April 2008 Archives

By Eric S. Caruncho, Staff Writer Sunday Inquirer Magazine MY 15-year-old Lancer wasn’t the most earth-friendly vehicle around, what with worn valves, blown gaskets, a rusty exhaust and myriad other ills that caused it to leave a trail of oil spots and black exhaust in its wake. How it passed its emissions tests is still a mystery to me. Anyway, when it finally gave up the ghost (after being totaled in a car wreck), I actually heaved a sigh of relief, like the owner of a decrepit old nag that was finally put out of its misery. The year before, I had gotten myself a scooter. It was an LML, an Indian-made clone of the famous Italian Vespa PX150, identical in nearly every respect, down to the 150cc two-stroke engine. With the Lancer kaput, the scoot became my main ride. And while it’s not exactly a green machine (two-stroke engines are generally not as clean as the modern four-strokes), it has my old Lancer beat hands down. Not only does it consume a mere fraction of the gas my old car used to guzzle, it gets an incredible 30 to 40 kilometers per liter of gas -- the perfect antidote to skyrocketing pump prices. My weekly gasoline bill plummeted by at least 80 per cent, and I imagine my carbon footprint shrunk by a lot more than that, considering that the scoot doesn’t have air-conditioning. Getting stuck in traffic became a thing of a past, since the scoot was small enough to squeeze into tight spaces in between cars, except in the most heinous bumper-to-bumper logjams. This resulted in a drastic reduction in commuting time. It used to take me at least an hour and a half by car to negotiate the traffic between home and office during rush hour. On the scoot it took at most half an hour. That’s an extra two hours of quality time added to your day, instead of two hours wasted stuck in traffic and turning apoplectic with road rage. There are of course drawbacks. On a scoot you’re exposed to the elements. You can keep yourself dry on rainy days with the proper rain gear, you can avoid overexposure to UV rays with sunblock, long-sleeves and a balaclava, you can even protect your hide with a helmet and an armored jacket. But even with a good face mask, you still have to suck in a lot of air pollution. There’s also the hassle of having to go through checkpoints whenever the “riding in tandem” gang strikes, and the usual noises from local government officials about new restrictions on two-wheeled vehicles whenever news of motorcycle crashes gets too much media play. But on the whole, the scoot paid for itself in no time with what I saved on gas, and road rage is a thing of the past (except on those rare occasions when I drive a car). What the hell. As long as I don’t litter the streets with pieces of my scoot and my skin, I feel I'm doing my little bit for the planet. Read the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Earth Day issue on April 27.

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine THE BRIT band Oasis had a pretty catchy song called "Little by Little," and that encapsulates what I think about protecting the environment. There are many important and high-profile tasks to be accomplished by people around the world, but personal responsibility is often forgotten. After all, those folks are saving the whales and preventing global warming, so why me worry? Yet I try my little bit everyday. Small steps, but a steady pace. The footprint humanity leaves on the planet is terrible enough (check out the supremely scary "The World Without Us" by Alan Wiesman if you don’t believe me), but every little bit can't hurt. The commonsensical tips, like turning off the faucet when brushing your teeth, aren't hard, just hard to remember. Perhaps the most commonly forgotten step is recycling, and I don't mean segregation. It really doesn't make any sense when we're asked to segregate biodegradable and non-biodegradable and then the folks in charge of garbage just mix them back together anyway. We feel like we're doing something but it's just a placebo. Make sure it stays segregated, and we have a deal. But on an everyday basis, we need to keep it up. Try recycling as much as you can. This can work. For example, don't throw away those cardboard boxes, they can be used as containers. Same thing goes for empty bottles, whether plastic or glass. But this is particularly important when it comes to plastic bags. We really are a plastic bag nation, with stores just handing out those bags big time. Interestingly, we've always considered the plastic bag rather useful. Remember those old National Book Store and SM Department Store bags? So do the same, keep using them, so long as they're clean or have been thoroughly cleaned (same thing applies to the boxes and bottles, of course). You'll be surprised how many plastic bags we go through when we're not aware of it. That's only half the process of course. The other half has to do with not using new ones. So try to say no when they try to give you the plastic bag. Stores usually comply rather conscientiously when it comes to this. Remember, they actually wind up saving an incremental amount, too. If the store insists that a bag has to be used because of security issues, then it's time to bring your own bag. Rustan's Fresh Supermarket follows this line of thinking, with cloth bags available for sale, and discounts for their users in the long run. That cloth bag can be very practical, particularly when it comes to heavy groceries. For those who use two plastic bags so that your groceries don't fall through the bag bottom, cut it out. Use a cloth bag, please. There are others: go paperless with your bills. Switch off the lights and air-conditioner or TV when leaving the room. It sounds simple but so few people remember. It's the little things we forget. I don't know if we can save the world by doing this, but it certainly can't hurt. Oh, one more thing. Start right now, please. Read the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Earth Day issue on April 27.

