Kababaeng Tao

There's nothing in the English language that will quite capture the frustration the two words hold. "Babae" is the root word meaning female. "Ka" in this case is "being a female." As a writer, words fail me in explaining what it really means. All I can tell you is that when a Tagalog sentence is prefixed with these two words, it means the subject failed her gender, (rightly or wrongly) big time.

"I am being sexist, so I never told anybody how I really felt, pero kababaeng tao," I said. We were talking about the Gloria in Malacanang.

It was 5AM, and we were on the road to a province up north. I was cruising the distance powered by just three hours of sleep.

“Kababaeng tao, nakahihiya siya,” my friend said. We both admitted that the sentiment was a bit sexist. Something we never said publicly to sum up how we felt about the Gloria and recent embarrassing events.

In my early years as cub reporter, most of those in power were men. In the police beat. On the bench. In the military.

Months ago, a lawyer told me more women were being named to the bench because of their gender. Women are perceived to be less corrupt, less prone to easy money, more organized, more process-oriented. I quite agree with the assessment. On the other hand, I have met and encountered women who look more hideous than their male counterparts because of the corruption they have embraced.

But more and more women are taking part in government and the private sector because they believe they can change the world, and that they have something to contribute. And contribute they do.

Haydee Yorac. Emilia Boncodin. Milwida Guevarra. Sheila Coronel. Luz Muego. Marites Vitug. Glenda Gloria. Malou Mangahas. Clarissa Ocampo. My grade 3 teacher, Ms. Ferrer. My high school adviser, Mrs. Sebastian. The tough ladies I worked and work and dream with.

Then comes PGMA. Kababaeng tao.

Kevinlogs

We’re on our way to Putipot Island in Zambales. We’ve been having beer since Pampanga. The car windows show a procession of rustic barrio life. My brain is swimming in noontime beer.
“What do you call that animal?” Kevin asks.
“Water buffalo. Carabao,” I answer.
“What do they do?” he asks.
“They just laze in the mud and stay cool,” I say.
“That’s all?” he asks.
“They can fly.”
“Why are they not flying now?”
“They only fly on Thursdays.”
“What day is it today?”
“Saturday,” I say.
“Any chance of them flying today?”
“Only if we’re so damn lucky.”
We sip our beers. The driver chuckles.

*****

“Hey Baby, I just got back from a safari,” he declares.
“Great! What animals did you see?” I ask.
“Oh, lots. Giraffes. Hippos. Lions. The usual,” he says.
“Did you see any rhinos mating, really going at it?” I ask.
He laughs out loud.
“You ask the most basic of questions,” he says.

*****

“Hey Baby, how was your Holy Week break?” he asks.
“Fun. But I ran out of things to read on my second day,” I say.
“That’s bad. How did you survive the week?”
“I talked to the resort owner to hire me as a waitress and dishwasher in lieu of discounts on room rates and food,” I say.
“I’m proud of you,” he says.
“Me too,” I say.
“Did you learn anything new?”
“Yes. Humility. And that I really can’t cook. But you know that.”
“Yes, I do,” he says.
I make a mental note to get him to marry me to punish him for that comment for the rest of his natural life. Anybody here owns a shotgun?

Crush

He walks in, I see him, and I lose it. We were introduced, we shook hands, my knees shook.

Some men are just gifted with it. And they don't even look stunningly attractive. No, he's not even THAT attractive. Actually, he's reed thin, but he knows what to wear to compensate for the ten pounds (I estimate) he lacks.

It's just the totality of it all. The eyes, the smile, the way he casts his glance around the room, the way he sits, the way he reacts to what people say, what he says. And most of all, dammit, he's so damn smart. And the charm, the charm, the charm. Man, he can make Cruella Deville work for world peace. And he doesn't even know he is charming. Dammit.

I think I just got hit. Tsk! This is going to be bad. Very bad. Real bad. Dammit.

Shameless Plug

How smart are we? Are our kids in school? Are our teachers smart? Do they even know what they are talking about? As usual, we have a great team working on this episode.

