My Grandfather's Strange Neighbors

By: Elena A.

The year was 1969 and the world was changing. The Beatles broke up, man landed on the moon, a new jet called the Concorde made its first test flight, the Vietnam war was in full swing, and Ferdinand Marcos wins a second full term as President of the Philippines. It was an eventful year, but those big events seemed hazy in comparison to my vivid memories of what I experienced as a young girl visiting my grandfather's house in the province that year.

I was born and raised in Pasig, Mandaluyong. This year my mother had decided for us to visit her birthplace. My grandfather sent us a telegram a few weeks earlier and lovingly told my mother how much he would love to see his daughter and his only grandchild. A few days later I found myself on a bus headed for the countryside. It was the most exciting feeling for a ten year old who had never been anywhere outside the city.

My grandfather lived in a small town called Cansadan in San Jose, Antique. It was a small town that had a few houses, and a very narrow road that ran through it. My grandfather actually lived in the outskirts of town right by his farmland where he grew and tended his own crops. Every morning my mother would take me to the market where we would buy fresh fish and vegetables to cook for the day's meals. Every night after dinner, I would sit by the window and stare out into the open fields that were surrounded by huge mango trees. There weren't any lights around like how it is in the city, but somehow you could make out the dirt roads because the moon above illuminated everything else. I've never seen such a clear sky with so many stars. The gentle country breeze would tickle my cheeks, and I would always take deep breaths inhaling the scent of fresh mangos. It was a beautiful place.

It didn't take long for me to find playmates as the locals were so friendly. I met this girl named Maya who immediately became my best friend. She and I were the same age, and though I had a hard time understanding her because I didn't speak much Visayan, we were inseparable. Kuya Bong who was 18 at the time, helped my grandfather with the planting and pretty much everything; he was my grandfather's right hand man, and he was instructed to be my personal bodyguard.

One cloudy afternoon while Maya and I were out chasing beetles by the fields, we noticed a girl watching us from the dirt road that led to my grandfather's house. She had long hair, a very pale face, and wore a black dress that came down to her ankles. She was barefoot and seemed like she hadn't bathed for days. She was much older than Maya and I, probably in her teens. We were so frightened by her appearance that we ran home screaming. I told my mother what happened but she dismissed it as my imagination running wild. I didn't get much sleep after that little scare.

A few days had passed, Maya and I were tailing Kuya Bong wherever he went. We told him about the girl we saw. He smiled and assured us that it was probably someone who lost her way. There was something about the way Kuya Bong spoke that was always comforting. Pretty soon we forgot about the whole thing and had a great time playing in a nearby stream.

The next day I was all by myself washing some vegetables my mother had brought home earlier, when I heard this beeping outside. I looked out the kitchen window and saw Kuya Bong waiving at me riding a motorcycle. I ran outside to see him and almost immediately hopped in front of him to go for a quick ride. He revved the engine and we sped up heading for the dirt road that led to town. It was dusk and the sunset looked very pretty. Kuya Bong had this big smile on his face as he told me how his friend loaned him the motorcycle for the weekend. As we passed this big group of trees, something startled Kuya Bong that almost made him lose control of the bike. The same girl Maya and I had seen earlier was standing there wearing the same clothes, looking straight at us with a cold expressionless look on her face. Kuya Bong started asking her questions. I understood very little, but had an idea that he was asking her who she was and if she needed help. I was so frightened that I couldn't look at her. I started to cry and told Kuya Bong to take me home. The girl didn't speak a word. She slowly turned around and disappeared into the woods.

It was getting dark so we headed straight back home. That night Kuya Bong told our story to my mother and my grandfather during dinner. My mother kept on dismissing it as none sense. I looked at my grandfather who was silent all evening and had a worried look on his face. He was usually an animated kind of person, always entertaining us with funny stories, but tonight he retired early and didn't say a word.

I was helping my mother wash dishes while Kuya Bong was serenading us with his guitar. He felt that it would help me sleep and calm my fears. He was so sweet and had such a great singing voice. He got up and started singing louder and my mother and I began to laugh, and that's when we heard it! This loud shriek, this painful scream... tt sounded like a woman, or it could've been an animal, we weren't sure. It sounded pretty close. I was so terrified with the sound that I held on to my mother real tight. Kuya Bong leaped for his bolo and a kerosene lamp and ran outside to investigate. I heard him frantically screaming at someone outside, so my mother and I came to the front door to see what was going on. It was pitch black and all we could see was Kuya Bong holding a lamp with one hand, and waiving his bolo in the other, screaming at someone or something in the woods. All my crying wouldn't pacify the fear I felt when two figures slowly moved forward and emerged from the woods. It was the girl and a young man who was dressed in a black shirt and black pants. They had blood on their hands and were standing deathly still as Kuya Bong ordered them to stay away from our house.

He told my mother to take me inside, which she did, and I immediately hid under my bed covering my ears. I heard the voice of my grandfather who was awakened my all the commotion. He stepped outside to see an exhausted and frightened Kuya Bong sitting on the steps. He told my grandfather what had happened: "They came from the woods... I kept on asking them who they were and what they wanted, but they wouldn't speak to me. They had blood on their hands! And they were just standing there... I yelled at them telling them to go away! But they just stood there! I asked them what they wanted and they just pointed at our house. I told them that if they stepped any closer that I would kill them!"

My grandfather rest his hand on Kuya Bong's shoulder and told him to calm down. None of us got any sleep. My mother kept me close to her telling me that it was just people who wanted to steal my grandfather's livestock. Kuya Bong kept a watchful eye and would walk around our house every 30 minutes, then he'd doze off for a few only to get up again to look around.

The next day we were asked by a relative to attend a special mass in town. Someone's son had gone missing. They said the boy was last seen playing near where we lived, and had been missing for three days now. After mass we went straight home and my grandfather cooked up the most delicious meal. After dinner he got up and simply told us he was going to talk to some people; he did not specify whom he was going to be talking to, or where he was going. He strapped his bolo to his side and headed out into the dark with his kerosene lamp.

Kuya Bong's nagging curiosity would not escape him, so he took his bolo and his lamp, and headed in the direction of where my grandfather went. My mother tried her best to make him stay and guard the house, but he was worried that my grandfather was unaccompanied. He had never taken off like this, ever. A nervous Kuya Bong followed a narrow trail for almost an hour that led him deep into the woods which eventually led to a river. There was a small man-made bridge he had never seen before which he crossed, and on the other side were huge trees and thick overgrown bushes that had a faint light glowing from within them. He turned off his lamp and slowly crept up towards the light. He could hear the faint voice of my grandfather who was speaking to someone in a very authoritative tone. He hid behind a fallen log and observed.

My grandfather was standing in front of a small hut that was built right next to the mouth of a cave, and he was talking to a man who was standing at the entrance of the hut. Kuya Bong couldn't make out everything my grandfather was saying, but he understood most of it. "I know what you did you bastard!", my Kuya Bong had never heard my grandfather swear before. "You stay away from my house and my family! That's my family! You tell your children that my granddaughter is not to be touched! If I see you or any of your children wandering by my home, I will kill all of you! Do you understand?!" The man didn't say a word and headed back into the hut. My Kuya Bong ran straight home to find me and my mother asleep in our bed. He patiently waited for my grandfather as he had so many questions to ask. They stayed up all night as my grandfather told him everything there was to know about the strange family that didn't live too far from us.

According to my grandfather he has known of their existence for many many years. He said that before he married my grandmother, he witnessed strange rituals that occurred in the cave. He says the family feasted on raw meat, organs of dead animals, and possibly even people. One day he was discovered spying at them, but they let him go. There have always been rumors in town about a family of aswang that lived close by, but for some reason my grandfather never mentioned what he saw. It was sort of like a simple unspoken agreement between my grandfather and the aswang. He left them alone, and they left him alone. My grandfather swears that they never seemed to age, and they are never seen in the company of other people from town. There have been many disappearances of young children around San Jose as long as my grandfather could remember.

The next day we left for Manila. I was so relieved. I had enough of strange provincial life and I was ready to come back to a busy city where spooky things only happened on television. I often received letters from Kuya Bong, and after three years he came to live with us in Pasig after my grandfather passed away. I often ask him if he ever saw the family of aswang again. He said he once tried to revisit the place where they had lived. But the hut was long gone, the cave was empty, except for strange markings on its walls, and small fragments of bones scattered all over the floor.

Technorati Tags:60s, halloween, scary story, paranormal, nostalgia

Paranormal Folly

By: Totoy Time Machine

Something happened to my friend's brother that we still couldn't explain, let alone have his family explain it. This happened in Makati back in the 80s.

The "utol" was a young man attending college in the university when he came home late one evening. He said that he just couldn't quite get home. He was so disoriented that he had been commuting around Manila for several hours before he finally found his way home.

The days that followed was a flurry of "weird happenings". Utol hardly slept at night, preoccupied by discomfort and strange sensations going through his body. He also had a hard time swallowing food because he felt that something was "blocking his throat". His limbs and joints wouldn't cooperate so much so that he walked funny and slower than usual. He was practically invalid and was unable to go to school and function on his own at home. Although he was a grown man, another family member had to give him a bath and force-feed him. It was a struggle to feed him because he would almost refuse the food and water that was given to him. Something seemed to control him from nourishing himself. The family saw that Utol grew thinner with each passing day. His lips were very dry and cracked, and his face and body had a deathlike pallor.