By Leica R. Carpo, Publisher Sunday Inquirer Magazine I LOVE to shop and how I converted that to saving the earth is my story. Like most people, I wantonly use and abuse the environment without considering the impact on future generations. Until I saw "Happy Feet" and realized that the bubble baths I was taking may be causing penguins to swim further out for food and endangering the world's already fragile life cycle. So I tried to do my bit to lessen my carbon footprints by avoiding plastic anything, never littering and carpooling whenever possible. Those were cool things to do until I was able to find my own unique way to help the environment that involved my love of shopping. I have always loved vintage fashion and have dreamt about opening my very own little boutique filled with items I loved and hopefully, others would love as well. That this would actually be an earth-friendly venture was the extra incentive I needed to make it happen. I opened "Modern Mythology" with my partner Celine Gabriel. We decided from the onset that this was not a store for profit but an outlet for our passion and our opportunity to do some good. Not that money did not concern us, but we told ourselves that we would be patient before talking return on investments and dividends. Our vintage and "indie" store opened on a shoestring budget. We set up shop in Legaspi Village across the park on the second floor of a pretty little nail salon called The Nail Spa. Our mezzanine location had no frontage and was invisible to all but the most persistent and informed of shoppers who have read or heard about us through word of mouth or by pure chance. It was not the most commercially ideal spot for us but it was all we could afford -- so we took our chances. We begged, borrowed and scrounged through flea markets and attics for the store's whimsical furniture. We could not afford interior designers or subcontractors so we designed our makeshift store utilizing our household drivers who helped create standing mirrors, hanging shelves and draping for our walls, converting our attic space into a cozy boudoir. Our biggest expense was the second-hand air conditioner we bought from the former tenants and the oversized closets we designed and had made by a local furniture maker. Barely two years old and as predicted, the shop isn't raking it in but we are in the black and recycling our fab fashion finds for others. Since good taste like good deeds is timeless, we are happy to report that our store has happily found a niche group of regulars who feel likewise. Even better, these days when I give in to blatant consumerism I feel less guilty because I know that once I tire of the "it" bag, someone else will benefit and love it just as much especially at a third of the original price. Read the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Earth Day issue on April 27.

By Pennie Azarcon-Dela Cruz, Executive Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine SOME people have shrinks. Others take valium. The rest just sleep it off. Me? I take a ride on the LRT. Nothing can make you forget your blues quicker than the more immediate need to (puff-puff)… get (huff!) on that train! Quick now, before the buzzer sounds and the doors slam shut. It helps that it’s fast, cheap and you don’t have to talk to the other riders. You’re just basically left to your thoughts, thinking about lunch maybe or that pair of shoes you saw in the mall last night. Except when a cell phone rings and as one, everybody starts groping inside their bag or patting their pants. Never fails to amuse me. Like Pavlov’s dog or a Marcel Marceau sketch. Then the distraction begins. “Hello, Papa? Oo, pauwi na ko. Initin mo na yung ulam diyan. (Yes, I’m on my way home. Heat up the food.). Sometimes it’s less innocuous and you find yourself lost in translation -- the Japayuki talking in nihonggo to someone in Japan, the sticky intonation hinting of romantic transactions. Or a couple fighting, strong whiffs of third party liaisons in the air. The mother pleading for a son to stay put, she’s almost there. Speculations rise. Puzzled looks, raised brows, the pursed lips of judgment. Who needs a Koreanovela when it’s all here -- in the intimacy of an LRT coach where drama plays out just as urgently as inadvertent humor. I recall how one train driver once pitched in in this huge eavesdropping emporium. “Huwag po nating salubungin ang bumababa,” he intoned nasally, seriously, into the public address system. “Hindi po natin sila kamag-anak.” (Let’s not meet the passengers going down. They’re not our relatives.) Smiles all around. The passing scenery isn’t bad either. From the rusty roofs of Caloocan, the train zooms past the majestic tombs of North Cemetery and slows down when it gets towards Blumentritt and its plethora of umbrella-covered street stalls. In Sta. Cruz, decaying buildings with their cracked windows and decrepit walls afford riders the tempting opportunity to play voyeur. There are glimpses of unmade beds, unwashed glasses, some shirts hang out to dry on the balcony. More speculations. When the LRT gets to Avenida and its rows of melancholy moviehouses, one turns away instinctively from the rundown toilet cubicles and stained urinals visible from the windows. The best view is before Central Station from Monumento: all those trees at Arroceros Park. Then it’s back to the anonymity of buildings all the way to Buendia. When I’m lucky and find a seat, I settle in with my cell phone, texting in reminders to errant writers and contributors, finishing a day’s work in the time it takes to get to my stop. On a dull day when conversation shrinks to a companionable hum, I look around, noting street fashion, what the stylish commuter is wearing, what I’d like to be wearing myself. Sure it’s a routine. Line up. Open bag for inspection. Climb four flights. Fish out LRT card. Push into slot. Get in. Wait for train. Rush in. Eavesdrop. Observe. Answer phone. Text. Look into open windows. Slip out. Get down. Save gas. Save earth. Feel good. Read the Sunday Inquirer Magazine's Earth Day issue on April 27.

