Hats
Unless you are taking one of those air-conditioned jeepneys in Makati, or you get invited to join Bigfoot's boss and owner Mick Gleisner in his specially outfitted Jimpney -- a jeepney spruced up to be like a pimp mobile, the not usually announced attraction at the Bigfoot compound in Mactan Island -- you shall, like myself, just have to bear with riding in the regular jeepneys that, in the summer, meaning now, are just a little more than rolling Kenny Roger's roasters.
Hopefully, with the number people of who were able to watch the screening of Al Gore's award winning documentary, “An Inconvenient Truth,” at SM cinema recently -- a sizable crowd, I was told – more and more will now consider that the heat we are suffering through or bearing up now has a label to it: global warming.
Most people, however, don't wait for labels or agonize through one. They just take action. Usually in the direction towards effects mitigation and not much or not enough towards phenomena prevention; actions toward preventing global warming in the first place, in this instance.
In any case, the other day, I was in a jeepney going to work. A guy gets on. He was one of these ubiquitous ambulant vendors you see everywhere in the city, even all the way up the mountains where I live.
I am no longer surprised at the entrepreneurial ingenuity of these fellows seeing the almost endless variety of goods that they pull, carry, sling, pack, hang and balance on every part of their bodies, and walking, as they do, for kilometers on end.
This guy didn't have too many things. But what he lacked in both variety and number was made up for by the imminent sense of what he did have; cut-off finger gloves that do not end at the write but extend all the way to the upper arm to become arm sleeves, bandanas that can also stand in for handkerchiefs and two kinds of hats, the baseball type and the military-floppy type.
I struck up a conversation with him after buying a pair of desert camouflage military type floppies. I bought it for P100, haggled down from P130. Even with the original price it was still nearly half of what it would cost at a mall or department store.
Sales were good for hats he said. They were made in China and people expect them to be cheap. So they were. But they looked to be well sewn together. Though, and he agreed, truly, the test of the pudding is in the tasting. I didn't exactly put it that way, but he understood what I meant, nodding his head in agreement.
He said a few people would get another pair in order to drive the unit price further down by a few more pesos. If I didn't already have a floppy, given as a gift for Christmas, I would have done the same. These are so handy and so useful that I wouldn't mind having a pair in every bag or pack that I lug around so that one would always be within easy reach.
The gloves cum arm sleeves were also popular, he said. But mostly with people who ride motorcycles or bicycles. This prompted me to ask about this accessory that I've been noticing on the faces of more and more motorcyclists and bicyclists.
These are masks that are contoured for the nose and the chin. They provide better coverage and protection than the usual mask that is really just a wad of cloth to put across the nose and mouth area. They are also held in place with velcros that do away with the tying, untying and the general difficulty this entails as this is normally done where it is not immediately visible to the eyes.
This accessory is very useful in our now smoke clogged streets although I am not sure if these have provisions for dust and smoke filters. Still, I also imagine that the cloth, normally flannel-like with the ones I've seen close up, could do the job well enough.
I got off ahead of him. I donned the floppy hat. I walked the rest of the way to the office appreciating my new mobile shade. I was also thinking that here was our legendary repute for coping at work and how this will be put to the test when the worst of global warming really starts to kick in.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
04.13.07 travel article
Canlaon ressurection
On a clear day, Mt. Canlaon can be seen throughout most of the coast of Western Cebu. Through the watery wall of the Tanon Strait between the islands of Negros and Cebu, the majesty of this still intermittently active volcano is evident. And there is the mystery as well as most of the time, even on a clear day, this volcano is cloud swathed, allowing only brief glimpses of its entire glory. And then only if one were watching closely.
Most mountaineers in Cebu look westward to this mountain with longing and determination. This mountain is a must climb. At more than 6,000 feet in elevation at its peak, this clearly is a worthwhile challenge for which the peaks in Cebu are mere practice grounds.
On almost an offhand invitation, I had my chance of a lifetime. I never really thought much about it before then. It was quite enough for me to have climbed Mt. Cuernos de Negros or Talinis Peak for three times, though only once did we get as far as Lake Nailig.
With just a single preparatory climb from Napo, Guadalupe to the RCPI towers – actually there are few more towers in this facility, but as RCPI first established their transmission towers here, the name has stuck – two days before our departure I wasn't too sure of my level of readiness.
But we were in high spirits as we left the South Bus Terminal. It was dampened a bit when we missed our boat in Toledo. We missed it by a few minutes and watched it leave its berth. Instead of being the daredevil driver, drivers on this route are known for, our driver decided to take his sweet time.
