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Friday, November 5, 2010

Nationalistic Subject--Again

It was three years ago when I had my first nationalistic class. By nationalistic I mean a course that would talk about identity, culture and stuff like that: the subject Philippine History, for instance. I took that course—I don’t remember much from it now—and I got a taste of the basics: colonialism via religion (Spain), mind (the US), and the Japanese interlude. My teacher went on to explain that though the Philippine colonial period left physical wounds due to the brutality of the soldiers, the one that has lingered up to now is the colonization of the Philippines by the US, hence colonial mentality.

He also told me that I am a “Westernized kid:” I was raised by King Arthur and harry Potter; I struggle in Filipino; I prefer reading English texts. Rizal’s novels I read as a part of a requirement in high school, though. I don’t deny these—my teacher took it upon himself to make me aware of nationalism, of “remembering who I am.” He spouted nationalistic facts during conversations, long after the semester had ended. An entry from my journal quotes him:

...reasons I teach History…one, to make you appreciate history; two, to make you read more about history….Besides, I also chose to teach [in the] tertiary level because I wanted to teach nationalism.

He spouted so much facts and lectures about nationalism that I wondered whether it was part of his system to do such thing. Another teacher whom I have spoken too, however, said that maybe my former history professor won’t stop until I become nationalistic or, at least, see his point. Thankfully, my former teacher has for a time stopped spewing out nationalism talks.

I haven’t spoken to the History teacher for sometime. I thought for a while that I would be given a rest from hearing nationalistic lectures—yes, I do get bored. (Who doesn’t get tired from hearing the same thing over again?) But, alas! The rest I thought was not for long. I enrolled in Science, Technology, and Society (STS), a General Education course at school. The professor said we’d be talking about gadgets. And at the end of the semester, we should be able to have nationalism in our heads. One of the course’s objectives, after all, is to make us nationalistic.

STS will deal with the toys and technologies through a historical approach. How nationalism will fit into the picture, I don’t know. I’ll have to find out, won’t I?

 


Friday, September 10, 2010

Children's Literature in the Philippines

Children’s literature in the Philippines traces its roots to oral tradition before Spain colonised the archipelago. Mothers sung lullabies for their babies. Each region had its own lullaby: Ili-ili Tulog Anay from the Visayas, Paghehele of the Tagalogs; and Duoay ya of the Ilocaos. Youngsters heard folktales from adults; these tales were meant to educate the young. Further, proverbs and riddles reflected the people’s philosophy and way of life. Likewise, these had morals.

Today, children’s literature range from books to multimedia materials and television shows. Children’s shows now also have print collectibles—which include activity and colouring books. Some shows, ABS-CBN’s Matanglawin, for example, put into print what has been featured in various episodes.

This paper shall discuss children’s books in the Philippines: its history, development, and the beginnings of illustrations in the books. The timeline would be from the pre-colonial era up to the present.

Lullabies were songs of assurance for the child as he slept. It could also provide a moral:
            Maturogcan ariaco, maturogcan      
                (Sleep, my child, sleep)

            Tapno inton dumakkel ka                  
            (So when you grow up)

            Maited moriton ti pacaidayawan   
            Keritan-oc kenni naman   
          (You will share your glories with your mother)
          
      Anac, patigmaannaca                        
           (My child, I advise you)

           Tapno saan ka nga pumada kadagiti riapalanguad               
       (Not to imitate those with bad manners)
                            
         Ta uray no pacanen dagiti nagannac  mo
        (Because even if you feed your parents)

         ti daculap mo                                  
    (from the palm of your hands)

        Saan to latta nga masupapacan         
      (You will never be able to repay)
        Dagiti tutuoc da kenka                        
       (all their sacrifices.) 

This lullaby of Ilocanos titled “Duoay-ya” is a piece of advice for the baby to grow up as a good child of his parents. It reflects the Filipino culture of taking care of aging parents, as a way of thanking the parents for the sacrifices they had made.

The folktales and legends tend to explain why things happen. Natural phenomena is explained in the tales of the Tinguians and the Mindanaoans: the sky and its contents, the sun and moon, calamities like floods and earthquakes. The legends show children where things originate, a name of a place, for instance (Alabado 2001, 6). Folktales deliver lessons to youngsters. In the case of the widely known “Juan Tamad,” children are taught not to be lazy fares.

Epics tell of the adventures of certain heroes. This poem is chanted by the elders of the town—or tribe—and is passed on through way of mouth. The epic is chanted during rituals like weddings or harvests. Each epic is sacred to a certain tribe or place; it talks about love, hate, praise to the higher Being, or of destiny Examples of these are: “Hudhud” of Ifugao; “Ullalim” of Kalinga; and “Hinilawod” of Panay and Negros.

