The lighter side of pork-testing

I did!  I saw your eyebrows!” shrieked Lita Potassy, my friend who claimed she caught me on TV.  She could not go to the rally and be counted among those who were pork-testing the pesky pork barrel, its misuse and abuse.

I got up before the rose-pink light of dawn.  If Holy Mass was to be celebrated at 9 a.m., if we needed to make it past the gridlock and road blocks, we had to leave the house by 7:30 a.m.  And we did.  The streets were still passable and no buildup of traffic yet so we got to Luneta Park by 8 a.m.  


It was cloudy and overcast, but we came prepared for that.  The crowd was still small but gathering steadily.  We walked around the grounds and decided to check out Manila Hotel that I haven’t seen since the Cirque du Soleil came to town.  The lobby was full, the coffee shop was busy, and I saw people dressed in white tee shirts, blue jeans and windcheaters, lagging umbrellas, sun visors, and portable stools and chairs.  


Walking back to the park, I saw two women opening boxes of golf umbrellas to sell.  Another vendor with her own megaphone was selling chicharon, shouting, “Limit your pork to crispy cracklings and leave the deadly stuff alone!”


An old man, unshaven, unkempt, and reeking of foul sweat, sat in a lonely bench.  He stood up to collect large tarpaulin pieces, not minding the crowd.  Was he choosing from discarded material what could pass for his sleeping mat?  He looked homeless with only a pebble washout bench for his bed.  He broke into a faint smile, genuinely surprised, when I handed him a colored note.  I thought, I only fed him for a day, what happens tomorrow?  Would he remain as one of the faces of social injustice; of money earmarked for social service that disappeared in a vast sinkhole of corruption?


Someone approached me, “Ma’am, add your signature to our petition board to abolish the pork barrel.”  I fell in line until one of the organizers commented, “For senior citizens, there’s a shorter line.”  I quickly switched lanes and realized that there were only two people in the elderly lane:  My husband and I.  Oh, well.

Walking around the tiled pavement, I saw vendors selling silken tofu (magtataho).  They were quickly recognized by their large aluminum buckets that hang from each end of a yoke.  I imagined asking for an extra scoop of brown caramelized sugar (arnibal) and sago pearls.

There were benches around shady trees and I caught a familiar face, Chit Elviña.  “Fancy meeting you here, Letty.  It’s been a millennium.”  She was a schoolmate who graduated a few years ahead of our batch.  There were more women cooling their heels, waiting for the assembly to perk up.  Another vendor was peddling bright silver mats to cover the damp grass and my eyes danced at the sight of steamed mais (corn).  It was the native variety, white and sticky.  I was going to pick out the cobs when my husband remarked, “Not now.  The Mass will start soon.”  Pfft went my self-indulgent cloud. 


Families came in droves, pushing senior relatives in wheel chairs.  “I wouldn’t miss this,” the lady cheered as her daughter fixed a cushion behind her back.  


There were no leaders or guest speakers heading the rally although I heard a voice addressing the crowd to stay vigilant. 


A priest from our parish community recognized us and said, “I have to head back early because I’m officiating at a wedding.”  He chuckled when he noticed my white shirt.  “I didn’t know there was a color motif; I came in yellow, thinking it should be acceptable to most.  Is it?” He waved again before crossing the boulevard where a thickening crowd was forming near the Rizal Monument.

Soon, I saw a group of doctors holding banners that read, “Philippine General Hospital deserves additional funding.” A nephew who trained as an intern in a public hospital related the daily nightmare young practitioners had to go through:  “We had no stock of basic emergency supply like cotton gauze, disposable needles.  Worse, nurses and doctors had to recycle and boil disposable needles because of their scarcity.  There were no plastic drips, rehydration tablets, and basic things like miniature clamps to control the intravenous flow.  Out of desperation and need, we ended up digging into our own pockets just to get through the day; whatever else we can buy quickly ran out especially in the Emergency Room.  It was Dante’s Inferno unfolding, live on the spot.”


Young ones and young once merged in the open field, chanting and dancing while others played indigenous instruments.  Nephews, nieces, cousins, and colleagues began to fill up the space.  When the sun peeped from peripatetic clouds, my stomach began to grumble.  We headed towards Aristocrat for my  long-time comfort food, arroz caldo goto and camaron rebosado.  Again, the place was bursting with rallyists who likewise skipped breakfast.  One colleague snickered,  “So, this is where we drown our outcry for transparency and honesty?  Just remember, 32 percent of our hard-earned pay went to taxes, collected supposedly for a better, secure, and a robust tomorrow.  Why must some eat cake over our sweat and tears?” 


It was a mutiny without arms, of fine, decent, honest and tax-paying, concerned citizenry.  We all cried,  “Porky Pig isn’t cute anymore, not if you see it wallowing in filth from its own snort.”  Da-da-dat’s all folks!   The end.

Says who?