LESSONS & DIGRESSIONS FROM A SEMI-STEREOTYPED PROMDI

[kampanaryo_spy]

For us promdis, going to Manila is like going abroad. That’s why every time a government employee from the province like moi receives a travel order for a seminar in Manila, he treats it as an opportunity to go on a junket---with pay to boot! Thus, “unfreezing” on the first day of the seminar has him bugging people from Manila with questions like: How to go to Mall of Asia and Mega Mall? To Baclaran and Tutuban? To Malate and Timog?

Recently I had a seminar in Manila. Actually it was in Kyusi (QC), not in Manila, but what difference does it make to a promdi like me? You see, every promdi thinks Manila practically covers the whole National Capital Region in the same way that every Manila girl (or a Kyusi girl for that matter) thinks all Mindanaoans are Muslims.

Let me make one thing clear: this is not about the seminar. There was nothing there except for unprepared but overpaid lousy speakers who said that I look and sound like a yuppie from Makati instead of an autochthon from the boondocks. I took umbrage, as always, for it reeked of malicious insinuation that promdis are a primitive lot whose sense of dressing is as sloppy as their sense of phonetics.

Don’t get me wrong: Being a promdi doesn’t bother me, and if urbanites think promdis are dummies who wear their funny accent like a badge, who treat vowels with total irreverence, and who regard fine dining as their worst nightmare, then I must be from a galaxy far, far away.

Now back to the weeklong eyelid-shutter of a seminar. Three days into it, we felt we had had enough, and whoever thought of making coffee break a part of every seminar deserved my gratitude. For how else could we have sneaked out and taken that pilgrimage to Tutuban, the mecca of inveterate barats?

I’ve heard a lot about Tutuban but I never knew that going there could be a hellish experience. There were five of us, all Tutuban first-timers, and naturally questions nagged us: How do we get there from the Ateneo dorm in Kyusi? Do we take the jeep or the bus? Taxi? Thanks, but no, thanks, we promdis have a primordial fear of taxis whose meters run like amoks, and whose wily drivers are amok themselves.

We waited for an aircon bus only to find out an hour later that no aircon bus plied that route. We settled for a yellow bus that looked like it would disintegrate from any provocation as slight as a baby’s burp!

In Manila---okay, Kyusi---we had to run after the bus and elbow our way in, a thing we never do in the province where jeepneys wait for passengers while they take their bath and breakfast.

The bus was full, a dripping kind of full, that we had to stand and smooch the armpits of other passengers. And because everybody was poised to pounce on the next available seat, everything was reduced to a moving game of “Trip to”---where else but---

“Tutuban,” I said to the konduktor. “Lima.”

My companion mouthed pila (how much); I gave him a shut-up wink. Promdis, hear ye! When you’re not quite sure of the fare, don’t ask lest you expose yourself. Wait until the konduktor gives you the ticket, and---this is very important----don’t give the ticket the benefit of a glance. Play it safe by giving the konduktor an ATM-fresh P500 (actually the bigger the bill, the safer) then nonchalantly wait for the change. Just in case you missed it, the operative word is “nonchalantly.”

“Ang laki naman nito. Wala ba kayong otsenta?” the konduktor said.

Eighty divided by five equals sixteen! See? Easy does it.

I took back my Ninoy and gave him a Manual Roxas.

The bus inched forward and every time somebody got off, we gave each other the “is this it?” look. But before we could allay each other’s fear, the bus surged again, leaving behind a ball of back fumes.

Urbanites, hear ye: If you’re riding a bus beside someone who darts his eyes from left to right, then right to left when there’s no ongoing match of Ping-Pong before him, don’t panic. He’s no psychopath, he’s just a promdi whose anxiety is borne by a long held notion that Manila is an outlandish territory, navigable only by asking questions from people busy enough to give him a wink. And if he leans on you to stick his head out of the window, be ultra-considerate because he’s not doing it for the view, all he wants is to read street names that he can commit to memory and namedrop when he tells his tale back home.

