The Girl From Ipanema

The Girl from Ipanema
How my fear of losing my kidney stopped me from chasing La Garota de Ipanema….

Rio de Janiero, Brazil is one of my favourite holiday destinations. Getting there is easy. I only need a valid passport and a yellow fever shot. No visa application blues. Yes, Filipinos can enter this former Portuguese colony for 90 days without a visa. World renowned beaches of Copa Cabana, Leblon and Ipanema are all there waiting to be discovered. Heard about topless beautiful Brazilian women in their string bikinis? God bless Brazil!

Last February, I invented a special reason to convince myself why should I go back to Rio for the third time. I reasoned out that my birthday falls on a Carnival week. A bombastic carnival would surely shake-off my another-year-older birthday blues away.

Ipanema and Leblon are my favourite beaches in Rio. I don’t like Copa Cabana. It’s too crowded. In Leblon and Ipanema, quality Brazilians and foreigners converge as if they are in a Mecca.

When in Rio, I was told to act like one of the Cariocas, their natives. I should not bring so much cash in the beach. If I can’t guard my camera, mobile phone and Ipod, I should not take them with me because los ratones de la playa (beach rats) from the nearby Fabella (poor getthos), just await to steal my valuables the moment I don’t pay much attention on these stuff.

I chose to go to Ipanema on my first day. After all, it is only a few minute walk from my hotel in Calle Arpoador. Ipanema was full that time, obviously because of the carnival season. Beside Ipanema is Leblon. Both beaches were blest with nature’s bounty: breasts and butts in all shapes, colours, and sizes. I love Brazil! I prayed that God would spare these beaches and women from natural calamities. Good Lord, keep them safe forever. Amen!

Sun bathing time. I rented an umbrella and a folding-chair for RHS 16 or roughly equivalent to USD 9. The next good thing being in the beach aside from sun bathing and eye-ball rolling is drinking Caipirinha. It is a Brazilian national drink made from cachaça and other flavours like lemon or passion fruit. Rum or vodka could also be used as substitutes.

Three rounds of Caipirinha under the scorching heat of the sun were enough to make me dizzy. The scent of marijuana in the air made me dizzier. Sexy bodies littered everywhere seemed to be the last thing to blow my mind at any moment. Then my thoughts were interrupted by a henna boy who offered to draw a scorpion on my right arm. I agreed for RHS 60.

Henna session was over. “One more Caipirinha please.” I ordered.

While in the middle of sipping my fourth drink, came a gay couple with a young Brazilian mestiza. They spread their beach towels near me and shortly afterwards, they occasionally did torrid kissing bouts. And the young lady…whoaaaa! She was applying sunscreen lotion all over her sexy body right beside me.

I started my usual pick-up line in South America with this girl and said… “¿Habla Ingles?” She said no. “¿Habla español?” She replied, “No, solo Portuges.” Hijo de la Madre! Another communication barrier to hurdle. I don’t speak Portuguese!

She patted the back of the other lady, and signalled her that she needed an interpreter. The lady speaks Portungol, half Spanish half Portuguese. Strange. So we tried hard to understand each other. The lady was her mom and the other lady was her mom’s partner.

A few more brain-wrecking Portungol conversation and then la mama asked me to go with them near the Sambadrome where we can enjoy Brazilian music and dance in the street. Her daughter looked and smiled sweetly as if telling me, “Come on, let’s go and do the samba.”

With strangers, I always trust my instincts. I said, “Good Lord who created these hot Brazilians, please give me a sign. Should I stay on the beach or go?” I looked at them once more, the young girl smiled again. So I said to myself, GO! I paid the bill but when I stood up, I panicked. I lost my red Havaianas España slippers. I was totally pissed off. Yes, I was in a Havaianas country but that pair of slippers was special to me. I bought it in Manila. It has travelled with me in continents of Europe, North and South America for two years.

So I walked with them barefoot. I was trailing them. The couple were talking in Portuguese and occasionally gave one another a smack. Then the other lady talked to somebody on the phone. I took the chance of asking the mother while her partner was on the line if where were we going. She said we would take the car because Sambadrome is 30 minutes away from the beach.

I didn’t like the way my heart beat. I was a bit scared. Wild thoughts entered my mind. Thanks but no thanks caipirinha. Then we were in a basement parking. The mother excused herself and went to the rest room. The lover followed.

All of a sudden, scenes from the movie Turistas flashed in my mind. It’s a movie about the tourists who were lost in the jungle of Brazil after a bus accident, trapped, and became victims of a kidney for sale syndicate ring. I felt fear. When the couple returned, I told them that I am not going anymore. I said my feet were aching and I needed to buy a pair of slippers and go back to my hotel to catch some sleep.