Both epics and folktales involve magic and magical creatures such as kapre, tikbalang, duende, nuno, aswang, and diwata. This reflects the natives’ belief in the supernatural, and a higher being that they revered and believed to help them. This faith in such beings was being passed on to the younger generation.

The nonsense rhymes—such as “Pen Pen di Sarapen”—originated from chants in children’s games. In the early days, singing was used during older children’s re-enactment of mock battles (Alabado 2001, 14). 

The arrival of the Spanish conquistadores resulted to the burning of most of the Filipinos’ literature; the colonisers reasoning out that the literature “were of the devil,” and be an obstacle to the spread of Christianity. Other oral literature were lost due to carelessness or ignorance. Some parts of the oral tradition survived, nonetheless.

The first book for children came in 1593, Doctrina Cristiana en Lengua Tagala y EspaƱola, written by Father Domingo Nieva. It was used for religious instruction; children never actually held the book. Only adults had handled the book (Parayno 1991, 18).

The Filipino child’s first alphabets were learned from the Cartilla (Parayno 1991, 19), sometimes called Caton or Abecedario. This list of Roman alphabets and syllables replaced the native alibata (Alabado 2001, 36). Books were focused on the lives of saints, prayers and sermons. Written in the vernacular—in Roman alphabets—these were distributed throughout the archipelago.

Being in the verse form, the Pasion, Pabasa in Tagalog, was the most popular. Aside from the form, readers believed they would get indulgences from the Catholic Church for their sins. It was recited in homes and improvised chapels during the Lent; usually by solo or duet. Friends made it a point to recite the Pasion in homes where the family agreed to make the ritual a tradition. Those who could not read or write were still able to recite stanzas of the Pasion. According to historian Horacio de la Costa, SJ, Christ’s imitation in the Pasion made an indio a good Christian and good subjects of Spain in accordance to the king’s constitution (Alabado 2001, 37).

Children were later exposed to western romantic tales involving kings and knights. They found this interesting and called it their own. Examples are: El Cid of Spain and Charlemagne of France (Parayno 1991, 19).

Francisco Balagtas exposed the horrible situation of the Philippines through his Florante at Laura in 1838. Masked in a love story set in foreign Albania and Persia, Florante is commended for its artistic verse and teachings. The themes are Filipino-based (Alabado 2001, 39).

Other samples of corrido are Bernardo Carpio, a tale of a young man with great strength who ends up imprisoned between two mountains guarded by an angel; this was written by Jose de la Cruz, known as Huseng Sisiw. Another is Ibong Adarna, that tells of the search for the Adarna bird which is the only cure for the king’s malady. It is set in Berbania. These were the pass time of the people during that era. Thus, children were exposed to such works (Alabado 2001, 41).

The Filipinos failed to gain independence as new colonisers took the power from Spain—Americans.

To Filipino children the Americans introduced books that were meant for young American readers. Filipino youngsters were introduced to Mother Goose Rhymes, Alice in Wonderland (Parayno 1991, 19), Grimm’s Tales, Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and Swiss Family Robinson (Alabado 2001, 72). Since the setting and way of life presented in these stories are foreign, the result was the alienation of the Filipino child from his own culture. Adding to the burden was the American-themed literature for the Filipino children. The values, attitudes were reflected in the Filipino children, who made the values their own (Alabado 2001, 72).

Hugo Miller’s Philippine Folklore Series was one of the books written by American authors but prepared in the Philippines. Ginn and Company pioneered the publishing of books (Parayno 1991, 19). This resulted to children considering forein coloniseers as heroes and native heroes—Lapulapu for example—as mere insurgents (Alabado 2001, 73).

Later, Filipinos wrote children’s stories themselves. Camilo Osias’s Philippine Readers Books 1 to 7 were read by every Filipino child in grade school. Known as Osias Readers, the book collection contained tales, legends, myths, and creatures that were familiar to the Filipino child. The pieces were written in English. The author’s preface of Book Four added that poems and selections that light the fire of nationalism have been included (Alabado, 77).

Other writers of Philippine stories for children are: Maximo Ramos, Tales of Long Ago and Philippine Myths and Tales; Manuel and Lyd Arguilla; and I.V. Mallari (Parayno 1991, 19).  

In Philippine comics, Tony Velasquez’s Kenkoy appeared in Liwayway in 1929. The character was equivalent to “funny guy.” Kulafu a Filipino illustration of Tarzan which appeared in the Ilocano Bannawag. The illustration was made by Francisco Reyes (Alabado 2001, 94). Francisco Mabini created the jungle heroine for the Liwayway magazine. In the late 1940s, the Tarzan-based character Hagibis; the hero-based Lapu-lapu; and Dumagit. Halakhak was the first comic book in the Philippines. Other comic creators were Nestor Redondo, Darna; and Elpidio Torres, Bondying and Dyesebel. The comics were easily understood by Filipino children because the discourse of the characters were written in the local dialects (Alabado 2001, 94).

