By Ruel S. De Vera

 Associate Editor

 THEY’RE good for you and can hold surprises. Since childhood, we’ve been counseled to eat fruits, as many as we can. Filipinos are, without a doubt, a fruit-eating population. I think a lot of it has to do with the mangoes.

Yes, the Filipino mango, the most amazing fruit in the world. There is simply no tree-born treat like it. Unsurpassed in its ripe sweetness, the Filipino mango also has a remarkable smoothness that translates even into its transformed forms, such as the legendary dried mangoes balikbayans know so well. That’s not to mention the ripe mango shake found on these shores. Down south, the ripe mango shake is not only delish, it’s also really affordable. My wife has a nephew from California who can literally down a ripe mango shake with every meal whenever he’s here on vacation.

Growing up, we had a mango tree in the yard, a big, leafy tree that has mysterious fruit-bearing tactics. It was almost a hobby just waiting for any sign of developing fruits. Today, there is a mango tree here as well, and it becomes a delicate game of waiting: Does one pick the little, still-green mini mangoes or do we wait until the mangoes are in full form and risk a fruit-napping by those pesky squirrels with a sweet tooth?

Other fruits had their charms as well. I never liked guavas—but many others apparently do—but I do remember we had a slender but remarkably strong guava tree that was rooted in my family’s yard but whose branches stretched out over the wall to our neighbor’s yard. It was practically a ladder next door. We spent many a day crossing back and forth on that sturdy tree with the distinctively peeling bark. I don’t recall ever actually eating fruit from that guava tree but those sun-drenched afternoons are a gift I would never forget.

We somehow had a pretty good supply of star apples (never was a fruit name so accurate) and they came in handy one summer when we declared war on the kids in the house across the street due to the constant tug-of-war over the shared telephone line—what we called the party line back in the 1980s. One day, we collected all the star apples we could and began chucking them at the gate. Oh, the grownups from both houses were unhappy that day, but I have to admit, despite the wastefulness of it, seeing the neighbor’s gate literally covered in star apple bits was satisfying in its own way.

Fruits can be surprising. I only found out fairly recently that the atis is also known, variously, as the custard apple, sugar apple but, most accurately, as the sweetsop. The guyabano is the polar opposite, the soursop. How many grapes (seedless!) are you supposed to eat on new Year’s Eve exactly? And I still can’t get my head wrapped around the idea that the tomato has always been a fruit.

Perhaps the most beguiling experience of a fruit I can remember comes from what I considered the smallest variety I encountered.  Back during those childhood afternoons when we race around trying to squeeze every minute we could from a day that was rapidly being pursued by a sinking sun, we looked around and found every game we could imagine, and made up a few more, surrounded by friends and unconquered by shadow. Those days are immortal and as sweet as the taste in our mouths, bunches of those tiny fruits we gathered by the handful, the aratiles (known otherwise by the rather unevocative tag, muntingia), each globe like a world of remembered flavor bursting alive with every bite.

Read about the latest twists on fruits in the September 6, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Ruel S. De Vera
Associate Editor

WITH my addiction to the glorious liquid perfection that is Mountain Dew, I basically have caffeine running in my veins, to the point where it really doesn’t have any discernable effect on me—except when I wake up early in the morning.

Like many others, I wake up a clean slate, a blank page, a husk of a person until I grab breakfast and my first drink of MD. Then, I feel myself steadily becoming human, like the caffeine is unlocking that part of me that makes me who I am. I like that state of semi-buzz, and I like to be in it the whole day.

Because I already imbibe so much caffeine through my MD dosage, I don’t drink coffee. In fact, I never did, but I hold coffee drinkers in affection because they basically go through the same things I do, except their drinks are steaming hot, come in a size called venti and sometimes even have warning labels.

Watching someone take their first drink of coffee in the morning is the perfect example of a BEFORE and AFTER ad. It’s like a zombie literally waking to life, complete with the grunts and moaning, the shuffling and the lack of normal human faculty until that first cup.

When I was younger, coffee was virtually forbidden for kids. Back then, our coffee was different—it came in Nescafe, Blend 45 and Great Taste varieties only. We would be surprised to find out anyone our age drank coffee. It was something only grownups did. Even in college, few of us drank coffee. Hot Milo or Ovaltine was much the preferred drink in the morning from the vending machine or, if you had the time to get it, that piping hot chocolate from McDonalds. There was nothing the least bit glamorous about coffee.

How times have changed. Today, grade school children quaff coffee (in frap form) like it’s water. People nurse their grandes at coffee shops the same way other people nurse a bottle of beer at bars. It is a mark of class to be carrying around that distinctive paper cup while you carry out the day’s duties.