The bus screeched to a stop. A passenger got off; a good many got in. The bus heaved forward; the konduktor snaked his way through bodies soaked in varying amounts of sweat. By this time dust and fumes had started spilling off my ears, and my mental note was a hodgepodge of road signs like “this or that bridge is closed, take this or that route” and many others that meant nothing to me because my only concern then was to survive the trip in one piece.

I looked over my shoulder and saw a thought bubble over my companion’s head that said: Sana---lunok--- hindi pa kami—lunok--- lumampas---lunok! (The thought bubble didn’t have a parenthetical translation, sorry.)

Almost two hours, rubbery legs and soot filled noses later, the konduktor said, O yong Tutuban, malapit na ho tayo.

And true enough, the Tutuban Center loomed large before a gathering smog, and already we could hear the babel of humans and machines. As soon as we got off, a kaleidoscope of colors, smokes, and smell assaulted us.

We agreed to go our separate ways and meet later at an appointed time and place.

I went inside Cluster Building A where the size of the crowd stunned and appalled me. Think crossing the Red Sea without Moses! I looked around for “Fire Exit” signs before I wove my way to get ahead. It was impossible. So I drifted along without giving people the impression I wasn’t moving under my own steam. Many times though I had to make sure whether the person beside or in front of me was not a mannequin on the lam.

After zombie walking for over an hour, I found myself on an alphabetized pasillo where salesgirls outbarked each other to catch my attention. All items bore no price tag and I would have wondered had I not been told earlier by a fellow seminarian that it was a gambit to make haggling the order of the day in Tutuban. I was also told that prices initially offered at Tutuban are 50% higher and so one must draw blood haggling for 75% less. And the best way to haggle---my friend said---is to have a face that could change expression faster than Boy Abunda could say “Susunod!”

“Miss, magkano ba ‘tong Giordano n’yo?” I said, holding the shirt.

“Alin po Kuya, Frog or Classic?”

“Frog.”

“P300 po, Kuya.”

“P300? Ang mahal naman.”

A thought bubble formed in my head: 300x75%=225 and 300-225=75!

Just then, my face became that of the child in the Les Miz ad.

“Miss, pwedeng P75 na lang?”

She looked at me with disgust so intense that the cheap foundation on her face cracked. “Doon na lang ho kayo sa probinsya, Kuya,” she said, taking the shirt from me, “sa P75 nyo marami na kayong mabibiling palaka!”

Toink!

Suddenly I had a strong urge to torch her with my Zippo but I knew I would need a lot of butane for her facial cracks to peel off and unmask her for what she truly was---a closet promdi! Besides, I simply must have the shirt that she was now putting back inside a cellophane.

“One-hundred, Miss, pwede?”

She shook her head and whitish flecks fluttered like motes.

“Patawarin mo naman ako, o. Sige na, Miss.”

A faint smile, then she said, “Paano naman kita patatawarin, eh wala ka namang kasalanan?”

Toink-Toink!

Promdis, hear ye! In Tutuban you don’t ask for forgiveness, you simply say: Magkanong tapat nito?

I inched my way to other stalls and found that, just the same, product quality was poor, and most signature brands were misspelled. But prices were relatively low that now I understand why Tutuban never fails to make a businessman in every Peter, Paul, and Mary.

Afraid that it might be my first and last visit to Tutuban with nothing to show but my bruised ego, I went on a buying rampage. But “walking with faith” while “carrying heavy load” for hours on end could be killing to the ankles.

It was dusk when I met my fellow pilgrims outside Cluster Building B where a flurry of people offered us the largest cellophane bag I had ever seen. Against a backdrop of glittering lights, beggars laid out torn cartons on the dirty pavement that would be their bed for the night; bone-weary daily wage earners streamed on the street, prowling for a ride home; and jeepneys blew smokes and horns in unison, enveloping Tutuban in a chaotic fusion of noise and air pollution.

Silently I thanked God for making me a promdi.

After asking a legion where to take the ride back to Kyusi, we walked to the corner and waited for the yellow bus, but this time with anticipation because who cared about the hassles of the bus ride when all I could think of were the happy faces of my family back in the province as they receive a “3 for 100" porontong for pasalubong.