In 1945, translations of Western works appeared. Classics like The Little Prince and Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat were translated into Filipino. In 1946, National Bookstore started reprinting foreign books and translated fairy tales to Filipino. The Lady Bird series was also published. They also published comics in Filipino and English like Rizal’s Classic Illustrated, Filipino Heroes Stories, and Legends of the Philippines Stories (Parayno 1991, 20).

Poems for children in the 1930s to the next decade were vessels for nationalist ideals; although, they were not always accompanied with illustrations (Almario et. al. 1994, 89). This was due to the brutality of Japanese colonisers. Works such as The Battle of Mactan by Virgilio Floresca and Like the Molave by NVM Gonzales were published (Almario et. al. 1994, 89). Children’s books at this time were used as shield against Japanese censorship.
During martial law, censorship was applied. One author—Ceres Alabado—however insisted on publishing books for older children, such as I See Red in a Circle, 1973 (Almario, et. al. 1994, 94).

Today, books for children include collectibles from television shows. Books like Matanglawin put into print those that have been featured in episodes of an ABS-CBN show bearing the same title. Activity books like collectibles from Super Inggo are usually colouring books.

During the Spanish colonial years through 1950s, illustrators of books were not given due credit. What mattered was that the author was a widely known author, and that the publishing house had profits (Almario et. al. 1994, 85). Illustrations were considered space-fillers or decorations of magazines. Illustrators weren’t esteemed that time.  One of the very first illustrators of children’s stories was Jose Rizal. He translated Hans Christian Andersen’s The Monkey and the Turtle into Tagalog and supplied illustrations as well. The drawings were in black and white (Almario et. al. 1994, 85).

Fernando Amorsolo and other artists were commissioned to do drawings for the Osias Readers in 1920. Amorsolo later headed the University of the Philippines School of Fine Arts in doing illustrations. UP-SFA later expanded into offering electives in commercial arts including illustration (Almario et. al. 1994, 88). Prof. Irineo Miranda responded to the student cartoonists’ plea for more areas to harness their talents. Encouraged by Amorsolo, Miranda offered more commercially-related electives (Almario et. al. 1994, 88). President Manuel Quezon’s move to lead the country in writing textbooks in Filipino resulted to the publishing of Pepe and Pilar series for public schools.  
  
In the illustrations of Filipino life and Filipino people, there have been issues. Filipino kings and gods were portrayed horribly, while western fairies and deities were illustrated very well. Ceres Alabado’s Multimedia Multicultural Children’s Literature in the Philippines cites as example the drawing of a Filipino king. The books points out that the royal was portrayed as a male witch, while the knight Sir Galshad was illustrated correctly, complete with chain mail armour. Alabado quotes Maximo Ramos—a Filipino writer of children’s stories—thus:
           
The artist...when he had to draw humans and mythical beings, he had nothing
to go by and so he went to Boston arts museums for his deities and portrayed  dis-
reputable-looking Filipinos to represent his humans (Alabado 2001, 73).

This shows that even Filipinos embraced the notion that Westerners were the superior race.

The illustration of modern books was influenced by cartoons due to concrete lines and curves (Almario et. a. 1994, 95). From black-and-white, colours were introduced to enhance the drawings. Today, digital art is also applied for illustrations. Depictions of Filipino characters are no longer horrible and artists could draw their own interpretations of deities without imitating western gods.

Children’s books in the Philippines have greatly evolved. From Western books in the beginning, the Filipino child has found morals and entertainment in stories that are familiar to him. He is provided with materials that foster appreciation of his own culture and values, not a foreigner’s.

With respect to illustrations, Virgilio Almario points out that Filipino artists are committed to their work of illustrating for the Filipino child and improving the quality of the output. From black-and-white sketches to coloured two-dimensional drawings to digital and three-dimensional arts, it can be said that illustrations have improved a lot.

Almario again pointed out that the illustrations may not be like the Westerners’. Artists are evolving and improving; they produce quality artworks that bear the signs of Filipino life, something that Filipinos could call their own. 

References

Alabado, Ceres. 2001. Multimedia multicultural children’s literature in the Philippines,
        Philippine Edition. Quezon City: New Day Publishers.

Almario, Virgilio, Ma. Elena Paterno, Ramon Sunico, and Rene Villanueva.  eds. 1994.
        Bumasa at lumaya: a sourcebook on children’s literature in the Philippines. Pasig:
       Anvil Publishing, Inc.

Parayno, Salud. 1991. Children’s literature. Quezon City: Katha Publishing Co., Inc.
       

Apprentice

I am learning to navigate: this is a second chance.
I am once more an apprentice, to cut long parlance:
Training to navigate our waters and appreciate the scene.
Under the tutelage of Kent I have always been.
It appears I’ve been the sirens’ captive—lost and blind;
They treated me like royalty but wiped out my mind.
As a shepherd carefully watches over his sheep,
Kent woke me up from a slumber so deep.
I am learning to navigate: this is my second chance.
I am once more an apprentice, to cut long parlance.
Kent’s skill may over mine prevail
But I’ll never stop learning how to sail.

