Cool cold Nordic Norway

My image of Norway would always be cool and super duper cold. It was in this country that I first saw snow, lots and lots of snow. When I arrived at Oslo International Airport, the temperature was already -5. Still I traveled for another two hours to go to another city, Lillehammer, which was the site of the 1994 Winter Olympics.

We stayed at this wonderful hotel, the Lillehammer Hotel, for a week, cooped up with more than 200 other young people like me, representing their own organizations and countries. I remember as well listening to some former Prime Minister of Norway, who belongs to the Socialist Party. Of course the conference was heavily subsidized by this ruling party. But they are so cool to cover all our costs from airfare to our one week stay at this five star hotel.

Another vivid image is the visit to this open museum where they replicated old style of living in Norway and built them in an open-like museum where we were toured around. Oh and of course, it was during this museum visit that I met these cute and cool Russian men who made fun of the guide and cracked jokes in their halting English.

Another vivid image of Lillehammer is of course the visit to the Olympic Park, where they showed us the highest ski jumping arena I have seen so far (not that I have seen one before this actually). Another image is us trying to dance on snow, trying the antiquated way of skiing by sitting on this black trash bag with 3 other co-participants and someone pushing us down the highest slope. I remember having so much fun with this and laughing and screaming while we rolled down this slope. It was also there that I realized that snow is not really that cold, but rather it is the wind that carries the cold.

Then we went back to Oslo, where I stayed for 2 more days. It was there that I realized that the sun could go down at 3 in the afternoon and it is dark already by 5. And Oslo is even colder than Lillehammer as the temperature could go down to -10, with the wind blowing at its cruelest during the late evening.

Oslo would always bring to mind that postcard picture of its most famous street, the Karl Johan, who was named after its King who built the Royal Palace. I remember in order not to get lost as I could not understand their language I just walked around and around the city, passing one interesting site after another. One funny incident I can recall was when I was trying to find a place to eat for breakfast and ended up at a McDonald’s store, eating their famous Happy Value Meal for only 5 Norwegian Kroner, but when converted to my peso was about 10 times more expensive.

I was told that in some parts of this Nordic region, between 6-8 months, you would not get to see the sun. For someone who has lived with the sun always peering at me from the sky, I could not imagine living without it for even a day. Having experienced its loss for a week has made me realized that I will not be able to survive for longer than a month in this super duper cold but really beautiful country.

The Wiklanders of Gotenborg

My image of Sweden would always be melancholy. Not only because it was pretty cold when I went there in 1997, but also because I would always remember the wonderful time I had visiting a very good friend and former colleague of mine. Her maiden name is Jeanette Ignacio. Nette as we fondly call her migrated to Sweden in 1995. We both left our beloved Jesuit institution that same year. She resigned to move to another country and try her luck there. Me to another organization and try my luck there as well. So our paths diverged, not knowing that I would have the opportunity to one day visit her in her new found home and city.

Actually I did not know where she was until I was about to leave for Norway. When some common friends told me that she is now based in Gotenborg and I saw that it is actually within Sweden, beside Norway where I am supposed to go as well, I found myself writing to her and asking if I can come and visit her. I remember she was so happy to know that I will do that. So we made all the preparations, including applying for a visa to Sweden. So my trip to Sweden was the only personal trip I took back in 1997, sandwiched as it was between an international conference in Lillehammer, Norway and an official trip as well to Belgium.

Gotenborg is Sweden's second largest city (the biggest being Stockholm). It is situated on the west coast with the sea and the archipelago within easy reach. While there, we visited some interesting places such as the Botanical Gardens, the Poseidon Statue and the Museum of Art. Of course, we also went to a shopping mall (quite ordinary looking as well and only two floors) and bought all the things I would not see anywhere in the Philippines. I also remember we went to Carl Johan's Church which was newly renovated and where I prayed solemnly thanking God for His wonderful blessing.

But more than the sites, Gotenborg brings to mind close friends and new friends. I remember for the first time staying at an apartment building, very similar to the HDB buildings here. The apartments there are very ordinary looking from the outside, but quite warm and cozy inside. And they hardly have high rise buildings because they have the space. I also remember their much loved dog which is considered like a son by Jeanette and Leslie, most especially as he has his own room. I also remember this cute little girl, a daughter of a friend of Jeanette and also a Filipina, who can speak Swedish, English and Cebuano, in one go. From her I learned how to say 'Taka' (thank you).

