09.28.06 kulturnatib

Don't forget, don't repeat

When I left for an extended vacation last June, the nation was on a perfunctory celebration of Independence Day.When I returned there was another celebration, a remembrance of the day the entire country was placed under martial law.

My ears were still stuffed from fifteen hours of almost non-stop flying when I joined the celebration organized by the UP Fine Arts Students Organization (UP FASO) and Pusod (The Open Organization of Cebu Visual Artists) at the Outpost restaurant.

My contribution was to have been the screening of the video of the performance piece, 'Silence Kills,' I did at the University of Montreal on the occasion of a forum on the human rights crisis in the Philippines organized by the Human Rights Center of the same university.

This did not push through.The organizers could not find an LCD projector available for use gratis. Some people were able to view it though on the laptop computer monitor. But these were just a few who stayed on after the event.

Instead of the screening I recited a very short couplet by the Punjabi poet, Ustad Daman who wrote it in reaction to the takeover of the Pakistani Army under General Ayub Khan in 1959 whose singular contribution to political science was the justification that, “. . . democracy cannot work in a hot climate. To have democracy we must have a cold climate like Britain.”

Daman wrote: “Now each day is fair and balmy / Wherever you look : the army.”

I got this quote from my transpacific companion, the book, 'The Clash of Fundamentalisms,' by Pakistanihistorian, novelist, activist and filmmaker, Tariq Ali.

Along with my contribution, the UP Serenata sang two songs, Errol 'Budoy' Marabiles also sang his hit, 'M16,'a capella, some other friends and artistic colleagues played music, but the main event for the night was clearly the performance pieces by the UP FASO.

While realizing the need to remind ourselves of the dark days of martial law and how we must struggle againsta repeat of those days, Raymund Fernandez, fine arts professor and advisor of UP FASO, told me in a conversation days after the event that the memorial was an opportunity for the UP FASO to hone their skills in the production of
performance art.

This was part of our preparation for the upcoming MindWorks in December when, as expected, performance art will comprise the bulk of that day's activity, Raymund added. The best works will then have a repeat performance during the World Monggo Day, an annual event organized by Pusod, hopefully the day after MindWorks, he said.

Performance art as an art form is especially suited for the activist bent that UP is known for. The immediacy of its spectacle-like expression and the wide variety of its expressive material and techniques that actively encompass the audience plus a mastery of metaphoric space are elements that UP students and their professors can take the most advantage of with this form. And, this is exactly what they are trying to do.

Still, Raymund says a clear grasp of content is what the students need. The martial law memorial activity served as a good learning opportunity for them as the theme was a historical event and a national experience that even today continues to impact on politics and ideology.

Students played a central role in the opposition to martial rule at that time. Hopefully students, fine arts students among them, will once more play a critical role in the present struggle. On one hand against the militarist tendencies of the current government and the continuing efforts of the ruling administration on the other to stymie all efforts at having a real representative government by cynically manipulating political institutions to serve their own selfish but ultimately destructive interests.

note

one of the advantage of being a kulturnatibist is that you get to read columns unavailable to the general public simply because those columns do not see print. there are many reasons for this but the most common is that they do not get submitted in time. such as the 09.22.06 column. the reason this column did not make the deadline was a confusion on my part about times and dates. i flew in from canada and wrote the column thinking that it was still a tuesday and that i still have plenty of time to make the deadline which is noontime wednesday. in fact, it was already a wednesday and my column missed the train. but all is not lost. you and you alone will still be able to read it. enjoy and maybe write a comment?

09.22.06 kulturnatib

Seeing as yet unseen

As I write, this giant metal bird I ride on is gliding over where the cool Arctic waters flow to the warmer Pacific.

This movement mirrors a parallel development in my immediate or current experience.

First, I am flowing (fleeing, some friend would say – and they would not be incorrect) from the chilling winds of the country that will soon be as white and cold as her Arctic neighbor to the balmer (scorching, some other friends would say – and they would not be incorrect either) climes of the equatorial Pacific.

Then, I am hurrying back from a vacation that has been laid back (as vacations should be) yet with its full share of exciting activity, including and especially artistic ones, to a vocation of art making that, by comparison, will make the upcoming ones a scorcher.

Even now as I write -- actually not long into my vacation -- thoughts of art making has never been far away and, more so now, they jostle for attention with the words that tumble into the computer screen.

A few days before my departure, Raymund Fernandez confirmed the plans. Yes, he wrote, there will be a remember Martial Law activity on the 21st. I forget the rather longish title or theme now, but it will be an activity of artists remembering Martial Law and, more importantly, saying Never Again!

At the same time, and more critically, the activity will strongly demand that the summary killings of petty criminals or said-to-be criminals in the local level and established leftist activists in the national level be stopped immediately, investigated thoroughly and punished with dispatch.

Raymund's letter said that there could be two venues, though he is sure only with one. The Outback and Kahayag Cafes' were mentioned as being the possible ones with the former's owner already committed to host.

By the time this sees print, the activity will have taken place. Exactly what that will have been will be difficult to say with any precision except where I am concerned.

My contribution to this event will be the screening of, hopefully, two videos of recent performances, though only one will have direct relevance to the theme.

This will be the 'Silence Kills' video of the performance of the same title at the University of Montreal. The other one will be the 'Bird In My Head, Song Of My Heart' performance at the Centre sur la diversite culturelle et les pratique solidaires (Cedisol) meeting in Gatineau,Quebec.

Only the more practical exigencies of having the proper screening equipment available for use remain to be resolved or secured for this. It will be both easy and difficult depending on how ready the organizers are and how determined they are to aim or settle for maximum impact.

What occupies me now, however, is the question or desire to come up with another performance.

Will I be able to do it? Will I have the time? The energy? The resources?

Yes, of course, is the desirable answer.

Writing this piece is a step of faith; of believing without seeing, of seeing through believing.

By the time you read this, you will or will not have seen something that, in the end, would have or have not been ready to be seen though no less pressing should the latter prevail.

Your faith, too, would have been as important.

