elephant

Part II

In the early morning, the dew crept into the mosquito nets, seeping through microscopic mesh holes, into sleeping bags and woke us up damp and sore muscled from the activities of the day before. The lion was silent, now its turn to sleep the day away until twilight. It left us a present like cats do with captured mice or birds - another antelope, half-eaten laying on its side by the river bank, ever so slowly sliding into the river as the one from the day before. We were up before the sun peaked through the foggy mist and rooted around the makeshift bush kitchen, devoid of biltong but littered with dozens and dozens of eggs to be cooked for breakfast. They, the grownups, barked orders, and we, tame little animals, performed for the limpy gimpy headmaster of the mosquitonet-ringed circus. We took turns stirring porridge, flipping eggs, and making trips down the river bank for another awed look at a half eaten animal. Fresh and not swollen. Newly dead, and not rotting. Not rotting and not smelling of death like the elephant from the day before.

After breakfast we gathered round for a talk. There were activities to be done. Girls were broken up into groups. Those who didn't cook breakfast would cook lunch. Those who didn't go on the hike yesterday would go hiking today. Those who wanted to go climbing would be dropped off at the foot the small mountain south of camp. The climbers would climb without supervision and they would be met at the top of the mountain by the lorry in three or four hours and brought back to camp. So we climbed. I climbed. Four or even six girls climbed. Up loose crumbling rock, sharp edged boulders, scrappy thorny underbrush, soft mossy stones and slowly darkening, thundering, angering skies. We scrambled up in our Bata shoes, no longer white from the last whitewash session, but clay red instead, from sliding against sucking mud, thick with water trapped within. The skies threatened to douse us. We were lost. There was no leader, no consensus, no direction in which to go but up, up, up. Push forward we all said. That was the thing to do. The skies broke, lightning scattered across the cobalt blue in spindly threads, the rain slipped down sweaty arms, furrowed brows and muddy legs. We were cleansed with each movement, as we climbed, higher and higher still in search for a path, a road, any trace of passage where human or beast would have travelled to reach some other point on the mountain. We had had enough of cutting rocks, scratching branches and sucking mud, and so with only a 5 meter warning, we had reached the top of our small world. The ground below ran to the horizon and stretched away from us on all sides. It was mottled dark from the cutting and now relentless rain. Our heads steamed as our sweating bodies stood still to meet the cool air sweeping off the peak. And there was not a road in sight. Dumbfounded girls left alone on a mountain are hardly lucent decision makers. We must have missed our mark by a few kilometers. It had been at least four-and-a-half hours since we were dropped off. We were either: a) completely lost or b) left behind by an impatient lorry driver who would have thought, sod it, I'm not waiting for anyone in this bloody rain because then, I'll be stuck here as the rain gets worse then we'd be all stuck, so better them than me.

We split in half. First group left. Second group right. Look for a road. Any kind of road. Tire tracks would be good. Perhaps we could follow it down instead of haphazardly scrambling down the mountain like drunken goats. So. Then. After an hour. We scrambled haphazardly down the mountain like drunken goats. A few hours later, the lorry was at the foot of the mountain. Waiting. With limpy gimpy. He said: you girls jolly well took your time didn't you?! Met with silence, he was. Silent rage, each girl with a dark cloud hanging over her head, silent rumbling inside, small flashes of blinding electric light across the face, the smell of death creeping in behind her hot eyes, envisioning something dead in the middle of the savanna, creeping full of white foam.

7:28 PM | |

desert storm

Hey, it's practically pouring over at Desert Rat - 2, count 'em, ONE-TWO entries in one day in a span of one whole year, it's practically unbelievable! You know I'm just kidding, husband, right?! Husband? Hello?

Anyway, head on over if you like, I think the man's got potential, I only wish he'd use it more. His knack for writing I mean.

7:39 PM | |

Elephant

Part 1

We girls piled into the lorry. One by one by one. With heavy mattresses, a bag of clothes, extra shoes, and snacks bought at the corner store on the way to the pool where the muddy red path had become hard like cement from everyone walking on it. It was a large lorry and inside were thirty girls each one with a mattress and mosquito net. This was not a Nancy Boy American Truck. This was a diesel spitting look at the size of those tires and no suspension as it creaks over dirt roads and demolishes acacia thorns scattered across the savanna plain kind of truck. Forget about napping. Forget about sleeping. You will be tossed about, thrown from side to side to side while the lorry bounces, rumples, and roars over mud puddle holes the size of baby elephants. It revved up steep inclines and whirred against jutting out boulders in empty river beds until it passed through Naivasha, constantly heading northwest into the dustyred Rift Valley plains of a rhino farm.