And most importantly, Gotenborg will always bring to mind Jeanette as we talked for hours and hours when I arrived until the next day, alternating between laughing to crying to laughing again, talking about people and stories that we both have heard so many times already before but never tires us to say and hear them again. Towards the end, we gave each other a 'kampay,' (or full toast), not with any Swedish red or white wine, but with the good old Ginebra San Miguel gin that I brought over for her from Manila.

Jeanette has always been known as someone who has a very good sense of humor and can be very naughty as well. Well true to her self, she was that and more as she gave me some wonderful Swedish made stuff like shoes (which I could hardly use in a very tropical country as they are meant for winter temperature), a jacket which I was able to use in Belgium and a book that she said I would certainly use when I am married and trying my best to have a baby.

All these things I have either given away to some other friends or thrown away because of wear and tear, except the red colored book, which up to now is still in its original cover of newspaper and hidden inside a nondescript envelope to belie its real content. I remember she told me that this book should only be shown to my future husband on our first night together. As a true friend, I am keeping my promise to her.

The last image of Gotenborg I still carry in my heart is that of Jeanette shedding tears on her husband's shoulders as she looks longingly at me as I enter the immigration area of the Goteborg Landvetter airport.

Images of Europe

Europe for me will always be a wonderful place to visit. Take note that I am using the word visit, meaning I do not fancy myself living there for so long, but only going there for a short period of time. I am making this distinction lest the various European embassies think that I would want to stay forever in any country there. Because that is one of the things I realized that the Europeans have ingrained in me. They welcome visitors from other parts of the world, but only for a short time. They do not want to be held responsible for you beyond your visit. I had a rude awakening back in 1997 about this policy of most (if not all) European countries. But I guess it was never enough to deter a desperate immigrant from coming and wanting to stay in Europe, even if it meant being trafficked and finding yourself married off to someone whom you have not even had a chance to meet or perhaps ending up working as a prostitute in one of the brothels in Brussels or any other city of Europe.

My first trip to Europe was in November 1997, back when the exchange rate between US Dollars and the Philippine Peso was only US$1=PhP35. The second trip would only come 4 years later, April 2001, when the exchange rate was already US$1=PhP50. Fortunately, during my second trip I was already working here in Singapore, so the exchange rate was a lot better.

For these two trips, I did not have the opportunity nor the inclination to chronicle my journey for reasons that I think are more practical than anything. Most probably the major reason is that I was too engrossed with seeing and visiting the various places of interests, to really have the time to jot down anything. And the second most important reason, I believe, is because in these two trips, I found myself traveling during the cold parts of the year. November was the end of autumn and beginning of winter while April is the end of winter and the beginning of spring. This meant that most of the times I must have felt so cold and would therefore have difficulty using my hands for writing.

So I am writing my images of Europe in retrospect, as a way of looking back at what images have remained between the intervening years since I had been there. The following essays will therefore try to chronicle my visits to Europe through the images I can still remember not only in my head, but most especially in my heart.

Autumn is my season

Picture me, wearing three layers of clothing with a thick jacket over them, asking this Belgian brother of a former colleague (who was acting as my host and guide while in his city) to click my camera so I would have a memory of an autumn tree in this heart city of Europe. He had a good laugh at my expense when I explained that I am not that interested in having my picture taken anywhere but under that tree with no leaves. Unfortunately, my memory fails me now that I cannot recall what tree was that. I could not blame him because he diligently explained and shared to me how old this former convent for women and there I was more excited to find my so called autumn view.

If you ask me why I, who have always lived in a tropical country, would instantly have a liking for a season that I have yet to fully see and experience, I would not be able to come up with any logical explanation. Except that when I saw Belgium and its autumn colors, I guess I must have felt like really transported back to the past. Yes, that must be it then. Because autumn colors meant that the city was covered in a grayish color, with the sun hardly in view and by 3 PM, it was beginning to get dark. And with that as a background, it was easier to breathe in its glorious past.

So I had fun reminiscing how many centuries this and that building has been in existence or that palace (Royal Palace) has been in use or that park has been enjoyed by this former colonizer of other civilized world. And I had a taste of real al fresco dining and fine dining in a century old former cave (in Ghent). And of course I saw the famous little boy who was always peeing at everyone who dared to venture near his statue (the fountain of Manneken Pis). Or the open museum (somewhere either in Bruges or Mechelen) where the Belgians transported everything back from one of the African colony (so difficult to recall). Or the university campuses of Leuwen with its different architectural styles.