(Sailing, Poem 5) 

Captive

As I have my fill from a bountiful table
My mind is at unrest, my thoughts unstable.
I do not know how I got here, or when I got here.
I am confused. Should I cheer or shed a tear?
About sailing clueless am I, at its superlative extent.
But why does the stranger seem surprised—name is Kent.
(I took a walk on the beach after my morning meal
Putting together myself and what I feel.)
I said I live with the sirens as a guest, I am served excellently.
Said I, “I’m curious about sailing. Please. Tell me.”
Kent told me about boats, patiently answering queries
About bows, sterns, masts, and sails to release.
Then he asked, “Do you recognize me not?”
I answered, “No sir. Sorry about that.”
“I understand,” replied he. Then he patted me,
“I’m taking a walk every morning, if you wish to speak to me.”

(Sailing, Poem 4)

The Sirens

I am sailing in peace, contented
Of what I saw and how I was greeted.
The waters sing a sweet, sweet song.
What a comfort. I hope the sound would grow strong.
The song is sweet, it takes fatigue away: a massage.
The sound gets louder. From afar I see a faint visage:
Two beauteous ladies, with long hair and fair skin
More beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen.
They smile and sing to me, I listen happily
Their arms outstretched, they are inviting me.
I steer the boat as they lead me onward. Sweet song
Continues then I realize my choice is wrong.

(Sailing, Poem 3) 

Smooth Sailing

I am sailing through our waters.
Warmth-filled coasts I traverse,
Greeted by people who hug me tightly.
You I salute gratefully.
I stop at islands filled with beauty.
Lucky that I heeded your words to see
These places connected by our seas:
Warmth-filled places that supply bliss.

(Sailing, Poem 2)

The Compass

O how wondrous the view! Marvellous
The scenes are. Good thing to choose
To navigate in these waters. All hail
Sights where the sun sets. Happiness, prevail.
That is what I say, but why, why, why
Do I get from this admiral a continuous fie?
If he prefers otherwise, why not leave me alone
And I shall leave him with the wishes of his own?
Persistent as he is, I am resolute. Then everything
Changes. I hear what he is saying. My eyes are opening.

(Sailing, Poem 1)

Special

The music of the piano is a magnet. Whenever I hear it, my feet lead me to where it is. I listen in awe and observe in amazement as the musician’s fingers skate through the keys. Playing the piano is something I want to do. I have dreamed of being in a recital and playing a fast-tempo piece, with my fingers flying. Though I have a toy keyboard at home and have memorized the notes of a few songs, these are kiddie songs. I learned how to play them through the song book of my keyboard. Whenever I play, I only use my right fingers. I have difficulty controlling my left.

Although I learned to read notes in school, I don’t know how to play a piece with a single sharp continuously. I might be able to play the piece, but very slowly. Once when I played a piece in the key of G (single sharp), I ended up fuming because of the 6/8 time signature and its many flags.

I have a hard time discerning the correct keys to press whenever I meet chords like Am7, B7 or the like. Though my music teacher said it is the first finger that should adjust whenever a “7” appears, I haven’t got the hang of it. The piece he gave me to practice was “so basic that the guitar group of the school could play it with their eyes closed,” but I haven’t played half of it correctly yet.

When I hear my church mate Jude playing a lively tune, I wish I were in his shoes. I observe intently as he slows down his playing so that I might get the notes right, but it’s all in vain.I asked Jonima, another friend, to teach me how to play “A Prayer” (not Andrea Boccelli’s). She did, but I was able to memorize only a bit of it.

In the dorm where I stay, there are two excellent pianists. Every time they play, I watch and listen in wonder. And I ask myself, “Why am I not as skilled as they are?”

But I suppose I cannot have everything I want. If I had every skill—playing all musical instruments, writing songs, playing all sorts of games, or doing math—I won’t have to depend on someone else. I’d live and let others live, without a care about what’s going on around me. But there are things others can do that I can’t. I need their help, and so I have to establish a fellowship with them.

Whenever I commend a friend for her brilliant piano playing, she smiles and says, “Huh? And you’re mentally sharp. You can crack up compositions in a short period of time, and doing that takes me days. Can you lend me your brain?” Whenever she says this, I smile, look up and say, “Lord, it’s OK that I’m not skilled with the piano. The musician is asking me to teach her to write!”

When somebody asks me that, she is telling me indirectly that she has confidence in me and that I should appreciate my gift because it makes me special in my own way.

(Published 31 July 2007, Philippine Daily Inquirer's Youngblood)

The Author and the Character

 Before a novel starts, the author plans:
Is it action-packed or a paradise of romance?
Who’s the main character and his adversary?
Will the hero die or live happily?

