The Senate’s decision to start a preliminary inquiry into the complaint of unethical behavior filed by Sen. Ana Consuelo ‘Jamby’ Madrigal against Sen. Manny Villar will have deep repercussion in the 2010 national elections and in the Senate itself, which is a collegial body thriving on consensus.
Expect fireworks in the Senate next week. Further, expect the fireworks to extend to 2010. Expect bitter exchanges in the media. In the backrooms of the Senate, expect nothing but business-as-usual.
The protagonists in this political, yes, it is political, conflict are two different and differing personalities.
Villar is a consummate traditional politician who had, as his propagandists continually harass our sensibilities with, built his political and material fortune on “sipag at tiyaga” or industry and patience. My perennial texter, a rat who is identified only by number and I suspect is also a political hatchet man of some bigger rats, had sent a message that said it was not “sipag at tiyaga” that sent Villar’s star up to a steep trajectory, but “siba at taga”. You know what that means.
On the other hand, Madrigal is already “built” before she landed, head first I am afraid, in the Senate. That’s perhaps the reason she is like that, a little off-balance, throwing tantrums whenever there’s an opportunity—or a media camera—so she would make it to the evening news. She is a consummate brat, in my estimation, whose family’s eminence in industry and commerce she had capitalized to earn a name—or a moniker—depending on where you sit. Ask the Senate media about Jamby. You will find in the Senate Press Office a reporter who crumples her press releases and turn it into a ball, with the waste basket as a hoop on a gloomy Friday afternoon.
This Jamby the Senator has visited Odiongan to campaign in 2001. I remember it clearly because I was the LDP candidate then for congressman, and I organized a huge rally for the national candidates in Odiongan.
Jamby’s staff, an idiot who thought Romblomanons will do his bidding at the mere drop of Jamby’s name, delivered in my campaign headquarters several boxes of her boss’s campaign paraphernalia and asked me with not even a ‘ni ha, ni ho’ to distribute it to the voters.
I asked him: “Where is Jamby’s budget for transportation and per diem of my campaign staff?”
The idiot said: “Walang ibinigay, eh.” Just like that.
I said: “OK. Leave it here.” In my mind formed the image of a politician who had no touch with the ground realities of Philippine communal politics; one who, I thought, when in the Senate will not remember the countryside, or Odiongan for that matter.
I was correct, as Jamby herself would prove later by her actuations in the Senate, where she likes to quarrel with anybody who doesn’t kowtow to her. She didn’t even see me in my campaign headquarters while she was in Odiongan. Lacson did. Angara did. Many others did.
Pa-importante ako? I threw Jamby’s boxes of campaign paraphernalia into the sea on my way to Corcuera. She lost in the election of 2001, but won in 2007 to the great misfortune of the Filipino people. I also lost. Hah!
And now, Jamby is pitted against Villar. Villar is running for president in 2010. Jamby may have moist eyes for the highest post of the land, but she knows her limits. Capacity? I am not sure. So, she is trying to bring down Villar with the aid of her co-senators in the majority.
I am not saying that Villar should not be investigated for misbehaviour, particularly in the controversial C-5 project, and generally, in his management of the Senate when he was its president. But Jamby pushing for the investigation? I can’t believe it.
Know her record of confrontation. Know her acid exchanges with Sen. Pia Cayetano and Sen. Juan Ponce Enrile, and you will see her as not as lily-white as she thinks she is. Come on, do the math and it’s easy to answer one-plus-one. It’s all politics.
What will happen to Villar after the Senate investigates him? Nothing. Will it rebuff or censure him? Expel him? Nah!
They are all just playing to the gallery their little silly games of politics.
It’s called tsubibo. Catch 22.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
A letter from 'Gado'
Sometime in January, I wrote about the undelivered office uniforms of the Romblon provincial employees, which according to my source, cost P1.2 million, the amount allegedly deducted in March 2008 from the employees’ clothing allowance for that year to the tune of P3,700 per employee.
I thought this issue has been resolved, and the uniforms have been delivered, considering that it is already May 2009. I said then that one year is already too long for the employees to wait for their uniforms to be sewn, and I wondered aloud what happened. I opined that another mysterious event has occurred in the Jojo Beltran-held capitol, and this one had no forthcoming explanation, just like the many other Beltran mysteries during the last two-and-a-half years.
I was wrong. Last March 31, I received a letter from a certain Salvador Hernandez, who shed a faint light—but still light—on the uniforms. I can’t remember if I know or have met the guy—the name seemed fictitious, or looks like he comes straight from the movies—but he wrote and that’s all that matters. I don’t know if he is the provincial information officer or Gov. Jojo Beltran’s spokesman. He seemed to be in the know. I am sharing to readers his letter, unedited:
“Dear Nicon:
I read your article regarding the uniforms of the provincial employees in our province of Romblon. Please be informed that not all of the employees had availed of the subject uniforms. More than 50% of the provincial employees opted to have it in cash.
So, only 439 provincial employees had their measurement taken. As of January 2009, more or less 180 sets of uniforms were already delivered which is roughly 41%. The tailoring shop which is Golden Moore sent a letter sometime late January 2009 to Governor Beltran explaining among other things the reasons behind the delay. A copy of the letter is hereto attached for your reference and perusal.
Should you have further query on all other matters, please do not hesitate to contact the undersigned on the email address as indicated.
Hoping that the foregoing may have enlighten you regarding the issue, and may you consider also publish or post the explanation in your blog.
Thank you very much. Best regards.
gado_921”
Well, thank you, ‘Gado’. How good of you to write. You are very so unlike your boss, who does not even answer his mobile phone.
I purposely did not reply to Gado’s letter because I planned to write about it. First, let’s do the math.
Gado says more than 50 percent of the provincial employees availed of the uniform allowance in cash, while 439 employees opted to have their uniforms in kind, or “to have their measurement taken”.
How many exactly, Gado, is “more than 50 percent?” Fifty-one percent? Fifty-two? I asked this because if I follow you correctly, 439 is certainly less than 50 percent of the total, right? If this is correct, then are we to understand that the provincial capitol has nearly a thousand employees? Susmariosep. Kargado ka kapitolyo! I will ask my readers: Do you really think the province of Romblon ought to have that many employees? ‘Tung klaro yang!