In all, my first taste of autumn was so beautiful that I really can say that it is my season. And as I have never experienced it again since then, the memories are not only vivid but still grayish.

Remembering my first time

It's not what you think it is. But rather this is about something else as I am trying to recall all the first time experiences that Europe has given me which I consider as some of the best I could not forget.

Traveling from Manila to Oslo, Norway was my first time to be in a long flight, with two different stop over (Bangkok and Frankfurt) and crossing over two different time zones, such that my body really felt the sudden change, not only in temperature but also in time.

It was my first time to see snow, real snow in Lillehammer, which was the site of the 1994 (I think) Winter Olympics. So I had fun playing on it, dancing while the snow was falling on my face, and sliding on snow using only a black trash bag as a sled.

It was my first time to see a travel escalator or whatever it is called in Brussels, which I saw was described as the heart of Europe (helped a lot when you are carrying 20 kilos of extra luggage).

It was my first time to be in an adult shop (in Oslo), which I found by accident, as I could not take the cold already and just went inside the first shop I saw. And of course, when I realized that it was an adult shop, I decided to be blase about it and just looked around.

It was my first time as well to be attending an international conference and representing not only my organization but my country as well in that gathering (thanks to my democratic socialist activist past)

It was my first as well to be the official representative of the NGO I was working with and sharing and rubbing elbows with Belgian politicians and officials (thanks to my former Belgian government funded NGO).

And lastly, I remember it was in Europe that I fell in love (at least I thought that was what I felt) with an older non-brown man (the only time I did) who looked very much like that guy who sang footloose. But as the song goes, I remember the old man (well he looks old to me back then) but I don't remember the feeling anymore. Very unfortunate indeed!

Rapu-Rapu Island

This is my first time to step on your shore
And see for myself the island 'so quiet' according to Boyski.
But lo and behold, I found yes, a quiet island
And yet exuding a charm on its own.

Contrary to my expectations
I found you full of contrasts
On one side, a de-forested area with no sign of people living within
On the other, a secondary growth forest with scattered villages along the coast

From the coast, you seem to be just like any other island
And yet I can feel that there is more to you than meets the eye.
I was surprised at how beautiful your forest is
Or how can a river run so exquisitely.

Or have those big geological rocks that were carved by a master artist
Or know that underneath your surface
Lies the most sought after base metals in the world
These contrasting features give you that uniqueness

Your beauty, I think lies not in your external features
Or just what your see from a boat
But to go beyond the shore and discover your inner world!
And that is partly the reason for my being here today!


Rapu Rapu Island is located north of Lagonoy Gulf, southwest of Pacific Ocean and
east of Albay Gulf. It is an island very rich in mineral resources (gold, silver, copper and zinc). I was in Rapu Rapu for a few days back in 1999.

Mt. Mayon

Mt. Mayon, the majestic beautiful volcano
Located in the province of Albay
Such a sight to behold
Despite its activity and restiveness

I almost have forgotten its splendor
In the midst of the rustle and bustle of a metropolis life
I feel quite lucky looking at it now
And say to myself, ‘What a wonderful gift from the Lord above.’

Clouds are forming around the volcano
As if hiding the tremors going on inside
But maybe it needs to do so
To keep Mayon from spewing ashes

Or maybe it also needs to spew ashes sooner than later
For it means life goes on even for a volcano
And it sure adds to its uniqueness
That such beauty can also be angry once in a while

But such anger I am sure is healthy
For it means that negative emotions can be drained
And washed away to meet its final destiny
In water, the ever reliable source of life!

Mt. Mayon is one volcano known not only for its almost perfect cone but also for its being the most active volcano in the Philippines. It is located in the provine of Albay, about more than an hour's flight from Manila.

Life's a Beach at Boracay

Life at its core
Is about people
Living a simple life

It is not about
Always being at your best
It is not also about
How much money you have
Nor is it about
How many people you have as friends

Rather it is about
Waking early in the morning
Going to the beach
And enjoying the sun rise

It is about
Finding stones that have come adrift
It is also about
Just walking in the sand

It is about
Watching the fishers
Go out and venture in the open sea
And wait for their return

It is about
Watching people
Depart for only
God knows where

It is about
Watching the children
Swim and play
In the water

It is about
Holding hands with your one and only
While walking
And looking around

It is also about
Watching boat people
Bring in new visitors and returnees alike
For whatever purpose they have

LIFE AT ITS CORE
Are all these
And just these
No more and no less!

