Bottled Brain

Banaue, Part 2

2012-01-25T18:12:00.000+08:00

We got up close and personal with the Banaue Rice Terraces. When I was younger, during Sibika at Kultura class, I thought one could step on the terraces as if they were in an ordinary staircase.

Jil was really happy. Everyone was.

Traditional huts were meant to shade the farmers from the sun.

The rice paddies weren't that green because the harvest season was already over. Our guides told us that the perfect time to visit is on March or April, but then again, one has to contend with the deluge of tourists from all over.

We were happy there weren't too many people, but we spotted quite a number of foreign tourists hiking around.

We then took an hour and half hike to Tappiya Falls. This was by far the hardest trek of all. The inclines were steep and the path seemed all uphill.

The water was clear.

And the warnings were serious.

And there it was: Tappiya Falls!

With some hesitation we changed to our swimming gear. The water, after all, was freezing—like water left in the fridge for hours. I felt numb for a minute there. "Wear your glasses so you can see clearly in the water," said my brother. It worked.

After having a picnic of sorts—our late lunch—we took the same route, only in reverse. We were so tired all we wished for was a helicopter to take us back to the Inn. It was around this time that my companions began alluding to the Lord of Rings. Some had walking sticks similar to Gandalf's to help them stabilize. Because of fatigue and dyspnea, I found myself crawling like Gollum, screaming, "My precious!"

The day after (Sunday) I woke up to a cold morning.

And the view from my window was this glorious sight. I was praising the Lord.

After breakfast we had devotions. Manong had a short exhortation, and Kuya Dingdong led us in singing. It was a treat to tired and weary souls.

After packing our bags, we started on our trail to Cambulo, the neighboring village. This was a two- or three-hour trek from Batad.

Gary B—as in, Gary from Batad—was one of our guides. We all had a lot of laughs with him, especially Jil.

Joan discovered her fear of heights while traversing steep and potentially life-threatening gorges. What an interesting self-discovery.

She sang familiar songs along the way, and I often chimed in.

Ate Leah, who was behind me most of the time and who was responsible for organizing this trip, took great delight in asking me to pose many times, with various views of the Palayan in the backdrop. This trip could not have gone smoothly without her.

This is the view from the highest point of Banaue Rice Terraces. Glorious.

I took a video:

Hello!

Cedric, one of our guides, left school for a year to work. He plans to go back to college this year and take up Hotel and Restaurant Management. We wish you well, Cedric!

Didn't I tell you ABS-CBN was documenting our trek? I'm kidding, of course.

Because the trail is rough, rocky, and occasionally muddy, the guides strongly advise against wearing slippers without straps. Hiking shoes or sandals with straps are recommended.

Ate Liw was doing her signature pose again. This was a makeshift bridge where we had a 10-minute breather.

We had our own moves, of course, like this shadow portrait. It's always more fun the Philippines.

I like this composite photo. The brown object below is my right thigh.

Here's Jil again, risking her life for a good portrait.

Finally we got to Cambulo.

We stayed at a local inn and had freshly picked vegetables for lunch.

Ifugao kids gladly performed for us. What a cultural celebration! They were so graceful.

Kuya Dandi was showing us the Chap-Ayan (I don't know how to spell this correctly), the area where the elderly leaders of Cambulo tribe used to gather to pass judgments on thieves, murderers, and other law offenders. This has been here for hundreds of years already.

We had the entire afternoon to do whatever we wanted, so we headed to the nearby river. I didn't want to swim. I took a nap beside the stream and talked with friends about career, literature, and the overflowing grace of God.

I'm sharing my favorite composite in this set.

For dinner we had tinola. Our guides demonstrated food preparation—from killing the chosen fowl, to draining the blood from the neck, and removing the outer skin. Katie had to go somewhere so she couldn't hear the chicken scream, while Sally watched the process at a distance.

At night the Cambulo children sang rhymes for us, and we had a surprise for Frances. It was her 27th birthday.

The locals serenaded her. The song was "Perfect Strangers."

In the morning we began packing. Outside we saw someone selling this, a literal double-edged knife.

Here were some photos of tourists who stayed in the Cambulo Inn. What fun they must have had.

I didn't want to opportunity to pass, so I decided to try out how betel nut chewing felt like. It tasted a lot like mint or uncooked leaves. I was spitting everywhere. Studies have shown that this practice increases the risk for oral cancers, but the locals enjoy their nganga anyway. A pack costs cheaply, around five pesos.

The trek back to Batad Junction took us five hours. These wild berries were a refreshing sight.

There were still thirty minutes left to go. I was cheering for myself. I was glad the trail was mostly flat or downhill.

Finally, Batad Junction! The finish line!

I'm still nursing thigh and calf pains, about 5/10 in severity, relieved by rest, and aggravated by movement, but I keep looking back at the past four days of this rather spontaneous trip to Northern Philippines and ask myself what made this trip awesome. Was it the view? Of course, that was a major factor. Was it the fulfilment at having survived the longest treks I've done in my life? Yes, that one, too. But more than these, I think it was the company.

It was a blessing to have met all of them in this trip. Praise be to the Lord for His goodness.

Banaue, Part 1

2012-01-24T22:11:00.001+08:00

My brother invited me to join him on a trip to Banaue Rice Terraces with friends from our church and his workplace. Anxious that I might be missing class (I didn't know January 23, Monday, was already declared a non-working holiday), I said "yes" at the very last minute.

The email, detailing the itinerary for the next three days or so, had clear instructions, but this one particularly stood out: pack lightly.

I met the rest of the 14 members of the Kaladkarin Society (also the name of the Facebook group where various announcements were posted)—Liw, Lheiya, Ralph, Josiah, Katie, Sally, Me-Ann, Liana, Frances, Jil, RJ, Dingdong, Joan, and Celle—at the ~~Ohamiya~~ Ohayami Bus Terminal at 10 PM, Friday. I hadn't met all of them yet, so I was really excited. They were very warm and welcoming.

It was a good thing we had booked our tickets days before. The bus was packed. And I mean really packed. Chance passengers were seated in monobloc chairs in the aisle. Some Dutch, possibly German, tourists did not have enough leg room, so they decided to sleep on the floor, oblivious of us who frequently stepped on their bags during stops.

I slept for most of the eight-hour ride, and when I woke up, this scene greeted me. We were on top of the mountains.

Finally we arrived at the center of Banaue and had our breakfast at People's Lodging. The trick is to order 30 minutes to a hour because it takes them that long to prepare the food. While waiting, we decided to explore the area. The air was cold and refreshing.

Banaue is a fourth class municipality of Ifugao Province. Worldwide it is widely known as the home of the Banaue Rice Terraces, a UNESCO World Heritage site.

This is a panoramic view from where I stood. I took about 14 pictures, and stitched them using the Autostitch iPhone app. Neat.

Manong, Josiah, and I went exploring. We crossed this old, rusty bridge which, at first glance, resembled the Golden Gate in a way. I felt it wobble when I stood in the middle. Below was a gorge and a stream carving its way through.

Hey, Josiah.

Hello, Manong.

Minutes later, we found the rest of the pack following us. We were quite a crowd.

True to our form as Filipinos, we didn't miss any photo opportunity. Hey, Ates Liana, Liw, Jil, Me-ann, and Manang!

The local houses and establishments are built on cliffs and steep inclines. One can imagine the strength of the locals' leg muscles, all hypertrophied because of their going up and down the stairs.

We came back to the restaurant to have a quick breakfast. I had the local longganisa and egg. The longganisa tasted really good with vinegar. The rice was brown. No, it was not grown on the Terraces.

Later, our head tour guide, Dandi, explained to us the route. We were amused because he carried with him a board with a map painted on it. He was serious. He explained that we should not take pictures of children without asking their permission. Believe it or not, some locals still believe that when a photograph is taken, a person's soul is taken it with it.

We got on a rented jeepney to take us Saddle Point. We rode on top of the roof and had the most spectacular panoramic views.

Note, for example, this house, suspended on a cliff, supported by thin pillars of concrete. An architectural wonder.

The pine trees were thriving in the colder climate.

Meanwhile my feet were dangling.

Hey, Sally! Hey, Joan!

We met Nina, a twentysomething backpacker from Denmark, travelling alone. We invited her to our group. She was on her "gap year"—that free year after high school, just before college—roaming the globe. We would spend the next four days with her.

Jil, Liana, Nina, and myself, with the Terraces as our background.

Bestfriend Jil's zombie and this native Ifugao woodcarving had so many similarities.

Hey, Kuya Dingdong!

After 45 minutes we reached Saddle Point. From there we took a one-hour hike downhill to Batad.

This was the foretaste of a couple more hikes that would leave us all exhausted.

On the road I stumbled on these—were they coffee beans or wild berries? Were they even edible. Clearly I'm awful at taxonomy.

I was panting for air, and my muscles began aching. But the beauty of God's creation seemed to cheer me on. There was still, after all, so much to see.

During our 10-minute stops, Ate Liw saw these Ifugao children and immediately established some rapport with them, offering them sweets and gospel tracts. Had she decided to pursue medicine, she would have made a great pediatrician.

At the end of the road we saw the Banaue Rice Terraces. We stood there in awe.

Of course we had the mandatory photo op.

It did not happen if it's not on Facebook.

(Photo by RJ)

I was amused when I saw Frances taking a picture of the 1000 Philippine Peso bill, featuring the said wonder of the world.

We ~~had lunch and~~ loitered for a while at Highway Inn, a comfortable lodging place, where I had an entire bed to myself. This was going to be one of the most memorable adventures I've had in a while. And the fun was just beginning.

Next post: the trip to Tappiya Falls and my experience walking along the edge of the Hagdan-Hagdang Palayan.

Road Revolution in Ongpin Street, Binondo

2012-01-20T17:34:00.002+08:00

Vanessa Gumban, my high school classmate and former partner-in-crime, asked me to promote this event, sponsored in part by her class in the UP College of Law. I don't normally promote events in this blog, but this is Vanessa, and I happen to like going to Binondo. I go there when I'm bored or broke.

I'm pasting the promo material in its entirety. It's worth reading.

Congested Ongpin Street to be Pedestrianized
The impossible is going to happen.

On Sunday January 22, 2012, the day before Chinese New Year, the entire stretch of Ongpin Street in Binondo will be closed to motor vehicles. A revolution is about to take place. It is called “Pedestrian Day in Chinatown”, a project launched by the Chinese Filipino Business Club, Charity First Foundation and with the assistance of the City of Manila and its Mayor Alfredo Lim.

It is part of the Road Revolution, which is literally a revolution that is waged by individuals with a concern for the future, against a current road system which favors only 3% of the population (those who have motor vehicles) while occupying 99% of road space. This present road system has caused tremendous damage to the environment. We are poisoning the air we breathe, polluting our land, sea, air, communities, and lungs, paving over precious soil with hard concrete, and causing rainwater to flood in bigger volumes and at a faster speed.

The Road Revolution is a “road-sharing” program which calls for a road system that will allow equal sharing of roads for pedestrians, bicycle lanes, and efficient mass transit systems, relying on the principle: “THOSE WHO HAVE LESS IN WHEELS MUST HAVE MORE IN ROAD.” It is a movement of ordinary people around the country who are demanding their share of public space.

The Road Revolution Program encourages “Pedestrianization” of the city’s streets by discouraging the use of motorized vehicles through closure to motor vehicle traffic, and compelling the government to act upon it. Countries around the world are beginning to realize the benefits of such a system, and some examples include:

Shanghai’s Nanjing Road, and Beijing’s Wangfujing Road, where entire streets are appropriated only for pedestrians
Bolivia’s “National Day of the Pedestrian”, where two million cars were taken off the streets on Sunday in nine cities
Jakarta’s main avenue where Car-free day is held every 2 weeks on Sunday
Mexico’s Ciclovia where miles of major boulevards are closed to auto traffic and taken over by cyclists, rollerskaters, walkers, dogs, and children
Brazil’s Curitiba where a major street in downtown Curitiba was transformed into a Pedestrian St.

Pedestrian Day in Chinatown is meant to give people a firsthand experience of what it would be like to have no vehicles on the road, less pollution, cleaner air, and more road to themselves. It will also allow them to enjoy the activities planned for the day, and to have a sense of community and interaction with other pedestrians, without the obstruction and inconvenience caused by motor vehicles. Indeed it will be MORE FUN IN CHINATOWN.

As January 22 is the day before Chinese New Year, there will be a lot of cultural activities and festivities. There will be several tents showcasing Chinese culture and tradition such as: Chinese Calligraphy, Fan Painting, Paper Cutting and Paper Folding, Abacus Demo, Chess Demonstration , Feng Shui and Fortune Telling, Lantern display, Acupuncture Dragon and Lion dances and Wu-shu exhibitions. There will also be dance competition among participating schools, a Zumba dance instruction, Chinese cultural dances, Tai-chi exhibition, Diobolo (Chinese yoyo) demonstration. There will also be some Chinese song and dance numbers

“Pedestrian Day in Chinatown” will be the first of its kind to be held in the heart of Manila’s busiest street and district. Charity First Foundation Inc and Chinese Filipino Business Club enthusiastically INVITE ALL to participate in and celebrate this momentous event with us!

It is difficult to imagine a place more appropriate for this project than the bustling and congested district of Chinatown, and what better time than on the day before the Chinese New Year, indeed a fresh start for everyone.

KUNG HEI FAT CHOY!
Contact Person:

Mr. John Boitte Santos
Student in Environmental Law, UP College of Law
Email address: jbbroy40@yahoo.com
Cell Phone No: 09277532293
January 12, 2012

The “Road Revolution Program” is a brainchild of Atty. Antonio Oposa Jr., Harvard law graduate, and a multi-awarded, internationally acclaimed environmental lawyer, a Ramon Magsaysay awardee and the founder of the Law of Nature Foundation. He is also the lawyer in Oposa v Factoran, cited worldwide for its recognition of the right to a better environment and intergenerational responsibility.

Charity First Foundation Inc is a non-stock, non-profit organization committed to improving the quality of life of the marginalized sectors of society through its Education, Medical/Dental, and Livelihood Programs. It also has an Environmental Program, and through various activities, aims to raise environmental awareness.

Week 3, 2012: The amazing Pharmacology elective

2012-01-19T08:33:00.001+08:00

I became more studious these past few weeks. I actually read books and searched PubMed for systematic reviews. It felt weird making and doing real reports again, but there was a lot of learning—and free food. The Pharma elective isn't what I would call breezy, as my classmates would probably refer to their elective choices. While we only meet for one or two hours a day, much of the work is done at home, at our own pace. But it's been a fruitful endeavor. I'm glad to have spent the Pharma elective with my classmate, Carbs, who's really hilarious without intending to be. Clearly the guys are jealous of me. I regret it that I haven't recorded her witticisms since day one.

Today I'm giving my final report on a case of a four year old suffering from epilepsy. Carbs is working on a pediatric case of glomerulonephritis. By God's grace I hope we get through this. And then . . . it's the long weekend ahead. Thank you, Doctors Casanova, Sio, Tiongco, and Sison for your time and inputs.

I might have been mistaken as a Corona supporter

2012-01-16T11:25:00.001+08:00

On my way to the barber a couple of minutes ago, I saw mass being held at the Supreme Court compound. This is in light of Chief Justice Renato Corona's impeachment trial, which has hit the headlines recently.

The crowd along Padre Faura Street was big. The media people were there, some lawyers, and loyal supporters, I suppose, many of them carrying black balloons and wearing black shirts. Unfortunately I had a black shirt on, too, only without the catchphrase, "Hustisya Para Sa Korte Suprema." (Mine read, "No Bands, No Glory"). I blended right in. I got to take a couple of pictures, too. This was history unfolding!

But lest I be mistaken for a supporter—which I am not—I walked faster. Clearly this was the wrong time to wear black.

I just learned that Sen. Miriam Defensor-Santiago has written the Senate President that she shall be absent from the trial starting Monday. That's unfortunate: it's Miriam who adds color to the otherwise dreary, liturgical proceeding.

And so my friends, such is Philippine politics. And I live right at the center where the circus is happening.

Week 2, 2012: Food for the sick

2012-01-14T08:30:00.005+08:00

I'm thankful that I don't get sick often. Once or twice a year is my personal quota. A year can pass by without me getting sick at all.

Doesn't sickness remind us of our mortality? For instance, I want to read a book the entire night, for example, but I can't because of the nagging, throbbing headache. I want to finish schoolwork, but I'm distracted by the mucoid nasal discharges running down my upper lip. And I have a hard time dealing with the fever, a perennial reminder that somewhere in my body an offending agent is lodged—a virus, I'm certain—multiplying by the second, and my immune system is doing its best to win the war.

I had systemic viral infection—the common flu—this week, but I can't complain. God gave me the chance to savor good food, thanks to family, friends, and mentors who treated me. I realized, for example, that pumpkin soup tastes delicious even when I have nasal congestion. Either that soup was so overpoweringly flavorful, or that my nasal passages were so big some flavor still managed to allow some form of taste.

I'm on the way to recovery now. Thank You, Lord, for the healing.

Everlasting

2012-01-12T18:38:00.000+08:00

I was in Pasay City East High School this afternoon, facilitating a small group discussion on infectious diseases, explaining what the kids should do when they have cough and colds. When I briefly mentioned diarrhea—which I translated in the colloquial as "pagtatae"—I saw them automatically turn towards one another, high school teenagers that they were, and they threw fart jokes, generating quite a hilarious commotion. "O, tama na 'yan, balik tayo sa pinag-uusapan," I said aloud.

I had only been speaking for three minutes, but my throat was already aching. I had to compete with the incessant chatter of oily-faced adolescents in my midst. For a teacher to thrive in such an environment, day in and out, is nothing short of noble.

I recall that months ago, during the first time my group and I visited the class, Everlasting, located right up in the fourth floor of the newly erected building, thanks to a politician whose name I can't recall, I was shocked at how chaotic the scene was. "Were we ever like this in high school?" we asked ourselves. I come from a special science program of a public high school, but I was familiar with scenes like this happening in the regular and lower sections. My other groupmates, all of them girls, mostly graduated from conservative private Catholic schools, so it was more a shock for them than it was for me.

So picture us there, helpless and useless. Students were coming in and out of the classroom. Male students formed a huge cluster at the back, almost resembling a fraternity. I could hear invectives and coarse jokes being spewn like geysers. Meanwhile some girls were busy combing their hair. They were insulting each other with harsh words. But what surprised us was seeing both male and female students applying too much baby powder on their faces. Since then we jokingly referred to them espasol girls and polvoron boys, but only when we spoke among ourselves. The times had changed.

When we spoke in front, it was as if we were never there. We felt bad—horrible, even—that we weren't being paid attention to. And we were speaking at the top of our lungs. We went home feeling defeated after that.

Since then we resolved to make the lectures as short as possible. We shouldn't hold too much activities. We shouldn't take things too personally as well. We should keep things short and simple.

In the succeeding meetings, though, we felt them warm up to us. Everlasting, the rowdiest class ever—it was almost unbelievable. They were still inattentive, casually listening or participating in the activities, but at least we had fleeting moments of quiet, and we could finish the modules assigned to us. Whether they learned something from us or not was something we couldn't determine properly, since they didn't take the quizzes seriously.