And how much is the clothing allowance of each employee? We don’t know, but we know that if P3,700 was deducted from the clothing allowance of each of the 439 employees, that could total to P1,624,300. My informant said it was P1.2 million, a discrepancy of almost half a million. The P1.2 million was allegedly given to one Raylin Famatiga. Do you know her or him, Gado?
Last January, Gado said 180 sets of uniforms were already delivered. That’s only 41 percent of the total. Maybe the uniform contractor has no machine, or has no employee, and so hand-sewn every uniform, that’s why it took her this long to deliver 180 sets.
Gado attached in his e-mail a letter of a certain Clairdale R. Collado, the proprietor of Golden Moore, the uniform’s contractor, to Gov. Jojo Beltran. Golden Moore’s office/shop address is right on top of its letterhead, at P21-01 7th Street, Villamor Airbase, Pasay City. It has no phone number, so I was not able to call to check the veracity of the letter.
Collado was very apologetic to the governor. She said the cause of the delay in the delivery of the uniforms was the “defects found in the embroidered provincial logo.”
Apparently, the uniforms bear the logo of the province, but when the staff of the governor inspected the uniforms, as Collado said, the defects were discovered and the staff rejected them. Because of the rejection, the supplier has to repair or re-produce the uniforms.
“Although the defects were minor, these cannot be easily repaired as these (sic) will damage the fabric,” Collado said, adding:
“Rather than delving into whose fault and culpable to the defects of the embroidery (sic), I am still committed to fulfill my obligation to complete the deliver(y) although I still maintain that the defects were brought about by miscommunication and (mis)understanding on the details of the specifications.” She promised full delivery between March and May 2009—which will bring the saga of the uniforms of the 439 provincial employees to a lengthy period of over one-year! Sa kasasampidaton nak kontratista kali-ong Golden Moore.
So, there’s the whole story, according to Gado. But wait, Mr. Hernandez, let me ask you a few more questions.
Who chose Golden Moore? Did it win in a fair and square, transparent bidding? Was bidding conducted in the first place? Was Golden Moore required to post a bidder’s bond? Why does it seem that it was paid in advance? Did the governor accept Golden Moore’s explanation for the delay? Who inspected the uniforms? Shouldn’t it be that a Golden Moore representative or its owner conduct official business in the capitol, it being a supplier? Why did it look like that somebody from the capitol went to Golden Moore’s office/shop to do the inspection? Who approved the specifications of the uniform, including the logo?
Lastly, who in the provincial capitol received a commission from Golden Moore for giving it an opportunity to do business with the office of Gov. Beltran? No one? Excuse me, I will puke.
To Gado and all the others, write me at balitsaw@gmail.com.
I thought this issue has been resolved, and the uniforms have been delivered, considering that it is already May 2009. I said then that one year is already too long for the employees to wait for their uniforms to be sewn, and I wondered aloud what happened. I opined that another mysterious event has occurred in the Jojo Beltran-held capitol, and this one had no forthcoming explanation, just like the many other Beltran mysteries during the last two-and-a-half years.
I was wrong. Last March 31, I received a letter from a certain Salvador Hernandez, who shed a faint light—but still light—on the uniforms. I can’t remember if I know or have met the guy—the name seemed fictitious, or looks like he comes straight from the movies—but he wrote and that’s all that matters. I don’t know if he is the provincial information officer or Gov. Jojo Beltran’s spokesman. He seemed to be in the know. I am sharing to readers his letter, unedited:
“Dear Nicon:
I read your article regarding the uniforms of the provincial employees in our province of Romblon. Please be informed that not all of the employees had availed of the subject uniforms. More than 50% of the provincial employees opted to have it in cash.
So, only 439 provincial employees had their measurement taken. As of January 2009, more or less 180 sets of uniforms were already delivered which is roughly 41%. The tailoring shop which is Golden Moore sent a letter sometime late January 2009 to Governor Beltran explaining among other things the reasons behind the delay. A copy of the letter is hereto attached for your reference and perusal.
Should you have further query on all other matters, please do not hesitate to contact the undersigned on the email address as indicated.
Hoping that the foregoing may have enlighten you regarding the issue, and may you consider also publish or post the explanation in your blog.
Thank you very much. Best regards.
gado_921”
Well, thank you, ‘Gado’. How good of you to write. You are very so unlike your boss, who does not even answer his mobile phone.
I purposely did not reply to Gado’s letter because I planned to write about it. First, let’s do the math.
Gado says more than 50 percent of the provincial employees availed of the uniform allowance in cash, while 439 employees opted to have their uniforms in kind, or “to have their measurement taken”.
How many exactly, Gado, is “more than 50 percent?” Fifty-one percent? Fifty-two? I asked this because if I follow you correctly, 439 is certainly less than 50 percent of the total, right? If this is correct, then are we to understand that the provincial capitol has nearly a thousand employees? Susmariosep. Kargado ka kapitolyo! I will ask my readers: Do you really think the province of Romblon ought to have that many employees? ‘Tung klaro yang!
And how much is the clothing allowance of each employee? We don’t know, but we know that if P3,700 was deducted from the clothing allowance of each of the 439 employees, that could total to P1,624,300. My informant said it was P1.2 million, a discrepancy of almost half a million. The P1.2 million was allegedly given to one Raylin Famatiga. Do you know her or him, Gado?
Last January, Gado said 180 sets of uniforms were already delivered. That’s only 41 percent of the total. Maybe the uniform contractor has no machine, or has no employee, and so hand-sewn every uniform, that’s why it took her this long to deliver 180 sets.
Gado attached in his e-mail a letter of a certain Clairdale R. Collado, the proprietor of Golden Moore, the uniform’s contractor, to Gov. Jojo Beltran. Golden Moore’s office/shop address is right on top of its letterhead, at P21-01 7th Street, Villamor Airbase, Pasay City. It has no phone number, so I was not able to call to check the veracity of the letter.
Collado was very apologetic to the governor. She said the cause of the delay in the delivery of the uniforms was the “defects found in the embroidered provincial logo.”
Apparently, the uniforms bear the logo of the province, but when the staff of the governor inspected the uniforms, as Collado said, the defects were discovered and the staff rejected them. Because of the rejection, the supplier has to repair or re-produce the uniforms.