09.14.06 kulturnatib

Birdsong

"Are you playing the guitar for your performance?", Loic asked. We were in his car returning home from a trip to Steve's Music Store. There he had a recently bought guitar repaired and his old guitar looked at.

Loic is a recent friend who plays the guitar, owned a jazz club in his native Benin, Africa, and works as a computer teacher, web and graphic designer by day.

He was simply putting two and two together. He knew my interest in guitars and I had just invited him to a performance piece I had been invited or, more accurately, given permission to perform in a weeks time after that trip.

As a musician he, more than most, would immediately think of a performance as something musical or theatrical.

But, like most, he probably hadn't been exposed enough to performance art which, more than other artistic styles or genres of the visual arts continues to expand in scope as much in its definitions as its practice.

I tried to explain as best I could what my performance was going to be. Before proceeding, however, I cautioned him that such explanation is at best provisional since one of the main elements of a performance is its site specificity.

The details of a performance is determined to a large extent by the specific conditions of the site where the performance happens, the most important among which would be the size of the audience (usually small), the size of the performance area and the extent or direction of the development of the artistic concept of the performance.

This differentiates performance art from all other visual arts genres or styles. The work is almost never developed in full until it begins and ends. And then, sometimes, not even. A similar performance can continue to develop depending on, again, the specifics of site, thematic or content currency or, simply, a different or the same artist developing further the artistic concept.

This puzzled him until I said that performance art was not unlike a musical jam where musicians improvise on a musical theme and constantly listens to the other musicians for cues on how the whole musical piece proceeds or otherwise ends.

Ah, he says, but to appreciate a good jam, its best for one to be present. I smiled. I couldn't have said it better. Just the same, I told him, music is an integral part of my performance.

Performance day rolls around and there he was with his partner, Amélie and another handful who comprised the audience. The event was a meeting of the Centre sur la diversité culturelle et les pratiques solidaires (CEDISOL), an immigrant integration and solidarity NGO based in Gatineau, Quebec.

The performance consisted of, first, the distribution of the artist statement titled, Bird In My Head, Song Of My Heart, which is also the title of the performance piece. Then I had eight people write their names on Philippine passport facsimiles which were arranged, as each were written with the names, in a circle approximating the eight compass points.

A chair was then brought in and placed in the middle of this circle. I then entered wearing a suit case head gear with the world map painted on it. After dancing around the passport circle a few times, I stepped in the circle and sat on the chair.

A minute later I took off the headgear, set it down and from a bag took out a home made megaphone. At the mouth end was a whistle attached to a paper strip that unrolled through the sound amplifying end when air was blown into it which also made the whistle sound.

One after the other I took the passports, climbed up the chair, stood, held the open passport in front of me and, facing the direction from where I took the passports, started blowing several times on the whistle as the paper bird proceeded to unravel and roll back.

After this I sat for another minute on the chair. Then, i got up, upended the chair and took off a plastic covering on the two rear legs of the chair to reveal a full bird on a board similar in design to the bird on the megaphone. Then I walked out with the suitcase.

Every traveller, whether they are immigrating or simply touring, always bring with them something of what they have left behind. This is the complex that is recognized as identity. Immediately, in the hands of a bureaucrat or an immigration official it is packaged into a document, a passport or a visa for exclusion or inclusion. For the wider community it is a set of prejudices or labels, dictating rejection or acceptance.

Every step across any border is an act of both acceptance and challenge. Acceptance that what one brings must be given voice. And the challenge that all voices must be sung, must be heard, despite or because of the difficulties.

That was the exhibit statement. That was what, I suppose, Loic was smiling at.

apologies

i have just realized that i have republished or reposted 5 columns. columns 6.29 to 7.27. as soon as i realized this, i deleted them. but, checking my own box that receives my own posts -- exactly for these situations; for purposes of checking -- the posts, even while deleted still got sent. you would have received the same. please disregard them. sorry, they are unnecessarily clogging your boxes. still, i have learned something from this mistake. i have also learned or realized that i have not been consistent with my post headings. i should hold to the mm.dd.yy format which if i remember correctly i started implementing only with the last post or the post of 09.07.06. hopefully, like technology, i shall get better at this. your comments can also help me improve. again, salamat for your forbearance. you should get the next post, 09.14.06 within the next day or two.

09.07.06 kulturnatib

Not all homecomings are happy

One of the most haunting works of art of the 20th century done by one of the most towering artists ever is the Guernica by Pablo Picasso. While incorporating many symbolisms that are associated uniquely with Picasso, this work that depicts the horror of the first experiment of aerial bombardment of a Basque town in northern Spain by the burgeoning Nazi war machine with its Spanish ally Franco, stands as a universal image of humanity's recoil in the face of war.

While some art critics are of the opinion that Picasso's works were beyond political contingencies or ideologies, Picasso remains among the most quoted of the modern artists in calling on the artists to wield their art in the service of humanity.

"What do you think an artist is? An imbecile who has only eyes . . . How could it be possible to feel no interest in other people, and with a cool indifference to detach yourself from the very life which they bring to you so abundantly? No, painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war."

The above quote by Picasso appears in the exhibit poster of Art Against War, a visual art exhibit at the Cube Gallery in Ottawa.

This exhibit was organized to manifest the artists' solidarity immediately with the victims of the recent Israeli attack on Lebanon that has resulted in numerous deaths of Lebanese civilians and a lesser number of Israeli civilians killed in rocket counterattacks by Hezbollah in that month-long flare up of violence in the Middle East.

More concretely, the exhibit was also a fundraising event for Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders), the France-based, international humanitarian aid organization who were among the first to rush to assist the victims of the attacks amid difficult conditions including the total blockade imposed by the Israelis and the targeting of clearly marked emergency and aid vehicles.

Though short on exhibit time and space -- the exhibit lasted for only four days in a gallery roughly 20 by 10 meters in size -- it was long in participants and guests. The exhibit attracted upwards of 120 artists and guests of over 1,000 with some 200 who attended the opening and more than a handful even during the last day when the works were being taken down.

I was among the participants. I submitted a sculpture piece. Made of corrugated carton, the sculpture is a facsimile of an oversized suitcase; the maleta favored by OFWs.