This afternoon I was assigned to handle an all-boys' group. I asked them about the remedies for fever, cough, colds, and diarrhea. They gave good answers. I was impressed. "What about in cough?" I asked, "What should you do?"

"Mag-kiss, para mailipat mo ang ubo mo sa hinahalikan mo." These kids, they never fail to amuse.

We were just wrapping up the session when, out of the blue, the student seated beside me, Ronnie, asked, "Kuya, ilang taon po ba pwede nang mag-asawa?"

My words came out automatically, "Ang bata mo pa, ah. Sabihin mo sa akin: may nabuntis ka na?" I still shudder in shame at my first reaction.

We desperately wish these students learn important things from us, but isn't it true that learning is also two-way? We, too, get something from them—like this reminder of asking ourselves when to eventually settle down. In med school, I noticed, that question always hits the hardest.

Week 1, 2012: Beginnings

2012-01-10T05:13:00.001+08:00

That graffiti you see on the railings of the footbridge—I suspect that must be a warning against suicide by falling.

Sherlock in love: A Scandal in Belgravia

2012-01-09T07:23:00.002+08:00

There are so many things I love about Sherlock, the TV series produced by BBC. Each episode takes about 1.5 hours, almost as long as a short film, but equally as engaging as the best thrillers. While for many shows, adapting classical themes to their modern versions has posed some problems, we don't see that kind of dilemma here. The show is never trying too hard to be the modern rendering of the classic detective stories by Arthur Conan Doyle.

The challenge for any viewer is to dissociate previous mental images of Robert Downey Jr when looking at this Sherlock. In the BBC series, Sherlock is so British he's almost a snob. At first glance he's hardly charming but you go on to like him—it's inevitable—especially when he rattles of the list of clues he's used to deduce a particular detail. Benedict Cumberbatch is perfect for this role.

Martin Freeman stars as Dr. John Watson. If he's not assisting Sherlock on investigations, we see him blogging often in their shared apartment at 221B Baker Street, typing slowly using his two index fingers, with Sherlock occasionally moaning the stupidity of his posts. It's hilarious.

Season Two opens with A Scandal In Belgravia. Sherlock is summoned by the British government to take on a case of stolen photographs, which can be used to incriminate a high profile official. He goes to Buckingham Palace naked, covered by a white blanket. "What are we doing here?" asks Watson in disbelief, and they both laugh. This scene is so memorable to me because it shows that they've become really close friends.

Later we see the outline of a woman carrying a whip, wearing fishnet stockings . . . and someone familiar with the Sherlock stories will suspect that this must be Irene Adler (Lara Pulver). Her face is eventually revealed.

Sherlock sees Irene stark naked when he visits her place to do some investigating. For some reason, Sherlock cannot deduce anything from her, and he is taken aback by this strangely beautiful yet powerful woman.

And Sherlock falls in love. It's almost unbelievable, but he drifts to deep thinking and resorts to composing songs on a violin when he receives the news that she, the baffling Irene, is dead.

But is she, really? Can't wait for The Hound of the Baskervilles to be featured in the next episode.

2011 in Photos

2012-01-08T15:03:00.000+08:00

I have poor memory. No, really. In a sense, this explains my visceral need to keep a diary, an online journal, an organizer, to write both significant and random things down on paper. Who is it who said than pen and paper are better than the sharpest memory?

Now that my Week in Photos Project is over—and let me say I enjoyed the challenge of taking seven pictures a week, even if I started rather late in 2011—I find fulfilment at seeing all the cameraphone photos I took. Not that I think they're exceptional, but that they have in some way captured the fleeting moments of the year . . . moments that would otherwise have been buried in the floating annals of forgetfulness. Not only once did I feel like quitting this project, but I'm thankful I persevered to the end.

Photography fascinates me. My wish is to someday own a huge, heavy camera with lenses that are meters long. But the Lord only gave me a humble one-megapixel cameraphone, and I couldn't complain: it has done the trick.

Together let's look back at the year that was. I picked my favorite photos in the Project, arranged according to theme.

Medical school

1. View from my building's rooftop, showing the Philippine General Hospital where I'm currently training.

2. Panoramic shot of my classmates during break. Taken at the 1972 Theater in Calderon Hall.

3. Migz Catangui and I are sharing a pata during our suturing drills in Surgery.

4. A pharmacist prepares chemotherapy drugs for cancer patients. Taken at the Cancer Institute, UP-PGH.

5. Bon Buno drifts to sleep while studying for an exam. Taken at the Medicine Library.

Manila

1. Trees at the CCP Complex. Taken during the Aliwan Festival.

2. A man tries to catch fish at Manila Bay.

3. The huge Christmas tree at Rizal Park, Manila.

4. The Old Senate Building inside the National Museum is being renovated.

5. Colors at the CCP Complex during the Aliwan Festival.

Trees

1. An empty basketball court, with old trees in the perimeter. Taken in Cavite.

2. A log of wood. Taken in Camp Jabez, Cavite.

3. Kalachuchi flowers, taken inside the UP Manila Campus.

4. An old tree stands in front of Jade Vine Restaurant along U.N. Avenue.

5. View of Rizal Park from the National Museum.

Food

1. Cinnamon for breakfast.

2. All-American breakfast served at Midtown Diner, Padre Faura Street, Ermita, Manila.

3. Some random illustration I'm fascinated with.

4. Green-tea flavored pastry at Binondo, Manila.

5. Fresh catch. Taken at Dampa along Macapagal Boulevard.

Koronadal

1. The Round Ball marks the center of the city.

2. Indoor plants at home.

3. Taken at The Farm, operated and maintained by the owners of Ace Commercial, the local department store.

4. The Catholic Church along Alunan Avenue.

5. Tropical garden at The Farm. Taken during the Bocobos' visit.

The Week in Photos Project continues in 2012.

Thanks so much for reading.

Viewing Picasso

2012-01-07T00:41:00.000+08:00

I dragged Manong Ralph to the Met Museum today to view Pablo Picasso's The Suite Vollard, a collection of the Spanish artist's etchings between 1930 to 1937. Halfway through the commute (we came from Quezon City), he realized he forgot to bring any money. I intentionally didn't bring any cash so he'd be forced to treat me. Should we go back and get his money? We realized that if we pooled what what left in our wallets, though, we could still eat a quick brunch at a fastfood--nothing fancy--pay for the Php 100 entrance fee each person, and just have enough to pay for an FX ride to QC. But that meant we had to walk all the way from Roxas Boulevard to Taft.

In my brother's words, “One minute my brother and I were at the Metropolitan Museum of Manila marveling at the Pablo Picasso exhibit like the faux intellectuals and pseudo art critics that we are. And then the next minute, we were walking to Taft Avenue under the unforgiving heat of the noonday sun, because we didn't have enough money to get on a jeep. How quickly did we morph back to our old, impoverished, plebeian selves!”

Still, we have so much to thank the Lord for. He knows just what we need.

My Reading Year 2011

2012-01-04T07:07:00.001+08:00

Another year has gone. Praise be to God.

I've had the opportunity to read a number of books in 2011 mainly because of two things: my academic load is much lighter now, and I own a mobile reading device. In this entry I hope to document each book I had a chance to read. Each of these has contributed to my personal growth in some way.

1. Amsterdam (Ian McEwan). I read this book before going to Amsterdam to get a feel of what the city was like. It turned out only the last chapters were set in Europe. The novel opens with two old friends attending the funeral of their lover, Molly. In the process they make a pact whose consequences have major moral implications—can euthanasia, for instance, ever be justified? I'm a sucker for McEwan's prose; he can both be comical and philosophical at the same time.

2. Cantor's Dilemma (Carl Djerassi). This one's about politics and integrity in the scientific world. Professor Isidore Cantor—Isidore, can you believe it?—is about to receive the Nobel prize, but how far can he guarantee the reliability of his experiments? I sympathized with his young assistant, Dr. Jeremiah Stafford, who felt enormous pressure to come up with groundbreaking scientific results. Having been a science major myself, I enjoyed this work immensely, and not just because the main character is my namesake.

3. The Green House (Mario Vargas Llosa). I must say I had a hard time reading Llosa's writing. After all these years, I still haven't gotten the hang of the stream of consciousness style. I'm not sure I really understood the story—this is one of those books I plan to read someday, when I become a more mature reader.

4. Wordliness: Resisting the Seduction of a Fallen World (edited: CJ Mahaney). How must a Christian view and deal with technology, movies, and television? This short book addresses vital issues confronting the Christian in a modern world.

The following are the books I read during the summer break. I've written about them here.

5. Man's Search for Meaning (Viktor Frankl)
6. Light Years (James Salter)
7. Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins)
8. Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro)
9. The World is Flat (Thomas Friedman)
10. Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
11. The House of God: The Classic Novel of Life and Death in an American Hospital (Samuel Shem)
12. Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West (Gregory Maguire)
13. Things Fall Apart (China Achebe)
14. God Has a Wonderful Plan For Your Life: The Myth of the Modern Message (Ray Comfort)
15. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (Steig Larsson)
16. A Sport and A Pastime (James Salter)
17. Confessions (Augustine)
18. On Death and Dying (Elizabeth Kubler-Ross)
19. The Man Who Was Thursday (GK Chesterton)
20. Orthodoxy (GK Chesterton)
21. Saving Faith (AW Pink)

22. A Wind in the Door (Madeleine L'Engle). The young Charles Wallace sees a dragon, and he tells his sister Meg about it.

23. Catching Fire (Suzanne Collins). This is the second in the Hunger Games trilogy. Go, Katniss!

24. Mockingjay (Suzanne Collins). The gnawing question was: would Katniss Everdeen choose Peeta or Gale in the end? I thought this book was a proper ending to the trilogy. I highly, highly recommend Hunger Games, especially to young readers.

25. The Corrections (Jonathan Franzen). I'd call this a portrait of the American family. Enid Lambert wants to bring her family together for Christmas. Meanwhile her husband Albert suffers from Parkinson's. Their children live colorful lives, as well. Gary suffers from clinical depression, Chip loses his job in the academe, and Denise recovers from a failed marriage by falling in love with another married man. Franzen's prose is just magnificent.

26. All Quiet on the Western Front (Erich Maria Remarque). This is a searing and moving account of a young German soldier, Paul Bäumer, in the trenches. Shortly after World War I, he and his classmates are drafted for the war. To this day, I still wonder if his life ever got back to normal, after the death and suffering he saw in the fields.

27. Finally Alive (John Piper). What does it mean to be born again? What is the new birth? John Piper takes the reader back to Scripture as he unravels and meditates on the answers to these questions. This is my favorite Piper book so far—a grand feast for the soul.

28. The Narnian: The Life and Imagination of C.S. Lewis (Alan Jacobs).* I'm not yet done with this book, an unofficial biography of my favorite author, CS Lewis.

29. Gravity's Rainbow (Thomas Pynchon). Except for James Joyce's Ulysses, which I never got to finish, I've never felt so exhausted after reading a novel until I got to the last page of Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow. They say only ten percent of people who start reading this work actually finish it. And I see why: the writing is simply overwhelming, featuring some 250 plus characters, many of whom disappear after a few paragraphs, only to resurface again in the ending chapters. There are unpredictable shifts from first- to third-person, and these occur quickly. Poems and song lyrics (95% of them I couldn't understand) are interspersed in the long sentences that remind me of the works of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez (One Hundred Years of Solitude) and Mario Vargas Llosa (The Green House). Read more about it here.

30. Waiter Rant (The Waiter). Thrill came over me when I saw this book in the store being sold at a discount. I've been a reader of The Waiter's blog (www.waiterrant.net) since 2004, when the writer was still shrouded in anonymity and not a lot of people knew him. Of course, his writing, a gem in cyberspace, was bound to get famous, and this eventually earned him a book deal. It brought me such joy, reading the fruit his labor. To this day, though, I have no idea where the Bistro really is.

31. The Ground Beneath Her Feet (Salman Rushdie). I mean, this is Salman Rushdie, you guys. He can adapt a timeless mythological account to a modern story—which he did in this book, and quite masterfully at that. A song writer falls in love with a beautiful singer. Together they make music that change the world and themselves.

32. Christ the Center (Dietrich Bonhoeffer). There'll be no Christianity without Christ. Christianity is all about Christ. This is Bonhoeffer's emphasis in Christ the Center, a compilation of sermons he gave at the University of Berlin.

33. George's Wonderful Medicine (Roald Dahl). A boy despises his grandmother who complains a lot and asks him to do many unreasonable tasks. One day he combines all household cleaners, solutions, medications, and fluids to make a syrup. He wants to fool his grandmother into believing that the syrup is her cough medicine. Little does he know an adverse drug reaction is bound to happen. The moral of the story? Children should learn pharmacology.

34. King of Torts (John Grisham). When was the last time I read a Grisham paperback? I don't remember at all. Here Grisham takes us to the world of a young, almost anonymous trial lawyer, who gets famous overnight when he wins a class action. A really easy and fun read.

35. The Hours (Michael Cunningham). At first we read of three women—Virginia Woolf, Clarissa Vaughan and Laura Brown—each living colorful yet dreary lives during different time periods. Their stories eventually intersect in the end, an "aha" moment for me. Michael Cunningham's mastery of words really got me going.

36. Portrait of Calvin (T.H.L. Parker). One of the best books I've read this year. T.H.L. Parker strictly did not write a biography (which is otherwise told chronologically). Instead he's come up with a painting of sorts, a portrait, snippets of of one of the Reformation's foremost preachers and scholars, John Calvin—his life as a student, a teacher, a preacher, a man zealous to live out and proclaim the truth of God as revealed in the Bible.

37. The Road (Cormac McCarthy). The world is beyond repair. Depressing. A look into the human condition. Short book, but a hard one to finish. You should watch the movie, too, a faithful adaptation to McCarthy's novel.

38. 1Q84 (Haruki Murakami). It's 1984 in Tokyo, and Aomame—which means "green pea"—notices that the world has changed when she gets out of the taxi. There are two moons in the sky. Meanwhile, Tengo, an aspiring writer, decides to take on a challenge: rewrite a novel written by a weird, dyslexic teenage kid. This novel about the so-called Little People wins a top literary prize. Aomame and Tengo's fates become intertwined as they both realize that the novel, now a hit in the market, is coming true. The plot is weird: a cultic movement in the mountains, a wealthy dowager who rescues abused women and children, a gentle yet ruthless bodyguard, and an unrelenting television-fee collector. I'm told this is Murakami's most ambitious work thus far—a compilation of three books separately released in Japan, totaling about 1000-plus pages. Good thing I read this in a mobile device. There's nothing impressive with Murakami's writing, of course, but it's the story that gets you.

39. Be Myself (Warren Wiersbe). The book is replete with reminders for would-be pastors and preachers. This book, though, would benefit not just pastors and pastors-in-training, but any ordinary Christian. I highly recommend it. (My review.)

40. The Sense of An Ending (Julian Barnes). Tony Webster, a middle-aged Englishman, does some recollection. How has his life been? What mistakes has he made? Memories can be harsh. They, too, are affected by biases. This is my first Julian Barnes book (also one of the shorter ones in this list).

41. Humility: The Forgotten Virtue (Wayne Mack). In this short but important work, Dr. Wayne Mack attempts to "understand pride and humility from a biblical perspective" in the hope of diminishing the "destructive pride factor" and to increase the "true humility factor" in our lives. The book follows the 4D outline: a biblical definition of what pride and humility are, the display of pride and humility, how humility can bedeveloped, and how pride can be diminished. At the end of each chapter are simple guide questions that readers are encouraged to answer. (My review.)

42. The Thousand Autumns by Jacob de Zoet (David Mitchell). Set in the 1800s, during the time when Japan's only connection to the rest of the world was her trading relations with the Dutch East India Company (Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie), the story revolves around Jacob de Zoet, a twentysomething clerk set to check and document the corruption going on in the Company's transactions in Dejima, Nagasaki Bay. There he meets Orito Aibagawa, a midwife, who rises to fame after she successfully saves the lives of both the Magistrate's wife and son after prolonged labor. To tell you the truth, what initially drew me to this book was David Mitchell's scientific descriptions of obstetric techniques in the first chapter—how the attending Doctor Maeno and Miss Aibagawa-san determined the fetal lie, what they did when they suspected a possible cord strangulation, with an illustration so reminiscent of those seen in William's Obstetrics. These details were mixed so expertly with the author's prose. (My review).

43. Solar (Ian McEwan). A Nobel-prize winning physicist (having discovered the Einstein-Beard Conflation) takes on the challenge of designing energy-efficient, solar-powered generators to save the world from global warming. His previous five marriages have failed, his present wife is having an affair, and his personal life is crumbling. If he cannot solve his own problems, can he save the world's? I never get tired of Ian McEwan.

44. The Wapshot Scandal (John Cheever). I was told to read John Cheever, so I did. The Wapshots of St. Botolphs are rich and hilarious. The two grown children are struggling with the drudgery of their lives. Their old cousin, Honora, goes to Europe to escape the IRS. An ambitious and well-written work, this deserves to be read at least once.

45. Memoirs of an Ordinary Pastor: The Life and Reflections of Tom Carson (D.A. Carson). You should've seen me in the airport, crying inconsolably, while reading the final chapters of this book. Good thing no one who knew me was around. Here Dr. D.A. Carson writes a biography of sorts of his father, Tom Carson, who pastored in the French Canada region from 1950's to the 90's. We read of the struggles of evangelicalism in Quebec, a place with strong Roman Catholic influence. We understand these things from the perspective of an unknown yet faithful pastor. The most moving parts were the deteriotation of Tom's wife to Alzheimer Disease, and the final chapter where D.A. Carson tried to piece things together. This will profit not just pastors but other Christians as well.

46. Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother (Amy Chua). Why are Asians so smart and successful? Amy Chua writes about Chinese parenting and how she brought her children up with this worldview. She has very high expectations for her children. One incident I can't quite forget is that during a trip to Europe, she reserves a piano so her children don't miss their piano drills. The book has become controversial because, in a sense, Chua has critiqued the American way of child-rearing. This is an interesting read.

Here are My Top Ten Books of 2011:

Portrait of Calvin (T.H.L. Parker)
Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
The Thousand Autumns by Jacob de Zoet (David Mitchell)
Finally Alive (John Piper)
The House of God: The Classic Novel of Life and Death in an American Hospital (Samuel Shem)
Gravity's Rainbow (Thomas Pynchon)
Memoirs of an Ordinary Pastor: The Life and Reflections of Tom Carson (D.A. Carson)
The Corrections (Jonathan Franzen)
1Q84 (Haruki Murakami)
Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins)

Week 49: Tapos na!

2011-12-31T14:25:00.000+08:00

It's the final week of 2011, and my Week in Photos Project has ended. I started late in the year, but I so far I've been pretty consistent in taking a variety of pictures, thanks to my trusted iPod Touch.

I'm starting the Week Project anew for 2012, so keep yourselves posted. Pictures, after all, speak louder than words.

Week 48: John S lens

2011-12-28T20:46:00.000+08:00

Photos taken with Hipstamatic, my newest favorite photography app. I used John S lens on Ina's 1969 film for all pictures.

Christmas at home

2011-12-24T19:43:00.002+08:00

I got home on a 7:30 am Cebu Pacific flight to General Santos last Thursday, but the plane only got off the runway an hour after we boarded the aircraft because of what could only be described in layman's terms as heavy traffic--there were so many people going home to the provinces.

