Lala Rimando Diaries

I have decided to move on... to Wordpress.

My new personal blog is at lalarimando.wordpress.com. Please visit me there.

I have also set up my travel blog, meandmyticket.wordpress.com where I share my adventures--and misadventures.

It's been a fruitful three years with Multiply, but it's time to say goodbye. 

A source from the financial sector once told me about his concept of the Philippines as a “Farm Economy.” No, he wasn't talking about agriculture. He was talking about nurses and maids.

In this Newsbreak article I wrote in 2004, I described his theory that this Southeast Asian country could benefit from exporting professionals, professional nurses included, since we are not competitive anyway in the export of finished products or raw materials. The lower cost of doing business in neighboring China, Vietnam, Cambodia, etc. etc., not to mention the high cost of electricity here, have all but killed our chances in industrial sector, which has long succumbed to the "race to the bottom."

Swallow our pride and face the reality, the source said. We are better off breeding maids and nurses, than relying on the financial viability of putting workers on a production line. After all, providing service—here or abroad—fits our culture of caring and being hospitable. Clap clap, and pat on the back.

Nonetheless, “farm economy” is just another phrase to describe an existing—and already thriving—trend. Sociologists, economists, labor exports have all coined a term or two to show different facets of the diaspora. Remittances from Filipinos working overseas continued to grow year-in year-out that not even the global financial crisis triggered in 2008 has made a dent on the money being sent home by these “unsung heroes.” Their remittances continue to fuel the local economy’s fragile growth.

A part of me has accepted that these countrymen have greener pastures to pursue and a different world to conquer. Heck, even my own sister is based abroad. And she seems to like it there. For the past 15 years, she has lived in 2 countries oceans away from us.

However, the news about the geologists and weather forecasters joining the diaspora were unsettling.

In this Newsbreak story, Carmela Fonbuena wrote that Filipino geologists have been lured by higher paying jobs abroad as mineral prices reached the cycle’s peak. Mining experts at the Mines and Geosciences Bureau has been whittled down to 4 in 2008 from 24 in 2003. “For experts with doctorate degrees, the MGB offers a measly P24,000. In a local private company, they get P150,000,” the article noted.

The result? Regulating one of the country’s most contentious—but potentially economically rewarding—industries have become a major challenge. Mining cases filed by various groups—mostly by environmentalists and local governments that host the mining sites—have continued to gather dust in the government office.

At the time of publication, I was not that affected. Mining is too controversial with many warring parties with diverse interests and agenda, but global case studies have shown that the industry’s effective economic impact to the country is disputable.

Between the geologists and the weather forecasters leaving the country, however, the news about the latter is more personal.

After all, the Philippines is battered by over 20 typhoons a year, no thanks to our archipelago’s position in the map. We are just above the equator, which pushes the swirling winds to our direction, and on the fringe of the mighty Pacific Ocean, which breeds most, if not all, these typhoons. In fact, Vietnam and Cambodia have to thank us for catching all these typhoons and giving them a preview of the potential damage that awaits them!

In other words, I want a reliable person or a group warning me beforehand that an inter-tropical convergence zone is looming or has progressed into a hazardous weather disturbance. (I don’t feel the same way with minerals underneath my place. But that’s just me. We don’t have enough to attract miners.)

The wrath of Typhoon Ondoy, which submerged my car and almost two-thirds of the metro, is still too fresh. When it hit the Philippines in September 2009, weather bureau’s Nathaniel Cruz was the face and voice that I hung on to as we tried to make sense of where Ondoy was going and how long it was staying.

As we enter the rainy season again, this story said Nathaniel Cruz has joined the diaspora. He has gone to Australia, likely to do the same forecasting job that he did for years with our weather bureau, Pag-Asa.

I couldn’t fault him searching for greener pastures (Australia’s not likely greener, but the pay’s more than his P37,000 a month here). Apparently, he is not alone. Others have left before and some will likely follow his footsteps to a, well, more financially rewarding job.

Nonetheless, that news hurts.

I hate that a country battered by typhoons every year has become a breeding ground for weather experts that other countries not as badly hit with that many typhoons can source from. I don’t want that Mother Nature gives all these weather-related risks that Filipino forecasters could hone their expertise on but citizens of other countries will benefit from.

I don’t want a “farm economy” anymore.

I’ve always told my family that when I die I want to be cremated. Burn the body that I’ve hopefully made the most of. Hopefully I’ll be remembered not for my vanities but for my name. My legacy is my virtue.

Letting go is never easy. The first few days that my teeth were freed from my almost 4-year old braces, I missed the feel of metal against my lips. When I broke up with my first boyfriend, I mourned it for 5 years.

Parting can be a sweet sorrow or a necessary fool. The first time I lived outside the Philippines, I missed the chaos and craziness of Manila, a household help that picks up after my mess, and just the constant smiles. But after getting the hang of being on my own and was time to return, I missed the long walks, the pothole-free roads, and maps I could rely on to guide me from point A to B.

Technology somehow bridges the gap. My sister who lives oceans and mountains and 26-hour flight away is just a text or skype or facebook away. It was the same with a previous long distance relationship. The phone and internet, and all the technologies in between, killed any excuse not to keep in touch.

When we first broke the story that former President Cory Aquino was suffering from colon cancer, I made up my mind to let her go. Her strength and integrity as a person far overwhelms her shortcomings as a transition leader in the 80’s. She has lived a full life and her place in history is assured. She will always be my icon who helps me believe my nation does not only produce the Imeldas and Arroyos of this world.

Clinging on can have pros and cons. One year before stepping down, Arroyo made a boastful and spiteful speech that made me cringe. It was smack of fears of being a lame duck. Parting is a necessity, period.

Yet, I’ve seen people who hung on and have reaped the rewards. Couples who made real their marriage pact of staying together “through sickness and health, hunger and wealth….” made an impact on me. I have close friends who have decided to deal with their painful past, instead of relying on pills to numb them or retreating from the sane world. Their lives are living testimony that there has got to be more than an inner cheerleader.

Letting go is never easy when it’s a must. Clinging on is futile when it’s based on greed, but rewarding when based on faith. 

About six weeks ago, I was sitting on a concrete bench fronting Hoan Kiem Lake in central Hanoi at around 9am. Then I cried. No, I sobbed.

It hit me like a major quake. I was alone in a strange country, in a cold city, in a snobbish culture that was Vietnam. My friends and my sister have all gone to continue our itinerary in what was supposed to be our North-to-South no-frills all-ladies adventure in Vietnam. They had made their way to Hue and Hoi-an in central Vietnam, before catching a glimpse of Ho Chi Minh City in the south en route back to Manila.