“Although the defects were minor, these cannot be easily repaired as these (sic) will damage the fabric,” Collado said, adding:
“Rather than delving into whose fault and culpable to the defects of the embroidery (sic), I am still committed to fulfill my obligation to complete the deliver(y) although I still maintain that the defects were brought about by miscommunication and (mis)understanding on the details of the specifications.” She promised full delivery between March and May 2009—which will bring the saga of the uniforms of the 439 provincial employees to a lengthy period of over one-year! Sa kasasampidaton nak kontratista kali-ong Golden Moore.
So, there’s the whole story, according to Gado. But wait, Mr. Hernandez, let me ask you a few more questions.
Who chose Golden Moore? Did it win in a fair and square, transparent bidding? Was bidding conducted in the first place? Was Golden Moore required to post a bidder’s bond? Why does it seem that it was paid in advance? Did the governor accept Golden Moore’s explanation for the delay? Who inspected the uniforms? Shouldn’t it be that a Golden Moore representative or its owner conduct official business in the capitol, it being a supplier? Why did it look like that somebody from the capitol went to Golden Moore’s office/shop to do the inspection? Who approved the specifications of the uniform, including the logo?
Lastly, who in the provincial capitol received a commission from Golden Moore for giving it an opportunity to do business with the office of Gov. Beltran? No one? Excuse me, I will puke.
To Gado and all the others, write me at balitsaw@gmail.com.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Tula
Ika-tatlong adlaw it kuwarenta, ruha,
ag tatlong tuig nak inibhanan
Nicon F. Fameronag
ag tatlong tuig nak inibhanan
Nicon F. Fameronag
1
Kuwarentang uwak nak hiwak
ka nagkakakak
it kuman kag aga
sa plasa
it Sibale Academy.
Nagbabantay it mumo,
ag tura it alumni
it gab-i,
sa rinugos nak baylehan,
nak sa sonata’y kinuyang.
Imaw kali kag ika-tatlong adlaw—
it pag-inistoryahan, pagpisan
pag ginur-anan, pagkablitan
it mga Sibalenhong
Sibale Academy
ka ging busri-an
sa kina-ayaman.
2
Ruhang Sibalenhong ging gagaos
ag inapaka-huytok
ka nagpapanilhig
sa plasa
it Sibale Academy.
Ging pipiphi, ging sisipno
Kag mga likot ag kalat
nak memorya it alumni
it kag nakalipas nak panahon
sa malipay nak ragipon
nak indi-iy mapatuyaran
kung sa-uno ray.
Imaw kali kag ika-tatlong adlaw—
it pag inistoryahan, pagpisan
pag ngisli-an, pagkablitan
it mga Sibalenhong
Sibale Academy
ka ging ril-atan
it paghigugma-an.
3
Tatlong motor nak magkasunor
ka naglarga
it kuman kag aga
sa banwa.
Ambubong it istorya—ag memorya
it mga alumni nak naghalin ney kag iba,
nak nagririlag ka mata
it yuhang pay matikrag
sa kabuyong ag kasadya.
Nagsisimyat sa mga nabilin,
naghator, nag-abyay, nagbabay
naghinghing: “Kita’y kita ray”.
Imaw kali kag ika-tatlong adlaw—
ka Isla ay nabanhaw—
it pag-inistoryahan, pagpisan
pag hinayakhakan, pangintrimisan
it mga Sibalenhong
Sibale Academy
Ka ging busri-an
it pag inibhanan,
kuwarenta, ruha, ag tatlong
tuig giy ka nagligar.
Sibale Academy Grounds
7:35 A. M., 13 April, 2009
Kuwarentang uwak nak hiwak
ka nagkakakak
it kuman kag aga
sa plasa
it Sibale Academy.
Nagbabantay it mumo,
ag tura it alumni
it gab-i,
sa rinugos nak baylehan,
nak sa sonata’y kinuyang.
Imaw kali kag ika-tatlong adlaw—
it pag-inistoryahan, pagpisan
pag ginur-anan, pagkablitan
it mga Sibalenhong
Sibale Academy
ka ging busri-an
sa kina-ayaman.
2
Ruhang Sibalenhong ging gagaos
ag inapaka-huytok
ka nagpapanilhig
sa plasa
it Sibale Academy.
Ging pipiphi, ging sisipno
Kag mga likot ag kalat
nak memorya it alumni
it kag nakalipas nak panahon
sa malipay nak ragipon
nak indi-iy mapatuyaran
kung sa-uno ray.
Imaw kali kag ika-tatlong adlaw—
it pag inistoryahan, pagpisan
pag ngisli-an, pagkablitan
it mga Sibalenhong
Sibale Academy
ka ging ril-atan
it paghigugma-an.
3
Tatlong motor nak magkasunor
ka naglarga
it kuman kag aga
sa banwa.
Ambubong it istorya—ag memorya
it mga alumni nak naghalin ney kag iba,
nak nagririlag ka mata
it yuhang pay matikrag
sa kabuyong ag kasadya.
Nagsisimyat sa mga nabilin,
naghator, nag-abyay, nagbabay
naghinghing: “Kita’y kita ray”.
Imaw kali kag ika-tatlong adlaw—
ka Isla ay nabanhaw—
it pag-inistoryahan, pagpisan
pag hinayakhakan, pangintrimisan
it mga Sibalenhong
Sibale Academy
Ka ging busri-an
it pag inibhanan,
kuwarenta, ruha, ag tatlong
tuig giy ka nagligar.
Sibale Academy Grounds
7:35 A. M., 13 April, 2009
The joy of being ‘unreachable’
Yesterday, my mobile phone and I called it quits.
The parting was bittersweet.
It was bitter because the termination of our relationship was abrupt, unannounced, unexpected, full and complete. We will never see each other again.
It was sweet because right after we parted, I was liberated and felt exhilaratingly cool and free. I discovered the joy of being unattached—and unreachable. If you don’t believe it, try breaking-up with your mobile phone without notice.
I was scurrying up the stairs to my fourth floor office along Sen. Gil J. Puyat Avenue when I felt that my hands were light—the left was holding my ubiquitous lighter and cigarette case, but my right was swinging, along with my sling bag, as I negotiate the flight of stairs, panting.
I just alighted from a taxi, coming from a late lunch with Ismael Fabicon, Romblon’s primus cultural warrior, at the UCC coffee shop in Robinson’s in Ermita, when this unthinkable happened. Cold sweat suddenly materialized in my forehead.
Upon reaching my desk, I emptied all my things, scattering them like mahjong pieces, thinking I may have placed my slim Nokia 2610 inside. She (my mobile phone was a female) was gone. I fished inside the sling bag’s pockets. Nothing but coins and a lone door key.
