Notes From South Africa

Random scribblings; usual vignettes.

Arrived at Hong Kong International Airport at around 10:30 in the evening. I was quite excited to see the famed I.M. Pei Airport once again. It’s supposedly one of the world’s most beautiful airports. Unfortunately, my layover was too quick. Right after we stepped off the plane, the final call for boarding the flight to Johannesburg was already ongoing. I did have time to grab a quick sandwich at a café right beside Gate 66, but only managed to eat half a slice. It was fun in a jetsetter/amazing race kind of way – y’know, rushing through international airports and bridging continents.

***

The flight to Johannesburg was long and cold. I sat on an aisle seat in Row 42 beside two women who were quite noisy during the first three hours, but probably dozed off to altitude sickness or exhaustion towards the end. I clocked in around 5 hours of discontinuous sleep in between shows and documentaries in Cathay Pacific’s personal entertainment system. The in flight food was sumptuous and I was served vegetarian pasta for dinner, something I’ve never had on a plane before. This whole diet thing has gotten me more trouble than anticipated, as have most of my decisions. So no regrets there ‘coz I’m used to shortsightedness.

***

‘Conveniently got picked up by Mr. Deon Strydom of Pilanesburg Private Lodge at the O.R. Tambo International Airport. A big bulky guy with a thick but accessible Afrikaans accent, Deon is a lawyer and a former rugby pro athlete (I would soon realize how much of a pro he was by his massive intake of yogurt and fruits during one of our breakfasts). He talked a lot about the problems in South Africa and at one point equated immigrants with refugees. He talked of corruption and unemployment, inequity and politics, but at the same time spoke of a beautiful and exciting South Africa. I was reminded of Jason’s advice way back when, that is, never to speak badly of your country to those who don’t know much about it. But I’m no nationalist, and I don’t believe in state-centric identity building. So I took Deon’s word as a matter of fact, not politics.

Deon joked around a lot with a sarcastic and self-deprecating wit. At one point, he dropped us off at a Café in Pretoria called House of Coffee and scared us by telling us how he’s going to leave us there by ourselves and take our luggage with him. He probably understands the pre-fear that most people have when visiting Johannesburg. It has, after all, one of the world’s highest crime rates. But the café was located in the more affluent part of the city and sat in a nice spot right in the middle of gated villages and exclusive golf courses. I was able to withdraw some Rand and bought myself a pair of shades, my first and only encounter with African street commerce, unfortunately.

***

My first impression of South Africa is that it’s a vast country with hundreds/thousands/billions of hectares of empty rolling plains in between signs of development and people. The whole drive to the Lodge was interrupted by small communities of single-storey houses made of mortar and brick. Out in the skyline are chimneys and signs of mining and quarrying with white smoke mushrooming from the ground. Further west into Pilanesburg, I noticed the geology change a bit. There were now mountains and hills outgrown with short shrubs or trees. The grasslands on either side of the road extended far beyond the horizon, turning into a deep umber right where the sky met the land.

***

Pilanesburg Private Lodge is paradise. Set within the Black Rhino Game Reserve around three hours northwest of Johannesburg, the lodge consists of five spacious cabins and a main receiving or activity area. Designed to fit right into the whole scheme and aesthetics of the bush, the Lodge was both private and open. For a moment I felt jealous of myself for being there.

***

The safari drive in the afternoon introduced us to the spindly and feather-legged impalas that scattered the savannah. Against the sunset, they glided across the plains with so much ease and speed and grace; the stuff of the African image, you see. The drive was long and winding, bumpy and at times very dusty. The modified pick-up truck, open on all sides, coursed through the vast plains with the wind blowing at a constant and cold gust.

