Hi, I'm Dean, two-time robbery victim.

Earlier this week, Plato, my iPad 2, was stolen from me while I was on my way down from the bus. The perpetrators used a pretty well-documented method: when I got up to leave, they crammed into the aisle of the bus near the exit and caused a commotion, squeezing me and my bag (which I had been wearing on my front). They used this as an opportunity to surreptitiously open my backpack and grab the iPad. Thankfully they either didn't bother, forgot, or failed to take my phone, money clip and card case, which were in the bag, too.

I'd like to think I handled the incident pretty well. I even had time to buy food on the way home; when I arrived I quickly called the LTFRB hotline, but no one was picking up. I guess they have different ideas about what the word "hotline" means. I tried the MMDA number, and although it only took me one voice prompt before I was connected to a live human being, the man on the other line said they didn't have the contact details of city bus operators. He suggested I try the LTFRB (I told him I already did) or the DOTC (their numbers weren't working, either).

Deep inside, though, I was feeling really annoyed at myself. For one, there's that inherent feeling of stupidity after you realize that someone managed to take away a big slab of glass and metal from your backpack, which you were wearing on the front.

For another, this isn't the first time Manila's petty criminals have victimized me. As a freshman two years ago, I got talked into coming with three total strangers and giving them my phone and my wallet. They approached me in SM North Edsa's The Block and started telling me about their niece, who they said was harassed by a group of young men at the mall that day and ended up having her phone and wallet taken from her.

They told me I kind of fit the description their niece had given them. Obviously this was their little ploy to intimidate me into going with them. It worked. I denied that I was the one they were looking for, and they made like they were cautiously believing me. They asked if I could come with them to Security to see if I recognized any of the mug shots they had on file.

Now, in hindsight I know I shouldn't have come and that I should have asserted my right not to go with them, so there's no need to call me stupid. In the heat of the moment, though, and being the good guy that I like to think I am, I agreed to come with them, thinking we wouldn't have to go any further than the mall's security office. They introduced me to another person whom they said they had spoken to and who had also agreed to help identify the suspects.

They ended up bringing me to the barangay hall of the community at the back of SM North, saying I would be interviewed by the captain, who just happened to be their aunt. It was at this point that they told me and my would-be fellow identifier that the barangay captain would interrogate us individually, and that we should be careful what we say because she can be a mean woman.

And then came the pitch: the other witness and I had to hand our phones and wallets over to them, or else the barangay captain would frisk us, find them on our persons, and think we stole the money and the phone. The other guy was going first, they explained to me, so he was going to give me his wallet and phone. So he did. Then they asked him if he trusted me with his stuff. He said yes, and one of the guys ostensibly took him to be interrogated while the other stayed with me.

They came back a few minutes later and it was my turn. By now all my senses were tingling and my internals were panicking. When they asked for my phone and wallet I said I didn't feel comfortable surrendering my valuables to total strangers. At this point the fat one among them started yelling invectives in yet another successful attempt to scare the freshman version of Dean Lozarie, who had yet to spend seven months in unforgiving Manila. He managed the wallet out of me, but not the phone—yet. When I said I really didn't feel comfortable, he said "fine," took my phone, and said he'd go into a nearby Internet cafe and leave it with the people there if I didn't trust him.

Then Fatty took me to a desolate corner of the village and told me to wait there while he fetched the captain. I must have waited a good five minutes before my mind told me to give up hope and start running for help.

When I retell this story I always feel like a stupid ass who handed his phone over to strangers, and after that experience I was sure Manila wouldn't get the better of me again. Apparently this city still has a lot to teach me.

Oy, have you heard? Gates of Hell daw ang Manila.

The Gates of Hell way back when. (Photo from
John Ward on Flickr)

In 2006, we defended his book and the movie on which it was based from attempts at censorship by powers-that-be. That his novel said some unorthodox things about Christ's earthly life was no reason to stop it from being shown here, we charged. The censors body ended up giving The Da Vinci Code's screen adaptation an R-18 rating, enraging a 12-year-old me who had to wait to get a copy of the film from alternative sources.

