MEMOIRS OF AFRICA

Miles Away

2010-10-10T02:58:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday today. Woke up late and lazed in bed for a while before getting up. The unwashed and dusty draperies concealed the morning light from shining in. I was enjoying the night-like darkness in rest, and in the comfort of my thick blanket.

I prepared a light breakfast of toast and oatmeal and ate it while I busied myself reading emails. An old-time friend replied in affirmation of the mission I requested her. She also told me that she had read my blog about the strike in Loulo. I then revisited the blog and the fire to write again ignited.

My original plan for today was to wash the dishes that piled up in the sink. This mission can wait. I still have time to do this when I'm done with my blog. I'm going to write about this friend of mine who just sent me a reply.

I've known this friend during the heydays of the steel company in my hometown. We worked there in the blue jacket category. She became a very good friend and I think she was to everyone. She has the charisma to draw friendship easily. When our department was dissolved we have to go in different ways to find our niche and luck somewhere. I haven't heard of her in ages. She was out of touch and has her reasons, owing no explanation to the world.

Just recently she popped in the net from out of the blue. I was surprised, and at the same time glad to hear from her again. She's now working in the land of milk and honey, in a city that never sleeps, and where theater, art gallery and museums abound like mushrooms. She gets to enjoy these with all her passion and delight.

Apart from being amiable and easy to get along with she was an all knowing-person too. She has always something to say to any topic of discussion. Very intelligent. Maybe in her past life she was Plato or Shakespeare or Jose Rizal. She loves arts and herself is an artist in her own right. I would remember during the height of the cross-stitching craze she was one of the enthusiasts to come up with a master piece. Later, she engaged in arts and crafts business before she embarked on a journey where one has to brave the test of distance and time.

She's eloquent, a hobbyist, collector of any sort of things and has a strong sense of fashion. I recalled one day she came to work very chic in a tan mini ensemble. There was no other way for her to pass without us noticing her because their office was in our office. She wore this small woven bag on her belt to accessorize the whole outfit. Then I commented if what she got there on her belt was an Easycall beeper. That time when cell phones were yet unheard of, Easycalls were the coolest means of telecommunication. She laughed to her amusement and said that it was just a belt pocket. I don't know if she wore that again.

Time will come when her stint abroad will come to an end. It's a point of no return. She will return back to her country of origin and stay for good. Live in her new and cozy abode with her loved ones. Cook pasta, drink wine and live life to the full.

And I'm going to visit her.

Diverse Passions

2010-09-10T22:33:00.000-07:00

As an individual being, bound with abstract elements that define human character to its uniqueness, I for one have two passions that are quite peculiar in nature and diverse in comparison. It’s like Matt and Jeff of the 60’s comic strip, or the hot and cold shower valves, or the biblical characters David and Goliath. To begin with the first one, it is my penchant for anything small. Be it a living thing, an inanimate object or an abstract being.

When I was a kid I like to scan the books for pictures and illustrations. I’m not ashamed to admit that in my learning stage I was slow in reading comprehension. My key to understanding the story was the series of illustrations. We had a complete volume of The Children’s Hour books. And pages containing elves, dwarfs, fairies of the winged genus and little people were what I loved most to see. My favorites include Gulliver’s travels, Thumb Tom, Thumbelina and the likes. I would review it over and over again whenever the routine of playing bored me or simply, when the feel set in.

Although I also liked adventure stories, the Greek and Roman epics and superheroes, the fascinating world of diminutives was just simply insuperable.

In shows and fairs, my passion for small things manifests through my strong desire to see displays of dioramas and scaled models of existing structures. Even in souvenir shops I tend to be magnetized by the small items like figurines and statuettes. The more intricate and real-like it is, the more I get interested. Sometimes it ends with purchase if my pocket allows.

The rabid of my passion did not fail to encroach in my hobbies that are collecting stamps and miniaturized trees more known as bonsai. I tried to analyze what’s in the stamp that titillates my interest. I found out that it resembled a picture frame replicated into small frames. And that is amazing --to be able to collect replicas of arts from masters and all sorts of information from all over the world in thumb-size frames that's the stamps. If stamps are printed in billboard-size then my interest will disappear right away like a bubble; not to mention the trouble of keeping such a humongous piece.

As for the bonsai, it’s pretty obvious that it’s small and it’s my passion. Age, time and effort in training it are factors too that makes it a collectible item.

Now, here comes the twist of the story. My other passion is quite the opposite from the first one. It’s why I say humans are unique being because there’s no pattern to follow to be able to predict his or her passion and desires. My penchant for small things is matched with obsession to tall and slender women.

I don’t know why I like tall women. I just find them sexy and beautiful. Being tall is not yet the ultimate "it", she has to be slim to a proportionate degree. Long limbs and cute face on lithe torso is my epitome of a perfect she.

I discovered this kind of obsession in my early 20’s when I started to follow Brooke Shields in pin-up magazines and posters after I saw her movie the Blue Lagoon. Her youthfulness, comely face, thin body and towering height captured the world's attention . It was a paradigm shift for me in the context of beauty of a woman.

However, physical attraction is not everything to me. It’s just the initial reaction when we see a person because sight is the only sense that works in distance. The visual attraction is only wanton desire and not permanent. Real beauty is what comes out from the inside. To have both, inner and outer beauties is a bonus.

On Coming of Age

2010-09-03T05:43:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, a family member died in her sleep. My aunt, the wife of my mother's elder brother. She was 85. I was saddened by the news and couldn't believe in the beginning. She was still fine when I left last June. She was a frequent visitor of my mother. She usually comes in the morning. They would talk about anything, from memories of their childhood to current events. They would sing old songs, laugh and even cry when they remember about sad experiences. Now that she was plucked to join her Maker, my mother lost a morning guest and a contemporary.

Her demise made me think of my own vulnerability--a thought that never crossed my mind in my younger years. But now, if time and destiny wills that I live the age as my aunt's and considering that I have survived for half a century then it's not far to happen. Aspirations, undone missions in my life deliberately dissuade me to think of the inevitable. Yet, I'm aware of it's coming.

