One Summer's Hit

Whew... I finally wrote it.

What makes temper ooze out of one’s nose and splatter up against an unsuspecting face? In summer time, it must be summer’s heat. Or was it an island curse?

April 26, 2006. Home. Giddy. I finally came to write this one.

Few changes have to be made for Holy Week this year. Skip Gallera. Remembrance-of-things-past is an eloquent title for a romantic novel but I could just be bitter with such. Whatever plans would turn out, I have to make sure I would be lounging in the beaches somehow. Two weeks prior to Holy Week, thanks to Ecto the Martian Flashlight, we rediscovered Zambales. It deserves a repeat. This time, I’ll make sure I’ll double the excitement. And things don’t get pretty ordinary when I’m in it.

"Ecto and me... side by siiide." Kanta yan.

So Zambales it was. More precisely on an island geographers call Capones Island, just off the shores of San Narciso in Pundaquit. I’m quite not sure which latitude and longitude it is situated on this part of the globe, but you can ask the natives and they’d never forget the island sands that have gone lucky to have been caressed by the heavenly bodies of Polo Ravales and Andrew Wolff for an episode of Extra Challenge. If only Pinoy Big Brother has those hunks cooking in Kuya’s kitchen, I’d watch the show.

What’s in the island? Nothing. No bars. No loud music. No dingy restaurants. No exuberant cottage rent (there are no cottages to speak of, in the first place). No peddlers. No “Jurassic Park”… oh, well, that’s debatable… No toilet. No fresh water. No nothing. Nothing special with this island but the lack of it all made this vacation special. Call it an escapade worthy of Lonely Planet. But as things turned out, call it a bizarre adventure on the Island of Dr. Moreau.

We left Manila on the eve of Holy Wednesday. I was with Ecto and Ryoichi. We had our seats booked early that morning. The thoughts of having to shove over people – old women and children included – and bludgeoning them to get a ride never affected us. But the unprepared travelers were sweating. They all wear a long face. They’re worried. They’ve all ran out of seats. Nyahahaha… and I just want to wave our tickets up so high and say, “Behlaaaat!”

Bus leaves at 11:05 PM. We arrived at the station thirty minutes earlier. We asked where the bus was parked and we were told it was just about to arrive. So we chatted outside the station where humidity was so high I think we were breathing water. And we chatted, and chatted… that guy is cute… Ecto, that guy in reck-reck shorts is yours… blah, blah, blah… 10:55 PM, I went back to the guard and asked WHEREISTHEBUS! It will be announced, was the reply in rocky tagalog syllabication. So we chatted again… went for C2 Iced Tea… yo, that guy in black sando... nice shoulders… yackity, yackity, yack… and we went for another C2 Iced Tea (I must remind you it’s the height of summer and we were drenched, not that we worried about not getting a ride but we just thought we were these sultry girls from Ipanema).

11:25 PM. As if we don’t care, Ecto and I were copiously drooling over a guy in flip-flops and backpack. No announcement. No bus. Ryo went inside the station to ask WHEREISTHEBUS. Five minutes later Ryo came back to where there was already a pool of drool. Ryo was wearing a long face. He was sweating. He doesn’t appear sultry. I mean, he was sweating real sweat.

Then the statement that sent me back to earth with a loud thud. “The bus already left.”

We’re not in it! Now we’re just like everyone else! We worried. No! We panicked!

I ran to the dispatcher. “When is the next bus!? What do we do with our tickets?! What’s a chance passenger?!” The dispatcher was mumbling answers as he noticeably pretending to busy himself over piles of papers and honking walkie-talkie. He is not answering the walkie-talkie and I don’t think he was answering me either. Then it dawned on me that the dispatcher was originally a grotesque alien from an indifferent universe, on earth he’s just a dispatcher in a revolting interpretation of the human form.

We all ran in different directions. Ryo went for the next available bus. I was torn between strangling a stupid guard and hijacking a bus bound for the south. Ecto went for the guy in flip-flops.

Ten minutes of hyperventilating, I was smoking outside the bus station and was on the verge of accepting the curse of Holy Week – Catholics are not supposed to be happy this time of the year. I was contemplating changing my religion when Ryo came to say that there was a bus leaving for our destination in fifteen minutes and the seats are up for grabs, no reservations necessary.

In the Lenten liturgies, the alleluias are suspended to emphasize the mournful state of the church over the suffering and death of the Christ. As the bus was running up north, alleluia was in the air. I swear.

Olongapo! Olongapo! Alleluia!

