She stands out from the crowd. One glance and I instantly notice her almond-shaped eyes, the kind that would make you look again. Her high bridge nose is perfect and her cherry red lips smiled the whole time I was talking to her. Strands of her chestnut brown hair fall just right on the forehead, concealing the wrinkles of her 81 years.
"I am Madame Palerma. I was also a journalist like you," she says in perfect English. Her voice is deep, firm and solid and not once did it show her old age. She is just right outside the door of what she calls her home -- a dark, one room shanty.
It is a rainy Sunday afternoon and I am in Valenzuela, Bulacan with photographer Jes Aznar. His task is to shoot, mine is to interview and take a video as he shoots. We reach the interior after two hours of struggling against heavy rains and tormenting traffic. I offered to take the wheel many times as I sensed his frustration but (to my relief) was always turned down.
We are working on a book project and our second assignment is to search for a 52-year old man who lives near a basketball court and a tricycle terminal in a depressed community in Barangay Mapulang Lupa, Valenzuela.
There are at least three basketball courts with a tricycle terminal nearby in Barangay Mapulang Lupa. For a while there, I didn't think we would find him.
We succeed after a few more minutes and after asking bystanders for the nth time where our mystery man could be.
Journalism, after all, is about "finding it." The editors won't really care how you find it but you better damn be able to find it -- your subject, your assignment, your interviewee, the story -- because no amount of excuse would do unless it's a matter of life and death.
That's what Madam Palerma congratulated us for. The former radio announcer, as she introduced herself, said I reminded her of her early days.
"I used to be a radio announcer. I miss the radio booth. I miss being a journalist," she says.
"It's good to see press people here. We're the same. We're the same. Like you, I was also a journalist before and I would go to different places for my assignments," she adds enthusiastically.
"Thank you for being here," she says. "We hope you can come back."
She talks of the old times. That she would go to different places in search for stories. That she laughed many nights away during her shifts at the radio booth. That she met so many people in the course of her work.
I am holding the video camera while talking to her. Jes sends me a signal that it is time go. We are off to Caloocan for another assignment.
I thank Madam Palerma for the chat. She seems so happy to see the two of us working as she used to.
"I hope you can come back and visit my house," she says.
As we drive out of the community, I think of Madam Palerma and her passion for her work.
I don't know if I'll ever see her again but I'm sure I'll never forget her face. It is a picture of a contented and proud journalist who is rich not with material wealth but with stories of her years of experience.
Indonesia
BATU, Indonesia. Photo by Jes Aznar
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
My notes on a 15-hour coverage
It was still dark when I left the apartment. The fresh smell of dew wafted in the early morning air. The world must still be in deep slumber except for the neighbor's roosters crowing loudly, I thought. And except for the crowd gathering at the Manila Cathedral.
I didn't want to leave so early. I wanted to stay snuggled in my bed, still tired from the previous day's work. But I told myself I'd cover former president Corazon Aquino's burial. I wanted to write and to shoot the story. Or maybe, I just wanted to be there simply because of the kibitzer that I am.
I thought I was all set for the day's event. I tucked inside my green backpack everything I thought I would need – press I.D., camera, lenses, batteries, notebook, jacket, umbrella, crackers, drinking water and an extra set of clothes.
The veteran lensman I would tag along with had been waiting for me. He just had a small camera bag and a belt bag. “You're late. Let's hurry,” he said. We still have time for breakfast. He said I should eat a heavy one.
“There'll be absolutely no time to eat later,” said the lensman who had been covering the wake since day one.
The events that unfolded throughout that day surprised me and tested my patience. Because I thought I prepared for the coverage well enough, I had no idea I would be soaked in rain not once but many times over. I had no idea that I would wait for eight grueling hours for just one or two minutes of history. I had no idea that all the photojournalists that covered the event were prepared for rain, mud and what have you. (Despite carrying small bags). Not only did they have water proof clothes but more importantly, they came with protective gears for their cameras.
What a bunch of professionals I was with. They waited patiently. Photojournalism, they said, is 90 percent waiting and only 10 percent shooting. I'd say, it's also 90 percent going hungry and 10 percent shooting. I was counting the hours. I could hear the grumbling in my tummy with each passing minute. I barely finished the story I sent through my mobile phone.