Nature has a way of dealing this. Our views of life and disposition attunes with our age. My mother who is 80 now speaks of her own end with confidence and unperturbed like it's going to happen any time soon. For us, it's consternation that we don't like to hear. For her, it's coming of age in nature's way and of course, God's grace and will.

My Old Lady Turned 80

2010-04-04T08:47:00.000-07:00

Last November 7, 2009 my mother, Salvacion, more known as Salving celebrated her 80th birthday. An event that had been most awaited with excitement by us.

The long respite from blogging took toll on the precious memoir of this celebration. The idea of writing this in my blog lingered in my thoughts for so long until I got this chance. I wouldn't let this pass lest something happens to me and this memoir is left undocumented. My blog is my diary, albeit notable events shouldn't be missed.

Her big day started with a holy mass in the morning, officiated by Fr. Fruto and joined by family members, friends and relatives and of course, by other church-goers. I wasn't there. The reason was simple, I was working -- in Africa and the date didn't fall on my leave. But I was in full support for the success of this momentous event. After the mass they had breakfast at home in quite a special way -- more food than usual and held outdoor, in our terrace. Lunch was a family affair.

Then dinner came. Since she was expecting a large number of guests it was held in Chua's place, right across the street in front of our house. The venue was decorated under the management of an event coordinator and the food was catered by Cafe Hermoso and supplemented by from Lai-lai's and home-prepared dishes. The ever-present pork lechon, roast beef and Chevon (Goat's meat) delicacies were never a miss.

The night was fun-filled. Attended by convivial friends and relatives. Her son in-law, Manoling serenaded her with a sentimental song and and so did Loraine, her feisty granddaughter sung a beautiful rendition. The children "apos" rendered a dance number. My birthday message for her which I sent through email was read by my sister Rosemarie.

My letter:

My ever dearest Mommy Salving,

Though I'm thousands of miles away I never miss to think of you especially this very day of yours, your 80th natal day. My message for you is short and sweet. I love you for being my mother. I'm sorry for my mistakes, I know I hurt your feelings sometimes. Thank-you for all the times you have been with us and for the sad and happy moments that we shared. And let us thank God for the 80 years of celebrating life. I wish you Happy Birthday dear mother and more years to come.

Your loving son,

Lito

Everyone had their fill of the preparation and even brought their loved ones left at home with "bring-house" treat. Then followed the dancing and drink, drink and drink until the wee hours.

The Flight That Was

2010-03-22T12:37:00.000-07:00

I don't know how it had happened, for the first time in 12 years of traveling I missed to look the right date of my flight. I was supposed to leave a day earlier than I thought. This so freaking strange to have happened thinking I was even the one who chose the dates of my flights for booking and this was my third travel of the same route and time slot.

It was my fault. I was too confident that everything was fine and didn't bother to check my ticket days before the flight. My nonchalance has taken its toll on my holiday budget. I had to buy new tickets for both local and international flights. What a mess, it cost me a fortune.

On the eve of my assumed departure I was still busy packing the last few things that I had to bring to Africa. I got tired of the boring routine so I thought of taking a short break by checking-in online. I couldn't believe what I discovered. I was supposed to leave for Manila in the morning of that very day to catch the flight for Dubai later in the afternoon. WHY? It was a shock of my life. I felt like the sky was going to fall on me. I closed my eyes and tried to regain my composure and sanity that's left in me.

I had to think of a plan. I should be able to leave on the following day. I must or I would be charged for AWOL.

I called the office of Emirates airline in Dubai for a possibility of ticket re-booking as Manila office was already closed. I waited for 10 minutes before that cacophonous answering machine diverted me to a desk clerk who spoke English with an Arabic accent. He also told me to wait and it was like forever. He came back after an agonizing 15 min. and said that he had already booked me for the next day's flight and I must go to an Emirates counter in Manila to pay the 100 Euros no-show fee. That was fine with me as long as I can leave.

Next, I called Airfrance in Paris for the re-booking of my connecting flight to Bamako. There was no problem. My flight was re-scheduled without penalty. It was 12 midnight and I was not yet done with packing. I had to get some sleep, so I did. This is one thing I like myself I can sleep over worries and problems.

I woke up full of hope. We left for Cagayan de Oro City early in the morning to give us enough time to settle my flight for Manila. On the way I called the Emirates office in Manila to confirm re-booking that was done in Dubai. I thought the ordeal was almost over but it was not. I was told by the clerk that my ticket has restrictions: it can't be re-booked and it's non-refundable. All I could do was to sigh. I have to take the consequences of my own folly. It can't be undone anymore.

To add insult to injury, my PAL ticket for Manila was also forfeited. It too has restrictions. Damn, this promo tickets. It's cheap but you must be very careful not to violate any of its restrictions, not one or you'll end up buying another ticket.

We went to find a booking agency to resolve this ticket story. I paid about a Thousand Dollars for all. It was a mixed feeling of relief and dismay that I felt like jumping off the bridge and just perish...ha, ha. What a costly lesson in life.

I reached in Dubai airport with the happenings of the day still milling in my thoughts. I look around the shops while waiting for my flight to Paris. I saw a laptop of a good brand. Damn, I remembered again the money wasted for nothing. It was worth to buy the good brand. The one I'm using now is just of a so-so brand because I was saving. Saving for what, for the rainy days? No, it’s for days when my memory will fail me.

In May I will be going home again taking the same itinerary. Never will I forget again because the first thing I will do upon my arrival is buy a white board slate and hang it on the wall of our kitchen. I will write in bold capital letters the date of my departure.

Alas, sometimes shit happens in life.

D - Disenfranchise

2009-10-23T12:31:00.000-07:00

I was thinking of a topic that would best fit for letter "D". Nothing would come to my mind. I took a break, watched TV. It's a movie that I haven't started. The word "disenfranchised" was twice used by the lead actress whose name I don't know. So I thought of picking it as the word for D. As defined by Encarta it means deprive of right, especially voting: to deprive a person or organization of a privilege, immunity, or legal right, especially the right to vote. In the movie it was used to describe a dilapidated house; and the second time was to describe the protagonist's dull and nerdy friends.