In all novels, the author knows what the hero drinks
What he’s gonna do or what he thinks.
What’s up next, the hero knows not
But the author does, I’m sure of that.

The author is on a view deck seeing everything
The character is on the field, doing what the author is wishing.
If characters could talk about events, they might protest
I’m sure the author would explain, “It’s for the best.”

We are characters in the novel titled life, written at our birth
 It’s for a happy ending and it’s much more than money’s worth.
Our story was planned perfectly, every detail with love
We’re characters of the novel written by God above. 
    

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Out at Sea

 I am so confused. This man said things about me that I don’t remember. He mentioned a maritime school, two cruise ships... in short; he was saying that I was a captain. And that he was my mentor. I replied he might be mistaken. I have lived in this island for as long as I could remember. For all I know he might be some tourist from the nearby resort. This stranger might just be pulling my leg.

“You are the youngest captain in the fleet,” Columbus said, “you work for Via Hetaio Shipping Lines, and you command the bullet ship Caislean Clocha.

I stared at him in disbelief. Admiral Columbus, a tall, dark man with a shiny jet-black hair had black eyes that were filled with warmth. He talked to me like a father, and I bet patiently restrained himself from knocking me to the ground. I repeatedly told him he was a hoax but he kept his cool. His parting words were intriguing.

“I understand. You have been in this island for six weeks with practically nobody you know. You’re very confused because what I have told you is something very grave. But if you want to talk, I take a walk along the beach every morning. See you, son.”

I went back to the castle and had a hearty dinner. That night, I tossed and turned in bed. Not even the sweet voice of the chambermaid lulled me to sleep. I was too bothered by my conversation with the admiral earlier that evening. I could have dismissed the whole thing immediately, but I couldn’t. As the conversation was played in my mind, I realised some of what he told me made sense. I started to ask questions.

The following morning, I slipped into my jogging clothes and headed to the beach. The first rays were not yet up; my breath rose into a mist. I saw a tall solitary figure shadow boxing—Columbus. He greeted me and I returned his greeting. We jogged together before we proceeded to the local diner.

“Glad you wanted to talk,” he began.

I sipped my coffee. “Yeah. Haven’t slept last night. So, er—Admiral, what have you for me sir?

“Well, I could help you regain your memory. Your past, I mean. If you want me to,” he replied.

“Okay. I’ve had questions myself. Where do we start?”

He took a deep breath. “You were enrolled at the most prestigious maritime school, Schiff und Heck.”

“That explains what you said about me being a very young captain,” I commented. “No offense, but have you got like a proof of my ‘lost’ memory? A letter to you from me or a diary or something?”

He pulled an object from his pocket: a diary. “You wrote this during your stay in the office and your time aboard Malipayong Buntag and the bullet shipCaislean Clocha. I got it from among your personal items that were salvaged.”

I turned one page, dated June 13, 2007. Suddenly, the words came to life.
   
Friday was one of those days that I hated. Admiral Columbus, my superior, had given my assignment—the ship I would command. Plus he awarded me a solid blow. It was not because I forgot my homework nor did the computation of knots wrong. No. He silenced me because I said I’d navigate where the sun sets as soon as I get to sea.

“Why are you so obsessed with the west, Captain?” he asked.

“Not obsessed, Admiral. I just love the sights. The spots are breath-taking. I’m pretty sure that my passengers will be awed. The cruise showcases the Thames and Seine, to name a couple. The history of these places are fascinating, perhaps the most exciting.”

The admiral’s eyebrows went up.

“With due respect, sir, Thames or Seine holds more grandeur than the sights we have on our waters. There are lights at night, fabulous places. We don’t have those here.”

I got a stern reply, “Orders are orders, Captain. You will run theMalipayong Buntag while I am admiral in this port.”

I saluted my commander and exited his office, cursing. The Malipayo? That’s  tantamount to letting me into the Holocaust’s gas chambers. Commanding the ship is a boring job. It is a cruise ship, but it does not provide excitement. Navigating in our waters didn’t endear me, or rather, never endeared me.

Well, I am Captain now, quite young for my rank. I am in my twenties; others are in their thirties and forties already. Being the youngest captain in the fleet is something I am proud of. Looking back, I haven’t really gone far. Here I am, stuck in Malipayo, whereas I should be in the Caislean Clocha, touring better destinations. But what can I do? I have superiors to follow and orders to obey. So for now, I have to work. Today, I set course for Colon.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard the Malipayong Buntag, your cruise ship bound for Colon. This is your Captain speaking. We’ll be navigating at 21 nautical miles per hour. We will spend three days there, then head off to Alona. Hoping you enjoy your stay with us.”

