-brainer: I opted to become the latter, hoping I would end up a really great writer. During summer breaks from college, I also thought I wanted to be in dance and started training with the likes of Basilio Esteban Villaruz. After a few exposures at Concert at the Park though and toughing it out at the almost daily rehearsals, my dreams of becoming a ballet dancer had to stop. But I also had to audition for the Ramon Obusan Folkoric Group. I sensed this group liked me. After all, the audition master said he liked my form. But I had second thoughts about being a folk dancer.

After graduating from college though, I ended up being a teacher of Communications Arts in English to high school students. Not a far cry indeed. Not two years had passed when I got recruited to become a seminarian. I stayed in formation for about two years but did not end my Novitiate year successfully, obviously.

I went back to the academe, not as a teacher but first as an administrative personnel and then as part of school management. In pursuit of higher studies, I tried to be a lawyer. After rigourous exams and interviews to determine my aptitude in law, I spent a nerve-wracking semester in law school, attending class in the evenings on weekdays and all of Saturdays.

But my employer thought though that I was a good candidate for the English department chairmanship. And so I deferred further law studies and enrolled in graduate school, focusing on English for specific purposes. But before I could earn my MA, I separated from my school/employer and shifted jobs to work as a reporter for a business daily.

Not a year passed when I got the call to be a secretary in Saudi.

And the rest, as they say, is history. He he. Well, not quite really.

I still don't know if being an OFW is my calling. But I feel I am so in a better place in my life now that the discernment of callings somehow has retreated from my consciousness.

For the time being, at least.

WHY LIFE WAS NEVER THE SAME AGAIN [How I became an OFW, Third of 3 parts]

After leaving my first job in Riyadh in February 2005, I went back to the Philippines and returned right back to Riyadh in April of the same year, to a similar (secretarial) job in another company.

I owe the opportunity of landing another job to my Bebe, who recommended me to one of the bosses in the new company where he worked and who was looking for a really capable assistant. I therefore got interviewed and hired on the spot, with just a bit of negotiating on my new compensation and benefits package. [By this time, I had gotten over my heartbreak over my long distance relationship and had hooked up with my Bebe, seemingly on the rebound. He he. But not quite really.]

Anyhow, when I went back to Manila, I was already armed with a new visa from this new employer, and promptly went through the same indignities and difficulties [tests, queueing up, etc.] that prospective OFWs had to go through to get deployed in the Middle East. Fortunately, the recruitment agency this time did not solicit any recruitment fees which were paid for by the new employer. Ditto with all other expenses incurred to process deployment - these were promptly re-imbursed when I started work at the new company.

I was the right place at the right time. The new company was booming; it had just won the biggest telecom contract ever outside of North America. It needed a lot of people to work for it. At its peak in the late 90's and early 2000's, manpower totalled more than 4,000 employees from more than 40 countries. We were paid well and we prided ourselves in being on top of the market, compensation-and-benefits wise. Indeed, the company did not treat us like we were the usual overseas workers; we had access to benefits given to so-called regular employees.

This spelled the many material differences in my life.

Becoming financially more independent allowed me to travel, for one, and allowed me to see the world outside of the Philippines and Saudi Arabia. I also started dreaming of having my own house [which eventually became reality in 2006]. I started to acquire buy many things for myself. Most importantly, I was able to help my family in so many ways.

Indeed, life - materially speaking - was never the same again.

I'M STILL HERE [How I became an OFW, Second of 3 parts]

After more than 13 years, I'm still an OFW.

I stayed in my first job for 26 months, despite the fact that I should have been eligible for leave or exit from it after two years, as per my contract. My bosses made it quite difficult for me to leave on time by requiring me to find my replacement myself, despite it not being my job. Even then, after I found a replacement, they still wouldn't let my passport be released until my immediate manager cleared me, to the consternation of the other bosses.