I sat down, called Rommel, my able ‘secretary-general’ and asked him to dial my number. It was closed, he said. No ringing. No tone. Not even the recorded, static message that mobile phone companies embed in their phones as standard reply: “The number you dialed is unavailable.” For a second, I was frantic. My phone left me. Or did I abandon her?
When one loses something of value, the first thing that comes as a reflexive response to the loss is to think where you lost it. You play back in the mind the scenes of your past action or activity involving the lost property, hoping there would be a hint or indication that would lead to a recovery.
I did that, viewing, like a movie trailer, my lunch with Uncle Ish, the things we talked about, the coming and going of the waitresses, the other guests, even the manner I toyed with my cigarette lighter—and the phone, oh, my phone. Where are you?
Gone, even as I scoured my memory for the peripheral things I did after standing up from my chair at the coffee shop—the parting handshake, the promise to see each other again, the waving of the guard at the exit, and finally, my boarding a taxi that will ferry me back to the office. All these were clear except the part where my phone surreptitiously ran away for nowhere, never to be seen again.
Aha! Suddenly, it dawned on me that my mobile phone decided to end our relationship by going away with the taxi driver. She eloped with him, for reasons I can only now discern.
She must have thought I was an uncaring lot. You know how phones are. They need to be baby-sat. They need to be pampered.
I realized I had never bought my phone a case—a bed—where she can cozily hide when not in use. She must have envied other phones which are neatly tucked in purses, in beautifully-crafted cases with colorful strings tied around the neck of their owners to ensure that people—and other phones—see them in their full splendor. Well, in the first place, I thought people with phones hanging around their necks are weird. They look like albatrosses to me.
Then, I also realized that my phone must have reeled from the abuse I heaped on her when she was still around. You know, I just toss her over the sofa, or at the table, after each use and she must have resented this.
Also, I realized that when she’s low on battery, I wait until she fully empties up before I recharge her. Phones must be like humans who need energy, but this didn’t occur to me. She must also have resented the idea that I use other people’s chargers to power her up at times when I forget to bring my own charger.
The reality that I have no longer a mobile phone took a little while to sink on me. When it did, I bewailed the loss of company—the phone numbers of people embedded in the phone’s memory as well as the experiences associated with having a mobile phone, such as the text messages of sweet endearments of my two daughters when I am away, or the admonition of the wife when I am late for dinner. Gone, too, were the numbers of my business contacts.
Also gone is the gadget I used to light myself around the house when, coming home late, I don’t want to wake up the maids, or the wife who will dutifully ask me a question where the hell I came from. The flashlight that is the mobile phone already belongs to I-don’t-know-who. I’ll return to using my cigarette lighter to find my way. Hah!
Now, I don’t have a mobile phone. Good. It’s only one day since we parted ways, but I only slightly miss her because of a new discovery.
I found out that it’s nice not to have a phone, too. I slept tightly last night because I have no phone. There were no text messages to answer, no irritating blips, and no chargers to worry about. No calls. I’m unattached and I relish the freedom. I feel light and never been better.
I am ‘unreachable’.
The parting was bittersweet.
It was bitter because the termination of our relationship was abrupt, unannounced, unexpected, full and complete. We will never see each other again.
It was sweet because right after we parted, I was liberated and felt exhilaratingly cool and free. I discovered the joy of being unattached—and unreachable. If you don’t believe it, try breaking-up with your mobile phone without notice.
I was scurrying up the stairs to my fourth floor office along Sen. Gil J. Puyat Avenue when I felt that my hands were light—the left was holding my ubiquitous lighter and cigarette case, but my right was swinging, along with my sling bag, as I negotiate the flight of stairs, panting.
I just alighted from a taxi, coming from a late lunch with Ismael Fabicon, Romblon’s primus cultural warrior, at the UCC coffee shop in Robinson’s in Ermita, when this unthinkable happened. Cold sweat suddenly materialized in my forehead.
Upon reaching my desk, I emptied all my things, scattering them like mahjong pieces, thinking I may have placed my slim Nokia 2610 inside. She (my mobile phone was a female) was gone. I fished inside the sling bag’s pockets. Nothing but coins and a lone door key.
I sat down, called Rommel, my able ‘secretary-general’ and asked him to dial my number. It was closed, he said. No ringing. No tone. Not even the recorded, static message that mobile phone companies embed in their phones as standard reply: “The number you dialed is unavailable.” For a second, I was frantic. My phone left me. Or did I abandon her?
When one loses something of value, the first thing that comes as a reflexive response to the loss is to think where you lost it. You play back in the mind the scenes of your past action or activity involving the lost property, hoping there would be a hint or indication that would lead to a recovery.
I did that, viewing, like a movie trailer, my lunch with Uncle Ish, the things we talked about, the coming and going of the waitresses, the other guests, even the manner I toyed with my cigarette lighter—and the phone, oh, my phone. Where are you?
Gone, even as I scoured my memory for the peripheral things I did after standing up from my chair at the coffee shop—the parting handshake, the promise to see each other again, the waving of the guard at the exit, and finally, my boarding a taxi that will ferry me back to the office. All these were clear except the part where my phone surreptitiously ran away for nowhere, never to be seen again.
Aha! Suddenly, it dawned on me that my mobile phone decided to end our relationship by going away with the taxi driver. She eloped with him, for reasons I can only now discern.
She must have thought I was an uncaring lot. You know how phones are. They need to be baby-sat. They need to be pampered.
I realized I had never bought my phone a case—a bed—where she can cozily hide when not in use. She must have envied other phones which are neatly tucked in purses, in beautifully-crafted cases with colorful strings tied around the neck of their owners to ensure that people—and other phones—see them in their full splendor. Well, in the first place, I thought people with phones hanging around their necks are weird. They look like albatrosses to me.
Then, I also realized that my phone must have reeled from the abuse I heaped on her when she was still around. You know, I just toss her over the sofa, or at the table, after each use and she must have resented this.
Also, I realized that when she’s low on battery, I wait until she fully empties up before I recharge her. Phones must be like humans who need energy, but this didn’t occur to me. She must also have resented the idea that I use other people’s chargers to power her up at times when I forget to bring my own charger.