(Next: My experience with ATM and MRT)

[Alibangbang]

K-Spy,

Over here is a fellow SOUTHERN PROMDI who won’t tire singing your praises....

Just the fix I needed. How true!!! And can only be told by a certified blue blood promdi of the south... HAHAHA…..you made my day.

Thank you...have a restful wonderful weekend. Try and blow off the candle by midnight

[sughac]

K_spy,

you bet ! that's what we are made of but still heads-up galore as PROMDI!!i almost die laughing!

[iCeprIncEsS]

k-spy,

thanks for the laugh!

it is precisely for the reasons you enumerated that i don't go around manila by myself. commuting from jp rizal to power plant is an achievement in itself. you won't believe how many people i messaged after that experience hehehe!

[kampanaryo_spy]

abb, sugz, and ice:

thank you so, so much for appreciating my work.

[badung]

K-spy,

When are u going to post the 2nd part? I remember something really funny is when you wanted to hide all of what you bought under your shirt. That was a brilliant idea. If I were with you, inday lamang, basin gutasan kitan duha nan katawa.

[kampanaryo_spy]

badung,

nice to hear from you. i'll post the 2nd installment when i get back to mangagoy on sunday. trilogy sa gud ini---wow lord of the rings baya.

yadi pa ako sa davao gapasaduy saduy kay yaka ilawud.

[Insomada]

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. K-Spy, the “Patawarin” part of your post above replicates the experience of my sister, Mana Babie when she came to Manila to take the board exam in Social Work. We were in Baclaran buying stuff and in an effort to make a big bargain, Mana Babie said to the saleslady “Miss patawarin mo naman ako”. Not only that the sales lady shot Mana Babie an eerie look but the whole of her entourage ( I and my other siblings) burst into laughter!!!!! But mind you K-Spy this experience has become a cliché to every newcomer to Manila. I myself experienced the same the very first time I set my foot in this big city. But oh well, we learn from experience, isn’t it. At least you know now how Tutuban is and other places you’ve been to.

Since you were billeted in Ateneo dorm, there’s one shopping place similar to Tutuban or Greenhills where you can get signature brands at low prices though as you said some were misspelled and even undersized. I forgot the name but certainly a better place to go, lesser congestion of human and car traffic.

Can’t wait for your ATM & MRT experience. Hmmmmmpppppp especially the MRT. Na inday na lang gayod.

[kampanaryo_spy]

as promised: Part Two of LESSONS & DIGRESSIONS FROM A SEMI-STEREOTYPED PROMDI.

The next day, my fellow promdi seminarians demanded to visit Mall of Asia, leaving the Secretariat no choice but to call it quits early. I feigned a headache not only because I’d been to Mall of Asia but I had another plan---to ride the MRT for the first time. And if it’s your first time, you don’t want witnesses should you mess up, do you?

In case you’re wondering, it took me this long to try the MRT because I fear speed so much that I hypnotized myself on my first plane ride many years back. But I’ve always wanted to conquer this fear if only to cut travel time in half as it translates to longer time at the mall while in Manila. Needless to say, I haven’t tried LRT, and what finally made me star in my own version of Fear Factor was the Malacanang press release that MRT is more safe and modern, and much more convenient to commuters.

Turned out, the MRT ride wasn’t that scary, but I realized that it meant endless queuing---from getting a passage card to entering the passenger bay to exiting! But that’s getting ahead of the story. First, I joined a line that got me to the ticket booth longer than it took Congress to count the votes. And just when it was my turn to pay, the girl at the counter said she was only accepting exact fares and that if I could please line up again in the next booth.

Whaaaaat?!

I looked behind me and all at once I understood: the snaking lines that crisscrossed each other on the limited space made me blend, unwittingly, with the wrong queue and led me to the wrong booth.

I went to the tail end of another kilometric line with a thought bubble over my head: Why not let the makeshift stalls sell MRT cards like they do with cell cards? Promdi transients like me won’t mind paying extra for the hassles it would save us.