I was left in Hanoi because I lost my passport.

That morning, a Wednesday, I submitted the last requirement to the Vietnamese Immigration Department, which was processing my exit visa. Vietnam does not require a visa from Filipino travelers, but I lost the physical evidence that I’m a citizen of an Asean country—my passport—thus the need for an exit visa.

As I sat on that concrete bench in my two-layer tops and winter jacket to catch my breath (Hoan Kiem Lake is about 30-minute walk from the Immigration Department), the emotions just came out pouring.

I have been trying to be brave and practical in the past days that my friends and I were running around for this-and-that requirement for this-and-that document. It wasn’t practical to pity party just because I lost my passport on Sunday, the second day of our trip. What was practical—and mature—was to think and plan for and execute plan B.

Plan B was to complete all the requirements and obtain all the documents that I’ll need to leave Vietnam without Immigration-related questions on Saturday, Feb 7, our flight back to Manila. Plan B also meant finishing all those in Hanoi, the political capital, before our south-bound train leaves for Vietnam’s midland cities on Tuesday night.

On Tuesday night, I bade goodbye to my friends and my sister. On Wednesday morning, I was sobbing at the lake.

Passport

We arrived midday in Hanoi on Feb 28 after our midnight Cebu Pacific Manila-Ho Chi Minh flight. It was day 1. All five of us—mid to top level execs from Manila—planned this adventure trip when the local airline announced a promotional fare. My companions are used to first class travels but also wanted to experience a backpacking trip. They each had their SLR Canon cameras, too, to practice their photography skills on the scenes and senses that Vietnam evokes.

Armed with copies of Lonely Planet, we chose to stay in Hanoi’s Old Quarter. The travel book described it as ideal for travelers like us.

It was a bit of a shock when we arrived at City Gate Hotel, which Lonely Planet recommended. (Exact description in the book: “Hidden away down a small lane near the old west gate, this smart minihotel offers a warm welcome and friendly service. Rooms are super clean, bathrooms include a bath, there's free internet downstairs and even a lift.”)

It was a small, family-run hotel, all right, but we definitely were not warmly welcomed, nor was there friendly service. (During our breakfast, the husband-owner just tossed the breakfast bread to our table. Yes, he tossed it, as in almost threw it to us. We literally woke up to the fact we were in a communist country.)

It was also in a narrow backstreet, which did not feel, um, comfortable. Or even safe. Only one among the hotel’s family members spoke more or less discernible English. Nonetheless, we just wanted to make the most of our four days in Hanoi, so my friends decided to book 2 packaged trips and our sleeper train tickets with the hotel’s owner. 

Walking around the Old Quarter afterwards made us realize there are better (read: cleaner, safer, same-priced) hotels around. We later also realized the English-speaking hotel owner booked us in an overnight Halong Bay group tour, which meant our friend could not make back to Hanoi on time for her Monday morning meeting, which was clear in our instructions. That was red flag one.

We decided to take a day trip to Halong Bay instead, but everyone voted to transfer to a different hotel that night. It was downhill since. The City Gate owner, especially the husband of the English-speaking wife, was already rude, as if he couldn’t wait to throw us out. Rattled, we flung our bags on our backs and started to walk—no, run—to our next hotel, which was a number of blocks away.

The bags were heavy, especially the one I had on. It had 2 laptops. My sister got my bag—which had my passport, wallet, camera, extra phone, basic make-ups, even my slippers, and a borrowed Lonely Planet Vietnam—to unload some of the weight on me. We flagged down a mini green taxi along a portion of the not-so-well-lit street, but the taxi could not accommodate all of us. I and two of my friends, including all our bags, got in, while the other two walked. I saw my bag with my valuables placed in the trunk with the others.

After alighting from the cab, I immediately noticed that my bag had not been taken out. I called out to the cab driver, but he sped away. The staff from the hotel ran after the cab. I did too. After three blocks, 3 green look-alike cabs emerged from different directions. I knew then I lost my bag. I tried to call my phone, which had my Manila SIM in it. It rang. A few hours after, it was turned off.

Moving on

The following day, the colleagues of my friend at their Microsoft Hanoi office generously assigned one of their conference rooms to us. It was our “war room” for the day. We called the Philippine Embassy, which was fortunately based in Hanoi. The consular office gave us a list of required documents. I called Newsbreak Manila office to ask for scanned copies of my passport, birth certificate, ID, among others.

A Microsoft officer helped prepare my Affidavit of Loss, which was in Vietnamese, but each paragraph had an English translation already. (I later learned this was brilliant. It meant the users—from the police to the embassy to the Immigration—would not question the document. Others apparently prepared 2 separate documents (one English, one Vietnamese), and some agencies were not sure if the two separate docs meant the same thing.)

It was Monday, Feb 2. My Plan B involved obtaining a police report (which would be processed upon my submission of the Affidavit of Loss) and submitting that together with the printed copies of the scanned and emailed documents from Manila to the Philippine embassy that same day. But, alas, the head of the police station did not report for work that Monday. It was the first working day after a week-long Tet celebration. 

So Plan B was not meant to be. It meant I would not make it to our booked sleeper train ride the following day. I was then concerned about finances. I had to rebook everything—the transpo from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh, the flight to Manila, the hotels, etc etc etc.

Two of my friends have gone back to City Gate Hotel for the reimbursement of our Halong Bay tour and to collect our sleeper train tickets. They looked shaken when they got back. They got the train tickets, but the reimbursement was way below the agreed amounts.

Nonetheless, I was determined to get some of my money back for my own train and the booked and paid package Pagoda tour the following day. I cannot join the Pagoda tour anymore since I will need to do legwork for my travel and visa documents. Losing my passport was going to set me back several hundred dollars, so I was going to get however much I could from City Gate.

Shaken

With my friends in tow and my sister with her videocam, I negotiated with the wife-owner at the City Gate. My train costs US$100, but our second hotel, Thien Than, already said I should expect a $30 penalty. So I told the wife-owner I want $70 back. She said she could only give me $40. I agreed to $65, then $50. She was inching up from $41 to $42. My blood was boiling. I raised my voice and hit the table. The non-English speaking husband sprung from his feet and aimed to hit me. He just aimed, he didn’t hit me. Ah, the brawn just showing off might, I thought, and dismissed him. I continued to negotiate with the wife. 

The husband, however, was already agitated. He tried to snatch the video from sister, and took off one of his slippers and aimed at one of my girl friends. That made my 3 companions tense. They egged me to just accept what was being offered so we could leave.