My younger brother, Sean, who studies Dentistry in Davao, was already home when we arrived. I was surprised to see that he, too, has grown fatter.

I'm writing this from my grandmother's old house in Polomolok, about 45 minutes away from Koronadal City. We used to spend our summers here when we were younger. Lola is about 80 years old now, but her memory is still intact, her humor still piercing, although she does have difficulty walking because of osteoarthritis.

We arrived here in the morning, my parents and my brothers, and since then we've had difficulty refusing our relatives who, out of courtesy and habit, have been forcing us to get two . . . three . . . and eventually four servings of Christmas food that could potentially elevate our lipid profiles in the morning. By Christmas food, I mean lechon (roasted pig), caldereta, fruit salad (my mother's contribution, one of the few recipes she can manage to prepare), among others.

Outside, my cousins are hurrying after their children--a noisy bunch they make--all of whom have started calling me Tito.

While we were walking around the subdivision, Jared, 5, asked me if I could carry him on my back, to which I replied, "You're asking the wrong person. Go find Tito Matt." Katrese, 2, looks angry most of the time, but she seems to like me--a rare instance for children who usually get hysterical when they see me. Zach, 7, who was raised in the Manila, seems to understand his cousins when they talk to him in Bisaya. They've had an awful lot of fun playing with fake guns this afternoon.

Let me tour you around Lantana where I spent the happiest childhood anyone could ever dream of.

In Lola's backyard, the old durian tree is bearing fruit. These days we keep close watch of this area lest the spiky fruit fall on the children's heads when they run around.

Right across the highway is the Howard Hubbard Memorial Hospital where Tatay first met Nanay, who used to work here as Dole's company dentist. My father was enamored at the petite lady, of course, and my mother, who at the time was rushing to settle down, was gradually lowering her standards: my father had clean nails, she might as well marry him.

Years ago, this area used to be populated by noisy children like us.

Since then it has disintegrated to become a quiet, almost depressing residential subdivision, with some of the houses already abandoned because their owners are either dead or are working in bigger cities.

These are the flowers I saw in the neighbor's long-forgotten backyards.

From my grandmother's house, one can see the towering Mount Matutum, nothing as beautiful as Mount Mayon, of course, but this volcano, whose eruption was believed to have happened ages go, has been responsible for Polomolok's bountiful pineapple harvest.

I love the greenery, the nature-y feel of Polomolok. The place is how many meters above sea level again? I really don't know, except that we have little use for electric fans when we stay here.

We visited the Pyramid, the local plaza, where there's a rather wide expanse of land, a decent tennis court, a basketball court, and recently, a sari-sari store. My late grandfather, Lolo Polding, used to take us here for early morning walks. I miss him.

My favorite spot is this area in the corner of the pillars supporting the Pyramid. My cousins and I made this our make-shift slide before Lola had one constructed in the yard.

Before I go out to resume the celebration, I can't help but be thankful for the grace of God to our family.

Christmas is a reminder that God, in His love, sent His own Son to this world. He did so because He wanted to redeem sinners like us. Yes, sinners, because each of us has violated His perfect standards of holiness. But instead of punishing us for our sins (the wages of sin is death, after all), He sent His only begotten Son to die the death we deserve.

Really, the reason why we celebrate Christmas is Jesus Christ "who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross! Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father." (Philippians 2:5-11)

Isn't that amazing? Have a blessed Christmas everyone!

Norzagaray

2011-12-19T22:20:00.000+08:00

We went to Joseph Chua's farm and rest house in Norzagaray, Bulacan, about an hour and a half drive away from Manila, for the Agape sem-ender celebration. He invited us to have our planning session there last year, but we never had the opportunity to go until today. Sadly not everyone made it—they either had prior commitments, or they were already home in their provinces for the Christmas break.

Joseph's mother, Tita Maritz, graciously offered to drive us. The trip was smooth and enjoyable. The traffic wasn't as bad as we expected.

(Photo above is by Ruby King, via Facebook.)

We were all smiles when we arrived. Everyone was excited. We never had anything planned—there was no itinerary at all—except that we were decided that 1) we would have games, 2) we would eat good food, and 3) we wouldn't stay overnight (although Tita Maritz kept insisting that if we so decided, we could, and she could just fetch us in the morning).

The place had a rustic, provincial feel to it, which reminded me of home. The air was fresh, the grass was green—it was the typical Philippine picture of the countryside, a rare sight for us who stay in Manila.

The Chuas maintain the farm to serve as their getaway from the city life and to accommodate church camps, especially during Summer. That's a great ministry, I think, extending hospitality to churches around the area for the building up and equipping of their congregation.

As Joseph toured us around, we saw the kidney-shaped pool (his father is a nephrologist, after all). We would spend part of our afternoon here, swimming in the cold, refreshing water.

Scattered in the area were nipa huts of various sizes. Made primarily of bamboo, these are the traditional Philippine houses, ideal for the tropical climate.

Ruby King didn't miss the opporunity to pose as a dalagang Pilipina (Filipina maiden). Tradition has it that when a man desires the hand of a woman, he should go to her house and serenade her while she looks out the window. Ruby was merely practicing, of course.

Outside, JC Malabad and Jana Mier were reliving their childhood by climbing the balete tree. I wonder how many children, especially those who were born and raised in the city, still get to do that. I'm almost sure that they no longer do and, boy, are they missing a lot.

Abby Ortal enjoyed the swing. Here she is, letting her hair down. I say that literally.

After the short tour we had a heavy merienda and then videoke and a heavy lunch after that. The crispy pata was delicious—think of saturated fat, think of cholesterol! We were almost sure we'd have elevated lipid profiles in the morning. The food was overflowing, praise God!

JC and Lowie Calimag were singing Uptown Girl here, if I remember correctly.

(Photo above is by Ruby King, via Facebook.)

We waited until the noon sun abated. Around 3 pm we went swimming.

(Photo above is by Ruby King, via Facebook.)

Right smack in the middle of the property was the fish pond. I was told tilapia grew there.

We went fishing at 4 pm, when the sun wasn't so harsh and the light was diffuse, just perfect for photography. Here's Llaine Callanta, proud of her catch.

Joseph demonstrated how to hook, aim, and retrieve the fish.

Meanwhile here we were. The fish were testing our patience.

So what made this trip extra-special? I can think of several reasons. First, it was my first time to spend time with Agape friends outside of Metro Manila. Second, we saw and enjoyed the beauty of God's creation. Third, we hardly spent anything—thank God for the Chua's Christian hospitality! Fourth, we had clean fun. I praise God for these friends!

Let me end this account with two of my favorite pictures taken during the trip.

A reflection of the tree branches in the water . . .

And a picturesque view of the greenery under the afternoon sun.

Sa uulitin!

Week 47: Celebrations

2011-12-18T22:32:00.002+08:00

I've been meeting old friends, many of them I haven't seen in a long time, for the past couple of days. I guess I should be thankful for the Christmas craze because it has given people a decent excuse to stay up late and get out of their way to attend long wished-for reunions. If it were not for Christmas, we wouldn't be forced see each other at all. Those of us who live in Manila know that going to these gatherings is not an easy thing to do: one has to deal with the long queues, the steady rush of human bodies in the MRT, and the slow traffic—slower than an intern's brain function after a 24-hour ward duty.

To not get caught up in the mire of busy-ness is a challenge, of course, but Christmas only happens once a year, so it's not so bad, after all.

From Top: UP Lantern Parade with Block Eight (Wheater's Group), Youth Fellowship Christmas Party (my first time to attend in my eight years of being in Higher Rock), Mike Tan's treat at Sakura Japanese Restaurant, water baptism of a patient's daughter (AAce Agdamag, Krushie Canlas, and I stood as godparents), afternoon snacks with MBB friends, Wegs Pedroso and Dianne Deauna at Peanut Butter and Co. and Sebastian's, SM Mall of Asia.

Good times.

Why I'm thankful for my blockmates

2011-12-16T01:48:00.001+08:00

Group mates can make or break you in Medicine. You don't have much of a choice but to get along with those people. The medical curriculum—at least the one in our school—is designed such that most of the time you don't work alone; you have to work as a collective and cohesive group.

This set-up naturally poses a major challenge for those who can't work well with others. For instance, those who are too opinionated, too full of themselves, too shy, and too quiet will have a hard time unless they can adjust to their new social environments. The key is balance: the group members must complement one another and must learn how to give and take.

I'm writing this now because I just got back from our Block's year-ender celebration, and I've come to realize a few things.

But before that, let me tell you about the party. Leeca Caro graciously hosted us in her wonderful home in Quezon City to dispel her grandmother's worries that she doesn't have any friends in med school because she never invites them over.

The food was mouthwatering—no, really, the food was really, unbelievably good. I particularly enjoyed the fried dory served in butter-and-lemon sauce, as well as the dessert, notably the blueberry cheesecake.

After dinner, we had games and photo shoots, with the make-shift photo wall as our backdrop. I had a glass of wine, the pretentious probinsiyano that I am. The conversation was free flowing and mostly revolved on reminiscing our past experiences in the wards and clinics. These stories were sprinkled with some notable anecdotes. I guess parties come alive when people mutually enjoy each other's company—a major reason why I prefer small gatherings to big ones. And after what we've gone through these past months, there already exists a bond, a connection, among us that brings the 20 of us together, all members of Saluyot, our block whose name was taken after the plant from which we derived an anti-ulcer agent for our Pharmacology research.

I've more or less profiled each of our block member in this blog post, and every day I am thankful for the privilege of learning with and from them. I'm not saying that our block is perfect—it is far from that. But there are a few reasons why I praise God for my blockmates, perhaps the same reasons other people are thankful for theirs.

1. They're such a joy to work with. They make hard work feel a lot less like work because it is fun having them around. They make small group discussions interesting by their contributions to the discussion—an out-of-this-world differential diagnosis, a quotable quote ("The vital statistics of the patient are the following: blood pressure of 120/80..."), or a funny mannerism. They're not selfish in lending their stethoscopes or blood pressure apparatuses, nor do they keep a strict account of those things. They volunteer to carry out the harder tasks to give way to those who are tired and preoccupied. They listen to other's opinions and respect them, even if that means having their own suggestion rejected. They appreciate and thank others for the great work, and they offer—and accept—correction. And they push others to unlock hidden potentials, as in public speaking.

2. They're easy to please. They don't immediately complain when the consultant decides to back out the last minute, or when an examination is too hard. They're happy when they learn something new, when they're dismissed 30 minutes before schedule, or when they're assigned to a friendly preceptor. They're especially giddy when a consultant treats them to breakfast, coffee, or donuts.

3. They're smart. They don't devour books; they just know which details to remember.

4. They like to keep things simple but not simplistic. They hate lengthy patient histories, irrelevant physical examination findings, and unnecessary maneuvers. The mantra is, "The less you say, the less questions you get asked." This has always seemed to work.

5. They're adventurous in trying out new restaurants. They like exploring new places, but they also come back to favorite hang-out places: Chicken Charlie along Adriatico Street, Midtown Diner along Padre Faura, Hainanese Delights at Robinson's Manila, among others.

6. They make fun of others while being equally funny. What infectious, stomach-aching laughter we all have!

My prayer for my blockmates this Christmas is for them to understand the "peace that transcends understanding," as Paul so described in Philippians 4:7, a peace that can only come from knowing the Lord Jesus Christ personally.

We only have a few months left before the ICC year ends, and I hope we'd all make the most out of what's left of our Third Year.

The Thousand Autumns

2011-12-14T22:37:00.000+08:00

I'm still reeling from the emotional after-effects of David Mitchell's masterpiece, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, which I finished moments ago.

Set in the 1800s, during the time when Japan's only connection to the rest of the world was her trading relations with the Dutch East India Company (Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie), the story revolves around Jacob de Zoet, a twentysomething clerk set to check and document the corruption going on in the Company's transactions in Dejima, Nagasaki Bay. There he meets Orito Aibagawa, a midwife, who rises to fame after she successfully saves the lives of both the Magistrate's wife and son after prolonged labor. To tell you the truth, what initially drew me to this book was David Mitchell's scientific descriptions of obstetric techniques in the first chapter—how the attending Doctor Maeno and Miss Aibagawa-san determined the fetal lie, what they did when they suspected a possible cord strangulation, with an illustration so reminiscent of those seen in William's Obstetrics. These details were mixed so expertly with the author's prose.

Jacob, the nephew of a Calvinist preacher, has left the love-of-his-life, Anna, in Holland. He goes to Asia to enrich himself, hoping he'd elevate his social standing, so he could eventually ask Anna's hand in marriage when he gets back. Though they're miles apart, he thinks of her often, but here comes Orito who steals his mind away and enchants him. It's an infatuation that progresses to the beginnings of love. He attempts to express this love to Orito, but he is prevented from openly doing so by the strong cultural prohibitions against intercultural marriages in Japan at the time.

Orito is stolen away to live as a nun in a mysterious Shrine of the Order of Mount Shiranui operated by the powerful Abbot Enomoto. In the Shrine, women are used as birthing machines; their babies are offered as sacrifices to a goddess who gives fruitful harvests in return (I thought of Margaret Atwood's A Handmaid's Tale). A rescue mission is attempted but fails. At the moment I expected the novel to become a full-blown love story, the focus shifts to politics and culture: the power struggle between the Fischer and de Zoet after Chief Vortsenbosch's leaving, the startling news that the Company is already bankrupt, the arrival of the British ship, Phoebus, and the protracted diplomatic talks between the Dutch and the Englishmen which leads to a short, tense battle at the Harbour.

This is David Mitchell's first book I've read, but it's so well-researched and thought of, brimming with details and stories and accents, that I felt, as a reader, that I was really there, listening to actual conversations and seeing encounters as they do in real life. That's genius.

Scattered all over the book are episodes wherein some characters share their life stories and how they found themselves in Japan. These accounts endeared me to these people and added to the depth of the story: that during Colonial times, and even now, ambition, safety, and escape had to a corresponding price to pay.

Eleven years later, Orito says in hindsight, "When pain is vivid, when decisions are keen-edged, we believe that we are the surgeons. But time passes, and one sees the whole more clearly, and now I perceive us as surgical instruments used by the world to excise itself of the Order of Mount Shiranui."

The story goes full circle. The ending is what I would call tragic—in a romantic sense, at least—and, as you may well have already known, I'm a sucker for those things.

Find me at Goodreads.com.

In which I danced on stage for the first time since kindergarten

2011-12-11T22:04:00.001+08:00

Pastor Bob talked about pride during Family Day at church this morning. The theme of our special Sunday gathering was "Die Hard". After all, the Christian's daily battle against pride is a hard one.

I remembered the book, Humility: The Forgotten Virtue (by Wayne Mack), during the sermon.

My brother invited some of his friends from work. Except for Josiah (the photographer) whom I had met previously, the rest of them visited Higher Rock for the first time. We had lunch at Banapple. The conversations went rolling by. I was particularly blessed talking to Christian, a young German lawyer, whose passion it is to serve the people in the developing world. I also got to meet Brianne who, I was told, bakes excellent pies and pastries.

I got to catch up with Ate Liw, too, one of my favorite people from church.

I had to immediately go back to church to prepare for the play we were presenting. I had a very minor role—three lines in total plus a dance number at the end.

By the time I arrived, people were already dressed in 80's costumes. Here's Tina sporting the typical office look of the era, complete with ~~pillows~~ padding on the shoulders.

People were busy doing make-ups.

The play revolved around two major characters: Jake, a proud Christian, and Jacob, the Bible character who wrestled with God. Kuya Larry and Bryan played the role of Jacob and Jake respectively. Kuya Kenny Bulahan was the director. The entire play took 50 minutes.

Those of us who played a part in Scene Two forgot the steps in the short dance finale, by the way, but what we lacked in technicality we made up for in our smiles! This was my first dancing stint since kindergarten.

Working in the Stage Ministry was a blessing for me. I got to work with talented, experienced people who never looked down on us, beginners, but who nevertheless graciously guided us during the practices. I learned a lot of things! Working with them brought me such joy.

Late in the afternoon, Frances and I crashed at Dom and Tina's place in Manila. They were married about a year ago. Although we live on the same street, this was the first time I had been to their home.

Our plans to get a whole-body massage was postponed indefinitely, so we decided to hang out before dinner. Kuya Dom, quite the renaissance man, taught me the basics of playing the violin. I got to play Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star—the first part, at least—and it was hard!

With Kuya Dom in the piano, we sang out hearts out. Jim Brickman, Mariah Carey, and Regina Spektor would be very proud had they heard us sing. I was relieved the neighbors never complained.

We had dinner at Shawarma Center in Salas Street. We had Humus/Foul, Mixed Barbecue, and Shawarma Rice. We were stuffed!

What a wonderful Sunday!

Week 46: Christmas Parties

2011-12-09T23:24:00.001+08:00

We had fun at the Youth Workers Christmas party last Thursday. Banjo, of course, came up with the craziest games. Kuya Lito expounded on the example set by the shepherds as told in Luke 2.

Dom and Tina Carriaga offered to take me to church with them for the Christmas play rehearsal. Weeks ago I already told the ministry head that I was backing out of the play after seeing my academic schedule for November and December. But since the Stage Ministry was lacking one character, and such character only had a couple of lines and minimal appearances, I said I could play that part. It turns out there will be a big dance number at the end, and for a few seconds I'll be in front on the stage for everyone to see. Good thing I'm dancing—assuming it is dancing I'm doing, not some random muscular spastic movements—beside Kuya Dom who, like me, is having problems with coordination. May the Lord guide our (dance) steps.

Ice Co celebrates his birthday tonight. We had dinner with some friends from Agape. I got to catch up my schoolmate, Kuya Jasper Dagang, who's now a first year resident at ORL (Otorhinolaryngology). He's like my big brother in med school. Praise God for these friends!

When I took the NMAT

2011-12-05T21:57:00.001+08:00

I got a couple of emails from a few readers asking me for tips about the NMAT (National Medical Achievement Test), the big qualifying exam for medical schools in the Philippines. The multiple-choice exam covers basic science subjects, language, and abstract reasoning, and is administered twice a year: every April and December.

The pressure is for would-be medical students to score high in this test, so they'd get the desired cut-off percentile score for the med school they're eyeing. In the UP College of Medicine, for example, the cut-off is officially pegged at 90%.

Many undergraduates enroll in NMAT review sessions. These span weeks or months, and are generally expensive. The biggest utility for these classes is not the learning—one can only remember so much in so little time—but the practical tips, strategies, and sample exams that are given upon registration. If you took a science course that had a lot of math, chemistry, biology, and physics, I don't think enrolling in these cram schools is necessary. The exam questions are basic, and you only need to do a cursory self-review of those subjects.

On hindsight, I should've paid more attention to the Practice Exams Set that was given after I got my NMAT exam permit. Some questions were directly taken from the Practice Exams! And I should have taken the social sciences and psychology part more seriously. I didn't take any such subjects in College, so I mostly relied on the tidbits I knew about Freud and Jung—which were practically close to nothing. I should've done some extra reading.

Yesterday I was surprised to see younger friends write about their NMAT experience in Facebook. That brought back memories of my own NMAT experience, and how the Lord has seen me through:

—The peer-administered review sessions with Monchi Goce, Coy Cabanilla, Joe Poblete, Melay San Luis, and the late Boom Jacinto. I always scored the lowest in the practice exams. My friends, on the other hand, were brilliant!

