Thank you, Lola Openg

I was trying to figure out where to get my baptismal certificate at the time when no one among the living could remember, or even had any knowledge, where I was baptised.  I cracked my mind trying to analyse the possibilities--by tracking down in my mind the movements of people I used to know. My Pa already passed away five years before, though, how I wish I could still ask him.  As soon as I asked Ma, she said, "Of course, you were baptised in Argao, where else would it be?"
Was it probable that I was baptised in the town where I grew up? Where to begin my search? Then, I remember this particular photo showing Lola Openg carrying an infant with those scandalously thick black hair.  I was quite sure that that infant was me because I had a memory of it being pointed to me by grownups. I used to be so embarrassed by the shocking black hair; though, right now that my hair is thinning, I've been wondering about that hair; how I failed to appreciate it while it was still around. I was always trying to hide it, tying it or having it straightened.  Lola Openg looked younger in the picture now, though, when I looked at it before, when I was much, much younger, Lola Openg was always old; way, way too old. 
I've always looked up to her as an extraordinary woman, not like any other woman I knew. She had strength and toughness of character. Her place in Balusong used to serve as a drop-off point of settlers arriving in Mindanao for the first time or those who had already settled here but were leaving back to their old Visayan hometowns. They always make it a point to sleep in Lola's house before they take their flights the following day; or before they go on a long bus trip to Nasipit or Cagayan de Oro where they would take the boat to Cebu. If Lola Openg had carried me that day I was baptised, then isn't that very likely that I was baptised in the city where she used to live? I still could not believe it. In my mind, I tried to scour the locations of churches closest to Lola's house and those closest to her heart. Everything pointed me to a particular cathedral. True enough, less than 15 minutes after I inquired, the venerable priest assistant handed me my records. Thank you so much, Lola Openg! 

Old Baclaran Church

Where the tortured face of the crucified Christ hovering over devotees lighting candles  (not in the photo; I'm not supposed to photograph scenes like those) remind me of the face of my Pa as he was battling the advanced stage of adenocarcinoma. 

Then, it dawned on me that the Baclaran church was actually the church of the Mother of Perpetual Help, where part of the suffering humanity come to seek help in the midst of desperation. It was among the first churches in the country to speak up against ejk.

 

An Afternoon in Malolos

On my first days here, Pam was trying to convince me to join a photography club composed of aspiring (and most probably young) photographers . I told her I could only join such a club it it would have a Joan Bondoc in it. What would Joan be doing in a club like that? she asked. So, what would I be doing in a club like that? I asked. She can't believe it! To make new friends, she said, after a while. New friends?  I don't have a shortage of friends, I have so many!  What would I need some new friends for? The look she cast me that day was a baffled, uncomprehending one. Here was somebody who just arrived in this new strange place and didn't want to make new friends.  But it was true.  Why would I, when the first that I needed to befriend yet was myself? I just arrived here, totally lost and the first person I needed to find was myself. So, the first things I went searching for were the bookshops. I would always emerge with quite a number of books that would add up to my growing hoard. So, you could imagine how much time I needed to spend alone, just to read them. I never had enough time to go out and make friends.
Lately, however, the thought of spending two days in my room oppressed me so much that I ran away and took the bus to the historic town of Malolos.  (TO BE CONTINUED as the pictures take too long to upload and I've been overwhelmed by new spasm of coughing, I still have to go to my room and rest)

Dawn Mass

On the first day of the Misa de Gallo, I succeeded in dragging Nanay V. to hear the dawn mass at the Santa Ana church, which was quite far, but not too far from where we live in Makati. It was still dark when we arrived. The mass had not started yet but most of the seats in front, where I can get an almost magical view of the altar, were already occupied. Nanay dragged me to one of the last remaining seats at the back, where we managed to sneak our not so tiny bodies in a crowded pew. The church, old as it is, is rather small by modern standard, but look at its design and architecture! Think about how, at the height of the bombardment in Manila in the second world war, a mass of people had once flocked into this church to seek refuge. Outside, the statue of the Lady of the Abandoned beckoned.
How  I came to live here and knew about this church was a series of serendipitous encounters.  In 2011, I came upon a Palanca-winning essay about life in an old horserace track before the property owner finally caved in to the pressures of development. I set aside that essay for a while and moved on with my life until late this year, when I was called to work here.  Trying to figure out where and how I'd live, I traced the map with my fingers, ignoring Ja's voice behind me telling me I'd be living very near the old race track in Makati. Ja used to know the capital like the palm of his hand. Long after I arrived and already sleeping in my room, I can still hear Ja's voice faintly reverberating in my ears but I continued to ignore it. 
Until one day,  diligently thumbing through the stories in the Arts and Letters section, I was drawn to a particular story which had caught my eye.  It was a book of the author who wrote about the old race track! I started reading and came upon the old church on the Old Panaderos Street.
Days later, I came to meet an old timer who, as a young journalist, used to haunt the old race track for stories and who personally knew the writer of the old race track herself! 
We had dinner at the Makati Circuit, site of the old race track! Sometimes, when I think about these serendipitous encounters, I feel some magical forces working. I did not come here entirely on my own.