Instead of leather, leatherette or some PVC based hard shell material, this maleta was wrapped in newspaper facsimile of the front pages of national dailies whose banner and secondary stories were of the forced evacuations of OFWs from Lebanon - downloaded from the internet and printed on newsprint.

For visual impact, the banners or headlines were given more prominence but with closer inspection, snippets of stories can be read. For maximum impact however, pictures were also afforded prime real estate.

A red faux-silk robe jutted out of one bottom corner of the suitcase hinting at a harrowing and hurried escape.

The work is entitled, "Not All Homecomings Are Happy."

Having been an OFW once, I know that homecomings are a most looked forward to event in an OFWs life. But, I also know from recollections of colleagues who went through the first Gulf War, that forced homecomings are never happy, especially when such homecoming is to be facilitated by a government who, while praising them as heroes, treat them no better than milking cows.

The most recent crisis in Lebanon is, of course, precipitated by a foreign government whose attack is condemnable in the strongest terms, yet, practicing charity that best starts at home, blame should be laid on the steps of our government whose treatment of OFWs are always a crisis in waiting.

notice to kulturnatibists

salamat that some of you have responded to the invitation to be with the kulturnatibists egroup.

more than a simple thank you note, this post will test whether the distributive/dispersive feature through email of blogger works.

though hope has nothing to do with technology -- except for murphy's law, its a sure thing, diba? --, im hoping that this will work as advertised and further that our other friends that have been invited as well will respond to the invation soon, as you have.

here's hoping that all is well with all of us.

ps. you can start posting your comments also. salamat

8.31.06 kulturnatib

Andy Warhol

I don't remember now why I was there but I can't forget what I saw when I got there. I had just arrived in Manila to try out the proverbial greener pasture on the other side of the fence. I was boarding at a house on campus, in UP Diliman, Quezon City. I think I had been asked to do or get something at the College of Fine Arts. So, I went.

At this time the College of Fine Arts was still at the third floor of the Arts and Sciences Library. It was midmorning. There were few students about. Though I was told to expect the worse of what is always known to be the weirdest college in the entire university, I was totally unprepared.

There was no weirdness. Only ghostly silence accompanied with bond paper signs hastily scribbled with pentel pen and scotch-taped on the stairways all the way to the third floor that said: WARHOL IS DEAD.

Almost two decades after his death, Warhol has come alive for me as he never had in all my years of art school in an exhibit at the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto, titled, "Andy Warhol/Supernova: Stars, Death and Disasters,1962-1964."

In art school then, as it is mostly now, a class in art history is exclusively a study of western art right up to the American movements. As happened, we had less than a semester left to take up this period. Warhol is among the central figures at this point.

When he appears on the scene, the western art world's shift to New York is all but completed and the nascent American imperial triumphalism is facing challenges abroad, in Vietnam, and domestically, in the civil rights and then the anti-Vietnam war movement.

While affirming some of what we learned about Warhol at that time, this exhibit introduced the deeper cultural influences that contributed to his work.

The crucial element that we missed in school was Warhol's film work. This provides the critical link in the development of the silkscreen, mass production, collaborative, appropriative technique of Warhol's paintings.

Canadian filmmaker David Cronenberg, guest curator for this exhibit, makes this point trenchantly by juxtaposing the films with the paintings. Incidentally, he also narrates the audio tour of the exhibit, with contributions from actor Dennis Hopper and others who were witness to and sometimes subjects for Warhol's works of this period.

Cronenberg makes the observation that Warhol's multiple silk-screened images, especially the ones with the silver or white backgrounds mimic film's picture frames. Far from being static or mere duplications, no two images in Warhol's works are the same.

It is only fitting then that the exhibit opens with the film 'Empire.' This is Warhol's infamous eight-hour-and-five-minute-long movie that features nothing but the uppermost part -- the most famous -- of the Empire State building in New York at night.

Right away, one sees the beginnings of the themes that informed Warhol's art: celebrity, fame, commodity and tragedy.

At this time, the Empire State dominated the New York skyline, the brightest star in New York's firmament. Warhol would aspire to be as that star. Along the way, as the exhibit shows, he created his own star system with himself in the middle of it all, strangely with his very absence, or his voyeuristic presence.

Naturally, Warhol also gravitated towards Hollywood, the pre-eminent American star factory. He did this not by becoming an actor but by appropriating images of famous stars -- Elizabeth Taylor, most notably -- and recasting these images in the way that confirms or extends the commodification of those same stars as art, as a result blurring to the point of erasing the line between entertainment and art.

Also featured in this exhibit are some works that are taken from newspaper pictures -- like, indeed, many of Warhol's images -- of the brutal dispersal of protestors during a civil rights march in Alabama, USA.

But, as Cronenberg explains, these, to Warhol, were simply another time-bound record of the tragic and not a social comment. Warhol wasn't into this. This was not his art.

While Warhol continues to provide a critical element to the understanding of American art, it should be noted that American art has moved on beyond New York and the blatant and extremely profitable narcissism of that period, even as in many places, it should be added, art continues to be nothing more than entertaining commodity.

8.24.06 kulturnatib

Diverse city

Outside the window is a balloon. It is anchored atop the bank directly across the street. It is the kind that we are getting more familiar with as such promotional gimmicks or materials become more common in our native cityscape.

This balloon is most appropriate for the event that it is promoting. On one side it says Ville de Gatineau. On the other, Festival de Mongolfieres de Gatineau.

Montgolfieres are hot air balloons originally developed by the Mongolfiere brothers in 1783 in France. During the festival that celebrates this pioneering invention, the skies above Gatineau will be dotted with these colorful, stately, large and ponderous aircrafts.

But, last weekend, this balloon was a solitary presence in our patch of sky of Gatineau. It was also the sole provider of color against a gray sky pregnant with rain.

In another part of the city, however, was another festival. Amidst the cold wind and the off and on rains was a determined group celebrating another human invention; definitely earthbound but fueled no less by the lofty dreams of multiculturalism and diversity worn in the riot of colors of national flags, costumes, arts, crafts and solidarity and development organizations.