—The last-minute review and sleep-over at Coy's house in Antipolo, and the packed chicken sandwich that Coy's mother prepared for us before we left.

—This blog entry dated April 1, 2008, the night before the test date:

I don't understand why we have to learn and re-learn organic chemistry, mechanical physics, and all the structures we've memorized in biology. But the lesson is clear: I am not prepared--I do not feel prepared--to take the NMAT tomorrow. But, I realize, that it is precisely during our moments of helplessness when we are nearest God. I trust that tomorrow, every stroke of my pen will be guided by Him who promised never to leave me nor forsake me.

—The look on Bon Buno's face in that cold De La Salle classroom. He sat beside me. He would later remark how movable I was during the test, and how pressured he felt when he saw that I was already finished while he still had a number of items to answer. He didn't know I wasn't sure at all of my answers at all, and I just wanted the test to be over.

—The portrait of Philippine tycoon, Lucio Tan, on the halls of De La Salle University. Monchi pointed it out to me.

—The relief I got when I got my exam score months later. It was sufficient to qualify me for interview at UPCM.

—The joy of learning, after the long process, that I finally made it to UP. Overwhelmed, I wrote, "This is because of grace. If I say I made it on my own, that would be hypocrisy, for it was the Lord who helped me write the answers in the NMAT, gave me good grades, and convicted my heart to say what needed to be said during the interview process."

Any tips for or memories of NMATs past? Post them in comments.

The shirt of the soul—put on first, put off last

2011-12-04T06:30:00.001+08:00

"No one who knows the Bible and is a careful observer of human beings will dispute that pride is and has always been a gigantic problem in the world," writes Dr. Wayne Mack in the Preface of his book, Humility: The Forgotten Virtue. I first encountered Dr. Mack, a known Bible scholar and professor of Biblical Counseling at the Master's College, in his book, Life in the Father's House.

In this short but important work, he attempts to "understand pride and humility from a biblical perspective" in the hope of diminishing the "destructive pride factor" and to increase the "true humility factor" in our lives. The book follows the 4D outline: a biblical definition of what pride and humility are, the display of pride and humility, how humility can be developed, and how pride can be diminished. At the end of each chapter are simple guide questions that readers are encouraged to answer.

This is the book's working definition of pride and humility:

Pride consists in attributing to ourselves and demanding for ourselves the honor, privileges, prerogatives, right, and power that are due to God alone. Thus it is the very root of sin because pride, at its core, is idolatry of self . . . Humility, then, consists in an attitude wherein we recognize our own insignificance and unworthiness before God and attribute to Him the supreme honor, praise, prerogatives, rights, privileges, worship, devotion, authority, submission, and obedience that He alone deserves.

Dr. Mack goes on to illustrate how a humble person is like.

A truly humble person has an abiding sense of his natural insignificance, as compared to God.
A truly humble person has an abiding sense of his moral insignificance and sinfulness, as compared to God.
A person who is truly humble has a theocentric mindset. A person who thinks theocentrically puts God in the center of everything.
A person who is truly humble attributes to God supreme honor, praise, rights, and privileges.
A truly humble person is not selfishly ambitious and greedy of honor among or over other people.
A humble person is not ostentatious.
A truly humble person is not arrogant and assuming in his relationships with people.
A truly humble person is not scornful of, contentious with, or violent toward other people.
A truly humble person is not willful and stubborn in his relationships with people.
A truly humble person does not try to level those who are over him down to his own level.
A truly humble person is willing to receive and benefit from biblical instruction, biblical rebukes, biblical reproof, and constructive criticism.

The author then discusses the folly of pride, its consequences, and its practical manifestations. He repeatedly mentions that God is opposed to the proud but gives grace to the humble (James 4:6).

Pride is at the very heart of folly. It is foolish because of God's opinion of pride as an abomination and because we are nothing apart from Christ . . . One of the things that make pride so dangerous is that it can be so hard for us to spot it in ourselves. The very definition of pride is thinking better of ourselves than we really are. It is not suprising, then, that proud people do not usually see their pride.

So how, then, can true humility be developed?

The path to true humility begins with the new birth. The Bible makes it clear that no unsaved person can be truly humble . . . The beginning of true humility, then, is the awareness of our total depravity that comes with the initial work of the Holy Spirit in salvation. Only through the work of the Spirit in our hearts are we able to see our desperate need for God.

Dr. Mack cites Jesus Christ as the perfect example of humility—the God of glory who became incarnate, who was born in a manger, who suffered and died on the Cross for sins He did not commit.

Though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. (Philippians 2:6-8)

This work has been a rebuke and encouragement to me—which explains why it took me longer than usual to finish a book. I am, after all, a person who constantly struggles with this sin perhaps to a greater degree than some people. I look at the pride checklist, and I get almost-perfect scores. I look at the humility checklist, and I see what I failure I am. And yet many times I am not consciously aware of these things. Wasn't it Robert Murray M'Cheyne who said, "I know I am proud; and yet I do not know the half of that pride"? Jonathan Edwards, twenty years after his conversion, groaned about the "bottomless, infinite depths of pride" left in his heart. I can pretty much say the same things today.

For such is pride. According to Joel Beeke, it "feeds off nearly everything: a fair measure of humility and wisdom, a single compliment, a season of unremarkable prosperity, or as small accomplishment." Apart from God's grace, a man cannot deal with it alone. George Swinnock wrote, "Pride is the shirt of the soul, put on first and put off last."

But God has been gracious to such a wretch as I am. I pray for the day when all this pride will finally be stripped away, and I will rush into the arms of my Savior who loved me and gave Himself up for me.

I am—as all of God's children are—a work in progress.

Week 45: Anesthesiology

2011-12-03T11:46:00.001+08:00

This is arguably the lightest rotation we've had thus far. We only had one lecture. The rest of the time was spent touring around and observing how things were done. Anesthesiology residents are a bunch of friendly, accommodating people.

How we do the handmime

2011-11-30T20:16:00.001+08:00

It's this time of the year again. TRP (Tao Rin Pala) is fast approaching. Held every December, it's the biggest show in the UP College of Medicine, featuring talents otherwise repressed by the daily grind of med school life.

For the past years, Agape has been doing handmimes. Those peformances have become the org's signature, for lack of a better term, because no other organization has attempted to do them, at least to my knowledge.

Last year, Agape did "He Opens a Window," a song from the musical, Joseph The Dreamer. In 2008, it was "Who Am I" by Casting Crowns. In 2009, it was "All For Love" by Hillsong. You can watch them in YouTube.

Those handmime presentations have been avenues to minister God's message to the professors, students, and staff of the College. Music and songs can only go so far, of course, but who are we to limit the Lord in His ability to move in the hearts of the listeners?

This year we continue the tradition. Our song is "Welcome to Our World" by Chris Rice. It's a beautiful song, full of vivid imagery, and faithful to the Biblical witness of Christ's birth.

Meanwhile, let me share some photos from our most recent practices to give you a feel of how we do it.

We start by making the skeletal framework of the desired illustration.

Necessary adjustments are made.

If all goes well, the performers take to heart their specific relative hand positions.

So much hand twisting is done, of course, and the discomfort is part of the fun.

I'd like to share a part of the exhortation I gave the Fellowship on November 21, just before we started practicing.

As we prepare for our presentation, let us remember the following:

First, that we are God's people. We belong to God's chosen generation, royal priesthood, holy nation, and we are God's own special people. This is our identity, and our story is that we've been called out of darkness into His marvelous light—thanks to the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on Calvary (1 Peter 2:9-10). This is what people should know about us.

Second, that, as God's people, we are called to proclaim His name. We honor and magnify God's name as we come to practices on time and participate actively without complaining. We give God the glory when we ask for His enabling. We honor God when we enjoy our practices. We also proclaim His name through the message we will give. We want to maximize our presentation to include as much of the gospel as we can. We want our presentation to help draw people to a saving knowledge of Christ, and to encourage other believers to keep on.

Finally, that, as God's people, our goal is not to be the best presentor among the rest of the organizations. It is not to compete against them or to outperform them. Our goal is to give our best for the Lord. So together let us lift this activity up in prayer. And with hearts directed to our Savior, let us, together, handmime our praises to the One who deserves all the honor, glory, and praise.

Many thanks to Abby Ortal, Jana Mier, Pito Magno, and Aeron dela Cruz for helping with the choreography. Special thanks goes to Bryan Mesina for suggesting the song, arguably his favorite.

We covet your prayers as we polish our performance. TRP will be held this Friday, December 2, at the Fleur de Lis Auditorium of St. Paul's University, Pedro Gil Street, Ermita, Manila. See you there.

Week 44: Pharmacology

2011-11-26T08:36:00.000+08:00

For the first time in many months, the entire class got together under a single roof. Pharmacology Round Two came back with a vengeance which was good, in a certain way, because we were all reminded of how it was to be a regular student, listening to lectures upon lectures, digesting everything that was being said, and falling into the regular pattern of alertness and sleepiness.

It was like a reunion of sorts. I had a chance to see people from other blocks, those I don't normally meet on a regular basis. For days I had to somehow get used to the idea of being in a big classroom.

Our First Year H1N1 Group got together for the small group discussions (SGD). Our sessions were often dotted with laughter, quotable quotes, and craziness, especially when Denden Dalmacion, whose humor is one-of-a-kind, facilitated. It was my first time to see Bryan de Gracia and Carlo de Guzman stand in as facilitators, and both did an excellent job.

My lunch group, composed mostly of men who are taller and bigger than me, got to reunite as well. We had a grand time catching up with one another. I missed these friends.

It's back to regular programming next week. Our next rotation: Anesthesiology.

Persecution

2011-11-24T07:09:00.001+08:00

These past months I've been reading 1 Peter for my early morning daily devotions. Penned by the apostle of Christ, and from whom the book was named, this New Testament epistle encourages the early Christian believers to live victoriously in the midst of persecution.

The pictures going through my mind were those recorded in the Fox's Book of Martyrs (you can read the book online for free). The ordeals the early Christians had to go through, especially during the time of the infamous Emperor Nero, were gruesome. At the time it was one thing for the early believers to say they believed in Christ, but to boldly profess and demonstrate faith in the face of shame and persecution—that was supernatural.

And yet Peter wrote to them in this way:

"In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while, if need be, you have been grieved by various trials, that the genuineness of your faith, being much more precious than gold that perishes, though it is tested by fire, may be found to praise, honor, and glory at the revelation of Jesus Christ." (1 Peter 1:6-7)

An ordinary person wouldn't rejoice in the face of Death; he would panic. But Christians are no ordinary people. They have crossed from death to life, all because of Jesus' substitutionary work on the Cross. In fact, Peter writes, "But you are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, His own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His marvelous light" (1 Peter 2:9).

Why should Christians rejoice in the face of persecution?

Because regardless of what trials they may face in this life, they have an "inheritance incorruptible and undefiled and that does not fade away, reserved in heaven for [them], who are kept by the power of God through faith for salvation, ready to be revealed in the last time" (1 Peter 1:4-5).

This was what the early believers did—they endured pain and hardships for Jesus. The Lord has done something to them. He has changed their lives and their purpose for living.

Reading 1 Peter has rebuked me greatly. I live in a free country where people aren't prohibited from owning Bibles or going to church or prayer gatherings. And yet many times I take these privileges for granted. I forget that outside the Philippines, many followers of Christ are being threatened, persecuted, and killed—and I don't even pray for them!

That people have risked their lives for their faith proves either of these two things: that they are deceived, disoriented, and insane fanatics, or that their testimony about the One who had suffered and died for their sins on that wooden cross is, in fact, true.

* * *

Let us pray for the persecuted Church. Head over to Open Doors or PersecutedChurch.org for details.

Be Myself

2011-11-22T09:06:00.001+08:00

I've resolved to make Christian biography and autobiography a part of my reading menu. Just recently I finished Warren Wiersbe's "Be Myself." I borrowed my copy from the church library. (Many thanks to Ate Mabelle who patiently handles my book requests.)

Warren Wiersbe is close to my heart because he wrote Prayer, Praises, and Promises. There he expounded on a particular Psalm every single day. He effectively drew out its context and application. I used the devotional for my quiet times during my third year in college, and it was used by the Lord to help me grow spiritually.

In "Be Myself", Wiersbe writes about himself. Why? He quotes Dan Hammarsjold who wrote, "The longest journey is the journey inwards." Wiersbe writes, "Maybe that's why people write them [autobiographies]: they're trying to find themselves."

Throughout the book, Wiersbe uses the metaphor of a bridge-builder to make sense out of his life. He writes, "As I look back, I can see that I've always been building bridges. Some of the bridges I've built are the kind that everybody has to build for themselves if their lives are going to be meaningful; a few of my bridges were special assignments from the Lord. If I hadn't believed that, I could never have it."

I had a grand time reading stories from his childhood. He grew up during the Depression, and he was a sickly kind of kid who had to "take a lot of cod-liver oil." He detested sports, but he liked books, calling the local library a paradise.

He writes about his passion for magic, a medium he would use to engage people to listen to the gospel. He wrote his first book on magic tricks when he was 14, a foretaste of the future, because he'd turn out to be a prolific writer in Christian magazines and literature.

In most parts of the book, he writes about the ministries where the Lord has called him, from Youth For Christ where he met the evangelist Billy Graham, to his pastoring the Calvary Baptist Church and Moody Bible Church, and his directorship of the Back to the Bible. He has faced various criticisms for handling these ministries. People have called him too fundamentalist. Others would brand him as someone who was too liberal.And yet these denominational biases did not prevent him from ministering the Word of God. He quoted Augustine of Hippo who wrote, "In essentials, unity; in doubtful matters, liberty; in all things, charity."

His life demonstrates the importance of choosing a godly wife and of balancing family life with ministry, perhaps a problem many ministers today have. He speaks highly of his wife, Betty, who has supported him in his work, making transitions from one ministry to another smooth-sailing. He writes about his friends, naming them one by one, and praising them for the good work that they have done, and the lessons they have taught him.

The book is replete with reminders for would-be pastors and preachers. This book, though, would benefit not just pastors and pastors-in-training, but any ordinary Christian. I highly recommend it.

Warren Wiersbe must be a really funny man, bursting with humility, wisdom, and love for his Savior. I wish I'd get the chance to meet him in this lifetime. But even if I don't, I'm thankful for having learned so much from him.

Week 44: Food

2011-11-21T21:25:00.001+08:00

No trip is complete without food which adds another dimension to a person's cultural experience. After all, there is some truth to the saying, "You are what you eat."

Unlike some people, I was gifted with a strong stomach. I get to try almost anything without feeling sick of indigestion. (I must confess that I suffered from stomach aches after eating roasted beetles in Isabela in 2008. I ate seven; I was told the locals ate at most three. I couldn't help myself: the beetles were crunchy and juicy.)

I did some gastronomic exploration while in Bicol. Bicolano food is almost always spicy and is cooked in gata (coconut milk). I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Gayuma ni Maria

2011-11-20T14:26:00.001+08:00

My mother is in town for the Philippine Dental Association annual convention. She makes time for these gatherings to see her two children working and studying in Manila. It's always a joy to see her, of course, and we praise God for the encouragement we get whenever we meet her.

Last night, we had dinner at Gayuma ni Maria located at Sikatuna Village, Diliman, Quezon City.

We had "There's A Crowd," which, according to the menu, is a long stick of barbeque pork in a medley of three different flavors—pandan, pineapple, and the restaurant's secret marinade sauce.

We also had "Nilasing Ni Eba Si Adan," made of pork loin in a marinade of beer and apple.

The most interesting food of the night was "Once You Go Black, You Never Go Back." It was cocoa-crusted cream dory with chocolate sauce. I didn't know chocolate and fish could taste well together, but for some reason, the flavors just blended smoothly.

Gayuma Ni Maria roughly means Love Potion of Maria. The interiors, even the music, screamed romantic love. There were red laced curtains separating tables from each other to give couples some privacy. Across our table I spotted a couple from UP PGH—which means this restaurant must be popular for courting and dating purposes. As a rule I don't like randomly bumping into couples on romantic dates—I'd feel awkward, they'd feel self-conscious, and for the next minute or so of small talk, the world would seem to stop, and in our minds, we'd all be thinking, "Please let's get this over with."

Nanay, Manong, and I didn't feel out of place, but maybe we were just too hungry. We had a hard time browsing through the menu because the font was hardly readable. Nevertheless the food was interesting. Not too explosive, though. I guess people flock to Gayuma because of the ambiance.

Total cost of the meal: around Php 600+.

Portraits: Management Rotation in Bicol

2011-11-19T06:44:00.001+08:00

I took quite a number of photos during my Bicol rotation, and while I would like to post them all here for everyone to see, I cannot. There are just too many of them.

Let's start with my favorite portraits.

She's Margie Bo Bocaya. Born in Bicol, raised in QC. Owns a mansion in Tabaco (which I didn't get to visit, unfortunately). She was my seatmate on Day Two.

Bon Buno. Kilabot ng Malvar, Batangas. One of the funniest people I know. He taught me a couple of dance moves along the way.

Jegar Catindig. If there was one person who was the least affected by the breakdown of the Cagsawa bus, it was Jegar. He slept the entire time. He flew back to Manila a day earlier, and he reported he bumped into Miss Universe runner-up Shamcey Supsup in the airport.

Elizabeth Ching. Her father and mother (Hello po, Tito and Tita!) read this blog regularly from Laguna—or so I was told. I love this windy portrait of her.

Rickman Carino. One of our block's iKids (nerdy classmates who got into UP's seven-year straight medicine program). He carried a big camera with him the entire time. One of my wretched habits is tickling him—too bad I didn't do that while we were crying for our lives in the Hanging Bridge at Lignon Hill, Legazpi.

Carlie Bozon. An iKid herself, she's officially the blockhead and, weirdly enough, the proverbial baby of the group. Her reaction when she panics is priceless. Hug her, and your problems will fade away. She also writes poetry, all inspired by and dedicated to C***.

Krushna Canlas. She bought the entire Gaisano Mall. In cash.

Carbs Bonifacio. A quotable-quote machine, I tell you. When asked how long her shorts are, she replied, "Isang dangkal and a kuko."

Leeca Caro. What would we do without Leeca? She was the Liaison Officer of this rotation. She headed the planning, brainstormed on our itinerary, and budgeted the costs. Thanks, Leeca! You're amazing—as in wow-legs amazing!

Migz Catangui. One of the twins and a great friend. He looks like an action star here.

Ivan Burog. He chronically suffers from RHD (Romantic Heart Disease). We're both early risers.

Casti Castillo. In his yacht. I told him he should resume his photography.

Myself.

Marfan Chan, hugging the stone spewed out by Mayon. He's one of the most loved figures in the block, mainly because he never runs out of answers in SGDs, and his perennial insistence that we eat at Binondo.

Joseph Brazal. His reaction when he slipped off the Hanging Bridge, potentially endangering his life and of others? Priceless. I asked him how he felt during that ordeal, he said, "Para akong daga during cervical dislocation—naiihi."

Lennie Chua. We fondly call her "Wet Look" because one day, she arrived at the wards looking exactly like that: wet.

Franco Catangui. One of the twins. Almost always writes the most thorough reports in class. He's OC like that. He called for help when our bus broke down in the middle of nowhere.