Back in our safe room at Thien Tan Hotel, tears flowed. One of my friends was so shaken she didn’t want to take the train anymore. She said the nasty City Gate husband might send someone to harm them during the train trip since they booked the ride. She was paranoid and inconsolable. Hanoi’s charms were fading.

At the Philippine embassy the following day, the ambassadress (whom I have met in my previous trip to India where she was stationed years ago) listened empathically to our woes. She shared her first hand experience of being a prey to snatchers on motorbikes. Her close friend was wounded when someone cut her bag with a knife.

But she said my friend’s paranoia was unfounded. Small time businessmen in Hanoi would not spend an extra dime and hire someone to haunt them. We just happened to be another tourist to them.

The assistant consul explained that a replacement passport will need two weeks to process since it involved paper work all the way from Manila’s foreign office. They could provide me a Travel Document, which I could present when needed while in Vietnam. For my Exit Visa, I’ll need to go to the Vietnamese Immigration Department. However, the Philippine embassy had no control anymore as to when the Immigration could give me the Visa.

That Tuesday night, my friends and I had our “Last Supper” at a fancy restaurant. We counted our many blessings, had a good laugh, and took a lot of pictures.

The following morning, I sat at a bench fronting Hoan Kiem Lake. I was alone. (To be continued)

TRAVEL LESSONS:

• Don’t blindly trust Lonely Planet. It’s not always accurate. Best to visit travel sites on the web to get first hand experiences of previous travelers. We later learned that other Hanoi tourists had horrible time with City Gate.
• Keep valuables close to you—always. I cannot emphasize this enough. Bring a photocopy of your passport. It helps expedite processing of a lost one.
  
• The Vietnamese may be all smiles while offering their services to tourists, but beyond the façade is still a country that is still getting used with the economic boom. Bureaucracy has not exactly caught up. I later learned that the hotel owners may have acted in a way that we considered rude, but they could have just been giving us the best they could. It was possible, for example, that the train company, which is state-owned, would not reimburse them back for what the hotel will return to me. These are all in hindsight, of course.
• Hanoi is way more charming than Ho Chi Minh.

I just shrugged off all these musings about social networks and how people unabashedly share daily details about themselves to the world. To my mind, it’s a stage that people go through when change is bulldozing up old mindsets. They had no personal effect on me.

Well, none until I changed my status in Facebook.

On my Facebook profile page are my birthday, network (i.e. Philippines), and my status, “Single.” I must have entered these info when I first joined Facebook, missed to update it afterwards, until Facebook’s founders decided to toy with the site’s look, eventually ending up with the layout with these info right smack on my profile page.

I patted myself on the back for not specifying my birthday year. One security conscious move against the hackers and identity thieves out there, I said. Good thinking, Lala.

Then for a minute, I mused about my status. Nothing wrong, I guessed. But did I really want that announced to the world? I get all kinds of invites from people I hardly know, people not in even my six-degrees circle. Plus, of course, there were the usual blind-date suggestions and what’s-wrong-with-you’s from those among my circle.

It was almost 5am then. It was one of those nights when I had too much coffee, wanted to be productive, but too exhausted to do anything work-related. I started scanning what’s out there as far as my virtual “life” is concerned, and went through my different social networks, blog, and other accounts. Cleaning up my Facebook account was all but natural to do.

I navigated around and deleted the “Single” from my Facebook profile page. Immediately, my profile page noted, “Lala is no longer listed as "single." Good. I then sent quick hellos and how-are-you’s to old contacts. I finally went to sleep. It was February 26.

Three hours after, I woke up to about 6 unread text messages in my phone. Five of those texts were asking who my new boyfriend is.

An hour later, I was staring at my email box and was amused by several private messages and a few Facebook posts that were copied in my email, ranging from “Please explain” to “Who’s the lucky guy” to “Why was I the last to know?”

Days later, the Facebook status-related questions continued pouring in—via email, texts, or coursed through people who I interact with on a regular basis. It actually became transatlantic talk. Friends all the way in Europe wanted to know more details. A cousin who lives Down Under wanted—no, demanded—for a blow-by-blow account. My sister asked me over a Saturday breakfast: “X person asked me to ask you who your new guy is.” Someone I bumped into in a social party threw his arms around me when I entered the room, then yelled, “CONGRATULATIONS!!!!” Excitedly, he asked one question after another. “Who is this guy? What’s his nationality? How old? What’s his job?” Etcetera Etcetera. He’s in my Facebook contact list.

Apparently, word got around even to those who are not in my Facebook circle. Yesterday, I got an email, “Hey Lala. I heard a RUMOR that you have a new boy.”

For the many times I have to explain that the “rumor” is not true, I ended up with a standard answer: “It was an administrative effort to clean up my Facebook profile page. I’m still single.”

Having to go through this initially hit me as heartwarming. There are people who are actually concerned. Of course, some were just nosey, but some seemed genuinely concerned.

So far, I haven’t dated or gone out since February 26. I know my crazy work sked is partly a reason. But sometimes I also wondered if I dampened my chances to be asked out because I changed my Facebook profile.

Meantime, a naughty friend suggested that I change my Sex info in Facebook to “Unidentified.”

Hmmm… Riot!

I read an interesting IHT article a month ago on the phenomenon of inter-marriages between Korean men and Vietnamese women. It read like the 21^st century version of mail-to-order brides, except that instead of exchanging snail mails for months or years and pictures thereafter, the whole deal is sealed within five days.

 

Thanks to budget airlines and seedy marriage brokers, the Korean men (some are almost the same age as the girls’ own fathers) can fly into poorer neighbors like parts of China, Cambodia, and Vietnam in the middle of the night, proceed straight to a karaoke bar where they make a short speech about themselves (with interpreter) to an array of potential brides-to-be. The hasty Q&A with the Vietnamese girls sound like a speed-dating event, though this one ends with the Korean man making a decision who among them to marry.

 

Blame the Korean women who, the article says, have become more focused on career and self-actualization efforts outside of marriage, thus leaving marriage-ready men without partners. That’s opportunity for poor women in other countries who try to use marriage as leverage for a better life. Of course, cultural, personal, and language differences creep into the marriage, as the follow up articles (here and here) note.

 

It’s not love that brought these couples together; it’s need. And both governments—Korea for men and Vietnam or Cambodia for the women—just facilitated it. Why are the governments involved? Perhaps it’s a short-term solution to a possible threat of social war in the long term. Best to keep those hormone raging middle-aged Korean men busy with domestics than be vulnerable to some form of political or social threats. And best to pawn the women in poorer neighbors. Fewer mouths to feed and remittances would flow anyway. Ah, I’m assuming.