***

At night we saw The King. His name is Cholo and he moved across the grass with silence and mastery, and soon after being spotted by the red lights lied flat on the ground, perhaps to rest. Deon drove the truck out of the road and off into Cholo to get a better look. It was quite dark already and we were having difficulty getting a clear view apart from a menacing outline of the lion’s mane. Then when the headlights beamed at Cholo, I felt a giant jolt up my spine and I froze, and invoked the sissy half of the “fight or flight” instinct. I whispered to Deon to stop driving forward as we were now less than five meters from the cat. I saw clearly Cholo sniff the air, and began to wonder if we agitated him with our distinct Forever 21 scents. “I’ll never do anything to harm you, so don’t worry,” Deon says. In my head I was like “yeah tell that to an Asian who lives in Manila.” It was magnificent nonetheless. It’s the real deal. King of the Jungle. Logo of Metro Goldwyn Meyer, Mufasa to Simba. Stuff of legends. We learn first of lions before carabaos and tamaraws and the Philippine Eagle. And it was there staring us in the face as if we were the spectacle, and he the spectator. I felt like a zoo.

***

The safari walk was intense in a predator-prey kind of sense. ‘Coz on a modified pick up safari truck, I felt my rather superior place at the top of the food chain (which I must say I do not actually assert on account of my “vegetarian” lifestyle) clearly and without doubt. Down there on the dirt, walking along paths made by elephants and giraffes though, all the feeling of immunity from evolution kinda fell apart as soon I stepped outside the electric fence. John Ray, our very able guide, showed us his .458 caliber rifle which he says can stop a charging elephant on its tracks. It was comforting, but in a very limited way. I wondered if he had ever fired that gun in his career, and at what.

***

One of the most memorable parts of the whole walk was the surprise sighting of a white Rhino. The heavyset beast appeared cute from the distance and I was basking in the glory of a unique experience, mostly comprised of thoughts about how well this line sounds when I say it to my grandchildren: “I was walking in the African savannah when a Rhino appeared out of nowhere, staring at me right in the face with the conviction of a landowner.” But John Ray quickly turned the whole scene into a thrill when he said “we must be very quiet now, and do as I say.” Pretty exciting stuff

***

On our last safari ride, and during a thinning search for more wildlife, the guide asked us a question which was so practical, it was ridiculous: “Is that a rock or a rhino?” It was funny because I’ll never get asked that question again in a legitimate way, and be expected to give a proper answer.

***

Safaris are very conceptual, and most parts match its depictions or representations in magazines and TV. What these images don’t tell, however, is that safaris are mostly blank or seemingly mindless drives through long dusty roads on flat lands, beneath a sunset sky and hypothermic weather. It’s mostly quiet and very orange. It’s strenuous on the neck, as the landscape is always panoramic, and the horizon does not beckon, it encircles. What the pages in the magazine cannot quite seem to capture is the solemnity of the ride, how one’s gaze into the savannah is always the beginning of a ripened story. It could be a gazelle, or a kudu. It could be a pride of lions tearing a wildebeest’s carcass apart, or a herd of elephants emerging from the bush. It could be the sunset, or just the cool air against one’s cheeks that makes nose muscles lazy. It’s really all about keeping one’s eyes open and ready for expanded and detailed saturation, but the media just can’t say that simply because the images there are one-dimensional, momentary and intentional.

Cusping

“Sunlight’s up and I’m struggling to break out of a curl. I am at once catatonic and liquid; I am separate from the bed, but I am the bed.”

I tried to remember my last thoughts before finally rising up to the morning sun. I think it may have sounded like that. I don’t know; who remembers dreams anyway? But that thin moment which separates consciousness from slumber is a precious one. I’d like to think it’s during these times when we think at our clearest, our purest, when none of the day’s agenda, nor yesterday’s unfinished lists haunt our imagination. It is brief, but very momentous.

I have to be on a hearing scheduled at 8:30AM in a city adjacent to the one where I live. I have to be at Kae’s apartment by 7:30AM. It’s already 6 now. I have nothing to wear except the Barong I wore at Jason’s wedding. That’d do, I guess.

Jason would soon text me later in the morning, upon finding out that I’m wearing my bestman suit, these very inspiring words: “Talbog silang lahat sa pagkabongga mo! MAINTAIN!” To which I replied, “I feel like a supermodel.”