An outing They said. A camping trip They said. They, were the limping gimpy headmaster and two teachers along for the trip, along for the scoldings and the dry Brit wit to share all around. Nobody laughed though. All the girls said it was a trip to take us out, for the kill. One by one by one. To be eaten by lonely lions, jumped on by waiting leopards in tree branches, scratched to bleeding by furious baboons, and worse, to be gored by stampeding cape buffalo. They said nevermind that. We were going to learn how to live three days in the bush. Three days setting up camp in the wild open air to be watched by a billion blinking twinkling stars that lit the way for stalking hyenas, slithering black mambas, and slinking cheetahs.

By the river They said. That was the campsite. A shelter of feverish acacia trees where a half-eaten antelope lay on its side by the bank, ever so slowly sliding towards the water's edge, so slow in fact, we couldn't see it move. Up in the trees went the mosquito nets, and down fell the biltong in tough brown stringy strands. We chewed on the ones that fell from the trees straight into our mouths. Tough feel like dried leather. The taste of game and sun between our teeth and tongues and the scoldings began. We held the dried meat in our mouths, pretended they were empty, or pretended we were simply licking our lips. We didn't own the biltong. They belonged in the trees, to the hunter that hunted the game and slit the bellies and cut into strips the blood red meat and hung them in the trees to dry in the wide-awake sun. Slowly, we chewed here and there, while our back was turned putting up a mosquito net, while we bent over putting our mattress down on the dusty ground, while we scurried here and there moving our bags, our shoes, our boxes of sweetsour orange juice and packs of potato crisps. We chewed them until dinner came and then we could chew like normal girls chewing their dinner and not chewing swiped biltong.

The farm owners came out to see the girls on the bush trip. We could watch some leopards if we wanted, if we sat very still, very quiet like small mice waiting for crumbs to drop behind table legs and under kitchen counters. We said we could quite possibly, yes, be very quiet. But it was limpy gimpy who said that, not us. He was our mouth, our brain, but we were his bad leg going to and fro serving him dinner and cleaning up his plates and sliverware. Then someone's nose whistled in the whispery dark night as we crouched behind bushes waiting for leopards to jump on us. Teachers hushed and scolded and told us no leopards would come if we didn't stop sniggering at stuffy whistling noses. The whistling nose was told to blow it into a tissue so that she could finally shut up and let the leopards come. We fell asleep in the dark whispery night waiting, waiting waiting until no leopards came and we went to our stiff mattresses under the mosquito nets by the river bank careful not to step on acacia thorns the size of concrete nails and the lion roared in our sleep, prowling along the banks, sniffing the air full of girls sleeping under the blinking twinkling stars of night.

1:26 PM | |

UP Naming Mahal...

I couldn't resist - inggit ako kay Sepik Mom - para mapilit ako mag Taglish!

.:. ANO’NG STUDENT NUMBER MO?
90-ganonkatagaldikonamaalala-47806 - tinignan ko transcript ko!

.:. NAKAPASA KA BA OR WAITLISTED?
Pasado

.:. PAANO MO NALAMAN ANG ENTRANCE EXAM RESULT?
Pumunta sa reg at tinignan ang listahan. Kala ko bagsak ako sa Tagalog portion.

.:. FIRST CHOICE MO BA ANG UP?
Only choice - buti nakapasa.

.:. ALAM MO BA ANG UPG SCORE MO?
Ano yun?!

.:. ANO ANG FIRST CHOICE MO NA COURSE?
Only choice ulit: BA Comparative Literature.

pan style="font-weight:bold;">.:. SECOND CHOICE?
Meron ba? Mass Comm ata.

.:. ANO NAGING COURSE MO?
BA Comp. Lit.

.:. NAGPLANO KA BANG MAG-SHIFT?
Oo, Fine Arts sana, kaso wala namang talent, pero madaming barkada doon!

.:. NAKAPAG-DORM KA NA BA?
Hindi sa campus.

.:. NAKA UNO KA NA BA?
Oo naman, pa suwerte!

.:.Ulit NAGKA-3?
Madami

.:. HIGHEST GRADE:
1.0

.:. LOWEST:
5.0!

.:. WORST EXPERIENCE SA UP:
Di ko na maalala - siguro madaming ginebra kasama doon.