By Eric S. Caruncho, Staff Writer Sunday Inquirer Magazine PEOPLE now talk about martial law as a dark period in the distant past when our democratic rights were taken away from us by a repressive totalitarian regime. Soldiers came in the night to round up activists, opposition politicians and anyone who might pose a threat to the new order and threw them in jail. The free media was shut down, and the only information came from the regime's mouthpieces in the controlled press. I didn't care about any of that, at least not at the time. Martial law's impact on me was more direct, and more personal. I was a high school senior in September of 1972, and adhered to that wing of the youth culture that supposedly subscribed to the unholy trinity of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll (well, two out of three ain't bad). Like most of my peers, I wore my hair down to my shoulders. In fact, I hadn't had a haircut in two years. Hair was a big thing then. It clearly indicated where you were on the social conformity spectrum: the longer it was, the less likely you were to adhere to the time-honored values of established society. Or so it seemed. Not that we were hippies, God forbid! Even then, hippie was old hat. The peace and love rhetoric of the Woodstock generation never really caught on with us. We were privileged middle-class kids living with our parents, getting good grades in school, spending our pocket money on drugs, and looking forward to getting into the colleges of our choice, where we would enroll in courses like Industrial Engineering or Pre-Med that would give us an edge in the rat race to come. The hair was just a fashion statement. But at age 16, 17, fashion statements were taken very seriously indeed. So martial law hit us where we lived when newspaper photos started appearing showing the military stopping jeepneys, rounding up longhairs and giving them impromptu haircuts, in the name of the "New Society". It wasn't so much the threat of military thugs violating our civil rights that terrified and enraged us; it was the thought that without our hair we would be revealed for what we were -- just normal average kids like everyone else. In any case, panicked by the media reports, my father decided to take pre-emptive action. He dragged me to this barbershop and forced me to submit to my first haircut in two years. When school reopened, we all had a good laugh. I wasn't the only longhair who had gotten a haircut in the interim. It was really the end of an era, but we wouldn't realize that until much later. For more tangled tales and other hairy stories, check out the April 20 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Leica Carpo, Publisher Sunday Inquirer Magazine THE WILDEST thing I ever did with my hair was color it myself -- not with the pretty packaged supermarket-bought hair color but with my own concoction of petroleum jelly and crushed metallic blue eye shadow. I was a "punk" and it seemed like the edgy thing to do at the time. Needless to say, the result was dead cool and sufficiently fierce as to earn me the rep of "punk princess." My signature spiky haphazardly shorn bluish tinged locks were my way of rebelling against the long black straight hair of the time. I was a controlled rebel because though I loved dancing until dawn and drinking alcohol, I kept that GPA up and never got into drugs, smoking or Mohawks. I will always remember the "shock" I caused among my pretty long straight haired classmates when I first arrived at the quadrangle with my cropped short. I enjoyed that moment immensely. But the craziest hair moment I have had was not something I did to my own hair but to my friend Maru. She had beautiful wavy shoulder length hair which, during a mad moment of post break-up grief, she allowed me to chop up to scalp length with a pair of house scissors! She sported a couple of bald spots for months after that which, strangely enough, did not wreck our friendship but strengthened it. The ugliest hair moment I have been witness to was my own. This was when I decided to try curls. My hair was shoulder length and in a moment of indecision and weakness, I let my hairdresser have free rein. A bad idea if he/she is not your regular trusted stylist. Trust me, all sorts of hair fantasies a.k.a. potential hair nightmares are lurking beneath their innocent smiles and skillful scissors. I don't remember what I was thinking but suffice it to say that I am grateful no trace of that era remains in any of my albums or mental Rolodex. Because I kept my hair short for years, by the time I grew it to its current length five or six inches past my shoulder, I did not own a brush nor had I developed styling skills that seem innate among all Filipino women with long hair. So I often find myself defaulting to a high ponytail or a neat bun for all occasions -- from a dip in the pool to a glamorous society ball. I realize that women's obsession with beautifully groomed hair is not just about looking good to attract or please the opposite sex; it's also about feeling good about oneself and is associated with self-worth. With this in mind, the more mature me should be choosing long silky lustrous hair and not a wild and tangled carefree mane. But mature me rebels and chooses the latter. I may have graduated to pre-packaged hair color and salon cuts, but I realize that my inner punk rock princess will never die. Editor's note: As you can see from the photos, the author sports the same hairstyle for formal affairs and a race. For more tangled tales and other hairy stories, check out the April 20 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz, Executive Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine UP UNTIL a year ago, I hated my hair. Fine and limp, it slumped on my scalp like a furry roadkill, two tweezers' pull away from becoming extinct. Always a cause for despair, the scraggly strands initially tortured Nanay who had fancied herself her daughters' keepers -- at least when it came to their profligate hair. She was our childhood Delilah, the infidel who inveigled us with 50 centavos -- a small fortune that bought a week's worth of halo-halo at that time -- just to have our locks chopped. Long unruly hair is unsightly, she scolded, a nesting place for parasites. One of these days, she'd warn my third sister who was