JUAN TANGA?
(How ignorant has the average Filipino become?)
Saturday, August 27, on Imbestigador

Imbestigador, the country’s number one public affairs program, takes an in-depth look at the state of the Filipino intelligence as it marks its fifth anniversary with thought-provoking but neglected issues of the day.

That the quality of education continues to plummet is a known fact. What is unknown is just how low it has sunk. This Saturday, Imbestigador attempts to measure our collective intelligence quotient, or what remains of it.

Some of the show’s discoveries: there are adult Filipinos who do not know what the country’s capital is and many of our students are unable to read long after first grade.

Imbestigador documents classes that hold as many as 85 pupils. Some schools make do with covered courts or gyms or tree shades as classrooms. Underpaid teachers often handle two classes simultaneously. Many of these same teachers flunk their diagnostic tests. Textbooks are full of errors.

The students meantime, are busy helping their parents earn a living. Some are too malnourished they become unable to function as well as their peers. These are some of the reasons why the country’s students are at the bottom of the heap in terms of math and science.

Imbestigador takes a holistic look at our educational system, its current weaknesses, and how these are affecting our future generation.

The episode also features a quiz show, as host Mike Enriquez plays game master in a showdown of wits between two barangays.

Imbestigador’s “JUAN TANGA?” episode airs this Saturday night at 9pm over GMA-7.

Let's Talk Dirty

I had fun writing this. Like snickering while lucubrating. Do devote your clickers to the program on Saturday. We will try to make it worth your while. We have a great team working on this episode.

BAYANG DUGYOT! *
Saturday: August 20, 2005
First Installment of Imbestigador’s 5th Anniversary Series of Specials

Imbestigador, the country’s number one investigative public affairs program, celebrates its 5th anniversary with a shocking yet thought provoking look at Filipino hygiene.

Most Filipinos take more than one bath a day. We spend a lot of money on soaps and shampoos. Those whose deodorants fail them become subjects of gossip and ridicule.

But these squeaky clean personal habits are equaled by our disregard for our surroundings. Our cities reek of burnt tires and garbage, our streets resemble mini dumpsites, our walls are covered with graffiti and stink of urine, and many of our alleys and overpasses are used as toilets.

We pay lip service to caring for our environment while tossing cigarette butts and fruit peels into our drainage system. We keep our yards clean, but toss the leaves into our neighbor’s empty lot. We are fashion-conscious, but pick our noses in public. Our males are macho and are forever ready to face insults, but see no shame in just turning their back on the world to take a leak against walls, and even car tires.

What makes Filipinos behave this way? Find out this Saturday as Imbestigador celebrates its 5th year anniversary by talking dirty. Hosted by veteran broadcaster Mike Enriquez, Imbestigador airs Saturday nights over GMA-7.

*(Dugyot: an Ilokano word meaning filthy, dirty, unclean)

The Negra and a Clogged Nose

I get up at half past eight to go to the mall to have a doctor tell me what drugs to take to get rid of the acute rhinitis that has made me a sneezing machine the past three weeks. It has become worse this week, rendering me unable to breathe through my nose every 15 minutes. Feed me spoiled Skyline food and I won’t even know.

The cab ride felt like it was being driven by Michael Schumacher frustrated by traffic lights. He fixed his seatbelt to make it appear like he was wearing it without really strapping the harness on, merely for the benefit of a couple of traffic cops nearby. Seatbelts don’t look macho, he says. I said seatbelts were invented for stupid machos to stay alive. Hit number one.

This is going to be another of those amusing, bitching days I will not let anyone tell my grandkids.

At the mall entrance, the lady guard gestures for me to open my bag. I comply. She waves me away with her stick without looking at it, and continues to chat with her fellow guard. “You made me open my bag but you won’t even look at what’s inside? What if I am one of those suicide bombers?” I walk away. Hit number two. My ears buzz. My nose clogs up again. It’s not going to be an easy morning.

I sit at the lounge to wait for my turn. A nurse takes my blood pressure. Then she leaves. I go after her and ask her what the reading was. She says it was okay. I asked her what it really was. She tells me it’s 120 over 80. “What’s the use of going through that thing without telling me what the result is? Is my BP a matter of national interest that even I don’t deserve to know?” I ranted. Hit number 3. Nose clogs up again. Something drips. I grab a tissue. This is not funny. I am getting tired and I just woke up two hours ago.