Ah, Olongapo… the air here was freer. Our host, Temptress Seamstress (happily single at 42, but can tempt a straight boy with a single hello), was all smiles to welcome us. He was accompanied by Patatim (he’s got the killer legs that can crack coconuts) and Patatim’s amore, Savant (twink, complicated, but quite a fast learner for his age; definitely not an idiot). We made a stop at another friend’s place, Sambo (name resembles nothing). He is engaged to the twin brother of ahm… err… boing… (systems malfunction; reboot). Sambo was extremely nice but his partner was playing the game of I’m-in-my-own-world-and-you’re-not-in-it. He was ignoring me so we cut the courtesies. I was all cranked up to begin my vacation anyway and I was anxious to commune with my ever-loyal friend, confidante, comrade in arms, ever-faithful lover… Red Horse. I will not let Maundy Thursday’s sun shine on a sober head. Back at Seamstress’s place we were joined by Nicka (pa-sweet at 22 when he doesn’t have to, because he is). At 4 AM I was drunk happy. Ryo introduced me to Red Horse’s silent partner, Plasil (spell?). One shut on the arm and a drunkard is ready to cook breakfast.

Patatim in the middle.

For God, Contry, and Red Horse!

Nica, you're such a hound dog!

With Her Majesty, Temptress Seamstress.

Maundy Thursday. On our way to San Narciso, another set of unfortunate events began to unveil: an elusive ice (we need to buy it, but we always drove pass over it), lost in waiting (my group was waiting outside the gates of a friend’s estate-like home, while inside, the rest of the group was feasting on pancit; cellphones were not being answered). Seamstress left his bag of gay things (for a gay guy, that’s everything). Flat tire!

Portents of a landmark event?

Welcome to the Island of Dr. Moreau.

Capones Island is a short boat ride from San Narciso. I hate to describe it. This is not a travelogue. Just think of words used in real estate brochures like respite, sojourn, paradise, sun-drenched pearly white sands… but never the word fine because this place is far from boring (remember, in my blogs, fine is a boring word). Familiar words like Abu Sayaff, Lost, stranded, hunger and thirst also come into mind but the thoughts are quite far from National Lampoon’s horrid vacation (or so I thought). We fear none of those. We had enough self-defense training watching all Charlie’s Angel movie episodes. As for hunger and thirst, Deborah Sun and her cohorts taught us more than enough in Gosiengfiao’s Temptation Island. And since everyone in the group is gay, there is plenty of food for everybody. Before I boarded the boat, I already downed three large bottles of Red Horse. Tipsy and a bit “a crazy” (mocked English courtesy of Ecto’s quips), I road the boat standing in front and yelling as I jump to jerk up the boat every time it shoots against the big waves, all to the consternation of the pilot. I would behave for a while just to do the same once a big wave comes up again.

“Sorry,” in apologetic pretense, “bakla lang po.”

"Bring on the waaaaaves!"

Still tipsy, I lead the group in setting up our enormous tent. Divided into two rooms, it fits eight with an awning for early morning and late afternoon lounging. With that complication of a tent, putting it up without a manual was a feat. At around 9 PM, I was drunk again. Hey, I never intended to buy a case of Red Horse and share them. I’m no longer into open-relationships. As a demonstration of my non-negotiable resolve to have fun, I swam naked in the middle of everyone (and now I’m letting everyone know so it appears that I swam naked just about to everybody) and some ten steps away from a group of cliques of straight guys and their girl dates. Well, I don’t live here so I don’t care. Besides, who does?

Savant challenged me to get out of the water while still naked. Before Ryo could put me back into my wits with another shot of Plasil, I unabashedly obliged Savant but I disappointed him by clowning around with my cocker spaniel tacked between my legs pulled quite painfully all the way to the back the way Rupaul would describe as an old-Chinese-secret. The pain proved one thing. I’m not Chinese.

The next morning, Good Friday, we all woke up to the sounds of SMS alerts. As if three hours of sleep is enough, we all jumped up to check on our messages. Everyone’s reaction was one for a good anthropological study: how man, in a desolate place, would interrupt a major biological need such as sleep in order to feed on information, no matter how short, coming from the civilized world; but would not do the same for breakfast.

Some of us were smiling. Some were disappointed for receiving forwarded messages, like finding a shiny bicycle instead of a rug doll from Dad and Mom one Christmas morning. As for me I was wearing a blank face. No, I was not reading a Bible quote. There was no cellphone inside the case that was left inside the water-resistant Ziploc that was left inside the bag. I was robbed! And the thief had the luxury to leave what he doesn’t need… inside my bag! It’s not that it was my first time to be robbed of something so dear to me. This is nothing. The last time I was robbed of someone dear to me, I was watching the thief in action. The way the rest of my things were left in place shows the thief was one of us. Wow, another correlation. In the previous robbery, the thief was also a friend.