 

But then, didn’t the US Federal Government do the same thing when it played a role in the “marriage” of ailing Bear Stearns and JP Morgan? The Fed bailed out Bear, an 85-year old financial behemoth, which gambled on mortgage securities and lost big time. Bear Stearns survived the Great Depression and a dozen recessions, only to rapidly unfold during this recent credit crisis afflicting the American economy.

 

The Fed agreed to a 28-day credit line to Bear, with JP Morgan in tow. From a much-criticized $2 per Bear share (less than 1/10^th of Bear’s market price in March 2008) and eventually upped to $10, JP Morgan now has a its foot in the prime brokerage, which provides financing to hedge funds.

 

So the governments—Korea, Vietnam/Cambodia, and the US—dip their fingers into people’s lives, whether in the social or financial areas. (Surely, there are other governments that do, but they’re for another blog entry and another issue.) In either case, it was not love that brought them together. It was need. It was logic.

 

Both stories are already month-old or more. Among journalists, they’re hardly news for the day. But last night, they were to me.

 

I learned someone who’s dear to me is getting married in three weeks. It’s an arranged marriage of sorts. He learned about her from a shortlist of women his parents came up with after screening an inventory of prospects provided by matchmaking sites (ie. a WedSite), relatives, friends, name it. His parents have been nagging him for ages about getting married and have provided him several shortlists in the past. They met for the first time a day before their engagement, which was after the two sets of parents met to check if the stars and planets were aligned when they were born.

 

It’s a process that I could not easily identify with. It’s just too odd for my mindset, which has been shaped by Western ways. In a way, it influenced an outdated we’re-right-you’re-wrong view.

 

Obviously, they’re not marrying for love. Perhaps not even for need. It was just logical. They both think they’re marriage-ready. Love will come later. The important—and crucial—point is, the basics for a long-lasting relationship is all covered. Inevitable frictions may come their way, but sans the magnitude of problems that most soap operas are hinged on.

 

Sure, these don’t pass my ideals for romance. It’s too cerebral. i.e. He first had to assess if she’s has the right values, character, priorities. And she had to decide if he fit her own (and family’s) standards, too. What ever happened to being the ONE. Where are the butterflies in the stomach with the mere sight of a loved one? The flitter-flutter sensation when the other flashes a smile? The excitement, the thrill? (But then, with rampant break-ups, who said a romance-based bond is the right formula after all.)

 

So here’s a marriage that perhaps the government did not facilitate as much as tradition, culture and religion probably did. Yes, there will be some exchanges of financial values, with the dowry aspect and the 5-day-long marriage rites and celebration. Stretch that a bit and it’s almost similar to the Korean men and JP Morgan putting in their investments in the process of getting their “partners” to “bed.”

 

Apparently, marriages come in different permutations.

 

So what does this mean to me as a journalist? Offhand, just the reality that I bring my own standards and biases in the stories I do, and perhaps even those that I read about. But, I have to admit, the discipline of getting the sides of all those concerned in an issue (to balance the story) has tamed those beasts. Count in maturity, too. For example, I still don’t like politicians, but past experiences (and stories written) showed there are a few who mean well and work with the system, not just against it.

 

But that’s me. Unlike the Koreans, JP Morgan, and my Indian friend, I have no tax-payers, activists, in-laws to contend with.

 

Well, not yet.

It was fun looking at my foreigner friend, who visited Manila lately, get uneasy about the sight of a fried milk fish during a dinner in a restaurant at the Greenbelt Mall. He twitched, grimaced, and looked at me as if waiting for a clue if he should call to berate the restaurant manager or grab my hand and dash out the door.

 

But he just asked, “Is that the head?” while staring at the medium-sized fish served with my favorite garlic soy sauce on the side. “Why did they serve it with the head?”

 

For a while, I wondered if a punchline was coming soon, so I just sat there staring back at him. Then silence. Just his questioning look. I ran a few guesses in my head. This bloke has never seen a complete fish served during a meal? He was uneasy with the fish’s eyes seemingly aiming right at him? He was just trying to bluff me into thinking they served us the wrong dish?

 

“What’s wrong,” I politely asked. I was surprised by his answer: “It’s not nice to serve the fish with the head and the tail.” Huh, which planet did this guy come from?

 

I chided him that all fishes, as most water-based species do, come in similar packages: with a head, body and tail. I teased him further and said the brain is the best and most delicious part of the fish head, as I started to peel the cheeks to search for the soft cushy brain mass. He glared at me like he’s regretting that he chose to be in the company of a barbarian in his first night in a third-world Southeast Asian country.

 

I learned later on from my brother that this specie of a man come from a side of the world where the fish heads and tails are deliberately cut off since those parts are supposedly where some mercury can lurk and get deposited the most. My kuya (a chemical engineer and professor) explained that mercury could be present in some water surfaces because when industrial plants burn coal and emit mercury to the air, they eventually settle down somewhere. And mothers don’t want to feed their kids with fish that swam on those contaminated waters because high levels of mercury in their blood may cause developmental disorders.

 

So to these guys, mercury is not just a planet but some toxic chemical that could end up in their dinner table. By the way, they don’t like the internal organs, the belly and other areas where fat is stored, too. Oh gosh, they’re missing all the fun parts!

 

Which makes me wonder: Have I been killing some of my brain cells because, surely, there are coal-(and consequently, mercury)-emitting plants in this part of the world too. I even spent four years of my teen life in the vicinity of a cement plant up north of Luzon because my father worked there.

 

I check my extremities—fingers, feet, etc—look pretty normal….ah except perhaps for the part of my brain that controls the parts of my body that don’t make me eternally sexy. Mwahaha. (I heard your "wish again," Jack!)

 

But then I pause. There must be something that makes this charming encounter with cultural and expectation differences beyond mere anatomy checks and stuff for jokes.

 

Some recent stories came to mind. One was the brouhaha in mid-2007 over the allegations that the Indian operations of Pepsi and Coca Cola are exposed to pesticides, which eventually make these giant brands channels to putting the second biggest population in the world on a killing-me-softly spree. Or something like that.

 

Essentially, it was because pesticide residues from the parched communities in India find their way into the groundwater from which Pepsi and Coca Cola source their main raw material: water. Protesters smashed bottles on the streets and some states even went to the extent of banning soft drinks sales. Pepsi was particularly a favorite during the height of these reports, since an Indian CEO was at its helm, Indra K. Nooyi, who’s been a favorite icon of business magazines lately. To them she represents a married woman who can have it all, and how her own persona can change her brand’s image and hopefully transform a now laggard brand around.

