Migs Bassig

“I dont want to scare you,” warns Meyan Aclan, 2005 Batch Head of the Philippine Underwater Hockey Confederation (PUHC). “But accidents do happen, as in any sport. If the fins on the heel of your opponent hit you in the face, you’re at the risk of getting your nose broken.

“And when you’re new, you get hurt a lot.”

Mayan is speaking of the same sport described in Wikipedia as a ‘non-contact sport’. She’s speaking of the same game which combines swimming, skin diving, and ice hockey in one; the same water sport bound to explode with its rapidly growing popularity in the metro. She’s speaking of the amazingly intense fitness activity which, in her own words, has “steam literally coming out of my head and a tremendous amount of sweat given off even while in the water.”

Underwater hockey, folks. And it is, literally and figuratively speaking, perhaps the coolest and most breath-taking sport of all.

Meyan is only one of the increasing number of die-hards of underwater hockey in the Philippines. “Octopush”, as the sport is also called in other countries, is a game played at the bottom of the swimming pool by two teams competing to maneuver a 3-lb. rubber-coated lead puck into the opponent’s three-meter, L-shaped metal goal. There is a world of difference between hockey on ice and underwater - aside, of course, from the length of the sticks and the playing field.

Granted, everything will seem to be in slow motion while under a pool. But it is in this very fact where the game’s real challenge lies. No player can hold his or her breath forever, and as such, underwater hockey forces one to constantly rise to the surface of the pool during gameplay. As Meyan asserts, “Timing is very important. You need to know when to be at the bottom of the pool and when to be on the surface. You have to be able to hold your breath, handle the puck, protect it, and think - all at the same time. Of course, it is also essentially a team sport.”

More Filipinos than ever are starting to take notice. PUHC was born sixteen years ago, and now it is fully recognized by the Philippine Olympic Committee and an affiliate of the Philippine Sports Commission. There are also affiliates in Bacolod, Angeles City, and Davao, and games are now being played regularly at the pools in La Salle Greenhills, PhilSports Arena (formerly ULTRA), and the AFP Armypool in Fort Bonifacio.

“It’s for everyone - you don’t even have to be a good swimmer in order to play underwater hockey. You just need to be comfortable in the water,” Meyan notes. “When you start, it’s a little frustrating because your movement can be awkward. But regardless of strength or size or speed, you’ll soon learn to position yourself, adjust with your team, use the fins, and maybe even make the puck fly.”

This learning process is a beauty to behold. As Meyan and her team put on their gear by the ULTRA swimming poolside, the evening grows cold and breezy. But the players brave the eight o’clock chill. As the action commences underneath, one is treated to an aquarium’s view of sorts - athletes turn and flip and move with unbelievable grace. Indeed, the sport is poetry in riveting underwater motion. And this only reflects what’s in store for PUHC members and their shared passion in the next several years.

“Hopefully, with our training - fitness, endurance, and game - we can join the World Championships soon. Filipinos, after all, are blessed with the potential to become very good underwater hockey players. So I wouldn’t be surprised if the sport becomes really big here.”

The rest of the country wouldn’t be, either. And that’s withstanding Wikipedia and broken nose anecdotes.

For more information on underwater hockey and the PUHC, visit the official website at http://www.puhc.com.ph/, or contact Nikki Navarro via phone (0917-8902330).

Have you read any Paul Theroux? One of the American writer’s more recent novels is Kowloon Tong, a story about a forty-something Brit who has lived all his life in Hong Kong, and whose escapades include being “entertained” in dark clubs by a Filipina from Manila named Baby.

Following is a passage from the novel, chosen for its description of Manila:

Luz (Baby’s friend) was from Manila, city of bangers and jitneys. They were single-minded, and credulous, and you could never please them, and that was why a million was meaningless, just funny money.

Here’s another:

He considered this (going to Manila) in an idle way, inventing a life, hypothesizing his moves, from arriving there and meeting someone like Baby, to raising children and perhaps starting a business. He got that far and then became obscurely anxious – was it the children or was it everything he had heard about the Philippines, the danger and dog-eating and disorder?

