A Man’s World

I’ve been covering events in the office for quite a while and I’ve known the drills and the protocols. I really don’t mind being hit on the head by huge cameras or shoved with the elbow just because everyone needed a good spot. It’s understandable.

But as I look around amongst these geared people, I noticed that there were very few women. In fact, there were just the two of us. How come?!

My motto has always been: Only the strong survives. I will never get a good picture, if I don’t hustle up and “be a man”. Being jostled has been and will always be part of the action in covering events. Sometimes you’ll get a bruise, that’s okay. Sometimes you get into a fight with a big bully who wanted all the spaces that his fat ass could accommodate, still that’s okay. I don’t usually fight back. I am too timid for that.

One thing I learned though is that you really need to be a thick-faced person to get good shots. A colleague would often advise me, “Being shameless will get you far! Be considerate and you’ll get nothing but a sea of heads occupying a major space on your frame!”

Drinks, Tips and Leaves

No, it’s tea!

If you were to ask those that new me what things would mean the most to me I’d be surprised if there was a person who had met me who did not mention tea.  It has come to define much of my character, introduced to me fundamentally by my maternal grandmother, a formidable Irish matriarch (there are a few in my family!) I have it usually in the style favoured by us Paddys.  Strong enough to tar the road or to stand the spoon up in the cup.  I have pint mugs for my brew.  At home (several), at work and at the houses of two friends where I am on occasion to be found.

This however is green tea and quite a posh one for me.  I decided that drinking black tea too late was perhaps not helping my interfered sleep (you may think this might be obvious but I’ve drunk tea all day for 30 years and rarely have I had long-lasting sleep deprivation, so I am doing this purely for precautionary measures).  I put a spoonful of leaves in and infused it.  What I got was a forest in a cup! I was not quite sure what to do with it all it filled the whole cup even when I had drained the liquid.

So I ate it.

Turns out I like that part of tea as well.

The right words always seemed to come late

There’s this book which I have carried for a week out of a need to finish it badly. In between lunches or dinners, I would read a chapter or two and then another before I sleep. I always chase my own time and I haven’t been effective for a long time. So finally, I got to the last chapter. I was in a plane bound for India. And I looked at my window and found this amazing scene of the sunset. I had to stop and savor the moment. My hand instinctively searched for my camera and clicked the shutter.

Did you ever feel an overflowing of emotion that goes beyond words? And as you overflow, you looked around wishing that maybe, just maybe someone was looking at the same scene and you wanted to share that intimate moment. I glanced at the person beside me. A stranger who was languidly sleeping, his head was about to touch my shoulder. I returned to the scene in my window and the sunset was gone. What remained was a sea of fluffy clouds bathed in gold light.

I returned to the last few pages of the book and on page 342, my eyes caught these lines.

“Sorrow surged then, silently, like water inside him. A formless, transparent sorrow. A sorrow he could touch, yet something that was also far away, out of reach. Pain struck him, as if gouging out his chest, and he could barely breathe.”

Night Of Burns And Haggis

 

Last night was Burns Night, a famous tradition in Scotland and celebrated by Scots (and other Celts!) across the globe.  My Scottish friend and I had wi’sel yon beastie here and did sup grandly wi needs and tatties.

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
‘Bethankit’ hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis

– Robert Burns

Here is some information about the noble haggis!

Misty Caress

 

Sometimes even in the midst of what may be a dark hour, a clip of nature throws a gentle lilt to show that life does go on, it isn’t always drudge, it isn’t always about the long drawn out events.

“A poor life this if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare”

Orange Picking

Last month, our group hopped into a road trip to the northern part of the country to attend a wedding of a dear friend. After the wedding, we went further up into the Mountain Province to explore some sights. We went through a 10 hour trip to a place called Sagada, a tourist spot known for its nice places and rich culture and traditions. It’s been my second time in Sagada but it was my first experience to go on “orange picking” at the Rock Farm.

You see, orange trees are not very common in the Philippines and the idea of being in the middle of whole plantation of it with its ripe, juicy fruits hanging from these verdant trees was enough to get us all excited. It’s silly but it felt like I was in a movie, minus the glamour, of course. So off we went to the orchard with a plastic bag in one hand and a pair of snips in the other.

The farm collects 50 pesos ($1) as entrance fee and after that, it’s pick and eat all you can! Those that you put inside the bag for take-out have to be paid separately (50 pesos a kilo). When we came into the farm, our group separated to find our own individual tree to hunt for the sweetest citrus balls we could find.

There were various types of oranges inside the orchard (sunkists, hamlins, and ponkans). To be sure that we pick the sweetest fruits, we were advised to sample one from one tree and stick with it. But I was too excited to care. I immediately went to my tree to pick and eat. When I got tired of stuffing myself with orange, I climbed and picked for my take-out. After our group finished picking, we gathered together and compared our harvests. I got the worst batch of oranges. I got most of the ugliest oranges, the wrinkled and the half-colored ones. I also have the most irregular sizes of oranges. Oh well, I guess too much excitement got the better of me. Anyway, I went there for the experience. I can always buy the sweetest orange from the supermarket. :-p

Utter Privilege And Unnecessary Indulgences

Sometimes it is easy to forget just how ridiculously privileged some of us are.  To tuck into a hearty brunch with more nutrients than a body requires and more calories than it can reasonably burn off is a luxury the majority of the world sadly do not have.  It is not the question that on a Monday such a feast costs a mere £2.75 ($4.17), though to people living on $1/day or such like I’m sure this will seem like profligacy in the extreme, it is the very fact that we may casually walk down to the café to obtain it at our will, or choose something else.

Imperfect

I watch her sway to the moves of a familiar sound
A swish of an overused brush coating a coarse, colorless fabric
Willows sighing in the air, a leaf touching the moist ground
Relief, desperation both overwhelming and confining
In his ear she whispers, “I will never be perfect for you.”

Semi-Permanent Marker

Words can so simply fade
but the ones I write to you
may just withstand time