My job was ok; I handled it. What ate me during those years of being with the company was the little injustices here and there, if not against me, then, against my co-workers. For one, my salary included the end-of-service-benefit (ESB) when this should not be included in my basic pay computation. For another, we were forced to render 10 hours of work a day excluding Thursdays when we worked half-day. Fortunately, the mandatory overtime was paid accordingly. Fridays were days off.

Meals and accomodations were company-provided but meals were below par, despite efforts by fellow Filipinos (who were the cooks and kitchen personnel) to serve us something edible each time. The running joke was that we should feel grateful since we were always served baboy (pork) - binaboy na beef, or chicken or fish. He he. It became a practice to bring home the food and re-cook it to our taste.

Home was actually a porta-cabin. As someone who worked at the office, I was more fortunate than others in that the porta-cabin assigned to me had two rooms, a small toilet and an even tinier kitchen. I occupied one room while the other room was at various times occupied by a salesman, a vet and an architect! But there were those of us office-based personnel who occupied the larger porta-cabins designed for families. These versions had larger spaces including a moderate-sized living area and kitchen. Employees who worked in the fields or in non-office based jobs were allocated porta-cabins that resembled Sampaloc's boarding houses, with communal toilets to boot! In addition, their porta-cabins were located at the far end of the housing compound. It was like, they did not have to mix it up with the occupants of the porta-cabins for office-based personnel including managers and those with families. It shouted discrimination but such was the lay of the land, so to speak.

Nonetheless, it was only in Saudi Arabia did I realize that people can live quite comfortably in porta-cabins. Specially since we had this sense of being in a close-knit community of neighbors. My office mates and I would spend a lot of time together in one of the bigger porta-cabins to cook and eat dinner, to watch satellite TV, watch videos of films (there were no pirated DVDs then), sing karaoke or videoke songs, drink together (although I confined myself to eating the pulutan) or just plain pass the time away together. In time, we formed a real clique and did many things together - shopped downtown for groceries, went on trips outside of Riyadh, etc. It goes without saying though that from time to time, we would also join the activities of the other cliques in the porta-cabin community, specially during birthday celebrations which almost always turned into a huge drinking session where sadiqui (home-made alcoholic brew similar to gin or vodka) would miraculously appear and games of cards evolved from the simple pusoy dos to blackjack and tong-its, with the taya, exponentially increasing as well.

Life in the porta-cabin community however, was not all fun. We also shared the grief of co-workers who lost loved ones back home, the difficulties of those who got sick or who met accidents, the trials of not having enough money to send home and the longing for home for those who had been on the job longer than the two-year contract.

My new-found friends celebrated my first Christmas away from Manila; they were the same ones who commiserated with me as well when my long-distance relationship with my partner crumbled (although they still didn't know at that time that my partner was another guy called Vince; but nothing changed even when they found out, bless them).

Indeed, life was never the same again for me and I had my new-found friends and co-workers to thank for, for making my new life better than it could had been.

There were Rolly, Tolits, and Ace who became my clique. There was Reigner who started as my potential kalaban-sa-trono but who became my confidante. There were the oldies and the lolo- or father-image: Manong Chris, Engr. Gene, Mang Jun and the compound manager whose name escapes me to jour. There was Jong, our teaboy. There was my boss, Alfredo and his co-horts: Manong Boy, Manong Ed, as well as many others whose lives intertwined with mine, one way or the other.

There were even non-Filipinos too, whose lives touched mine and they include Faysal, a Sudanese who was so fluent in Tagalog he could pass for one, at least linguistically.

I find myself thinking about them from time to time and always wish they all live a good life. After all, this is what all of us OFWs aspire for - a better life for us and our families and loved ones, with all the detours (pambababae, alak, sugal, etc.) notwithstanding.

HOW I BECAME AN OFW [First of 3 parts]

This is the real story. He he.