So I did take this solo portrait of Jonas, our great class president! By including this photo in his portfolio, he could qualify as a model for any eye-shadow company of his choice.

For some reason I didn't get a decent solo picture of my dear Coy Cabanilla, our local bully, because of two reasons: 1) she was very movable, and 2) she was always out with someone else. But I did ask to have a portrait with her taken at some point, so here it is—for completion's sake.

Group pictures. We had lots of 'em.

Taken at the beach.

Block Two!

Stranded.

Leeca's pre-nuptial photos: first, with Ivan.

Then with Bon.

Iiiiiiriga!

Ching, one of the boys.

Two towers, Bon and Casti, and the launching of "Kalbo, Kalbo, Masamang Tao" series.

The ladies.

Lennie, Ching, and Franco.

After updating to iOS 5, I've had a hard time syncing my iPod with Ubuntu, so I can't transfer the videos, mostly of the jumpshots. Many of them are hilarious!

The Tour: Management Rotation in Bicol, Day Three and Four

2011-11-19T05:06:00.001+08:00

It was as if it never rained the other day. Praise God! Finally the sun was up. We were all optimistic we'd be seeing Mount Mayon sans the clouds.

We ate breakfast at Bigg's Diner, the local Jollibee of Bicolandia, famous for its goto and burgers.

The place reminded me of Midtown Diner, one of my favorite places to eat lunch in Manila. The music was from the 60s. The floor tiles and wall decors were from that era as well. And the typography was excellent.

I ordered the usual breakfast combo. The sausage was flavorful. I also liked the hash brown.

We picked Krushna Canlas up from the airport. We saw the big entourage of the Ad Congress, the main reason why we weren't planning on going to the Camarines Watersports Complex (CWC)—it was fully-booked for the said gathering.

Casti, Bon, and I played card games in the van, but I had to stop because the set-up was giving me vertigo, and I was losing all the time. I also sat beside ~~Sharon Cuneta~~ Carla Bozon.

Our first stop: Cagsawa Ruins in Daraga, Albay. The structure we saw formed the topmost part of the Cagsawa Church, built after 1724 by Fray Francisco Blanco. The church was eventually buried by rocks and lava during the eruption of Mayon Volcano on February 1, 1914.

Many tourists flocked the place, including this Italian father-son pair. The father was probably giving his child a dose of Philippine history, and the child was asking so many questions. In Italian. How heartwarming.

We waited for the clouds to get out of the way so we could see the perfect Mayon peak. It did reveal itself for a couple of minutes. I was in awe of God for His marvelous creation (Psalm 104:24).

The rock and water formations were also a sight to behold.

In the souvenir and pasalubong stores, I found these—pili nuts! I ate them raw.

We did spelunking at Hoyop-hoyopan Cave in Camalig, Albay.

Famished, we had lunch at Macariola's Luncheonette, Sipi, Daraga, Albay. I ordered sotanghon. I also got to try the lomi and the pansit served in curry and gata sauce. In this restaurant—as in most places where we ate in Albay—all single-servings are practically good for two people.

We headed to Lignon Hill in Legazpi to get a panoramic view of the old city. (Click here and here for the bigger panos).

We went to the beach. The sand was ash black, a reminder of Mount Mayon's towering presence.

Oh, the sand beneath our feet!

There was a nearby Infinity Pool, and this was what they got for Php 20. At least their feet got wet!

We headed back to the hotel to freshen up for dinner to be hosted by a doctor-couple who had helped us a lot in organizing this trip, but whom we hadn't met yet.

The running joke was that it was going to be a sit-down dinner, and we had to be in long-sleeves. The ladies took the joke too seriously. They were busy picking out their clothes, applying make-up and what-have-yous in the bathroom.

We headed to the big Redoblado home, and we were greeted by Drs. Bernie and Eileen, both of whom were also PGH trained. Dr. Bernie is an orthopedic surgeon. Dr. Eileen is a radiologist. And their son, Dr. Alvin, was our resident-monitor during our Radiology rotation. They were such wonderful hosts, opening up interesting conversations, sharing their insights, and giving us tips about the practice of medicine and life in general.

It was practically a sit-down dinner. The food was catered, and there was a polite waiter beside the food trays. He didn't mind us taking seconds and thirds. The beef stroganoff was delicious. And lychees were so good we were fishing them out of the big bowl, leaving the pineapples behind.

We stayed there until 9 pm. We were entertained by their stories, mostly about their experiences during residency. A snippet of wisdom from Dr. Bernie on choosing which specialty to pick (or whether one ought to continue studying Medicine): if you can't see yourself doing that thing you do when you get to be 50, it may be time for you to find another vocation.

I immediately feel asleep in my bunk bed the moment we got back to the hotel.

On our last day, Leeca and I had unlimited breakfast at an unrecalled restaurant. I liked the champorado there. The rest of us bought pasalubong at the Legazpi Central Terminal.

Lunch was at Colonial Grill, Gaisano Mall.

I tried the famous sili (red chili), pili, and tinutong (the overcooked bottom part of rice) ice cream for the first time! I enjoyed all of them! These were practically all I had for lunch.

Our flight was at 2 pm.

Our view from the top:

Thank You, Lord, for this grand time!

Pouring Rain: Management Rotation in Bicol, Day Two

2011-11-18T06:12:00.001+08:00

When we woke up, Legazpi City was drenched in rain. The clouds showed no signs of stopping. Krushna Canlas told us her flight was cancelled. It was that bad. We pushed through with our scheduled tour anyway.

From the van we saw old churches.

The driver was amusing. I sat beside him. He would slow down when he saw me taking pictures.

LCC Mall is like SM in Albay: it's everywhere.

We visited the Pottery Industry in Tiwi, Albay.

Some of us tried making one. The workers were kind enough to teach us, and we didn't feel like we were intruding. The process looked simple enough—get a lump of clay, turn the rotating platform on, drizzle it with water, then form the desired piece with bare hands—but Joseph Brazal's jar turned out to resemble a toilet bowl.

Tiwi, Albay is known for its geothermal hot springs. We only read about the place in Sibika and Kultura back in elementary, so we were thrilled to actually visit it.

For a quick breakfast, we headed to DJC, a restaurant famous in Tiwi.

We had fried siapao which tasted a lot like meat bread.

And we wouldn't miss DJC's halo-halo. Jef emailed me to absolutely try this, "the best halo-halo in the world." The serving was generous. There were molten leche flan chunks, and there was cheese on top!

While driving back to Legazpi, the rain finally abated.

We headed to Colonnial Grill at the Gaisano Mall to try the unlimited tinapa rice. We were stuffed.

At 5 pm, we headed to Embarcadero, the shopping and dining by the bay.

We stopped at a wide road for a photoshoot. We felt the strong and cold sea breeze. We almost lost our voices there. We were shouting and laughing. We had the street to ourselves apparently. (I'm still waiting for people to upload pictures because mine were grainy.)

Before we went back to the hotel, we had videoke at the nearby bar. I got asked by a lady I only met for the first time to sing a popular Tagalog pop song with her, something I had heard for the first time. I didn't refuse. Eventually I got hold of the melody. I hope the duet turned out well. My blockmates made a big fuss out of this, calling me a lady magnet the entire night, but on hindsight, the place was dark and the lady probably had xerophthalmia.

Stranded and Rescued: Management Rotation in Bicol, Day Zero and One

2011-11-17T17:27:00.001+08:00

The Management Rotation is the highlight of Third Year (LU 5) in the UP College of Medicine. During the week-long field work, the 20-membered block picks a hospital anywhere in the country to evaluate and assess. Throughout the years it has become an excuse for a decent vacation. We know of groups from previous batches who've gone to Boracay, Davao, Baguio, and other tourist destinations in the country. Clearly we weren't planning on being the exception.

Our destination: Bicolandia.

Nine of us opted to take the 10-12 hour bus ride to Legazpi City. We wanted adventure. We wanted to feel our gluteus muscles atrophy after prolonged immobility. The rest, who probably knew better, took the 45-minute plane ride.

We got the elite bus of Cagsawa Bus Lines. The seats had recliners and were therefore comfortable, but it was freezing cold. On hindsight I should've brought a bonnet, a thick scarf, and a thermal jacket.

I sat right across Migz Catangui, one of the twins. It looked like we'd been to Tokyo.

The bus started running at 7 pm. We had a stop-over at Tiaong, Quezon two hours later. I had goto at an unrecalled restaurant.

The lights inside the bus were turned off, and we alternated between sleeping and talking. When I'd wake up, I would hear Bon Buno was singing along with the Pamulinawen and Salidommay instrumentals playing in the background.

At 2 am, the bus stopped in the middle of Ragay, Camarines Sur. We thought it was the usual bathroom break for the drivers, but those don't last for 30 minutes. When we saw other passengers leaving—in the middle of pouring rain—we felt something was wrong. The bus' air break system broke down. We had to wait for rescue for the next three hours.

We jumped off the bus and waited at the nearby gasoline station. A part of me was relieved because I was out of the cold. We waited for hours. Elizabeth Ching and Franco Catangi were playing games in their iPads. Meanwhile I fell asleep beside a gasoline pump.

A few hours later we saw the breaking of dawn: our first sunrise in Bicol. Praise be to God for keeping us safe thus far. Franco Catangui texted his relatives to have us picked up. Rescue would come at 7 am.

Meanwhile, Jegar Catindig finally awoke from his slumber. He was probably the least affected among us: he could sleep anywhere.

Thankfully we were right beside a park. In keeping with the innate Pinoy barkada culture, we had a photoshoot.

Below (from right): Franco Catangui, Bon Buno, Joseph Brazal ("Kuya"), Elizabeth Ching, Casti Castillo, and Miguel Catangui.

The bus group was an all-male band, save for Ching.

I'll upload the famous jumpshot as soon as it becomes available.

Our rescue did come: a white van that took us directly to Iriga City, Camarines Sur, where the hospital we were visiting was located. We'd meet the rest of our groupmates there.

We had a happy reunion at the Catangui ancestral home, locally known as the White House. The house was beautiful, filled with old family pictures and artworks.

The Catanguis treated us to breakfast. The set-up was so pang-mayaman.

I loved the coagulated tsokolate (hot chocolate) made with real cocoa balls melted in warm water. The tsokolate was served in charming little cups. But I enjoyed it: the flavor was rich; I even tasted bits of the cocoa balls. I had three servings.

We surveyed Lourdes Hospital, and we finished just in time for lunch. The hospital is family-run, owned and operated by the Catangui family. It's a secondary care facility that caters to the local community. We met the owner/founder, Dr. Josefin Catangui, and his son, Dr. Josefino, both of whom were very acommodating.

We were hosted to a late lunch (around 2 pm). I had laing.

And Bicol express.

Both were mouth-watering, and I was stuffed. It was the beginning of so many gastronomic adventures.

At 4 pm, we were on our way to Legazpi, some 1.5 to 2 hours away from Iriga. We passed by Daraga, Albay, home of my old friend Jef Sala. And on that cloudy and rainy day, I had my first view of the majestic Mount Mayon.

Week 43: Saturday

2011-11-12T04:41:00.000+08:00

11/11/11

2011-11-11T19:53:00.001+08:00

I saw these on my desk.

Manila, at 6:30 am: the view from my window.

Had myself enrolled. The queue was long, one of the things in UP that never change.

Spent the day listening to Management lectures.

That's pretty much how I spent my 11/11/11.

Snippets from a Sunday preaching

2011-11-07T19:09:00.003+08:00

At Higher Rock Christian Church, we're doing a pulpit series on the Book of Acts. Last Sunday, Pastor Bob Amigo taught from Acts 3, and zeroed in on Matthew 27, to shed light on Peter's preaching.

The all-important question that every human being is confronted with is, "What will you do with Jesus, who is called Christ?" Our answer to this has significant, even eternal, consequences.

I pray you can set aside 14 minutes of your time to listen to this snippet of a recording from last Sunday's preaching.

Many thanks to Kito Espiritu for editing this.

Week 44: My first 24-hour duty

2011-11-05T14:23:00.000+08:00

"This will be the first time I'll be seeing your face get oily," I told Carla Bonifacio, gifted with one of the freshest, most beautiful faces in class, as we awaited further instructions. Franco Catangui, one of the iPad twins, stifled a laughter, amused. It was our first 24-hour duty experience, a historical first in our medical training, and we felt a mixture of excitement and dread.

We had a call at the Emergency Room at 6 pm. We were assigned under Intern Janina Pao, a sweet, bespectacled higher-up who didn't mind answering our questions and who let us chill the night out, if we wanted. She didn't mind us butting in while she interviewed a 60-something patient who burned himself. We managed to drag her to a quick dinner at Wendy's where she gave us tips and reminders, things they don't write about in textbooks. We would accompany her for the rest of the night.

Were we toxic magnets (a term referring to medical students who attract the hardest and most number of cases)? We had one patient so far, but the night was young. Psychiatric cases could barge in the emergency room, especially in the wee morning hours.

As we were headed back to Ward 7, Dr. Larimer Hugo, our resident-in-charge, jokingly told us, "Let's hope we've met our quota for the night." After all, more patients admitted mean more work.

Inside the call room, Carbs, Franco, and I talked about anything and everything. We had board games, and we managed to squeeze in a four-hour sleep. At 5 am, we accompanied the intern to the OB-Gyne Deparment where a victim of sexual assault was waiting to be interviewed. We weren't going to do any paperwork on this, but we just wanted to go with her.

A few minutes before our 24-hour study ended, I thought of what happened during the night: we only had one patient in Emergency Room who was sent home with medications. Nope, we weren't toxic magnets.

I sleepily looked at Carbs' face again. It was nowhere near oily.

Many thanks to Ate Jack and Dr. Hugo for the unforgettable learning experience; and to Marvyn Chan and Jonas Bico who, at 2 am, delivered cold drinks.

Walk-through

2011-11-03T06:53:00.003+08:00

Boredom often begets creativity, and I like to think that was what happened to me a couple of days ago, when I went out of my apartment, taking pictures of anything and everything under the sun. I want to share with you how my living environment looks like, right smack in the center of Philippine politics, pollution, flooding, and street crime.

My old building is beside the Manila Science High School, home of nerds who used to win televised quiz shows when I was younger.

An old building along Kalaw Street is being renovated. They're turning this into a boutique hotel of sorts. The facade looks Parisian.

The Philippine economy, for all its worth, probably has sidewalk stalls like this as its business model.

Are those rolls of film the man is carrying?

A fallen leaf on the sidewalk. Too bad we don't have autumn in this country—just plain rain-and-shine.

An old woman strolls in the park. Walking by myself clears my mind and helps my thinking.

Here are bright red colors in a sea of green, just the right photograph to end this photoset.

While the rest of 'em visited the dead . . .

2011-11-01T22:53:00.001+08:00

Spent the entire day in Quezon City, reading Michael Cunningham's The Hours. The novel revolves around three characters: Clarissa, a bohemian 50-year old who organizes a party for a friend, almost her lover at one point in time; Virginia (as in Woolf), the writer recovering from her mental instability at Richmond, dying to go back to London where much of the action is; and Laura, a wife who takes on the challenge of baking the perfect cake for her husband. Cunningham's prose is breathtaking; he writes beautifully, and this is probably why I enjoyed this book so much--the fascination at how a writer can capture the most palpable emotions through carefully chosen words.

Consider, for instance, these lines:

Yes, Clarissa thinks, it's time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep--it's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident, and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will invitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.

The three stories become intertwined in the end, a masterful and subtle ending that made Kuya John Dasmarinas, who lent me his copy, literally "fall from his seat." Michael Cunningham was awarded the Pulitzer for this short novel. Well deserved obviously. On hindsight I would've have enjoyed the book more had I read Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway first. I hope I get to see the movie, too, starring Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, and Nicole Kidman.

Like I said, I'm rotating in Pyschiatry now, and I decided to take on Sigmund Freud's Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria. I saw an old paperback in my brother's bookshelf. Dora is a pseudonym for the 18-year old patient who presented with somatic symptoms and whose history of illness was rather interesting. Here Freud explores the etiology of the hysteria through psychoanalysis, a technique he developed and helped perfect.

Many things I read here make sense because the terms are mainstays in psychiatric case discussions. I think Freud, despite all the debates and controversies regarding his work, is an excellent writer. No question about that.

My brother and Kuya John volunteered to cook dinner for us. This is bruschetta with tomato and basil, seasoned with some pepper.

It was served with pasta, topped with anchovies and basil, sprinked generously with olive oil.

Renan and I prepared the drinks: Coke with sliced lemon.You should try this combination, our latest discovery after eating at Waying. I volunteered to wash the dishes, which I do excellently by the way. (After cleaning the dirty mouse cages for my undergrad thesis, the pile of plates in the kitchen didn't look daunting.)

Kuya Arbie Magno and Ate Lavinia de Velez joined us for dinner, too, and I had a great time catching up with these old friends. Ate Vinz told me I've gotten fatter--in a good way, she said, and forced me to chronicle my funniest experiences in the hospital.

Tomorrow: the real world.

Review: Jipan Japanese Bakeshop

2011-10-31T17:26:00.003+08:00

My lunch today was at Jipan Japanese Bakeshop located at the Upper Ground Floor, Building A, SM Megamall. I learned of this place through Atty. Connie Veneracion's blog where she wrote:

Some restaurants we try out of curiosity. If we don’t like the food or the service, or if the prices are way out of proportion with the quality of the food, we don’t go back. If we like the food, service and price, the restaurant becomes a habit. Jipan is one those habits.

I dragged Manong Ralph with me, and it was a first time for both of us. What almost always happens is that I research interesting places to eat, while he pays the bills. That happened today.

Jipan is a small, unassuming restaurant, with about four or five tables. The place was quiet when we came in, probably because it was a holiday, and people were at home in the provinces, visiting their dead. The waitress patiently guided us through the menu, consisting mostly, but not exclusively, of Japanese food.

There were a number of bread preparations to choose from, and the prices were reasonable. I was told the bread here tastes way better than they have at BreadTalk. I was about to find out.

Manong wasn't hungry and ordered tuna sashimi.

I got the Apple and Ham Sandwich Served in Monroe Bread.

I shrieked in delight when I took my first bite. Ham and apples together? It was my latest gastronomic discovery, as life-changing as the lemon Coke — Coke served with slices of lemon, admixed with crushed ice — I drank at Waying Restaurant in Binondo two days ago.

We were stuffed and happy.

I didn't want to leave without trying out the bread, so I got a piece of the Green Tea Croissant. Blew my mind.

Total cost of the meal: less than Php 500. We'll be back to try out the other stuff in the menu.

As an aside, I really praise God for His providence. Come to think of it, the good food set on the table, the capacity of my tongue to savor and enjoy these flavors, the molecular mechanisms that the GI tract performs to make use of the nutrients for my well-being — all these have been made possible by Him.

* * *

After lunch we went to Booksale and found an autographed, hardbound The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon for Php 170. Unbelievable.

My brother is upstairs, reading, ready to hurl me out of the room if I attempted to distract him.