There was a time when the family brought him to church so that the priest would give him holy communion but Utol also refused to swallow the blessed host.

A family friend confided that her husband was a "spiritista" and offered to help find answers to the family’s dilemma. The couple came to the house and brought with them another person, a woman who they said would also help out.

So it was one fateful evening in a typical home in urban Makati that our friend called the rest of the barkada over to a bedroom on the second floor of their home to witness what promised to be an actual séance, or possession, or whatever we wanted to call it.

It was still early in the evening, around 7 or 8 pm, judging from the noise of a neighbor's primetime TV show we heard from the open window. The kids were shooed out of the bedroom and someone was instructed to accompany Utol as he was also kept out of the room. This meant that only adults were left behind : there were four of us in the barkada, two or three other family members, our friend's parents, the "spiritista" and his wife, and their guest who was a flight stewardess. Let's call her "Tess".

The spiritista began to advise us that he will try to discover if there was a supernatural explanation to what was bothering Utol. Tess volunteered as a sort of medium and came along because she said that what Utol was going through also happened to her but she was cured by this spiritista. This time she felt she wanted to help out.

The spiritista brought out his paraphernalia from a duffel bag that he brought with him. There were assorted empty wide-mouth bottles and caps, and candles. He didn't caution us to be silent but as he went through the motions of praying quietly while lighting a candle, our excited chatter slowly died down. After some chanting, he melted wax from the candle into a shallow basin and directed us to look closely at the shape or figure that materialized as the wax hardened.

One of the women in the room gave a sudden shriek. She said that she saw the face of a scary old man in the hardened wax. We all crowded around the basin the spiritista was holding out. I eagerly looked closely and saw the lines of what appeared to be a bony face of an old man, with wiry, long hair (Parang si Impakta doon sa Darna movie! hehehe…). Others couldn't distinguish these images from the squiggles and lines they saw.

Convinced of a supernatural creature behind Utol's torture, the spiritista instructed Tess to lie flat on a long bench. As he started chanting and calling out for the creature, he also directed many of us to stand guard around Tess. We positioned ourselves strategically near her arms and legs holding them firmly as we were told that she has gone under a trance-like stage. What was very strange was that right before our very eyes, wrinkles and lines started appearing on Tess' once flawless face. Her eyes were still closed shut as if asleep but a few minutes later she began to struggle as we tried our best to pin her down.

At this stage, the spiritista explained that he was able to send the spirit into Tess’ body. He started to probe the underworld creature trapped in Tess' body.

"Sino ka ba talaga?!"

"Anong kailangan mo kay Utol?!"

A cracked voice, almost hesitantly, came out of Tess' mouth. The words that were uttered were in a foreign language. The spiritista cursed obscenities and shouted at Tess that he couldn't understand him. ( Translator, we need a translator here…)

The spiritista was holding something that he would poke around Tess' flesh and he did this several times when the spirit refused to answer properly or cooperate. Tess would cry out and try to wiggle out of our clasps. There were at least six of us who would alternately hold on to Tess during the struggles. She was a very petite girl but the strength fighting us back was that of a stronger man.

Meanwhile, the spiritista continued his probe until he was able to elicit more familiar words from the stubborn creature. This time, the creature spoke in Spanish. We understood that he was 300 years old and living in a tree along a lane right outside the university Utol passes by everyday to school.

He took a fancy of Utol's weak and somber disposition and wanted to take him to his world for his companion.

After the spiritista was able to draw out all that he wanted to hear, he instructed all the people involved to hold Tess even more firmly because a final, much stronger struggle would take place.

The spiritista continued his chants and rituals, commanding the spirit to give up on his evil designs. The spirit in Tess' body expressed his rage by twisting and turning as we continued to hold her down. He tried to address his captors and distract us from holding on as we avoided direct eye contact with him. I tried not to think too much of the wicked look in Tess' eyes. Tess was spewing out saliva freely at this point. One of the barkada got hold of the spiritista’s tool, a shiny flat stone, and began pushing it into Tess' flesh, as if to hurt her as was done earlier. To this Tess would writhe in pain.

The spiritista asked someone to uncap one of the bottles. A family member handed out the bottle and cap to the spiritista and then we were told to assist in sending the spirit to the bottle by praying quietly on our own.

After what must have been two hours of struggling, Tess let out a final moan and as sudden as the struggle started, fell back limp on the bench. Her profuse sweating made her clothes stick on her body like second skin and her face was covered with slimy, disgusting saliva.

The spiritista firmly sealed the bottle he was holding and expressed smugly that he succeeded in trapping the spirit haunting Utol in that clear glass bottle. He was even holding out the bottle to us for a closer inspection but we didn’t actually see anything with in the space inside the clear glass.

So what did actually happen here?

Technorati Tags:80s, halloween, scary story, paranormal, nostalgia

Playing King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table

I was so thrilled to feature a lost gem in this week's Cartoon TV Rama. Surely you guys remember watching King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table on IBC 13?! It was actually called Prince Arthur then. Man, I loved that show! Whenever summertime came around and school was over, I would spend the entire day at the neighbor's house. The show would come on in the afternoon, and we'd all sit around the living room and watch the show while eating some Fruitella or Sugus candy snacks. When the show was over, it was time to play play King Arthur!

The show was so popular that there was so much Prince Arthur bootleg merchandise in circulation. I had a Prince Arthur t-shirt my mom got me from Unimart which was one of my favorite t-shirts at the time. The most popular merchandise that was sold wherever you went, was of course Prince Arthur swords! I remember you could buy these Prince Arthur bootleg toy swords from Divisoria. There were all kinds of swords you could buy. The most popular one was a plastic sword that had a gold grip or hilt, and a red plastic gemstone at the end of the pommel. The most expensive Prince Arthur sword set actually came with a shield and a helmet. The helmet had wings on the sides just like Arthur's in the tv show! God I wanted that so much... although I never got it for Christmas or my birthday. My mother always made sure that I wouldn't be playing with toys that advocated violence. Little did she know that my playmates and I were busy making our own little armory out of Legos!

We made our own swords out of Lego pieces. It was I that suggested making swords out of Legos to make our sword fights more interesting. My reasoning for this was that if your sword wasn't made well, it would break or shatter into small pieces, just like what Arthur's sword would do to his enemies' swords in the cartoon! Even as young children we were already conscious of inserting drama into the battle scenes we would reenact in detail. You had to be quick making your sword, because everyone fought for the flat Lego pieces. You had to use the flat pieces to make a strong sword. I always felt sorry for the guy who ended up with bricks. He would always have his sword shatter into tiny little pieces once his challenger swung his sword at him. We'd all burst into laughter (including the guy that just lost his sword) as it was quite a funny sight for five year olds.

I was the best sword maker out of the bunch. I always took the best flat pieces to fashion a strong but aesthetically cool looking sword. The strongest sword I'd make would obviously be called Excalibur. One of the cousins of my neighbor would always pretend to be the lady of the lake, and it was her duty to guard Excalibur. Whoever played Arthur that day would always have to find the lady of the lake. Just like the cartoon, it was a mini-quest to find her and the sword. She'd go hide, and we'd all try to find her, whether she was hiding inside the house, or she was somewhere out in the yard. They had a pretty big house that had what seemed like a million places to hide. The quest didn't easily end once we found her, as we would all dramatically reenact the scene when Arthur takes a boat to the middle of the lake to claim Excalibur. Avoiding the monster whirlpool that would easily swallow his tiny rowboat, he would try to steer his boat away from it and try to reach for the sword. We would all be watching from shore cheering on for Arthur to get to the sword. Shore was naturally on top of the sofa, as the entire living room floor was dark lake water.

We were all directors and actors at the same time, always perfecting scenes. Whenever my neighbor's younger brother would sneeze, or go for a pee break, the older brother would get so mad, just as a genius director would with some imbecile who just ruined a scene that was being filmed.

The maids would be furious with us kids as we'd always use blankets as our capes, and we'd run around the backyard getting them all dirty. I always pretended to be Lancelot. I always thought he was the coolest one for using his harp to launch his arrows. I would always be sitting on the windowsill that leads to the roof of my neighbor's house. That was our watchtower, the highest point of our fortress. And like Lancelot perched on the highest turret, it was my duty to let everyone know if Camelot was being invaded. Of course it was being invaded every ten minutes.

I'd yell out "Invaders from the East!", and the other knights outside geared for battle would start yelling and charging at the hordes of invisible foes that wanted to claim our castle. Mind you that his bloody battle was happening as one of the maids tried her best to concentrate on her cooking in the outdoor grilling shed, while listening to the day's hits on AM radio.

The knights would usually yell for my help whenever they were outnumbered, but usually I would coolly stroke the strings of my harp, playing a sweet tune, just as Lancelot did in the cartoon.

Technorati Tags:70s, cartoon, nostalgia

Lipad,Darna, Lipad! Sigaw,Totoy,Sigaw!

Timing couldn't be better! It's a month away from Halloween and as I was researching online for old Pinoy Komiks (the ones our parents used to read), I stumbled upon the official website of Mars Ravelo (popular creator of unforgettable Pinoy Komik classics like Kenkoy and Darna).

Lo and behold! I came face-to-face (albeit figuratively) with one source of my countless childhood nightmares: the Impakta in "Si Darna at ang Impakta".