I was just told this. I didn't really know how the trip went. I was, very unusually for me who cannot sleep even on a transcontinental flight, fast asleep and awoke only when the bus was approaching Toledo City.
This didn't frazzle me as much as my discovery when we settled in to the Toledo City Pier Terminal to wait for the next boat to San Carlos City. Somehow during the bus trip my reading glasses had slipped off my pants pocket. Panic! How was I going to send annunciatory and receive congratulatory SMS messages from and to the peak?
Fortunately, Acebedo Optical was there to the rescue. I bought another pair. I consoled myself with the thought that at least I am a few peso bills lighter. For mountaineers lighter is always best.
We arrive at the JCC Business Inn in Canlaon City to an already cool evening. At 1,300 feet in elevation Canlaon City is about as high up as the RCPI towers. We fill up our climb permit applications and was soon hit with some unexpected news. The permit costs a steep P300 per climber; P200 for students. But wee take this all in good stride with a few muted grumblings. There was no way to turn back because of this. Besides, we thought, this was going to help the conservation and management of the Canlaon National Park.
We retire to our rooms, four persons each in two double deck bunks, and sleep in what would essentially be our most comfortable in the next two nights.
The following morning was bright and wet. It had rained while we slept. Good, we thought, this would bring water up the mountains, bad, because it would mean clouds, fog and near zero visibility. Still, we only had to look up at Mt. Canlaon that, from our vantage point in the market where we had breakfast and where I scoured around for supplies I forgot to bring along – a pair of gloves, a notebook and a pen, -- was as dry as a virgin.
At 7.30 we promptly left the hostel for our jump-off point. It was not as near prompt enough for our habal-habal drivers who were contracted the previous night for their services and who then proceeded to drive like absolute maniacs over roads that alternated between good enough concrete to rock strewn to mucky mush to dusty gravel.
After the forest guards at the detachment in Sitio Maput determine that our permits were in order our climb begins. In 10 minutes we stop to take our first rest. Eyebrows going up, right? But, consider, in this short time we had climbed from 1,300 feet to 3,500 feet. The math is easy to do. What is not so easy is the fact that that simple math does not take into account the 25-30 kilo packs on our backs. Here, we were thankful for the cloud cover. Without the clouds the equation would have spelled impossible. Or, nearly unbearable.
But, it was not only bearable, but, in a somewhat perverse way, even enjoyable. Especially when we got into the forest and as we got higher, we were walking virtually on the clouds, through fog, even when the vegetation becomes tighter. While this is a problem, especially with our big packs, it is also a help. The vegetation assists us in hauling ourselves and our packs up steep embankments. They relieve the pressure from our feet as our hands, arms and upper body take over. And then, with the cold – the temperature hitting the low 17s degree centigrade – it was imperative that we keep moving.
After steadily climbing for 7 hours, and clawing our way up through cogon and scrub in the last fifty feet of almost vertical climb, we break through to Mt. Makawiwili peak. It was suggested that we make camp there. But this suggestion lost out to the more reasonable argument that there was nothing to see there, the promontory was too small for five two-person tents and that there was still time to make it to the originally planned camp site at the shoulder.
It took another two hours, through sheer drops and even denser and more formidable vegetation. We broke through the forest into a windswept, rain lashed and fog clad open ridge. We immediately scoured for spots to pitch our tents. This was not easy as the choice spots had already been taken. There must have been a dozen or so tents already in place.
But we found our spots. It was good foresight for us to decide to bring along packed lunch and dinner. It was simply too windy and too cold to be outside the tent cooking. Once our tents were secured and we crawled in there was no going out. Those who did because of the call of nature reported bone chilling cold and jaw numbing wind.
We retired early. There was nothing else to do. Yet, this forced rest was good for our tired and badly battered bodies.
The morning was not much better than the evening before. It was still very foggy. It still rained intermittently. And, the wind though not as gusty. By 6am the tents were all astir. Some were even being taken down. We prepared breakfast hopeful still that the fog would break, the sky would clear and we would have a chance to summit.
Our patience paid off. By 8.30 it was clear enough to see the peak and another group had already made a beeline towards it. We soon followed suit. t At 9am, victory! We made it! Out came our canned victory drinks. Out came the cameras, the mobile phones. Pictures were taken, video footages made. Text messages flew thick and fast. One call was even connected. Surprisingly from and to a Sun Cellular Network phone.