The year was 1993. I was already working as a reporter for a business newspaper when a friend/former colleague from the school where I used to work prior to becoming a reporter, called me from Riyadh to ask me to be his replacement at his job there. He said that he had not been at his job for two weeks when he realized that he (and his young family back home in Manila) will not be able to make a go of it. He can't be in Riyadh for two years without something bad happenning to his family life. He can't risk it.

He was already a month into the job actually when he called me up. All this time, he was trying to think of someone and finding a way to get a replacement. On hindsight though, more than the family issues, I think it was the nature of the job that did it. Here was an intellectually superior/really cerebral person working as a secretary. Things just didn't gel.

I was living with a partner then who himself had been recruited to work abroad as fashion designer. But he already had a flourishing career on broadcast TV, and branching out occasionally to TV adverts. I thought it will be a waste to pass up the chance to be better in his career in Manila with a very uncertain job in the Middle East. We agreed that if an opportunity to work abroad comes along, I will be the one to take it.

So I did. And life was never the same again.

To be sure, it was not the first time I tried going abroad. After graduation from college, I tried the Manila Bulletin's job want ads every Sunday. I lined up for Aramco openings as advertised by IPAMS. I also tried EDI Staffbuilders and was lucky enough to get past the interview stage. But nothing came out of these efforts until this replacement secretarial job.

I was processed by a nondescript recruitment agency in Quezon City which asked me to pay more than ten thousand pesos as recruitment fee, despite labor laws that said solicitation of recruitment fees were illegal, and even then, may not exceed five thousand pesos if at all.

I went through medical exams including blood tests which turned scary since the lab asked for a second sample on the day the results were supposed to be given out. As the lab technician explained, it turned out that the first blood sample turned panis (or stale). The medical exams also included what the test administrators referred to as psychological exams. I should say that those exams asked me inane questions that didn't seem to have any bearing on my job prospects nor did they have any hints as to how they can accurately measure my psychological capacity to handle a secretarial job in the Middle East.

The medical exams also included a thorough check of one's body. I was told to strip to my underwear and a doctor took a good look at me including at areas where no one had looked into before, at least medically-speaking.

Even while undergoing medical exams, I also had to work out my travel papers including getting my first-ever passport. There were no third companies then that would process passports for you for a fee and so I lined up at the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA) like every other prospective OFW. Only the queues and the proverbial bureaucratic red tape at the National Bureau of Investigation (NBI, where you get clearances from any criminal record), were worse. In addition, the records at DFA raised a red flag against a Roberto Magno who had a pending estafa case at Binan, Laguna. I had to travel to Laguna and get myself a certification that I was not the same Roberto Magno. Fortunately, the people at the records division at Binan were kind enough souls - they issued me the certification on the day I made the request.

Before being deployed abroad, I also had to undergo a Pre-Departure Orientation Seminar (PDOS), which would purportedly help me understand the culture in the Middle East. If I understood that culture, such knowledge was supposed to help me avoid difficulties, including being involved in situations that may end up in diplomatic faux pas. On hindsight, I think that our PDOS facilitator was no more than a rumor-mongerer and an alarmist. And I even found out later that he had never been to the region he was supposed to be knowledgeable of.

To prepare for my trip abroad, my partner and I invested our meager resources on a huge maleta (suitcase), with matching check-in luggage bag and a shoulder bag. As a gift and to ensure I got me a source of some sort of entertainment while away, my partner bought me a Sony Walkman!

In a short time (barely three months since my friend/former colleague made his call to me), I was on my way to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, to begin life as an Overseas Filipino Worker (OFW).

NEPHEWS AND NIECES

How my nephews and nieces have grown! Just this month, several of them graduated either from high school or college. This is the last batch I think of my nephews and nieces since I don't believe my siblings have anything forthcoming in the next years.

I'm quite proud of my nephews and nieces, including the older ones who already have families of their own (these include nephews and nieces from my siblings Kuya, Not/Ate Lil, Fris/Evelyn and Let/Edna). They turned out nice. I have been telling my siblings that having children who have grown into excellent adults are a tribute to them and their parenting skills - something they can put a patent on and serve as bragging rights.