The reality that I have no longer a mobile phone took a little while to sink on me. When it did, I bewailed the loss of company—the phone numbers of people embedded in the phone’s memory as well as the experiences associated with having a mobile phone, such as the text messages of sweet endearments of my two daughters when I am away, or the admonition of the wife when I am late for dinner. Gone, too, were the numbers of my business contacts.
Also gone is the gadget I used to light myself around the house when, coming home late, I don’t want to wake up the maids, or the wife who will dutifully ask me a question where the hell I came from. The flashlight that is the mobile phone already belongs to I-don’t-know-who. I’ll return to using my cigarette lighter to find my way. Hah!
Now, I don’t have a mobile phone. Good. It’s only one day since we parted ways, but I only slightly miss her because of a new discovery.
I found out that it’s nice not to have a phone, too. I slept tightly last night because I have no phone. There were no text messages to answer, no irritating blips, and no chargers to worry about. No calls. I’m unattached and I relish the freedom. I feel light and never been better.
I am ‘unreachable’.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Has the financial crisis hit Romblon?
“Obvious ba?”
This was the answer of my pare, Mike Faderogao, administrative officer of the Concepcion National High School, when I asked him a few weeks ago if the financial crisis that is slowly eating into the economic strength of the world has reached the shores of Romblon.
By his answer, he meant, “Yes”, and if I may hasten to add, “Very direly”.
My next question is directed to the province’s political and economic managers: “How do we know?”
Indeed, how do we know that the global economic crunch, which has seen millions of people tumble into the unemployment bracket, has already affected Romblon’s 280,000-plus citizens? How do we know that the financial crisis, born in the U. S. A. and which has led to the election of the first black American president, is also leading Romblomanons to the path of economic ruin and social destitution?
Is there any indication that we are also crisis-hit? Are there already laid off Romblomanons? Are there Romblomanons going hungry—not eating three times a day or living on a budget of an average of US$1 a day, the United Nations’ threshold of poverty? Are there Romblon business people whose businesses are going under because of a credit crunch, falling sales, or increased business expenses? Indeed, are there Romblomanons who find no hope in their present situation?
I hope we know. I hope the provincial government knows.
Yes, I certainly wish it is aware of the magnitude of the crisis and its effects on all of us because, firstly, it is its duty to know, and secondly, it is its obligation to help find a solution to it. It is surely the responsibility of the provincial government to tell us if we are also being trashed about; if the people are already in dire straits, so that, in the absence of government support, we, the people, are able to remedy the situation. Makakaisip it medyos.
“Absence of government support” is actually a mild term. More appropriate would be the “absence of the provincial government in our very lives.”
Now, you’re listening.
The fact is, I have been trying to find out what actually the provincial government has done to help us these past three years, or many years before Natalio Beltran II has become our governor, to help us tide the harsh and hard economic times. The more I think of it, however, the more I realize there is none. Except to give us frustration and a sense of foreboding.
Let’s see why. Illegal logging and mining continues in Romblon. Illegal fishing continues to thrive. Corruption now is worse. Our agricultural productivity is static. Our schools continue to crumble and our jobless are on the rise. We see no plan to bail us out, for we have a provincial leader who has become a dealer, “dealer” being the anagram of “leader”.
A leader is supposed to deal us in hope, but this one deals us in hopelessness and despair. We remain to have no food on the table, no paved roads, no livelihood, no healthcare, and not enough educational opportunities. Let me detail that in my next columns.
Remember Frank? This typhoon showed us how our provincial government was not prepared in calamitous times. Remember the provincial hospital deal and how our governor planned to sink us further into debt? Do you remember the uniform of the provincial employees costing P1.7 million? There are more.
Yes, there are more. Two weeks ago, we were let on in the plan of the governor to spend again more than P1 million in government funds to lull into stupor provincial government employees on an errant nonsense, an Employees’ Day in Boracay!
Wow! Here we are, in the midst of a global financial crunch and our governor is throwing away money to the beaches of Boracay for government employees? Here we are, with our people unable to buy enough medicines and enough food and unable to send their children to the university, while our provincial government employees are planning a Boracay holiday. What gives? Where is the morality of such a spending spree? Nadayon baga kina, Vice Governor Alice?
Kamo ra nak mga hina sa kapitolyo, asing waya kamo gi tutulay ag suplahon kali-ong inro gobernador nak kung nio-niong kabulastugan ka nagkakayog sa utok? Asing pay nagsusugot-sugot yang kamo sa mga programa nida nak kayado-yado sa bagusbos it namamanwa?
I’ll say something to Beltran through this column: Governor, an employees’ day is in the office, at work, not in the beaches. Why would you spend almost a million pesos for government employees who can well afford to swim anywhere in Romblon whose beaches are far cleaner and more beautiful than Boracay’s?
So, to go back to my question if the Romblomanons are affected by the global financial crisis, well, yes, but not so much by the visible signs of economic deterioration, such as bank runs, unemployment, bankruptcy, and economic inactivity that the crisis engendered.
They are being affected by a crisis more severe, more debilitating, and more locale—the crisis of ineffective leadership which no tenured economist or rocket scientist can cure, except by the people themselves and this is by kicking Beltran out from the capitol in 2010 and replacing him by a milder, kinder version.
What do you say, Vice Governor Alice?
This was the answer of my pare, Mike Faderogao, administrative officer of the Concepcion National High School, when I asked him a few weeks ago if the financial crisis that is slowly eating into the economic strength of the world has reached the shores of Romblon.
By his answer, he meant, “Yes”, and if I may hasten to add, “Very direly”.
My next question is directed to the province’s political and economic managers: “How do we know?”
Indeed, how do we know that the global economic crunch, which has seen millions of people tumble into the unemployment bracket, has already affected Romblon’s 280,000-plus citizens? How do we know that the financial crisis, born in the U. S. A. and which has led to the election of the first black American president, is also leading Romblomanons to the path of economic ruin and social destitution?
Is there any indication that we are also crisis-hit? Are there already laid off Romblomanons? Are there Romblomanons going hungry—not eating three times a day or living on a budget of an average of US$1 a day, the United Nations’ threshold of poverty? Are there Romblon business people whose businesses are going under because of a credit crunch, falling sales, or increased business expenses? Indeed, are there Romblomanons who find no hope in their present situation?
I hope we know. I hope the provincial government knows.