As the story unfolded the plot and characters became familiar to me. It's a modern adaptation of Snow White. I researched it and I found out that the title was Sydney White. It's a 2007 movie, quite ancient though. But it didn't matter, what's important I learned a new term.

C for Cargo and Cooking

2009-10-18T15:50:00.000-07:00

As I write this blog I am not sure yet of what topic to tackle that is significant to letter C. I was out of the blog circle for quite a long time enough to make me forget the password of my google account. Right now I am in the Emirates lounge in Dubai waiting for my next flight, to Paris. Final destination is Bamako. The mark of the end of my holiday.

I was not able to keep my affirmation to Randomness' call for a common topic on time. My leave is short that I don't have time to sit and tinker the internet. I should say I am not committed to the blogspot that I started. Laziness and procrastination has killed the momentum.

Anyway it's not total abandonment to the craft yet. Whenever I get the time and the fire to write I do write like now. I wont wait for Friday. The idea might be shelved again, as the old adage says "Strike while the iron is hot". But until now I am still thinking of what to write about C.

Aha! now I know--- C is for cargo. For the first time in my life I brought with me a big and heavy cargo that I checked in. Its a big carton, about a meter square and half a meter high and 26 kgs heavy. I'm a light traveller, this box is already too much for me.

In the local flight where only 15 kgs. is allowed I paid for the excess kilos. But in the international flight we can go as heavy as 30 kgs. If already a silver member of Skywards another 12 kgs more of entitlement. So, I'm spared.

Well, what is inside this box and what prompt me to carry it painstakingly? It is a melange of cooking and kitchen ware and other personal things. Ever since I started cooking my own food I got interested of acquiring the basic things needed in a kitchen--- a rice cooker, oven toaster, steamer, pressure cooker, casseroles, utensils, knives, etc. My folks said I'm already bringing the whole kitchen with me...ha-ha, indeed I am.

I started preparing my own food 4 months ago. I eat what is right for me. And as a result I lost 11 kgs. from my former 93 kgs weight (I gained back 2 kgs during my leave, I vow to lose that again). My blood pressure has gone down to normal. The ankle pains in the mornings was also gone. Good for me to initiate the move to cook my own food. I would have not achieve anything if until now I still continue to eat in our canteen.

I should say C is for cooking too.

Strike in Loulo

2009-07-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

FROM LEFT: That's me, burned down house focused.

FROM LEFT: A house damaged by fire, a room ransacked

FROM LEFT: The walk back to the camp, a burning SUV

FROM LEFT: Bed turned upside down, luggages scattered outside

FROM LEFT: Another car burning, doors broken

July 10, 2009

None of our workers came. Quite strange, so I phoned the local foreman to find out why. He said the gate was blocked by strikers. They couldn't get in. The unemployed villagers of Loulo and its neighboring villages staged a strike in protest for new the mining contractor's move to hire strangers instead of considering them first.

It was a long day for me, doing helping job to a boiler maker cutting flanges.

July 11, 2009

It was raining. Despite this and the absence of my men I came to work. At around 9 AM 10 of my men arrived. The night before the military managed to disperse and pushed the strikers back to the village.

We proceeded to work hoping that others will arrive. An hour later one of my men received a call that the situation in the village had worsened. The strikers had regrouped and became belligerent beyond the control of the outnumbered gendarmes and police. The pipeline conveying toxic waste to the tailings dam was punctured by saboteurs. And the crane sent out to fix it was burned. The expat supervisor in charge of the repair was attacked but luckily escaped. His chin was hurt when the windshield of his pickup was smashed. I came to think this one was genuinely serious comparing it to the previous strikes that the company had resolved without any property damaged.

The workers were told to go home for fear that the ire the strikers might turn to their families for their insistence to come to work and not symphatizing with them.

I too asked permission to go home. Though my mind was trying to picture the situation as manageable I was also thinking of the possibility of a flee if things would turn ugly. I hitched a ride on the Honda Fourtrax (a 4WD all-terrain bike) of a Filipino colleague even if it was illegal to carry a passenger. I even didn't wear a skull guard. At that moment no one was worried of safety anymore.

At home I packed my valuables and medicines into my backpack. I was getting tensed and fidgety. I opened the curtains to see whats going on outside. I saw vehicles arrived and people running to their rooms. Then I heard the successive shots gunfire like war has already commences. I got panic. I hid in the toilet and peeped outside. I phoned home and was crying in fear of a violent death. My family were worried of me too. Not knowing what help they can offer and how. Their voices helped me to calm down.

I ran out of my room. One hundred meters away a house was already burning. The shout of angry people was terrifying. I went to the house of that Filipino colleague who brought me home. He too was wary of a coming attack. He put the kitchen knives ready at hand in case of an assault.

We decided to get away with the Fourtrax. We were joined by another terrified Filipino. And all three of us speeded away.

On the road we met my local worker who couldn't go home to the village because the gate was stormed by strikers. He was reluctant to leave his motorbike and just ran away because it's not paid-up yet. Thinking of me still in camp he got worried and decided to fetch me there. That's when we met him.

To ease the load of the Fourtrax I hopped into his motorbike with my backpack. Together we rode in convoy up to the hill (a stockpile where the crusher was set). The Filipino colleague saw the general manager's vehicle went to that direction so he presumed its where we would assemble. We didn't find anyone there. Our fear grew of the thought that strikers might catch us there.

We rode back down hoping to see any friendly faces. Not a chance, the plant was ghostly quiet. We decided to go to the underground. On the way we met a vehicle with French expats. They told us that no one was there (perhaps, they too were also lost) and that the rest of the expats were assembled at the mining contractor's place. We turned around and followed them.