Here are photos of the younger generation (although some of them were unable to join; only the Salongas and the Pacientes were there and my sister Tess' and brother Buboy's families were missed), as they celebrated their graduations and other things at a pizza and pasta restaurant in Metro Manila:

My sister Doris and her sons Jeremy
(to her left) and Jonathan.

A shot of one of the pizzas they devoured at Don Henrico's.

Group shot, from left: Ana, Doris, Franz, my sister Flor and
standing, Jeremy, Jonathan and Paolo.


From left: Jeremy, Paolo, Franz, Jonathan and Ana.

From left: Jeremy, Jonathan and Paolo.


Paolo and his iced tea.


Doris (at left) with Franz, Ana and Flor.
Franz and Ana are Flor's daughters.


Brothers Jeremy (at left) and Jonathan.


Jonathan, Paolo, Ana, Franz and Jeremy.

From a bunch of photographs sent to me by Paolo.

GOLDEN JUN

Friend and colleague/co-worker Jun Manalili, turned 50 recently, with a sumptuous late lunch buffet (home-cooked and catered by catering magnate Ali Zacarias, naks) at a traditional (and very spacious) Saudi esteraha (resort). It was actually an overnight stay at the resort, which afforded us (my Bebe and I at least) plenty of time to indulge in our videoke singing passion till the wee hours of the morning. Too bad it rained some time during the day, dampening efforts to play a round of volleyball. The children in our midst, however, had a field day swimming at the esteraha's pool.

Earlier in the week, Jun also made it a point to treat us to traditional (as in, pag may birthday, sigurado meron nito) bihon at puto breakfast at the office.

Jun happily turned a year older in the company of his family. Supportive and ever-smiling wifey Cora was the ideal hostess-with-the-mostest at the esteraha shindig.

Jun strikes me as a very generous guy and the way he treated his family and friends when he turned gold or golden, was just another clear example.

Balloons and games courtesy of McDonald's (although we weren't able to join the activities by then, due to prior commitments) were part of the celebration's highlights, ironically, he he.

Anyhow, many thanks again to Jun and Cora and family for the kind and generous hospitality and for sharing this milestone with us.

Here are some photographs of the happy celebration, courtesy of the golden event's "official" photographers.

The golden boy and smiley wifey Cora...


and the family with a McDo mascot.

Group photos galore!



Me and my Bebe with Rene and Cora and Danny and...


Mahirap talaga mag-concert, sa totoo lang.

Photographs by Jun, Danny and Nicky.

I SWEAR THIS REALLY HAPPENED

In a multi-cultural working environment, such as in Saudi Arabia where many expatriates form part of the workforce, unique and very peculiar goings on happen. This was one of them.

This is a story of what happened to Vincent Krol, a Dutch national who used to work as executive assistant at the office of the president of our company here in Riyadh. He phoned another company located in Europe. His call apparently was taken by a lady there in Europe. They spoke and had what many people refer to here as a telecon (telephonic conversation - another weird goobledygook in these parts). Finally, they agreed that the lady in Europe will send Vincent a fax. Before that however, the lady needed Vincent to spell out his name. Vincent, who has been used to spelling out his name over the phone using the military code for the letters in the alphabet to avoid certain confusion, proceeded to tell the lady that his name is spelled V as in Victor, I for India, N for Nancy, C for Charlie, E for Echo, N for Nancy (again) and T for Tango. He also said that his last name is spelled K for Kilo, R for Romeo, O for Oscar and L for Lima.

A few minutes later, Vincent received a fax addressed to Victor-India-Nancy-Charlie-Echo-Nancy-Tango Kilo-Romeo-Oscar-Lima.

I swear it really happened; we just weren't able to keep a copy of the fax.