While at port, retreated to my cabin and worked on the assignment Admiral Columbus gave me. I am supposed to speak to students at my alma mater. What am I to say? This came as a shock.

“You will speak to the students at Schiff und Heck, Captain. Exactly three days after you return from Alona,” he informed me. I was getting ready to go home when Columbus told me this.

“Uh, sir, what am I to say, and what’s up?”

“Ah, yes, forgive me. Your alma mater is having a mini series of lectures and talks on the anniversary. You’re aware of the anniversary date, I take it?”

“Yes, Admiral. But what am I supposed to tell them? I can’t stand there for half an hour or so and lecture them on nautical miles.” I failed to hide the sarcasm.

“You will tell them about your life aboard Malipayo,” Columbus replied simply.

“Yes sir.”

I went straight to the port’s parking lot, where my friend Mel was waiting. I told him about my assignment, and he came clean. 
He said, “What can we do, buddy? He’s boss. Let’s roll, Issa’s waiting. She brought a friend for you—” I raised an eyebrow—“Don’t give me that stare James Bond; we know how you are with women. Let’s not keep your Moneypenny waiting.”

Shaking off the recollection, I faced the blank Microsoft Word screen of my laptop. What life is present here, I asked myself. I am Captain of a cruise ship that sails to Colon and Alona, yippee. Clap your hands, let’s celebrate. Crap. And what should I tell them? I’m leading a bummer’s life, gentlemen. I’m commanding theMalipayong Buntag. Well, I could spin a tale of good life, like say, enjoying the sights of Colon or being glad to sail on our waters. Whatever.  

I browsed through one of the books Columbus gave me, a history book by Konstantin Owe. I was as puzzled as anyone else might be. Maybe it was one of those weird moves of his. Columbus was admiral, yes, he was made to sail. But he is a man of hidden interests.

“These will help you, Captain. Read on these sections—” he handed me a piece of paper—“then do you speech. You’ll be amazed afterwards.”

I had every urge to question him if he was serious, but I bit my lip instead. His black eyes found my brown ones and bore through. It was as if he was silently commanding me to definitely read the books. Columbus was a man of few words. In the instances that he spoke, he uttered very little words that had the power of daggers.

The book was not about maritime life, obviously. It was a book that recounted happenings of the place where the sun rises: our place. Konstantin Owe’s books say that time has come for the people of where the sun comes up must write about their events. It is much like saying that sailors should navigate their own waters, right?

“Don’t listen. You have a brighter future if you get to Cailean Clocha,” a voice in my head was saying, as if to justify the revulsion I hold for having to run theMalipayong Buntag.

My meeting with Columbus—the day I got the books—flashed back. “I am not against your wanting to command the Caislean Clocha, Captain. My point is that your love for navigation should be balanced. You have to navigate our waters, too.”

And then I remembered the poem I read in high school. It was by Joseph Ricefield. I do not remember the exact words but one thought that caught me is this: those who do not learn to love navigating in their own waters are worse than those that rot at the bottom of the sea.

“Shut it, boy. You know your future. Shut the damn book and focus,” the little voice in my head was a little stern.

I tried to imagine myself commanding Caislean Clocha. It was awesome. The bullet ship’s passengers sipping red wine at the dining hall, anticipating glorious days in the Thames and Seine; then my voice being heard over the speakers, welcoming them. And then I imagined the smoothness of the ship as it moved through the water, its speed: 70 knots. And the fulfilment I would have. The joy in my heart and my father’s voice telling me he was proud of me. Then I willed myself to imagine life aboard Malipayo. Dull. Boring. Stale.

“You are extremely young, Captain. But you’re bright. You know what I mean,” I heard Columbus’ voice in my head.

Without warning, I was whipped by the words of Owe. The lashes were very painful. My insides were twitching, my throat constricted. But I treasured that moment, that sweet, sweet moment. I savoured each lash that sent a clear message to me.

I stared once more at my laptop’s blank Word. I felt very light that time. Every word just came flowing, and sentences and paragraphs were formed. It was as if someone else had written my speech for me: the Muse perhaps. That’s what literary people say, do they not, if they come up with a masterpiece?

I read my finished speech. It was a story of my life aboard the Malipayong Buntag. I remembered Columbus and smiled. Had he not given me the books, I wouldn’t be thinking what I was thinking then: I have to appreciate navigating our waters, and I will.

Back to the diner....

“That was one hell of a story,” I commented. “I guess it makes sense, huh. I’m fascinated with boats, you see. Jet skis, speed boats. How’d I go after that?”

“Your speech was applauded and you asked me if I wanted to be your mentor. Right there. On national television,” Columbus replied, beaming. “It was one day I’ll remember with pride. Move on, will you?”

I obliged. The page I read was dated October 6, 2007.