Finally clasping a smiling Ate Glo, I lined up, fed her to the machine, and walked toward an area in the terminal that had mostly women passengers. I was about to ask where had all the men gone when a pretty girl pointed to me the waiting area for male commuters. So the MRT had turned gender sensitive? I was impressed.

The train wailed from a distance. As if on cue, everybody moved to the edge, poised to hurl himself inside once the door hissed open. Wedged between warm bodies and wary of pickpockets, I had one hand clasp my cell phone and another, my coin purse. As the crowd surged forward, I turned buoyant and let the human tsunami wash me on board. But certain after a while that a pickpocket couldn’t do his trick no more than I could shift my weight, I put my hands over my face to ensure it wouldn’t get swapped in the tumult.

At Shaw Boulevard I got off, lined up, fed Ate Glo again to the machine and exited. But where? Confronted with stairs and walls, I wasn’t sure where to go and whom to follow because people went in all directions. Take it easy, I told myself. To get out of the station, I simply had to take the stairs going down, right? Wrong! At Shaw Boulevard Station, you have to go up twice first then go down before you could get out of the terminal.

Whew!

I was on my way to SM Megamall when I realized that my shirt was so crinkled it looked like a bull had used it for diapers. Yes, what I gained in MRT time, I lost in poise and style.

At the Megamall main lobby, I remembered I needed cash. My heart began to palpitate. I don’t know, but until now ATMs still scare me. Things like forgetting my PIN in a rare case of mental block and the machine capturing my card make my heart throb like mad. Of course I know that these unnecessary palpitations could be avoided by withdrawing enough cash in one single transaction, but then I also have this fear of losing all my money to pickpockets. That’s why instead of carrying a wallet, I clasp a tiny purse that’s pregnant with coins and bills which I fold into neat squares.

The palpitations grew louder, quicker as I joined the queue in front of the Banco de Oro ATM. It is during these times that I long for those pre-ATM days when I carried all my cash with ingenuity. Back in the 80s when we were in college, Mama would give us just enough money to see us through a day of land and a night of sea travel to Cebu where we studied. The rest of the money she would either place under our only sister’s bra or sew inside the pocket of our eldest brother’s pants. Unless they have scissors for hands, she said, the pickpockets are kept at bay better that way. Other times she would bury the money inside one of the sacks of rice that we brought to Cebu as provision for the whole semester. And because she wouldn’t tell us which sack contained the money, we would keep an eye on each sack. And the first thing we did upon reaching our boarding house was to empty all seven sacks!

Genetics being what it is, I had devised my own way carrying cash which proved effective until that one unfortunate incident in Winter of ‘89. It was my third month as a government employee when my office sent me to Manila for a business trip. The day before my return flight, I went to Rustan’s Cubao and saw a nice pair of Oleg Cassini shoes in oxblood. The saleslady made me try them on for size and in my excitement, I kicked off my espadrilles in reckless abandon and----poof!---bills flew out of my shoes while some clung to my bare feet like they grew on my toes.
The salesgirl looked away. I picked up the bills, ignoring the winks that Manuel Quezon, Sergio Osmena, and Manuel Roxas gave me.

My heart went wild and I realized it was my turn at the ATM. I breathed long and hard as I walked to it. I keyed in the numbers, snatched the bills as soon as they were spat, and went for my greatest indulgence---shoes!
Call me Imeldific, but I don’t go home to the province without buying three pairs of shoes at the very least. And in matters of shoes, I’m back lately to wearing Mendrez (can’t afford Tenorio Manila!) because everybody in the province now walks in signature shoes, thanks to ukay-ukay. No, I’m not anti ukay-ukay. In fact I do ukay too, it’s just that when I see our janitor wear a Louis Vuitton or a Burberry on MWF and a Cavalli or a Bass on TTh, I just feel the need to be different, which means buying high-end local brands that are not peddled in brochures for two gives, that is, January and December.