Organized by the city of Gatineau the Journee Gatinoise de la Celebration de la Diversity Culturelle is, I was made to understand, a recent -- only on its second year -- initiative of the city and various immigrant, solidarity and development organizations to celebrate the contributions of immigrants towards multiculturalism, diversity and a better understanding of the wider mostly third world outside the city gates.

When we arrived at the L'école Secondaire Mont-Bleu where the festival was held, the football tournament with two simultaneous games in adjacent fields was in progress. On the storm wire fence of one field hung the flags of the participating immigrant country teams.

Not surprisingly, of the Asian groups, two of the Asian football powerhouses were represented -- Japan and South Korea. The rest were flags of countries that were also mostly represented in the recently concluded World Cup in Germany.

Not surprisingly, too, was the smattering of languages spoken and sung that continues to convince me that global English is a chimera and that world music is infinitely more interesting than the top 40, payola-fueled music that is the listening diet served up by our local radio.

While the games were on-going, the other parts of the celebration were setting-up. We were there for a local NGO, the Centre sur la Diversite et Pratiques Solidaires or Cedisol with some fair trade and organic chocolates for sale. This humble offering shared the table with some very fine glass costume jewelry crafted by an Argentinian couple, of whom, Amanda is board member of Cedisol.

Because of the rains, some of the activities, such as the kiosks, had to be pulled into the covered tents. So that Cedisol, together with some other solidarity and immigrant service organizations had to share the space that was later also the performance stage for the folk dances and other cultural performances.

As this stage was being set up, I took the opportunity to make myself useful. I offered to help with the sound equipment. I introduced myself to Tito Medina who was hauling in speakers, monitors, mixers, CD players, etc.

In between uncoiling cable, positioning speakers, connecting wires and plugging-in connectors, we talked. I learned that the he was a signer-songwriter, the sound equipment was part of his sound studio recording business and he is Guatemalan, an exile who was forced to immigrate as a political refugee three years ago and whose elder brother, a writer, was kidnapped and is among the thousands of Guatemalan desaperecidos (disappeared).

Soon after the sound equipment were in place, the festival officially started at the main tent with a Chinese dragon dance. The mayor followed with a welcome speech praising this initiative.

As the smallest of the four main cities of Quebec Province, but the one closest to the Canadian capital of Ottawa, Gatineau has a stake in becoming the banner waver for multiculturalism and diversity in a country that continues to view Quebec's Francophilia as excessive if not threatening to national unity.

The folk dances followed. In that batch were Irish, Egyptian, Algerian and Serbian dancers. Another batch was set to perform after an hour's break.

Unfortunately, we could not stay on for that. It had started to rain again. We had no car. The bus stop was maybe half a kilometer away. We had a small umbrella. But somebody offered us a ride.

In the car, as a smattering of French, English and Spanish bounced about, I thought: there is the strength of a country, being able to welcome difference, diversity, to celebrate it, encourage it and even to be a haven for those whose difference are considered crimes in their own countries. This is my kind of globalization.

8.17.06 kulturnatib

Beaches

Having been in Canada for several weeks now, I no longer experience the comparison reflex. Before arriving here I was well aware that this is a huge country, that it has an extensive and well-maintained road network – for which, incidentally, because of the vagaries of the seasons, much maintenance work is done precisely at the time when most people take to the roads, making such travel sometimes unpleasant; that its supermarkets are well stocked; that its museums and galleries are well established; that people here follow the rules, traffic rules, scrupulously; that the trains arrive on time.

Yet, being simply aware is much different from being in the middle of it. Thus, the reflex, which led to the conclusion – the resignation, really – that there is no comparison. So what? I thought. Life continues, I argued, and it doesn’t have to be and probably is better not being the same.

This I thought or forgot about until I was invited to go to the beach. Beach? Aha, I thought rather triumphantly. Now here is where comparison reflex would be handy.

At first, I had to deal with some culture- or geography-bound prejudice. Upon hearing the word beach’ mentioned for the first time, I was unbelieving. It took a bike trip on a path that meandered along with a river where at some point I saw a group of adults and children congregating and bathing along the riverbank that did look like a beach for me to relent. Granted. The dictionary definition for beach, after all, is, the shore of a body of water, especially when sandy or pebbly. That is certainly what it looked liked.

But then it took an invitation to experience such a beach up close and the reflex got more bounce. This invitation to go swimming in a lake was followed last week by another invitation to go swimming in a river.

This really is neither surprising nor uncommon. Canada is a land of lakes – some two million – and rivers that make up about nine percent of the total land mass. Such bodies of water and their beaches are never far away and there probably is not much more other than these.

Both experiences were much the same. The shore is indeed sandy or pebbly, but they extend only few meters before the waterline and stretch across by not much more. Then it can get mucky or sludgy, perfect home to aquatic plants. In the river, their tendrils tugged at my legs – a most unpleasant experience. The water is cold. Closer to shore it is copper colored while at deeper depths it is a dark ale at full strength. Visibility is a misty shroud that, at sunset, lifts, making for an eerie, forbidding beauty.

And our tropical beaches, of which there are a few along our 32,000-km coastline?
I was going to leave it at that, at that point of triumphal understatement, when I happened upon the most recent issue of the weekly New Scientist. The cover story was titled, “The Other CO2 Problem.”

So far, most of the focus on the global warming and climate change studies that are now just gaining grudging acceptance even with the most conservative personalities in the anti-Kyoto/anti-carbon emission cutbacks camp – tele-evangelist Pat Robertson being the most recent convert – has been on the rising sea levels with the accelerated melting of the polar caps. This will and already is beginning to affect Pacific island countries and territories.

The New Scientist article focuses on the increased acidification of the oceans soaking up carbon dioxide, identifying it as “the other CO2 problem.” Carbonic acid is formed when it dissolves in water, and recent studies show that the oceans have absorbed as much as a third of all the fossil-fuel carbon released into the atmosphere since the beginning of the industrial revolution.