constantly scratching her particularly thick mop, "those lice would grow so fat they'd sprout wings and carry you off." Actually, it was one prospect we had secretly looked forward to-- a fantastical journey that would lift us out of our bahay-eskwela-simbahan (home-school-church) routine. But it never happened and soon enough, Nanay took another tack. Laying on the guilt for which all mothers are particularly skilled at, she nagged, Doesn’t it bother us that she was being pilloried by other people for being an unfit mother, one who couldn’t even keep her children’s tresses under control? Well that worked, at least for some time. So there we were, five snot-nosed siblings sweating and glowering under our Beatles bangs, mutiny on our mind, as Aling Nena, the neighborhood beautician, sharpened her scissors for that unkindest cut of all. Sweeney Todd couldn't have had a better role model. Like other women of her time, Nanay's barbershop skills derived much inspiration from the upturned mangkok look, the original take for Javier Bardem’s murderous mane. It looked cool on the Fab Four, but the crooked bangs didn't do much for us. We thought we looked hideous enough, but once Aling Nena got started, we were clearly headed for trouble. With a few choice snips, we usually ended up with a very short bob, what the fashionable pards are sporting these days. If the beautician had extra setting lotion (ironically branded "Lovely"), she would unwittingly muddy up the genetic pool by making us look half-Aeta with our newly-minted tight curls and fair skin. I spent the better part of my childhood enduring two basic hairstyles-- the plastered na-tipus look with my few wispy hair lying prostrate on my skull, or the Little Orphan Annie look, with a halo of kinky curls framing my perpetual scowl. Occasionally, I’d try to be trendy -- to disastrous results. Of course I knew my limits and never attempted a Farrah Fawcett, but when jeproks was in, I had my hair frizzed ala Carly Simon. It was my best look, a girlfriend told me, but she was smirking so I couldn't believe her. When Princess Di flipped her bangs on her wedding day, I followed suit as I marched down the aisle a few months later. This was the early 80s and big hair was making a comeback. I wanted to be a nun or convert to Islam, if only to keep my head covered. Why, I must have squandered half my life's savings on mousse trying to give body to my comatose crown! Relief came somewhat in the Nineties with Demi Moore's closely-cropped hair, and later, with the Spike. With gallons of gel, I managed to coax my ultra-short 'do into stiff attention, feeling very hip now that my locks were in rigor mortis -- until another friend half-jokingly asked, "Nagmi-midlife crisis ka ba?" That effectively ended all my resolve to experiment with new hairstyles. As soon as I could, I went back to the curls, never mind that they made me look like my science teacher in high school. "Your poodle-do," my former editor would often josh me. Sometime more than a year ago, that editor quit and I found myself neck-deep in work. There were pictorials to coordinate, stories to write, edit, assign and follow up. Work that two people used to do now threatened to bury me. Who had time for a haircut? I felt like Medusa and I knew I must have looked like one, too, what with my shaggy hair touching my collar and turning into serpents for all I care. Except they didn't. Suddenly, people were stopping me at work and asking, "how much?" pursing their lips towards my head. How much for what? I countered, genuinely puzzled. "For your rebond. You know, what you did to your hair?" I was dumbfounded. While I wasn't looking, my hair had grown past my chin, revealing its true character in the process -- naturally straight and, being soft and limp, graciously manageable. People actually thought I had an expensive salon treatment to get this kind of hair. Wow! Suddenly, my bad hair days are over. For the first time in my life, my hair is now deemed stylish and fashionable. And to top it all, with shoulder-length stealth, my locks have also managed to hide my sagging jowls. Now I can lie about my age without tearing off my hair in righteous guilt after. And that's how I've finally managed to wash all that angst out of my hair. Editor's note: First image is an intentionally dark photo of the author, who is in the dark about her hair's attempt to redeem itself. Second photo shows the frizzy hairstyle that the author and other fashionable jeprox were wearing in the late 70s. For more tangled tales and other hairy stories, check out the April 20 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine MY mother told me that, as a child, I had long curly locks, angelic hair. Growing up, the thin, wavy hair took second priority to the fact that I had a huge forehead. It was a point boys my age always made fun of, so I tended to overcompensate -- by developing a strange combover to cover the forehead. As a result, my hair looked different depending on which side you looked at it. Worse, in puberty, I decided that I wanted to have a mustache, so I not only had an oddly sloping haircut, but also a mustache at 15, making me look for all the world like Jose Rizal. In college, I got the itch to grow my hair. So I did. I had chin-length hair and would tie it up in the worst ponytail ever conceived. It was during that time that I developed new respect for girls, because I have no idea how they managed to keep all that hair in order. As much as I tended to fuss over my hair (despite appearances), I actually had a face that looked the same regardless of what hairdo I had. So I kind of just threw caution to the wind and got a crazy haircut. It was an approximation of corn rows, but because I didn't want to braid my hair (and not shampoo? Eech!) I just had the barber carve rows into my hair. Weird, I know. Together with some very odd facial hair and an earring, I felt street. What I should have felt was screech. "Iverson!" I heard that a lot. Of course, I had no idea that they were all making fun of me. The funny part was seeing friends visibly try to contain the disgust on their faces as they asked why in the world I decided to get my hair cut that way. "Because I can," I answered honestly. After that little follicle debacle, I went for the least fussy haircut possible: I simply had it