Sometimes I feel like the only value I get from going to court is the assurance that I can still wear formal attire under the intense tropical heat. My GQ dreams are not yet dead.

I got through the hearing unscathed, comforted perhaps by my impression that the judge looked like a cross between Mr. Burns from the Simpsons or J.K Simmons of Spiderman. I didn’t feel as relevant, as impassioned, even if this case is criminal in nature where lives are at stake. Most law students would be excited at the thought of “objecting” and displaying mastery. But me, I’d rather cook carrots.

I was just thinking about graduation right about the time the defense counsel asked the witness to identify a prior inconsistent statement in an affidavit. I stood up to object and thought, “how appropriate, I do feel stuck in a contradiction.” Graduation and a taste of the real deal as a lawyer in a real courtroom. This must be the thin line between the romance of an ending law school career, on one hand, and the demands of tomorrow’s beckoning profession, on the other.

“Objection your honor, no basis.”

I’m somehow afraid of graduating coz I’ll lose my strongest reason for not working. That muddies up the entire thing, I guess. I’m at the cusp of crossing over, and I should be in my best clarity. It must be, then, that there is no awakening in this story.

Daze Maze

It’s not sleepwalking, so I don’t know what keeps me up at night. Beyond 11 in the evening, there’s no going beyond the apartment, unless I walk a kilometer to reach the village’s gate, and another 500 meters to get to 7-Eleven – my ultimate destination even if it’s really a non-place. Too generic/uniform to really mean anything, and I always just come and go. I never stay to talk to the cashiers or commune with the products.

So I usually go downstairs. I check the fridge, surf the channels, and loathe the stains on the white walls – a consequence perhaps of partying without chairs. Most of them come from dirty elbows or shoes that results when one leans against the surface, or Alex’s paws when she tries to catch a lizard or a moth. The recliner’s usually where I end up lounging. I bought this at a bargain from a friend who lived in the same village. I managed to dismantle it into two pieces, squeezed it in the car and ended up looking like a complex alternative for the ‘square peg in a round hole’ metaphor.

“Don’t worry if you can’t figure in. It’s just a case of being a mangled recliner in a ’97 Mitsubishi.”

Sometimes I go outside, at the open garage or the backyard where I’d find things to tinker with. It used to be empty bottles of liquor and beer which I would rearrange into neat pyramids or systematic rows. These days though it’s the kittens. Two of them, one named Sammy Davis Jr., and the other one named Lou Greta.

I keep myself awake at nights for no reason. I get frustrated at myself coz I know that my fake nostalgia will only lead to two consequences: first, go through the day like a zombie, or second, wake up at 2 in the afternoon. I can’t decide which one I like better. For the first one, the tasks I finish and errands I run end up shitty. As for the second, it means I’ll be awake again the whole night and will have to contend with ‘breaking the cycle.’ Something I’m not particularly willing to do. Y’see, systems are romantic.

Sometimes I think. And when I do it lasts. I can sit idle for hours, maybe come up with a good plot for a movie, apply the theory of ‘legitimation of the present’ to, I don’t know, modernist architecture or something. Last night, I thought about how Manila requires you to live fast, gather memories unrelentingly, the carrying space of time stretched to encompass the rabid stimuli of urban existence. It all means one thing to me: I have to forget fast as well. No wonder I get nostalgic so easily. My reference was Paul Virilio’s dromology.

Often I am afraid of my own imagination and would rather just plan, list or organize. I’m scared of how easy and fast I can navigate through fantasies and ideas recklessly without hesitation. I feel like if I do not restrain myself, I’d reach my subconscious and hate my mother, just like what Freud said.

I go back to my bed, curl into helplessness, and begin my sleep with the thought that tomorrow, when I wake up, I will analyze my dreams.