In 2003, a paper on nature by Ken Caldeira and Michael Wickett introduced the phrase “ocean acidification” in scientific literature for the first time. In 2005, the UK’s Royal Society published the first comprehensive report on ocean acidification, concluding: “ocean acidification is inevitable without drastic cuts in carbon emissions. Marine ecosystems, especially coral reefs, are likely to be badly affected, with fishing and tourist industries based around the reefs losing billions of dollars each year.”

The article, as expected, makes for very heavy scientific reading with time frames in the hundreds of decades. Yet, James Orr of the Laboratory of Sciences and Climate and Environment in France puts it plainly, “Our children will no longer be able to see the amazingly beautiful things that we can. I tell my son, go see the corals now because soon it will be too late.”

Shouldn’t we be telling ourselves and our children the same?

8.10.06 kulturnatib

Our Indians

Most of us know about Indians. Not the ones who live near the Indian Ocean, although we would also know about them and probably with the same degree of familiarity or ignorance as we do with those other Indians.

These Indians were the Reds who fought and were always clobbered by the Whites, the cowboys. Both were the antipodal pair who, when I was growing up, were part of the repertoire of shoot-up games boys played.

Two weeks ago I wanted to write about Indians. Not the Indians of the mostly American Plains that inspired those boyhood games but the other Indians whom we know even less about. These are Indians who live north of the United States, now part of Canadian territory.

I met some of them on two visits. The first was at a protest activity a group of them staged in front of the government building where the Canadian Department of Northern and Indian Affairs have their main offices. The second was at a reservation of the Huron-Wendat tribe near Quebec City. The tribe was also represented in the protest activity; I realized that upon seeing their flag, which was among the flags I remember seeing at the protest.

These visits gave me a glimpse of how these people are faring among themselves and within the greater, more dominant “national” group. These, admittedly, were very small and short glimpses that provided not much more than anecdotal experiences and insights.

Yet, they were enough to trigger an unease over my almost complete loss of updated knowledge about, and concern for, our own “Indians,” the indigenous tribes, mostly in Mindanao, that are struggling for survival as a distinct group, which, most immediately and most contentiously, center around recognition and return of ancestral land, domain or territory.

So, I held off writing about those visits. Why would anyone, least of all myself, want to read about these Indians when I know next to nothing about how our own indigenous groups are faring?

But, as serendipity would have it, I was led to a visit to what I was embarrassed to not knowing much or not keeping a tab on: the struggle of our own indigenous peoples.

At the National Gallery of Canada, I visited the exhibit of the Governor General’s Awards in Visual and Media Arts. This year’s awardees included Peter Wintonick, an internationally known documentarist and filmmaker.

In this exhibit, clips representative of his works were on show. One of these was “Seeing is Believing: Human Rights, Handicams and the News.” The excerpt from this film that was shown was of the Nakamata Coalition, a coalition of ten small indigenous tribes who are legally and peacefully struggling to reclaim their land under the 1997 Indigenous Peoples Rights Act.

The short clip features Joey Lozano, a journalist and human rights activist, turning over a Handycam to the coalition in a ritual that was common among the member tribes when presented with an important gift. This included the slaughter of a white cock and the smearing of its blood on the camera and its peripheral equipment.

The clip also features interviews of some of the tribal chiefs present and of Joey Lozano. The interview is in Bisaya, music to my ears, as the cliché goes. The accompanying English subtitles, though, make some minor mistake – major among them is identifying the place of the interview and the ritual as taking place in Bukinon. It is Bukidnon, of course.

This led me to a further visit, as many visits now take place, to cyberspace. And, as happens with many things in the Philippines, it led to both good and bad news.

The Nakamata Coalition continues with their struggle with the help and support of local and international groups and individuals who have armed them with the technological capacity to further their claims, which includes that Handycam and some GPS (Global Positioning System) instruments that can map out their territorial claims more accurately.

Unfortunately or inevitably, rather, this led to the death of two of its members, gunned while on a GPS survey, the case of which is part of the film, and which, when shown to the NBI, led to the slow grind of justice.

Lozano, likewise, couldn’t dodge bad news. After years of eluding death threats for his investigative reports against the powerful, he succumbed last year to cancer.

Still, his struggle continues, as does the struggle of many indigenous populations fighting discrimination, loss of land, and their ways of living that many now recognize as significantly more harmonious with nature at this time when nature is under siege.

8.3.06 kulturnatib

An accident

Bronson Avenue is the first street here I became acquainted with, next to the street that is my official vacation address. Like most tourists, or first timers, I was led to this acquaintance by the mother of invention. I was needing a bike and the way to get to the bike shops -- cheap second hands -- was through Bronson Avenue, which, on that search, I walked, perhaps, half of its length.

Bronson Avenue also intersects through Catherine Street, where the intercity bus terminal is located. Last week, I had to get to this terminal to purchase tickets, on the bike that I bought in a shop also along Catherine Street, a few blocks near the terminal.

Earlier on, I didn't think I was going to be able to do this. It was raining. The sky was a heavy overcast, and the radio predicted what we already knew. But, by midmorning, the sky had opened up, the sun peeked out and I was all too happy to hop on the bike.

I thought this was going to be a fast trip. The terminal is less than three kilometers away and getting there through Bronson Avenue was quite straightforward. But, I was slowed down.

First, there was a long line at the bus ticket counter and only two counter windows were open. Then, there was an accident.

Going into Bronson Avenue from the south east entry point is a three way intersection. Two of these roads can go right and upwards towards Bronson, but can also cross it to Slater Street.

I was approaching the slope towards this intersection at a decreased speed. The traffic light was changing. I was thinking whether to turn right to Slater or just go straight, when I heard a voice behind me, yelling, "go ahead, go ahead." The light had turned red.

I stopped.

The voice, on another bike, i found out soon enough, did not. He zoomed past me, on my right hand side, and slammed into a crossing cab, the driver of which, realizing that this other guy was zooming right through, had the look on his face that said, oh no, this guy can't be serious.

He wasn't. He only smashed the front passenger side window of the cab, dented the right side rear passenger door, caused a traffic jam, delayed my return trip but, good for him, kicked the public emergency response system into full gear. Immediately.