It has been four months since Columbus knocked some sense into my head. Since then, I’ve been commanding the Malipayong Buntag with pride. I could not explain how I felt, though. But I was sure it wasn’t Cloud 9 yet. Anyway, I somewhat understand now the feeling perhaps, of teachers who have been in the profession for decades and can still teach with passion. Boredom is the risk of doing the same thing over and over. But not me. Each time I steer the Malipayo feels like I’m doing it for the first time. And I wouldn’t trade anything for the feedbacks. Notes and cards have been sent, saying thank you for the great time they had aboard. The crew did the work in the comfort-the-guests part, but I am filled with joy whenever I see a sentence that says the guests enjoyed the sights of Colon and Alona.

I am a tour guide too, besides being captain. This newfound hobby I took ever since I learned to appreciate the sights. Nothing is more rewarding than seeing the guests ooh and ahh in delight. Cheerio!

I smiled as I looked at Columbus. “Fast transformation. All thanks to you.”

He smiled back. “Nothing is more rewarding to a father than to see his son be a man. You are my greatest achievement, you know. You are living proof that the choice I made—my short stint in Schiff und Heck I mean—was not a waste.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I said teasingly. “So...what other adventures does this diary have? Looks like majority of November through February are day-to-day records. What an anti-climax.”

Columbus shook his head. “Young people,” he said. “Your ‘adventures’ included nights out with your friend Mel Peralta. From what I heard you were a lady magnet.” He winked.

“I see. That explains why there are many ladies at my place too,” I said in mock realisation. I skipped pages and read March 16, 2008.

What a beautiful night! I am alone, out sailing aboard my sailboat Firebolt. It has been ages since I did this. Being busy with the cruises made me forget the wordrelax. I am at the deck, a sandwich in my hand. It makes me wish to go back to the mainland and beg Issa to make some more (Mel would probably shove me out their door).

The silence is broken by the occasional rush of waves and the sound of my boat bobbing on water. My lights playfully entertain me. Honestly, the whole thing is so perfect—the wind, the water, the food. What would I not give for another night like this? This is a total bliss.

I must go for now. There is a very sweet voice I hear. That must be a singer from the nearby hotel resort. They have these beautiful singers every night. Maybe I’d spend the night there or just check the sights. Cheerio!

The entry ended. There was no other entry either. I looked up at Columbus.

“That was your last entry. After that, you never came back. Mel said not to expect you for three days—you usually prolonged vacations—but days turned to weeks. I led a search party to the Casey Manua Waterways, that’s where we found your Firebolt, but you were nowhere to be found in the vicinity. It was a puzzle to us, because your boat was intact, no scratch.”

“I’m confused,” replied I, “I’ve been the owner of Chateau Perte since I can remember. The caretaker said I inherited that from my parents when they died eight years ago.”

“Clearly, you are being brain-washed,” Columbus concluded. “There have been rumours that Nerises have taken as captive many sailors who passed by the Waterways. They wipe out the captive’s memories and plant a new one. When the captive is no longer of interest to the Head Neris, he is killed.”

“I’m not a prisoner there, Admiral. I’m treated like royalty; the maidservants are at my disposal. They don’t object orders I give. I am a free man,” I countered.

We said goodbye after breakfast and I went back to the Chateau. My maids greeted me with utmost respect as I arrived. I was told my bath was ready so I went straight to my room. As I scrubbed, I thought hard. Again, Columbus’ words made sense. There were various times that the housekeeper refused to answer questions about my past. And she got mad once. Threatened me I would regret it if I asked one more. Then she softened again and was once more motherly. I brushed the thought off. Was I being too paranoid?

That afternoon, I was able to get out of the housekeeper’s clutches. I shook my head as I walked to the gate. She treats me like a baby and she freaks out if I’m not home by seven in the evening. I went to Columbus’ friend’s apartment. He was playing chess with  the owner of the diner when I arrived.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I replied. “Maybe I should come back later.”

“Oh, no. I think Lex has kicked my butt enough. Have a seat.”

I told him my recollection of the housekeeper being mad at me. His brow furrowed and he sighed. He excused himself and retrieved a book from his room. When
he came back, he showed me the title: All Bliss is not Peace by Jonathan Clark. It was a memoir of Clark’s days as a captive on an island by Nerises. My stomach flipped as I read. He recounted how he felt like a king on the island, served by the most beautiful ladies he ever saw. They made him believe he was an aristocrat who lost his memory and was recuperating there. All was well until he lost the favour of the housekeeper that he was about to be killed. He escaped from his cell as the Nerises were preparing for his execution.

My hands became numb. Clark’s experiences were identical to mine: the feeling of royalty, the loss of memory, the anger of the housekeeper. I knew that the ladies in the Chateau were Nerises because of one thing: the food they eat—algae. I had to escape. And if I can, retrieve my memory from the Nerises. According to the book, captives’ memories were kept in a secret vault, in a place they value most. Without a word, I left, angry but determined.