Six hours later we were at Camp Sunflower. We camped at a field that was abloom with sunflower look alike flowers, hence the camp name. The descent was even more punishing. It killed my right foot big toe nail and seriously battered the other toes. But everything else was OK, including my resolve, now resurrected: Next, Mt. Apo!
On a clear day, Mt. Canlaon can be seen throughout most of the coast of Western Cebu. Through the watery wall of the Tanon Strait between the islands of Negros and Cebu, the majesty of this still intermittently active volcano is evident. And there is the mystery as well as most of the time, even on a clear day, this volcano is cloud swathed, allowing only brief glimpses of its entire glory. And then only if one were watching closely.
Most mountaineers in Cebu look westward to this mountain with longing and determination. This mountain is a must climb. At more than 6,000 feet in elevation at its peak, this clearly is a worthwhile challenge for which the peaks in Cebu are mere practice grounds.
On almost an offhand invitation, I had my chance of a lifetime. I never really thought much about it before then. It was quite enough for me to have climbed Mt. Cuernos de Negros or Talinis Peak for three times, though only once did we get as far as Lake Nailig.
With just a single preparatory climb from Napo, Guadalupe to the RCPI towers – actually there are few more towers in this facility, but as RCPI first established their transmission towers here, the name has stuck – two days before our departure I wasn't too sure of my level of readiness.
But we were in high spirits as we left the South Bus Terminal. It was dampened a bit when we missed our boat in Toledo. We missed it by a few minutes and watched it leave its berth. Instead of being the daredevil driver, drivers on this route are known for, our driver decided to take his sweet time.
I was just told this. I didn't really know how the trip went. I was, very unusually for me who cannot sleep even on a transcontinental flight, fast asleep and awoke only when the bus was approaching Toledo City.
This didn't frazzle me as much as my discovery when we settled in to the Toledo City Pier Terminal to wait for the next boat to San Carlos City. Somehow during the bus trip my reading glasses had slipped off my pants pocket. Panic! How was I going to send annunciatory and receive congratulatory SMS messages from and to the peak?
Fortunately, Acebedo Optical was there to the rescue. I bought another pair. I consoled myself with the thought that at least I am a few peso bills lighter. For mountaineers lighter is always best.
We arrive at the JCC Business Inn in Canlaon City to an already cool evening. At 1,300 feet in elevation Canlaon City is about as high up as the RCPI towers. We fill up our climb permit applications and was soon hit with some unexpected news. The permit costs a steep P300 per climber; P200 for students. But wee take this all in good stride with a few muted grumblings. There was no way to turn back because of this. Besides, we thought, this was going to help the conservation and management of the Canlaon National Park.
We retire to our rooms, four persons each in two double deck bunks, and sleep in what would essentially be our most comfortable in the next two nights.
The following morning was bright and wet. It had rained while we slept. Good, we thought, this would bring water up the mountains, bad, because it would mean clouds, fog and near zero visibility. Still, we only had to look up at Mt. Canlaon that, from our vantage point in the market where we had breakfast and where I scoured around for supplies I forgot to bring along – a pair of gloves, a notebook and a pen, -- was as dry as a virgin.
At 7.30 we promptly left the hostel for our jump-off point. It was not as near prompt enough for our habal-habal drivers who were contracted the previous night for their services and who then proceeded to drive like absolute maniacs over roads that alternated between good enough concrete to rock strewn to mucky mush to dusty gravel.
After the forest guards at the detachment in Sitio Maput determine that our permits were in order our climb begins. In 10 minutes we stop to take our first rest. Eyebrows going up, right? But, consider, in this short time we had climbed from 1,300 feet to 3,500 feet. The math is easy to do. What is not so easy is the fact that that simple math does not take into account the 25-30 kilo packs on our backs. Here, we were thankful for the cloud cover. Without the clouds the equation would have spelled impossible. Or, nearly unbearable.
But, it was not only bearable, but, in a somewhat perverse way, even enjoyable. Especially when we got into the forest and as we got higher, we were walking virtually on the clouds, through fog, even when the vegetation becomes tighter. While this is a problem, especially with our big packs, it is also a help. The vegetation assists us in hauling ourselves and our packs up steep embankments. They relieve the pressure from our feet as our hands, arms and upper body take over. And then, with the cold – the temperature hitting the low 17s degree centigrade – it was imperative that we keep moving.
After steadily climbing for 7 hours, and clawing our way up through cogon and scrub in the last fifty feet of almost vertical climb, we break through to Mt. Makawiwili peak. It was suggested that we make camp there. But this suggestion lost out to the more reasonable argument that there was nothing to see there, the promontory was too small for five two-person tents and that there was still time to make it to the originally planned camp site at the shoulder.