This B/W Darna movie, originally shown in 1963, had Liza Moreno playing Darna and Gina Alonzo as Roma. I watched this movie for the first time on TV with my sister and our yaya late one night when I was a kid. At that time I knew it was ridiculous to be excited about watching this movie and at the same time be absolutely terrified. We should have just turned off the TV but as to why we stayed on I didn't know.The rest of the family had already gone up to bed and there were only the three of us left in the living room. Outside the nighttime sky was dark (syempre pa!), the branches swayed, and leaves rustled with the wind.

As the movie progressed, we found ourselves almost frozen in our seats while fearful of what lay beyond the windows and doors outside. Our imagination was running on hyper-drive out in the pitch black night. And so without taking our eyes off the screen, we folded down the jalousies of all the windows, locked all the doors and turned on all the overhead flourescent lighting. And yet, as glaringly bright as the room ever could be, we were still completely horrified. We were no doubt, true to character movie fans, totally immersed in the scenes playing before us. Our hearts were strickened with fear for the cityfolks, the Manilenos (pretty much like us) in the story who went on innocent trips to the probinsya only to become the Impakta's victims.

Everytime the hideous creature appeared behind the beautiful Roma, and everytime we heard her high-pitched voice, I must have jumped out of my hair and skin (Here you also heard the staple coyote howling of all Pinoy Horror movies and radio dramas. Ahoo...hoohoo...ahoo!). Impakta, very demon-looking with monstrous eyes, horns, and long hair, tried to stay hidden behind Roma in the daytime but at night would control her until they became almost one. That was when the killing spree took place. Night after night, one rural barrio after another became gruesome site of the Impakta's savage attack. It got totally out of control and the police were clueless and without any leads. Inevitably, the news reached Narda and Ding. They set out and found the creature responsible for all the mayhem. Narda swallowed the legendary stone that transformed her into Darna. But not without a fight. Impakta strangled Narda as the girl tried to shout her alter-ego's name. Meanwhile, us supermovie fans were momentarily out of "fright mode" and rooting for the good guys.

We shamelessly screamed with delight as Narda broke free of the struggle, and in unison with her let out, "Darna!", transforming the frail-looking Narda to the Wonder Woman-look-alike, Darna. The super hero battle with her nemesis ensued. And the rest is Darna history, with good winning over evil and Pinoy happy endings.

I surely did not describe the exact storyline, my memory now muddled and not as clear as it was the first time I saw the movie. I however realize the subtle differences between Wonder Woman and Darna was the iconic eagle in the upper torso of the former's costume as compared to Darna's twin star bra cups. Also, Darna had a scarf(?) dangling from her waist.


More Random Recall Machine: Mementos From the Friendly Skies

Also Read: Remembering Philippine Airlines in the 70's

Technorati Tags:70s, 80s, memories, nostalgia

Nicholas Stoodley - Living in the Twilight Zone Chapter 12

Tune in every Saturday as Nicholas recalls the Disco Decade in Manila when Martial Law, Cuban heels, Donna Summer, Coco Banana and a lot of hair combined in a frenzy of uncertain excitement.

Chapter 12 - Crazy Country

People often want to know what the hell I am doing in what appears, from outside anyway, to be a somewhat over-dramatic backwater where calamities of one sort or another are fostered upon a stoic population that would rather party than prepare for the storm that threatens the islands. It's a good question and one that I am not sure I can answer succinctly.

There was a time I decided to buy a rather large house on a cliff overlooking a medieval village in the South of France. From the terrace you could sip chilled white wine and gaze across the river below to the distant hills bathed in shades of greens and azure in the bucolic clear light that illuminates that part of France and easily be seduced into the feeling that you were in paradise! Traffic jams were four cars backed up at a red traffic light. People paid their taxes and left their doors unlocked and there was no trash in the streets. It was clean as in CLEAN. People drove within the law and the law was liberally applied to the point that if you tried to bribe a policeman for a traffic expense you could easily end up in jail! It was a zillion miles from Manila but you know what? I MISSED THE CHAOS.

It's easy to make a list of the top ten reasons never, ever to consider living in the Philippines and people frequently make them: the corruption, the garbage, the pollution, the lack of basic infrastructure, Dairy Cream……..the list is long, but, you can LIVE over here as in LIVE. There was a time in France, shortly after I had moved there from Quezon City, when I decided to test the lighting in the garden one night. Twenty minutes later a Police Car came screaming up my driveway! A nosy neighbor had informed them as to the strange goings on in my house on the cliff. Here? In Manila? What the hell! God knows what is happening everywhere and that leaves you fairly free to get on with your life in a relaxed, unrestricted way that I really appreciate.

Even when it's bad it's funny and with the right attitude you go with the flow and emerge from the nightmare intact. Way back, in the days when I was still a newcomer to these islands I was driving extremely slowly through Pagsanjan, showing a visitor from London the delights of a small, sleepy provincial town when a lumbering wreck of a truck came out of a side road without stopping and hit my car smack in the side. Ah, but God must have been on my side as this happened right outside a police station – whereupon an oversized policeman looking somewhat annoyed, stumbled out of the building and assisted the driver of the truck (who was in such an advanced state of inebriation he couldn't walk) down from his cab where a fairly long conversation ensued. Meanwhile I was left to bake in the heat surrounded by a crowd of delighted small boys who thought it great fun. Eventually the policeman ambled over to explain how lucky I was. To be alive? No, he had informed me, that the driver of the truck wasn't going to bring charges against me for dangerous driving…well, I was in the way wasn't I?

I had laughed out loud thinking this was a great joke but the policeman didn't laugh – he was extremely serious and pointed out that things were done differently in the Philippines. I ended up having to pay through the nose for a set of photographs which were taken by another policeman who sensed he could make a killing from the bewildered looking Englishman on his doorstep. Franz Kafka would, no doubt, have found inspiration here! That happened back in the 70's when I was but a kid yet in some way I use that incident as a benchmark in an effort to explain the complete ludicrousness of it all. France was lifestyles of the Rich and Famous and yet I missed the madness of the Philippines - I actually came back.

In the early 80's I was stopped by a policeman in Manila for some minor offence like driving though a red light at 100kph but then that was par for the course. Drive and be damned because if you had actually stopped you would probably have been rear ended! Ah, life in those days – it's all getting a bit gentrified now: the roads are filled with more and more expensive cars as the stock market and relative political stability make their mark on the upwardly mobile. Policemen are generally trimmer and enforce the law, at least on the surface, with zeal. But the old days………..Having stopped me by basically throwing himself in front of my car, the policeman grinned and a long conversation ensued as to how much money I was going to have to pay rather then take a three day driving lesson somewhere in the north of Manila and have my license taken away. It took thirty minutes and in the end both of us were laughing so loudly you would have thought us old friends. I had explained that the wad of bills that has unfortunately been displayed before his eager eyes when I took out my license where, unfortunately, not for him but to pay my electricity bill that very same morning. He obviously didn't believe that and wanted to know how such a large amount could possibly be eaten up by electricity. So we took an imaginary tour around my house and counted the air conditioners and the fact that I had a swimming pool and an electric floor polisher and, and. It got quite domestic. But we laughed and THAT is what did it and that's what I liked about Manila in the good old days – however bad it got we always laughed. We smiled, we laughed and we partied until dawn even though the storm was coming. And that's why I came back from France and Europe in general. They don't laugh so much over there!


Previously: Chapter 11 - The Necklace Of The Past

Start from the beginning! Read: Chapter 1 - An English Virgin

Nicholas Stoodley was born near London and has lived at one time or another in the South of France, Rome, Sydney, Tagaytay, England, Paris and Manila with plans to move to Ibiza shortly. A former assistant to Valentino in Rome, he arrived in Manila in 1976 and pioneered Ready to Wear in the Philippines with the NICHOLAS STOODLEY brand of casual clothing. During his stay in the Philippines Nicholas also won the PBA Invitational Basketball Conference in 1980 with his team from Los Angeles, designed and manufactured a Stainless Steel Sports Utility Jeep that was featured in the Frankfurt Motor Show and opened "Skatetown", a Roller Disco with Jorge Araneta in Cubao. And that was just the first course!

Technorati Tags:70s, stories, nostalgia

Nicholas Stoodley - Living in the Twilight Zone Chapter 11

Tune in every Saturday as Nicholas recalls the Disco Decade in Manila when Martial Law, Cuban heels, Donna Summer, Coco Banana and a lot of hair combined in a frenzy of uncertain excitement.

Chapter 11 - The Necklace Of The Past

Living in the Philippines was not something that was planned. It happened by accident and that happened back in the mists of 1975 when the mists could well have been tear gas. The collective feeling of a growing swell of Filipinos at that time was that the President was mining the country to his own ends and the devil be damned. And the devil was certainly damned. Every day!

I mean who but an avid adventurer prepared to take risks and perhaps pay the price would (in their right mind anyway) enter a country under the iron grip of Martial Law with the intention of living there…of starting a business there? Who but me.

I meet people now and we talk of those days with a certain amount of nostalgia and yet some of those people were imprisoned by President Marcos in Camp Crame! But that's what happens to the past – it starts to take on a rosy pink hue and people look back with a sigh for those "better" days when things were easier, cleaner, cheaper.