 

At this point, I’m torn between talking about women executives and how the India experience is just another statistic on how social and environmental activists bring a social issue to light by picking on the big and global brands.

 

Hmmmm…. Ok, I pick the latter. I’m started off with fish heads and mercury anyway.

 

So, Pepsi is the new Nike. The latter was how anti child-labor and bad-working-conditions-in-the-developing-world groups made their case heard some ten years ago. Of course, that formula (target the global brands to get the message across) has since been replicated in various industries, from garments (Gap) to retail (Wal-Mart) to jewelry (i.e. “Blood Diamond” the movie), to finance (banks financing industries that harm environment, etc), to mining companies, etcetera, etcetera.

 

So 2007 just happened to lack an icon that year, so Pepsi was it? After all, weren’t water issues becoming the trend last year? Um, it did compete with Al Gore’s global warming. But what the heck. The more the merrier. After all, it did make good copy. The most prominent voice amidst all these was a winner of the 2005 Water Prize award in Stockholm, the same home of the world famous Nobel Peace Award. Beat that! As a business journalist, I'd be dying to write a winning story as juicy as that.

 

Fish heads and me. We weren’t so different after all.

I would like to claim I was in the same room with him, or walked the same red carpet as he did. But of course, that would be no less than a dream. Reality is, I was included by Toby Webb, founding editor of Ethical Corporation, in their 15 Best of the Best list of Ethical Persons of 2007 in their December 2007 magazine issue.

 

The news made it to email groups, mostly of Filipinos, all over the world. That same day it was posted in Ethical Corp’s website, I was receiving overseas calls and emails from people I haven’t talked to for a long time and those I don’t or hardly know. There were side comments on how much I paid to be nominated, or if I slept my way through the final list. Of course they jest. Newsbreak did a shortie on it (thanks, Carmela!), which also found its way in the website of GMA News.

 

Ok, let me confess. I was thrilled. Nah, I was ecstatic! My UK prof wrote me and was willingly handing over to me the “rock star” title I previously gave him.

 

When the dust has settled and the congratulations have waned, I realize that being part of that list is not only recognition of what I have done in the past months, it’s also a tall order to follow it through. One of our editors in Newsbreak told me in passing that now I have to live up to the word, ethical. Uh-oh, I just missed my deadline…

 

To come up with a list is easy. We do that all the time as journalists, especially for the year-enders. From “Top 10 major issues of the year” to “Five best dressed politician” to “15 Most influential businesspersons,” we use it to name and shame, sometimes to inspire, sometimes to challenge. These are efforts to help readers put 365 days in a nutshell, so they don’t forget when they move on and live the next 365.

 

I don’t know what’s in store for MY next 365 days. One thing I know is that I want to make it more meaningful than the previous ones. Cheers to the New Year!

It was an interview that lasted for more than four hours—10am to 2:15pm, to be exact. Not that my colleague and I was so fascinated with the controversial businessman we were interviewing that we didn’t notice the time. It’s just that he’s been slippery in the past and generally avoided the media so it was a chance to ask a long list of questions.

I am writing about the experience not to play the guessing game on who he is, but more to share (and document) one of my journalism career’s bizarre moments.

We met in a posh hotel business room, obviously a neutral ground. On one side are my colleague and I, both of us working on a special tell-all project. On the other is the controversial businessman with three companions: a tall been-there-done-that former military general with a big voice that must have been honed from screaming orders in his past career; a talkative lawyer with previous experience of dealing with veteran press people with their ethically questionable practices; and a timid but firm lady lawyer who would speak only when asked.

The first hour was spent with the former general and the talkative lawyer basically taking over. The reason for their presence was obvious: to intimidate us. They questioned our objectivity on our previous articles on the issue that concerned them. They (implicitly) bullied us for siding with the parties hostile to them. They took turns pointing out the damage our previous articles have caused their company and the businessman’s family. It was even mentioned that they have a copy of my resume so they knew I understand numbers. Should I be impressed that they took time to research about me? Or should I be scared that they actually checked my background?

The initial shock and awe approach had an effect. It felt like I had on an orange overall with a prison number on it, being grilled by police and intelligence inspectors who wanted to break my will so I would confess, “Yes, I’m guilty!” And their decibels were getting louder as my colleague and I kept our silence. Actually, we were just letting them vent.

Until perhaps my colleague couldn’t take it anymore, and decided to address the businessman himself, pointing out that we did try to get an appointment with him months ago, through a go-between, even before our first batch of stories came out. But the message we got was he’s shying away from the media. The point was, we did try to reach out to him. We gave him a chance to comment and refute allegations against him and his company. Plus we knew of their court filings against the other parties, so even when we were brushed away, we were going extra miles to get the big picture.

But with his two companions not yet ready to let go, we went around in circles for a few more minutes, before finally resolving to get down to the issues. Whew.

It’s not my first time to face parties who have been scorned by stories I have written in the past. In my six years of writing for a publication deemed to be independent and a truth-seeker, I have learned the wisdom of talking to all stakeholders in an issue, no matter how ghastly the other parties are. They should never be able to claim that I did not try my darnest best to get their side before my story was published.

This was particularly etched in my mind about three or four years ago. I met up with a politically well-connected businesswoman and her husband with an i-am-so-ready-to-beat-you stance, in a coffee shop to discuss a story where I mentioned them. They were pissed. As far as they are concerned, they did nothing wrong. They were just latching on a business opportunity which they did not think violate any law. While the deals were not unlawful—with a hint of everyone-is-doing-it explanation—it was unethical, which was the point of the story. So I just sat there and listened to them rant. I noted their sentiments, then I also shared how journalists like me do our job (we research, we get documents, we interview, the works; the underlying message of course is we don’t accept any form of bribe).

I guess these experiences come with the job. A friend said I should look at it from a power-play perspective. Meaning, here I am, a penniless journalist, with the power to give headaches to the rich and the powerful. But I’d rather not subscribe to that. I’d leave that to the politicians and the people that kiss ass. It’s not my aspiration to seek dominance. That’s tiring, not to mention, lonely.

I’d rather look at these as spices of life in general. It’s partly frightening, partly exciting. The kind that differentiates what I do now with what I used to do. The kind that I could look back to and still be thrilled, even when I'm not writing stories anymore. 

What a night. After attending a great wedding yesterday, I was driving home my friend at almost midnight when a taxi from the right lane swerved in front of me to make a left turn. As I instinctively pressed the brakes, I noticed from my left side that a motorcycle driver was speeding on the left lane and would most likely hit the swerving taxi. I held my breath as I feared for a collision.