And at the end of the day
It is about
Watching the sun set
And sleep while waiting for another new dawn!


This poem was written back in February 14,1999 while enjoying one of the Philippines' foremost travel destination: the island of Boracay. "Boracay is a tropical island that is one hour flight time south of Manila. The island has more than 30 beaches, foremost of which is a four-kilometer stretch of pure white sand called White Beach. White Beach is widely considered by international travel publications to be among the world's best beaches."

Found the perfect weekend getaway

Living in Singapore can really get into your system. And I am not even referring to the government. Now I know what they (meaning the expats here) refer to as ABS, which is an acronym (of course it is) for "anything but Singapore." I was told that on the average, an expatriate living and working in Singapore would suddenly develop this ABS syndrome such that he/she would find any and all excuses to be out of this small city state even for a measly weekend. The best if you can get away for a week, but if not, a long weekend (meaning 3 days) should be more than enough. Just so you can breathe a different air. Never mind if sometimes it is not as fresh because of the smog. Never mind as well if this means taking a long walk from the ferry terminal to the boat or subjecting yourself to another long queue at the immigration. I am sure you are like me. You would be willing to suffer such hassles just to be able to get out for a little while.

And last weekend I was able to find such a perfect place to get out of this highly organized living place. This island is so near and yet so different from Singapore. Trust the same system (meaning this government) to come up with such a wonderful solution to the ABS syndrome.

Bintan Island actually belongs to Indonesia by sovereign rights, but belongs to expatriates like me, by choice. It is such a small and wonderful place to go for a long weekend to relax, be lazy, wander around, read a book, swim, sunbathe, and do all sorts of things that can only be done in an island. It so near that you only have to endure a 45 minute ferry ride and you find yourself transported into a different place altogether. Gone are the high rise buildings that so define this city state. Gone are the hawker's centers that delight your stomach. Gone are the shopping malls that entice you to part with your hard earned money.

Instead, you will find palm trees, long beach, hot and scorching sun that so define nature at its best! So if I were you, next time you feel the symptoms of ABS, grab a newspaper, call that travel agent nearest you and go to Bintan. I am sure you will find it as awesome and wonderful as I did.


I visited the island of Bintan last 18-20 April 2003 and stayed at Angsana Resort and Spa

My close friend's wedding

Promises are made to be broken. Perhaps this is true for other people but not for me. Because when I made a promise to my friend who migrated last November 2001 to New Zealand that we will attend each other’s wedding no matter where it is going to be held, I made good my promise by taking one week off and flying to Auckland, New Zealand. Imagine doing that at the height of the Iraq War and the onset of the SARS virus. Both of which made my Mom so worried. She tried valiantly to hold me back from going. But for me a promise is a promise so off I went.

But that is the least interesting aspect of my most recent sojourn. Attending a wedding has always been a not so interesting event for me, except when it is the time for the bride to throw away the bouquet and all single women (like me) are asked to stand and try our best to catch it. Through the years, I have learned how to stand at the back and just pretend to be catching the bouquet. Good thing in this wedding, there was no throwing of bouquet. She just passed it on to me and then promptly got it back because she wants to keep it for herself. Well, so much for my wish to be the next one.

Still that is not the most interesting. In every wedding, it is always the bride that defines how people would always remember the occasion. Not the groom who always wear a tuxedo or a barong outfit. Not the sponsors nor the bridesmaids but the bride. And always, I noticed that all brides seem to be nervous about the whole event. It is as if they are afraid of being a let down to everyone else but her fiancée. I think it is because she knows that all single women in attendance will be envying her for having finally caught the man of her dreams and for being given the chance to finally walk down the aisle. That all married women are wishing her all the best, some may be skeptic that she has decided to be nailed down to a life called marriage, others will be so welcoming of another recruit.

My close friend's wedding proved to be all these and more. She was very radiant in her simple white gown. She looked very nervous and could not smile at first. But throughout it all, her frontal cleavage that so defines a woman’s femininity and maturity was there for all to see. And saw it was that I captured it in my own digital camera and transported it to our class’ web site. And voila, everybody has been talking about it since then.