But it wasn't like that at all, believe me. It wasn't easy by any stretch of the imagination! I remember well the day I found an apple for sale in the local supermarket. I nearly wept. A real apple. It cost the equivalent of a dollar in those days and was almost as rare as finding s diamond in your back yard. Basic necessities like a bottle of fresh milk or a decent loaf of bread were almost unheard of: fresh milk came in a can and probably no cow was ever involved in the process – bread was bleached of all goodness and served up in vaguely sweet slices of a somewhat chewy substance that I hadn't come across before but definitely not anything that a European would identify as bread.

My next door neighbor, who was also my landlady in that first house of mine, was learning Russian late at night from long playing records and would receive edgy "callers" at odd hours into her heavily curtained parlor. She too had been incarcerated in Camp Crame for telling the truth as a newspaper columnist not over enamored with the President. It was somewhat worrying as I was quite convinced the place would be raided by the police that, quite openly, kept a not so discrete eye on the property from various cars without number plates at various hours. Even my own house had been raided recently by a squad of heavily armed police who had burst through the front door, guns ready to send me to the beyond and just because they suspected I had a dead body in the trunk of my car! Imagine! Well, it WAS a gangster's car – the sort that drug dealers drove in New York B Movies: a Ford LTD with a special small back window of bullet-proof glass. It was huge and black and had plates that announced to whomever may be interested: FOR REGISTRATION. SPANISH EMBASSY. I was going to have it registered but, at that point, I would have to pay a hefty import tax and so I sort of delayed things a bit. OK, a couple of years! The trunk was by any stretch of the imagination, capacious. Yes I suppose it was capable of accommodating a corpse but normally I used it to take my two dogs for a walk in the fields of the campus of the University of the Philippines. The dogs enjoyed the walks so much they didn't mind being placed in the trunk for ten minutes and so it became a daily occurrence. A friend came with me one day. The corpse! He had decided for some reason that has become fogged in my memory to also clamber into the trunk after walking the dogs and thought it would be fun to dangle his arm loosely out of a slightly open trunk as though he really WAS a corpse. Ha ha. This was the late 70's! Manila was swarming with heavily armed police and enforcers in general who assumed everyone was, in some way or other, engaged in criminal pursuit (which they probably were). Needless to say someone called the police and amazingly, after an hour, my story was believed and we all drank beer together until they got called off to investigate a body that had been found on the side of the road near my house. Really!

Taxis were held together with sticky tape, ingenuity and a desperate desire to divest you of as much money as could be obtained without actually sticking a knife at your throat – in those days the concept of a working meter was almost a decade away still! There weren't even malls to escape into….the best you could do was hive of to Rustans in Makati and spend a lazy afternoon getting cool watching all the over-primped wives of the well-to-do who were making underhand deals on the golf course and having people killed as a measure of political or financial expediency. But most of all you had the feeling you were living in a SMALL city in a small country. There was nothing International about it. It was all about being a Filipino and having to cope with that. The rest of the world was but a blur, a distant and hazy vision where people lived by different rules and under another system. Most people wanted out. Distant vision or not you could be sure the grass was a damn sight greener than the local variety! America was the destination of choice. That's if you could actually get permission to travel, and you had the money, and the Americans would let you into their greener pastures! If. It was almost like living in East Berlin when the wall was up during the Cold War. A time when people would risk their lives to escape from the cruel hard deprivations of live under repression into the swaggering economic boom town just across the wall.

No the old days were definitely not better. Sure there were pockets, fabulous glimpses of life, that have merged and melded into an overall impression of nostalgia but that are what they were: pockets interspaced with long periods of deprivation and just plain old surviving the daily problems of dealing with the daily grind.

But what pockets they were!

The Hobbit House on La Laguna beach in Mindoro. Of course these days the beach is wall to wall lower end tourist "huts" where lower end tourists frolic with lower end bar girls appropriated from Manila in a mindless melee of alcohol, sex and lower end rock n roll. But back then the beach was white sand and the waters of the bay were home to one of the most spectacular coral reefs I had ever seen.. The Hobbit House, built in the center of the gently curved beach, rose like a bamboo castle from the Swiss Family Robinson and it was for castaways from Manila and marches and tear gas and lack of apples. Flaming torches lit up the night and diminutive waiters who were even shorter than Nora Aunor would give you wry smiles as they plied you with beer that, thank God, was amazingly cheaper than anything you could find in Europe. Music that stuck a finger in the face of all the pallid, sugary ballads so beloved of radio stations in Manila shook the rafters and it rocked. The whole place was a symbiotic expression of crazy, in your face escapism and I still miss it. It was in those days that I and a group of friends had formed the La Laguna Beach Club but I guess we all moved on to other beaches because all it is now is a distant memory. It's all about Boracay now! A friend of mine had owned a resort in the early days of Boracay when it was still ok to go, but he got murdered by those that were jealous of his success and needed his land title that they also might be successful and that sort of sums it all up. Nostalgia exists in pockets. We string them all together and wear then like a necklace we call the past. But that's not really the full picture is it.

Previously: Chapter 10 - The Moon Leopard Part 2

Start from the beginning! Read: Chapter 1 - An English Virgin

Nicholas Stoodley was born near London and has lived at one time or another in the South of France, Rome, Sydney, Tagaytay, England, Paris and Manila with plans to move to Ibiza shortly. A former assistant to Valentino in Rome, he arrived in Manila in 1976 and pioneered Ready to Wear in the Philippines with the NICHOLAS STOODLEY brand of casual clothing. During his stay in the Philippines Nicholas also won the PBA Invitational Basketball Conference in 1980 with his team from Los Angeles, designed and manufactured a Stainless Steel Sports Utility Jeep that was featured in the Frankfurt Motor Show and opened "Skatetown", a Roller Disco with Jorge Araneta in Cubao. And that was just the first course!


Technorati Tags:70s, stories, nostalgia

Nicholas Stoodley - Living in the Twilight Zone Part 2 of Chapter 10

Tune in every Saturday as Nicholas recalls the Disco Decade in Manila when Martial Law, Cuban heels, Donna Summer, Coco Banana and a lot of hair combined in a frenzy of uncertain excitement.

Chapter 10 - The Moon Leopard Part Two

Having met my partner in the automobile manufacturing business over champagne in a bar in Malate and, further, having dreamt up the name MOON LEOPARD, I now found myself in the extremely unenviable position of actually having to manufacture the beast together with Nanding and his merry band of mechanics in a large tin hut somewhere near Munitinlupa Municipal Jail! Sure, it sounded like we all knew what we were doing - after all there was Renault in Paris who was going to put in a special six cylinder Alpine engine and there was me, an almost famous designer who managed to win the PBA 2nd Conference Basketball Trophy without knowing anything at all about basketball and there was Nanding himself; manufacturer of jeeps that plied the streets of Manila but would never in a million years get a certificate of road worthiness in Europe. An eclectic mixture to say the least.

I had drawn a pretty design - actually it wasn't pretty at all! It looked pretty fierce: rugged. masculine and almost, but not quite, retro. But now there I was on day one...and there was Nanding...and behind Nanding was a motley crew of workers...and they were all waiting for instructions! My erstwhile partner, Jean Guy Jules has been rushed off on a photographic assignment somewhere in the world and I was left holding a bag of assorted nuts and bolts and hoping wildly that I wouldn't be exposed for the novice I actually was.

I had one large advantage. I was white. A foreigner and, as such everybody was somewhat nervous, respectful and quite convinced I knew what I was doing even if I wasn't actually quite sure what a carburetor actually did. Dust flew, sparks skidded off partially rusty metal plates and the rain fell in buckets. A dead cat lay forlornly in a sodden heap of partial decomposition just outside the entrance and Nanding and I discussed in a manly sort of way what would be the order of the day. I sketched arcs and angles on large sheets of brown paper and welders scratched the side of their heads in the way that Filipinos do when they feel they are being painted into a corner. "No, it MUST be like this because............"Well, because that's what I wanted. And I was the designer. So there. So blessed with complete incomprehension as to what was possible and what was not I sort of forced my way through the minefield and we all entered uncharted territory...sort of feeling our way forward in the darkness. And it grew. This monster of a stainless steel sports jeep actually started to look like a vehicle. Seats arrived from Recaro upholstered in leather with contrast piping that matched the wood grain trim on the dashboard (well, I WAS a designer). Various instruments that measured things that I couldn't understand arrived from Renault in Paris and anxious and frequently expletive laced phone calls arrived from various locations abroad as Jean Guy attempted to find out how our project was progressing. For a Frenchman he sure knew a lot of English swear words!

The wonderful thing about not knowing what you are doing is that obstacles that would deter even the strongest of hearts were not even perceived and therefore one entered the minefield unaware but somehow imbued with the luck of the truly naive. What was even more amazing was seeing this monster of a gleaming stainless steel jeep growing in a scene of almost total desolation that passed for a factory. It truly was straight out of Charles Dickens in the nineteenth century...a place so basic that if you wanted to use the bathroom all you found was a fetid hole in the ground that smelled so bad.....well, you didn't. Nothing. One worked with crossed legs.