The motorcycle driver manoeuvred and missed the taxi’s front bumper by an inch. But that effort outbalanced him. Metal screeched as his motorcycle hit the concrete-- on the opposite lane. People in the area gasped as an approaching car hit the brakes so hard as to not run over the motorcycle driver already slumped on the ground.

The motorcycle driver turned out to be a delivery man dispatched to bring pizza orders to clients in their homes. He stood up, visibly shaken, turning left and right while looking for some missing items like his helmet. He was limping as he tried to make it to the pizza store just a stone’s throw away.

On the other hand, the taxi driver, frowning for whatever reason, returned to his cab. Then he started his engine, and out of the blue, he sped away! The security guards of the nearby stores tried to catch up with him, banging on his taxi. While the taxi driver could have easily left the scene since the guards were on foot anyway, what he did not anticipate is the presence of a police patrol car in the vicinity of the accident and who caught up with him right there and then.

And there we were, my friend and I, at the front seat of a seemingly movie drama show, unravelling right before our very eyes. The policemen aimed their gun on the taxi driver, made him come out of the car, commanded him to lie on the ground, then handcuffed him.

It was over in less than 10 minutes.

As we continued our drive, my friend and I analyzed the scene over and over again. Who’s fault is it? Why was the motorcycle driver on the left lane, when two-wheel drivers should be taking the rightmost lane? How bad could the injury of the motorcycle driver be? But what we couldn’t get over is the nerve of the taxi driver to actually think he could just leave the accident scene, despite the number of witnesses, and perhaps continue to consider this as just another evening at work.

Ah, we thought we know why. This is a country where those in the high positions in government and the wealthiest of businessmen don’t pay for their sins even if they were already caught in the act. In other countries, they hang their leaders who were proven to have benefited from illegal acts. In Korea and the US, white collar crimes are not spared. They put erring corporate executives to jail. No one goes scott-free. But that is not the case here. We flipped-flop on the death penalty law because the influential Catholic church said it is not the Christian thing to do. The Marcos cronies are coming back from obscurity and assuming plum posts in business and political circles (See my award-winning articles on the Romualdez family). Estrada, the second president besides Marcos who was booted out of power through peaceful but extra-judicial means of People Power, is set to be acquitted from corruption charges anytime soon. Many white elephant projects remain as testaments of bribery and corruption, but the proponents evaded the law. “Memories are short,” explains one of my sources before. Indeed, we easily forget wrongdoings as time passed by. As far as my memory serves, there were even no efforts to ask and give forgiveness.

So as we mull why the cab driver think leaving the accident site is an option, we thought perhaps because our system has made him believe that if the big guys could do it, so could he.

But with a gun on his head, perhaps he has easily realized that it’s an unfair world after all.

I was on my way back to my hotel room in Kiev when a Ukrainian guy, rushing to make it to the same elevator which I just entered, dashed in. He chatted with me at once but was speaking in a foreign language so the best I could do was nod when he asked me if I am Filipina, and smile when he seemed to be referring to my speech in a Corporate Social Responsibility forum organized by the UN in Ukraine and attended by media representatives from Eastern Europe and former USSR states.

When the elevator door opened on my floor, I stepped out and, surprisingly, so did he. I waved him goodbye after I realized it’s futile to communicate productively if we were both speaking in tongues. All that I understood was that he was one of the interpreters during the forum (there were three types – Russian, Ukrainian, and English) where he translated Ukrainian speeches to Russian. Then he took the elevator back to the ground floor, which all the more made me wonder if that was a chance encounter or there was more to it.

Nevertheless, I was too preoccupied with my aching feet (from exploring the city) and I just wanted to enjoy the ice cream which I just bought and the local acquaintances recommended I should try. It was about half past 7pm, but the sun was still bright and would not set until two more hours later. It’s spring time in that part of the world.

Then came the knock on my door. Weird, I thought. I did not order room service, did not call a hotel maid, have no outstanding business with the forum organizers, don’t know anyone in the city (the only Asian I saw was the Thai masseuse at the hotel). Anyone who needed anything from me called me on my room phone. I’ve heard enough horror stories about hotel crimes, so I decided I would not open the door. Lo and behold, the Russian-speaking guy in the elevator opened the door himself!

He went straight to where I was, sat on my bed, and began blabbering something and tinkering with something in his bag, oblivious to my shock and frozen state. No, he did not bring out a gun – thankfully - but a brief on the forum with my picture and professional description on it. He started speaking Russian again (or was that Ukrainian?) and I just snapped out of my shock to try to tell him I really could not understand him. He then said something like getting a translator on the phone to bridge between us. On his mobile phone, an English-speaking guy with a thick accent (lots of krrrr’s and schkrytzzz’s) told me that the guy in my room and he are local journalists and would want to make some alliance or friendships of sort with me.

I calmed down a bit there. So they just want to make friends. Whew!

It’s my first time in an Eastern European country. I have heard and read a lot about them, met some Slovenians when I was in school in the UK, corresponded with a Slovakian in the past, heard first hand accounts about their tourism and economic potentials from my European friends, and watched and read about how Western Europe and the US are trying to accommodate them, if not prioritize them over other labor exporters, like the Philippines. I almost did not make it to Kiev for the UN forum because of the flight arrangements, but I decided belatedly that I did not want to pass up the opportunity to feed my curiosity.

The other speakers and guests in the forum who are from Western Europe are first timers in Kiev like me. One even remarked, “They (the Ukrainians) look Europeans too.” Duh? I guess if my part of the world where Indians and Chinese and Malays all call themselves Asians despite the obvious difference in chinky-ness and color of skin, I learned first hand from this trip that they too have lots to learn and myths to dispel about their own neighbors. So there I was, an Asian, trying to absorb as much as I can in only a few days how and who these Ukrainians are.

Well, on Day One, I already wanted to leave Kiev and rush back for a flight home. Just to make the story short, I landed in Kiev at 11am (about 4pm Manila time) but had my first meal of the day at 5pm (that’s about 10pm Manila time). All the while I thought starvation as way to welcome a guest was a universal no-no. How wrong I was. Back home, on days that I have tons of work, eating would usually be relegated as last priority. But never deliberately or as a consequence of lack of planning efficiency. And never after a 25-hour flight. Anyhow, a hefty serving of cooked rabbit(!) afterwards cured my foul mood.