(In contrast to the professional photojournalists that covered the day's events were three hobbyists waiting with us under a makeshift stage put up by one of the television networks. They are of a terribly different breed. They went there apparently to show off their expensive cameras and obviously slightly used camera bags. They blabbered about their thousand peso cameras and boasted of their technical know-hows. They used press cards to be on the frontline but arrogantly disregarded unwritten rules about “sapaw.” And while every journalist on standby was fighting off hunger and thirst, the three conos bought hamburgers all for themselves. And devoured this in front of all five of us waiting under that stage.
The thing that pissed me off most was that when a stampede occurred at the Manila Memorial Park, they went ecstatic, so eager to shoot while the other photojournalists dropped their cameras and helped those injured.)
More than fifteen hours later, I joined colleagues for some ice cold drinks. I was hungry and exhausted but fulfilled. I was happy that I woke up to cover the day's events. I learned a lot by shooting and writing about the events that unfolded. I learned a lot by just being there.
By the time I got home, my daughter was already sound asleep. It doesn't happen all the time but it happens. She's probably getting used to it. I'm sure she knows by now that journalism, although it comes only second to motherhood, makes me truly happy. (The day my waterbag broke, I whispered to her, "Not now please. I have a 5 p.m. deadline." She heeded my request and came out into the world 36 hours later.)
I didn't want to leave so early. I wanted to stay snuggled in my bed, still tired from the previous day's work. But I told myself I'd cover former president Corazon Aquino's burial. I wanted to write and to shoot the story. Or maybe, I just wanted to be there simply because of the kibitzer that I am.
I thought I was all set for the day's event. I tucked inside my green backpack everything I thought I would need – press I.D., camera, lenses, batteries, notebook, jacket, umbrella, crackers, drinking water and an extra set of clothes.
The veteran lensman I would tag along with had been waiting for me. He just had a small camera bag and a belt bag. “You're late. Let's hurry,” he said. We still have time for breakfast. He said I should eat a heavy one.
“There'll be absolutely no time to eat later,” said the lensman who had been covering the wake since day one.
The events that unfolded throughout that day surprised me and tested my patience. Because I thought I prepared for the coverage well enough, I had no idea I would be soaked in rain not once but many times over. I had no idea that I would wait for eight grueling hours for just one or two minutes of history. I had no idea that all the photojournalists that covered the event were prepared for rain, mud and what have you. (Despite carrying small bags). Not only did they have water proof clothes but more importantly, they came with protective gears for their cameras.
What a bunch of professionals I was with. They waited patiently. Photojournalism, they said, is 90 percent waiting and only 10 percent shooting. I'd say, it's also 90 percent going hungry and 10 percent shooting. I was counting the hours. I could hear the grumbling in my tummy with each passing minute. I barely finished the story I sent through my mobile phone.
(In contrast to the professional photojournalists that covered the day's events were three hobbyists waiting with us under a makeshift stage put up by one of the television networks. They are of a terribly different breed. They went there apparently to show off their expensive cameras and obviously slightly used camera bags. They blabbered about their thousand peso cameras and boasted of their technical know-hows. They used press cards to be on the frontline but arrogantly disregarded unwritten rules about “sapaw.” And while every journalist on standby was fighting off hunger and thirst, the three conos bought hamburgers all for themselves. And devoured this in front of all five of us waiting under that stage.
The thing that pissed me off most was that when a stampede occurred at the Manila Memorial Park, they went ecstatic, so eager to shoot while the other photojournalists dropped their cameras and helped those injured.)
More than fifteen hours later, I joined colleagues for some ice cold drinks. I was hungry and exhausted but fulfilled. I was happy that I woke up to cover the day's events. I learned a lot by shooting and writing about the events that unfolded. I learned a lot by just being there. By the time I got home, my daughter was already sound asleep. It doesn't happen all the time but it happens. She's probably getting used to it. I'm sure she knows by now that journalism, although it comes only second to motherhood, makes me truly happy. (The day my waterbag broke, I whispered to her, "Not now please. I have a 5 p.m. deadline." She heeded my request and came out into the world 36 hours later.)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Mang Rudy
I am savoring my last sip of ice cold Tanduay Ice when Mang Rudy arrives. He is wearing his usual striped t-shirt, ragged jeans and his good 'ol classic guitar. Tightly holding his wife's arms, Mang Rudy navigates his way through the tables.
It is almost 12 midnight but Mang Rudy and wife Amy are just about to start their day.
Mang Rudy makes a living by making people laugh or cry. In dark corners of bars filled with old rags, corrupt politicians, media practitioners, lonely husbands and depressed mistresses, Mang Rudy belts out songs that pierce straight to the soul. He does this for a few pesos. On good nights, he gets up to P500 or more.