The day I drove it to the airport where it was loaded into a 747 cargo plane was an experience almost impossible to convey. The Moon Leopard didn't have the right engine in it because Renault would only install it in Paris but even with the Renegade engine in, it handled like a dream. It purred. It roared! Heads snapped back as we zoomed past...late of course...to catch the plane to Paris. I'd had a similar experience before as I had (or the Nicholas Stoodley team had anyway) won the PBA Basketball Trophy. What the hell did I know about basketball or jeeps. I just knew how to draw pretty pictures. But my days as a designer of sports jeeps - my first steps as the new Henry Ford - they were to no avail. I met a man in a bar (again in Malate) called Uli who one could discern from his thick accent was German who convinced me I was God's answers to his prayers which consisted of finding a designer for his handicraft business and that was that. Handicrafts I could understand and anyway I DID the jeep and that, I knew, was pure luck. It wouldn't always be like that!

The Moon Leopard made it to the Frankfurt Motor Show in Germany and quite a few got sold. A sultan (I think from Oman) bought one and I hear they have become collectors items now. It was an adventure and I suppose that it was I really am...a vaguely insane English adventurer!

Previously: Chapter 10 - The Moon Leopard Part 1

Start from the beginning! Read: Chapter 1 - An English Virgin

Nicholas Stoodley was born near London and has lived at one time or another in the South of France, Rome, Sydney, Tagaytay, England, Paris and Manila with plans to move to Ibiza shortly. A former assistant to Valentino in Rome, he arrived in Manila in 1976 and pioneered Ready to Wear in the Philippines with the NICHOLAS STOODLEY brand of casual clothing. During his stay in the Philippines Nicholas also won the PBA Invitational Basketball Conference in 1980 with his team from Los Angeles, designed and manufactured a Stainless Steel Sports Utility Jeep that was featured in the Frankfurt Motor Show and opened "Skatetown", a Roller Disco with Jorge Araneta in Cubao. And that was just the first course!


Technorati Tags:70s, stories, nostalgia

Mementos From the Friendly Skies

Back in the day, airline bags were given free to first class passengers. With convenient adjustable straps, these vinyl, zippered carriers sported the airline s logo and were considered by many as status symbols of the jetsetters.

As a child, I did not really pay attention to that. So I did not even think of asking my dad why he had one hidden in his bedroom closet amidst the jumble of clothes and knick-knacks. All I knew was that the bag called to me, enticing me to discover the treats that await, like a can of mixed nuts or a bag of imported candies.

When family members would come home from trips abroad, among the pasalubong they handed out to us kids were special airline pens, stationery, playing cards, and airline wings pins. We enjoyed peeling off the cellophane wrap and sniffing in the scent of a fresh deck of cards. But what really gave us a kick was pinning on our airline wings to our shirts. Having those pins on us made us feel important and gave us the impetus to dream bigger, loftier dreams. The boys wanted to become pilots and the girls, stewardesses.

Through the years, those items and other airline collectibles became scarce. This may be attributed to rising costs in advertising in a fiercer, more competitive industry; or it may be due to practices many guilty balikbayans hope would not point to them as culprits.

Dare I disclose these? Was I not guilty myself? I was, after all, a beneficiary of toothbrushes, toothpastes, colognes, postcards, pillows, blankets, etc. These paraphernalias were readily available to the passengers for the taking with just a quick trip to the "lavatory" (sa CR). However, a line was drawn somewhere. Obviously, the stewardesses never expected that it was their last time to see some of the cutlery and glass tumblers they handed out to in-flight diners on the Amsterdam to New York route.

Like Houdini or the modern-day illusionist , Cris Angel (Mind Freak) , my frequent flying family's slight-of-hand tricks collected along with their miles a handsome hoard of airline silverware. Several pieces were added to the set everytime they flew home until there was enough for service for twelve. The elders beamed with pride as we used these classy utensils for our everyday suppers. Perhaps there were some among us who even imagined they were still up at thirty thousand feet, while proudly showing off their sophisticated table manners as they cut pork adobo with their shiny, Singapore Airlines knife and fork.

But one evening, we were about to have supper when the maids scurried to remove the source of pride and joy from the dinnertable. It turned out that we were expecting company, our aunt s high-profile airline executive. The shiny silvers were quickly replaced by everyday spoon and forks. We thought the coast was clear until halfway through the meal someone inadvertently used the big spoon with the conspicuous airline image to serve the stew. Everyone had a hard time covering up the tip of the handle and steering away the dish from the clueless guest of honor. All we could do afterwards was suppress our giggles and hope we don t choke ourselves.

Years passed and Mr. Airline Executive became part of the family. We knew that through all the dinners and parties he attented at home, he subsequently found out about the family s secret. We never heard of him mentioning this to his wife, unless my aunt just kept it to herself. To this day, he remains a quiet, retired gentleman with nary a remark about our mementos from the friendly skies.


More Random Recall Machine: All-Time Wonder Guy Popeye!

Also Read: Remembering Philippine Airlines in the 70's

Technorati Tags:70s, 80s, memories, nostalgia

Nicholas Stoodley - Living in the Twilight Zone Chapter 10

Tune in every Saturday as Nicholas recalls the Disco Decade in Manila when Martial Law, Cuban heels, Donna Summer, Coco Banana and a lot of hair combined in a frenzy of uncertain excitement.

Chapter 10 - The Moon Leopard

The basic problem with having been born Nicholas Stoodley is that I don't seem to know any limitations; this combined with a very adventurous nature has allowed me to often stray where angels (for very good reason) fear to tread!

Jean Guy Jules was a French photographer who was in the Philippines in the early 80's looking for a flying saucer which had crashed just off the north east coast of the country....I guess this should have warned me. But it didn't of course! I had met him in a bar in Malate and discovered quite quickly that we had a common interest in drinking large quantities of red wine and it was thus, one drunken evening, that we decided that we should go into business together. We had somehow concluded that what the world needed was a four wheel drive, stainless steel. sports jeep and that we would build it in Manila. Knowing basically absolutely nothing at all about cars in general, let alone designing one, this was a pretty reckless thing to do! Mind you I had never played basketball in my life but that hadn't stopped me winning the PBA 2nd Conference! As I mentioned. No limitations.

It was amazing how quickly we had convinced ourselves as to the viability of our project but then again the wine was doing most of the speaking for us. I had come up with the name "Moon Leopard" and thus having achieved the most important part of the project, the name, we drank a bottle of Champagne to celebrate and saw in the dawn convinced that we'd make it to the Moon and back and then some! If faith alone could move mountains then we were on a roll!

Several days later I had actually designed the Moon Leopard's bodywork. It looked rather like an evil 1930's futuristic toaster on wheels! All we had to do then was manufacture a prototype! If life could be that simple! After several weeks of searching we came across "Nandings Jeeps" out near Bicutan somewhere. Manufactured in an atmosphere that lent itself to a feeling that one had somehow entered a time-warp and had been catapulted back to the times of Charles Dickens, the factory (I use the term liberally) was situated close enough to Muntinlupa Prison to cement the earnest belief that indeed THIS was where the Moon Leopard would be born. It was redolent with atmosphere and appealed to us as being such an improbable venue to manufacture what the world was waiting for that it just HAD to be the place. Bizarre how our minds worked in those days but then it was probably a direct consequence of too much wine in the blood!

A photograph taken at the cargo section of the airport where they are preparing the Moon Leopard for its trip to Frankfurt. It was a magnet for people wanting to pose in front of it (as you can see).

The floor of Nanding's factory was compacted earth cemented together with decades of congealed detritus from, well, one couldn't quite imagine. I had looked up through the gloom to the corroded galvanized iron roof and noticed gigantic spider webs, concealing, no doubt, gigantic spiders. Was this how Henry Ford started out? There was dust everywhere and the noise of banging and grinding and cursing and the radio at full blast combined in a miasma of horror as far as I was concerned but Jean Guy had a dedicated look upon his furrowed face as, with his heavily accented English, he tried to explain to Nanding what we wanted him to do for us. Nanding had looked initially amused, then, quickly, anxious. Lastly he had obviously decided we were quite insane and indeed we were! Finally Jean Guy had presented a roll of banknotes and Nading's face erupted in smiles. Of COURSE we were crazy but business was business. We had a manufacturer!

It all sounds totally crazy of course but actually we weren't insane at all, merely excessively adventurous! We had imported a Renegade Jeep from Renault in Paris and we were going to strip it down to the chassis, put on our body and then send it to Paris where Renault would put in a special engine that was used in the Renault Alpine and then, amazingly, it would be shown at the Frankfurt Motor Show in Germany! Actually it's quite incredible what can be achieved by setting out with a good idea and no limitations coupled with a firm belief in yourself! But then reality set in and reality nearly killed me.


Previously: Chapter 9 - Camelot Part 2

Start from the beginning! Read: Chapter 1 - An English Virgin

Nicholas Stoodley was born near London and has lived at one time or another in the South of France, Rome, Sydney, Tagaytay, England, Paris and Manila with plans to move to Ibiza shortly. A former assistant to Valentino in Rome, he arrived in Manila in 1976 and pioneered Ready to Wear in the Philippines with the NICHOLAS STOODLEY brand of casual clothing. During his stay in the Philippines Nicholas also won the PBA Invitational Basketball Conference in 1980 with his team from Los Angeles, designed and manufactured a Stainless Steel Sports Utility Jeep that was featured in the Frankfurt Motor Show and opened "Skatetown", a Roller Disco with Jorge Araneta in Cubao. And that was just the first course!