Week 43: Lost glory

2011-10-29T12:02:00.001+08:00

Everyone's away for the four-day weekend, the streets are peaceful, and I kind of wish it were like this every time because hard as it may be to accept, one of Manila's major problem is congestion—forgive the subtle reference to sinusitis—and the truth is that the less people there are, the easier city life becomes. Except that it is precisely during these occasions—the Holy Week or the All Souls' and Saints' Day—when I'm left alone in my apartment, drowned in eternal silence.

I'm having mixed feelings. And what do I do now with my excessive free time?

I remembered I haven't gone to Rizal Park in years. At 8 am this morning, I jumped out of bed, changed into running gear, and walked until I got there. Took me around 15 minutes. Rizal Park used to be what the malls are today: the major hang-out place, where families gathered and did picnics on Sundays, where people met their classmates and friends and officemates, where lovers dated and held hands, where the city dwellers converged for a relaxing time. That has all changed, of course, for the Park has long since deteriorated into something less, inevitably reflecting the gradual fading away of Manila's old glory, the envy of many cities around the world.

Ask an old resident today, and he will tell you that Manila was so much better then, so much cleaner and richer. And his voice will resonate the frustration of many of his kind, the sector of the population that experienced the city's golden years but also saw her decline. All in one lifetime. Something has gone wrong—but what is it exactly? Our corrupt leaders, the Marcos dictatorship, the World Bank, ourselves? Kids in school have written essays about this, and this question has been analyzed by PhDs, but somehow, the answer still evades us. After years of independence, where are we now as a nation?

My feet took me to old pavements and buildings. I saw poor people sleeping on the benches, police officers smoking underneath the trees, and a group of men arguing over something, possibly politics. There were tourists, too, who didn't know where they were going but who seemed happy anyway—they were under the sun. I was amused at the excited kindergarten kids in their yellow uniforms, riding the stinky kalesa. And I considered having a picture taken by the old photographers in faded vests, now carrying point-and-shoots instead of the heavy film SLRs, but I did not—they charged excessively.

What I saw was a wasted opportunity, and I, too, felt the frustration and anger—maybe you could call it that. Manila could have been great, this country could have been prosperous, but the opportunity has long since left us, our moment has passed, like a comet that has crossed our orbit, never to return again—at least, not in a very long time. And all we did, or they did, was let that opportunity pass. Just like that.

I had my breakfast—siomai soaked in soy sauce, drizzled with fried garlic—in one of the meal stands, and I gulped it down with a cold serving of sago't gulaman. Jed Madela's ballads were playing in the background, and as I looked around, my mind was drowned with so many why's and what-ifs.

Psyched

2011-10-28T17:38:00.003+08:00

Maybe it's a good thing that our block's rotation schedule mimics the normal rhythm: we're on our Psychiatry rotation during the semestral break. Doesn't feel like we're deprived of anything. Psychiatry has been uneventful so far, no backbreaking work, no demanding paperwork, no nothing when you think about it, and the enjoyment mostly comes from actual patient encounters.

I'm glad to finally learn what Psychiatry is all about; it's listening to patient's stories and making sense of them. Clarity of mind, the consultants say, is what we all should have. How can we make sense of others when we can't make sense of ourselves? Listening can get stressful, and as I inquire about my patient's feelings and wait for her to finish her train of thought, dotted with psychotic remarks that are mostly amusing, I find myself admiring psychiatrists more and more. They do this for a living, risking their sanity to help those who have lost theirs.

I must confess that I don't see myself here—a premature statement I might regret later, but that's what I feel. More than anything, Psychiatry is a calling, and I don't hear any voices, not yet.

Contrary to popular thinking, thanks to the ever accurate depiction of this discipline in popular media, psychiatric patients don't all look like Anthony Hopkins, don't sound like Hannibal Lecter, don't intend to kill every living person they see. The first encounter of a psychiatric patient can get quite scary, of course, but there's always the first time. Somehow, as in most things, you just get used to it, but you'll be surprised, as some residents claim, that many patients will still surprise you.

A patient walks around the corridor, saying "I love you" to every person she sees.

A patient breaks into a loud song: "Salamaaaaaat, PGH!"

A patient claims to be Sto. Nino or Jesus Christ or the Virgin Mary.

A patient, when asked what he'd do if there was a fire in the cinema, answered, "Magluluto ako ng popcorn."

A patient breaks into a fit, saying, "Hindi ako kulot, hindi ako salot, kinky lang." (Humor untranslatabe—sorry, foreign readers.)

It's not just the patients who are amusing; it's also us. We've had a couple of boo-boos ourselves. I'm not mentioning names, but a classmate reported in his mental status exam findings that his "patient maintained good eye contact with her eyes closed." Best observation ever.

The same classmate also noted that "the patient appeared neat but also unkempt."

Meanwhile let me share some photos.

Joseph Brazal revisits his patient's chart in Ward 7.

Bon Buno is jotting down his observations. Psychiatry is notorious for long, detailed histories, a far cry from Surgery where HPIs (History of Present Illness) can be as written in less than two lines.

Margie Bocaya is our liaison officer in this rotation. Doing a great job so far.

It's an hour past lunch, and the ward feels soporific. Patients are usually sleepy around this time. I like seeing my patient in the morning before the 8 am ward meeting where cases are discussed and evaluated.

We successfully convinced Dr. Vista to treat us for snacks after his lecture on Emergency Psychiatry. We weren't exactly impressive, just charming.

Lizzy Ching and "Wet Look" Lennie Chua are on duty today. I might drop by to see the singing patient they told me about, admitted last night because of manic episodes. I was told that the patient breaks into song, making the mental status examination sound like a musical.

From right: Ching, Lennie, Krushna, Migz, Bon, Joseph, Casti, and Checkered. I write often about my block I might just do a personality sketch of each of them. One of these days, if that day ever comes.

Our iKids, an endearing name we call our Intarmeds (geeky kids who were able to get into the seven-year straight medicine program of UP), confessed to having psychiatric problems of their own, mostly Obsessive Compulsive Disorders when they were younger. They're all so grown up now.

The point of this photo is to show that Carlie Bozon, our blockhead, isn't paying attention, busy chatting in the background.

Dr. Vista shared his life story, how he came to be a psychiatrist, how his practice is, what tips he can give us, and we thanked him for the donuts, for the chocolate drink, for his feeding program, for his time. We all went home after this, and we spotted Glaiza de Guzman and some of our friends from our previous block, now rotating in Surgery.

That's pretty much it. If only medschool were like Third Year every time. First year was boring, Second was hard, Third Year overflows with awesomeness.

More photos here.

Sixty

2011-10-26T19:00:00.002+08:00

We're not big on birthdays, our family. But my father celebrating his 60th year on earth—now that's extra-special. Weeks ago I planned on writing Tatay a letter, scribbled with my own handwriting, to be sent via post. But I forgot all about the surprise until this morning, when I looked at my phone and realized it's too late for big gestures. Today is that time of the year, October 26. My father's birthday.

When you're 60, people aren't hesitant to call you old because you are just that: an old man, but wiser, more sensible, more enlightened than the oily-faced teenager on the street.

There's something about being 60, the sealing age for old-ness, that makes it worth celebrating. Turning 60 is like finishing the mid-section of a novel and entering the last chapters to usher the end of the story. You don't throw the book away just because you've reached the climax; you keep on reading because you know something more exciting can happen, even in the last few pages.

And we will celebrate my father's birthday because this is a special man we're taking about, the one whose haploid set of chromosomes was partly responsible for my present genetic make-up, whose encouragement has kept me going through all these years, whose example has led me closer to the Lord.

I called him up after class, eagerly waiting for him to answer his phone, which he always leaves in the house when he goes to his afternoon gym session. (Months ago he availed of membership in a local fitness center at a cheap fee, basically because he's friends with the owner, if I'm not mistaken.)

“Happy birthday, Tay!” I said.

“Thank you, Bon. You're munching on something,” he said.

I was eating biscuits while holding the phone. “Would you like to try some, Tay?” I asked.

He laughed in the other line, one of the best sounds on earth, and so infectious, too, it can blow my sorrows away in an instant.

“I just finished my cardio program today,” he told me. Since he was diagnosed with hypertension—I was appalled to hear about his elevated blood pressure, 120/90—he started getting serious on his work-outs. He goes biking every morning, when he doesn't do work at the farm. One time he reached Davao City, a four-hour drive from Koronadal, with his biking buddies. He hardly ever absents from his gym class, going to it more religiously than I ever do in my classes in med school. He certainly didn't pass on the athletic gene to me, if there's such a thing that exists.

“So what are your plans for tonight?” I asked.

He told me he was treating some churchmates with snacks after their 6 pm weekly prayer meeting. My mother was away for a conference, and my brother Sean was out, ordering the roasted chicken he requested.

My father's a simple man with simple joys. He goes to the mall in his pambahay t-shirt and slippers. Hardly buys anything for himself, except for shoes which he splurges upon, once every ten years. Likes watching films with lots of action-packed scenes and less of the read-between-the-lines kind of conversations which inevitably bore him to sleep.

Before I hung up, I told him how I praise the Lord for giving me the best father in the world. “What more can I ask for?” I said.

I heard a pause that lasted seconds, and then a deep breath, which ushered in a trembling, hushed voice, “And you're the best son in the world. Thank you, Bon.”

“Really? I'm the best? Manong and Sean would get jealous of me,” I said.

“You're all the best,” he said.

“You're getting older every year, Tay.”

He said, “It's all by God's grace.”

“Not everyone gets to be 60. That's really something,” I said.

“And if they do,” he added, “many of them already had strokes and are paralyzed. But God has been so good. Despite my sins, He has remained faithful. Amazing, amazing grace, indeed.”

Week 42: Heartbeat

2011-10-23T16:03:00.001+08:00

I attended the Heartbeat for Christ Conference, a gathering of Christian medical students from Metro Manila, from October 21-22 at the Philippine Campus Crusade for Christ National Office in Quezon City. The theme was "Breaking Free," lifted from John 3:36, "He whom the Son sets free is free indeed."

I served in the Registration/Food/Finance Committee, and I am thankful for my faithful friends—Abby Ortal, Lowie Calimag, Ruby King, JC Malabad, and Aeron dela Cruz—for helping out. I am grateful, too, for Hannah and Khei, both from UE, who volunteered to make the IDs and help out in the registration.

As always, it gave me great encouragement to see like-minded people from other schools, praising the Lord with songs and serving Him with gladness. We even had the opportunity to visit hospitals—my group went to the Philippine Orthopedic Center—and share the gospel to the sick.

One of the greatest pleasures in life is hearing how the Lord has done great and mighty things in the lives of the people you call friends. I must admit that apart from our weekly prayer meetings, I really don't know enough about the people in our Christian group. But God, in His sovereignty, gave me the opportunity to do just this—to know them more—as friends told parts of their life stories in between breaks. They shared how they came to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ, what lessons the Lord had been teaching them recently, how the Lord is daily transforming them to be more like Christ. It was these moments that formed the highlight of my two-day stay, and my heart was brimming with thanksgiving and praise at the faithfulness of Jesus, the "author and finisher of our faith" (Hebrews 12:2).

I was particularly blessed to finally get to talk with a close friend from my MBB days. She is now professing faith in Jesus. When I asked her what things have changed after she came to know the Lord personally, she told me, "You of all people should know how I was back in college." And the change has been dramatic. I was reminded of Ezekiel 36:26, "I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." May she continue to grow more in her knowledge and love of the Christ.

To God be all glory, honor, and praise!

More photos in my Multiply album.

Somethin' Fishy

2011-10-19T08:15:00.001+08:00

The plan was to leave later in the evening to catch the unlimited breakfast buffet at Somethin' Fishy, a restaurant at the heart of Eastwood, Quezon City. What was originally planned to be a bonding activity for our block turned out to be a boys' night-out after the ladies backed out at the very last minute. We missed their company, of course.

Eat-all-you-can offerings are notorious for two things: there aren't enough food choices or the food tastes bland. I'm still baffled by the economics of how these establishments operate, too: don't they ever lose money? But the fact that many dining places of this nature have cropped up recently proves they earn more than they lose. It's a booming business, so to speak.

Somethin' Fishy has a captive audience: call center agents who work near the area . . . or adventurous medical students like us who'd rather spend the glorious, almost stress-free nights of Third Year Medicine, eating out in faraway places.

Thankfully there was a wide range of food served at Somethin' Fishy, and they tasted pretty good. I had the pancakes first.

I had a generous serving of fruits—chopped bananas in syrup and crunchy apple slices—for more healthy goodness.

For protein I had sausages which were surprisingly flavorful. I had sardines, sweet beef slices, and ham. I loaded with scrambled egg, of course. If there's one take-home message I'd like to give it's this: the scrambled egg was amazing.

You can have as many plates as you want and you can go back to the buffet table as often as you want—and you have all the time in the world: the place is open from 12:01 am to 10 am, if I'm not mistaken. But according to Migz Catangui, the secret to buffets is to "pace yourself accordingly."

We came there on a ~~Tuesday night~~ Wednesday morning, so there weren't too many people. I was told the place is packed on weekends.

Breakfast eat-all-you-can costs Php 160. An additional Php 60 is charged for bottomless iced too, which, to me, tasted very sweet. Next time I'd rather just have water instead.

I got home at 3:30 am. I still woke up at 6 am. My circadian rhythm is freakishly on time.

Many thanks to my good friend, Casti Castillo, for organizing the event. I thank my friends, too, for dropping by my building to fetch me at midnight. I fell asleep I almost didn't make it.

Head over to Multiply for more photos of us eating.

Christ is the center

2011-10-17T19:33:00.001+08:00

Christ the Center, published by Harper Collins, is a collection of lectures given by Protestant preacher Dietrich Bonhoeffer during the summer semester (May-July) in 1933 at the University of Berlin. In these talks, Bonhoeffer stressed the importance of having the correct knowledge of who Jesus Christ is. In one of his letters, he wrote, "The world's coming of age . . . is better understood than it understands itself, namely on the basis of the Gospel and in the light of Christ."

It must be noted, however, that the texts were reconstructed from the notes of Eberhard Bethge and a few of his students who actually sat down in those lectures. According to Edwin H. Robertson, the translator of this work, these lectures are important because "they stand between the developing theologian influence by all that he had read and thought on the great doctrinal issues, and the leader of the resistance, who was determined that this resistance would be theological rather than political." Bonhoeffer, of course, is known for founding the Confessing Church, part of the Christian resistance against Nazism.

The lectures were divided into three major parts: the first dealt with Christ being present in the Word, the Sacrament, and the Church; the second part dealt with the historical Christ (Bonhoeffer also extensively explained the flaws of various heresies pertaining to the humanity and diety of Jesus Christ). The third part was supposed to be on the Eternal Christ, but there were no traces of notes, and this portion was left blank.

According to Roberston, "In these lectures on christology, Bonhoeffer is not prepared to find a category for Christ. His questions are not, 'How is it possible for Christ to be both man and God?' His question about Christ is never, 'How?', but always, 'Who?' . . . Every avenue of his thinking leads him to confront Christ and ask, 'Where art thou, Lord?' or to be confronted by Christ and hear his question, 'Whom do you say that I am?'"

Bonhoeffer's lectures reflect the amount of time and effort he spent wrestling with important questions that would form the solid Biblical foundation of his ministry. The lectures themselves are hard to swallow all at once, but he wrote them in the simplest terms possible, such that an ordinary reader like me can comprehend at least some of them. Compared to the more emotional Bonhoeffer I came to know in the book, Prisoner for God (you can read it in this blog entry), this work shows his brilliance as a theologian and a professor.

Many times I asked myself how it must have felt like, listening to a man like him. Thankfully, one of his students, Otto Dudzus, wrote this poignant description:

He looked like a student himself when he mounted the platform. But then what he had to say so gripped us all that we were no longer there to just listen to this very young man, but we were there because of what he had to say—even though it was dreadfully early in the morning.

Here are some of my favorite quotes from the book.

On Christ as the center of human existence:

In the fallen world, the center is also the boundary. Man stands between law and fulfilment. He has the law, but he cannot fulfil it. Now Christ stands where man has failed before the law. Christ as the centre means that he is the fulfilment of the law. So he is in turn the boundary and judgement of man, but also the beginning of his new existence, its centre. Christ as the centre of human existence means that he is the judgement and justification of man. (p.61)

On miracles and faith:

Belief in miracles is no more than believing the evidence of one's eyes in visible Epiphany. When I acknowledge a miracle nothing happens to me. But faith is there when a man so surrenders himself to the humiliated God-Man that he bets his life on him, even when this seems against all sense. Faith is when the search for certainty out of visible evidence is given up. Then it is faith in God and not in the world. The only assurance which faith accepts is the Word itself, which comes to me through Christ. (p. 110)

On the Church of Christ:

The Church gazes always only at the humiliated Christ, whether it itself is exalted or made low. It is not good when the Church is anxious to praise itself readily for its humble state. Equally, it is not good for it to boast of its power and its influence too soon. It is only when the Church humbly confesses its sins, allows itself to be forgiven and confesses its Lord. Daily must it receive the will of God from Christ anew. It receives it because of the presence of the incarnate, the humiliated and the exalted one. Daily, this Christ becomes a stumbling block to its hopes and wishes. Daily, it stumbles at the words afresh, 'You will all be offended because of me' (Matthew 26:31). And daily it holds anew to the promise, 'Blessed is he who is not offended in me' (Matthew 11:6). (p. 113)

Many thanks to my good friend, Frances Bocobo, for lending me a copy.

Saturday night dinner: Burger Project and Sancho Churreria

2011-10-15T21:29:00.000+08:00

A phase is what this probably is: my recent food adventures, fueled largely by a schedule free from excessive academic work. Except for the upcoming Management rotation in Bicol, these past two weeks are probably the closest I'll get to a decent sem break this year.

I'm blogging from my brother's apartment, and I'm stuffed. We just had dinner at Burger Project, a restaurant along Maginhawa Street, Teachers' Village, an area now bursting with life because of the recent emergence of places to hang out. This street used to be quieter when I was in college at UP Diliman.

Burger Project's unique concept is a lot like that of Starbucks, but only applied in burgers. You design your burger to your liking--the buns, toppings, sauce, and other add-ons--and you pay a corresponding fee for whichever you choose. The waiter gives you a checklist at the counter. Meat? Chicken? or Tofu? And what about the toppings? Jalapeno pepper? Chili con carne? It feels a lot like a short exam. At the end of the form is a blank where you're asked to give a name to your burger. As soon as your order is ready, the waiter announces the name aloud for everyone to hear. Mine was called "Amazeballs."

I had my brother and Renan Laru-an as company for dinner. Renan is an old friend, and for years, one of my brother's housemates. I'm proud to say that he has recently been accepted in the History of Art with Material Studies Program of the History of Art Deparment, University College London. He'll be leaving for the UK anytime soon. Clearly so much is in store for him.

I don't remember the entire details of my burger. I do know I checked tofu, lettuce, jalapeno pepper, pesto sauce, and the standard burger bun with sesame seeds.

Manong's burger which he named, "Bottled Brain," to spite me.

Renan's, which he called, "Congrats Beh."

We had dessert at the nearby pastry store, Sancho Churreria.

The churros was delicious. Not really spectacular, though.

Praise be to God for these undeserved blessings.

Review: Assad Café

2011-10-14T20:39:00.001+08:00

The apartment was empty when I came home from class. It was depressing.

So I put on a shirt and old jeans and walked along UN Avenue, which is just near where I live. I was going to eat dinner at an Indian restaurant in Paco called Assad Café, a place I only knew because of this blog entry.