Hours later, I retraced my steps to the MRT terminal. I smiled when I saw the ticket booth for “exact fare only” having a line longer by half than the rest. Urbanites could be funny too, I told myself. Then I realized, from the way they spoke, that they were actually promdis!
It was past nine o’clock but the passengers hadn’t thinned out much. Thinking that this time gender lines were no longer hallowed, I went to an area where the crowd was not too dense. Minutes later, the train arrived and a mad scramble ensued. I elbowed my way inside to latch my hand on the rail to gain space and balance. But then fleshy orbs bumped me from behind. I turned around, and that was when I saw women in various stages of pregnancy. Sensing my confusion, a woman pointed with her lips a sign on the wall: FOR PREGNANT PASSENGERS ONLY.

As the MRT door swished and shut me out, I wished I had stuffed under my shirt everything that I bought.

o0o

(NEXT: Who gets more from life--urbanites or promdis?)

[Insomada]

You got me into this Kamps.

First thing first….."money placed under Gly's bra or sewn inside the pocket of Pedro's pants". …"burry the money inside one of 7 rice sacks"… The latter really amused me the most. I've heard a lot of money safe-keeping measures but not this one. So hilarious but worthwhile idea, ha, ha, ha.


The ATM. Yes I acquiesce with you. Withrawing money in one go would make you susceptible to pickpockets. But then again ATM daunts you. You are not alone on this Kamps. I myself, up to now is still uncomfortable with ATM. That's why if possible I'd like to maintain only one bank and credit card. It drives me nuts remembering multitudes of pin numbers. Funny but I rely on Teriyaki's and Adobo's help remembering them.

"I put my hands over my face to ensure it wouldn't get swapped in the tumult". Kakuyawi gayod baya naadto, ha, ha, ha.


Aboard the express train on my way to work I couldn't help being tickled by your overall experience in Manila. It then led me to muse over an MRT experience we just had the last time we went home in Feb. Destined to visit Mall of Asia, we wanted to take the MRT so the boys could experience it. (They've done it before when they were about 7 & 8 year olds respectively but the experience linger no more in their memories).

In coming back from Mall of Asia we dropped by at SM Makati to do some shopping. Amidst the squashy situation in the MRT where due to massive throng of passengers who, some armpits emitted stench smell that almost drive me into collapse and had my tiger balm ineffective, boys got themselves a real good happening of the day having experienced the Philippine railway system, the MRT -- to the delight of myself and "Classmate". Going home time to Project 8. Had to take a long stairs down, inching ourselves towards the rail platform. My three bloke companions (Teriyaki, Adobo & Classmate) were stopped by the railway guard. "Hindi po kayo dito dapat sumakay, dapat po doon sa kabilang parte, dahil sa mga babae lang po dito", he said. As you said there's now a spot for pregnant people as well. The 3 blokes tried to make some efforts not to be sent over to the male sakayan for it would entail another rugged walk. Classmate then asked the guard "is there a designated area for androgynous people like the 3 of us"?!!!! I had to translate this for them to understand. Upon hearing my translation Teriyaki and Adobo burst into unison laughter and so did I. Exhausted by the situation Teriyaki and Adobo started to talk and talk and talk and what else---complain…. oh what a tale to tell our friends back home, Teriyaki said. It was only then the guard allowed them to wait for the train in the women's designated area-where I was waiting. The guard must have been intimidated by Teriyaki's & Adobo's accent or their English that the guard allowed them to wait in women's area instead. Oh what a big relief for the three!!!!Speaking English was certainly one of the perks the boys took pleasure of during that time.

[kampanaryo_spy]

insoms: am glad na yaka-relate kaw!

and now, here's the final installment:


Days later, on my plane ride home, I sat by the window and was struck by how Manila looked like a crowded graveyard from 32,000 feet above sea level. There was a time when I wished for a great flood that would sweep away intact everything of Manila to Surigao del Sur. Back then I thought it must be cool to have posh hotels for power meetings and lunches, drive-thrus for quick chows, capsule lifts for a glassy peep at the word, classy malls and boutiques for shop-‘til-you-drop binges, and yes, nothing of the horrendous traffic! Now I realized how foolish it could have been!