Yes, I certainly wish it is aware of the magnitude of the crisis and its effects on all of us because, firstly, it is its duty to know, and secondly, it is its obligation to help find a solution to it. It is surely the responsibility of the provincial government to tell us if we are also being trashed about; if the people are already in dire straits, so that, in the absence of government support, we, the people, are able to remedy the situation. Makakaisip it medyos.
“Absence of government support” is actually a mild term. More appropriate would be the “absence of the provincial government in our very lives.”
Now, you’re listening.
The fact is, I have been trying to find out what actually the provincial government has done to help us these past three years, or many years before Natalio Beltran II has become our governor, to help us tide the harsh and hard economic times. The more I think of it, however, the more I realize there is none. Except to give us frustration and a sense of foreboding.
Let’s see why. Illegal logging and mining continues in Romblon. Illegal fishing continues to thrive. Corruption now is worse. Our agricultural productivity is static. Our schools continue to crumble and our jobless are on the rise. We see no plan to bail us out, for we have a provincial leader who has become a dealer, “dealer” being the anagram of “leader”.
A leader is supposed to deal us in hope, but this one deals us in hopelessness and despair. We remain to have no food on the table, no paved roads, no livelihood, no healthcare, and not enough educational opportunities. Let me detail that in my next columns.
Remember Frank? This typhoon showed us how our provincial government was not prepared in calamitous times. Remember the provincial hospital deal and how our governor planned to sink us further into debt? Do you remember the uniform of the provincial employees costing P1.7 million? There are more.
Yes, there are more. Two weeks ago, we were let on in the plan of the governor to spend again more than P1 million in government funds to lull into stupor provincial government employees on an errant nonsense, an Employees’ Day in Boracay!
Wow! Here we are, in the midst of a global financial crunch and our governor is throwing away money to the beaches of Boracay for government employees? Here we are, with our people unable to buy enough medicines and enough food and unable to send their children to the university, while our provincial government employees are planning a Boracay holiday. What gives? Where is the morality of such a spending spree? Nadayon baga kina, Vice Governor Alice?
Kamo ra nak mga hina sa kapitolyo, asing waya kamo gi tutulay ag suplahon kali-ong inro gobernador nak kung nio-niong kabulastugan ka nagkakayog sa utok? Asing pay nagsusugot-sugot yang kamo sa mga programa nida nak kayado-yado sa bagusbos it namamanwa?
I’ll say something to Beltran through this column: Governor, an employees’ day is in the office, at work, not in the beaches. Why would you spend almost a million pesos for government employees who can well afford to swim anywhere in Romblon whose beaches are far cleaner and more beautiful than Boracay’s?
So, to go back to my question if the Romblomanons are affected by the global financial crisis, well, yes, but not so much by the visible signs of economic deterioration, such as bank runs, unemployment, bankruptcy, and economic inactivity that the crisis engendered.
They are being affected by a crisis more severe, more debilitating, and more locale—the crisis of ineffective leadership which no tenured economist or rocket scientist can cure, except by the people themselves and this is by kicking Beltran out from the capitol in 2010 and replacing him by a milder, kinder version.
What do you say, Vice Governor Alice?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sibale’s biggest event of 2009
There is no doubt that the Sibale Academy’s Alumni Homecoming last April 11-14 is the grandest event of 2009 in the history of Sibale.
I am not exaggerating. I’d like to direct you to the photo and video gallery of www.sibale.amorfrancis.com to believe this. After browsing this site, write me your thoughts and tell me if I’m wrong.
Joey M. Fradejas and Merwin F. Mosquerra had posted on this site excellent photographs and raw video footages of the event not only for those who were not able to attend, but also for those who are interested. These photos and videos would be a rich source of visual information in the future, when historians write the continuing story of the only private high school in Sibale.
Many alumni left Sibale after the homecoming with plenty of stories to tell. In fact, some, like Rhodora Pinky Fabreag-Labordo, had already sketched blow-by-blow accounts of their experiences during the homecoming. I encourage those who were there to write their thoughts, too, and submit it to me for a possible book project.
If you wish to know more about the school and the event, perhaps you’d like to buy a copy of the Saha, the 108-page souvenir book of the homecoming. Saha is already on its way to becoming a collector’s item, with over 300 copies sold, so order your copy now from Ruben Ferrolino. He teaches at the Sibale Academy.
Now, for my own observations.
There were fears expressed as gossip before the homecoming that the event would be a political one, or would be politicized. Those who entertained this fantasy can now eat their words and swallow their saliva. Nothing of that sort happened. Try again, next time.
Then, there were those alumni who were there in Sibale but did not bother to show up at the homecoming for reasons known only to them. By being “killjoy”, you missed an important part of your life. Please attend next time.
And then, there were the hits and misses of the whole event. One of the hits was the parade. There were almost 600 alumni who joined and the happy colors of their T-shirt uniforms made Sibale’s 2009 summer a kaleidoscope ecstatic to behold.
Another hit was the rain—no, the downpour—that spoiled the cultural night on Sunday, abbreviating the dance party that the alumni had been looking forward to since news of the homecoming became a noisy breakfast table fare.
The rain was a hit because it doused the summer heat, and cleansed the whole Sibale Academy grounds and its environs of the dust and detritus of the dry season. It also quenched the thirst of the island for farm water, and therefore, was warmly welcomed at the expense of a gaily baylehan.
One of the most notable successes of the homecoming was the medical mission, the social service part of the event. So many came to be treated and examined, to be circumcised, to have a tooth extracted, and to receive free medicines that the homecoming organizers had to feed them merienda and lunch.
And speaking of food, nobody got hungry during the four-day affair. The tables at the Sibale Academy were roaring with food and drinks that we had to give away extra rice and meat after.
Another social service of the homecoming, which many perhaps did not notice because it was done low-key, was the Patabo. The alumni distributed rice, noodles, sardines and other food items to Sibale’s poor, many of whom expressed happiness and gratitude for the assistance.
The misses were few and should be overwhelmed by the overall success of the event, but they have to be mentioned so that lessons would be learned.
One was the diversion from the homecoming schedule. There was supposed to be a day, April 14, to be devoted to alumni classes, but instead of doing it on the fourth day, many alumni scheduled their picnics and class reunions on the third day, April 13, so there was no attendance to the Alumni Business Forum. There was also no news about the planned clean-up of the beaches.
And then there was the failure to follow the sports activities. There was a breakdown in the games that were supposed to be played because of lack of interest among the alumni. Only very few games were successfully held.