Seven years on, Dan Brown finds himself at the receiving end of the flak. "The gates of hell," he apparently calls the capital city in his latest work, Inferno. Sure, this is a work of fiction, and sure, Brown's description of Manila just as well applies to many other countries' capitals, but apparently he deserves all seven levels after tarnishing our pride.

We don't need to reach too far into the past to know this isn't the first time someone besmirched the Philippines' good name—8list.ph has come up with a running tally of past offenses that reaches as far back as the Beatles' costly snubbing of the First Lady. What is it with our culture that makes us turn vitriolic at the slightest mention of our faults?

Certainly it can't be the fact that the accusations aren't true. In Inferno it's the traffic jams, the pollution, and the prostitution that catches the character's attention. Anyone spewing fire on Twitter over the comments would be disingenuous to say that none of it is true. Last year, a brief, if heavy, episode of rain stranded me in España for six hours. Commuters waiting at any of the bus and jeepney stops along Commonwealth Avenue can tell you about the concrete barriers meant to separate public utility vehicles from the rest of traffic—they've turned a grisly black from all the exhaust. And of the prostitution, Brown's character knows whereof she speaks. Be it Malate, Quezon Avenue past sundown, or the recently concluded Balikatan exercises between our Armed Forces and the United States', we Filipinos know how to prostitute.

Indeed, we Filipinos are prone to complain about everything. The Philippine Internet bandwagon specializes in mob beatings of everyone and everything from "sottocopying" Senators to Coke-Zero Senators-to-be. It's fashionable to point out just how hopeless the line at the MRT is; even just as de rigueur is the art of sounding like a DOTC undersecretary while spewing forth self-assured litanies on how the system can be improved. We're practical masters in the art of pointing out our flaws, in the public pastime of complaining about our lives. This is democracy, baby! Free speech is what peaceful revolutions are made of.

When it comes to hearing the truth from other people, however, we don't do very well. It's one thing to hear a fellow Pinoy bemoan the putas that stick their hand out at every passing car on Quezon Avenue at night. It's a totally different—and very objectionable—thing to read the three words "horrifying sex trade "written on print about Manila. (Had Brown said that Manila's sex trade isn't that bad, would we have had a different reaction?)

It isn't very different from barangay gossip. It's fine to pass around unconfirmed details about that family two doors up the street that's having domestic difficulties. Go ahead and text all your neighbors about how clearly you could hear their doors being slammed and their plates being smashed last night. But to say it in public, and especially within the family's earshot, is asking for trouble.

Maybe what we're really saying, then, is not, "STFU Dan Brown, you don't know what you're talking about," because anyone who's spent two days in Manila will know that he does. Maybe what we really mean is, "Hey, shut up and let us deal with our own problems, OK?" Maybe the traffic on EDSA, the suffocating smoke in Cubao, and the flashing red lights of Malate weigh us down so much already that it just makes us angry to hear it from someone else—from America, of all places, the country that we've made such a standard for progress.

Don't bother watching Bourne.

Bourne Legacy is aiming at a very specific audience: people who have commuted around Manila enough to be able to point out a specific street or area based on three seconds of fleeting footage.

But even the fun of correctly identifying where the chase scenes were shot can't redeem the film's tedious exposition, pointless action, and abrupt ending. I feel cheated—the only thing a film shouldn't be allowed to make you feel.

The Filipino spirit is waterproof.

That's how many people have been describing Luzon's response to this week's deluge.

A few folks have raised their eyebrows, though. We shouldn't be okay with getting wet just because we're waterproof, they say. I couldn't agree more.

But I don't think that's what we mean when we say our spirit is waterproof. It's not a motto of resignation, but of resilience. We will never be okay with getting flooded, but when it does happen, you can bet we will get through it. That's what it means to be waterproof.

Cabin fever

Fartsy was very glad to get out. An entire day spent in a room can do mean things to your mind.