It was my first time to see the other side of UN Avenue (Taft Avenue being the reference point), and I felt like a tourist again. I was surprised, for example, to learn that there was a big Philippine Christian Book Store branch nearby. And I saw an office of the Philippine Bible League, with lots of beautiful Bibles on display. These stores are just a stone's throw away from where I live. And the realization hit me once more: that I live in Manila, but I hardly know the place.

From Taft Avenue, it took me about 15 minutes to walk all the way to Assad Café. From the outside the place looked ordinary, like a typical airconditioned eatery. If I had not read the review, for example, I wouldn't think of the place as an Indian restaurant.

There were only two customers when I arrived. The place was quiet: no music playing in the background, just the sound of human chatter. I was glad I brought along my book with me, Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Feet, which I read while waiting for my order. Needless to say the characters of the novel are Indian.

So what did I order? First let me thank the kind lady who helped me through the process. When faced with cluelessness as regards the menu, my technique is to ask for the bestseller, and if that's to my liking—that is, if it sounds interesting enough—I proceed with the order. I almost always get something that sounds different, something I haven't tasted before.

I had Beef Quorma, a delicious Indian curry meal, which I ate with Chapati, a thin brown bread to be dipped into the sauce.

Did I want the Quorma to be spicy? The lady gave me three choices, "very spicy, medium, or not spicy." I chose the "medium," which turned out to be just right for my taste.

Consistent with the Indian tradition, I ate with my hands. It was surreal. The beef was soft and some tender parts were falling off. The flavor was fantastic.

I ordered Sweet Lassi Shake as my drink. Lassi is a yogurt-based beverage. It tasted like rancid milk at first, but after a few sips, I began to like it: an interesting combination of sweet and sour.

I was stuffed. Just as I was about to finish, an Indian family came in and occupied the table next to mine. This was the time when my stomach started to grumble—borborgymi, being the more medical term. I should've known: I'm lactose intolerant. I should've skipped the Lassi. On second thought, though, I was glad I didn't, or I would've missed the experience altogether.

Before I left, I went to the waitress and asked what the rest of the family ordered. She looked at me quizzically, and I had to explain that I'd be trying out Mutton Biryani next time. I will most definitely come back—hopefully with friends.

Total cost of meal: Php 200+.

Hidden meanings

2011-10-14T07:11:00.003+08:00

Yesterday afternoon, on the comfortable Radiology Department lounge, my friends were debating on whether I should change the name of my site to something else.

"Bottled brain—what does that mean anyway?" Bon Buño asked me. I know that some of my classmates read my blog on a daily basis, and it's a privilege to waste their time, but Bon isn't one of them. He hardly goes online, and when he does, it's only because of group work deadlines.

"I just like the sound of it," I said.

"You should change it to something more . . . sizzling. To attract more readers, you know? And so that you'd sound really hot. Change it to something like . . . Paranoid Pepper," he said.

People around me picked the conversation up—the acoustics can be explained by the smallness of the lounge—and joined in. I asked them what they thought Bottled Brain meant. I didn't like the attention, of course, but the look on my classmates' faces as they searched into their souls, looking for hidden meaning that was not really there, was priceless.

"It's like Lance preserving his thoughts on a bottle for everyone to see. Because glass is transparent." To which someone replied, "But not all glass is transparent. Sprite bottles are green and they're not totally transparent. There are amber bottles, too, that are translucent—there's a difference."

"His brain has been soaked in formalin."

"He's sharing an important part of himself to the world." To which someone said, "That must be a pretty small brain . . . something that can fit in a bottle."

But the most memorable interpretation: "Maybe it's like Lance's message in a bottle. All his thoughts are contained there. And he lets it float in an endless sea, and someone may pick the bottle and get something from it." That was from Bon himself.

And, yes, I promised my friends I'd blog about this conversation.

Review: Pizza Nero

2011-10-11T08:42:00.003+08:00

After a big meeting on our upcoming sex education lecture for high school students last night, I approached Lennie Chua and Elizabeth Ching, "Let's eat dinner."

They asked me where.

"Where our feet will take us," I answered, to which they excitedly said, "Let's go."

Eventually Lee-Ann Caro, Krushna Canlas, Margie Bocaya, and Casti Castillo joined us. Unfortunately some friends weren't able to make it—they either just wanted to rest or they had romantic dates lined up for the evening. Mostly the latter.

That's the joy of having time to spare, I guess, a thought made alien to us by the jampacked schedule and unavoidable stresses of medical school. But now that we're on our radiology rotation—something we cherish because, for once, we're taking a two-week break from actually seeing and examining real patients, limiting ourselves to a cold room viewing X-ray or CT plates—we have time, quality time, to go out and explore the streets of Manila.

We decided we didn't want to eat at Robinson's Mall, so we aimlessly roamed around the periphery. We took a turn to Adriatico Street and spotted a Korean restaurant. The waiter was about to reserve a table for us, until we decided the price was too prohibitive for, uhm, student allowance standards. (Note that we have a couple more restaurants to visit this week, and we didn't want to splurge immediately.)

Lennie had an idea, "~~Café~~ Pizza Nero. It's along Adriatico corner Padre Faura Streets." She said the sisig was amazing. We immediately said yes.

The place was an unassuming inuman venue. There was no airconditioning. The air was humid. And the music was blaring that we had to shout to be heard. Around us people were drinking, some were smoking. But we were told the food was good, so we stayed anyway.

Here's the Sizzling Mixed Barbecue (Php 135) Lee-Ann and I ordered. All meal orders, with a few exceptions, are good for two people, so it'd be prudent to share them. Ours didn't come with rice, so we had to order that, too, for Php 15 a cup. It tasted great: spicy and sweet at the same time. I liked munching on the onions, too. This turned out to be the best meal of the night.

Others ordered this sizzling plate of hotdog slices, mixed with spices and vegetables. Tasted great, too.

I tried the chicken sisig Lennie had recommended. It was delicious, but it wasn't as spectacular as I thought it would be.

The place is also famous for its pizza and pasta, which I'd like to try one of these days.

All in all, it was a great meal. Price range: around Php100 - 200.

Also, you may opt not to come in school uniform.

Week 41: Active listening

2011-10-10T16:01:00.000+08:00

First day of Radiology rotation. It's all images and no patient interaction for the next two weeks.

Review: Nomnomnom Happy Place

2011-10-09T17:57:00.001+08:00

If he's not rushing to go home after church, Manong Ralph treats me to a sumptuous lunch. He's been doing this since he started working a couple of weeks ago. Having been a student himself, he knows that my weekly allowance runs quite low on weekends. I don't know how much he makes, and he refuses to divulge the said information, because I might just ask him to buy me a two-door refrigerator.

Most of the time he lets me decide where we'd spend lunch. The thing with me is that while I think of myself as adventurous in terms of trying out food choices, I'm not adventurous enough. My choices are limited. I'm loyal to the good places I had been to, and I'm not the type to look for new places for the sake of experience. I tend to believe reviews from word-of-mouth. Only last night did I try to search the internet for the restaurant reviews in major areas of Metro Manila.

"So where do you want to eat?" he asked.

I whipped up my notebook. "Nomnomnom Happy Food. I looked for reviews online. It's along 1 Tomas Morato cor E. Rodriguez Ave. Besides Shell Gas Station. That's very near the church," I said. And we were on our way.

We found this charming place. It was 11:30 am when we got there. The restaurant opens at 12 noon apparently, but the kind lady let us in anyway.

Inside we saw these frames on the white wall. The place felt homey.

I only see Manong once or twice a week. I live in Manila, while he prefers to keep his Quezon City apartment, living with friends whom I, too, consider practically as family.

We had ravioli as appetizer. Inside was kangkong admixed with a generous amount of cheese.

I ordered Tofu, part of my resolve to eat healthier meals, something that only occurred to me after watching the Super Size Me (2010) documentary by Morgan Spurlock. I especially liked the aftertaste.

Manong had Lime Chicken with Alfredo Sauce. He let me have a big slice. The sourness was just right, and the chicken was soft and tender.

For dessert we had the macaroons and green tea with mint. I was inspired to order this because of an article by Mr. London Street. The tea—forgive the analogy—tasted a lot like toothpaste . . . but I don't know, everything just tasted heavenly. This is what I like about mixing and matching food: you'll be surprised at how the combination tastes like. Like ketchup and soy sauce. Or peanut butter and Cheeze Whiz. But maybe that's just me.

All in all, I enjoyed the dining experience here. There was room for quiet conversation. The service was quick. The ambiance was similar to English or Greek countryside. The entire staff was accommodating. The place was accessible by commuting. The price was also just right.

Total cost of the meal: around Php 500.00. I'll definitely have a second visit because something good always happens here—at least according to this signage. Neat typography, by the way.

Praise be to God who gave the wonderful culinary gift to the chefs and owners of this small restaurant.

Under the rain

2011-10-09T06:31:00.003+08:00

I woke up hungry at 9 pm. I slept through what remained of my afternoon. I was tired after a day of taking blood pressure measurements, among other things. I decided to go out and explore new places, wondering where my itching feet would take me. It was almost 10:30 pm. I hailed the first jeepney I saw. It was raining. Didn't carry an umbrella with me. So there I was, walking along the streets, soaked, enjoying every minute of it. Heard random conversations during my commute. Saw lost teenagers in pitch-black alleys. Until I found an inviting restaurant along Vito Cruz and ordered these. Praise God for the wonderful time!

Week 40: My first medical mission

2011-10-08T21:52:00.003+08:00

I spent most of my Saturday on an evangelistic medical mission at a community in Frisco, Quezon City. After three years of being in med school, this was the first time I had ever been on one. I had a great experience with Jana Mier (posing with me in the photo) and Grace Penserga (taking care of the makeshift pharmacy), all first timers, too! I thank the Lord for His sustaining grace and the gift of many faithful friends.

On treating human beings, not diseases

2011-10-07T16:42:00.000+08:00

The mantra is for a doctor to view patients not as diseases but as human beings who happen to be suffering from something. I've heard this being trumpeted time and again in our Art of Medicine lectures—a subject only recently injected in the UP curriculum because of previous feedback that while UP graduates are competent and knowledgeable of the treatment protocols, no question about that, they severely lack bedside manners.

Interestingly, though, there is a major disconnect between what is preached in the classroom from what my friends and I sometimes see in the wards: patients are treated as less than human (the situation today isn't as bad as before, or so I was told). Doctors would address them, not by their given names, but by the diagnosis that had been stamped on their health records. In a sense, one cannot fault the heath care providers—they are overworked and underpaid. But this dehumanization, perhaps a process driven and encouraged by the current health system, further extends to how doctors would address the patients' concerns. Patients are reprimanded, often with harsh and hurtful words, when they do not comply with the medications.

My time in Family Medicine has taught me to look beyond the physical body that I see in the clinics—to imagine where such a patient is coming from, his context, his reasons, his concerns. A person, after all, is not only made up of eukaryotic cells. He is also made up of a soul and mind. And who he is is a function of many things: his genetics, his environment, his life experiences, and his family.

During my visit to Canossa Health Center, a big clinic run by Catholic sisters, I saw Family Medicine effectively at work. Here were patients who were almost being ideal: they knew their diseases well enough to explain it to others, they complied with their medications excellently, and they were proactive and optimistic about their condition. And why was the Center so good? The family, the basic unit of society, was involved in the management of disease.

I realized that the close family ties that bind Filipino families can be used to our advantage. We make use of the collective cultural power that comes by empowering the family. When we involve the family, we will do a whole lot more than when we choose to involve only the index patient concerned.

My rotation in the Family Medicine Clinic at the Philippine General Hospital's Out-Patient Department (OPD) was an eye-opener as well. I saw several patients presenting with different conditions, from osteoarthritis to hypertension to bacterial vaginosis to schizophrenia. While there was great fulfillment in making the correct assessments and in prescribing the correct plans, I had an even greater reward: earning the patient's trust.

By simply asking them how they felt, the patients poured their hearts out, sharing there stories of broken and failed marriages, financial difficulties, and anxieties. I praised God when I heard one 60-year old patient asked for my name, listed it down on the manila envelope containing his X-ray plate, and said thank you. Maybe I did something right, after all.

In the clinics, I learned the value of a good history and physical exam. I'm now beginning to see the advantage of being trained in PGH: with the myriad of patients that one can see, it is inevitable that one develops a trained clinical eye. Clearly I still commit a lot of mistakes, and I'm still a work in progress, as all of us are. But slowly the theories I had read in the books have started to make more sense.

I also enjoyed the Thursday Conferences in the Department. I had been to the conferences of the other clinical departments, but I had never heard a more humane discussion about the patients' conditions than here in Family Medicine. The patients, even when they weren't around, were treated with respect. Their dignity was kept intact. I wish it were like this everywhere.

Family Medicine isn't as popular as, say, neurosurgery. And for most medical students, the plan is simple: get into a residency program after graduation. Whether that will happen after a year of sabbatical or moonlighting, the idea is to become a specialist of something—and then a subspecialist, which entails added years of training. The tragedy is that we have forgotten the value of delivering primary health care, which is just as important, if not more. From how I see it, Family Medicine is unique in that, while being a specialty in itself (specializing in family dynamics and making wellness plans for each family member), it also functions in primary health care. People go to family doctors first before they are referred elsewhere, if their conditions require further management.

It was the writer of One Hundred and One Dalmatians, Dodie Smith, who said, "The family—that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to." And she's right. In a sense we can never separate the person from his family. And treating him must entail involving this most basic and important institution.

Lunch photos were taken at our favorite joint, Midtown Diner, along P. Faura Street, where our favorite waitress, Ate Angel, works.

Grief, in stages

2011-10-02T06:00:00.000+08:00

During the taxi ride last Sunday, I asked the driver how he was faring so far. "Wala talagang pasahero 'pag Linggo (There are really no passengers on Sundays)," he said. I noticed a familiar Ilonggo accent in the response—a habit I got from my father who has the uncanny ability to geographically and culturally place people based on how they speak—and from then on I talked to the driver in the Hiligaynon vernacular.

He told me he has four children. All girls. One was in college. The rest were either in high school or elementary. And how was his wife, were they going strong, I asked. "Patay na siya. Mag-one year na subong nga September," he said. She had succumbed to breast cancer. I noted a pang of loneliness in his voice.

"Pero bata pa siya (But she was still so young)," he said. He couldn't let go of his grief.

Having heard that I'm studying medicine, he asked me if it was because the wife had tired herself too much. She used to be a labandera (laundrywoman). Probably not, I said. Although we know a lot more today about breast cancer, we still don't know it completely.

"Sino na ang nagabantay sa mga bata? (Who's taking care of the children now?)" I asked.

"Ako na ang tatay kag nanay nila. Amo gani, dapat aga pa ko makapuli. (I stand as their father and mother. That's why I have to go home early.)"

How would I explain God's love to this man? The world had not been kind to him. I had a hard time inserting the topic into the conversation.

And then it occurred to me that I had to somehow encourage him through the Gospel. I explained to him that, although we many not understand why bad things happen to us, we must recall how God, because He so loved the world, gave His only Son to die for our sins. It was painful for God, and yet He still did so. If God, though Christ, gave that ultimate sacrifice, how much more would he see us through?

When I got to the meeting place, I thanked him and promised him that I'd be praying for him. While walking towards the restaurant minutes after the ride, I remembered, with shame, that I hadn't even bothered to ask for his name.

Big, big milestone in my reading life

2011-10-01T10:16:00.001+08:00

Except for James Joyce's Ulysses, which I never got to finish, I've never felt so exhausted after reading a novel until I got to the last page of Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow. They say only ten percent of people who start reading this work actually finish it. And I see why: the writing is simply overwhelming, featuring some 250 plus characters, many of whom disappear after a few paragraphs, only to resurface again in the ending chapters. There are unpredictable shifts from first- to third-person, and these occur quickly. Poems and song lyrics (95% of them I couldn't understand) are interspersed in the long sentences that remind me of the works of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez (One Hundred Years of Solitude) and Mario Vargas Llosa (The Green House).

It is a massive work, alright, and the emotions I felt during the month-long duration of my reading ranged from excitement to curiosity to boredom, and eventually to exhaustion. Many were the times when I wanted to ditch the book and start on a new one. But I like challenges. And what really encouraged me, aside from the fact that a good friend had finished it (the classic "if he can do it, why can't I?" attitude), was this advice from Bill in GoodReads.com:

Accept that you won't understand everything...Don't be concerned if you can't follow the many digressions or keep track of every minor character that pops up. As with other famously difficult novels, Gravity's Rainbow's real payoff comes in the rereading, so you shouldn't feel obliged to linger over each passage until it makes sense. Pynchon isn't trying to lord it over you by writing a book this dense; it's just his way of giving you your money's worth. Just follow what you can the first time through, which fortunately is a lot.

The book speaks volumes about Pynchon who, like JD Salinger, is a recluse, with hardly any trace of photographs for public viewing. This man is a genius. He writes from different viewpoints, ranging from physics to calculus (yes, there are mathematical formulae) to history. He even mentions Leyte and Mabalacat in a breezy fashion, pretty much like an afterthought. And he can get downright funny at times, especially with Tyrone Slothrop's character, where the story mostly revolves, assuming, of course, that I've understood any of it.

After this experience, the Stockholm Syndrome Theory of Long Novels has started to make much more sense.

You finish the last page of a book like Gravity’s Rainbow and—even if you’ve spent much of it in a state of bewilderment or frustration or irritation—you think to yourself, “that was monumental.” But it strikes me that this sense of monumentality, this gratified speechlessness that we tend to feel at such moments of closure and valediction, has at least as much to do with our own sense of achievement in having read the thing as it does with a sense of the author’s achievement in having written it. When you read the kind of novel that promises to increase the strength of your upper-body as much as the height of your brow—a Ulysses or a Brothers Karamazov or a Gravity’s Rainbow—there’s an awe about the scale of the work which, rightly, informs your response to it but which, more problematically, is often difficult to separate from an awe at the fact of your own surmounting of it.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the last page of Gravity's Rainbow. I'm not sure if I really understood the entire story, but I hope the time comes that I find another motivation to reread this brilliant work, hopefully with deeper insight and appreciation.

(Many thanks to Renan Laruan for lending me his copy.)

Week 39: National Museum

2011-09-30T05:45:00.001+08:00

Upon learning that we had the entire afternoon free yesterday, my classmate, Joseph Brazal (whom I fondly call "kuya" because of our massive age difference), asked me if I'd like to do a museum visit. A self-confessed history fan, he is fond of recalling political controversies, retelling anecdotes from the lives of national heroes, and viewing relics. I said yes, of course: I live in Manila, but I haven't really been anywhere. Minutes later he sent this text message to the entire block:

Lance, the boy from Koronadal, after nearly a decade in Manila, will make his first trip to the National Museum tomorrow afternoon. Sama lang ang may gusto! Enjoy!

I was amused. The morning after, people were asking about the tour, most of them amused, too.

Sadly, though, no one else came with us. Our blockmates said they had already visited the place during their grade/high school field trips. Part of me thought they found the cultural exercise rather corny and, to an extent, soporific. But Kuya Joseph and I, we were determined to revisit the Philippine's past. The National Museum was only a couple of blocks away from PGH, but it took us a while to get there because of the heavy lunchtime traffic.