At long last our ordeal was over. We were rejoined to the group in safety. We embarked on a big truck that's converted to a bus and joined by other Filipinos. I sat there exhausted and hungry, waiting for whatever instrucion from the organizers. It was almost 1 PM.

I was thinking of the things left in my room: my $300 Samsonite suitcase that I bought in Nairobi airport, Nike sneakers, clothes, digital BP monitor, Wahl clipper and other things. I regretted not bringing them for they too are important to me. But then, I thought those were only things...it can be replaced....my life is more important. I should be thankful instead for surviving this ordeal unscathed.

After an hour we departed but to the direction of the plant. We all disembarked and each one of us was given with a 1-m reinforcing bars. "What's this for? An arm?", I said. What can a reinforcing bar do if the strikers were armed with guns and bolos? Anyway we continued walking, tired and hungry.

Afar we saw not only one column of smoke but several ones. I was getting worried of my things lest our block was one of those burning. Luckily it wasn't but it didn't escaped from the hands of the looters. My door lock was broken to pieces. My things were scattered on the floor. The fridge was forayed and emptied. My closet too.

I lost my decent clothes, digital blood pressure monitor, alarm clock (an object of sentimental value), and other little things. My precious suitcase was left outside, emptied of its content. I was so happy to see it again in good condition. My shoes and clipper was strategically hidden in the closet that it wasn't seen by the looters.

Some of our colleagues lost everything including passports to fire. Some lost their laptops, cellphones and jewelry to looting. I am still lucky. Those whose houses were not touched were luckier.

Seven houses were damaged by the fire and 10 were looted. A Grove crane and several vehicles and motorbikes were also lit to fire.

I will never forget this horrifying experience. An historical event of my life.

Happy to be Back...

2009-07-19T06:07:00.000-07:00

When I woke up today I was not feeling better. I had a diarrhea. It could be the squash in coconut extract garnished with fried Capitan fish that caused my sickness. Coconut is not aplenty in this place, so they (co-Pinoys) have to use the one in can sold in the commisary. I ate a hearty meal, and perhaps my gastric system was shocked after a long time that it had been deprived of the rich and creamy white extract.

I still managed to get up and called my "right-hand" in the job to take charge of the task for today. It is Sunday today. Only a few of my people would come to do a routinary job, that's why I was confident enough to delegate my obligation for today. I'm just weak enough to change my clothes and walk to the jobsite.

I prepared a greaseless breakfast and went back to bed to rest and eventually fell asleep.

This is my first blog after a long long while. My last was before I went on leave last May. I have many topics to share but procrastination is controlling me from scribbling. I lost the momentum but not the drive and desire.

This post is my booster -- an indication that I am serious in updating my journal. Happy to be back even if not well.

Eve of Departure

2009-05-21T14:21:00.000-07:00

Gosh, how I missed my blogsite. It's been awhile I lost touch. Our internet line got burned. There's no cable to change it right away. It has to be ordered yet, well everything here crawls, true to the meaning of WAIT - West African International Time.

I kept on checking my notebook for internet connectivity for several days until I finally gave up. The TV was my best friend again.

I joked my colleague to kill the guy who caused the burning of the cable. He's done a great havoc to our social life.

The moment I stopped checking the line got fixed without my knowledge. I was a bit late before I knew it. Thanks anyway -- I'm back to the circle.

I felt a certain kind of longing when I thought of opening my blogspot. I felt a lump in my throat. Is this how I'm so attached to my blogsite? Thanks a lot. I hope this enthusiasm lingers so that I keep on writing.

Tomorrow is my last day on site. But I still have to come to work in the morning. My boss gave me so much task to finish before I can go. He threatened to cancel my leave if I fail to finish. No way...I must go. He's only joking anyway.

I haven't packed my things yet. Later on after I post this. It won't take me long to fill a single carry on luggage.

From the site we are going to be flown by a small plane to Bamako, the capital of Mali. It's terribly scary flying with this "toy" plane. The 1 hour ride is an endless agony.

My stopovers are Paris and Dubai. I must stay away from the duty free shops.

It's "Ciao" for the meantime. Would be back to writing when I'm home.

My Favorite Songs

2009-05-15T14:14:00.000-07:00

In "Any Dream Will Do J?" one of the contenders sang "Had a Bad Day", my favorite. The bulb in the clouded balloon blinked---why not write something about favorite songs? It could be a cool topic.

There are quite a few songs in my list. I'm not updated but I do collect in my thoughts songs that captivate my auditory sense. I'm not keen on lyrics. In fact, I haven't memorized any. It's the tune that makes me fall for it---its "melodic it" that makes me close my eyes in euphoria when I hear it.

I'm poor in naming tunes. I have to rely in somebody else's remebering prowess or search the net for titles.

My choices are not old like my age. It keeps on updating as long as my hearing is still intact.

There's also a story behind each song.

YOUR'E BEAUTIFUL
by James Blunt

I will always remember this song because Julia burnt this in the CD for me. It never fails to remind me of her. I've already cried a thousand rivers over this song.

WAKE ME UP WHEN SEPTEMBER ENDS
by Green Day

Sad song, nice tune... I'm a sentimental person, it captivated my heart the first time I heard it on a movie trailer. It's the only song of Green Day I like.

BUBBLY
by Colbie Caillat

A favorite by accident. I asked Jericho, my nephew for the title of a song which I heard on TV. I tried to sing it to him to give an idea of how it sound but it was an effort gone bad...he gave me this title. He had it played in Imeem to confirm if it was it. I wasn't sure anymore of how it sounded originally but it seemed to me it's it. I liked it. Few months had passed before I found the title of the real song I had been searching.

HAD A BAD DAY
by Daniel Powter

This is the song I have mistaken for as Bubbly. I discovered the title myself when I heard it again. This is the song I heard on "Any Dream Will Do J?".

TOO LATE TO APOLOGIZE
by Timbaland

My first encounter with this song was when my friends mobile phone rang. It's his ringtone. It's a pity I couldn't ask him to pass it on to me--- my phone does not have a polyphonic feature. The next time I heard it was after 7 months. I tried to grasp every word I can remember in the lyric line and searched in Youtube. My latest add.