This included, soon after impact, a woman who had been at the corner driveway unloading stuff, who immediately went to the victim's side as he lay crumpled on the road and authoritatively instructed the others who had come around not to move him. She was also asking for someone to call 911. The driver of a metro bus that was crossing the same intersection a few seconds behind the cab, had apparently done so as soon as he saw the accident. Still, a few had their cellphones out.

While the woman continued to attend to the victim, asking if he was able to move his toes, if he had difficulty breathing, etc., the familiar sound of an approaching siren was heard. I checked my watch: 10:38. More or less five minutes after my last time check soon after the accident.

I wasn't surprised that soon an emergency vehicle came into view, but I was surprised that it was a big one. It was a fire truck with its full complement of personnel in full battle gear, as it were.

They realized that they were overmatched for the emergency at hand, but they were not totally useless. Their truck became an effective blocking vehicle making traffic control easier. Not much later, they were joined by a paramedic car, three police cars and lastly, an ambulance.

This scene is familiar to us from the movies and television but, one thing struck me as I watched this live scene. As the paramedics were attending to the victim, putting on a neck brace, strapping him onto a stretcher, etc., one of the paramedical attendants took out from the equipment box a fresh linen sheet to put over the gurney. It might not be a proven pain killer, but I bet that young man was thankful enough for that small grace.

I proceeded soon after the ambulance left and after being interviewed by a police officer who also talked to the cab driver and the bus driver as we were the closest eyewitnesses.

Accidents have a way of making one take account of one's self; I was being a careful biker, I was using the appropriate safety gear and, most important of all, I had received email from my travel agent, before I left that morning, that the extension of my insurance coverage had been approved.

7.27.06 kulturnatib

Not hot

Recently, I heard that, of Canada's population, 1 percent are of Filipino origin and that the Philippines is the number 4 source immigrants into the country, behind China, India and, not too far ahead, Pakistan.

I heard this among a multinational group of friends, of whom only one was a native Quebecoise, two were Colombians, another one was French from Paris, then myself.

The conversation circled around travel and immigration, subjects not far off in any casual conversation with such a group that also gets together for another of their favorite subjects -- food.

In fact, we were waiting for food. Or, more correctly, the food was waiting for us in buffet-style trays for buffet only meals, we found out, with the 'only' turning out to be, in true Pinoy style, conditional but which conditions it was impossible to ascertain.

I remember that this conversation echoed a much earlier one in a group in which two of us were non-natives. There was another Filipina, who, not long ago, had become an immigrant and in whose house we had this reunion of erstwhile colleagues -- her husband among them -- from a long time ago in the far off place of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

In that conversation food also figured prominently. It was not only that which we were eating -- the friend's lumpia was getting snapped up as soon as it was cool enough to handle -- but of the Filipino restaurants and groceries and in which neighborhoods they could be found.

None could be found in our neighborhood, we said. There is probably not enough Filipinos in Ottawa to sustain a Filipino restaurant, we reasoned. Ottawa is not Montreal, no one disagreed. Montreal, where all of them are from or now live in, is the most multicultural city in the world. There, at any given time, the subway train is a veritable Tower of Babel on rails.

However, after our return we found out that we were wrong, though we couldn't have known at that time. Somebody said that, driving from her house recently, she saw what looked suspiciously to be a Filipino restaurant. Its sign said, Manila hot, or something, she said.

Ok, we thought, lets get together some friends and check this out. Next time we see our Montreal friends we will have some bit to contribute to the conversation about the continuing Filipino food experience in Canada.

And so there we were; a quintet, at this obviously new Filipino restaurant in Ottawa that this friend who alerted us about must have misread or, I must have misheard about.

It wasn't Manila hot or something. It was Manila Hut or . . . yes, something. But something that one doesn't get too hot about, especially with what restaurants should be hot about for anyone to consider eating or invite other people to eat there -- food.

The food, it must be said, wasn't all that bad. It was acceptable. It compared favorably with some Colombian dishes, the Colombians said. Yet, mostly in the manner of its cooking -- home style. Meaning, -- in any language -- that it's your mother's cooking, you better eat it.

More substantially though, while I can also go for fusion cooking, for reinterpreting a classic dish in a new light, there has to be something that remains of a classic dish to be called so. A Dinugoan dish, for example, that is not cooked with pork is not Dinugoan no matter how many gastronomic medals it earns and even when, I realize, chicken has become the national pork in the Philippines.

But as a visual artist, what immediately caught my attention was the symbol or drawing that went with the name. It was more like an African hut and nothing like the traditional Philippine Bahay Kubo, if that, indeed, was what it was trying to be.

And then, thinking more about it, I wondered what is this animal called the Manila Hut? That animal is surely now extinct. They have since been replaced by squatter's hovels, boxes and beggar bags.

Hut might have a nice, native, ethnic ring to it, but it takes more than the right spelling to make it hot, especially for a restaurant.

Too bad for our Montreal friends, we will have nothing new to report.

7.20.06 kulturnatib

Information highway

IF I were to write a tourism dictionary, it would not start with the letter A. It would start with the letter I, with the word “information.”

Those who know a thing or two about tourism know that information is crucial to tourism; in fact, they would agree that tourism is nothing but the chase after, verification, then enjoyment of information.

On a recent road trip, I realized that an information highway is not necessarily one that involves computers and their peripheral equipment, although in this day and age almost all over the world, computer systems, in their various degrees of sophistication, would unavoidably be part of this highway.

Early on in our trip that indeed had “touristic” intentions, I realized just how an information highway is the backbone to tourism. Information that is available or accessible through a highway, that is.

For a country where the grip of winter is legendary -- though climate change is also taking a surprising and tentatively welcome bite here -- the opportunity to take to the road, from late spring to summer, becomes a national urge that expresses itself from short, personal human powered trips on rollerblades, lengthier trips on bicycles, to cross-country trips in motorcycles, cars, mobile homes, tourist buses and, of course, jet planes.

This travel wave crescendos in the last two weeks of July, when vacancs de la construction or vacation of construction workers take place. This is a legally mandated forced vacation for construction workers of all kinds in Quebec, Canada.