I do not know what to think. What do you? Mr. Theroux’s image of Manila is not inaccurate, but it certainly isn’t complete. I, for one, have not eaten and will never eat my Japanese Spitz. So I do hope that any one of our realist fictionists would soon offer a magnified glimpse of our city, its sights and sounds: from the enchanted, to the ugly, both the beautiful and the honest. Just like how Lino Brocka depicted old Manila in his films.

By the way, Mr. Theroux kind of looks like Orhan Pamuk, don’t you think?

Day Two

7:28 a.m.: The day starts at a more reasonable time, seven, just after sun-up. But a longer day might be in store. Bob and John are surveying the map, while I stare at a Nokia mobile phone –charging– on a stool beside our table. It was left behind by a man in a United Nations shirt who had been the fourth customer that morning in the lobby of Metro Ipil Mandarin Hotel in Zamboanga Sibugay, and who drove off in a red pickup with United Nations stickers on its doors. Bob’s eyes catch the mobile phone. “See,” he says, “if either John or I steals that phone the wronged owner would still point at Migs. I’m American, John is British, and Migs is Filipino.” Bob is right. The owner does come back moments later; he looks quite relieved at the sight of his phone, still charging and still on a stool.

10:01 a.m.: This is what I’ll remember from Dipolog City: its foreshore boulevard. Having driven from Ipil to Zamboanga del Norte, we stop here to take some video footage. From the al fresco seats of nearby food kiosks one could hear the sound of Sulu Sea’s waves crashing against an evenly-paved esplanade. Surfer’s waves, maybe stronger, crashing, then ebbing, then crashing again. The locals are casting their fishing poles into the water to sustain the city’s reputation as the Bottled Sardines Capital of the Philippines. Their shirts are dancing with the sea breeze. It’s a commercially humbler scene than when I go to, say, the bay walk at the periphery of ostentatious SM Mall of Asia in Manila – but it’s much more tranquil here. Makes me wonder what else I’ve been missing.

1:19 p.m.: Bob ate rice, as did John. It was such a surprise. On Chowking’s menu there was this extremely spicy Beef Chao Fan meal, which we had ordered at the fast food restaurant’s branch here in gritty Osamis City, Misamis Occidental – a place where tricycle drivers have had their rest schedules painted on the back of their vehicles (“Days Off: Tuesdays”). Now, our spice-craving stomachs fully satisfied, we wait at the RoRo facility for the ferry that will take us to Lanao del Norte. “Can we bring our cameras and computers with us?” I ask Bob, thinking that the Nissan Adventure would have to be parked here as we’re transported by the ship to our destination. How frightfully stupid of me: RoRo stands for “roll-on/roll-off”, an arrangement in which the ferry is designed to carry wheeled cargo. Such as trucks. Such as trailers. Such as cars with two white men in it, and an ignorant man from the city.

3:47 p.m.: Happiness is a thirty-minute ferry ride from one unfamiliar Mindanao province to another. The wind is blowing furiously. Storm clouds have gathered above to provide the backdrop of this beautiful landscape painting. They look like thick dirty cotton buds curled round the half-visible, half-green, halfway-towards-licking-the-sky mountains of Lanao del Norte. To cut off this terribly romantic Titanic moment, a sharp, chilly splash of water slaps my face wet.

7:33 p.m.: After a long drive from the seaport to Lanao del Norte’s former capital, Iligan City, Bob, John and I find ourselves here inside cosy Gilee’s Cafe on San Miguel Street. A sumptuous dinner after an exhausting day – though I did catch some winks while at the backseat (much to Bob and John’s chagrin). We were welcomed and are now accompanied by Bob’s gracious friends: freelance photojournalist and coffee connoisseur Bobby Timonera, French-American Marc de Piloenc and his wife Sharon, and the restaurant’s owner, who is a Swiss expat named – well, Gilee. I listen quietly to the conversations being made in this formidably interracial gathering. They are all sharing their views on American Idol, homosexuality, driver’s license pictures, Iligan’s famous waterfalls, the city’s thriving steel and cement industries, and the nuances of living as an expat in as misunderstood an area as Mindanao. “I might come back here very soon to stay a few days – not just a few hours,” proclaims John. “The city is clean and beautiful, and –contrary to the warnings of my friends– Iligan doesn’t seem dangerous at all.” Outside, happy groups of young Iliganons walk the lamp-lit asphalt streets and take advantage of the numbered summer nights. And then my Persian kebab on pasta arrives.