I told them, if I can wake up before 8 in the evening, I would meet them up at the Sambadrome. After all, the parade would start at 9 p.m. It was only past 4 p.m. I asked for their contact number and told them that I would call them should I decide to go out later that night. And we parted ways at the basement parking.

I felt a sense of disgust in them. But I followed my instincts. I chose to just enjoy the rest of the day alone. I feared of losing my kidney or getting robbed. It was enough that I lost my favourite España slippers on my birthday. That was my sign. Foolish interpretation? Was I being paranoid because of too much Marijuana in the air at the beach? Too much Caipirinha perhaps? I don’t know, but better safe than sorry.

Dream and Lies of Franco

Dream and Lies of Franco


I encountered this political artwork of Picasso in Reyna Sofia Museum in Madrid last March. Compared to his other works, this one made me smile. It has a powerful anti-Franco sentiment put in a satirical manner.

Franco lived a life of lies, of make believe, of great power, greater than the King of Spain. This foolish dream caused so much sufferings among the Spanish people especially the senseless deaths of hundreds of civilians in the Guernica bombing courtesy of his Nazi partner Adolf Hitler.

In the local context, I saw how the Marcoses dreamt and amassed so much power and lived a la royalties with their self-proclaimed Maharlika bloodline. The supposed queen is from Leyte and the powerful king, from Ilocos. They came from Philippines poor provinces. Dream on!

It was because of this royal illusion that brought twenty years of conjugal dictatorship in the Philippines, the darkest period in the history of Philippine democracy.

We have our own version of Franco or Marcos in varying degrees. It’s never wrong to dream. To some of us, what we have become is because of our never-ending pursuit to make our dreams a reality at all cost, no matter what. But we must not forget that a realized dream never guaranty true happiness. It’s only when our conscience is clear and when we have not violated another ones rights make a Franco or a Marcos in us real happy!


Picasso: El Guernica
Libro desplegable

Publicado en 2003 por Scala Publishers Ltd,
Gloucester Mansions 140ª Shafesbury Avenue
Londres WC2H 8HD

One month after Franco's troops were besieging Madrid, Picasso created the series Dream and Lies of Franco. This poem in prose of unconnected words and violent language expresses his refusal before Franco's actions. The title of the work, accuses Franco of chasing a dream instead of the reality and of living through a lie and not the truth. The poem was accompanied by an engraving of 18 panels which are interwoven by different monstrous images of Franco. To contemplate, these panels turn out to be immensely a developer, since the motives, now already well-known (such as the bullfight, the woman's head crying, and the mother with the dead son) they acquire new political meanings that replace those that associate with the personal traumas of Picasso. Thus the stage is prepared for the role it more defied up to the moment – of transmitting the tragedy of Guernica.

In the engraving, Dream and lies of Franco was displayed on the contrary. Franco was shown with a sword in hand and with the head covered inappropriately by a crown and a mantilla, already before the fifth panel (that appears to the left side). In him, Franco's strange and monstrous figure loses the crown and the sword on having been attacked by a bull.

The series begins with the image of the sun smiling mockingly at Franco. He sat precariously on an old horse that is spoiled by simple expression. But on the last panel, the satire has turned into frightfulness. The arms of the woman at the centre are waved violently and an arrow crosses her neck. The head was turned up, in a position that he reminds to that of the woman with the dead child in the Guernica.

Sueño y Mentiras de Franco

Sueño y Mentiras de Franco

Vi este trabajo de Picasso en el Museo de Sofía Reina en Madrid el mes pasado. Comparado con sus otros trabajos, éste me hizo sonreír. Este tiene un sentimiento contra Franco poderoso puesto en una manera satírica.

Franco vivió una vida de mentiras, de hacen creer, del poder enorme, mayor que el Rey de España. Este sueño tonto costo tantos sufrimientos entre la gente española sobre todo las muertes insensatas de cientos de civiles en el bombardeo de Guernica bombardeo por cortesía de su compañero Nazi Adolf Hitler.

En el contexto local, vimos como los Marcoses soñaron y acumularon tanto poder y la riqueza sólo para vivir como una familia real. Ellos soñaron con su sangre Maharlika. Los Marcoses eran de Ilocos y Leyte, una de las provincias pobres en las Filipinas. Es debido a este sueño real los veinte años traídos de la dictadura conyugal en nuestro pais, el período más oscuro en la historia de la democracia filipina.