Technorati Tags:70s, stories, nostalgia

Nicholas Stoodley - Living in the Twilight Zone Part 2 of Chapter 9

Tune in every Saturday as Nicholas recalls the Disco Decade in Manila when Martial Law, Cuban heels, Donna Summer, Coco Banana and a lot of hair combined in a frenzy of uncertain excitement.

Chapter 9 - Camelot Part Two

Don't bring home AIDS, take home EMPEROR PIZZA. (An advertisement for pizza I once saw on a wall in Bacoor Cavite). Yes it's a strange country, but perhaps country is the wrong word as the Philippines is so much more than that! A black comedy of errors, the Philippines staggers from one crisis to another in a mindless mayhem of magic and madness where the normal rules of existence have been transcended: the endemic corruption, the non-stop intrigues, the unbelievably bad driving, the dirt and degradation that surround the cities…and yet this twilight zone called the Philippines – would we really have it any other way? There's something seductive in the madness; something truly compelling! In this weeks episode English designer Nicholas Stoodley, finds himself embedded in a coup in progress and becomes a Pinoy in the process.

We drew to a halt beside a huge throng of bystanders blocking the road and making further progress impossible. Just as well; no doubt, if given the chance, my taxi driver would have pulled into the parking lot of the Camelot Hotel and that is where a contingent of rebel soldiers were holed up! There was a sudden sharp report of gunfire and the crowd dived for cover, scattering in all directions – unfortunately leaving the taxi I was in dangerously exposed.

"Get out, get OUT!" I yelled at the insane driver who was straining to see which side had fired the salvo. Dangerously insane young boys broke cover from behind trees and raced to pick up still hot shell casings from the road. They were worth money and money was food!

"There…THERE!" the taxi driver stabbed the air with his hand towards the right, completely ignoring me.

"Get the hell out of here!" I bellowed and seized the driver by the shoulders. A loud rumbling sound was followed by a huge tank lumbering slowly but very deliberately directly towards the taxi. Fearing perhaps that his nice new taxi might get flattened, the driver finally realized he'd better retreat. It wasn't an easy feat. Several other cars had backed up behind our taxi also wanting to see what was going on and they had formed a road block of sorts. The tank was getting closer and closer.

"Reverse…reverse!" I screamed, almost sobbing in mindless panic. The driver too was now panicking and tutted continuously as he inched his way backwards almost flattening an old woman sitting on a stool outside her house with a bemused expression on here face. She'd seen it all before no doubt, but to me it was a completely new dimension to life in the Philippines.

Eventually we were able to make a twenty three point turn and speed off to my original destination. That day several bystanders had been killed at the Camelot Hotel but despite the fairly obvious risk of being shot, crowds of onlookers continued to watch in awed fascination as the coup ground on. But all this was just a passing diversion when compared to the big one: the coup of 86.

Holed up in the palace, a freeze dried Marcos and his Pit Bull, Fabian Ver, plotted out the final steps to an overlong charade. The party was long over and it seemed as though everybody knew it except general Ver who, almost foaming at the mouth, was screaming, "We must ATTACK!" And this was live TV. We had watched in disbelief as the embattled pair attempted to explain their strategy to a horrified nation. ATTACK ATTACK. And General Ver was not known as a gentle man. Meanwhile Cardinal Sin who had taken on the moral responsibility of ridding the country of its unduly unelected President, cajoled the crowds to gather outside Camp Aguinaldo and Camp Crame and defend the rebels holed up inside. This was history being created on my doorstep: People Power, and I wanted to be part of the action!

The embassies had warned us at all costs to stay indoors, buy candles and canned goods and to all intents and purposes my friends and parents assumed I was ensconced at home watching what was happening on CNN along with the rest of the world. "Where are you going?" demanded my maid, dropping the customary "Sir" in her disdain as to my obvious attempt to leave the house.

"To the camps" I had replied almost happily as I ran towards EDSA to join crowds of jubilant people on their way to save their country. Throngs of Nuns in full religious regalia, complete families with Lola in a wheelchair, students, hot dog vendors and souvenir salesmen. Transistor radios spewed out unfounded rumors, some were singing and most were eating as Filipinos tend to do when possible. It was Mardi Gras. A day out. Yes, it was serious and there was a purpose to it all but it felt joyful despite the hovering presence of helicopter gun ships overhead like vultures waiting for a kill.

Nearing the junction of EDSA and Ortigas a major road block had been created by buses and huge trucks parked side by side across the road. Here the crowd was completely solid and appeared to be so all the way to the camps. Some had spread rumors that tanks were on the way. Further progress was impossible so we settled down to wait – for what precisely we didn't know. Nobody knew really except perhaps Marcos himself who knew that the last waltz had been danced long ago. It had shown in his face when he forbade General Ver to bomb the hell out of the camps and machine gun the crowds. He was already looking at his legacy and Imelda was packing her jewels into Kleenex boxes in another room.

It was the first time I had seen so many tanks in full battle mode. A snake of dull green war machines heading directly to where I was standing and there was no way forward. If they wanted to get to the camps then I was toast. Simple as that! I took a few photographs but I was too nervous to concentrate. The nuns just in front of me knelt down in the road in front of the lead tank and the crowd went quiet. A ripple of electricity went through the crowd and the hairs on the back of my neck tingled. For a few moments there was an impasse and with all the hundreds of thousands of people in the streets you could have heard a pin drop!

Suddenly the lead tank roared, swung round and ploughed straight through a concrete wall as though it was made of cardboard in an attempt to find a way forwards but, as one, the crowd repositioned and blocked any further movement. Nobody had said anything, it was a collective consciousness. If they wanted to get to the camps they'd have to kill hundreds, perhaps thousands of us and we didn't care! We just didn't care. This was our chance and we were going to take it whatever the cost! It was an amazing almost exhilarating feeling and it was at that moment that I became a Pinoy, fighting alongside my brothers to forge a new republic. But of course times change. There's Marcos nostalgia now! He brought order to an unruly country. Imelda had so many good projects. The list is long. And where I had faced down the tanks is now Robinsons with scads of shoppers totally unaware of the historical significance of the site. There Nicholas Stoodley made what could have been his last stand. For the Philippine Nation.

Previously: Chapter 9 - Camelot Part 1

Start from the beginning! Read: Chapter 1 - An English Virgin

Nicholas Stoodley was born near London and has lived at one time or another in the South of France, Rome, Sydney, Tagaytay, England, Paris and Manila with plans to move to Ibiza shortly. A former assistant to Valentino in Rome, he arrived in Manila in 1976 and pioneered Ready to Wear in the Philippines with the NICHOLAS STOODLEY brand of casual clothing. During his stay in the Philippines Nicholas also won the PBA Invitational Basketball Conference in 1980 with his team from Los Angeles, designed and manufactured a Stainless Steel Sports Utility Jeep that was featured in the Frankfurt Motor Show and opened "Skatetown", a Roller Disco with Jorge Araneta in Cubao. And that was just the first course!


Technorati Tags:70s, stories, nostalgia

All-Time Wonder Guy Popeye!

"I'm Popeye the Sailor Man,I'm Popeye that's who I am,I'm strong to the finish 'cause I eats me spinach, I'm Popeye the Sailor Man! (toot,toot!)"

The Popeye cartoons I used to watch on TV as a kid was still in classic black and white. Do they still show them today?

This Popeye guy must have been popular with the average Pinoy kids. Pinoy kids are typically small in build and very thin. Since their diet contains mostly starchy rice and vegetables rather than bigger meat portions, it would have been surprising for them to develop muscular physiques, unless they actually trained in athletics. After all, it is protein often lacking in their diets that build strong muscles, and not the vitamins and minerals (which is still important for a healthy diet) that they get from green, leafy vegetables such as spinach.

Spinach however, was Popeye's secret weapon. Fresh spinach to be exact. Although in dire cicumstances, he also retorted to the canned variety when Bluto (or Brutus) was dangerously pursuing the love of his life, his "goil" Olive Oyl.

The cartoon's plot was pretty much the same in every episode. Popeye romances Olive. Bluto kidnaps Olive and tries to take advantage of her. Popeye tries to rescue Olive but is overpowered by his arch-enemy, because Bluto is much bigger and stronger. The turning point is when Popeye finds a patch of spinach plant or a stack of canned spinach, and proceeds to gulp them down. If he used a can opener for the tins, I don't remember. Popeye flexes his arm and pops out his "muskels". He may have been a weak old-timer with that cackling gruff voice, petite frame, and signature pipe. But once he digests all his spinach, he is transformed into a superman and makes minced meat out of Bluto. Pow! Pow! Pow! A jab here, a big wollop there! He pounces on Bluto and recovers his sweetheart Olive.

Olive Oyl? Is it just a coincidence that she was named after vegetable extract?

All these hints on eating healthy food helped in stressing to us kids the importance of eating our veggies if we surely wanted to grow up strong and healthy, and hopefully to be smart as well.

Oh, and I almost forgot about the other character, J. Wellington Wimpy. I figured he was the teaching tool for the rest of us who do nothing all day but eat and sleep. He, of rotund figure, did nothing all day but chomp on his favorite burgers. Much like Jughead of Archie's except that Jughead retained his slim build. If you ask me, he was actually a walking anti-Mcdonald's crusade and a vivid picture of the sorry state of things to come if you end up overweight from eating high callorie and high-in-fat fastfood.