Today we woke up to—gasp!—the slightest hint of sunshine, but just before noon the rain started pouring again. A day of suspension is fun, two days, nice, but three days? Ugh.

On yesterday's events at Quirino Grandstand

Now that the Iglesia Ni Cristo's Grand Evangelical Mission at the Quirino Grandstand in Rizal Park is over, I think it's worth clarifying the circumstances around the event and contextualize how media organizations treated the story in the days leading up to Tuesday.

Most media outfits have prominently and ill-advisedly angled the GEM story on the Church's alleged support for impeached Chief Justice Renato Corona. This angle has little basis in fact, but the newspapers and TV stations ran with it anyway, probably because it was an easy way to get hits and readers.

Reports have also frequently taken to calling the gathering a "prayer rally"—a term the Church has not used in recent memory. Maybe newsrooms haven't done away with the term because another religious group known for more frequent massive gatherings at the grandstand uses it.

The fact is that the event is what the Church calls it—a Grand Evangelical Mission, where members invite friends and loved ones to listen to the teachings that the INC espouses in a bid to attract converts to the faith. The GEM is no new thing. It is a cornerstone of the Church's missionary activities. The INC has been conducting evangelical missions such as this one since Brother Felix Manalo began preaching the Church in the Philippines in the early 20th century.

True, the Church has not conducted a missionary activity of this size and magnitude in recent years, which is another point reports have used to justify the Corona support angle. Mainstream media has failed to properly contextualize the gathering in this regard. At the beginning of the year, the Church leadership declared 2012 the Year of Intense Propagation of the Gospel (Filipino: Taon ng Puspusang Pagpapalaganap ng mga Salita ng Dios) to ramp up its missionary efforts as the INC approaches its centennial anniversary in 2014. The massive GEM, held not only in Luneta but in several other sites across the country, is in line with this year's theme, and not with any partisan political issue.

Anyone who might have still been speculating about the political intentions of the gathering should know that throughout the one-and-a-half hour event, there was only hymn-singing and a study of the INC's teachings (as is normal in this kind of activity). Not one mention was made about any political issue, much less Corona's impeachment. Any argument about a politicized INC gathering should by now be dead in the water.

I think the intention of the event can be better seen through the experience of tour guide Carlos Celdran, who was "surprised and pleased" at the atmosphere during the event. "You guys truly are a show of force. Disciplined, United, Dignified and EGALITARIAN," Celdran said on his Facebook page. "You have a lot to teach us all about being Filipino."

Urban art (may be NSFW)

The CBCP does not approve.

Intramuros

Classes were suspended on Wednesday in commemoration of the birth of Andres Bonifacio, leader of the (to some, unfinished) Philippine Revolution.

Where better to spend it than Intramuros (more popularly associated with the reformist Rizal), right? I'm such a historical dick.

The imposing clock tower of the Manila City Hall—and the ugly gray of SM Manila in the background.

Bunch of cannons.

Manong Guard getting his daily tabloid news fix. They still use the guard tower thingies as guardhouses.

Calesa convoy. If I remember correctly, a ride on one of these (including a guided tour) cost me and my family around P2,000 last year.

Just behind the outer walls, garbage.

Imagine the guardia civil and their lovers HHWW-ing along these walkways.

Fartsy strikes a pose. (That's the Lyceum of the Philippines University tower in the background.)

Those are dormitories! Right within Intramuros! How charming. "Parang wala sa Pilipinas," commented Katz.

Chilling.

If you look closely, you'll see that street signs in Intramuros were placed on the walls of buildings and not on freestanding posts.

Chinese-language newspapers still enjoy wide circulation in the Philippines. Even the owners of the big hardware stores in my hometown read them at their desks, next to their abacuses. Copies of the previous day's issue are used to wrap small purchases like nails and screws.

Not all of Intramuros is colonially quaint. Some alleys, such as this, are simply unremarkable.