Knowing this, our trip was planned to take place before the tens of thousands of construction workers invade the roads. This, it seemed, was the only solid information we had. For the rest, we just planned to drive to designated destinations, look for a place to spend the night and, on the following day, drive on. We only had one sure destination before we departed.

La Route des Baleines (The Route of the Whales) is the route that whales -- from the giant Blue Whale to the mid-size Beluga -- take from the Atlantic Ocean through the massive St. Lawrence River (Fleuve St-Laurent), following their rich food sources.

Highway signs pointing to La Route can be seen in towns along this river where whale watching is a tourist attraction and whale-related merchandise is readily available, though not over-eagerly pushed.

Tadoussac is the most popular of these towns. There, tour operators guarantee whale sightings. Absolutely. These operators offer whale encounters from as high up as a mid-size ship, on fast “zodiac” rubber speed boats or on an even more personal encounter on a kayak in several trips a day in summer.

Tadoussac was our only sure destination. The rest we would take on an “its depends” basis. For this we only needed a Canadian Automobile Association road map.

This is where the information highway started: a piece of paper. As soon as our car hit the road, the information highway (in these parts called an autoroute) took over.

As long as one knows how to read, it is difficult to imagine getting lost on the highway here. And then, one doesn’t even need to know how to read entire words. Recognizing the question mark symbol is often enough.

Following this symbol leads straight to a tourist information center, where, as long as it is office hours, will be open, fully staffed and fairly stuffed with all sorts of printed information, gratuit (for free). Not only free but also reliable.

Only once did this system falter. But we were lucky. We still made it across the river when we decided to do so, though we were the last car to be accommodated on the Ro-Ro fastcraft.

Cebu is miles away from having such a reliable travel or tourism system in place. But several initiatives are being undertaken. The tourist information counter at the Mactan International Airport is a good start. It should be pursued further; otherwise, Philippine travel and tourism will always be at the mercy or grace of lady luck.

7.13.06 kulturnatib

True not true
(Last of two parts)

After this sobering encounter with Daisuke Inoue came my meeting with BB King. If my myth of the Filipino karaoke inventor could not stand up to the truth of Daisuke's claim then honor, the legend of BB King is a shining halo over BB King's head himself, primarily and the BB King Blues Band in support - live and onstage.

The Place des Arts is Montreal's main performing arts building. It is an old building, perhaps older than Montreal's determined drive to become, then maintain the claim to being the premier 'City of Festivals' of the world.

The Montreal International Jazz Festival is the linchpin to this claim. For a little over a quarter of a century now -- 27 years -- and for a little over a week between the last weekend of June and the first weekend of July this year, downtown Montreal resounded with the increasingly international vernacular of jazz of over 100 acts from all over the world.

The Place des Arts is where the paying concerts -- ticketed events -- are held. Here BB King had the pre-festival kick-off concert. The official kick-off honors went to The Neville Brothers, a celebrated New Orleans band, in recognition of the roots of jazz and in solidarity for the rebuilding of the city in the wake of the devastation of hurricane Katrina a year ago.
This concert is also part of BB King's 80th anniversary world tour that kicked off shortly after his garnering the 14th Grammy of his career for the BB King and Friends - 80 album in February this year.

The concert opened with two local acts, Garret Mason and Bob Walsh. They provided a good context for how the blues has and continues to evolve with BB King's over-arching influence. Mason represented the younger, more evolved strain of the blues-jazz fusion while Walsh provided the more roots style blues with a definitely Quebecois accent.

After the break, which barely gave the sell out crowd enough time to recover from the heady, hold-your-bladders guitar and blues harp (harmonica) wailing, growling duels, with ample support from the drums, piano, bass guitar -- acoustic and electric -- the house lights dimmed once more for the entry of the BB King Blues Band.

With two saxophones, a trumpet and a trombone the tone was set for a swinging, wind instruments driven, big band sound that would be the perfect complement for King's archtop, blues guitar licks and hoarse-growl voice.

Three songs later, after being puzzled at why BB King would be looking so young, I realized my mistake. The young looking, fairly trim guitarist was not BB King at all.

King was ushered in and his throne, an ordinary metal lawn chair was set up at the head of the band. Here was the King as I imagined him to be: big, jocular, surprisingly still so lively at 80, although held down to his chair by diabetes.

As the thunderous welcome applause died down King lit up the 4,000 seat auditorium for an hour and a half of classic blues tunes, jokes -- I am not only old, but I'm also lazy -- and the delivery of the songs, the body language, the stomping, the rocking in place while seated, the bending backwards as a note is teased or squeezed out, or even the tender hugging gestures.

Here was the secret to King's staying power. He recalls that earlier in his career he was used to playing in bars or clubs that were not much bigger than a fourth of the auditorium's stage. And, he never stopped treating every performance like a cozy gathering of friends even when his music was already packing huge auditoriums and breaking boundaries of age, language and geography.

Still, what struck me most with King is how his music is simply not his guitar, though it is undeniable that he is a virtuoso at this instrument, nor his voice that is as distinctive as that other jazz great, Louis Armstrong, nor even his longevity. It is his indomitable spirit, his experience with poverty -- which he has never forgotten -- and his expression of solidarity with the oppressed, or more simply, those down with the blues.

We step out of the concert and it is almost midnight. Merci beaucoup, BB King says several times at the close. He says it in Mississipi-English. I agree. I say the same thing over and over, in Bisdak-French. I'm still saying it now.

7.06.06 kulturnatib

True not true
(First of two parts)

There are many things that I think to be so, even am sure to be so, but are not so at all. Very recently, I came upon another reminder of how some of these sure-to-be-so-it-has-to-be-so things latch on to my mind like some tenaciously sticky leech. Dislodging them not only feels like drawing some blood but also vacuuming some part of the soul, that part where certainties reside like some ancestral house. Still, heritage conservation aside, it is good to, once in a while, go through the old neighborhood and see which structures can withstand the scrutiny of time and the challenges of truth and just do away with those that do not. Simple.

One of the magazines I am and have been fortunate enough to get my hands on is Topic. Topic is a quarterly magazine published in New York but with a global reach in both circulation and contributions, though mostly to and from the English speaking parts of the globe. Many contributions, too, it should be pointed out, are translated into English from whatever language they were originally written in. It is the A4 version of the venerable UK published, paper back Granta magazine that also features translated works from all over.