It took another two hours, through sheer drops and even denser and more formidable vegetation. We broke through the forest into a windswept, rain lashed and fog clad open ridge. We immediately scoured for spots to pitch our tents. This was not easy as the choice spots had already been taken. There must have been a dozen or so tents already in place.
But we found our spots. It was good foresight for us to decide to bring along packed lunch and dinner. It was simply too windy and too cold to be outside the tent cooking. Once our tents were secured and we crawled in there was no going out. Those who did because of the call of nature reported bone chilling cold and jaw numbing wind.
We retired early. There was nothing else to do. Yet, this forced rest was good for our tired and badly battered bodies.
The morning was not much better than the evening before. It was still very foggy. It still rained intermittently. And, the wind though not as gusty. By 6am the tents were all astir. Some were even being taken down. We prepared breakfast hopeful still that the fog would break, the sky would clear and we would have a chance to summit.
Our patience paid off. By 8.30 it was clear enough to see the peak and another group had already made a beeline towards it. We soon followed suit. t At 9am, victory! We made it! Out came our canned victory drinks. Out came the cameras, the mobile phones. Pictures were taken, video footages made. Text messages flew thick and fast. One call was even connected. Surprisingly from and to a Sun Cellular Network phone.
Six hours later we were at Camp Sunflower. We camped at a field that was abloom with sunflower look alike flowers, hence the camp name. The descent was even more punishing. It killed my right foot big toe nail and seriously battered the other toes. But everything else was OK, including my resolve, now resurrected: Next, Mt. Apo!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
04.12.07 kulturnatib
Fear of falling
The other weekend I volunteered for marshalling duties with an urban adventure race. I did not know my duty before hand but depending on the actual nature of the race and the particular event at the particular control point where the racers would have to go through, it could have been anything from simply taking down team names, dealing with race passports or more technically complicated duties dealing with climbing, rapelling or rope equipment.
As it happened, I was assigned to the rapelling event. It was located on one of the higher spots of the Boy Scouts Camp up Beverly Hills, where the ground formation – though not natural, I don't think – was ideal for a rapelling event.
I was assigned to be the belayer. In rapelling the belayer acts as the safety stop for the person rapelling down who for any reason would lose control of his or her fall and is in danger of plummeting all the way down. I also take care of disconnecting the rapeller from the rope and making sure that they bring back the aluminum ring that makes their descent possible.
As soon as the belayer sees that the rapeller is beginning to lose control, he pulls on or tightens the tension of the rope on which the rapeller is attached through a harness worn around the waist and the legs and by which is able to control his fall. This stops the fall, and suspends the rapeller in position until such time that he or she regains control and is able to proceed with the controlled or assisted fall.
Up until that time, I haven't have done any belaying. But, I have seen this done enough times that I was confident I could do it. It is not rocket science and one doesn't need extraordinary strength because the anchoring of the rope holds up more than enough of the rapeller's weight.
So there I was. It was only then, as our team – composed of a checker who made sure that the teams had the proper passwords and the equipment, the harnesser who made sure that the harness is worn properly and is safely attached to the rope, the roper who controls the tension of the rope at the upper end and who would instruct the rapellers on how to properly rapell, and myself, the belayer, that I learned this race was an anniversary event for a gym and the racers were clients of this gym.
These then were no strangers to strenuous activity and you would imagine them to be more willing to take risks than the average Juan or Juana. Sure enough, when the first team showed up with the proper password thus could proceed with the event at our control point, they had gym-molded physiques.
But then, as soon as the first racer steps on the ledge and is ready to begin rapelling or walking down backwards, one sees that that there are things that no amount of gym molding can address; the fear of falling, for one.
No matter that the the roper had instructed them, “like they were children,” as Ariel, the roper, said, and had demonstrated to them that as long as they followed those instructions they were perfectly safe and their landing assured, this fear would take over, often, completely.
And then, everything would go wrong: the legs are bent, they are together instead of far apart, the hand that actually controls their fall by the releasing or gripping of the rope is not in the position where maximum control is easily achieved and, worse, the head is in the upside down position. Panic!
Then, I step in. I tug at the rope, tighten the tension. Their fall is arrested. Even if they totally let go of the rope, they will fall no further. They are just hanging now and have the opportunity to do something about their upside down position.
Ariel instructs them on how to extricate themselves: Legs apart, push with your feel on the wall, straighten up, get your rope control hand in position, now push, push, push. I also echo those instructions reassuring them that they can do it. And they do.