Summary

It was quite fun hosting this year’s New Year’s party for my friends. Just like last year, the set-up included the apartment’s roof deck, a lot of loud music, fireworks, booze, and disrespect for our neighbors. However, I think most people came on the prospect of Raf outdoing himself. Which happened, by the way. Y’see, Raf was smashed beyond wits during last year’s party and we were all secretly hoping he’d surpass his wastedness this year. True enough, he fell from the roof and landed flat on his face.

It was funny for two reasons: first, he got drunk from his own concoctions; and second, the facewhacking came abruptly amidst heavy cheering and egging, silencing everyone in an instant. It was like those anticlimactic moments in slapstick movies where a character massively disappoints a hyped crowd.

It was not funny for two reasons. First, Raf is a good friend, he truly is. Second, we all thought he died. Fortunately, he only suffered cuts on his chin (which required four stitches) and a minor amnesia. Poor guy still can’t remember what happened.

Anyway, I’ve realized nostalgia is best mitigated by tradition, or at least things that occur regularly. So the mission is to keep hosting this party year after year ‘till I lose the apartment or my friends abandon me, whichever comes first.

***

Got the honor of being Jason’s best man. I think I had him at our mutual appreciation of Hangover and our common hope that it’d happen to us at our bachelor’s parties. But, we’ve known each other for about 8 years now and our friendship has been strengthened by a little animosity and a huge deal of goodwill, respect and shared experiences.

As the best man, the task of hosting the party fell (hard) on my shoulders. I’m not supposed to talk about it coz it’s part of the best man-groom code. All I can say is that we partied in style.

Anyway, below are excerpts of my best man’s speech.

“We’ve been through so much together. And though this is a huge moment for you, I can’t help but feel nostalgic reminiscing of those days when all that really mattered were unopened bottles of gin or rum, and classes that could be missed the next day. But you have gone such a long way from those days.

“You’ve traded your headlamps for twinkling Christmas lights that now adore your home; You’ve swapped outdoor Casio wristwatches for a set of gentlemanly chronometers. And most importantly, you’ve traded your Coleman hiking boots for those fancy leather shoes that make you look four inches taller.

“But knowing you, this isn’t settling down, this is just setting up. I know your sense of adventure will remain insatiable. Your passions and interests will always be precise and thorough. Because that’s what you are: a grand lover of life.

“And I am glad that you have found someone with whom you can share your brand of living with. Nice, you look astoundingly beautiful. Jason is lucky to have you as his wife and I have no doubt in my heart that you and Jason are perfect for each other.”

***


‘Will be going to South Africa this coming April for a competition on International Humanitarian Law. Although I’m a bit excited coz of Mandela, apartheid and great white sharks, I can’t help but feel a bit anxious about this whole thing. Right now, I’m in a very, very tense state, with graduation just around the corner. Thing is, in law school, three months is a long time for shit to happen. I’m bracing myself for surprise attacks on my degree. Can’t be too sure in this life.

Analog-ish

'Must admit, not into taking pictures a lot this year. Below are a few from 2011.



This was taken on the first day of 2011 when we just moved in.





Later that same day, we partied. Notice Alex, and Raf being very drunk.





Summer of 2011. My mountaineer friends and I climbed Mt. Kinabalu, 5,000+ meters above sea level.





This is the Bataan Nuclear Power Plant. It looks mesmerizing.





That's Monica (in the foreground) and Dana, drinking while we were at Bataan.






Dad's first ever exhibit. He sold a painting the same day.





Me and my Morrissey hair. I smoked a lot in 2011.

Bukidnon Fantasies

Have you ever seen Bukidnon’s landscape? The high plateaus and the massive canyons? The highest mountain range in the country? It’s breathtaking.

I was born in Malaybalay, Bukidnon on September 25, 1990. It’s a small town where the weather is cool and the pine trees stand tall. Around it are vast plains and pasturelands, forests and mighty rivers. One may compare it with the Cordilleras. But Bukidnon is more sprawling, more countryside, while Cordillera is tougher, more rugged. I’ve always loved the fact that I was born there, partly because it gives me some credibility when I say I love nature, and partly because it’s so random. Neither of my parents lived in Bukidnon and it amazes me how I made my fucking entry into this life at Bethel Hospital. There’s some authenticity there I guess, as “randomness” is central to my life’s philosophy of hedonism/anarchy/indie.