One suggested searching everyone. I was a little passive about the suggestion. I may find out who stole my phone, gain the phone back, but lost a friend in return. I’m not trying to be benevolent about the situation. I’m not a hypocrite, that’s for sure. Hey, it’s a less-than-two-months old top-of-the-line Motorola, for crying out loud! But I find this vacation even more valuable than that cellphone. To discover a thief among my peers would be the ultimate blow to ruin a supposedly good vacation. Honestly, I can’t bear to confront the culprit. One can only expect to hear lies.

Liers. Thieves. In Filipino proverbs the two are said to be brothers. On the contrary, in my own knowledge, mag-joa sila.

A vacation is said to be a flight from reality. I’d buy that. I would like to believe, therefore, that the island is alive. That it gobbled up my cellphone. And Ryo’s slippers. And Patatim’s jar of bagoong. And Nicka’s two bottles of Emperador.

Island or not, I got even. While swimming behind the rocks, half submerged, I crapped. I spare you the lurid descriptions but it suffices to say that warm fresh crap floating in the waters is garishly unsightly. Even the fishes were afraid to touch it. Nyahahahaha… I am not going to apologize.

Back in the tent Nicka came to me with a freshly opened Frenzy wrapper (kid stuff) and EZ sachet (hmmm, a connoisseur) - Exhibit A and B of last night’s moral carnage. Ecto!

Bad Ecto! Bad!

Come afternoon, attitude took over Patatim. It wasn’t the lost jar of bagoong. Blame it solely on matrimonial trivialities. Patatim expected more attention from Savant. Hello! He’s your lover for over a year now. At this stage, attention is a mere pretension, an affectation instead of affection, and Savant is just a bad actor. So in an attempt to grab the, ahm, attention, Patatim wore itsy-bitsy-tiny-whiny loudly colored bikini. He got everybody’s attention, but still not Savant’s. Come late afternoon, we found Patatim flat drunk on his belly under an alcove of boulders. He wouldn’t budge so we let him be. Nicka later came back to find shit smeared all over him as the place he chose to stage his undying love for Savant is used by visitors as a toilet. He still wouldn’t budge. Come eve, while I was grilling slobs of ribs, the rest of the party went to fetch him. It was a dangerous trek going to that place. One needs both hands to hold on to rocks and stuffs for balance, not to mention carefully choosing which rock to step on to. Either one could be too slippery or razor-spiky. Seamstress had to bring a lamp so he has only one hand to spare for holding on to things. They came back empty handed. The Petromax cracked and the gauze was falling off. Black Mambo (he’s dark and always on the look for a prey; he’s strike,

"Dont get mad, Black Mambo, we all survived the Patatim attitude."

venomous) was furious. Nicka has bruises on his legs and its starting to swell. Worse, Patatim was nowhere to be found. We started to pray. Joke.

Just as frustration was starting to loom over the group, Nicka came to tell everyone he found Patatim having a drink with a group of guys close by. Yep, when he came to us, he was drunk alright. I flipped the ribs over.

Savant was still ignoring him. While gathered around Gilbey’s (I am entitled to some extramarital tryst from Red Horse), in a fit of I-don’t-know-what-came-over-him, Patatim grabbed Savant and dragged him on the sands like a swine crying for mercy. In case of a hitting incident, I asked everyone to go over them before I do as I would not respect a relationship that includes a battered twink. Patatim was squeezing Savant’s fingers too tightly that the hapless kid started to call for help. We all ran over to separate them and I have to literally pry Patatim’s fingers off Savant’s. Savant ran towards one corner with Patatim in chase. I was pushing Patatim; warning him that I will not hesitate to hit him if he does something stupid. They talked. I was standing in a distance watching… waiting… somebody might hurt somebody any moment now. Shit, I need more alcohol! Blood rushing up my head diluted Gilbey’s. And I ran out of cigarettes, too. Nicka went to the other group. They were already asleep so he took their remaining bottle of Grand Matador. Watt’a girl! Ecto handed me a stick of Winston. It’s not menthol but I sucked it anyway. I have to, otherwise, I’d suck the next fisherman that’d come by. I gulped Grand Matador like Coke. Jugog! I was a goner.

Before dawn I felt the tent shaking. Like somebody was doing somebody (later that Black Saturday it was confirmed that somebody was doing somebody). The tent fell on our faces. Ecto?!