And then there's the vulgar (or the stark raving mad, we can't be sure). "Putol ari ang sinomang umihi," announces the poster. That's Filipino for "Try to piss on this GI sheet wall and I'll hack your penis off." Right next to the sign is a poster announcing the activities for a Marian celebration of some sort.

"Sige pa, aso! Umihi ka pa!" If you aren't intimidated by threats of genital mutilation, then maybe name-calling will tame you.

I was surprised to find that there are neighborhoods like this one even within the walls of old Manila. I'll bet you none of the tours pass through this part of town.

Katz was aghast at the sight, which surprised me because she grew up in the Metro. "If the squatters leave then Intramuros will look really pretty," she quipped.

Yeah, but this way it stays faithful to the truth.

After quite some walking, we found ourselves on cobblestone streets instead of paved roads. How romantic.

Katz thought we should look for urban art.

Punks doing ollies and grinds in the soft light of dusk in what used to be the center of power of the colonized Islands. I hope the irony isn't lost on them, because it's really nice.

Ancient artifacts! One of the few remnants of the pre-bilog na hugis itlog (egg-shaped circle) era of Philippine history.

Me pointing out to Katz that over yonder is reclaimed land.

Katz got tired of walking. Actually she wasn't particularly excited about the idea of taking a walk in Intramuros for Bonifacio Day. ("Pupunta pa ba tayo? Tinatamad ako, hehe," said she when we met up at SM Manila). But I think she could tell that I really wanted to go, so she very politely agreed to stick to the original plan.

We'd been partly ambling around, partly trying to get to Fort Santiago with a little help from Google Maps. But when we got to the ballot boxes, we decided to go up the nearby wall and check out the view. A few minutes later I started back down the steps and asked her, "Aren't we going to see Fort Santiago?"

"Anong gagawin dun?" she asked, which was my cue to raise the white flag, so I said okay. We headed for the gate through which we had entered, on the side of the district facing the City Hall. The sun had begun to set by then.

Soon after we decided to head back it started to rain—a drizzle at first, then a quick but frantic downpour of enormous raindrops, until everything receded and a cool post-precipitation breeze swept in. Katz and I had to walk through puddles of water on cobblestone streets, amidst the voices of children and the chatter of people in a neighborhood just awoken from the hour of siesta, with light that was growing weaker and shadows that were growing longer.

It could have been any point in the history of the Walled City, and I would not have been any less happy.

An EDSA photodrive

The stiffest faces in Philippine cosmetic surgery.

So clean, so good.

Uy, mga mars!

Behind this overspeeding bus is the EDSA Shrine. Ooh.

Realizing that your driver is confidently navigating EDSA at midday without a rearview mirror: fun.

It's nice to be back.

First time at the Quezon Memorial Circle

On Saturday I visited the Quezon City Memorial Circle, that expanse of land inside the Elliptical Road, for the first time, with Katz and Ate Regine. Here are moving pictures.

Icecreamstore

After attending to church-related stuff last Thursday, Katz and I met up with Ditch and Sanse, her sisters, at this nice little ice cream parlor along G. Tuazon in Sampaloc, aptly called the Icecreamstore.

It's a quaint place on a quiet corner of residential land. Nothing fancy: no airconditioning, simple seating, unadorned signage.

Katz and I split the Rocky Road float thing (pictured above), P40. We loved the ice cream scoop, but the drink itself tasted off, like cheap beer or spoiled coconut milk.

Sanse asked the nice ladies behind the counter about it, and they were kind enough to offer us another drink on the house.

Katz went for the cappuccino flavor, P50. They sprinkled corn flakes on top of the ice cream scoop, too!

Nationalistic graffiti

Found at the corner of Katipunan and Xavierville. Graffiti isn't always bad, is it.

September 14, 2011: one more reason to hate Manila

Manila is a mess. It's a poetic thing to say in a literature or creative writing class, but not so much when you're stewing in traffic on Padre Faura at 245pm when you should have been in the lobby of the Supreme Court for a class field trip at 155pm.