Kiev is a beautiful city, with a number of 1,500-year old Orthodox churches, cobblestone streets, and surprisingly lots of greeneries – and I don’t mean just in the parks. An acquaintance from the forum offered to bring me to the St. Laura (Lavra, in Ukrainian), where I particularly enjoyed a gold  museum. Apparently, the gold collection and jewelry-making skill from pre-civilization era would eventually be applied during the ostentatious centuries of the Christian churches. I have never seen chalices, priest vests, Bible covers (it was for display only at that time, not to be read by common people), even the verse pointers (they believed the Bible was too holy to be touched by human hand), and other bling-bling materials during church ceremonies were so intricately and ostentatiously designed. These must have fed the shock and awe strategy of the church then.

 

And the people, especially the women, seem to always look set to party. There were lots of skin showing, in terms of plunging necklines, and are in figure-hugging dresses or tops. Most, if not all, are well made up, even if they were just strolling along Kryschatik, the main commercial street from the Independence Square where people gathered in 2004 during the Orange Revolution, when they ousted their Russian-backed leader.

But Kiev is not all of Ukraine, nor is it in the same league as the other Eastern European countries nearer to the far more progressive Western Europe. There is still a lot of maturing to do, in terms of politics and business practices, as I learned during a session I facilitated on the Role of Media in CSR. Despite their separation from the USSR in the 90’s, their socialist background has left them a baggage they are still struggling with. There are still companies, some of them considerably prominent, which don’t pay salary levels as mandated by law, yet get away with it because owners are chums with the powers that be. People are generally apathetic because they know that the rich accumulated their wealth during the post-USSR privatization phase where the influential grabbed as much as they could. In other words did not earn their wealth through hard work. And these manifested in how they deal with people-- like me. When they say this is the only available flight, even if I checked the internet and saw there are better choices, that’s it. No suggestion or question entertained. When they say there is only one meeting, instead of the originally discussed two meetings, that’s it. There is little effort to be flexible or to go out of way to make things more workable.

But the progressive thinkers know this could not go on forever. Companies trying to attract foreign investments are learning that they must have CSR programs way beyond the usual sponsorships of street concerts, opera shows, or some sort of artsy affairs. Kevin, the speaker from BBC, aptly said it during the last Q&A session that “You cannot ignore these global trends. The only choice you have is to do it fast or do it slow.”

Otherwise, as my new hotel room-intruder-turned-friend and his English speaking colleague told me when I met them up at the hotel lobby a few hours before my return flight: “We are ready for another revolution.”

The English speaking journalist, who, by the way, is also a cabinet member, said he was tortured for writing about a journalist murdered over some expose published years back. He and a nationwide group of journalists and “other concerned” citizens are tired or keeping on exposing corruption and bribery practices, as these do not result to any investigation or public outcry. The only way they know is to get catalysts or outsiders to help them stir change. We exchanged contact details and promised to keep in touch.

I’m just glad to be back home.

This is long overdue. So here goes.
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Instructions: Each player starts with 7 random habits/facts about themselves. People who are tagged need to write on their own blog about their seven things, as well as these rules. At the end of your blog, you need to choose 7 people to get tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them that they have been tagged and to read your blog!

1. I work most productively when I’m alone and in a place that’s quiet. I even once asked a neighbour to hush her dog because every arf-arf was distracting my thought process.
2. My sister sometimes says, “maganda ka sana pero bingi ka naman” (You could be more beautiful if you’re not deaf). Partially true. The second part, that is. The culprit: earphones blaring loud music from my walkman when I was burning the midnight oil studying. So whenever I see kids doing the same these days, what with their iPods and all, I’d go, tsk… tsk…
3. But just in case I do get deaf one of these days, I already quite know how to sign language. I was forced to learn because whenever my deaf-mute cousin’s interpreter during Sunday church services is not around, I have to do the sign language for her.
4. My siblings are way more intelligent than I am. So to differentiate myself, I got smart. Actually, I just learned along the way the rewards that come with standing out. Take what happened in grade school. I realized that to extend the time I can spend with my crush (who was super cute!) after classes end in March, I should be a consistent honor student like him. Honor students practice everyday for the ceremony–so that meant two EXTRA weeks of being around him. Yee-ha! Then in undergrad, I studied in a convent school for girls where I was surrounded by ladies so fabulously beautiful and rich. I was neither. So early on, I decided that to make a mark, I positioned myself as the bright one.
5. I partied hard during my last two years in college because our dorm directress said we can only go back to the dorm either 9pm (her sleeping time) or 3am (waking time). Now I find loud places boring and (sometimes) irrelevant. Somehow, I just could not appreciate why I have to roar to get noticed. Thank God for coffee shops with jazz music.
6. I sleep late most of the time because I wait for local papers to upload their on-line stories. That saves me hours in the morning catching up with what’s going on. But for international magazines, I prefer to hold them in my hand and relish the dramatic pictures, fantastic lay-outs, and the well-chosen blurbs. My weekly schedule includes “dates” with these pieces of artwork.
7. I totally agree with Forrest Gump. Life, indeed, is like a box of chocolates. Mine is a classic. I studied industrial psychology in undergrad. I became a banker after that. I took my post-grad to learn how to be a better banker. I ended up being a journalist. I have an ideal family. My parents are still crazy about each other. My siblings and cousins are a tight bunch. But I remain unattached. For one whose main "love languages" include touch, I somehow never learned the lesson about long distance relationships.
   

I tag Dave, Aecie, Claudine, Anton, Illac, John, Norman, and Puspa.

   

My Lakbayan grade is B!

How much of the Philippines have you visited? Find out at Lakbayan!

Created by Eugene Villar.

When I ran across a magazine article entitled, “A Big Windows Cleanup In Asia,” I was expecting to read something funny. I reckoned it might have something to do with elaborate efforts to scrub off dirt from the windowpanes in pollution- and smog-filled Asian cities. But who am I kidding? I was browsing a May issue of Businessweek Magazine where the stories have more to do with what influence the financial markets rather than whether the movers and shakers have clear views from their swanky corner offices or not.

Anyway, I figured this as soon as I read the lead. It was about a PC buyer who was extolling the benefits of getting a genuine software. Ho-hum. But as I read on, I realized why the writer, Jay Greene, decided to highlight the PC buyer’s sentiment right on. He was talking about China, the home of counterfeits.

Greene says that about three years ago, 92 percent of softwares sold are counterfeits or knocked off copies of Microsoft. Ninety two percent!! In a country that has 1.3 billion population, that’s a whole lot of pirated copies out there. But that was 3 years ago. Fast forward to 2007, that number has slid to 82 percent. What more, Greene wrote that “Beijing now requires all government offices to use legit software. And China's state-owned TV networks run ads extolling the importance of intellectual-property rights.”