Tenemos nuestra propia versión de Franco o Marcos en grados variantes. Esto nunca se equivoca para soñar. A algunos de nosotros, lo que nos hemos hecho es debido a nuestra búsqueda interminable para hacer nuestros sueños una realidad en todo el coste, pase lo que pase. Pero no debemos olvidar que un sueño realizado nunca garantiza la felicidad verdadera. ¡Es sólo cuándo nuestra conciencia está clara y cuando no hemos violado otros derechos de hacen Franco o Marcos en nosotros verdadero feliz!

*****

Picasso: El Guernica
Libro desplegable

Publicado en 2003 por Scala Publishers Ltd,
Gloucester Mansions 140ª Shafesbury Avenue
Londres WC2H 8HD

Un mes después de que las tropas de Franco sitiasen Madrid, Picasso realizó la serie Sueño y mentira de Franco. Este poema en prosa de palabras inconexas y violento lenguaje expresa su repulsa ante las acciones de Franco. El titulo de la obra, basado en un tema conocido de la literatura española, acusa a Franco de perseguir un sueño en vez de, de la realidad y de vivir una mentira y no la verdad. El poema iba acompañado de un grabado de 18 paneles, en el que los temas visuales ya explorados en este libro se entretejen con distintas imágenes monstruosas de Franco. Contemplar estos paneles resulta inmensamente revelador, puesto que los motivos, ahora ya conocidos (tales como la corrida de toros, la cabeza de mujer llorando, y la madre con el hijo muerto) adquieren nuevos significados políticos que sustituyen a aquellos asociados con las traumas personales de Picasso. De esta forma, se prepara el escenario para el papel de más desafió hasta el momento – el de transmitir la tragedia de Guernica.

Al ser un grabado, Sueño y mentira de Franco está realizado a la inversa. Franco aparece, espada en mano y con la cabeza cubierta inapropiadamente por una corona y una mantilla, ya antes del quinto panel (que se muestra a la izquierda). En él, la extraña y monstruosa figura de Franco pierde la corona y la espada al ser atacado por un toro.

La serie se inicia con la imagen del sol sonriendo burlonamente a Franco. Esté va sentado precariamente sobre un viejo caballo que se destripa con expresión bobalicona. Pero al llegar al último panel, la sátira se ha convertido en horror. Los brazos de la mujer del centro se agitan violentamente y una flecha atraviesa su cuello. La cabeza aparece girada hacia arriba, en una posición que recuerda a la de la mujer con el niño muerto en el Guernica.

La Tanguera Stole My Heart

La Tanguera Stole My Heart
How a minute pose with the Tanguera turned my world up side down…

Blame it on Argentine Tango. If I were to describe a phrase about this dance, it would be “too close for comfort.”

It was a fine afternoon walk in one of Buenos Aires’ oldest districts, San Telmo. It is in this place where 19th and 20th century architecture converged. It was a double date, me and mi amor with Martha and her German boyfriend Guenter. Both just arrived from Patagonia where they spent a week with the penguins.

Soon we were at the center of San Telmo, in a square called Plaza Dorrego. We went to a café with Tango performers. I was dumbfounded watching the performers danced so passionately with perfect rhythm, timing and with temperature rising sensuality. Tango!

And there she was, my Tanguera. Her sexy moves made my heart stop beating. She was dressed in a simple sleeveless tight and black dress. Enchanting. Captivating.

She dances there everyday for tips. She and her group teach tango lessons too.

I consumed my coffee. Her performance, finished. I clapped my hands with all my might. She noticed me and smiled. I smiled back. Then her partner came around with his black hat signalling to throw our generous tips in it.

And then an opportunity came to take pictures with the performers. Without further delay, I stood up and handed my camera to La Karina and posed with my beautiful Tanguera. I can smell her sweet perfume. She’s a Latina. She’s hot. I held her close and posed. It was a wonderful moment. I wanted it to last. Then there was the flash of my camera. “Time is up Greg.” I told my self. Not far from me I heard an angry voice shouting, “Mi amor, I am your girlfriend!” I was dead.

Back in Manila, in my free time, whenever I see my pictures with the Tanguera, I can’t help but think of her for a few moment. I never knew her name. I never asked where she lived, her MSN or her mobile number.

Sometimes, a lot of what ifs enter my thoughts about my lovely Tanguera. But she was just a sweet memory to cherish, a dream, a girl with no name. And so I called her, La Tanguera.