At 115pm I was in a taxi on Katipunan, on the way to the LRT station. At 125pm I was on the platform. While waiting for the train I called my classmate Elle to confirm the instructions I'd received earlier (train to Recto, transfer to Line One, train to UN Avenue). She handed the phone over to Angge, who told me I should have taken the MRT to save time. The taxi driver had told me the same thing, but we were already more than halfway to the Katipunan station and I wasn't about to tell him to go to Quezon Avenue instead.

Angge said I could get off at the Cubao station and board the MRT from there. When I got to the MRT there was a hellish line to get tickets—I've never seen a working MRT ticket machine in my life, and apparently they don't sell stored-value tickets—and I decided I might as well fall in, seeing as how I was already there.

While I was in line, a woman came up to my left and walked alongside me as the queue progressed, apparently trying to cut in front of me. I'm generally nice, but I have little tolerance for people who cut lines. I don't care if you're in a hurry or are running late for something. Unless you need immediate medical attention, the back of the line's that way.

So anyway, this woman, she was walking alongside me, and we started to play this silent queue game. I started to position my body to block any attempts she might make to step in front of me. She must have noticed, but she tried hard to stay nonchalant about the whole thing, keeping her gaze squarely on the ticket counter, pretending to crane her neck worriedly and wiping her neck with a piece of tissue. In the end, though, I got to buy my ticket to Taft before she did. Victory.

Or so I thought. The MRT is almost always very crowded, and I had to squeeze in and stand all the way from Cubao to Taft. (It's not as bad as Line 1, which requires passengers to inhale all manner of human stenches, but not as nice as Line 2, which, even during rush hour, is peaceful and roomy.) At Taft I flagged down a taxi and told the driver I needed to get to the Supreme Court.

"Sa Padre Faura 'yun, diba?" he asked.

A tentative "opo" was all I could manage, because back in Diliman I only have to know which color goes where to know I won't get lost. On Roxas Boulevard the driver confirmed directions with me, and I, finally surrendering to my geographical ineptitude, consulted Google Maps.

Google Maps, by the way, for all its amazing features, wasn't able to give me driving, transit or pedestrian directions from Roxas Boulevard to the Supreme Court. It was able to tell me that the Supreme Court was indeed on Padre Faura, though. "Oo nga po, sa Faura nga po," I told the driver confidently.

The next thing I know we're in Robinson's Manila, waiting to turn left onto a one-way street when I had a really strong hunch the gate I was looking for was the other way. But because I really can't find my way around Manila, I trusted my driver.

Just two corners later we were stuck in traffic again, this time on the street fronting the Philam Life building. By this time the taxi meter was at P110, and my now-agitated driver said he would turn right to UN Avenue, but go no further. It must have been around 240pm by then, and I was running out of options, so I paid him and walked out of the taxi and into the clogged street. I remember thinking, "This is so like those Hollywood movies where the protagonist is running late and the window of opportunity he's been waiting for the entire movie is about to close."

So, not long after that, I went all the way with the Hollywood metaphor and broke into a sprint. I presented my ID to the guards at the first Supreme Court gate I saw. They told me I should go to the other gate. I said "okay" and continued my sprint, but, after seeing that I was now running along the fence of the UP Manila College of Arts and Sciences, went back to clarify that we hadn't misunderstood each other. We hadn't indeed, and I ran again. Past the UP Manila fence I finally saw the Supreme Court building, presented my ID to the partly confused dude at the guardhouse—he looked like an intern to me—who waved me off without fussing.

At 255pm I was in one of the smaller courtrooms in the building (the ones where division hearings are held), panting and perspiring, my ass sweat staining the upholstered pews of the highest court in the country.

Gawd, I hate Manila.

I went to Divisoria

But all you'll get are boring shots of stalls and ware. I was going to pull out my phone on the sidewalk to take pictures but Katz advised against it ("Gusto mo ba manakaw ang phone mo?").

That's alright, though, because really, the horror vacui of Divi is better experienced in person.