Upon arrival, there was the usual greeting. I went straight to the eastern wing, direct to the room where I was forbidden to enter. It was unlocked. The room had algae-coloured tiles, a high ceiling and a table used for rituals. Wires were at the head of the table. There was nothing else. Frustrated, I scanned the room. The ceiling had a painting of a ship anchored, a sailor entwined with a Neris, and a palace. The walls were painted mint-green. Four posts stood on each corner of the room. The post nearest to where I stood had a small knob-like stuff.

Knob-like? Posts don’t have knobs. I turned the knob. Inside was a silvery thingy floating on a large flask. Beside it was a small basin half-filled with water. I laid the basin on the table and poured the contents of the flask into it. The solution swilled and lo, it showed me in a captain’s uniform. I transferred the solution to the flask and turned to leave.

The doors burst open and the housekeeper-Head Neris came in, others in her wake.

“You are not leaving,” she said. “Put that back, it’s not real.”

“No,” I protested. “You are the hoax. You held me captive here. Everything is a lie. Now let me go.”

Two Nerises blocked my way with spears. They tied my hands. As I struggled to undo the knot, the Head Neris approached and lovingly caressed my cheeks. “Stay with us,” she said, “and you will be this young forever. Or if you want, you can be years younger. No more mortal worry of growing old and dying. No need to work. Here you are a prince.”

“Never!” I bellowed. “You wouldn’t fool me again. You are nothing but hungry scum who only want my flesh. I know about Jonathan Clark! Let go me!”

“All the more we have to keep you,” she cackled. She turned to the other Nerises. “Do it. Remove his memory.”

I struggled again, “Noooooo!”

They sang a very sweet song. It was blissful to hear their voice, so soothing. It felt like every fibre of me was relaxing and I was being lulled to sleep. It seemed I did not care as a silvery something was being extracted from my head. All I felt was total piece.

Then an excruciating pain stabbed me. I screamed for help but no one could hear. The Nerises where oohing. They must be feasting that I would have another blank memory again. I heard a voice call me from afar. I screamed for help and it answered. Fight, it said, fight son. It was Columbus.

“Fight it, son. Keep your memory. This is what you wanted,” Columbus was saying.

“Fight?” the Head Neris taunted, “you will experience only pain and sadness. Let go and you will have bliss.”

It was a dilemma. What would be better: a royal life with a blank memory or a life that has pain with my being in one piece? It was a very tempting offer.

I heard Columbus again, “Come home with me. You know I am a father to you. I would never hurt you.”

“I never forced him to command the ship he hated,” retorted the Head Neris.

Suddenly, she stabbed Columbus. His eyes widened and he fell to a pool of his own blood. I screamed again, calling his name. The Nerises cackled and continued to erase my memory. As hard as I could, I held on to the remaining memory I had, struggling to fight. I grew tired. This was a lost cause. Maybe death was better.

“You’re doing great, son. Hold on and fight,” the voice I wanted to hear. A light blinded me for a moment then I saw Columbus. He was smiling

“Am I dead?” I asked him. He vanished. Then I heard Columbus cough.

“C’mon, boy. Hang on to your memory. Hold on. Retrieve it. Don’t let go. C’mon. Fight,” he said. His voice was raspy.

I struggled to get the upper hand. I could feel the last of my memory slipping away.

“Get out of my head!” I screamed. A surge of energy followed. I felt like being electrocuted. My mind was hazy. It was not electricity, in fact I not what it is. Something had left my body; like something had been ripped off. My head started to clear and my memory came back. It was like watching a quick-speed film. I caught flashes of me in a ship, wearing a captain's uniform; of a young man my age arm in arm with a pregnant lady; and Columbus in his office.

I heard the Nerises scream in pain. That was the last thing I heard before I collapsed.

“Son.”

I was lying face-flat on the floor. Columbus helped me sit, his face concerned.

“You passed out after the Nerises knocked you to the floor,” he explained. “I managed to loosen my bonds.”

“Thank you very much, Admiral,” I croaked. My body was still sore. I sank inches lower. “I seriously thought you died.”

Columbus helped me to my feet, “Come on,” he panted as I stood. One hand around him, I eased my way to the benches. “That was all in your head. The Nerises put that to make you think you were fighting a lost cause. You were screaming for my name. I was knocked out when I tried to soothe you.”

I smiled weakly. “I’m lucky you followed. I wouldn’t have done this alone.”

Columbus winked, “I did nothing. When I arrived, you were already putting up a good fight. Your choice to hold on to your memory was your own.”

“I guess your talks about appreciating our own waters really sunk in,” I said.

“Thank you,” he replied. “Let’s get going.”

I spent another three days at the Chateau Perte, this time with real human nurses. The doctor said I could go back to work in two weeks. I smiled. What more could a man want? I may never have Columbus’ passion for eastern sights but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop valuing them.