Unaware of the commotion she has caused, my friend is still far away in the southern island of Queenstown, happily enjoying her weeklong honeymoon. Thus, her wedding came to pass but still is being talked about. Not her nervousness, not who got the bouquet, not who is this mysterious kiwi boy who finally hooked her. But her cleavage and how she has gotten them. And that made it so memorable and am sure will still be discussed ten years hence, when we have our 20th year of class reunion. Hopefully it is going to be in New Zealand. Who knows?

I visited New Zealand from 22-30 March 2003.

The Best that Was Malacca

Malacca is one of the more known historical cities of Malaysia. I think it was primarily because it is one of the cities which preserved the influence of both the Dutch and the English conquerors. For me Malacca was not a new name as I had read it numerous times in history books when I was in school. I think it got famous because of its Straits of Malacca, which was one of the more important ports in the olden days.

So much so that when I found myself living very close to it, I promised to make it one of my 'must see' cities. Well, the opportunity to visit it would only come after being in Singapore for almost 3 years. And the rest as they say is history.

When I say history, I meant that I found Malacca full of history really as a place. Such that even its’ much publicized Portuguese settlement was just that, history and nothing more. We went there and we found that there was nothing to see and nothing to be amazed about.

But that does not mean that all was lost. For their Chinatown and their Dutch town (if one could call it as such) were pretty impressive and amazing. I spent one whole day just walking around the historical landmarks within. From the clock tower to the palace to the museum, to the Buddhist and Indian temples, to the Baba House and of course, the Saturday night flea market, Malacca deserves a short weekend visit for expats who are starting to develop the symptoms of ABS.

I visited Malacca, Malaysia from 28 February until 2 March 2003.

My Indian anecdote

Attreyee said that the main reason why I am so attracted with Indian men must be that I have been an Indian princess in my past life. I am not sure how to respond to such highly spiritual premonition except to say, I really do not know.

For someone who was born and grew up to be such a nationalistic person and a political activist at some point, who would imagine that I could abandon my own beloved Philippines to migrate to another country in search not of greener pastures as millions of Filipinos have done before me, but to follow a heart that seems to have been transformed with a different beat.

I remember growing up being wary of tall or big and burly bearded men, usually with turban on their head and carrying a black umbrella and riding on a motorcycle. My Mom described them as Bombay, men from India. She or my yaya (nanny) would always say that if I am naughty or if I do something wrong, this man would take me away in his motorcycle never to be returned to my own family. So, whenever I would see one coming along our neighborhood, I would run inside our house and refuse to go out until I can safely see that they have left. That means that I must have done some naughty things then. So I grew up with a notion that all Indian men are to be feared.

In my teen years, as I became more confident of my height (since I am unusually taller than the average Filipina woman) I became less afraid of these Bombay/Indian men. But soon after I would learn another disparaging and racist thing we (meaning Filipinos as well as other Asian nationals, I think) have against Indian men. Oh they smell differently! This we have wrongly attributed as due to the fact that they do not take a bath 3 times a day (like most Filipinos). And voila, we were so afraid to be with them inside a lift. Such was the extent of my racist attitudes against Indian men that when I fell hooked line and sinker with an Indian national and decided to pursue this guy, there was such a cacophony of remarks from well meaning family and friends, from a gentle reminder that we come from two different cultures to concerned religiosity that we may not be compatible with our Gods to snide remarks about the smell and the umbrella to some nasty admonition that they always marry someone arranged by their mothers. And I was shocked to learn that we even call them a different name in their midst so they would not know that we are talking about them. Pana, as in Indian pana kakana kana….remember that childhood rhyme…who could forget it anyway?

Ayyooo, Atet told me the other day, ‘you are definitely hooked man.’ She was referring to the fact that whether I like it or not, she thinks I am destined to be married to an Indian national.

So do not ask me again, please, why it happened or how it happened? I too could not have foreseen such transformation. The only thing I could think of now is perhaps one of those big bearded Indian men I have come across with when I was a little girl must have given me a candy that contains such potion that at some point and time, at the right moment, my heart will be transfixed and gazed only towards his own countrymen.

Is this good or bad? I will let you know when I see my own children a few years from now.
I was in India from 7-16 February 2003.