A Brave Yet Foolish Decision(part2)

A Brave Yet A Foolish Decision
Our Road Trip to Misiones


We reached Misiones unchecked. Bravo! We dozed off for an hour and headed to the falls. We had to start that same day to see this giant falls. I realized how limited my movements would be when an Italian Argentine driver we hired asked me if I had my travel documents with me. I said no. He said it’s a pity because we can never get close to the borders of Paraguay and Brazil. A major downer!

The whole stay at Iguazu was worth the 36 hour ride ida y vuelta. I had a lot of memories to cherish in that Natural Park located at the middle of South American continent. I need another blog post for that Iguazu experience.

The trip was over. Such a sad thing to leave a paradise like that. Almost half-way to Buenos Aires, the bus stopped. I woke up. Then our fear became a reality. Three armed gendarmes dressed in military uniform climbed the bus and started demanding, “Sus documentos por favor.” I can see the sun burnt face of mi amor turned white. Panic attack.

Then one of the officers was in front of us and said….¿”Senorita….?” La Karina is always prepared like a girl scout. She handed her Argentine ID and she was ok. Then the officer asked for mine. I said, “Lo siento, no tengo documentos. He olvidado los en Buenos Aires.” I was still explaining in a limited Castellano when La Karina interrupted us explaining that I left my documents in her house. She further said that I am her future husband and that she will take charge of me. She said’ “I am a businesswoman. I am the president of a company and my company will take the responsibility for my boyfriend. I have copies of his documents in my office."

And then she turned to me and translated everything in English what she just had said to the officer. I can see that the officer had a hard time discerning English and I have to cut her off and told her, “Hablame en espanol.” Then, I started asking for a consideration from the officer not to take me to the precinct. I told him that I am a Filipino. I showed him my credit card with a Philippine Flag courtesy of my HSBC PAL Visa. He said, "I need your Argentine visa and not your Visa Credit Card." I would like to laugh, I felt stupid in front of him, and then I said., “ I showed it to you to let you know that I am telling the truth about my nationality." And then I showed him my foreign exchange receipt for the USD I converted at the airport. I showed him my passport number in that receipt and explained that I can not enter Argentina without a visa and that the Forex company was located at the Ezeiza Airport where I converted my USD to ARP upon my arrival. I tried to be calm and smiled after each statement I uttered.

He agreed and said, "Don’t travel without documents. We are near the borders of Brazil and Paraguay and lots of illegals are entering Argentina from here." “Muchas gracias senor.” I told him.

I can’t believe it. Gracias Instituto por ensenarme el idioma. This language saved the day. When the gendarmes got off, the conductor told me, you’re a lucky man. An Italian passenger who speaks only Italian and English, also left his documents in Buenos Aires. He was taken to the station and would be released only after the gendarmes could get a confirmation from the Italian and Argentine Embassies whether his entry to Argentina was legal or not. And he added, shortest day you could stay at the jail is three days. ¡Mi madre!

A Brave Yet Foolish Decision(part1)

A Brave Yet Foolish Decision
Our Road Trip to Misiones, Argentina

I decided to celebrate 2008 Valentine’s Day in Argentina. A week before that, I was in Rio de Janiero for the Carnival. La Karina and I agreed to spend 4 days together in Cataratas Del Iguazu in Misiones. She arranged everything from bus ride to hotel booking. She is good at it, especially when it comes to haggling for discounts. She would always say,” It’s a pity to pay a lot mi amor.”

Before leaving our hotel in Buenos Aires, I told her not to bring things she won’t need. This was my third visit. The first two, I ended up carrying a heavy suitcase stuffed with things, some of which she never used. I am a light traveller. I hate carrying a heavy bag. It makes me immobile.

We checked out and left our luggage at their residence as agreed. We still had an hour to drop-off our bags and proceed to the bus station for our 18 hour ride to Misiones. This task would only require us 30 minutes. I asked for a five-minute extra time before leaving our hotel room to fix my things. Before agreeing, she reminded me to hurry because we might miss the bus. I said ok. She checked the living room, dining room, and bathroom for things we might have left. Each room check equals one reminder. That made three plus one before that so she aready reminded me four. times. I did not reply. When she was about to utter another reminder while watching me locking my suitcase, I have to cut her. I lost it and said, “Will you just shut up?” In my anger, I put all my travel documents inside my suitcase and locked it. That suitcase was not going with us. It would stay at their residence.

I left all my travel documents in Buenos Aires. I only had my credit cards and wallet with me in a travelling bag I was carrying. I only realized it when the bus was about to leave. Damn it! And so there was another Latina exploding in panic. We have to make a decision, postpone it or take the risk of being held by the gendarmes at the military checkpoint or get lucky and never get checked at all. I made a firm decision. We should proceed. “¡Mujer, calmate!”