I reclined my seat and closed my eyes. An hour or so later, an air pocket jolted me. We’re almost there, I told myself, and the world’s largest iron deposit lodged under my province’s bosom is what is causing all this turbulence. And soon enough, the plane began its descent; a queasy feeling formed in my gut. I straightened my seat and looked out through the glass window. Just then a cloud parted, revealing the jagged topography of my province. To the east, the Pacific Ocean danced to a rhythm all its own, and opposite it---at the heart of a primeval forest---a waterfall sparkled like a flowing sheet of silver.

Landing in 15 minutes, the stewardess announced on the PA system. Suddenly my experience in the past seven days flashed back. I smiled, knowing yet again that the little voice inside me would pop the perennial question: Who gets more from life, urbanites or promdis?

I don’t know, I told the little voice, all I know is that when a promdi gets tired of breathing fresh air, or if he gets bored with the purity of rural bliss, he can always go to Manila and clog himself with pollution and urban decadence. A promdi can go to Manila as often as his budget allows because he has relatives where he can stay for as long as he wants. (He calls this the “Relativity Theory.”) An urbanite, on the other hand, doesn’t even have a province to vacation to in the first place, and even if he has the moolah to hie-off to some provincial resorts, chances are, his stay will be short, thus robbing him of the opportunity to truly enjoy the countryside.

Both urbanites and promdis pay when they go to Enchanted Kingdom but only urbanites need to travel and shell out money to go to the beach, or go boating or fishing because promdis can have the same treats for free and as often as they want.

Urbanites say that compared to what Manila can offer, ours are baryotik thrills. But what good is Manila’s sosi gimik if you couldn’t afford it because your net take home pay is just enough to tide you over the next payday? In our case, we make the best of our Manila trip by ensuring we’re financially loaded, that’s why the very first thing that comes to our mind when a Manila trip is in the offing is money! Or to be exact, where to get enough money for baon. And once in Manila, we promdis go for broke. As in, we don’t go home to the province until we’ve watched the newest lounge act, all the movies being shown, a PBA game or two; or visited the newest mall and watering hole, the fanciest restaurant, the coolest coffee shop, and yes, the reddest light district!

Urbanites pride themselves of having the best schools, and therefore, the best education. True. But they don’t have an exclusive patent for admission to these schools, do they? If one gets the provenance of students of Manila’s premier schools, he’ll see that a good percentage comes prom di probins.

And now that we have cell sites, broad band, and cable TV, urbanites can no longer harp that we promdis are out of sync with technological advances and out of touch with the world. Ironically though, this is what scares me. Because as it is, I like the sweet morning smell of grass more that the stench of unpicked garbage; the whiff of fresh air than the suffocating fumes; the stirring rhythm of a carabao than the sickening inertia of a gridlocked bus; and above all, the pleasure of living under the twinkling stars instead of the glaring streetlights.

###



if truth be told: this 3-part essay is regurgitated stuff, meaning, a composite of some of my published "promdi" essays. tinuhog ko lang sya to make it appear like a linear narrative. i've submitted this last week to a local publication. and here's hoping it'll see the light of print!

[tab_lover]

well said spy..bravo!!

[kampanaryo_spy]

tab,

salamatirs. naman an tambag ko kanimo, bisan hain na kaw na sid-sid nan langit mag lina-ap-laap, please don't lose the essence of being a promdi because if you do, you'll lose your sense of identity and home!

[tab_lover]

hehehe spy saktohe kaw gayud..yakatawa ako nan imo words na in gamit.."bisan hain na sid-sid nan langit mag linaap-laap", reminds me of someone in the family..mga tagon-oni gayud na terminolohiya i will never forget that i am a promdi.in fact i'm actually proud to be one.. puyra lamang amnesia..simbako hehe

[kampanaryo_spy]

tab,

amoy magana gayud nan tagon-on na mga titiyabon kay masamo mo gayud sa dila mo, di ba?

pero duda ko you now think in english. pupanagsa may tinagon-on kaw gayud nan halawum ngaton.

btw, ga capping na kay an batchmate mo. ay lagi yaka 'survive' kay taraw isab bisan igo-igo da, amo?