Beer and loathing in Balanga and Bolinao
The struggle to beat deadlines, drink warm beer, and keep up with needy travelers from abroad
The last two times I met my uncle was when his father and mother died. During both instances, we got drunk and enjoyed each other’s company very much, thanks to free beer and our relatively narrow age gap made possible by his fecund parents who also happened to be my maternal grandparents.
During the first death, which took place in the US, the uncle told me to skip the flight to Manila so that he could treat me to a night or two in Las Vegas.
At that time, I was still young and impressionable, but sophisticated enough to know which way the wind blew. Unfortunately, weather conditions were not favorable for a tour of Sin City, at least for the both of us.
So I had no choice but to board the next plane to Manila.
I was accompanied by a small entourage that took the fun out of the funeral, with due respect to all concerned, dead and alive.
About a decade later, when my grandmother passed away, my uncle and I got so drunk (again) that we chose to check into a nearby hotel instead of waking up the household of a place where we could have stayed. We arrived half an hour late for the funeral the next day. No one said a word. After all, everyone knew that the deceased favored her youngest child and her eldest grandson the most. (Note: the grandson paid for the hotel even though the son had more cash. Just saying.)
About a month ago -- or more than a decade after the deaths -- my uncle and I met for the third time ever since he went abroad.
Grandma's favorites quickly made up for lost time, starting in Leyte, where my uncle's wife is from.
Together with a maternal aunt and her husband from Australia, my uncle, his wife, and I took a van to Ormoc and boarded a ferry to Cebu City where we stayed for a few days. We then flew to Coron, stayed for a bit, and then took off again for Cebu where, on the same day, we boarded a flight back to Manila. (We could just have taken a plane from Coron to Manila but plans changed and, as a result, the trip incurred additional costs. I had nothing to do with that, Your Honor.)
In short, for practically one whole month and counting, I have become the official Gofer-in-Chief of the visiting US and Australian delegations.
Besides helping pick up and drop off their luggage at cargo bays and check-in counters, I have also managed to take care of flights, itineraries, and accommodations. Other errands include ordering personal items online such as hair clippers and medical supplements of questionable provenance and doubtful efficacy. It's a tough job but somebody has to do it.
In any case, it's not just about free trips and free food.
Ever since we embarked on our very own Leyte Landing, your humble and ever-loyal valet had only been able to take a break for less than a week in Manila.
I had been away from Quezon City for so long that even a barangay official sent me an email which, incidentally, was only slightly related to these out of town trips.
My routine's disruption was further upset in Balanga, Bataan during a Luzon road trip that started last week (and is still in progress, to the consternation of my friends at the Alyansa Tagay Muna.)
Last weekend, none of the foreign delegates agreed to let me take a quick trip to Manila, an imposition that violated at least one convention of the United Nations.
The travel restriction has burdened me with soiled underwear and prevented me from working on a draft whose deadline I already missed -- more six months ago. (Thanks for the patience, Arnold T.*)
As a result, during the same weekend, I was prompted to buy two notebooks: an analog version to replace a journal that's been used up, and a secondhand, inexpensive Chromebook to function as my laptop. I had left my MacBook behind because I had the impression that after the trip to Bataan, the next destination would be Manila where I could retrieve my equipment, regain my bearings, and replace my journal.
How sadly mistaken I was.
As of this writing, I am in a secluded resort in Bolinao, Pangasinan, trying my best to ensure that this travel fatigue doesn't develop into cabin fever. Tomorrow, weather permitting, we will head for Vigan, Ilocos Sur.
Meanwhile, the foreign delegation is in another, more spacious room, laying about and lollygagging (which they deserve), knowing fully well that I got them covered despite travelling with my angst. They think that as long as they ply me with beer every night, I will be able to maintain my composure, keep my sanity intact, and preserve my loyalty. They think correctly.
Weeks earlier, during one late afternoon, my uncle and I took a dip in a small, shallow saltwater pool of a Palawan resort. I then remarked that the only times we ever saw each other was when someone in the family passed away. In no way was I nursing a death wish, I said. Nor was I being morbid.
He understood.
From his end of the pool, he raised his can of warm beer and gave me a toast. I nodded and did the same. It was the most meaningful sip of warm beer I had ever tasted.
* FROM THE MISTAKEN IDENTITY DEPT. I happen to have the good luck to know two people with the same names and initials. The Arnold T. I referred to here works for a non-government organization. The other Arnold T. works for the government. Both are good people and will soon be treated with a round of beer, preferably cold.
Glad you're enjoying sun, sea, and surf while fostering international relations, Sir. Ah, that we should all be as lucky! I wonder though, should this reader be alarmed at your journal of choice? Never thought you'd choose anything in pastel of your own free will, but it won't be the first time I've been proven wrong.