"Our choice of music reflects our personality, but not how humane we are".

Yiriba - La Mort

2009-05-13T13:40:00.000-07:00

Yiriba Diarra was our travel coordinator. He passed away this morning after a massive heart attack two days ago.

He had been working in the company for a long time. If I am right, he was one of the pioneers. He took care of our flight bookings, escorted us to the airport during departures and met us during arrivals. Every expat knows him...maybe also loved him.

Lately, he had grown so big---plus the age was a lethal combination that perhaps triggered the attack. His untimely death has brought many of us, about his age and in the heavy side of the scale, to alarm.

I must lose weight. I must maintain a healthy diet and workout. Do yoga to unleash stress.

"Goodbye Yiriba, you left so soon without finishing your job. You still have to book my air ticket".

It's only a week shy from now and I'm due to go for leave, but how can I?

Fingers crossed.

Mother's Day

2009-05-10T10:02:00.000-07:00

We were so busy last week trying to meet deadlines of scheduled jobs. We worked overtime and even our weekend rest was jeopardized. But this did not make me forget to remember my dear mother today. I called home and greeted her, "Happy Mother's Day".

Our conversation did not take long as she was complaining she could not hear me well. Yet, she made it sure that my loving thought for her was reciprocated by saying that she was happy I called her.

Nearing 80 in few months time, Mother is still active. She still tends her plants and do the marketing. But her faculties and reflexes are not as fast as when she was younger. These, we understand when she becomes oblivious of our deprived past. Perhaps her memory bank only allows happy thoughts to be withdrawn and simply keep the unhappy ones into the vault of forgetfulness.

In fairness, she is a religious woman. Never gets tired of attending prayer meetings and never misses mass on Sundays and holidays of obligation. In fact, when I called her this morning she was on her way to the Monastery of the Transfiguration in Malaybalay with my other siblings and in-laws to celebrate mass with the monks. Its a 5-hour drive from home.

As this day is dedicated to all the mothers of the world, I wish them happiness and all the best things in life. And to my beloved mother I wish her more Mother's Day to come, good health, peace as ever, happiness and matriarchal joy.

I am grateful to her for carrying me for 9 months in her womb and delivering me to the world, for bringing me up to who I am now, for understanding my imperfections, for standing by with me in bad and good times and for giving me inspiration to live.....

And most of all for being such a spendthrift...lol...(jokingly but half-true, lol). Ah mothers will always be mothers.

Peak of Summer

2009-05-03T09:58:00.000-07:00

April and May are months when dry season in Mali is at its peak, when atmospheric temperature is 49°C, that's under the shade. When under the sun the temperature is 59°C.

Fever is 37°C and up and boiling water is 100°C. Just imagine you are in high fever and dipped in a pool of hot water over half-way to boiling . This is what you feel when you suddenly go outside in the open sun at midday. But when already exposed since morning time, the increasing heat of the sun is unnoticeable anymore. The body seems to get used to it.

Heat is peak at 3 PM such that tap water is too hot to bear. Even at night and morning time the water is still warm. Nature is the water heater. In the evening time you can't stay outside because the heat that the ground absorbed during the day is given off and its just too hot for comfort.

My job requires me to be out in the sun the whole day. I don't want to wilt like dried prunes so I protect myself with sunblock lotion (SPF 45) and I wear long-sleeved shirt. This way, skin cancer and premature ageing is prevented. Who wants wrinkles anyway?

I can consume 4-5 liters of water a day easily without emptying my bladder. All go to rehydration. That is why wherever I go I bring with me my water bottle or "die" with thirst.

This situation has made me hypothesized that Africans have dark skin because it adapted to the hot condition of their place. After 30 million years of human evolution their skin turned dark to fend off illnesses that sun exposure brings. Light-skinned race are more prone to skin cancer than the brown-skinned race but the blacks are not.

This is the climate here in the sub-Saharan region. Half of the year is dry. When its dry, it's literally dry. No rain whatsoever. Grasses die and trees deprived of leaves for the entire season. Dust is everywhere. This is the so-called summer of Mali.

Obviously, for us coming from the temperate zone this kind of environment is a punishment. But what brought us here is another story... I won't elaborate it for now, perhaps in the future.

This is my twelfth dry season here, nearing its end, yet, still counting. Only God knows when will I stop here.

A Row in the Mess

2009-04-25T12:03:00.000-07:00

Reservations is holding me back to write this story because I am afraid that people's impression on me might change. But I find the incident noteworthy so I am compelled to write this in my journal. Eventually this will be an effective tool in aiding me recall this segment of my life.

Two days ago a row happened between me and one of the food servers in our mess. The cause was so petty that it turned to fracas. It started this way, it was breakfast time, a few minutes past 5 AM, I surveyed the trays in array for healthful treat. I snobbed the oatmeal and its kin, the old time favorites, GMC's in boxes. Tired of looking around I settled on my usual breakfast--a bread roll thinly spread with butter, coffee and fried eggs. I prefer fried eggs over omelet because the whites are easy to separate from the yolk. Poached eggs are boring; it's gone in one gorge, breakfast consummated in 2 seconds, ha-ha. I come from a family of hypertensives so I have to be easy with the cholesterol-rich yellow of the egg. The genetic gift that I inherited manifested signs on me when I was 36 years of age. Since then I am careful with what I eat. But sometimes I stray heeding the call of my taste buds for some earthly delights, and so my story continues...