He hasn't changed at all. He still looks the same, exudes the same energy and has the same amount of love for his work.
He joins our table and asks who is around. Mang Rudy has been blind since birth. The Oakley shades conceal the pain of not seeing the world around him.
He sings "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone."
I utter a greeting. I haven't seen Mang Rudy in years. What happens next surprises me.
Mang Rudy stops his singing and glances my way. "Iris!!!" He seemed so genuinely happy to hear my voice. He recognizes it without anyone telling him.
"Ang tagal mong nawala. Halos tatlong taon!" Mang Rudy says.
I am jolted out of my Tanduay-induced stuppor. I was shock to find out that Mang Rudy noticed how long I was "gone."
Yes Mang Rudy noticed that I've been gone from this particular world where real friends talk until the wee hours of the morning -- no hang-ups, no pretensions, no walking on egg shells but just real stuff on life and the kind of journalism that stands witness to it.
Mang Rudy sings a song for me. My soul falls into a good slumber.
It is almost 12 midnight but Mang Rudy and wife Amy are just about to start their day.
Mang Rudy makes a living by making people laugh or cry. In dark corners of bars filled with old rags, corrupt politicians, media practitioners, lonely husbands and depressed mistresses, Mang Rudy belts out songs that pierce straight to the soul. He does this for a few pesos. On good nights, he gets up to P500 or more.
He hasn't changed at all. He still looks the same, exudes the same energy and has the same amount of love for his work.
He joins our table and asks who is around. Mang Rudy has been blind since birth. The Oakley shades conceal the pain of not seeing the world around him.
He sings "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone."
I utter a greeting. I haven't seen Mang Rudy in years. What happens next surprises me.
Mang Rudy stops his singing and glances my way. "Iris!!!" He seemed so genuinely happy to hear my voice. He recognizes it without anyone telling him.
"Ang tagal mong nawala. Halos tatlong taon!" Mang Rudy says.
I am jolted out of my Tanduay-induced stuppor. I was shock to find out that Mang Rudy noticed how long I was "gone."
Yes Mang Rudy noticed that I've been gone from this particular world where real friends talk until the wee hours of the morning -- no hang-ups, no pretensions, no walking on egg shells but just real stuff on life and the kind of journalism that stands witness to it.
Mang Rudy sings a song for me. My soul falls into a good slumber.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
globetrotting in the time of influenza
I would normally jump on any invite for a trip abroad, whether it's business or pleasure. That's me, bitten by the travel bug since I was a child. However, when I was given this assignment, I hesitated.
But assignments are assignments. There's no reason to say no unless you have absolutely no choice.
So, I'm hoping I didn't catch THE flu. These days, however, maybe that's almost like asking for the moon. At the Centennial airport, it's a crowded Sunday morning. There's no escaping the virus if it's there. Everywhere you go, there's a crowd, a line or a gathering of people.
Some are wearing masks, some seemingly isolating themselves from the crowd while others couldn't care less.
As for me, I didn't have the time to worry. I was late for my flight and could hear my name already being called on the P.A. system by the airlines. My plane is about to leave.
On the plane, I wanted to sit alone. I wanted to stay safe for the sake of my two-year old daughter back home. Unfortunately, the airbus was crowded.
At the hotel where I and another journalist was billeted, there were some precautionary measures. There were lots of signs on what to do and what not to do to prevent the flu from spreading.
A friend in the area wanted to meet up with me. She told me to meet her at this coffee shop. On the way there, she said, I should avoid the crowded streets. Whew!
Oh, and that I should avoid touching my ears, eyes and nose.
At the airport, on my way back to Manila, I saw the girlfriend of a former housemate. She was wearing a mask. A big one. It was good to see her but we had to avoid the usual beso-beso.
On the plane, the French guy seated beside me was trying to strike a conversation. Photography, diving, Paris and Bordeux...he wanted to talk about these things. Oh but he kept on sneezing!
A few hours later, I'm back in Manila. I went to a dear friend's office to wash and change clothes -- my futile attempt to keep clean.
It's been less than ten days. I don't have the symptoms so far. But who knows what tomorrow will bring.
But assignments are assignments. There's no reason to say no unless you have absolutely no choice.
So, I'm hoping I didn't catch THE flu. These days, however, maybe that's almost like asking for the moon. At the Centennial airport, it's a crowded Sunday morning. There's no escaping the virus if it's there. Everywhere you go, there's a crowd, a line or a gathering of people.