Coffee is here to stay and in the process, we see a society changed as well. We are now a 24-hour culture, people by call center employees as well as coffee consumers. Coffee is now taking all times of the day, for waking up, staying up and, well, for any other reason.

I’ll stick with my MD. Coffee never agreed with me, but I own up to being one of the coffee generation. We are caffiends, every single one of us, and the world is our cup.

Read about the joys of coffee in the August 16, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.

By Pennie Azarcon-dela Cruz
Executive Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine

“WALANG alam.”

The derisive words were part of the voice-over for the political ad that run again and again on television at the height of the 1985 snap elections, with shots of Cory Aquino caught unawares to match.  Former strongman Ferdinand Marcos had seen fit to harp on his opponent’s lack of political experience, her being “a plain housewife who knew nothing,” and was therefore ill-equipped to run the country.

But the feisty housewife fought back.  She countered in that flat guileless monotone: “Oo, wala akong alam. Wala akong alam sa pangungurakot, sa pang-aabuso, sa panglalamang ng kapwa.  (Yes, I know nothing—about corruption, abuses and hoodwinking the people).”  Or words to that effect. Then as now, the widow in yellow knew how to turn the tables around, just as the mammoth crowds who turned up for her wake and funeral proved that, contrary to the government’s perception that hers was a spent force, President Cory could still summon hundreds of thousands to the streets, all marching under her banner..

At any rate, in 1985, when she was known mainly as Ninoy’s widow, the women’s groups saw fit to give her some support. The Marcos ad after all insulted not just Cory, it also pricked our then-budding feminist sensibilities.  What’s wrong with being a housewife?  Who said women didn’t know anything? Why should men make all the political decisions in this country?  Women make up half of the state, so why aren’t we being heard on affairs of the state?  we bristled.

So off we went, this small collective of women from several NGOs, to the weekly Kapihan sa Manila Hotel, ostensibly to sip coffee and partake of the subsidized breakfast that media people enjoyed while discussing with prominent news sources the issues of the day.  I no longer remember what the issue was at that time, but I recall that at a previously discussed appropriate moment, we dug into our bags and unfurled streamers denouncing Marcos and voicing our support for the plain housewife, while cameras clicked and recorded our faces for the Marcos minions to take note and compile dossiers of.

It must have been risky back then, given the countless presidential decrees and subversion laws that the Marcos military regularly plucked out of thin air to stifle dissent.  But all I remember now was the exhilaration, the giddy feeling of relief that we could now raise our fists and voices higher because post-Ninoy assassination, the swell of our collective voices could no longer be drowned out.  Cory had changed the face of dissent.

True, there were a lot of rallies as well before Ninoy, mostly from militant workers, farmers, students, sympathetic religious groups, the whole Leftist spectrum that most of us were proud to be members of.  But with the active participation of the so-called Middle Forces—the formerly apathetic (or scared) business sector and complacent middle class—the rallies assumed a more concrete sense of solidarity and validation. We felt invincible.  With virtually all sectors echoing the same sentiments, the feeling was that we could do no wrong and could therefore not be defeated.  The fact that most Cory rallies started out as prayer vigils didn’t hurt either.

Call us shallow, but the fun factor helped as well. The intent was protest, but the mood was almost always celebratory: yellow ribbons, rain of yellow confetti, cheeky songs and creative chants, the rich and famous marching with the urban poor and the militants, wacky costumes and varied themes. It was like going to a party all the time.  In fact, food was a recurring theme.  The breakfast forum organized by various colegiala cliques served up coffee and politics, and made sure that the middle forces—here meaning us working stiffs—could still make it to their office on time while digesting the issues of the day.  There were lots of lugawan, fund-raising dinners meant to shore up the funds of the opposition and their beloved candidate.  Fishball stands, nilagang mais on kariton, taho vendors and assorted food hawkers marched along, a conjoined spectacle of commerce and causes.

I remember all these when I joined Tindignation’s women’s rally against Con-Ass on July 26, barely a week before Cory headed home to Ninoy..  It was going to be a fun run, the invitation said, although it might as well have read “Tindig, takbo, gapang,”  considering that we middle lifers were not exactly in the best running form.  The run, the invite said, was from 7 a.m. to 12 noon which impressed my boss, a regular New York marathoner, to say, “Wow, that’s a long time and quite a distance.  How many kilometers are you running?”

Two-three kilometers, just about, the hubby said, when he learned we were going to walk-jog-run from the Quezon Memorial Circle to Miriam College.  Still, I stayed up half the night checking the provisions from the list my runner-boss so excitedly provided me with:  Water? Check!  Gatorade? Check! Dried fruits and nuts (in lieu of power bars)? Check! Extra shirt? Check! Moist towelettes? Check?  Soon enough, my back sagged from the weight of my pack but I wasn’t complaining.

