Oh what a week that was. Short of seriously pining for a cloning machine, this here planetary subject was left with no recourse but to take the blows of fate and circumstance, sway along to a roller-coaster ride that didn’t exactly lead to bilocation, alas!
Two Fridays ago it was a quick flight to Dumaguete for an overnight stay to say goodbye to my beloved second mother, National Artist for Literature Edith L. Tiempo, who lay in state at the Silliman Church.
Old buddy Cesar Ruiz Aquino a.k.a. Sawi met me at the Times Mercantile store downtown soon after my late-afternoon touchdown. The grocery shop has an array of one-of-a-kind single malt whisky bottles on the top two shelves of its liquor stand. A quick scan and our eyes settled on something heretofore unseen. The bottle was tall and round, and read, oh so strangely: Smokehead 18-Years-Old Extra Black Single Malt. From the Isle of Islay!
Needed no further convincing. A virgin drink’s a virgin drink. Came in a sort of casket, too, black, circular, with three small latches one has to open to reveal the glorious contents swaddled in gray foam inside. And it had 46 percent alcohol content, meaning 92 proof!
We took it to church, where we promptly broke down upon seeing Mom Edith in her own flag-draped casket, amidst all those floral wreaths with resplendent torch gingers and heliconias from the foothills of Cuernos de Negros, and framed photographs of a life led with Dad Doc Ed in their halcyon days of youth.
’Twas another good cry before Sawi and I repaired to the front steps outside for sundown, reminiscing while surveying Silliman’s grassy, acacia-fringed quadrangle beyond the semi-circle of wooden benches that formed an amphitheater of sorts — where over four decades past we lolled about with our first poetry students, on the grass and smoking it, too.
Our sister Rowena arrived with her husband Lemuel; they had planed in from Iowa City just the day before. The memorial service started at 7:30 p.m. We were joined by our other writer-siblings: Susan Lara, Marj Evasco, Danny Reyes, Myrna Peña-Reyes Sweet, Bobby Villasis, and the boy Octavio “Bioy” Arcellana, himself a grandson of a late lamented National Artist.
We texted his dad Juaniyo, how on the fourth pew we were sharing our whisky with his and Grace’s bunso now enrolled in Silliman. Juaning sighed existentially via SMS, before marveling over the coincidental details. Mom Edith was 92 proof, too, he pointed out.
And the next day we had a good long talk with Wen and Lem over lunch at South Sea Resort’s poolside resto: re courses of action now that our Mom was gone. We noted how the gallant SU president Ben Malayang has been steadfast in loving support; he will help us again.
Broke my heart that I couldn’t be there for the state funeral on Monday the 29th. Commitments over the weekend couldn’t be broken. It was back to Manila on Saturday, and off again with other buddies early on Sunday, this time for Busuanga. Make that Coron, which was having its fiesta.
Met up with an old friend, now happily retired, in his very own element, albeit still lamenting a recent downturn that wasn’t exactly inexplicable, but which had given him sleepless nights and an unmerited bad rep over the past several months.
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If one were to believe certain sectors of national media, former Palawan Governor Joel Reyes had masterminded the murder of a radio broadcaster and environmentalist. But if you were to talk to the people of Coron, or Puerto Princesa, or the rest of the province, you will hear that Joel Reyes is absolutely incapable of such a heinous allegation.
The Francisco Reyes Airport of Busuanga is named after his grandfather. The Reyeses are Coron-born-and-bred, unlike certain rival politicians who still see Joel as a serious threat to whatever giddy plans they may have. Starting out as a provincial board member in his early years, Joel carved out a much-lauded reputation over the decades as an honest, efficient, and true voice of the Palawanon. His successive terms as governor resulted in inestimable benefits for the province, including that remarkable concrete road from the airport to his hometown Coron.
Now he tries to enjoy his retirement years the best way he knows how, snorkeling daily in the rich waters off Coron Bay, planning private eco-tourism projects that bring in much-needed investment while pioneering in the future development of an area that’s increasingly becoming a popular, easily accessible playground for island-hoppers, white-sand beach fanciers, divers and nature-trippers.
Coron, Busuanga, and the entire Calamianes Group of islands, also known as Northern Palawan, are incredibly bountiful in such delights. Throw in the fresh seafood and relatively cheap rates for accommodations and boat rides to diverse destinations, kasoy and bandi (sweetened cashew), plus the unique Maquinit Hot Springs in Coron that’s only one of four saltwater sulfuric springs n the world, and you have a fabled paradise.
Coron’s mayor Mario or “Marjo” Reyes is Joel’s younger brother; he too has been affected by the evidently trumped-up charges that have thankfully been thrown out of court, but not before besmirching the rep of their entire clan. Joel’s wife Fern serves as vice governor, in tandem with new Palawan Gov. Baham Mitra, who won the last elections over perennial wannabe Pepito Alvarez of Marcos-era logging fame, or is it infamy — thanks to Joel’s support, which also earned him the enmity of former boyhood friend Ed Hagedorn, now back in power as Puerto Princesa Mayor.