The other hitches were minor compared to the major accomplishments of the other activities, demonstrating once again that in big events such as this homecoming, organizers should plan very well in advance and anticipate unforeseen hitches.
Overall, I am happy that the 2009 Alumni Homecoming is over. I am glad, too, that despite a few setbacks, mostly in coordination, we were able to prove that if only really we set our sights on something and work for it, we could make things happen.
By the way, the homecoming theme, “Hulma ka Rana, Ragipon ka Saha!” was felt and realized by the Sibalenhons. For this alone, I say, “Mabuhi!”.
I am not exaggerating. I’d like to direct you to the photo and video gallery of www.sibale.amorfrancis.com to believe this. After browsing this site, write me your thoughts and tell me if I’m wrong.
Joey M. Fradejas and Merwin F. Mosquerra had posted on this site excellent photographs and raw video footages of the event not only for those who were not able to attend, but also for those who are interested. These photos and videos would be a rich source of visual information in the future, when historians write the continuing story of the only private high school in Sibale.
Many alumni left Sibale after the homecoming with plenty of stories to tell. In fact, some, like Rhodora Pinky Fabreag-Labordo, had already sketched blow-by-blow accounts of their experiences during the homecoming. I encourage those who were there to write their thoughts, too, and submit it to me for a possible book project.
If you wish to know more about the school and the event, perhaps you’d like to buy a copy of the Saha, the 108-page souvenir book of the homecoming. Saha is already on its way to becoming a collector’s item, with over 300 copies sold, so order your copy now from Ruben Ferrolino. He teaches at the Sibale Academy.
Now, for my own observations.
There were fears expressed as gossip before the homecoming that the event would be a political one, or would be politicized. Those who entertained this fantasy can now eat their words and swallow their saliva. Nothing of that sort happened. Try again, next time.
Then, there were those alumni who were there in Sibale but did not bother to show up at the homecoming for reasons known only to them. By being “killjoy”, you missed an important part of your life. Please attend next time.
And then, there were the hits and misses of the whole event. One of the hits was the parade. There were almost 600 alumni who joined and the happy colors of their T-shirt uniforms made Sibale’s 2009 summer a kaleidoscope ecstatic to behold.
Another hit was the rain—no, the downpour—that spoiled the cultural night on Sunday, abbreviating the dance party that the alumni had been looking forward to since news of the homecoming became a noisy breakfast table fare.
The rain was a hit because it doused the summer heat, and cleansed the whole Sibale Academy grounds and its environs of the dust and detritus of the dry season. It also quenched the thirst of the island for farm water, and therefore, was warmly welcomed at the expense of a gaily baylehan.
One of the most notable successes of the homecoming was the medical mission, the social service part of the event. So many came to be treated and examined, to be circumcised, to have a tooth extracted, and to receive free medicines that the homecoming organizers had to feed them merienda and lunch.
And speaking of food, nobody got hungry during the four-day affair. The tables at the Sibale Academy were roaring with food and drinks that we had to give away extra rice and meat after.
Another social service of the homecoming, which many perhaps did not notice because it was done low-key, was the Patabo. The alumni distributed rice, noodles, sardines and other food items to Sibale’s poor, many of whom expressed happiness and gratitude for the assistance.
The misses were few and should be overwhelmed by the overall success of the event, but they have to be mentioned so that lessons would be learned.
One was the diversion from the homecoming schedule. There was supposed to be a day, April 14, to be devoted to alumni classes, but instead of doing it on the fourth day, many alumni scheduled their picnics and class reunions on the third day, April 13, so there was no attendance to the Alumni Business Forum. There was also no news about the planned clean-up of the beaches.
And then there was the failure to follow the sports activities. There was a breakdown in the games that were supposed to be played because of lack of interest among the alumni. Only very few games were successfully held.
The other hitches were minor compared to the major accomplishments of the other activities, demonstrating once again that in big events such as this homecoming, organizers should plan very well in advance and anticipate unforeseen hitches.
Overall, I am happy that the 2009 Alumni Homecoming is over. I am glad, too, that despite a few setbacks, mostly in coordination, we were able to prove that if only really we set our sights on something and work for it, we could make things happen.
By the way, the homecoming theme, “Hulma ka Rana, Ragipon ka Saha!” was felt and realized by the Sibalenhons. For this alone, I say, “Mabuhi!”.
My thoughts on a summer, and why I didn’t write
I had not written anything for over a month, and I’m going mad.
The hot summer of 2009 was so cruel a season it didn’t give me a respite, mentally and physically, from the whirlwind of activities that landed on my plate that before I even knew it, the rains have come, rendering me exhausted and drained, but also hopeful.
Writers are humans, too, who need rest. I disappeared; did not answer phone calls; slept; and earned a little money. I am here now, ready to do battle, again, with words as my weapon and shield. There might be some who rejoiced over my absence—those who had been in my regular menu, the nincompoops, the ill-mannered, and the corrupt in government. They must have thought I was dead, so I can’t write about them anymore. Good riddance, they must have muttered.
Well, the bad and good news is that I am alive, still writing, and will write some more. So let’s begin.
Let’s begin with the 1622: Unang Usbor, Romblon’s first and only performing band. The group, whose repertoire is completely in Asi, performed SRO at the CAP auditorium in Lipa City in February and the Romblomanons who have watched and listened, including Rep. Budoy Madrona and Gov. Jojo Beltran, were mesmerized by the audacity and excellence of the Banton band’s members.
So awed were they that after the concert, Gov. Jojo Beltran asked me to bring the band to Odiongan. He was probably thinking I was the band’s manager. I told him it was expensive to mount such a concert, and asked him if he could help. Yes, he said.
A week after, I tried to call him about his desire to see the band perform for the Odionganons, but his phone was dead. I tried again after a time, but he “cannot be reached”. In short, he lied. He must probably be thinking I had forgotten what he said. So, the plan for an Odiongan concert of 1622: Unang Usbor was shelved. Lesson learned: Don’t trust Jojo Beltran in his word. He is a politician, but so unlike his father.
In late March, I left Manila for Sibale for the 6th RDL-CLEAR Writing Workshop on the Three Romblon Languages, which Kusog Sibalenhon and the Concepcion National High School jointly hosted. Twenty-five student writers from all over the province endured the rigors of a three-day workshop under the tutelage of Vim Nadera, Ryan Machado, Ish Fabicon and myself. I will write more about the writeshop later.