I dream of being able to one day live in Bukidnon. I’ve already bought a parcel of land there using my scholarship money. Nothing fancy, nothing grand, just some property lying on the edge of a ridge, high over a gushing river. In the future, I hope to construct a quaint cabin out of recycled wood, Mangima rocks, and treated pine. The ground level will be one open space, with a huge glass wall facing the west. Outside, a sweeping veranda that looks out to Mount Dulang-dulang, a mountain I’ve climbed twice and will climb again many more times in my lifetime, y’know if cancer or depression doesn’t get to me first. Above the den will hang my dad’s paintings, while the plush sofas will be scattered with Talaandig sheets. A flight of stairs will lead to the attic’s two bedrooms, both with a view of the gorges and the pastures.

I’ll invite my friends over for the weekend, especially those from Manila. I’ll show them my herb and vegetable garden, and I’ll have them pluck and nip for their meals. In my cupboard will be some fine stash of goods bought during my requisite trips to Manila: exquisite cheese from Italy and wines from Rioja, olive oil and maybe some sea salt from Lebanon to heighten that hipster effect. My lolo’s die-cast manual coffee-maker will be churning brews of Guintobdan coffee shipped straight from the slopes of Mount Kanlaon. We’ll smoke cigars out on the veranda, play with memory and shit. When night comes, in the bonfire’s warmth and over scotch, we’ll talk about the next day’s horseback riding at my grandmother’s farm a few hours north, or maybe golf at the nearby Del Monte Club for my lawyer friends. Of course there’s fresh water fishing, the ultralight flying, or the 4x4 riding. Or we could just be spiritual and stick with the pot smoking. Lots of options, really.

By the time their cathartic visit ends, my friends will probably realize that the reason why I didn’t make it big in life coz I’ve always had the spirit of an artist. But I’ll know in my heart it’s just a pretentious excuse.

Bitch please, the reason why I didn’t make it big is the internet.

Cyberbullying

The proliferating Smart-Bros, Globe Tattoos and the cheap internet have given most people the access and false sense of duty to air their opinions on every damn issue that seems to grab headlines or virally infect the internet’s mimetic culture. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in freedom of speech and expression. Unfortunately, I equally believe that such freedom is best exercised in contemplative restraint and sobriety. So, allow me to bully someone using the rainbow of logic just so I can drive the point that execrable and illogical online commentary does not further democratization or “freedom,” whatever the hell that means.

I just came across this one comment on one of those news sites. The headine said something like “Constitutional Crisis Feared.” This is in reference, of course, to the recent showdown between the DOJ and the Supreme Court. The comment says:

“DE LIMA IS JUST FOLLOWING THE CORRECT PROCEDURE
SHE IS NOT DISOBEYING THE SC NA MGA TUTA NI ARROYO, MGA WALANG DELIKADISA!!
THE DECISION BY THE APPOINTEES OF ARROYO DURING HER ADMINISTRATION IS A GESTURE OF PAYING NOT BECAUSE IT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO
HOY MGA JUDGES YOUR DUTIES ARE FOR THE INTEREST OF THE FILIPINO PEOPLE NOT THE PERSON WHO APPOINTED YOU. IF THERE WILL BE CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS IS BECAUSE OF JUDGES DECISION WHICH IS A CLEAR WAY OF PAYING BACK A FAVOR, HUAG NINYO KAMING LOKOHIN!!”

Fist of all, Caps Lock. Second of all, double punctuations!!