I sit back down on the couch among the waiting patients and read. A girl of about 8 walks past me, brushes against the magazine then continues to do the same thing to other reading-while-waiting patients. I ignore her and continue reading. No parent runs after her. Then she does the same thing again, this time with more force. She raises her hand and hits my head, my sunglass drops to the floor. Still no parent. She walks away then returns to slam her hands on my magazine. I look her in the eye and tell her in icy voice, barely moving my mouth, “I am going to kill you.” She freezes, processes the information, then runs away. Still no parent. She never strayed into my area again. My nose clogs up. I feel like hell and its denizens are having a bonfire party in my throat.

I am patient number 10. The nurse informs me that after patient number 8, the doctor will go somewhere for an hour and will be back. And I’ve already read my newly-bought Newsweek from cover to cover. I stand up and in my severely nasal voice, I tell the nurse I want to see other doctors available, anyone, ASAP. Even an ob-gyne. Or a podiatrist. I can’t breathe. Anyone will do. I gasp for breath through my mouth. My lungs burn up. At that minute, I believed I was the center of the universe and planet Earth revolved around my clogged nose and to hell with anyone who messes with me. The nurse relents and 20 minutes later, I get to see the doc. A nose doctor, thankfully not a foot doctor.

I spent three hours waiting and P500 of hard-earned money for the consultation which lasted no longer than five minutes. Yes, P100 or $2 per minute. The verdict? Take Ponstan and Decolgen thrice a day. Nyeta. Iyon lang iyon? The kicker? No coffee. NO COFFEE?!*&@! How will I survive? I think it’s karma for terrorizing that kid. On my way out, I told him I have always been spared the cold and flu season since childhood, I wonder why I am not exempted now. He smiles and like a zen guro, dishes out a gold nugget of wisdom: "We all have to deal with age." Dammit. I just spent three hours and P500 to be told I am old??? There is no justice in this country!

I buy the medicine (which sets me back by another P500) and go on a comfort binge to congratulate myself for braving another visit to a doctor. I grab a late breakfast in a Vietnamese restaurant. I smother my seafood soup in chili, more chili, then more chili. Enough chili for the FDNY to declare a general fire alarm. Then miracles of miracles, I can breathe. Chili is good, at least for a couple of hours. My nose drips. Who cares? I'm having soup! (Eech, dugyot!)

On my way out of the mall, I catch a glimpse of how I looked courtesy of a one-way mirror. I am wearing shorts and a jacket, with my shades on top of my head. A confused mix of sunshine and rain, dictated by my clogged nose, around which planet Earth revolves. At least for today. Or else tomorrow, there will be another brush with hell for cab drivers, guards, nurses, doctors and bratty 8-year olds.

No apologies. When it comes to bitching, I am Primus Inter Pares.

Electoral Pleasure

On October 14, 2002, then Presidential Legislative Liason Officer for Political Affairs, Sec. Jose Ma. Rufino wrote a confidential memo to Pres. Arroyo endorsing then Region 10 Comelec Director Virgilio Garcillano's promotion. Attached was the letter below, portions of which are highlighted due to its interesting...well, information:

FROM: ASEC AHMAD BAYAM
Office of the Presidential Liason Office for Political Affairs

DATE: 11 October 2002

SUBJECT: REGIONAL DIRECTOR ATTY. VIRGILIO GARCILLANO
COMELEC REGIONAL OFFICE – 10, CAGAYAN DE ORO CITY

Since the 1992 elections, Director Garcillano has been extensively serving and protecting the interest of Lakas-NUCD-UMDP, particularly in Mindanao and delivered almost every electoral pleasure of the administration.

Accordingly, he has received verbal commendations that include his possible appointment as COMELEC commissioner should any vacancy arise. He had expected such a rewarding position considering that getting appointed thereto is a presidential prerogative. However, with the newly-appointed commissioners already confirmed, Director Garcillano will have to wait further until his retirement on December 31, 2002.