.:. LAGI KA BANG PUMAPASOK SA KLASE?
Alam ko naman yung room number

.:. ANO’NG ORG MO?
UP Tinta
UP Outdoor Recreation Group

.:. MAY SCHOLARSHIP KA BA?
Wala.

.:. PINANGARAP MO BANG MAG-CUM LAUDE?
Ano yun?

.:. KELAN KA NAGTAPOS?
1995

.:. FAVE PROF (s):
Prof. Ramas, Dalisay, Dr. Legasto

.:. WORST TEACHER (s):
Tupas

.:. FAVE SUBJECT (s):
Feminist Theories and Literary Practices/Post-Colonial ek.

.:. WORST SUBJECT (s):
Nat. Sci.

.:. FAVE LANDMARK:
Olbe, Amphitheater, Sunken

.:. BUILDING:
KAL

.:. PABORITONG KAINAN:
Dating Mr. Deli, Dlandan sa Kasaa, Chocolate Kiss at Beach House siyempre!

.:. NOONG ESTUDYANTE KA PA MAGKANO BA ANG BINABAYAD MO SA JEEP?
P .35 tapos naging .50 hanggat naging 1.25

.:. LAGI KA BA SA LIB?
Siyempre - sa gilid

.:. NAGPUNTA KA BA SA CLINIC NUNG MINSANG NAGKASAKIT KA?
Oo, triage, pero parang lalo ako nag kakasakit.

.:. MAY CRUSH KA BA SA CAMPUS?
Madami!

.:. BF/GF?
Siyempre

.:. MAY BALAK KA BA MAG-MASTERS O MAG-PHD?
Tapos na Masters

.:. ANU-ANO ANG MGA NAGING PE MO?
Weight training, Outdoor Rec/Camping

.:. KAMUSTA NAMAN ANG BLOCK NYO?
Di ata ako kasali sa block (2nd sem)

.:. NAKAPANOOD KA NA BA NG GRADUATION SA UP?
Never.

.:. MEMORIZE MO BA ANG ALMA MATER SONG?
Hindi.

.:. MEMBER KA BA NG UP VARSITY TEAM?
Varsity inuman sa Sarah's/Gulod!

.:. NAKA-PERFECT KA NA BA NG EXAM?
Di maalala

.:. ANO’NG AYAW MO SA FINALS WEEK?
Ang finals.

.:. DITO KA BA NATUTONG UMINOM NG BEER?
Hindi, sa Tiya's nung high school pa.

.:. ANO’NG GUSTO MO SA UP?
Landscape, buhay UP, mga tao.

.:. ANO’NG AYAW MO?
Walang tubig sa CR.

.:. MAGANDA BA ID PIC MO?
Oo, siyempre. Naka ilan kuha ako bago naging OK.

.:. MAY GINAWA KA NA BANG ILLEGAL SA LOOB NG CAMPUS?
Mey illegal?!

12:35 AM | |

eating good in the neighborhood

We've sworn off fast food and it ain't Appleby's. After reading Fast Food Nation, I can't bring myself to put any ground beef or processed chicken into my body for a very long while. Aside from that, I'd be hard put to support the miserable fast food corporate world who is responsible for so many atrocious problems in society today. But that's for another post. Hannah's is a new resto in Summerlin that takes on fusion cuisine once again, so popular now with P.F. Chang's(an old favorite), Roy's and anything that takes Southeast Asian cuisine - Japanese, Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese flavors - and makes it palatable to a much wider audience (read: caucasian) through presentation and an explosive fusion of savory flavors and texture.

The outside decor is a zen garden of stones, bonsai and flowing water. Indoors, patrons are greeted with a pond of goldfish underfoot, and an earthy, airy atmosphere of neutral dark mahogany, accented by bamboo dividers, billowing silk curtains in gold and light blue, jewel toned seats, cushions and throw pillows. Sections can be curtained off for privacy or to make room for larger parties. Huge walls are adorned with paintings that feel more Middle eastern. It feels homey, comfey and relaxed, just like you should be when you prepare to devour several dishes on the menu.


Dylan is a big fan of Japanese food - sushi rolls, tempura and miso - so he was glad to be there as he's taken to our habits and enjoys the more than occasional meal out to a "real" restaurant, although he claims that he still likes what he calls "junk", or, Evil MickeyD's. The menu is extensive serving up seafood, pork, beef, chicken and veggie dishes. They can serve it family style if you prefer, which we do so that we can taste a little bit of everything. Presentation is impeccable and adds to visual appetite. We went for braised tofu, shaken beef, baby bok choy with shitake, dumplings and a california roll.