Interesting. What miracles did Microsoft do? Being an (almost) jaded journalist who has written extensively about the corporate baddies in the Philippines, I was waiting to know more about corruption, lobbying, and all kinds and colors of corporate arm-twitching tactics.

Instead, the article credits Microsoft’s corporate social responsibility (CSR) efforts.

I’m no stranger to CSR since I studied this in the UK last year (check out the Chevening Fellows’ video) and has since written about it for Newsbreak and trained local media practitioners how to cover CSR issues. For international publications, I have also contributed articles for Ethical Corporation and has co-authored a part of the 2006 World Review of Corporate Citizenship. Simply put, CSR efforts of companies should go beyond writing-a-check for charities during the Christmas season, but should be part of the company’s business strategy to make sense and to be sustainable.

Big words. But what Microsoft did in China and how it eventually paid off should be instructive.

The Businessweek article notes that “Microsoft has poured more than US$1 billion into research and development in China and building partnerships with universities there.”

That reminded me of a book I read last year. Entitled, “Guanxi,” it gave details of how Bill Gates and his Microsoft gang has patiently and brilliantly conquered the hearts and minds (literally) of the Chinese.

Microsoft was one of the brave early comers in China. It was one of the, or the, first to build a major and designed-to-impress R&D facility where Chinese geeks interacted with the technology biggies in the world who happened to be Microsoft recruits. There must have been a lot of Wow feelings there and I’m sure the word got around. And of course, Microsoft was active in giving support (mostly through PC and other soft technology donations/grants) to universities and to government offices. Sounds familiar?

This was way back in the early 90’s, when China was still struggling with its economy and was not yet the big investment destination that it is now. In other words, as China grew in world prominence, so had Microsoft’s influence in China.

It was the kind of I’ll-be-there-for-you relationship. The sticky kind. The kind that is built through years of nurturing and tested by cultural adversities and perhaps even natural calamities. The kind that lasts.

How I wish men would learn from Microsoft.

I’m digressing, I know. Hmmm… but I write about and analyze CSR for work; I write my personal thoughts here.

Ladies like me don’t dream to be with someone who is perfect. But we would admire someone who tries to learn from us and know when to compromise. In the Guanxi book, there was a funny account about how Bill Gates, used to his legendary jeans-and-shirt plus geek-like hairdo, had to learn to adjust to the formal attires of the Chinese bureaucrats, to be able to get a second meeting with them. Bill tried and compromised. The suit did not make him a lesser man; it just made him more respectable to the other party.

For all of Microsoft’s faults, I find solace in its patience and determination. I could say that perhaps the R&D facility and its donations are well-designed business strategies that are meant to really pay off big time in the future. Perhaps its goal is to eliminate piracy 100 percent in a determinable number of years.

But it takes patience, a good dose of persistence, relentless determination, and a hearty commitment to pursue that goal. And keep it.

I know there are some men who embody that, but most men don’t. They like the chase and the adrenalin rush that, as a male friend said, “keeps him young.” How boring.

If Microsoft is a man, I just might marry him. 

Getting behind the wheels should be no big deal for a veteran car driver like me. Only the brave and fearless could ply the crazy and free-for-all streets of Metro Manila and I have done that almost everyday for the past 13 years.

The first time I drove in another country – Switzerland – the only kick I had was how the cars literally zoomed away. I was driving my friend’s friend’s teeny-weeny Mr. Bean-sized car on a superhighway and the speedometer showed a 225 miles-per-hour pace. Yet, my companion said I should floor it because I was in the fast lane. Otherwise, he said I should change to the slow lane. What slow lane? 225 mph speed is slow? That's about 360 kph! I was used to the 20+ kph average speed in Edsa and even in North Expressway, I rarely go more than 100 kph. But then, I was in a different country. And that was one year ago.

A few days ago, I was driving again in a different country. I was in Australia, and I had to drive a rented car to be able to move around. This time, neither my Manila driving skills nor the speed craziness prepared me for what was in store.

I had to drive on the other side of the road. Drivers in Australia stay on the left lane and drive from the right side of the car. For me, that’s the wrong side of the road and the wrong side of the car. Everything was confusing. When I want to turn the lights on, the wipers start working. When I’m about to hit a one-way road, I have to turn left, not right. When we’re near a tollgate, I had to remind myself that the booth is on the right because I tend to open the left window.

The first time I had the chance to do some touristy stuff in Brisbane, the highlight was not the city sights nor the tourist attractions; it was the fact that I went driving on my own. All throughout the drive, back and forth, I kept reminding myself, in almost chant-like fashion: “Keep left. Keep left.”

Driving on the other side of the road has been the ultimate reality check to me that I am not home. It far outweighs the other facets of being in a foreign land, like extreme temperature drops during winter (I’m from a tropical country!), super efficient and down-to-the-last-second arrival timing of trains, trams, and buses, and the obvious difference in the locales’ accents, forms of expressions, colors, shapes and sizes.

I had few opportunities to drive again after my Brisbane city experience. My companion drove most of the time. I was told it would take us forever to reach our destination if I stay behind the wheels since I was too cautious (read: slow, nervous). But by then, I have started to conquer one of my greatest fears: to change, to come out of my comfort zone.

I was telling my companion that I would be able to master driving the roads of Australia. “Just give me time,” I said confidently. All I needed was more practice and to re-wire myself to stay on the left side of the road. Heck, send me to other countries where the lane assignment is different from that of Manila’s and I’ll be the Queen of the Left Lane in no time at all.

After all, isn’t any change difficult at first? Once the adjustment phase is over, things should be generally smoother. All Filipino OFWs I have talked to insist so. And they’re not just talking of driving.

I returned to Manila dawn of the day right after the mid-term elections and immediately turned on the TV to catch up on what I missed. The opposition candidates for the senate were dominating the 12 slots, and those from the administration immediately alleged media groups were brainwashing viewers about the fate of their contenders. Since then, cheating stories and allegations of fixing the results have dominated the news. It’s sickening, utterly revolting.

I know my role as a member of the press is to help document these, but I am finding myself forced to watch and read and hear anything about politics right now. Sometimes, I have to remind myself in almost chant-like fashion, “You have to. You have to. You have to.” It’s no fun at all.

Yesterday, I was coming out of a carpark from a building in the Fort Bonifacio area where I had an interview. The street where I exited has been newly opened and there were barely other cars in the area. A few meters after, I realized I had been driving on the left lane. I snapped out of whatever state I was and immediately changed lane.

Perhaps, unconsciously, I was craving for all the things the left lane represents.