all cut off. This almost-bald look really worked. I had it for years -- to the point where, frankly, I got a bit bored. Last year, I decided to start growing my hair again, just a bit. My office mates were shocked. Many of them actually thought I was already bald. Seriously. In any case, I'm enjoying, for the first time in my life, having remarkably normal hair. There is, after all, no evidence of the strange hairdos I allegedly had in my youth (all the photographs have been destroyed and witnesses silenced), so I am perfectly content with my current hairdo. Besides, my wife likes it, and that's good enough for me. For more tangled tales and other hairy stories, check out the April 20 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Leica R. Carpo, Publisher Sunday Inquirer Magazine AFRICA is a place that will change you. I could not sleep a wink on my first night because a herd of rhinos had decided to sleep underneath our tent and shook the poles of our makeshift home until almost 2 a.m. Although I was dead tired from 26 hours of continuous travel, visions of being some hungry animals’ dinner kept running through my head. Going to Africa was never on my priority list of vacation places. I prefer to get my cultural fix from more civilized surroundings, like a medieval church or a European museum. I never even watch "Animal Planet," but somehow I found myself in the middle of the Okavango Delta in Botswana, inside an enormous non-hunting game reserve in Africa and to my surprise, I found myself completely spellbound by the endless blue skies, the exotic wildlife and the constant thrill of the unexpected. This was a no-frills, no-holds-barred view of nature up close and personal. The Sistine chapel may have its charms but it pales compared to watching "the king of the jungle" close in on its prey with its pride of lionesses waiting to pounce nearby. The fierceness of it all was shocking, powerful and absolutely riveting. Our safari trip consisted of waking up at 4 a.m. every morning for a hearty breakfast and jumping into an open Land Rover and cruising into the bush by 4:45 a.m. Despite the early hour, I found my eyes peeled alertly scanning the fields and hoping to catch a glimpse of predators closing in on their prey. Cameras at the ready, my safari group and I waited patiently often up to three hours on end for a sighting. Normally impatient, I found that there never was a dull moment in this watch. By 10 a.m. we were ready for tea, usually served outdoors and consisting of dried fruits, cookies and hot tea served in thermoses. Lunch followed at noon, often served by a picturesque lake or within sight of a panoramic view of the plains. By sunset we headed back to camp for an early dinner and were back in the jeeps ready for night drives by 9 p.m. We followed the animals’ daily regimen and ate and slept according to their body clock. We were taught to observe the various paw prints to track the animals into there lair, how to distinguish predator from prey by the gleam in their eyes during night drives, and to listen to the various nature calls from birds to coyotes. The unforgiving food chain that marks everyday life in the African plains may seem harsh to "animal lovers" because "Bambi" is basically the main food group, but it’s a survival necessity for the lions who hunt them and the scavengers who benefit from the scraps. From almost being capsized by a hippopotamus to being chased by a bunch of naughty monkeys, it seemed that everyday we were on safari was a real life adventure. Someday I vowed to return. In the meantime when the hustle and bustle of city life starts to grate on my nerves, the memory I carry of African blue skies never fails to ease my stress and brighten my day. For more stories, check out the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Favorite Places issue this Sunday, April 13.

By Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz, Executive Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine SOMETIMES it's not the place, but the people. I remember how once, having arrived early in Durban, South Africa for an AIDS conference, I was told that my room was not ready so could I please wait in the lobby? With two hours to kill and a shimmering white beach just across, I asked the concierge if I could leave my baggage and take a stroll by the water’s edge. Almost in one voice in a pitch approaching panic, the front desk staff shook their heads. “Noooo! You can’t go to the beach alone. Wait till there are at least five of you.” “But it’s just across, and it’s 9 in the morning,” I protested. The concierge was adamant. “If you step out that door, we shall not be responsible for whatever happens to you,” he said in a clipped British accent that brooked no argument. Needless to say, I spent the entire morning waiting for people I know to walk in so we could lope over to what has been described as “The Golden Mile” just a hundred meters away, and play tourists. Endless waiting would turn out to be routine the following days and group walk the protocol. “A posse of five, no less,” the staff warned and we were too intimidated to play hookey. This meant wasting at least an hour while we summoned friends to make up the requisite quota, not to mention another hour arguing and discussing where the five of us would like to go. Walking five abreast was no guarantee however, as well-meaning locals often called out: “Watch out for the homeboys!” They were apparently referring to the shabby young men lounging around street corners or leaning on trees, eyes shifty, looking for prey. Yup, this was Africa after all, and news of muggings, of purse snatchings and several hotel break-ins among the other conference delegates the following days convinced us that although apartheid has started to recede into history, the rule of the jungle still applies here. Despite our precautions, I lost a pashmina shawl already packed in my bag to a light-fingered cleaning woman. And that’s why I’m not returning to Durban anytime soon despite the handsomely carved tribal masks, the well-crafted beadwork and the exotic plants in its botanical garden. In contrast, I can’t wait to visit New Zealand again, this time in the guise of making the trip my son’s graduation gift. It’s not just the rolling hills, the fresh air, the wide open spaces and the surprising