More Random Recall Machine: Kapamilya TV

Technorati Tags:70s, 80s, memories, nostalgia

Napalo Ka Na Ba Ng Sinturon?

By: Jake The Miserable

Ang pinakaunang pagpaparusa na ginawa sa'kin nu'ng bata ako e 'yung iniluhod ako sa munggo ng nanay ko. Siguro mga apat na taong gulang pa lang ako niyan. Nu'ng maglaon, umakyat na sa Level 2 ang parusang ito dahil idinagdag niya ang pagpapapasan sa'kin ng diksyunaryo sa kaliwang kamay ko at ang Banal na Biblya sa kanan habang nakaluhod sa asin.

Nu'ng maghiwalay ang mga magulang ko, lumaki naman ako sa piling ng mga kasambahay na hindi yata tumatagal sa'kin dahil sa talento ko sa katigasan ng ulo. Sa pagkaka-alala ko, laging kaming dalawa lang ng isang kasambahay ang naiiwan sa bahay dahil OFW pa noon ang tatay ko.

Isa sa mga paboritong nilang pagdidisiplina sa'kin ay ang pag-iwan sa'kin, mag-isa lang ako sa may tarangkahan ng bahay at madilim na silang uuwi. At dahil takot akong mag-isa sa dilim, madalas e dinadatnan akong humahagulgol. Umaabot yata sa New Zealand ang mga pagngangawa ko nu'n. Naging karaniwan na ring parusa sa'kin ang pagkakakulong sa madilim na CR mula anim na buwan hanggang isang taon.

Minsan namang lumagi ng matagal na panahon ang pinsang-buo ko sa bahay namin. Pinili niya kasi ang bahay naming bilang kanyang asylum. Siya ang nagtuloy sa pagpapalaki sa'kin, at siya rin ang nagturo sa'kin ng samutsaring mga bagay. Sa kanya rin ako nakatikim ng mala-Batas Militar na pandidisiplina. Ang sinturon ay ang primary weapon niya sa tuwing gagawa ako ng kapilyuhan, bukod sa napaka-generic na kurot at sampal.

Kung kasabayan kita ng panahon, malamang ay pinalaki ka sa siyesta, o ang compulsory na pagtulog sa tanghali. Ito ang isa sa mga pinaka-ayaw kong bahagi ng aking kabataan. Habang ang mga kaedaran ko ay masayang naglalaro at nagbibilad sa araw sa labas ng kanilang mga kural, pilit naman akong pinatutulog ng pinsan ko. Pinaka-ayaw ko ito dahil hirap na hirap naman talaga akong matulog sa tanghali. At kapag nalaman niyang hindi ako nakatulog sa tanghali, parusa niya sa-kin na hindi niya ako pinapabangon sa higaan hanggang 6pm. Saving grace ko ang boses ni Noli de Castro sa TV Patrol ito lagi ang nagsisilbing hudyat na napagsilbihan ko na ang sintensya ko. Kapag naman nakakatulog ako, reward niya sa'kin ang karapatang bumangon ng 4pm, lumasap ng masarap na merienda, at magsaya sa panonood ng mga cartoons (Shaider at Masked Rider Black naman kapag weekends).

Pinsan ko rin ang nagtaguyod at tumulong sa aking Primary School life. Tulad ng nabanggit, tinuruan niya ako ng maraming bagay. Personal ko siyang tutor bago ako pumasok sa school at bago matulog. Tinuruan niya akong magtali ng sintas, at kung hindi ko ito nagagawa ng tama, instant kurot ang naghihintay sa'kin. Nu'ng hirap na hirap naman ako sa pagkakabisa ng The Lord's Prayer, Hail Mary, at Glory Be (nga ba 'yung pamagat ng Glory be to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, blah-blah-blah), ipinabigkas niya ang mga ito sa'kin ng tig-i-isandaang beses bawat araw. Daig ko pa ang Holy Week dahil isang beses lang ang Pabasa. Mahigpit din ang pagbabawal sa'king maglaro ng Nintendo Family Computer kapag may mga mali akong sagot sa mga battery exams sa Algebra at English na araw-araw niyang binibigay.

Isa rin sa mga malaking issue sa'kin ang wastong pagkain. "Walang tabi-tabi!" 'Yan ang opening remarks niya sa tuwing haharap na ako sa hapag-kainan. E hindi ako kumakain ng mga taba, mga atay at balun-balunan, at halos lahat ng uri ng gulay o kahit ano basta kulay green. Hindi na kataka-takang inaabot ako ng tatlong oras sa pagkain. Tinutulugan na yata ako ng guardian angel ko. Bawat pagsubo ng mga pagkaing nabanggit ay parang countdown ng kamatayan ko (napaka-aga naman sa edad kong pito na yata). Required na dapat maubos ang lahat ng nasa plato hanggang sa pinakahuling butil ng kanin. Ito ang isa sa mga dahilan kumbakit hindi ako nakakapanood ng Takeshi's Castle sa Channel 13. Madalas din niya akong hindi pinalalabas ng kwarto kapag nakagagawa rin ako ng ibang mga krimen.

Nu'ng lumipat na ng tirahan ang pinsan ko, akala ko e magiging ayos na ang lahat. Magagawa ko na ang lahat-lahat ng mga trip kong gawin. Wala na akong siyestang aalahanin at makakain ko na ang mga gusto kong lang na ulam. Hindi pala.

Isang araw na lang, umuwi ang tatay ko mula abroad na may kasamang <*suspense music*> asawa at ang anak nila. Indonesian ang breed ng mga ito. Nu'ng una, maayos ang pakikitungo ng bago kong madrasta. Mabait. Pero nang maglaon, mas malala pa pala siya sa pinsan ko. Pakiramdam kong sumailalim ako sa Kamay Na Bakal.

Mahilig siya sa mga pagkaing sooobrang pina-anghang sa sili. Bawat ulam yata naming ay mayroong humigit-kumulang 32767 siling labuyo na mas mapula pa sa Valentine's Day. Isa ito sa mga primary weapon niya dahil kapag hindi na naman ako kumain nang tama, asahan ko nang kakagat ako ng isang malupit na sili. Umabot yata ng sampung dekada ang anghang sa dila ko. Bukod dito, sa kanya rin ako nakatikim ng sinturon na ang ipinampapalo ay bakal. Bukol, pasa, at gasgas ang inaabot ng mura kong balat. Iniumpog na rin ako sa ulo kapag nagpa-power trip siya. Sa pagkakaalala ko, sintalim yata ng katana 'yung mga kuko niyang ipinangkukurot sa'kin kapag ako naman ang nagpa-power trip sa "kapatid" ko. Magkatulad din sila ng pinsan ko sa pagdidisiplina sa'kin sa usapang siyesta. Naging ganito ang mga uri ng pagdidisiplina sa'kin hanggang sa tuluyan na akong grumaduweyt sa kanya nu'ng Grade 5. Naghiwalay sila ng tatay ko at ibinalik siya sa kanyang pinanggalingan. Parang nabunutan na ako ng tinik dahil sa nangyaring 'yan.

Swerte ko lang, hindi ako nakatikim ng pisikal na parusa sa school tulad ng mga ikinukwento sa'tin ng mga magulang natin. Isa sa mga naging pagdidisiplina sa'kin sa loob ng paaralan ay ang pagpapalabas sa'kin sa classroom sa tuwing maingay ako kasama ng mga usual suspects. Pinaglinis na rin ako ng classroom nang isang linggo – mag-isa! Bukod pa ito sa pagpapahiya sa'kin sa buong klase kapag hindi ako gumagawa ng assignment. Kaya siguro hindi ako nakaka-porma sa mga nagiging crush ko. Naalala ko, minura ako nang adviser ko nu'ng Grade 4 ako nu'ng pinagtripan ko ang kaklase kong uhugin. Nakita ko na ring lumipad ang lahat ng mga kagamitan ko palabas ng classroom matapos akong sigawan ng teacher ko sa Filipino na "MAKAKAUWI KA NA!" nu'ng Grade 5 ako. Pinatayo na rin ako sa upuan, sa pintuan ng classroom namin, sa may main entrance ng school namin, at maging sa talahiban.

Lumipas ang napakaraming taon. Pero patuloy pa rin akong – tayong – dinidisiplina at pinapalo. Iba-ibang mga tao, iba-ibang mga oras, iba-ibang mga sitwasyon, iba-ibang mga pagkakataon. Alam nating lahat ang mga layunin nila kumbakit nila tayo pinapalo sa pwet. Gusto nila tayong tumino. May mga bagay silang gusting ituro sa'tin, at kung matigas ang ulo natin at ayaw makinig, dinidisiplina nila tayo upang hindi na nating ulitin ang mga pagkakamali. Kinakailangan nilang gawin 'to upang kolektahin natin ang mga sarili, mag-isip, at isapuso ang mga aral na itinuturo nila sa'tin. Ganito sila magpa-alala sa mga bagay-bagay sa mundo.

Ang orihinal na bersyon ay mababasa rito.


Technorati Tags:filipino, stories, memories, nostalgia

Nicholas Stoodley - Living in the Twilight Zone Chapter 9

Tune in every Saturday as Nicholas recalls the Disco Decade in Manila when Martial Law, Cuban heels, Donna Summer, Coco Banana and a lot of hair combined in a frenzy of uncertain excitement.