When they finally touch ground, they are smiling. That wasn't so difficult, I ask. No, they would invariably say. They look up. It's only perhaps 30 feet. It's actually easy, they shake their heads.
Everybody should go through such exercise at least once in their lives. This is a very good exercise at fear management. And trust and clear thinking and letting go.
As we were packing up the equipment with the last of the racers finished with their paces at our control station, a boy who, I think, lived in the neighborhood and who had been watching approached me and shyly asks if he could try it. I said go up there and tell them you would want to try before they put away the rope.
They suit him up with the harness. Ariel asks him if he knows what to do. He nods. He backs into the ledge. He gives a good shove with his legs. He flies off the ledge. He arcs, he sticks his legs out and stops on the wall. He pushes off again. Two more times and he was on the ground. Like SWAT. No sweat.
The other weekend I volunteered for marshalling duties with an urban adventure race. I did not know my duty before hand but depending on the actual nature of the race and the particular event at the particular control point where the racers would have to go through, it could have been anything from simply taking down team names, dealing with race passports or more technically complicated duties dealing with climbing, rapelling or rope equipment.
As it happened, I was assigned to the rapelling event. It was located on one of the higher spots of the Boy Scouts Camp up Beverly Hills, where the ground formation – though not natural, I don't think – was ideal for a rapelling event.
I was assigned to be the belayer. In rapelling the belayer acts as the safety stop for the person rapelling down who for any reason would lose control of his or her fall and is in danger of plummeting all the way down. I also take care of disconnecting the rapeller from the rope and making sure that they bring back the aluminum ring that makes their descent possible.
As soon as the belayer sees that the rapeller is beginning to lose control, he pulls on or tightens the tension of the rope on which the rapeller is attached through a harness worn around the waist and the legs and by which is able to control his fall. This stops the fall, and suspends the rapeller in position until such time that he or she regains control and is able to proceed with the controlled or assisted fall.
Up until that time, I haven't have done any belaying. But, I have seen this done enough times that I was confident I could do it. It is not rocket science and one doesn't need extraordinary strength because the anchoring of the rope holds up more than enough of the rapeller's weight.
So there I was. It was only then, as our team – composed of a checker who made sure that the teams had the proper passwords and the equipment, the harnesser who made sure that the harness is worn properly and is safely attached to the rope, the roper who controls the tension of the rope at the upper end and who would instruct the rapellers on how to properly rapell, and myself, the belayer, that I learned this race was an anniversary event for a gym and the racers were clients of this gym.
These then were no strangers to strenuous activity and you would imagine them to be more willing to take risks than the average Juan or Juana. Sure enough, when the first team showed up with the proper password thus could proceed with the event at our control point, they had gym-molded physiques.
But then, as soon as the first racer steps on the ledge and is ready to begin rapelling or walking down backwards, one sees that that there are things that no amount of gym molding can address; the fear of falling, for one.
No matter that the the roper had instructed them, “like they were children,” as Ariel, the roper, said, and had demonstrated to them that as long as they followed those instructions they were perfectly safe and their landing assured, this fear would take over, often, completely.
And then, everything would go wrong: the legs are bent, they are together instead of far apart, the hand that actually controls their fall by the releasing or gripping of the rope is not in the position where maximum control is easily achieved and, worse, the head is in the upside down position. Panic!
Then, I step in. I tug at the rope, tighten the tension. Their fall is arrested. Even if they totally let go of the rope, they will fall no further. They are just hanging now and have the opportunity to do something about their upside down position.
Ariel instructs them on how to extricate themselves: Legs apart, push with your feel on the wall, straighten up, get your rope control hand in position, now push, push, push. I also echo those instructions reassuring them that they can do it. And they do.
When they finally touch ground, they are smiling. That wasn't so difficult, I ask. No, they would invariably say. They look up. It's only perhaps 30 feet. It's actually easy, they shake their heads.
Everybody should go through such exercise at least once in their lives. This is a very good exercise at fear management. And trust and clear thinking and letting go.
As we were packing up the equipment with the last of the racers finished with their paces at our control station, a boy who, I think, lived in the neighborhood and who had been watching approached me and shyly asks if he could try it. I said go up there and tell them you would want to try before they put away the rope.
They suit him up with the harness. Ariel asks him if he knows what to do. He nods. He backs into the ledge. He gives a good shove with his legs. He flies off the ledge. He arcs, he sticks his legs out and stops on the wall. He pushes off again. Two more times and he was on the ground. Like SWAT. No sweat.
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