gardens tucked in every nook of the city that beckon, but the genuine warmth we experienced both from the Maoris and the Kiwis. I recall how, unable to decipher a map and feeling lost in the suburbs, we stepped into a bus to ask the driver for directions. To our surprise, he stepped down the bus, looked up the street and helpfully pointed out landmarks we could use to find our way. Total strangers would smile and greet us ‘Good morning,” or “Good Evening” just because we happened to walk in the same street or shared the same bus. Indeed, passengers stepping into buses routinely greeted the drivers and thanked them for the ride before disembarking (“Good morning, Mr. Driver. Thank you, Mr. Driver).” Not one harsh word did we hear in our three weeks’ stay in this country. Our only complaint, if you can call it that, is the Kiwis’ rather undecipherable accent that takes getting used to. In the same vein and except for the terrorist bombings of late, I would also love to go back to Bali if only to see once more how every household nurtures the culture, with children assiduously learning native dances in their neighbor’s backyard like we do catechism lessons here. Unlike in India where swarms of decrepit beggars appear at every streetlight, there are no beggars in Bali (at least when we were there ten years ago). People approach you timidly, but just as you reach for some coins, they bashfully bring out some goods -- fruits, a batik cloth or some trinkets -- to sell. No dole-outs for them, they’re too dignified for that. Locally, I’d doff my hat off to the Ilocanos. I may not share their politics, but there’s no doubt that I’d break bread with them anytime. Such honest, hardworking, open people! I remember buying a braid of garlic and some cornik, the total being P149. I gave the vendor P150 and turned to go. But she called me back and smilingly said, "Sukli po," handing me the peso change. This happened again and again -- whether we bought mangoes or empanada or ordered pinakbet and bagnet at restaurants, and even once, when a barangay aide directed traffic to help us get out of a rather tight parking space. Always, they refused to take tips, graciously returning our change and sometimes looking perplexed at the extra coins we proffered. Some, like Tito Olie who owns a restaurant in Paoay, volunteered to buy us some native vinegar when we couldn’t stop smacking our lips while dunking the crunchy bagnet into it. We found out that he charged us exactly what he paid for, not one centavo more. Not much of a businessman but definitely a swell guy. When I discovered a run in the inabel shawl that we had bought two days before at the Vigan public market, I thought I’d try to exchange it for one without damage but with some trepidation that the process would probably be tedious and involve some arguments. Surprise! The young woman at Emelina’s took one look at the run and promptly took it back, bringing out other shawls that I might choose the replacement I wanted. The adherence to traditional values is as apparent at Sitio Remedios in Currimao, right next to the Nipa resort where we stayed. There, seven Antillean houses (the Spanish bahay na bato) have been pieced back and reconstructed from the original, complete with turn-of-the-century furnishings, a banggera, and sepia photographs. With Versailles-inspired grounds that open to the sea, it’s the perfect setting to savor age-old civility that, we’re happy to discover, resides deeply in this region’s people no matter their social status. This was our third visit to Currimao, but you can be sure, not our last. Editor's note: Photos taken by Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz. Click here for more Sitio Remedios photos. For more stories, check out the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Favorite Places issue this Sunday, April 13.

Editor's note: Photos taken by Sunday Inquirer Magazine executive editor Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz.

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine LONDON is ancient and holds its secrets close, just like a wizard treasures his scrolls. Northern California is laid back and cool, like a lover seeking solace and shadow. But Tokyo is not like any other place in the world. Other places are bright, but nowhere near as bright. Other places are garish, but nowhere near as garish. Other cities are advanced, but none of them even come close to Tokyo. It is a city that exists within contradictions, in the netherworld between the past and the future, like an electric Brigadoon. Unlike Manila, everything works, perhaps too well. You get the feeling that if you don't work well enough, you will soon be replaced and no one will bat an eyelash. There is an energy in Tokyo's streets, in the hair of all sorts, in the strange outfits, in the fact that even the baddest boys are conscious of the latest fashions. And when the subway trains open their doors and the school kids come streaming out, it really does look like a scene straight out of "Battle Royale." And what would Tokyo be without its toys? Its toy stores are all over-the-top. Its corridors are crammed with a Tokyo icon, the gashapon machines, a vending machine for toys. Of course, everything comes out of vending machines in Tokyo, be it liter-cans of beer or umbrellas. But gashapons are perfectly Tokyo, like pachinko machines that actually pay out. But if you pause just for a moment and try to listen above the din of clicks and tones, over the hum and whirr, you can hear the sound of Tokyo's birds, crows and the like, cawing above the streets as they have for centuries. In the city where everything changes, they stay the same. Yes, it is mindbogglingly expensive. Don't dare to compute the prices in pesos or you risk fainting from calculating the cost of anything fresh. Yes, there is hardly any English at all. What little you will find is usually rendered in Engrish, the less said of which the better. And yes, you will never truly fit in because we are all gaijin. The Other in a land that never forgets who its true denizens are. In that sense, Tokyo is the city of the future save that it exists now. Every visit is a dream, but we also must wake from dreams to live our lives. For more stories, check out the Sunday Inquirer Magazine’s Favorite Places issue this Sunday, April 13.