At the end of the counter, where the cooked eggs are to be collected, I saw bacons sizzling on the griddle. In hesitation I thought of having some. And then on the plate full of still raw bacons I saw some lean slices partly hidden under the heap of fatty ones; I decided to have some. Politely and struggling with my French I asked the server, a local guy, if I can have some of those lean slices. Straight away he frowned, shook his hairless head in negation and said in their local dialect that all the slices are the same, loaded with fat. Despite my explanation on how bad it is for the health he proceeded in cooking the fatty ones, as if I have no right to choose and we are at their mercy. My blood boiled with anger. How could an ugly and illiterate individual challenge my rights for what is good for me. I warned him that I am not going to eat what he cooked and I am going to report him to the management. This made him upset and the row started. The argument crescendoed into a shouting match of invectives. Not understanding with each other because my French is as bad as his'. I lost my composure and rational judgment that time. The kitchen staffs rushed out to quell the fight. The diners seated were looking at us in awe. It was really a scene. I only calmed down when I saw 2 guys waiting to be served at the counter watching us. I then instructed that ugly server to stop blabbering and go back to his work and serve the new comers.

Still livid and residues of the fight still milling in my mind, I forced myself to eat my breakfast. My coffee was too sweet for I was not counting anymore the number of teaspoons I put on it. I don't even remember how the bacon tasted. I was done in less than 3 minutes. What a way to start a day.

At work I became irritable. A mere raise of voice by other people agitates me as if courting for trouble. At the same time my emotions was ambivalent. I hated becoming belligerent. It's not my nature." What is wrong with me?", " Why am I acting like this?" These were the questions I asked myself.

Is this what they call mid-life crisis? Will I overcome this? If not, what will I be when I'm 70 or 80? A monster?

When I was young with emotions still fragile this incident is unimaginable to happen. I was never agressive in my life until lately. I had a commendable threshold of patience to be proud of. As I matured, my emotions had evolved into a stable and more defined one, and I became expressive with my feelings, some times no holds bar. But there is a big BUT about this. If I think I can dominate the person or situation then the agressive side of me comes out. But when I'm challenged with persons superior than me and those who I respect I tend to become meek like a helpless child. A case of a Jekyll and Hyde syndrome or in short, double standard . I don't know what to do about this.

Yesterday and this morning's breakfast the same local server was serving the food. I was watching him carefully with an eagle's eye for fear that he might do something at his vantage to make even with me. Who knows he might flavor my food with his spittle. I have done this before to someone I hated and I'm afraid it might come back to me.

With this story I don't know how people will react and judge me.

Weekend in Solitude

2009-04-19T13:01:00.000-07:00

In the four corners of my room I spent another weekend in solitary confinement. There was an invitation to picnic near the dam that I turned down. The heat outside at 49 degrees centigrade was just too excruciating for me to enjoy. Besides, I had an appointment to call home at luchtime.

My day started with breakfast at 5 am. A cup of coffee, bread roll and fried eggs were enough to perk up my energy. No need to carbo load --- physical activity is zilch today.

In the environs of a cluttered desk my notebook lied. Next to the desk is the TV. I spent the day watching TV and at the same time browsed the net. I swicthed channels between National Geographic and MTV only, refraining from watching movies lest I stop net surfing. I read blogs and news and chatted. Read and wrote emails. Took quick naps in between activities whenever my eyes give in to drowsiness. My bed is just a hop away.

I gazed the ceiling and examined my conscience, making peace to myself and the world.

I didn't go to the canteen for lunch. In the room I simmered a cup of noodle soup and savored it with crackers. Supper at 5 pm was quite loaded with carbs, making up the measly lunch that I had.

Another weekend well rested in solitude. The whole experience was revitalizing as well as uplifted the spirit. Just love it.

Ahead will be another week of gruelling work.

The Culprit

2009-04-11T10:49:00.000-07:00

Finally I am back on striking keys again. It took me a long time to prompt myself to start. The culprit is the wicked TV in my new room. I call it wicked because the temptation to switch it on is just irresistible like a cold drink on a hot summer day. And once the remote control is already on my hold I can't stop anymore from hopping channels until I finally find the program/show or movie of my interest for the day. Blogging is sidelined again as next priority, promising myself to start writing once I'm done watching the show. On the other hand and to be honest this culprit has practically entertained me. It's more animated than the internet as far as my knowledge about the world wide web can stretch. If only I have the generosity of time to watch TV and blog later then the world for me would be perfect.

One thing in my daily routine that is not affected by the onset of this other entertainment medium is reading blogs. I can still manage to check what's new and comment if necessary in my favorite blog site, This Randomness, despite the lack of time.

My structured life here in the Dark Continent has limited my relaxation time to just 3 hours a day---that is after work hours and I have already done my thing---that is when I'm in bed facing the box and later surfing net. If I get so engrossed with the show, that means I have to forego the internet. And at the strike of 9 in the evening that means lights must be switched off and I have to go to sleep, otherwise I will suffer the brunt of drowsiness on the following day if I go over the limit like the couchmen in the fairytale, Cinderella, turning into mice at the strike of 12 midnight.

Yesterday, Good Friday we worked like mad dogs until off time. Today, we only worked half-day. Tomorrow is off and the day after tomorrow is Easter Monday, a holiday. This is a big bonus in blogging. I'll make sure that my friend the wicked TV won't get me on the hook. Probably switch it to CNN and hide the remote control away from my sight. There's no more stopping, no fingers crossed, I must publish a post.

Mr. Steve Jr.

2009-04-01T23:08:00.000-07:00

The earliest childhood memory that I can remember is when I was 3 years old. That was the death of my maternal grandfather. Though faces are faint traces I could still recall the wake and the burial. But it's strange that I could not remember the time I started to recognize my first name. I knew my full name when I started Grade I.

My father’s name is Tiburcio, a very unique name, of Spanish origin and in my whole life there were only 2 persons I met with such name---my father and a certain manager of a steel company. Both of them are goners now, maybe calling each other “Sangay” in heaven.

The name is so unusual, yet a favorite character in the fiction world. In my prepubescent years when soapies was still a hit on the radio, the most popular one titled “Diego Salvador” had a villain character named Don Tiburcio, enemy of Diego Salvador. In the Noli Me Tangere and sequel, El Filibusterismo, one character’s name is Don Tiburcio, the husband of Dona Victorina.