Some are wearing masks, some seemingly isolating themselves from the crowd while others couldn't care less.
As for me, I didn't have the time to worry. I was late for my flight and could hear my name already being called on the P.A. system by the airlines. My plane is about to leave.
On the plane, I wanted to sit alone. I wanted to stay safe for the sake of my two-year old daughter back home. Unfortunately, the airbus was crowded.
At the hotel where I and another journalist was billeted, there were some precautionary measures. There were lots of signs on what to do and what not to do to prevent the flu from spreading.
A friend in the area wanted to meet up with me. She told me to meet her at this coffee shop. On the way there, she said, I should avoid the crowded streets. Whew!
Oh, and that I should avoid touching my ears, eyes and nose.
At the airport, on my way back to Manila, I saw the girlfriend of a former housemate. She was wearing a mask. A big one. It was good to see her but we had to avoid the usual beso-beso.
On the plane, the French guy seated beside me was trying to strike a conversation. Photography, diving, Paris and Bordeux...he wanted to talk about these things. Oh but he kept on sneezing!
A few hours later, I'm back in Manila. I went to a dear friend's office to wash and change clothes -- my futile attempt to keep clean.
It's been less than ten days. I don't have the symptoms so far. But who knows what tomorrow will bring.
the single mother's story (part two)
I was barely awake when my phone rang. The voice on the other line was trembling. "Maam, may picture po ba kayo ni Borek? Nawawala po kasi siya..." It was M, the mother I interviewed recently for a book project.
Her son Borek, diagnosed with Down syndrome, went missing. He left the house, went biking around the area and soon, he was nowhere to be found.
She was crying and crying. I didn't know what to say. "Yes, I have photos. I will ask the photographer, too. I will send them now," I answered. Was that the only thing I could do? Sigh.
I called Jes Aznar to break the sad news and to ask for the photos He was in Mindanao for a coverage. He was so shocked to hear the news.
We were just playing with Borek a few weekends ago. I barely finished my stories for that day. I was shocked, bothered and frustrated.
I thought of M's ordeal. You really can't protect your child from the world 24/7. Sometimes, bad things just happen.
Six hours later, I get a text message from M.
"God bless, nakita na po si Borek maam. Maraming salamat!"
And her story continues...
Her son Borek, diagnosed with Down syndrome, went missing. He left the house, went biking around the area and soon, he was nowhere to be found.
She was crying and crying. I didn't know what to say. "Yes, I have photos. I will ask the photographer, too. I will send them now," I answered. Was that the only thing I could do? Sigh.
I called Jes Aznar to break the sad news and to ask for the photos He was in Mindanao for a coverage. He was so shocked to hear the news.
We were just playing with Borek a few weekends ago. I barely finished my stories for that day. I was shocked, bothered and frustrated.
I thought of M's ordeal. You really can't protect your child from the world 24/7. Sometimes, bad things just happen.
Six hours later, I get a text message from M.
"God bless, nakita na po si Borek maam. Maraming salamat!"
And her story continues...
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Michael Jackson
"Gone Too Soon"
Like A Comet
Blazing 'Cross The Evening Sky
Gone Too Soon
Like A Rainbow
Fading In The Twinkling Of An Eye
Gone Too Soon
Shiny And Sparkly
And Splendidly Bright
Here One Day
Gone One Night
Like The Loss Of Sunlight
On A Cloudy Afternoon
Gone Too Soon
Like A Castle
Built Upon A Sandy Beach
Gone Too Soon
Like A Perfect Flower
That Is Just Beyond Your Reach
Gone Too Soon
Born To Amuse, To Inspire, To Delight
Here One Day
Gone One Night
Like A Sunset
Dying With The Rising Of The Moon
Gone Too Soon
Gone Too Soon
Like A Comet
Blazing 'Cross The Evening Sky
Gone Too Soon
Like A Rainbow
Fading In The Twinkling Of An Eye
Gone Too Soon
Shiny And Sparkly
And Splendidly Bright
Here One Day
Gone One Night
Like The Loss Of Sunlight
On A Cloudy Afternoon
Gone Too Soon
Like A Castle
Built Upon A Sandy Beach
Gone Too Soon
Like A Perfect Flower
That Is Just Beyond Your Reach
Gone Too Soon
Born To Amuse, To Inspire, To Delight
Here One Day
Gone One Night
Like A Sunset
Dying With The Rising Of The Moon
Gone Too Soon
Gone Too Soon
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