11:26 p.m.: The lovely bittersweet taste of coffee still lingers in my mouth as I write this in our room at P450-a-night, Wi-Fi-ready Famous Pension House. You see, after dinner, Bobby had taken our group to his exquisitely furnished Iligan City home for cups of brewed and a dose of Filipino hospitality. There were plenty of choices: Monk’s Blend from Bukidnon? Acclaimed beans from Sagada? Yemeni? Not that we needed perking up; though exhausted and heavy-eyed from such a long journey, I am wide awake now – to the beauty that lies outside of Manila. Dangerous as this may sound to others, I think I’m falling in love with Mindanao.

Day One

4:07 a.m.: It’s early Sunday morning, and the sun hasn’t yet risen. I’m in the back seat of Bob Martin’s blue Nissan Adventure – perhaps the most appropriate vehicle for this particular trip. I’ve extended my stay in beautiful Davao City and excitedly accepted an invitation to go on a three-day road tour of Mindanao with Bob and fellow LiP columnist John Grant, who has taken the passenger seat in front. It should be an eye-opener for a Manila city rat like me, this Kerouacian journey, but right now not even the nasty motorcycle accident that we stumble upon on Diversion Road can keep me awake. Neither can the soundtrack of songs by Cat Stevens, Chicago, and Boston. I need coffee, even if it’s durian coffee.

7:31 a.m.: So this is Cotabato. My first impressions of this province have been caricatured by news reports and editorials on local papers: bombing stories, violent episodes of rebellion, pictures of armed Muslims in intimidating skullcaps and colour-coded scarves, all of them at the height of their belligerent powers. But today I discover that Cotabato is not as dangerous and unfriendly as its general reputation. On the contrary! The only fears I experience whilst passing through are: Bob potentially running over the cute chickens crossing the mountainous road, unhinging my jaw at the majestic length of Rio Grande de Mindanao, and my committing faux pas in encounters with surprisingly friendly Muslims. The scenery is luscious and green, like a golf course, with no holes, stretching to infinity.

10:18 a.m.: After rolling past Pikit, Pagcawayan, Sultan Kudarat, and a long line of some of the tallest coconut trees I’ve ever seen in my life, we arrive at Parang, Maguindanao. Bob says something about this being the site of Camp Abubakar but John and I are too busy looking at the crowded wet market. A man in fatigues is directing the flow of the traffic. On the muddy street (there’s a slight drizzle), hoards of vendors are drying fish and plying their trade in Bisaya. We find more of these vendors as we stop at a cemented bay walk that fronts the Moro Sea, across which we’re offered a glimpse of the hills of Lanao del Sur. This does not look at all like urban Manila. Am I still in the same country?

1:40 p.m.: Bob missed the Jollibee in Pagadian, Zamboanga del Sur’s capital city. The next one is in Ipil, Zamboanga Sibugay province, over a hundred kilometres away. Amazing, though, how the restaurant chain has reached these far-flung areas, and how opportune their roadside advertisements are for travellers looking for something to eat. “At least with Jollibee we know what we’re going to get,” Bob says. John concurs. Not that any of us are hungry. Feyma Martin, Bob’s wife, had sent us off with Tupperware boxes containing delightful home-made treats: carrot muffins and banana biscuits spotted with raisins. John and I help ourselves but Bob insists on consuming brown, sloppy Dodol; he bought it an hour and a half ago, this odd-looking, odder-smelling sort of Muslim delicacy which, had Bob not eaten it so willingly before our eyes, I think the producers of Fear Factor would otherwise love to feed their contestants.