Chapter 9 - Camelot

One almost got used to it; waking up one morning and finding it quieter than normal. Usually I would be woken at about 6am by the sound of the garbage truck slowly advancing its way down the street outside my house with its horn blaring in a non-stop repetition of shrill sharp blasts guaranteed to wake all but the dead! This was the signal for my maids to haul the huge rusty old oil drum that we used for the garbage out into the street. There they would wait gossiping with all the other maids who were doing the same thing. They twittered like pigeons.

Occasionally though, the street was eerily calm: no garbage trucks, no children playing or cars passing. No maids gossiping, no scavengers scavenging before the garbage truck reached their quarry. Just an eerie calm. Most unusual in Manila! Tell tale signs of another coup! You forgot how many after the first few and became almost blase about them. "Sorry I'm late Sir, there's another coup," was an excuse at the office that was considered on about the same level as, "Sorry I'm late Sir, but I had LBM."

It had been one of those quiet mornings. Nesing, my maid, had appeared with my usual cup of tea but no newspaper. "Good Morning Sir."
"Morning Nesing."
"What would you like for breakfast Sir?"
"Nesing, where's the newspaper?"
"No newspaper Sir," No explanation had been forthcoming so I returned to the question of breakfast.
"I'll have poached eggs please."
"Sorry Sir only one egg left."
"Well then, poached egg."
"What Sir?"
"One, just one poached egg then!"

No doubt Nesing would have normally then informed me that there was no bread left and we'd carry on our little game until eventually I had ascertained what my breakfast was likely to be that morning, but a new element had been introduced that probably explained the absence of the newspaper.

"Can I please take the afternoon off Sir?"
"I suppose so, why?"
"There's a coup Sir."

I wondered what the connection was. Was she somehow involved in the proceedings? Was she going to watch, something that many of her countrymen chose to do - rather like going to the movies? Worse, was she perhaps planning to manufacture homemade bombs in the garage for delivery to the rebels? Nesing answered my unasked question. "My sister Sir, she lives near the base." That made it a bit clearer. There were two large military bases right slap bang in the middle of Manila and of course in any coup that was not the best area to be living near.

"Who's winning?" I asked, assuming she's been following the progress on the radio.
"Sir?"
"The coup, what's happening?"
"Oh, I don't know Sir....just like before." It was no big deal.

This particular coup was being carried out live on the radio and after listening for a few minutes it became clear that the action was, as yet, confined to certain well-defined areas of Manila and the rest of the city was basically carrying on life as normal; which is what I decided to do. I had work. Unfortunately my car was being repaired after having descended into an enormous bottomless pit which is called a pothole in Manila. "Nesing!" I shouted, There was no answer. She was in her room listening to a hysterical news reporter giving a blow by blow account of the coup as though it was an Olympic event. After several attempts she finally emerged from her room looking annoyed at the interruption but then that was a normal expression. I had asked her to get me a taxi and a few seconds later I hear her scream Anna's (my other maid) name as loudly as she could. Equally loudly, and from the other side of the yard, Anna shouted back. "TAXI!" Screamed Nesing. That was how they communicated if it were at all possible - positioning themselves as far apart as they could and then screaming at each other.

Anna had produced a suspiciously new looking taxi almost instantaneously which was strange in a city where you could never get a taxi when you wanted one and they were, on average, at least twenty years old in those days! Telling the driver my destination I was promptly informed that there was a coup. He further went on to inquire if he could make a detour because of this coup which seemed pretty reasonable to me, I had even flippantly said he could take a long detour if he wanted. After all I wouldn't want to get involved in the action that was coming in off the car radio at full blast!

"And now we switch over to out mobile reporter, Rod Reyes, who's at this moment just outside Camp Crame........Rod? come in Rod......(sound of static)....hello? Rod? are you there?" There was the sound of a loud explosion followed immediately by loud cheering.
"Yes, Nestor, I'm.......standing here (boom....boom) in front of Camp Crame....there's thick black smoke coming from....here they come again! (boom....boom!....more cheering)......and it's a direct hit! Smoke really pouring out from the main command post now and the crowd of people here this morning....(ka-BOOM)......that was really a big one Nestor!......there's an........(boom)................"
"Rod?.....hello Rod....are you there? (sounds of yelling then cheering again).....Rod.....ROD?"

It transpired Rod was still alive and the coup proceeded in gripping detail as I wondered which way my taxi driver would take as he took a right turn down a side street not far from the Camelot Hotel - a somewhat seedy recollection of Las Vegas motel masquerading as a whimsical castle done out in pre-cast concrete and King Arthur Gothic. At that particular moment the hotel was temporary home to a contingent of rebel soldiers who were, as we headed towards the action, trading pot shots with government troops. I had thought foolishly that the "short detour" was because the driver wanted to avoid trouble, not actively seek it out!

Previously: Chapter 8 - Coco Banana

Start from the beginning! Read: Chapter 1 - An English Virgin

Nicholas Stoodley was born near London and has lived at one time or another in the South of France, Rome, Sydney, Tagaytay, England, Paris and Manila with plans to move to Ibiza shortly. A former assistant to Valentino in Rome, he arrived in Manila in 1976 and pioneered Ready to Wear in the Philippines with the NICHOLAS STOODLEY brand of casual clothing. During his stay in the Philippines Nicholas also won the PBA Invitational Basketball Conference in 1980 with his team from Los Angeles, designed and manufactured a Stainless Steel Sports Utility Jeep that was featured in the Frankfurt Motor Show and opened "Skatetown", a Roller Disco with Jorge Araneta in Cubao. And that was just the first course!


Technorati Tags:70s, stories, nostalgia

Nicholas Stoodley - Living in the Twilight Zone Chapter 8

Tune in every Saturday as Nicholas recalls the Disco Decade in Manila when Martial Law, Cuban heels, Donna Summer, Coco Banana and a lot of hair combined in a frenzy of uncertain excitement.

Chapter 8 - Coco Banana

Let it be Magic.....and it was. It was the time of Donna Summer who, in so many ways, created the spell that was the Disco Decade. That was the time of Coco Banana, the offspring of Ernest Santiago who had a talent for self-promotion and wore a satisfied smile that always reminded me of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. And why shouldn't he have been smiling! They lined up to be admitted to the magic. In droves.

Perhaps some of them had found their way to Coco Banana by way of the mini forest that used to stand in the middle of Remedios Circle in Malate where on a Saturday night you could smell the clouds of illegal smoke as it slowly wended its way up into the atmosphere in a haze of its own particular magic. In those days the yuppies didn't go to Malate - that was out of bounds. But Sean Connery came. Lots of famous foreigners were there but in those heady, glorious, riotous days Coco Banana was almost the center of the Universe!

Tucked away in a dimly lit side street just off Remedious Circlem, the club somehow managed to attract the most amazingly eclectic mixture of people that could be imagined. Sure there were the sex tourists from Europe who were only just becoming Euro Trash but then they were fanning out allover the East in their quest for cheap thrills. But actually nobody gave a damn and that was what disco was all about. It was a great leveller where we all merged into a homogeneous melange of interweaving bodies, sweat and the general Ecstasy of freedom that flowed despite the castration of the system wrought upon the country by its government!

Socialites and Movie Stars writhed with hookers and call boys and fashion models. Cross dressers slunk around eyeing up the competition and even the odd politician showed up anxious not to be left out. And through it all Donna Summer oozed an almost sacred grail. She WAS disco. The heart. The soul.

It was at Coco Banana when I first realized that Nicholas Stoodley, as a brand, had "made it" in the Philippines. I had drifted in at midnight since just NOBODY really went there before except perhaps the sex tourists from Europe, and there I was confronted by at least 15 people wearing my signature across their chests. A strange feeling. They had no idea it was ME as I squeezed through them, but there I was. Sort of famous. In many ways it meant a lot more than winning the PBA at the Araneta Collesium. Of course the majority of those that cavorted my name across the floor were call boys but then I guess I could claim that I was master of street fashion!

Manila had always, up to that point in time, been very self-conscious socially. I mean one just didn't cross social boundaries. One would never, darling, go to a club with hookers and call boys and yet here they were. The genuine Makati socialites not giving a damn, cheek by jowl with, for all it was known, their drivers. Look around the room and you saw fame and wealth and poverty together and having FUN. Simple as that. Not like the Embassy in the Fort today where it is necessary to be a friend of Tim Yap or famous or beautiful and rich to even survive a few minutes before being swept into a corner!

Coco we miss you.

Previously: Chapter 7 - Skatetown

Start from the beginning! Read: Chapter 1 - An English Virgin

Nicholas Stoodley was born near London and has lived at one time or another in the South of France, Rome, Sydney, Tagaytay, England, Paris and Manila with plans to move to Ibiza shortly. A former assistant to Valentino in Rome, he arrived in Manila in 1976 and pioneered Ready to Wear in the Philippines with the NICHOLAS STOODLEY brand of casual clothing. During his stay in the Philippines Nicholas also won the PBA Invitational Basketball Conference in 1980 with his team from Los Angeles, designed and manufactured a Stainless Steel Sports Utility Jeep that was featured in the Frankfurt Motor Show and opened "Skatetown", a Roller Disco with Jorge Araneta in Cubao. And that was just the first course!


Technorati Tags:70s, stories, nostalgia