MY WRITING TEACHERS IN COLLEGE

I don't really know what brought it on, but last night, I thought about my teachers in college, specially those who kind of appreciated the way I write. On top of my list are Francisco Arcellana, Rene Villanueva and Jorshinelle Sonza.

The late Francisco Arcellana was an eminent writer and a professor emeritus. And he gave me a flat 1.0 (the highest) in his creative writing class. Until now, I honestly don't know what I did to deserve it but I so appreciate it since it was the only course to have given me such a grade in my five years in college!

Rene Villanueva is also a celebrated playwright and prolific writer. And I so appreciate him for boosting little me's budding interest in writing when he copied my brief descriptive write up/theme on a sheet of manila paper and posted it on the board for all the class to see, as an example of a witty and stylistic writing device. I wrote a paragraph, a description of a scene in about 5 sentences, with each sentence building up the description. I followed it with another paragraph, actually just a very brief sentence, that completely negated the immediaely preceding paragraph. Rene Villanueva thought it was so brilliant that my classmates (and other classes he handled that term) should take a look at it. It was not the originality of the device that he was quite proud of more than the fact that it was written by a very fledgling writer. I got 1.25 for the effort.

Jorshinelle Sonza was another teacher in creative writing, one of my earliest writing teachers. She was one of the first to really show appreciation when she said that I write very emotionally. She wrote her comment as a note to my brief write up on humankind's propensity to dichotomize between men and women when the more important issue is the humanity or lack of it, of people.

Certainly, I had other teachers who struck me as equally memorable and they include such luminaries as the late Concepcion Dadufalza (who kept a collection of clowns and who at one point in our class discussion said that despite my intransigence, she could admire my tenacity at holding on to my opinion) and Fr. Alfeo Nudas, S. J., who said I show "sparks of brilliance" although not quite that frequent and sparks that somehow never turned to conflagrations.

I don't think I was able to thank these teachers for their contributions to my writing experiences. After all, I appreciated their contributions in hindsight. Suffice it to say therefore that I remain grateful to them for being my inspiring mentors in college and now in life.

POOR ROB

The ways detractors describe our profligate lifestyle, and the ways that I would sometimes affirm such descriptions, albeit in a facetious way, you might think I was to the manor born. Veracity be established though, I had my moments of poverty looking me in my eyes. I know how it was (and is) to be materially poor specially as I was growing up.

While my mother Mamay was still alive and at the height of her "career", she was the epitome of a successful businesswoman. She was at her "peak" when I was in grade school. You remember my tales of her wonderful sari-sari (variety) store where she sold exotic-looking vegetables from Baguio? Her mogul-like forays into the farms of Albay for pechay, mustasa and tomatoes? Our summers with ripe mangoes and juicy watermelons? Our fresh-from-the-market menus and recipes for sinigang, escabeche and estofado?

It was a time of plenty; I never felt so rich and wealthy.

But business endeavors have a way of going kaput. Specially if the business owner was not as savvy as my young mind thought she was. And in addition to declining health or maybe due to the downturn in her business, my super businesswoman of a mother, somehow lost her will to do business and live. In the end, when she died, her business died with her.

And my poverty began. I was just in high school.

I never felt so poor than when I had nothing to eat. An elder brother who "inherited" the defunct business from my mother, could not make a go of it. He would tell us (myself and two other siblings who remained in Albay with my elder brother and his young family) that we've only been able to eat all along because he was able to loan some money from one of his godmothers, she who owns a restaurant a few blocks from us. As it was, baon na siya sa utang. Even then, we would only have boiled eggs and rice. Sometimes, chicken in a soup, with the chicken so minutely diced up, all I could taste were the chicken's bones. Magdildil ng asin was not far-fetched.

We weren't used to eating grandiosely as we only ate simple things yet we also weren't used to anything less in terms of quantity. My young mind still has not fathomed the seriousness of not having enough money for food.

Not even money for school.