And we took the bus.

Argentina Te Quiero (part2)
Buenos Aires

It was springtime in 2006 when I first visited Buenos Aires. Coming from a tropical country, an almost zero degree temperature is intolerable. In Manila, I am not accustomed to knowing the exact degree. For me it’s only hot or not. No big deal on what the figure says because generally it’s hot when the sun is up. Besides, the weather is pretty much predictable.

But all that changed in Buenos Aires. I had been globe trotting since 1996 but I would always prefer travelling in summer or fall to a particular destination. Before leaving my hotel, I have to check the temperature first with the concierge in my well re-hearsed line, “¿Cual es la temperatura afuera?” Then dress planning would follow: inner shirts, sweater, jacket, bonnet, scarf, gloves, boots, and knee high socks. I was like wearing a full-battle gear and oh!, T’was heavy.

Unlike my other foreign trips, I don’t need to take a hop-on hop-off tour bus to see the city. Neither would I join a city tour group with an English speaking tour guide for lo and behold beside me was a native who lovingly explained with pride and passion the interesting places and history of her country, in Spanglish. Cute.

And so with her, I discovered Avenida 9 de Julio, claimed to be the widest avenue in the world by the Argentines. The name coincides with Argentina’s July 9 Independence Day Celebration. We took a stroll on the avenida. It was the most logical thing to do to burn the fats I just consumed courtesy of Parilla Mariposa. I never imagined how in the world can I finish a big plate full of greasy, mouth watering and yummy beef. Then I started thinking about my late night work-outs at the Makati Shangri-la Health Club. Guilt stricken.

At the intersection of this avenue and Corrientes, we stopped to take photos at the modern monument called the El Obelisco constructed in 1936 in commemoration of the city’s 400th Foundation Day. With its height of 220 feet, it took us a while to take a good photo with its entirety. It was in this incident when I first learned the level of patience of my Latina girlfriend. She is short of it. She has also a bad temperament. She is sweet for a while and suddenly could explode like a bomb. It left me thinking, how can this woman got easily impatient and suddenly erupt like a volcano when the springtime weather is too good to cool her head off.

At the Obelisk there is a Plaza with a congregation of pigeons. I was busy taking pictures and she was constantly advising me to open my eyes, watch my camera, wallet, etc. At one point I got irritated because I felt like I was being treated like a child. I’d been to more dangerous places in Manila and in Brazil, especially in Sao Paulo. I don’t like her over-protecting me so I have to cut her the next time she uttered the same reminder for the nth time. Then, there goes another argument. Cultural differences?

We passed by Teatro Colón. This beautiful opera house is turning 100 years in 2008. It’s one of the world’s major opera houses. I was told not to miss it because of its horse-shoe shaped auditorium and special interiors. When we checked the schedule of shows, it was then we realized that it had been closed for renovation. A year later, I came back, the renovation job was still unfinished. It reminded me of what she told me that the theater was constructed for twenty years. I was wondering if the renovation would be another “history repeats itself” phenomenon in Argentina.

We reached Avenida de Mayo. This avenue connects Plaza de Mayo with Plaza de los Dos Congresos. We were heading towards the eastern end of Avenida de Mayo where La Casa Rosada (Spanish for "the Pink House"), officially known as the Casa de Gobierno ("Government House") or Palacio Presidencial ("The Presidential Palace"), is located. A pink house! Cool! And when we were in the square en frente de la Casa Rosada, la Karina, my girlfriend guide, started lecturing me as if I was one of her law students in a University in Buenos Aires where she is a faculty member. She commanded, “Look at that half open window, and the house’s balcony, that’s the podium of Evita, the same podium the Papa del Roma used during his visit in 1998. It was exactly the same place where Madonna rendered her “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” anthem. Oh brilliant! With that, I can give her a 9.

We took a stroll on the plaza then went inside the Metropolitan Cathedral of Buenos Aires. La Karina took time to pray, I took pictures. She’s a catholic. I am not. We headed to the Cabildo or their Council during colonial times then took some quick snaps and proceeded to the May Pyramid.

Tired and exhausted, we took time to recharge in one of the benches in the plaza. We chose a strategic place fronting a monument and a fountain. It was a lovely day with a clear blue sky and nimbus clouds, pigeons feeding on grains, lovers kissing, children cavorting at the plaza grounds. Oh Buenos Aires! You are my Paris in South America.