By Eric S. Caruncho, Staff Writer Sunday Inquirer Magazine WHEN the Puerto Rican dealer asked us if we wanted coke, smack or a loose joint, I knew this must be the place. Filipinos feel right at home in New York City, maybe because parts of it resemble the Third World. It wasn’t just the preponderance of fellow brown-skinned people, the greasy cooking and the shoddy Chinese goods for sale on the sidewalks that remind one of Manila, it was also the potholed streets, crazed taxi drivers, street hookers, and homeless bums sleeping on the sidewalks. The big thing for Pinoys visiting the Big Apple that year was to secure tickets to "Miss Saigon," which Lea was still headlining. F--- that. I craved some cheap New York thrills, so first chance I got I decided to get on the subway and pay a visit to some friends who were doing the "New York thing," living la vie boheme in the City That Never Sleeps, doing bad drugs, attending obscure art happenings, auditioning for parts in "Rent" (the big Broadway musical that year) or trying to achieve spiritual breakthroughs, before eventually coming home to settle down to jobs, marriages and families, i.e. "real life." Amazingly, all of them were crammed in a tiny apartment on Avenue C, in the notoriously seedy part of the Lower East Side known as "Alphabet City," where the rents were cheap, at least by New York standards. By day, the street outside resembled nothing so much as the album cover for Savoy Brown’s "Street Corner Talkin,'" a golden oldie, with dealers, pimps and hookers hanging out while Latinos shouted at each other from their apartment windows in gutter Spanish. A real slice of low life. By night, well, there were better things to do than hang out on Avenue C. Of course, I had to make the obligatory pilgrimage to the Bowery to CBGB, the birthplace of punk (it has since closed its doors), where legendary bands like Television, Blondie, Patti Smith and the Ramones once held sway. Much to my surprise, it wasn't much bigger than Mayric's, my old Manila hangout, and the sound was just as crappy. Somebody knew somebody in the band which happened to be playing that night, so we managed to get in. The music wasn't happening, however, so we found ourselves club hopping, eventually ending up packed in the tiny bathroom of a tiny club for one final toot before calling it a night. As we filed out, the locals gave us dirty looks and shook their heads, as if to say, "Bloody tourists!" For more stories, check out the Sunday Inquirer Magazine's Favorite Places issue this Sunday, April 13.

By Leica R. Carpo, Publisher Sunday Inquirer Magazine AT THE AGE of three I was kidnapped in Disneyland -- or so I presumed as I kicked and screamed like a banshee getting skinned alive at the tall American who was bravely attempting to help me find my mom. My young mom barely 21 at that time had somehow misplaced me in the sea of humanity within the theme park. The tall American had carried me atop his shoulder in order to better spot my missing mother and I had misunderstood this action as his attempt to permanently abscond with me. Being so far from the ground and trapped in his arms I remember panic setting in and my survival instinct going on overdrive. Although I distinctly recall him saying, “Don’t worry honey I will take you to your mommy.” I remember thinking that this was a mere ruse on his part to silence me. So I upped my voice a couple of octaves higher and proceeded to pummel him with all my might. At this point, if he had any intention of kidnapping he must have changed his mind when he saw what a handful I had become in a matter of seconds. The theory he may have had of well-behaved Asian kids was thrown out the window as I threw a fit that was probably heard clear across Fantasyland. I can still see the looks of pity that the other parents and kids were giving him for putting up with the brat in “The Magic Kingdom” the one place where all kids are guaranteed to be in a good mood. Soon after my mom came running in our direction probably from the commotion we were causing -- okay I was causing. In retrospect, I like to think of this tall American as my first “knight in shining armor -- minus the horse” and the effort he made to rescue me as just part of the trials that all future knights were gonna have to undergo to rescue me. Yes I was already a hopeless, some would say crazy romantic at age three. Editor's note: Photo is a childhood picture of one of the author's friends.

By Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz, Executive Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine THE BEST thing about growing up poor was that you learned to make do. Playing house meant rolling up some leaves and slicing them thinly with a rusty blade to conjure up pancit. For fish, we served up dried twigs on soft drink crowns. With our pinky finger daintily sticking out, we’d hold up our Café Puro jar glasses filled with sarsaparilla and pretend we were quaffing wine. Having watched too many Sampaguita Picture movies, we knew how to hold match sticks just so between two fingers and thoughtfully blow out wispy smoke from pouting lips -- Carol Varga plotting yet another seduction of the male lead. As kids growing up in the mid-Sixties, our biggest dread was the afternoon nap forced on us right after lunch. But ever so wily, we learned to smuggle in a jerry can of soapy water, squish some gumamela leaves in it and voila! managed to turn the locked stuffy room into a magical kingdom of rainbow bubbles. Evenings were no less inventive. A full moon turned potholed streets into a battleground where scrawny kids marked each other off as prey in local tag games -- patintero, tumbang preso, takipsilim. “Taya, taya, taya!!” we chanted gleefully, when somebody else got tagged. Everybody eventually got to be “it”-- the boy whose father rode the only car in the neighborhood, the dark-skinned daughter of the shoeless Mang Pedro who cleaned canals for a living, the sallow-faced Chinese girls whose amah had small feet and funny mincing steps, and whose perpetually open front door we made sure to avoid, even jumping off to the other side every time we passed it. Even then, the strange and different, was feared and demonized. But except for that, we were blissfully unaware of class, race or even guilt. I remember how, at about 9 p.m., just before our mothers would give us grief for staying out too late on the streets, two willowy girls, D and K, would pass us by. Pretty, fair, with a trail of perfume announcing them and their long legs encased in stockings that for some reason, always had a straight black line at the back, the two women always managed to stop our games inadvertently. We would turn to face them, call out their names with expectant smiles and look up adoringly at their movie star looks. Sometimes, one or both of them would reward one of us with a fond tousling of the hair, with the lucky creature being crowned with envious looks all around. It would take years before I finally figured out why they left at that hour every night, and by then they had left the neighborhood. Soon after, just before I reached my teens, the other kids for whom the tag games had become a summer ritual, just melted away. This was Tondo after all, home to transients and migrants who were starting out in the big city, the first stop enroute to bigger things. We had never kept in touch, but I still remember their names, these kids whom I shall forever associate with moonlit nights. People say today’s children are so much luckier -- with their iPods, cell phones, Wii and the amazing gizmos of this techno-age. Everything within reach. Why, they don’t even need to play on the streets where who-knows-what-kind-of-danger lurks. Well, it’s probably a generation thing, but I don’t envy them. Not one bit.