6:16 p.m.: Earlier, as we drove in to get our Jollibee fix for dinner, I noticed that there were motorbikes everywhere. Pedicabs. Festively-coloured buntings that hung from telegraph wires. And, along the sidewalk, barbecue grills with pork intestines and chicken feet on sticks. I come from Manila where these sights aren’t rare, but everything here felt strange and seemed beautiful, as in a pleasant dream. No place to sit down for a cup of coffee, though; even Julie’s Bakeshop ran out of sachets of 3-in-1. The young men and women outside had looked at my companions curiously: what are these two white men doing here with a scrawny boy in a fuchsia shirt (pink being politically incorrect)? “Joe! Joe!” called out some of them, warmly welcoming our group to their municipality. Several passersby, presuming I was Bob and John’s “cicerone”, tried to talk to me in Bisaya but I could not understand a word. Funny, that among the three of us, it was me who had the least bit of idea of where we really were. I did take note of the place in which we’ll be staying for the night: Metro Ipil Mandarin Hotel. (Inexpensive, such as hotels in Manila never are.) It’s where I am typing this. The sun has set, and it’s raining heavily outside. We’re all safe, but tired, and I’m sleepy again. Still, tomorrow shall renew Mindanao’s promise of opening my eyes.

(Happy Mother’s Day to you and yours.)

“Bird’s tongue.”

My mother was alluding to how the people in her northern province of Tuguegarao –my province, technically– nicknamed their dialect. She was in a nostalgic repose by the bedside table, where prayer cards and religious icons and scapulars had been scattered. I myself was in a holy disposition, and by that I mean my mouth was shut, my ears were open, and my eyes were looking past the open window and at the dark velvet sky. Midnight was approaching, yet we both knew that the conversation was not to be cut off in the midst of her deep torrent of remembrance.

“Ratata-tata,” mother went on, mimicking the unique chattering tempo in which the Ybanag language was spoken. Like a bird’s tongue indeed – quick pecks of words which were hard to catch, harder to comprehend, and blasphemously complicated to translate. Ratata-tata.

Ybanag, however, was the invariable lexicon during her youth. She said it was what the nuns of St. Paul College used whenever they prayed their rosaries. It was what the conservative high school girls spoke in whenever they murmured and gossiped about new and upcoming films from the West – those that often raised eyebrows and challenged old-fashioned attitudes. Mother should know; she had been one of those girls.

She said: “You know, it was my thirty-year-old Ybanag-speaking cousin who made the advertising rounds in one of those 18th century Spanish calezas (horse carriages), going round the small neighborhood, yelling, in bird’s tongue and at the top of his lungs, that for a mere five pesos an individual would be admitted to watch the double programme screening at the local cinema: ‘Now showing…Hilda Coronel in her first starring role! Double with To Sir With Love!’”

Mother, by the way, loved Sidney Poitier. She first saw him in one of the town’s several dilapidated theaters. It was a place where people brought yesterday’s newspapers to keep the bugs on the seats at bay; where the intense stench was of dry urine and the nearby wet market; where instead of popcorn, viewers would bring slices of green mangoes to eat, plastic bags of fish sauce (or bagoong) to dip those slices into, and warm peanuts, the empty shells of which the familiar faces in the back row would throw recklessly at the audiences seated up front. The provoked would react with sharp hisses in bird’s tongue.

That was way, way back. To pursue her collegiate studies, my mother then moved to Manila – the city, the capital, the hectic life. “Your grandfather would visit from the province every now and then,” she gently explained, without the restless vibe of someone who grew up in a society of Ybanag-speaking people. “In each day of his stay here, we’d go shopping in the malls and stalls of Quiapo. That was where he’d bought all those cheap but elegant leather shoes!” In her voice, I heard mother smile. Of course I didn’t really see because I was looking at the tiny stars above, which suddenly seemed even more splendid.

“And we’d watch movies, too,” as if she only remembered. “There were cinemas in Santa Cruz, in between the busy districts of Tondo and Quiapo. How your grandfather loved those action films!” She turned off the lamp and the night was darker, more sacred.

“Then came The Graduate – I believe you had once asked about it – and with such an interesting plot, I just thought I’d bring my father with me,” she said, barely above a whisper, and which could have sounded as the antithesis of the bird’s tongue. “The film wasn’t even halfway through when your grandfather asked me, ‘My child, my child, what in heaven’s name are you watching?’ As you can imagine, the film caused a lot of controversy when it came out. Even more so here in the Philippines.”

I didn’t think there was anything confessional in my mother’s memory. Parents might be prone to induce guilt on children but not the other way around. In fact, I must say that we both enjoyed her anecdote with silly giggles, giggles contained within the four walls of my mother’s solemnly configured bedroom. After that we kissed each other good night - recognizing that words were not only unnecessary, but also that words, in whatever language, would anyhow be lost in translation.