It is an old name, as old as Don Quixote and Jose Rizal, that in my grandparent’s time only few parents name their sons with Tiburcio. Now, no one will.

It is a funny name too. It tickles me, I don't know why. It’s not being disrespectful to my late father but it’s a fact of life that his name brings fun to people. In first days of school my heart would beat fast when our teacher would announce to let us introduce ourselves. If only we could exclude the parents name I would have done that because the moment my I mention my father’s name my classmates would start to giggle. It did not happen only to me but to all us siblings. They too suffered the stigma.

I could remember some of his friends called him Steve. We could only wish it was better off if its his real name.

When I entered freshman in college we were required to submit our birth certificates. It was my first understanding what a BC is and its significance in person’s identity. I took a copy from the city registrar’s office and to the shock of my life I found out something very outrageous in my BC. I have 2 first names and main one is Tiburcio. I was a junior of Steve. My first reaction was to get angry why I had not been told since the beginning such that I would have lived with it casually. My despair that time was futile. There was nothing that could be done but to accept the fact that I was a Steve Jr.

I don’t know if the secretary in the hospital where I was born did went to school or simply she is a dolt. Everything in my BC was misspelled---my name, address, parent’s name etc. It was terrible. I vowed to totally correct all these discrepancies one day.

Before I graduated college we went through the legal process of changing my name. It took several hearings and notices to the public before I got my new BC. The irony of it, my father has to appear in court alone without me because I was in Cebu busy with my studies. Him busy removing his name from my mine. My wish that time was granted. I was happy.

If I am to go back time with my present mindset I would retain my father’s name. I just thought how happy he was and proud of me when I was born. I would have been much prouder than him to be his namesake. If I will have a son I will name him Tiburcio in honor of my father. Will you do that if you are me?

A.K.A. Pal

2009-03-29T14:35:00.000-07:00

People call me Lito for short of Julito. Unknown to some of my friends and even family members I have another nickname that is Pal. It’s an acronym of a flag carrier and coincidentally it’s where my late father used to work as ticket clerk. One might wonder how in the world did it happen I got that name when it’s far-sounding from my original name. Well it traces back during high school days. My classmates coined that name for me. Despite my strong objection I was helpless in stopping them from calling me in that name. They just love it with passion and it carried on until I went to college. That misnomer only stopped when I transferred to another school. Of course, this time, when I introduced myself to new friends I would use my real name.

Name calling is part of our culture especially in the younger group. My younger brother’s name is Prospero whom my classmates fondly call Posporo. Since my nick is Lito, they also changed my name to Palito, the brother of Posporo. Aren’t those names compatibly funny? This brought laughter in group conversations and it kept going on and on until a Pal was born, the nick for Palito. That’s how it started.

The Palito we know in the movies is the gauntly thin comedian who portrayed roles of a dead person in comedy flicks. I am the opposite of him because I was never thin in my whole life.

Those who had no inkling of what’s the story behind this other name of mine just called me Pal casually.

In the beginning it was awkward to be called by Pal because of its unflattering connection to the comedian. I was like a new me. Somehow I’ve learnt to live with it. Some friends still call me by that name until now and I don't mind. It has become part of me and my past. With it cling happy memories and friendship that I will forever cherish.

Remembering Her

2009-03-27T22:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday a friend of mine complained of breathing difficulty after he took antibiotics and pain reliever prescribed on him for his boil. In the end he had to be admitted in the hospital because he could not bare anymore the uneasiness. I remembered my niece, Julia when she was still alive and sick of cancer, exactly the same medicines my friend took she was also taking on top of her chemo treatment and all other things. Comparing her condition with my friend’s I realized how brave she was at seventeen to handle all the discomfort and pain without complain for one year. She only rested when she died last year of February.

She was so close to us. We were devastated of her loss but we tried to move on. Time will heal the wounds but the scar will remain forever.

Carelessness And You

2009-03-27T11:03:00.000-07:00

At noontime today I went to buy a phone card coz I need to call home for some very important matter. While tearing the plastic cover of the card I have decided to load it later as I have to rush before the queue at the canteen gets long, so I slid the card and phone into my pocket. At the queue I searched my pocket for the meal ticket. Then I took my food from the serving counter to the table. As I was sitting I thought of loading the credit into my phone. When I searched my pocket I was dismayed to find out that the card was lost. My heart was beating fast because the amount of that card is worth a fortune, enough to pay a month’s bill for our internet connection at home. I stood and followed back my way and looked every corner of the hall. I was too shy to shout if anyone had found a card. I’m just glad I didn’t. All the faces present their in the hall looked guilty to me. I went outside and trailed back my way to the commissary where I bought the card. I even asked the sales clerk if he has given me the card even if I am sure he did. I was hoping he would say, “No”, but he said, “Yes, I did”. He was right. Realizing that it was hopeless finding it I went back to the canteen and continued eating my lunch. I tried hard not think about it but I couldn’t stop from hating myself for being careless. Whose fault was that? If someone saw it dropped on the pavement and just kept quiet and then secretly picked it up then he is guilty of dishonesty. But if he picked it up and I was not there anymore then I consider him to be lucky, and it’s my fault for being careless. If it was you who saw the card dropped would you call my attention? Or you found the card and no one was there, would you bother yourself to find out who the owner is or go inside the canteen and tell the staff to put the card in the lost and found box or register? Your answer will reflect what kind of person are you so be very careful.

Miss Baked Alaska

2009-03-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

This lady is a friend of mine way back in my freshman year in college. I’ll call her Baked Alaska because I just feel like it. It is a dessert and has nothing to do with her name. Anyhow it is connected with her in a way that it is essential to where she is standing right now. Oops! No, she is in the hospital right now recuperating. While I was busy constructing the profile of my new craze – blogging she popped up at Skype and we chatted until she realized that it was almost 3 am. It was my first time to hear from her in over 30 years. We were communicating thru the email in the last 5 years (maybe) but not talking live. Before parting I invited her to view my blog. So she was my first invite and the reason to keep on writing so that my blogs are ready when she’s up. I hope she will enjoy reading my blogs and if ever she will give time to read I would like to take this opportunity to wish her to get well soon. With the so many topics that we talked about I forgot to tell her my well wishes. Our conversation was jovial, somewhat short despite the 1 hour and 30 minutes talk time. She’s got a beautiful grandson and living a good life with her family and friends.