Also during the summer, I was occupied with the alumni homecoming activities of my former high school, the Sibale Academy, which this year is celebrating its 45th Foundation Anniversary. The homecoming was a huge success.
Then on April 14, I brought 1622: Unang Usbor to Sibale. It was historic. It was the first time that a live band performed before the Sibalenhons. The audience was ecstatic and stayed glued to their seats throughout the night. 1622: Unang Usbor sang a total of 40 songs in Sibale, five or six of which were my compositions. The band, I noticed, has vastly improved that I thought I need to work in the coming months to bring the band finally to Odiongan—without, of course, the politicians. Anyway, most of them are culture illiterates.
The Sibale concert of Unang Usbor, which I dubbed “Usang Pusa, Kanta ka Rana”, highlighted our tribal unity in the language that we speak, the Asi, which is ancient and rich.
I greatly appreciate Mayor Boyet Cipriano, Vice Mayor Pepe Ferriol, SB Members Rey Feudo, Diosing Atillano, Neil Falculan, Luz Fabunan, Jazz Familaran, and the other members of the Sangguniang Bayan of Sibale for raising money for the concert. I would also like to thank Oriental Mindoro provincial board member Cora Agarap, and his son, Sherwin, for letting me use their sound system for free. Of the private citizens who supported the concert, I must mention Engr. Flos Famarin, Merwin Mosquerra and Engr. Ramon Famarin, all fellow alumni, for their support. I reserve my thanks lastly to my Pare, Mike Faderogao who fed and sheltered the band members.
These are some of the reasons I was absent in this column for a while. I didn’t write, not because I didn’t want to, but because there simply was no means to deliver my pieces to the Romblon Sun from Sibale, where internet connectivity is still new. I didn’t want to blame the absence of modern information technology in my hometown for a blank space. If there were only pigeon carriers in the island, then I would have delivered my weekly columns through this tested mode.
But there are also benefits from not writing for a month. One was that it enabled me to reflect. Another was that it allowed me to bank stories which could be subject of future columns.
And it was also the height of summer, when the heat numbed the mind and rendered the body and your senses lazy, wanting only to stay still and savor the smell of the sun and sea, which is Sibale.
So, how did you spend your summer? Tell me.
The hot summer of 2009 was so cruel a season it didn’t give me a respite, mentally and physically, from the whirlwind of activities that landed on my plate that before I even knew it, the rains have come, rendering me exhausted and drained, but also hopeful.
Writers are humans, too, who need rest. I disappeared; did not answer phone calls; slept; and earned a little money. I am here now, ready to do battle, again, with words as my weapon and shield. There might be some who rejoiced over my absence—those who had been in my regular menu, the nincompoops, the ill-mannered, and the corrupt in government. They must have thought I was dead, so I can’t write about them anymore. Good riddance, they must have muttered.
Well, the bad and good news is that I am alive, still writing, and will write some more. So let’s begin.
Let’s begin with the 1622: Unang Usbor, Romblon’s first and only performing band. The group, whose repertoire is completely in Asi, performed SRO at the CAP auditorium in Lipa City in February and the Romblomanons who have watched and listened, including Rep. Budoy Madrona and Gov. Jojo Beltran, were mesmerized by the audacity and excellence of the Banton band’s members.
So awed were they that after the concert, Gov. Jojo Beltran asked me to bring the band to Odiongan. He was probably thinking I was the band’s manager. I told him it was expensive to mount such a concert, and asked him if he could help. Yes, he said.
A week after, I tried to call him about his desire to see the band perform for the Odionganons, but his phone was dead. I tried again after a time, but he “cannot be reached”. In short, he lied. He must probably be thinking I had forgotten what he said. So, the plan for an Odiongan concert of 1622: Unang Usbor was shelved. Lesson learned: Don’t trust Jojo Beltran in his word. He is a politician, but so unlike his father.
In late March, I left Manila for Sibale for the 6th RDL-CLEAR Writing Workshop on the Three Romblon Languages, which Kusog Sibalenhon and the Concepcion National High School jointly hosted. Twenty-five student writers from all over the province endured the rigors of a three-day workshop under the tutelage of Vim Nadera, Ryan Machado, Ish Fabicon and myself. I will write more about the writeshop later.
Also during the summer, I was occupied with the alumni homecoming activities of my former high school, the Sibale Academy, which this year is celebrating its 45th Foundation Anniversary. The homecoming was a huge success.
Then on April 14, I brought 1622: Unang Usbor to Sibale. It was historic. It was the first time that a live band performed before the Sibalenhons. The audience was ecstatic and stayed glued to their seats throughout the night. 1622: Unang Usbor sang a total of 40 songs in Sibale, five or six of which were my compositions. The band, I noticed, has vastly improved that I thought I need to work in the coming months to bring the band finally to Odiongan—without, of course, the politicians. Anyway, most of them are culture illiterates.
The Sibale concert of Unang Usbor, which I dubbed “Usang Pusa, Kanta ka Rana”, highlighted our tribal unity in the language that we speak, the Asi, which is ancient and rich.
I greatly appreciate Mayor Boyet Cipriano, Vice Mayor Pepe Ferriol, SB Members Rey Feudo, Diosing Atillano, Neil Falculan, Luz Fabunan, Jazz Familaran, and the other members of the Sangguniang Bayan of Sibale for raising money for the concert. I would also like to thank Oriental Mindoro provincial board member Cora Agarap, and his son, Sherwin, for letting me use their sound system for free. Of the private citizens who supported the concert, I must mention Engr. Flos Famarin, Merwin Mosquerra and Engr. Ramon Famarin, all fellow alumni, for their support. I reserve my thanks lastly to my Pare, Mike Faderogao who fed and sheltered the band members.
These are some of the reasons I was absent in this column for a while. I didn’t write, not because I didn’t want to, but because there simply was no means to deliver my pieces to the Romblon Sun from Sibale, where internet connectivity is still new. I didn’t want to blame the absence of modern information technology in my hometown for a blank space. If there were only pigeon carriers in the island, then I would have delivered my weekly columns through this tested mode.
But there are also benefits from not writing for a month. One was that it enabled me to reflect. Another was that it allowed me to bank stories which could be subject of future columns.
And it was also the height of summer, when the heat numbed the mind and rendered the body and your senses lazy, wanting only to stay still and savor the smell of the sun and sea, which is Sibale.
So, how did you spend your summer? Tell me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)