For issue 10, its most recent, the topic of Topic is music. It was a good coincidence, when I started reading, I thought, because music is, for the most part, why I am here. When planning for this trip, the Montreal International Jazz Festival was a bright cloud that loomed large over the planning calendar. Brighter still, was the pre-festival, kick-off concert of legendary bluesman, BB King, who is celebrating his becoming an octogenarian with a world concert tour.

This concert was going to be an opportunity for me to find out in situ if BB King is really the legend that he is made out to be or, actually, if his music continues to be fresh when all the other musical legends are struggling against the inevitable entropy of their music or when more and more of them are simply giving in to making tired remakes of their old hits.
But, before I met BB King, I met Daisuke Inoue. The title of his article in Topic is 'Perfect Harmony,' The subtitle, in much bigger, more prominent copy reads, 'Daisuke Inoue Can't Read A Note of Music, But He Invented The Machine That Helped The World To Sing.' Guess which title hooked me?

I can't remember when this idea latched onto my head - this idea that a Filipino invented the karaoke machine. I vaguely remember though that it was around the early 80's when my sister was working in one of the Yupangco companies, the sole distributor for Yamaha musical instruments in the Philippines, that this idea took root. One of the instruments they were selling was the earliest versions of the 'Filipino-invented' karaoke.

My sister quit her job, I moved elsewhere, but the idea remained. It even survived a buffeting of doubt with an assertion -- from where, I don't know -- that a competing claim of non-Filipino provenance for the invention of the karaoke which was awarded a patent was a stolen claim, the common fate of Filipino genius.

Now comes Daisuke. His story starts with the invitation from the organizers of the Ig Noble Peace Prize presented annually by the respected cranks at Harvard University. Last year he was among the awardees of this prize for contributions to 'genuine peace' in the world as the inventor of the karaoke machine.

He then recalls the history of this invention starting from the family devastation from World War 2, his love for drumming, his father who, upon hearing his wish to become a drummer, simply telling him, contrary to what most Japanese fathers at that time (and even now) do, to go and good luck.

It is a good, engaging and endearing success story that is validated not only by the Ig Noble Award, but also an honor in 1999 by Time magazine to Daisuke as among the 20 most influential persons in the 20th century, and, of course, tons and tons of yen.

Now, where is my Filipino karaoke inventor? I don't know. What I know or acknowledge now, is that there is no truth in him or her. At the same time, I also know that, as a Filipino and in the Philippines, fiction can take on a life all its own, especially when its last name is Patriotism.

6.29.06 kulturnatib

Cycle culture

A week after arriving here, I bought a second-hand bicycle. Here is the City of Gatineau, in the province of Quebec, Canada - near its better known stone-throw-across-the-river sister city, Ottawa. Thanks to the generous prodding of my partner plus my own hankering for immersing as much as possible in the local culture I found my way back to Dave’s Bike Dump.

This was my third attempt. The first one was a small disappointment. I walked some four kilometers not knowing exactly where to find what I was looking for but knowing that if I didn’t find it soon enough I would find a closed shop. Since I passed by another bike shop that had also been recommended that I look into, I decided that a bird in hand would be better. I doubled back to this shop and found out that if there ever was a bike dump this was it. I didn’t have to look far or thoroughly to see that with those bikes days of scrubbing off rust was the first step to enjoying biking with many more steps before one can even get into the saddle without risking tetanus.

The second attempt was essentially reenacting the trip that I had earlier taken on the computer with the help of Google (satellite) maps that, with a street or a phone number, gives a new dimension to that old PLDT slogan ‘let your fingers do the walking.’ This was also my first attempt with this Google feature that, for those living in cities that are part of this feature (meaning, extensively satellite mapped), also gives a new meaning to ‘privacy paranoia’.

That second attempt was also a dissapointment. A very minor one though. The shop was closed that day. Strange, for a Tuesday. But, through the gate, I saw many bikes to choose from, arranged neatly on bicycle stands or hanging from wall hangers. This was a tongue-in-cheek dump, and Dave could turn out to be a colorful figure.

He is, I found out the next day. He has the garrulous but stern demeanor of someone who has little time to waste. He gets down straight to business, of which there was nothing too small to be one: a bent up wheel resulting from a collision with a horse, a chain wheel axle that had not been properly assembled, an entire bicycle that a child wanted swapping with another one she fancied better, a rear shock absorber that needed adjustment and my own request that the headset, stem and handlebars to the bike I was buying be changed. At no extra cost, I found out.

I also found out up-close what I had been observating from a distance in the few days that I had been in this city.

This is a bicycle city. Just as much as it is a car, truck, bus city. Yet compared to the Philippines, bicycles here are quite pricey. My original bicycle could sell for more than what I paid for this recent second-hand one. But it might not sell well or fast because by and large, most bikers here are very pragmatic bikers eschewing models that add very little functional advantage for driving through very well paved roads and bike paths.

This pragmatism is also seen in the fact that, except for the dedicated racing models, bikes here are all equipped with rear carriers. With such devices one gets to free one’s hands from carrying loads needed for work, for marketing or even for more sports. Thus, many bikes here have either one or two bags slung over their bike carriers with sometimes, a third one on top of the carrier itself. This make it easy to engage in most activities that are easily facilitated through or accomodated on a bicycle.

It is also very clear that bicycles are an important consideration for planning this city. Aside from the numerous, well connected and well paved bike paths that meander through scenic city parks or cross purposefully through the city center, there are many facilties for parking one’s bike, whether through cluster parking in all buildings or individual parking in sidewalks. Also, some streets are closed off on Sunday mornings and are open only to pedestrian, bicycle and other human-propelled traffic.

With such attitudes and approaches to human-propelled transport by city officials here it follows that citizens are encouraged to bike in ways that make biking a democratic activity that steers clear of the elitist, my-bike-is-better-than-your-bike mentality that I see -- and am guilty of falling victim to -- in many of my friends back home. Small wonder that they or we remain a small club or clique.