The shaken beef was a delectable dish of super tender beef cubes in a fusion of soy-garlic, punctuated by sautéed julienned onions, crunchy snap peas and pickled tomato slices. The bok choy dish was steamed with garlic and garnished with whole shitakes in a brown sauce. The dumplings I liked least of all - they almost tasted like Trader Joe's dumplings from the freezer section and understeamed. The braised tofu was, well, fried tofu chunks in another soy-blackbean concocted sauce with thin slivers of green onion which turned out to be Dylan's favorite rather than the california roll, which was typical. He also learned how to use chopsticks this evening when he fed himself tofu bits with one-handed chopstick action! But the desert was the star - flourless chocolate lava cake that Dylan ordered for all of us to share. Dark melted chocolate sauce oozed out of the cake and melded with a raspberry sauce and vanilla ice cream and transported us all into chocolate heaven. Service was extremely fast, friendly and excellent. Weekend reservations are essential as it's often packed to the rafters. We'll defintely be back to try more from the menu.

11:05 PM | |

hanging

Went to see Jim Jarmusch's Broken Flowers. Interesting soundtrack first of all, and the story was good enough without having a true conclusion, just like real life's many unresolved affairs. Bill Murray was little bit of himself from Lost in Translation, but I thought Tilda Swinton was a great biker chick - all of the two minutes or less of her scene. The movie moved a little slow, although it probably was meant to underlie the situation and Murray's character. I also thought the entire movie was shot in New Jersey, because it sure as hell looked like he never left. Worth a watch.

10:40 PM | |

coffee at starbucks

7am. Starbucks.

You got my message!

Why are we meeting here so early?

You need your coffee.

You know me so well.

Listen, I need to talk to you.

Is that why we're here? So early?

I got that job in San Diego.

Oh! You mean the one you really wanted to get? Oh.

Yes.

So. You're moving.

Yes.

So. What happens now?

You can fly in on weekends.

You always said that distance thing never works.

Yes. I guess I did.

You're breaking up with me aren't you?

Listen, I don't want to make it any har...

Over cheap Starbucks coffee this early in the morning? You are a bastard.

Listen...

Slam the door. Wait a beat, turn the ignition and drive away. Bastard. And didn't even pay for my Venti Coffee of the Week. Bastard.

Clack, clack, clack.

...ffffffor rest and relztion....

The screen blurs and the copy falls away from the screen into a pool of gray monitor surface. San Diego must have perfect weather all year round. Nice beaches. Surfers. Great Mexican food. Blonde girls in bikinis too.

Clack, clack, clack. I pretend to work through lunch. A bowl of leaves and roots with an occasional splat of clumpy dressing. Sour. Dour.

6:30pm. 0 Messages. 0 Calls. Workday ends with a to go box at Whole Foods. Dinner on the couch. Bzt. TV buzzes with scenes of Bush evading flood waters. Bzt. Wheel...of...Fortune. Guess the before and after phrase. Stop buying vowels, and solve the fucking puzzle already, we all know you know it. Bankrupt. Ha! You deserved that greedy bitch! Of course, she's going to use her free spin. Bzt. Bzt.

1:45am. 0 Messages. 0 Calls. Lights Out.

7:16am. 0 Messages. 0 Calls. Starbucks. Venti Coffee of the Week. And just like that, single. Again.

11:20 PM | |

the hot zone

I'm blogging to e-mail at this moment. Never tried the feature, so if it looks funky, tough.Here goes a test.

Dreaming of hot viruses and
illness and infections last night after turning the last page of The Hot Zone. It's damn riveting, reading about intestines liquefying and
humans bleeding out from every orifice in the body after a bout of Ebola and Marburg viruses. It's also extremely riveting as the storytakes place in Africa, in the very place I grew up, spending childhoodalong the banks of Lake Victoria, driving through the Rift Valley and Mount Elgon, and venturing into Sudan on a small plane on my own whenI was eleven - all locations of where the virus killed people as they
bled out and crashed in their villages during the same years my familyand I lived there.  I'm amazed that we escaped uninformed and unscathed as these virulent illnesses spread unkowingly through open wounds or through the air, mutating into stronger, more effective strains, seeking out a host to feed on. Suddenly, the Dark Continent grips me with fear of what ifs. I've longed to go back, but now the shadow of lethal disease hangs over me like the air, thick with invisible particles of filovirus...

7:56 PM | |