By Ruel S. De Vera, Associate Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine AS a child, the only event that could even come close to Christmas was your own personal Christmas -- your birthday. One of my earliest memories is brief and almost MTV-ish in that it's just a jumble of cut-to-cut images but remains oh-so-potent in my head. I must have been four or five. I was madly entranced by the giant fighting robots on TV (this was before the Marcosian machine pulled the shogun warriors and their sibs from the air), watching a robot show every week night, changing channels just so I could get my daily dose of iron. Back then, my father worked in a building deep in Quiapo, and not the homogenized Quiapo of today. In the late 1970s, it was unpredictable, twisting and full of discoveries. My father took me with him to work for my birthday and I remember being amazed by the people, the lights and dark. We had lunch in the Quiapo branch of the venerable Hong Ning Panciteria, all polished wooden floors and soy sauce. We would patronize the Cubao branch for the better part of a decade afterwards, but that was my first taste of Hong Ning. Then, we went off to the Underpass. Wow. It was, first of all, underground, full of people and merchants of wonders. There, I saw, line after line, of robots. And not those cheap plastic robots with the wheels and the lights and the guns that burst forth from the chest. No, I remember line after line of die-cast Japanese robots, of all sizes. Back then, what everyone wanted was the full-sized Voltez V, the one that actually came as five machines with firing missiles and combined. My neighbor RJ had just the thing, and it was kept behind a glass cabinet. But being of more modest means, I realistically didn't pine for one. That day, all I wanted was one robot. Just one, mine. Today, I know those die-cast robots are POPY robots. But back then, they were miniaturized dreams. My dad got me one. I don't remember exactly which one, but I do believe it was most probably a Mazinger Z, with the firing gauntlets, five inches of die-cast daydreams. I remember walking hand-in-hand with my father through the wonders of a Manila long gone, content. The robot, as with all artifacts of fondly remembered youth, has long been lost. My father's office moved from Quiapo to Cubao. Quiapo, underpass included, irrevocably changed soon after. But those fragments of contentment I still hold close, reminders of a time when our questions were answered, and one could go home and not brood at all, just excited to get on with whatever came next.

By Eric S. Caruncho, Staff Writer Sunday Inquirer Magazine THE BEATLES' "I Should Have Known Better" was on the jukebox, so it must have been my tenth birthday when my father gave me a BB rifle. It was a Daisy pump-action rifle, the kind that you still see in the shooting galleries of small-time traveling fairs, and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever possessed. The barrel was gunmetal blue. The plastic stock was grained to look like real wood. It had a magazine that screwed into the muzzle that you loaded the BBs into, and a slide that you pumped to cock the gun, like a real shotgun. Today, of course, the political correctness police would have freaked at the thought of handing a ten-year-old such a potentially dangerous weapon (not to mention the tacit approval of packing a piece that it implied.) The Daisy wasn't as powerful as a real air rifle, but it could easily take out an eye if you weren't careful (and nearly did, but we're getting ahead of the story.) In those days, however, it was taken as a matter of course that girls played with dolls and boys with guns. I had in fact worked up to the Daisy, starting with water pistols, then graduating to cap pistols and toy guns that fired suction tip arrows, then to my first Daisy rifle -- the kind that made a loud bang but was otherwise totally harmless, firing no projectiles whatsoever. The new Daisy was a quantum leap in firepower, however. At close range, it could easily shoot a hole in a tin can. This was definitely not a toy. I soon grew bored with shooting at paper targets, and moved on to plastic toy soldiers, tin cans and bottles which shattered on impact. Eventually I tried hunting the sparrows that nested in our trees, with little luck. Then the neighbor's chickens. I massacred dozens of innocent lizards, shooting them down from the ceiling. At dusk I even attempted to shoot down the bats flitting overhead in the fading light. After a few months of this I got tired of the Daisy and moved on to other pursuits. It languished in my toy chest, or so I thought. One day, coming home from play, I noticed a commotion at our house. My older cousin, an MD, was tending to our housemaid. She had her blouse open while my cousin picked something out of a bleeding would on her back with tweezers. Eventually, the commotion died down and I was able to piece together the story. My younger brother, it seems, had gone postal with the Daisy. His first target was the neighbor's long-suffering chickens. But apparently, his boredom threshold was way lower than mine, because his next victim was a patient in our mother's dental clinic waiting to have a tooth pulled. My brother gave him something to take his mind off his toothache. Then he set his sights on the maid. When the irate patient and maid went after him, he prudently dropped the Daisy and took off. Luckily, no charges were filed. I don't remember what my brother got when he turned ten, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't a Daisy.