Once, a high school classmate wanted me to join him in a weekend trip to school for some extra-curricular activities. I so wanted to go but my elder brother won't give me fare money. He said there was no fare money for weekend trips to school. So I argued that I would still go anyway and just work around my high school classmate how I can get a ride back home in his family's car.

My college years weren't any better. My father was able to send me to school for the first semester of my freshman year. Even then, I had to get myself included in my university's socialized tuition fee program so that I will only pay a percentage of the school fees as opposed to paying the full fees. My level of povery determined the discount in fees I got. To be part of the socialized tuition fee program, I had to prove my family did not have the means to pay my tuition fees in full. We had real estate alright, but it only consisted of the land where my parents built their house. To prove it's the only one, my father had to present the land's title but he had to pay first real estate taxes that had been in arrears for many years to get certification. Of course, my youth once again failed to recognize the irony of spending money to get documentation fixed for a program that purported to support poverty-stricken students. I was admitted nonetheless to the program and went on to study for the first semester as someone my father sent to school. Though my tuition fees were scaled down, my father still had to pay for my dormitory and other school and living expenses.

The second semester was a different story. As I bade goodbye to the dormitory directress (who was also a nun), she asked why I was leaving. Simply I told her that my father will no longer be able to send me to school. She would have none of it and promptly arranged for me to become one of the dormitory's resident assistants (RA). I was yet a freshman so she only assigned me to do tasks at the dormitory office. But as an RA, I had access to all the privileges: zero tuition and miscellaneous fees, free meals, free lodging and a monthly stipend to boot. The stipend was so minimal, I usually took a bus across two cities to ask another brother for more allowance. I would have to maintain grades higher then 3.0 though and I could not have Incompletes or even 5s in any of my subjects.

I must have been good, I stayed as an RA till I graduated five years later. But still not without major sacrifices. But then, I have already started to become more mature somehow, and learned to count my blessings rather than to curse the darkness. [Mixed and conflicted metaphors, huh!].

My association with the dormitory directress and other RAs she helped, opened up opportunities for me to be of help to others as well. And to see how better off I was, relatively, than the poorest of the poor. One of them came in the form of an NGO that the nuns [the same group of nuns where the dormitory directress came from], managed. The NGO sought out really poor children to become beneficiaries of Belgians and even Americans and Canadians who would send twenty dollars a month for the poor children's school needs. These benefactors were recruited by a French-Canadian medical doctor/philantrophist who worked with the nuns. [He has since died though, although the program remains as strong as ever.] The children, in turn, only had to be in school and write their benefactors, letters about themselves at school or outside of school, at least everytime they came around to the NGO to get the cash from their benefactors who also sometimes sent stuff including pencils, books and clothes. We called the Belgians/Americans/Canadians, foster parents and the kids, foster children.

I was a volunteer at this NGO's foster parents-foster children program. As a volunteer, I mainly helped the children (and sometimes, their parents and indeed, families) write the requisite letters in English, and to translate into Tagalog/Filipino, the letters of the benefactors. These letters were either written in English, or in Flemish; another volunteer or one of the nuns would translate the Flemish letters to English for us English-to-Tagalog/Filipino translators.

Note that I was a volunteer at the beginning of the program; it was an excruciating process to get those kids started on letter-writing. For most of the kids, it was their first time to write a letter. But more than the writing ability and legibly, it was a tedious process to let them write with sense. I don't know why, but these kids would always invariably write, at least in the beginning of the letter and even after several letters -

Dear Foster Parent,
How are you? I hope you are fine. If you ask about me, I am fine too....

I may have considered myself maturing at this time, but I still did not have the patience that truly mature people should have, in having a better understanding of where these kids were coming from. Walang pamasahe. Walang pagkain. Walang alam. Magulong community. Mahirap na neighborhood. Broken families. Dysfunctional families.