By the way I got all the time to create all this craziness because its holiday here in Mali today. It's the annivesary of the end of the despotic martial rule of Pres. So and so (I forgot the name), the day democracy was regained.

Independence day is in September when the French declared the Malians independent from their colony. French and the vernacular dialect, Bambara are the medium of communication here. Unfortunately, I can't speak the French language with fluency. I would love to learn the French way but the twisting of the tongue is so difficult. The sound is so diffirent from what you read. Besides, the accent of the Africanized french is diifferent from the Parisian french; it's like the Canadian french of Quebec. Bonaparte would rise from the grave and scold me if he hears my french and I would say, "Oh la la! Pardon Monsieur Bonaparte pour le moi Francais, C'est terrible" (OMG! Sorry Mr. Bonaparte for my French, it's terrible)

Au revoir. A bien tout.

MY FRIENDS

2009-03-26T10:20:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my world and know my friends. As a break I will feature friends without mentioning their real identities. I’ll be using nicknames similar sounding to their real names or something that will describe their character. The events are told in satirical style to protect their rights to privacy and to add mystery. C’mon let’s play the guessing game.

Barkadas

Zany – The name sounds cool. I call him this because of his zany character. Our friendship started when we were still in high school. We’re neighbors but not stone throw away. You have to pass a creek before you get to their house. He is a funny guy, a natural comedian. He can easily find a word to describe a person or thing that will make you laugh to death. He’s got a beautiful wife and 2 handsome boys. He hasn’t changed that zany attitude despite the years. This is guy is into photography but his shots have not impressed me (lol…just kidding). He is still a tyro. Just a few more time of practice and he will be ready for his premier exhibit. Some time in his married life he relocated his family in the highlands and put up a computer business.

Bellicose – This friend can be true to his name if provoked. But he is a true blue friend who will never leave you in the dark if you’re in trouble. He will fight and defend for you to death. He can tell funny stories out of ordinary event. He married quite late in life, that’s why his 2 lovely daughters are still toddlers. This guy is eloquent and efficient in English speaking. Also writes well. He is our watchdog in grammar and pronunciation. This guy loves plants and likes to decorate their house. But I guess his attention is already diverted to his daughters. His family is staying in his beloved mama's mansion near the island where the bridge hangs.

Crossbow – He is the least visible among my friends. The last time I saw him was in Bellicose’s wedding. That was centuries ago if Zany married during the prehistoric era. He is intelligent and a wise guy like Mcgyver, athletic and determined to be at the top. I named him crossbow because his legs tell. He’s got beautiful children too. He is still living in the city of golden friendship and I don’t know what’s up with him lately.

I love my friends. I dedicate this memoir to them. I thank them for touching my life.

Coming To Africa

2009-03-26T07:10:00.000-07:00

In October of 1997 I packed up my things and left my supervisory job to join the horde of oversea workers seeking for greener pastures outside the boundaries of our beloved Philippines. Destination: Mali, West Africa. This is not my first stint in Africa. In 1995 – 1996 I worked in Libya, a Muslim country up north of African continent and inhabited by fair-skinned men of Arabic descent. After 14 lingering and lonely months, straight in a row without leave, I went home for good. Luckily without gap I was able to find a job locally. But not longer than a year my happy feet was set to leave again . For us Filipinos, to work abroad is always an opportunity, so I went ahead with full of hope.

In almost 13 years of working in Africa 11 years of which is spent in Mali. Other places were Guinea, Democratic Republic of Congo, Ivory Coast and Libya. Places of stopover include South Africa, Kenya, Senegal, Nigeria, Burkina Fasso and Sierra Leone. Some places are cold and some are extremely hot. What is common to all these countries are you see blacks everywhere.

Mali is now like a home to me. After all these years I have grown to love the place. I’ve seen how their capital city, Bamako progressed into a better place, villages with no electricity before and now they’re enjoying one. Villagers in bicycles before are now driving motor bikes made in China, quite an improvement. The newly-tarred road we used to negotiate before had become pot-holed and difficult to travel in the recent years after seasons of rain, but now, it’s re-tarred and tolled. I saw how the years unfold before my eyes. But most of all children before that we used to kid and scare are now in their teens still remembering me as the big and stout Lito. I’m counting years here in Mali as well as the number of my waist.

Years back this place was top 5 of the poorest countries in the world. How ironic? This is where I earn my bread and butter. This is where the blessings that my family enjoys come from. Mali, the place where I exchange Philippines for greener pasture, yet cattle here are
grazed on dried turf during long summer months; the place of milk and honey where it is abundant in real life; the place where my future lies.

How It Came About

2009-03-26T00:19:00.000-07:00

First I would like to thank the person who made me push to create my own and first blogspot. They didn't push me actually, it is their blogs that inspired me to make my own. Ever since I have wanted to come up something like this. Some sort of a trove for my journals. My break came when I was invited to view the blog site of my former lady boss in Iligan. The invitation came by chance when she was unloading her mail inbox with old mails. Had she deleted my "mildewed" mail without sending me the invitation this site would have been in the limbo still. Since then I was following her blogs and got addicted. Somehow the idea of making one of my own was ever present in mind everytime I open her site. I had comments in some of her blogs where I deemed I fit in, and this built up and boosted my confidence in writing. I still have a lot to learn and improve in this skill. Yet, I decided to continue the launching of this blogspot to spring board this endeavor of mine. MEMOIRS OF AFRICA will cover my experiences in this Dark Continent, past and present. It will also feature friends and family and anything under the sun. I invite you to follow and enjoy reading my silly blogs.

My First Memoir

2009-03-24T12:37:00.000-07:00

Soon to be posted