When we took off in a leisurely pace, I knew I wouldn’t have any problem.  Even a septuagenarian grandma could have outpaced us, the way we ambled along, waving our yellow flags and giving out yellow ribbons to passing motorists. It was bracing, never mind that thanks to senior moments, I managed to forget the chant when we got to Miriam. It was something-something, “Con-Ass, Tutulan!”  I do remember what the young women behind us were chanting though: “Con-Ass ni Gloria, No Not Now!”   But some of us missed breakfast and from where we stood trying to still the rumblings in our belly, the last words sounded like, “Donut Now!”   Ahhh, for a cup of coffee!

But the fun really started when we got to Miriam.  There were several short speeches from notable protest personalities, and the best I thought was from Ging Deles of the Hyatt 10 group (remember those GMA Cabinet members who resigned in disgust following President Arroyo’s “Hello, Garci” scandal?).  Why were the women protesting the Con-Ass and GMA’s term extension, she asked. Because, she continued, GMA owes us women a lot.  “She stole a lot from us.  She stole the people’s trust in the capacity of women to govern.”  That GMA did.

As in most yellow rallies, there was music, this time by Leah Navarro and Pinky Marquez whose voice we don’t hear often enough. The best part of the program though was Juana Change who, on this particular rally, showed up in an Assumptionista uniform and proceeded to do her skit that informed the crowd about what the Con-Ass was all about, before engaging the entire gathering in a cha-cha dance-along session– complete with a DI showing us the moves.  A conga line of cha-cha dancers, virtually the entire house, danced to the beat and gave themselves cause to sweat at last.   It was fun, it was invigorating, it was informative and definitely effective. You can be sure that joining rallies just became one important entry in those young people’s list of cool things to do in college.

Just last weekend, the Concerned Artists of the Philippines proved once more how protest can be creative as well.  This time around, they organized a wake for the National Artists Awards, a protest on GMA bestowing the honor on four dagdag-bawas “artists,” among them Cecile Guidote, Executive Director of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA, the same body along with the Cultural Center that deliberates on the nominees), who should have declined the honors out of delicadeza, and “Panday” creator Carlo J. Caparas who got the award for Visual Arts when he didn’t draw, and for Film, when he is best known for his awful massacre movies.

It was a solemn wake, but the mood was hardly funereal.  Outrage rippled through the crowd with every reminder of how GMA’s DNA (Dagdag National Artists for the four people she awarded despite their not being in the original list of contenders) killed whatever prestige, dignity and honors went with the Awards. But the presentation was riveting enough: mourning women in black veils marching up the CCP ramp like your worst nightmare, several respected National Artists burying their NA medallions in protest and Juana Change again performing before the appreciative audience of artists, writers, and assorted culturati. A funeral procession to the NCCA offices in Intramuros followed, with the intent of laying a giant funeral wreath at its doors.

What was striking was how fresh and novel the artists’ protests were—from songs to poetry to enacting out the rites of burial. One visual artist poured ash upon himself to symbolize how the NA awards were now entombed, candles were lighted and black roses offered to remember the dead,  participating vehicles pressed their horns to protest this untimely demise, while posters and streamers showed wit and humor. “Huwag babuyin ang National Awards” went one, with the protester putting on the snout of a pig to stress the obvious.  Our favorite:  “Si Carlo Caparas, National Artist na? / Pwes, eto ang listahan ko/   Xerex Xaviera- Literary Arts/ Tita Maggi- Culinary Arts/ Agent X-44- Martial Arts/  Si GMA kasi, tema-arts!”

Contrast this to the NCCA. To drown out the voices of protests and the chants (“Artista ng bayan/ ngayon ay lumalaban!), it played a succession of folk songs at full volume because, as its controversial head Cecile Guidote said in an interview, they only wanted people to have fun and to be happy.  Right!

Even more distressing was how the NCCA positioned a crippled guy in a wheelchair and two blind men (members of her choir, we heard) before the protesters.  Was this a play for sympathy?  A bid to stop protesters from going into the NCCA office by putting up this disabled barrier?  Didn’t they think that these people could get hurt should any skirmish break out?  Or perhaps that was the idea.  The three men were the shield behind which crouched the NCCA should any skirmish happen.

Actually it did, when a shouting match broke out between NA for Literature Bien Lumbera and a stage actress who now works for the NCCA, and who had resorted to that very cliché and unimaginative catchall expression of protest: flipping the bird.

Too bad.  Protest is one of the best forms of expression.  And it becomes even better when it’s original, creative and fun. Let’s not let Tita Cory down.