The comment starts off with a simple observation. “DE LIMA IS JUST FOLLOWING THE CORRECT PROCEDURE.” Simple as it sounds, this first line actually sets the context for the rest of the comment for two reasons. First, it provides a solid grasp of the position of the writer, i.e. that she supports De Lima. Fair enough. We can take positions in the court of public opinion, yeah? Second, the reader may reasonably expect that the comment will proceed to elaborate on a presumed “correct procedure.” At this point, the law, court rules, or maybe due process comes to mind. It gets exciting now, just because a real issue exists as to what the correct procedure really is. When the comment states that “SHE IS NOT DISOBEYING THE SC…”, the flames of anticipation are fanned. Perfect. Now my thoughts are starting to form a coherent idea of where this remark is going.

But like a back hand slap to the cheek of everything that is good and reasonable in the world of rationality, the comment states: “THE SC NA MGA TUTA NI ARROYO, MGA WALANG DELIKADESA.” Excuse me, but I feel quite offended here. I was just about to relax and bask in the appearance of coherence like any other modern person would when these blitzkrieg indictments, quite passionately unrelated to the previous statements too, make a bold and abrupt entry into the whole picture. Nevertheless, after a momentary shock and a slight moral displacement on my part, I start to realize that maybe what the writer is saying is that an SC who is comprised of uncouth puppies should not be followed. Point taken. A partisan SC is no SC. There’s some logic there, I’m sure.

Until, the next sentence: “THE DECISION BY THE APPOINTEES OF ARROYO DURING HER ADMINISTRATION IS A GESTURE OF PAYING NOT BECAUSE IT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO.” A careful reading reveals that this sentence is actually quite enigmatic, mysterious, spectral even! Let me break it down. The “decision” is a “gesture of paying.” Paid by whom and for what, you may ask? Well, Justices are paying the Arroyos because GMA appointed the justices! Fine, fine. It’s a common remark/fear/belief. One problem though. There’s no substantiation. No proof. No premise. What led the writer to conclude that appointments lead to beholden-ness or indebtedness? Natural reactions? Intuitive suspicion? Probabilities? Love and gratitude? More importantly, what is it about this specific TRO that reeks of “paying” so much so that its issuance cannot be, for all intents and purposes, on the ground that “it [was] the right thing to do?”

Worse, the tirade goes on to say that “HOY MGA JUDGES YOUR DUTIES ARE FOR THE INTEREST OF THE FILIPINO PEOPLE NOT THE PERSON WHO APPOINTED YOU.” Great! I completely agree in the same sense that I agree with the statement that “an apple is not an orange.” It doesn’t really mean anything, now does it? Everyone with decent intelligence can come up with this reminder/truism. It’s like reminding a kid not to talk to strangers. It’s completely true, that is why its redundant/irrelevant in the space of public discourse. It only becomes so when it is established that the acts of the judges are indeed for the interest of the appointing authority. There was no showing of this though, so the sentence is meaningless.

Now to the last sentence: “IF THERE WILL BE CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS IS BECAUSE OF JUDGES DECISION WHICH IS A CLEAR WAY OF PAYING BACK A FAVOR, HUAG NINYO KAMING LOKOHIN!!” Again, I’m sick and tired of empty allegations. Please, please, just back it up. But you may retort: we are not in the court of law, and therefore I don’t need to present proof of anything! Of course we are not in a court of law, and of course you don’t “need” to present proof in the mandatory or obligatory sense. If you don’t however, you risk the judgment of silliness or naiveté in a world where reason is the primary motor of the language you use. What the hell does this have to do with de Lima following the correct procedure anyway? Y’know, that first sentence you wrote which made the most sense.

I’m being a snobbish bully here, I apologize. And who knows, the writer may have been a 13-year old or a senile octogenarian, in which case, high regard is in only proper. But even then, comments like these are emblematic of the ever-saturating and burgeoning discursive landscape for opinions and comments. The trick to increased sophistication in public debates is not through deluge and noise-making. Instead, the space for discussion is benefited (in a democratic sense) if opinion itself accounts for the possibility of hierarchization. Y’know, that subliminal belief that some opinions are better than others. Just saying.