The most moving experience that day was when I first saw Juan Luna's Spolarium, a national treasure, having won the gold medal at the Exposición Nacional de Bellas Artes in 1884. I was stunned. The painting was huge and spectacular.

There were so many things to be seen—the San Diego ship relics, the National Artists collection, the Luna and Hidaldo paintings—and it was a pity that only a few people, some of them high school children taking pictures of themselves, were present. Entrance fee to students (we came in our white uniforms) was a measly Php 30.

On hindsight we were hoping the curators would make the displays more interesting. That would attract more people, I suppose. The curators could write short explanations of what and how significant the relics are. They could also organize the displays in a more logical order. I was just glad Kuya Joseph was there to orient me.

We spent roughly two hours walking around. Before we left, though, we accidentally entered a massive room where some architectural restoration was being done: the old Senate Hall. It was beautiful.

I emerged out of the tour as a man proud of and thankful for his heritage.

More photos in my Multiply collection.

Search

2011-09-28T06:41:00.001+08:00

About two days ago, I emailed a good friend I haven't seen in a while, and in the letter I shared with him a moving portion from Augustine's Confessions, among the best books I've read thus far. (I've been using the John K. Ryan translation, which is just wonderful.)

You judge me, O Lord, for although no one "knows the things of man but the spirit of man which is in him," there is something further in man which not even the spirit of man which is in him knows. But you, Lord, who made him, knows all things that are in him. Although I despise myself before your sight, and account myself but dust and ashes, yet I know something of you which I do not know about myself. In truth, "we see now through a glass in a dark manner", and not yet "face to face." Therefore as long as I journey apart from you, I am more present to myself than to you. Yet I have known that you are in no wise subject to violation, whereas for myself, I do not know which temptations I can resist and which I cannot. Even so, there is hope, for you are "faithful, who will not suffer us" to "be tempted above that which" we "are able to bear," but you "make also with temptation issue that" we "may be able to bear it." Let me confess then, what I know about myself. Let me confess also what I do not know about myself, since that too which I know about myself I know because you enlighten me. As to that which I am ignorant concerning myself, I remain ignorant of it until my "darkness shall be made as the noonday in your sight."

Augustine's prayers are so heartfelt and personal because he knew the God to whom he prayed to. God knew him, too, not just as a creature but as an adopted son, through the atoning work of Jesus Christ on the cross. The experience is similar to reading the Psalms. His confessions give the reader a picture of the spiritual turmoils that trouble his heart—his lust, his pride, his other past and present sins.

In another portion, Augustine writes,

For in myself I have become a riddle, and that is my infirmity.

So he asks God to search him, knowing that his heart is deceitful above all else, and that only God can fully comprehend it (Jeremiah 17:9).

I often think that I know myself well enough, but I praise God for reminding me that there are still hidden corners in my heart that I haven't fully explored, that I still don't fully understand my capacity for doing other sins, that there may still be hidden motives lying somewhere that I haven't checked. My comfort is that, although on my own I'm left in the dark, God in His grace is able to search my heart and reveal these things to me, so I can be forewarned and reminded.

I pray, like David, in Psalm 139:23-24:

Search me, God, and know my heart
Test me and know my anxious thoughts.
See if there is any offensive way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.

Problematizing the flood

2011-09-27T18:26:00.000+08:00

Taft Avenue is flooded. It has been raining steadily since last night. My roommates and I haven't been anywhere, except to buy canned goods for lunch at the local Mercury Drug Store.

The fun part about having typhoons is that the air is cool. School and work get cancelled. My group was scheduled to work in a clinic in Tondo today, but that has been postponed until further notice. A major Agape activity was also cancelled. I've had an entire day to myself.

The sad part is that the power is cut off. And people suffer. So far, eight people have already died since Typhoon Pedring entered the Philippine area of responsibility.

Flooding is a reality people in Manila have come to live with. It floods quickly in these areas. Fifteen minutes of heavy downpour can already cause the water in the streets to rise, leading to traffic congestion and increasing the risk for acquiring Leptospirosis.

Once in a while I'd see MMDA people getting garbage off the canals, but days later they'll (the canals) be filled with so much garbage they're practically useless. But that hardly takes away the water away from the streets.

Which leads me to wonder: why has no long-term solution been done about the flooding problem? If we have one, it's certainly not working.

Outside

2011-09-24T06:51:00.001+08:00

I met Ronald, 30, while I was killing time at a sari-sari store, sipping a cold bottle of Coke, taking time off from the afternoon heat. I noticed his tattoo—I'm simply drawn to tattoos, a habit I can't seem to get away from—and so I asked him who Lyn was. His wife, he told me, smiling, a look of longing in his eyes. They have three children. He works at a dental laboratory, making dentures for a living. He was thrilled when I told him my mother is a dentist. Maybe she could send her orders to us, he said. A hardworking family man, ladies and gentlemen.

Water systems were being built, a dream-come-true for many residents here. The sound of jackhammers pounding on hard soil was continuous, like high-pitched tinnitus on a defective ear.

We got out of the SHACC compound to explore what was outside the gated compound. Graffiti on walls and bridges, graffiti on electric posts, graffiti everywhere. Outsiders would probably dismiss the spray-painted letters and characters as vandalism, but could this be just a way for some to express themselves through artistic means, or mark their territory, or maybe leave a footprint to prove that sometime in history they existed?

The smell of polluted water permeated everything: that rotting, decomposing smell of dirt and grime and bacteria and floating plastics (and possibly human waste), dispersed by the wind in various places. I started to wonder how the people can sleep through this, but minutes into the walkthrough, I could hardly smell the estero anymore. The olfactory fatigue phenomenon certainly has its uses.

The lack of space and the exponentially growing number of children pushed many families to construct wooden stilts so they could build makeshift houses on top of the water, something they can at least call their own.

The sight of greenery was so rare that I just had to take a snapshot of this potted plant on what used to be Ate Nelyn's home.

I thought of what Jose Rizal said about the youth being the hope of the motherland when I saw children everywhere—sucking on breasts, running along the streets, playing, oblivious to their otherwise depressing situation.

After passing by Barangays 156 and 157, we reached the end of the walkthrough. And the outside world, the world more familiar to many of us, finally greeted us: the paved streets, the gentle breeze sans the smell, and the slowly building up of rush-hour traffic.

It's appalling how we can brush aside the harsh realities of the urban poor, and we can only hope that our government does not forget this disadvantaged, powerless community. Unless we address the poverty issue through a multi-sectoral approach, this country will never move forward.

Our legs ache from all the walking, and now it was time to go home.

A magazine!

2011-09-23T06:24:00.001+08:00

Through our Community Medicine creative project, Bagong Bahay, Bagong Buhay: Kuwento ng mga barangay health worker ng St. Hannibal Christian Community (New Home, New Life: Stories of barangay health workers of St. Hannibal Christian Community) we share the colorful, often heart-wrenching stories of people who've been rescued from depressing living conditions that still beset many Filipino families in urban centers today.

We dedicate this to the barangay health workers we've interviewed.

Nelyn Balbalosa, 46, was one of the six BHWs we talked to—and one of our favorites, too. An active member of her community's health committee, she has been instrumental in teaching the women proper breastfeeding techniques, useful and affordable recipes for healthy meals, and so much more. We'd barge into her home, and she'd tell us her love and life stories.

For the photographs, we employed Kevin Meredith's technique of creating montage portraits. The photos look pretty good, actually.

I'll be posting more composite photos in the next few posts.

And here's the last page, a few of our learning points. Click to enlarge.

Community Medicine is what we call learning while having fun.

Their stories

2011-09-21T20:12:00.003+08:00

After almost two weeks of immersing in the SHACC (St. Hannibal Christian Community), the people already know most of us by name. Their handshakes are warm, their welcome genuine. They greet us the moment they see us enter the gate.

After more than 20 years of renting cramped spaces of makeshift houses beside the polluted river, they've been given a new lease at life: concrete houses they can call their own. Their stories are moving.

Living in a gated compound has its perks. They no longer need to fear for their security. They are more or less protected from flooding, which used to erode their properties. The bad side is that they're isolated from the rest of the barangay, especially from the shanty communities nearby. This isolation, according to the residents, is more because of envy than geography.

Ate Babes has a mini-carinderia beside the gate. She serves mami and lugaw (porridge). I didn't ask if she's a fan of Carmina Villaroel, the actress whose photo appears on the tarpaulin wall. She fondly remembers Julie Reyes, a classmate who also went to this area for her immersion.

I met Ate Nelyn, Kath, and Luisa, all of whom migrated from the Panay region to seek greener pastures in Manila. We talked to each other in Ilonggo. It was a memorable afternoon. Ate Kath's son (whose name I forgot) even rendered a song for us. They spend their lazy afternoons like this: killing time by catching up with each other's lives. They call each other "Mars"—a short-cut for kumare, a Filipino term of endearment for close female friends.

Basketball still remains the national past time, and the afternoon games in the SHACC attest to this. Some players enter the court barefoot, possibly for better traction.

There are many kids playing around. When we asked if the people practice family planning, they said yes. This was interesting: the Rogationists, the Catholic order of priests and brothers that have started this ministry, gave freedom to the families to practice whichever kind of family planning method they liked. The people here are more educated in terms of reproductive health—if only the rest of the country were.

I thought I was looking at a mirror when I saw Jed, a quiet little boy. I shall add him to my growing collection of look-alikes, which includes Boy Abunda, Mahatma Gandhi, Allan K, and Jay Taruc.

The people love living here. Most, if not all, households leave the slippers and shoes outside; they go barefoot inside. The floor are so clean you can lick them.

All sorts of domestic animals live in the compound, forming an alternative source of income for many families.

There are dogs and cats. The dogs are usually chained to the houses; they function as living security alarms. I personally prefer cats, especially the big, fat, sleepy ones.

The residents strive to beautify their spaces. These vines both serve an aesthetic and nutritional function. The green looks great with the brown bricks.

When we first came to Ate Nelyn's home, this sign written in Jejemon greeted us. This house eventually became our meeting and hang-out place. We listened to her family's stories. She is an outstanding mother who will do anything for her children. How about her husband? we asked. She answered along the lines of, "I love him more today than yesterday."

From the balcony we saw the depressing situation outside of SHACC: shanties and makeshift houses made of wood and planks and rusted roof. The contrast was striking. (Click photo below for more details).

A three-storey shanty towered confidently above them all. These crowded communities are prone to fires. Communicable diseases also readily spread in these areas. Current residents of SHACC have been saved from these living conditions, but they've not been totally rescued from the mire of poverty.

Meanwhile here we were, documenting every single step we took. For our creative project we want to make a magazine and a documentary. We feel like amateur journalists telling their stories.

Krushna Canlas was right: "Community Medicine is an art best experienced than said or seen."

More on our community immersion in the next posts.

Week 38: Shoes

2011-09-19T05:53:00.002+08:00

Disclaimer: I was paying attention to the sermon on 2 Peter 1:8-11 by Indonesian pastor Deni Koswardi when I took these photos.

Week 37: Street

2011-09-17T08:42:00.000+08:00

Composite photos were inspired by Kevin Meredith, one of my favorite photographers.

Photos were taken during our first week of Community Medicine rotation at St. Hannibal Christian Center in Pasay City.

Readers have been asking how I make these portraits:

I use any camera, ask the subject to stay still for at least 15 to 20 seconds, then take serial snapshots of the entire body. I manually stitch the photos using GIMP (the open-source, Linux version of Photoshop) using the layers function. This is where much of the fun is—piecing together the pieces is therapeutic for me. I do it with music playing in the background.

I prefer using phone cameras because they're lightweight, and the images look raw—grainy and pixellated. And I happen to like this amateurish effect, which adds to the charm.

Immersion

2011-09-15T07:04:00.002+08:00

The trip begins with a 20-minute LRT ride to EDSA, a five-minute jeepney commute to a local health center, and a 10-minute walk under the scorching, melanoma-inducing heat of the noonday sun.

Meanwhile we're lost in laughter, conversation, and brief outbursts of excitement at the mere sight of a bakery or a turo-turo or a carinderia—all potential hang-out places. Jonas, Krushna, Jegar, Ching, and I . . . we're far too easily pleased. Give us cheap food and an eight-ounce bottle of Coke, and we'll be happy.

Community Medicine is a welcome break from the hospital scene. This time the patients no longer come to us; we go to them. And truth be told, they may not need us at all. This exchange, this reversal of roles, is teaching us many things we may have brushed aside. It's not about us but them.

Ate Nelia, the barangay health worker (BHW) assigned to us, tours us around. A good-natured lady in her early 60's, she cracks jokes, often with a tinge of sarcasm, and laughs at them before we even get what she means. She takes good care of us. She has excellent memory of people, often giving us her personal sketches of the barangay captain, the local doctor, the residents of the community. These stories help us. True, she may have her own biases, but all personal perceptions of other human beings are bound to be prejudiced.

"Saan na po tayo papunta, Ate?" we ask.

"Sa Health Center muna. Magpapakilala kayo kay doktor."

The Health Center is empty, except for the staff and the two doctors. The rooms are airconditioned. The computers are connected to an online medical database. This Center is more the exception than the rule. For many barangays all over the country, doctors are a rare sight, and they only come by a few times a week.

The local doctor, a stern-looking, no-nonsense man, welcomes us. He gives us a lecturette on the projects of the Health Center. We struggle to keep awake—postprandial fullness explains that—but we're jolted when he says, "Health is not a priority here." And so it is with the rest of the country. Our government still has not realized that a healthy nation is a wealthy nation.

We thank the good doctor for his time.

We head to the Barangay Hall to do a courtesy call on the Kapitan. Sadly he's not available.

We then visit an NGO run by priests. This is the same NGO that has paved the way for a community to be built within the barangay, the community we're going to be immersing in. SHACC, it's called. The St. Hannibal Christian Community. And this is where we will listen to stories, participate in their local activities, even start our own ones, all in the hope of maximizing our two-week stint in this area.

The sun is setting in the horizon. Our legs are tired, and our mouths are parched. We head over to the nearest bakery we find, buy Spanish bread three pesos apiece, and a cold, refreshing bottle of Coca-Cola before we head home.

Hasta mañana.

Touring Diliman

2011-09-12T18:34:00.002+08:00

I had the afternoon free, so I left for Diliman to get my black vintage glasses. I had the lenses replaced a couple of weeks ago. Yes, that's me, my cheeks bloated with fat. Soon enough I'll have the double chin.

I wasn't in any particular rush. I walked around what used to be my campus and my home for five years. I felt envious of the students I saw: they didn't have to deal with the awful pollution; they were in their comfort zones.

I visited the little second-hand bookstore beside Kalaayan Hall and looked for my favorite saleslady who, like me, hails from South Cotabato. She used to give me the best copies of the bestselling titles. Sadly there wasn't anybody in the store.

I walked around. It was weird to be surrounded by so much greenery.

I wanted to read a chapter or so of Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, one of the toughest books I've read to date. So I went to Chocolate Kiss, a local restaurant in Bahay ng Alumni known for its cheesecakes.

I passed by Molave Dormitory where some of my close friends used to stay.

I had a slice of dayap chiffon cake, thanks to Ate Celyn Trinidad's high recommendation. She's a friend from church who invited my brother and me to afternoon snacks on a lazy Sunday afternoon. The cake was mouthwatering. The creamy substance between the layers tasted like melted yema—only better. Try it.

Posters of the inauguration of the new UP President, Alfredo Pascual, were everywhere. His photo resembled my classmate, Marvyn Chan.

Movies from the Brazilian Film Festival were being shown at the UP Film Center. I used to spend my afternoons there—with the free passes and all.

The UP Carillon looked nicer now. I have yet to climb its top.

My time was up. I had to catch the bus before 4 pm, or else I'd have to deal with the rush-hour traffic.

I still sometimes wish the College of Medicine were in Diliman instead. Maybe Medicine will be less stressful, and patients will get better faster.

The Sunday commute

2011-09-11T21:54:00.002+08:00

I'm 30 minutes earlier than usual, dressed in my favorite pink rolled-up long-sleeves, jeans, and brown shoes, waiting for the next FX to pass by along my area of Taft Avenue, just outside the building where I live. I'm on my way to church, roughly a 40-minute ride away, give or take.

A white, newly-polished FX stops in front. The driver motions me to get inside fast. I take the front seat, arguably the best spot. From there I can see the road straight ahead, I get the best airconditioning, and I don't have to pass paper bills or coins around.

Just a couple of years ago, Toyota Tamaraw FX's have become an alternative option for urban commuters. They're a hybrid of taxi cabs and jeepneys—and I like them. They're fast. They're also comfortable, but not as comfortable as taxis, of course. At least FX's can shield the passenger from the grime and pollution of Manila's main thoroughfares.

I hand the driver my payment. "Sa may Delta po."

The driver, in his late forties, folds the 20-peso bill, rolls it between his fingers, and places the five-peso coin beside a glow-in-the-dark crucifix, almost at the same time. He is the epitome of multi-tasking.

He doesn't take notice of me; his eyes are fixed on the road. The streets are clear at this time, with hardly any passengers on the sidewalks. The driver occasionally stops at key places where the throng of commuters usually are—like the Manila City Hall or the area in front of UST. Commuting on Sundays is glorious. The traffic is light.

It's quiet inside. The radio is turned off—thankfully. Not that I hate old music—I actually like them. But I confess to getting irritated at some radio stations, especially those with mantras spoken in fake children's voices.

I'm only one of the two passengers left. As soon the other one hops off the vehicle, I engage the driver in a conversation.

"Madalang po ang pasahero ngayon, ah," I say.

"Ganyan talaga 'pag Linggo. Lalo na mga ganitong oras. Kita mo?" He points to empty buses and empty jeepneys—and laughs at the empty FX's that have zoomed past him. "Walang-wala rin sila."

He tells me the situation improves at around 9 am when sales ladies working in SM Fairview are starting to commute. "Kapag mga ganyang oras na, magbabad na ako kasi marami ng pasahero."

"Matagal na po kayong nagmamaneho?"

"Mga mahigit isang taon pa lang."

"Nakakailang rounds po kayo isang araw?" FX's, like jeepneys, have defined routes which they traverse every day. This vehicle travels from Buendia to Fairview—and back again.

"Mga anim dati, pero sagabal kasi 'yang ginagawa sa Araneta. Napapatagal ng trenta minutos ang biyahe." He refers to the big underpass being built along the Araneta-Quezon Avenue intersection which has created a bottle-neck in traffic flow, especially during weekdays.

He tells me he has to drive fast. He has a passenger waiting for him at Rizal Province, which he will bring to the airport at 11 am. This works well for both of us: he gets to earn extra (I assume the passenger he's fetching will give him a big bonus) and I get to church earlier, giving me time to eat a quick breakfast.

The driver is in high spirits, something I don't ordinarily see. Was it a college professor who told me that the roads in this country can bring the worst out of people? No wonder why drivers are ill-tempered, often angry. But clearly this is going to be a good day for him.

Finally I reach my stop. I thank him for the ride and wish him well. I probably won't ever see him again—and if I do, I won't recognize him. From the waiting shed, I observe his white vehicle as it speeds through the highway. Seconds later it is drowned in the sea of Sunday traffic until I no longer see it. I decide it's now time to move on.