In view of our need to continue enlisting Director Garcillano’s expertise and services on election matters, especially with the 2004 elections, it would be beneficial if we could assist in appointing him to another position of prominence, such as Member of the Board of Directors in the Public Estates Authority (PEA) or any other government agency in order to sustain his resources and authority.

The Agusan Connection

From the looks of it, the connection has been made. The tapes and jueteng.

And the link has been made by the surfacing of Michael Angelo Zuce, a former Malacanang operative, who says he was in the president's house in Quezon City when payoffs to elections officials were made. That the money was handed out known jueteng lords long known as friends of the first couple.

Then from the shadows election officials confirm they were indeed those who voices were heard in the Garci tapes.

Among the election officials who confirmed appearing in the Garci tapes is Francisco Pobe, the election supervisor assigned in Ausan del Sur. He is originally from Dapa, Agusan del Norte, from that island known as Siargao. Where dozens of people have sold their kidneys out of poverty. Where the Barbers clan reign supreme.

In Pobe's sworn affidavit,he vehemently denies having gone to the Arroyo home in QC, though he admits having travelled to Manila "on few occasions." What is interesting is that in his 8-paragraph statement, he did not say where he was on the occasions mentioned by Zuce.

Recall that several Garci conversations were between a man who identified himself as "Sen. Barbers." Recall that the conversations were about efforts to make him win, the method not so honorable. And about millions of pesos ready for votes delivered.

Hmmm....interesting.

Foot In Mouth Disease

My friend Arnold calls him "Totoy Wangwang" for his arrogant use and defense of his use of sirens when motoring from one place to another. Such is the irreverence recently attracted by the country's justice secretary, Raul Gonzales.

On Debate tonight, he showed how bad his case of FMD is. He claimed he was "purposely misquoted" and his statements "purposely twisted" by the media.

He says he merely said former president Aquino should just "take care of her daughter" instead of calling for Pres. Arroyo to step down. He said the communist group is really out to assassinate him, unfolding a piece of paper which he says is an intelligence report detailing the plot. In our country, we know that the words "military" and "intelligence" do not belong together. (Ka Roger showed why is he the group's spokesman by wittingly retorting "We won't waste a bullet on him.)

Gonzales said he knew how the pork barrel system works, hinting that Rep. Satur Ocampo benefitted when funds for his projects were released. He says he even has a copy of the Dept. of Budget and Management statement to back up his claim. Host Winnie Monsod drove a truck through the opening. She pointed that as a former congressman, Gonzales knows what he is talking about. Flustered he tried to backtrack, but too late. He has shot himself in the mouth. He said congressmen do benefit from pork barrel, but "not illigitimately."

Host Oscar Orbos had the best question, which he raised thrice: "Raul, must that be said?" The worst was his defense of his use of sirens. He said a car cut off his path that's why his bodyguards were justified in being arrogant. He claims it turns out the owner of the car was someone from the media, that's why the issue was blown out of proportion. Only the president and her escorts, ambulances and law enforcement vehicles can legally use sirens. If our justice secretary does not know that simple law, we are in trouble indeed. I wish taxpayers band together and fire this guy. He gives lawyers a bad name, and that's saying a lot for the legal profession, recalling Shakespeare's famous line.

Check Ups

Unless I'm dating them, I don't like seeing doctors. Them in their immaculate white outfit. Them in their sterilized clinic. Them in their serious and pontificating voice. "Quit smoking." They scare the life out of the likes of me.

So it took tons of courage for me to undergo a "must" check up. First stop was what I christened the "Dracula Room." This is where they drain the (dark) colors off The Negra by just brandishing their tool - the dreaded needle. (We have another one of those scared shitless patients again,says the nurse) She inserts the needle into a major vein and suck the blood out for what seems like an eternity. The session can make one so interested in the office memos and posters pasted on the wall. Then eternity ends. You see how much blood they drained out of you and you feel like socking the nurse. I smiled at her and said something like "I will never forget you. What time do you get off work?" She laughed. But I was darn serious.

Then Xray. Then blood pressure. Then those bodily by-products. Then they check your eyesight.

Then when it's over, you swear you don't want to see any of those people ever again. Them in their immaculate white outfit. Them in their sterilized office. Them!