Getting drunk outside Sibil.

Sibil in Subic on Black Saturday is a different kind of Holy Week irreverence. Flirting was high and it knows no gender or sexual preference. I just got off the car when a big guy called on me with a smiley HEY thrice. I hey-you back and flipped a hair, my nose hair. People were spilling out the doors and it’s not even Malate. Once inside, one has to be ready to breathe more water as humidity was up the tilt. Bodies converge in a manner which crunches molecules into a density of blackhole proportions. Everywhere one looks, an eye would stare back. Best of all, competition was low as Ecto already left for Manila ahead of us. Once tipsy I started to flirt with the nearest male specie. The victim was a straight guy (at least, that’s what my native friends told me) who let me rubbed my back against his chest. Ah-ah, honey, you gotta try it. A straight guy’s chest is far better than any of the gay guy’s chest I have rubbed with in my entire gay life. And there’s just so many and seems willing of them. I looooove Sibil!

The problem with too many choices is having too little time. Before I could make my choice all I had left was time, but not the boys. Straight people seem to have a curfew at 2 AM. So we moved to whichever bar Olongapo has to offer. Ryoichi was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t in the john the last time he said he would be. He wasn’t in the dance floor. He wasn’t anywhere I thought I could find him. I was pissed. I am no longer his lover and there’s no reason for him to catch my attention. He can wear itsy-bitsy-tiny-whiny multi-colored bikini for all I care but this hide and seek thingy is getting in the way of my plan of getting laid on Easter in this part of Zambales! Then Nicka came to tell me Ryo was at the parking lot talking to somebody. Nicka is a hound dog. He has the knock at looking for things that refuses to be found.

On the way to the next bar, I was still pissed. As temperature was rising, so does our temper (is temperature the etymology of temper). At Gigolo Bar I was ignoring Ryo as his whining was getting into my nerves. When he asked WHATISYOURPROBLEM, I simply replied U. The bar itself was a drab. If somebody in the bar would ask me WASSUP, I could simply say NOTHING since there was really nothing in the bar, just a couple of jologs. So we decided to leave. At the corridor Ryo was yelling at me on top of his voice with the same question, only this time his diction and voice have this certain twang and modulation, respectively, which I am sure I heard from the movies we both watched somewhere. Ryo’s English reminds me of my little niece’s. They seem to have learned their accent from television – once it’s Bugs Bunny, now it’s Will or Grace, but not Pepe Pimentel. But I digress.

Friends forever... blackeye and beyond.

Then, in a spate of I-don’t-know-what-came-over-him, he had his palms clasped on my chin, pinning me against the wall. I embraced him tightly, almost strangling him. Seamstress came to us, confounded… no, let’s just settle for dumbfounded… at what everything is starting to turn out. While he was talking to Ryo, I clinched a fist and hit Ryo on the face like I owe it to him; another on the cheek. And, as one waitress, Seamstress and a bouncer, were all pulling at my left arm, I swung my right and gave Ryo another hit on the back as he ran down the stairs. Enraged like the The Bull that I am, I chased Ryo down the street. But the running diluted the adrenaline in my body as it did to alcohol the other night. I realized I just hit my lover of eight years. Ex of two years. Bestfriend of ten years. Confidant for life… on the eve of his birthday. If only I knew I was to punch somebody during this vacation, I should have done it instead to Patatim. I slouched on the gutter while Nicka was pacifying me. Seamstress was on his way to follow Ryo. I sobbed.

My Beeeeestfriend

Easter Sunday. 8 AM. I was sitting at the front row of the bus. Alone. Ryo left for Manila four hours ahead of me in spite of the overwrought acts of contrition back at Seamstress’s place. I could see through the wide windshield some of the beachbod guys who tanned their bulges in Zambales’s numerous beaches. I should be salivating, but I was not. From the stereo I was hearing Wag Mong Sasabihin by Kitchie Nadal. As usual, my mouth should be frothing. But it was not. I was lost deep in oblivious space. That day was supposed to be special. I could have used a more ostentatious word to describe it. Look, it was Ryo’s birthday and it was meant to cap a fabulous summer vacation. Special is special. Nothing could be more descriptive than that. But that day simply went caput. Summer’s heat fizzled into summer’s hit. A blow that never happened all these ten years. But it happened.

Those crap I left in the waters of Capones Island! I knew the island will score back at me, 2 to 1. It’s ok. I’m crapping there again next year.

And as the sun mingles with the ocean, four friends contemplate

adventures that are yet to be configured.