An English painter in Davao, 1934

Nonfiction by | September 14, 2008

Head of a Philippine Child (Davou)
Head of a Philippine Child (Davou)

When Ian Fairweather stepped ashore at Santa Ana Wharf at Davao in August 1934 he was a 43-year-old Englishman at the beginning of his career as an artist. He had been a prisoner of war during World War 1, an art student at London’s Slade School of Art, travelled across China, spent nine months painting in Bali, visited Australia and had come to Davao on the proceeds of a painting that was sold to the Tate Gallery in London.

On the afternoon of his arrival he walked south along the coast to Piapi where he found a house and that evening he wrote, “It stands on stilts amongst the coconut trees on the edge of the beach, it looks something like a bird cage – on the ground beneath it – chickens and pigs – babies and land crabs and boats – it’s the sort of place I’ve dreamed of.”

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Ulan / Rain

Poetry by | September 14, 2008

A poem in Magindanaw and English

Di ka dan muna saguna ulan, di dan muna saguna
Su mga ulyang nengka na pakasamok sa kabagigitung ko.
Katawang ko na mapasang su kabedtago sa mawag a kanggiginawa
Way na anun mambu su kabeb-pangagi ko?

Kapakay ka kemisek sa matanog way na sakali bu
Angu edtanggit ka sa kawagan sa mga mawag a taw a madsumbak nengka.
Way na bangenin ko bo sa reka, di ka dan muna saguna
Ka bagimasaden ko pen i galebek ko
Endo so maystra ko na di yakunin pasangan.

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Haiku from a Garden

Poetry by | September 14, 2008

afternoon sunlight
trysts with unexpected rain
blue bed bursts colors

dragonfly now rare
reminds me of the green fire
lurking in those eyes

crimson and golden
petals carpet my garden
sweep not struggle not

winding jutting through
window pane opening vine
curls to me its song

dirt waste filth the earth
takes all into her bosom
gives back fragrant blooms

Davao: A View

Nonfiction by | September 7, 2008

I have been here in Davao for five years, so I am no longer a stranger in this city. But I still find many things amusing and interesting.

The principal means of transportation in Davao is the jeepney. It really makes me crazy. I like the jeep but I am afraid of it. I like it because it is very colorful, and has varied forms, and has a nice sound system.

My fear comes from the jeepney driver. He is the boss of the road. He moves when he wants to move, and he stops when he wants to stop. The only rule for him is no rule. New drivers are really afraid to drive in the streets, although some say it is the best practice to learn to drive.

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Coming to Davao

Nonfiction by | September 7, 2008

Coming to Davao is the most important decision I’ve made in my life so far. I had felt then that I would regret this decision, which is why I don’t remember the date when I made it. But it was in late May of 2007, and my parents and I were discussing about where I would go to continue my studies. Certain circumstances had forced me to look for another school other than the one I had attended for fourteen years.

I was given three options: to transfer to a “lesser” school in Manila, or to start working at a call center while taking a short computer course on the side, or to move and study at the Ateneo De Davao University and so at least maintain the name of my previous school.

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Boy

Poetry by | August 31, 2008

(After Girl by Jamaica Kincaid)

Never wash your clothes. Let your older sister do it. You can only help fetching water from that well. Cook the food you like; not the food you want your boy friends to like. It’s good to walk barefoot and shirtless under the sun; the heat makes you tan. Never shave your pubic hair; shave only the beard and the mustache. Don’t pluck your eyebrows. You’re not joining a pageant. Never go to the market unless you look for a new pair of rubber shoes. But don’t look for Hello Kitty bags; you are no longer a kid. But I don’t like Hello Kitty. Never bring a basket unless you accompany your mother. Never let your younger sister ask you to do the dishes; scold her. You are older. Never sing Celine Dion’s songs before your friends. Don’t pout your lips. Pucker it if you are silent. Continue reading Boy

Hairdo 101

Fiction by | August 31, 2008

“Mom,” I say. “Could I cut my hair short? Like Sharon Cuneta’s shoulder length hair. Or maybe Maricel Soriano’s bob. Then I could make a quiff out of it, Mom. Quiff’s a hairstyle where the hair at the front is brushed backward and forward. And I want to try Papa’s hair gel. Please, Mom.

Or, why don’t I get a mohawk? It looks real cool. Pretty cooler than a bob. Please Mom? Do you know how mohawks are done? The head is shaved off on the sides then my remaining hair would stick out in the center. See that image, Mom? Isn’t it cool? Please? Then maybe I could dye my hair orange, or red, or pink. Yes. Pink. Like the artist Pink. I like Pink. Mom?

Or, what about an army cut? I would like that, Mom. Like Demi Moore. Remember? We watched that movie together. She looked so hip. I want that, Mom. Please?”

“Dear,” she says. “Don’t you know that your bangs emphasize your deep set brown eyes? You’re prettier with your hair long. And, surely, suitors will be coming one of these days when you keep it that way.

Now, comb your hair. I just bought you a head band.

Like Nora Aunor’s.”

T'nalak

Fiction by | August 24, 2008

Excerpt from a novella

He wished she were wearing the white gown he had brought. How lucky he was, in fact, that Lumela’s family did not ask for a dowry for her. Lumela had asked them not to demand a set of gongs or horses as bridal gifts from Andrew. It was enough for her parents that Andrew agreed that the wedding be done in the traditional T’boli way before their church wedding.

The women were waiting outside the house of Lumela. She was in the house’s central space, covered with a red hand-woven blanket. There were no voices from the women, except the beating of agong.

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