The parents or relatives were no more any help. Some of them were as uneducated as their wards. Some more obstinate. Some with more issues than the NGO could address/handle.

It was however, a beautiful realization, several years after the program started, to see how the kids grew - not just in terms of educational progression, but more so in how they conducted themselves, how they looked more progressive every year, how some of them grew attached to their benefactors, and yes, how they wrote their letters. And indeed, how they overcame their initial poverty.

Just like the way I overcame mine. With a lot of dependence on the "kindness of strangers."

My own benefactress of a nun not only let me be included in her roster of RAs. She also sometimes asked her own family to shell out cash for my books. She also let me (and another sibling) stay at the nuns' shelter during summer months. Indeed, her generosity even extended to my sibling as she struggled with finding a job after graduation from college.

I myself found work right after graduation, as a teacher of Communication Arts for high school students. The pay was not much. I struggled to pay for many things - the long-sleeved shirts I had to wear to school, rent for the room I stayed in (I moved many times), daily expenses for food and transportation, including the infrequent after-school coffee and cake at a nearby bakeshop, gifts for a co-teacher or his or her son or daughter who was celebrating a birthday, automatic deductions for withholding tax, social security contributions, housing program contributions, retirement contributions....

Even with a job, I was still below or on the poverty line.

Wealth or a semblance of it, only started to appear on my horizon after about three years of being an Overseas Filipino Worker (OFW). It took the better part of my young adulthood to go from years of seeming plenty to being actually poor to gradually overcoming poverty to eventually struggling. They were years of paying my dues.

I'm in a better place now, charges of profligacy notwithstanding. But my conscience is clear. I never spent someone else's money. All the money I have spent were first earned or due me eventually. And I never only spent for myself. I have been generous, and I say it pride and with not a bit of modesty. For when you've been materially poor yourself, you know as much what an empty stomach on another person feels; you know how soon pangs of self-pity can easily darken one's once mighty hopeful outlook or crush one's once mighty self-esteem; and you struggle to think beyond yourself and overcome selfishness, greediness and the natural instinct to simply survive and self-preserve.

You learn to care. Specially for other people who were you once. You learn to be ready and giving. Whatever wealth you may have is fleeting; such wealth needs to grow by nurturing or sharing. You learn to be thankful. That by the grace of God, your ability to make lemonade out of lemons, also lets you make lemon meringue pies.

"Do not be afraid to be human today," or so did the poster at the NGO office proclaimed. I thought I did. Even when I did not have much (wealth, not humanity). And specially when I relatively have much (humanity, not wealth).

But my real pride rests in this - that even while I was poor materially, I never felt poor spiritually.

A BLOGGER'S PRAYER

I am excerpting this prayer from Our Awesome Planet. Anton writes the prayer is from a guy called Stephen Cuyos.

A Blogger’s Prayer
So compassionate, so faithful, so loving You are Our Father.
We ask You to increase our faith and our love for You that we may use blogging as an instrument to fulfill Your purposes.
May we become bloggers of truth and promoters of peace.
Help us to be steadfast in our Christian commitment that visitors may find in our blogs a source of encouragement and inspiration.
Give us strength to proclaim Your word, that we may play our part in breaking down the walls of hostility in the world and use our blogs to strengthen the bonds of friendship, solidarity and love.
Make our hearts meek and humble that we may treat our readers as friends, not as unique hits, that we may strive to change ourselves for the better more often than we pimp our site templates, that we may find more time to ease the pain of someone in our own home than to reply to comments left by strangers, that we may interact with our next door neighbors as often as we chat with our blogrolled friends, that we may be more concerned about helping the less privileged than about the number of subscribers to our RSS feeds.
Deliver us, Father, from spams and viruses, from pride and selfishness, and from the temptation to replicate images without permission and copy ideas without crediting the original authors. May we always be united as a network of bloggers and friends working together in Your name. May our blogs lead us closer to You.
We ask all these through Christ, Our Lord.
Amen.