Palawan politics has unfortunately turned topsy-turvy and confrontational to the extreme, with Alvarez and Hagedorn as a sort of tag team ranged against Baham and Joel, even if the last currently enjoys life as a private citizen. He is still seen as a threat, should he stage a comeback.
A DOJ prosecutors’ panel unanimously voted to absolve Joel Reyes of any complicity in the crime that had all the earmarks of a Keystone Cops routine, from the involvement of a gunman, murder weapon supplier and other henchmen claiming to have been in Reyes’ employ but whose recent activities may be traced to the faraway town of San Vicente, Alvarez’s turf.
The prosecutors easily saw through the rigmarole, which even included the gunman’s arrest, right on his getaway, by San Vicente policemen who just happened to be on the scene. So many other threads pointing to a set-up have convinced the DOJ that Joel Reyes couldn’t even be haled in court, but his enemies haven’t stopped in their vilification campaign.
This includes a newly launched plan to collect a million signatures in support of what’s been billed as a “Justice for Gerry Ortega” advocacy. Expensive tarpaulins have been set up all over Puerto Princesa, T-shirts distributed in the hundreds, and the city’s “envelopmental” media continue to harp on the former governor’s involvement — all in an effort to convince the DOJ to admit a mistake in its preliminary reckoning. But no fresh evidence has been presented, so that legal circles are one in saying that the motion for reconsideration will simply be quashed soon. And this has apparently led the black-campaign proponents into undertaking more shaming measures, such as convincing national columnists to weigh in on the picture with the benefit of disinformation.
My friend Joel Reyes remains unperturbed, clean of conscience. His concern is for the future, how his political opponents may resort to even more desperate measures should he decide to go back to politics. For now, he contents himself with hosting inveterate holiday-seekers like our group over that long weekend, personally guiding us through his own favored itinerary.
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Our first stop last Monday was at Smith Beach, one of many run by the Tagbanua who have constructed simple palm-weave sheds for day-trippers. The beach strip is small but utterly delightful for its white sand and crystal-clear emerald waters.
The beach is the first alabaster strip seen when rounding past Coron Bay towards Coron island of the picturesque limestone towers. Follows Banol Beach (which another friend named Joel once tried to rename as Banal Beach, while claiming patronage) and various other coves and strips, until we get to an offshore area where the skeletal wreck of a World War II vintage Japanese ship lies as habitat for diverse pelagic specimens.
Here the ex-Gov led the ladies in our group through an extended underwater excursion, before our boat entered the spectacular lagoons ringed by the karst towers. The second, hidden lagoon, nicknamed LPL as a naughty moniker alluding to its romance of site, nearly mystical, was also enjoyed by one and all after safe passage through a rock opening that only allowed, at low tide, swimmers and lordly raft portage.
We didn’t have time to complete the jaunt with another beach-stop for trekking up to Kayangan Lake. But it was just as well to end the afternoon with another natural spa experience at Maquinit Hot Springs, until we all felt drowsy at this most popular seaside stop for Coron residents and visitors.
The newly opened Asia Grand View Hotel was perfect for dinner, even as it bodes well for all the tourism plans that will ultimately benefit Northern Palawan, thanks to our buddy Joel Reyes’ continuing vision and selfless efforts.
Personally, I will always remember this latest Coron sojourn as one of mixed blessings. At Smith Beach on Monday morning, I was in touch by cell phone with several writer-friends attending the state funeral rites for Mom Edith in Dumaguete. CCP chair Emily Abrera also kept me abreast with what was going on at Silliman Church, where she joined the speakers at the final rites. Sawi, Annabelle Lee Adriano, Marjorie Evasco and Ricky de Ungria were the other usual suspects and culprits who clued me in on everything that went on, until the gravesite ceremonies.
As agreed upon, Ricky it was who texted as I waited on the beach off the waters of Coron Bay, a minute before a contingent of seven Marines fired three volleys into the skies above the Dumaguete Memorial Park at exactly 11:57 a.m.
I voice-called in time to hear the 21-gun salute that signaled a most honorable farewell for a hero — our heroine of a lady poet and writer of the first water, our National Artist of a mother. Ric texted that he had picked up some spent shells as I had requested. A Marine officer told him he had to give them up. But Ric’s a premier poet himself, and his words were enough to convince the soldier that he should get to keep at least a couple.
Knowing that I would soon receive one of those, plus a copy of the program on the day Edith L. Tiempo was laid to rest, I was content to have felt being there, in situ, even as I was clad in the skimpiest of swimming trunks. With that vicarious thrill did I saunter barefoot across the white sand and wade back into the gentle surf, there to bite my lips and add more salt to our beloved sea.