And thank God most people will be away for the long weekend in their vacation homes and provinces or in uncivilized island resorts — far away from daily newspapers — because the news is not good.
October is the worst month of the year, for any year. It is the month when politics explodes in controversy, stock markets crash, and people generally lose their minds, sometimes for good. It starts off fairly reasonably with the sun in the sign of Libra, but deteriorates gradually with each passing day until the freak-show spectacle of Halloween, when the month finally burns out and dies in the loathsome sign of Scorpio. Bad things normally happen in October, and my burning suspicion is that none of those wretched 31 days would be missed if the entire month were one day permanently wiped out of the Gregorian calendar.
Now that we’ve established the tone of this week’s column, allow me to drive the stake deeper by saying that in the old Japanese calendar, the 10th month was called Kannazuki, which literally translated to “the godless month.” Pain and suffering were so prevalent during the month of October — in malls, polls, hospitals, and war zones like Iraq where casualty numbers hit record-breaking milestones — that an International Day of Non-Violence had to be declared on the second day of the month. It also happens to be the month when the citizens of the world are urged to be aware of blindness, Down Syndrome, and Sudden Infant Death. There are murderers everywhere, and last month most of them were mosquitoes.
Yes, October is a reliable bummer, and the only surefire way to survive it — or at the very least tolerate it — is to leave town and stay away for as long as you can. Hit the road, Jack, and try not to come back until the bomb-fog is clear. Which is why as soon as October reared its ugly head, I packed my bags, hopped on a quick Seair flight to Boracay, and languished there for 11 straight days. I was on a “special mission” for Rogue magazine, one that required extensive research and round-the-clock social interaction with the locals of the island; I was in the process of producing a very special Boracay feature for an upcoming issue. Stay tuned, Rogue-heads.
It was a safe refuge for a while, but as soon as I returned to Manila a diesel tank exploded in the basement of Glorietta 2 and killed 11 people — one for every day I spent in Boracay. And there it was again: that strange number 11:11 (Google it and see what I mean). I should have stayed on the island till November. But then again who knows what weird and evil things transpired on Halloween night in Boracay. I have heard many stories about innocent gift-shop tourists from Scandinavia turning into dangerous drug creatures at the stroke of midnight, and making fools of themselves in tight Speedos and drag costumes.
Truth is hard to come by these days, and last month was especially deceptive. Was it a homemade bomb that demolished Glorietta 2 or was it a serious case of industrial stupidity? The political thriller known as the Joseph Estrada Saga finally ends like one of his own movies — in triumph. The Senate is a mosh-pit of mudslinging, whistle-blowing, and backstabbing. We all know that a strong lust for money can cause people to lie like bald-faced monkeys on TV, but must we accept the fact that the Philippines is nothing more than a mad gaggle of islands ruled since the beginning of time by criminal organizations? Some know the truth about these things, but most of us do not. There is no such thing as paranoia anymore.
So my prescription would be this: whenever October arrives, like a sleazy carnival of doom, flee the city. Escape to a fantasy island like Boracay and just hunker down and hang back for a few — no, for many days. At least 10. Check into one of those boutique resorts in Station One, where the beach is whiter and wider, and spend the next 10 days wandering around the island and fraternizing with the locals. Wake up every morning and have an omelet and a calamansi muffin with Lee and Nadine at Real Coffee.
I have eaten in many restaurants on the island and I can confidently say that Real Coffee and Binggoy Remedios’s Dos Mestizos are two of the best. The omelets in Real Coffee are never overwhelming, but are always warm and oozing with cheesy flavor — and they also serve freshly baked bread.
Dos Mestizos is an intoxicatingly homey Spanish tapas bar and restaurant on the island where the most important ingredient in all their dishes is love, and whenever you have dinner with Binggoy there you can always feel it. You can see it in his face as he entertains guests, serves drinks at the bar, or sautés a skillet of gambas over a stovetop in the open kitchen. You can see it in the faces of everyone who works there and everyone who eats there, and you can hear it in the music and the cheerful din of the crowd. But most of all, you can taste the love. In the saffron-infused heartiness of their paellas, in the garlic zestiness of their pulpo, in the intense flavors of their chorizos, and the sticky, savory, comfort-food quality of their callos. There is an undeniable joy that seizes your body as soon as you set foot on the island, and Dos Mestizos is definitely one of the reasons for it.
Now I am back in Manila and there are six days left in October, but by the time you read this, the nightmare will have been over. It is raining constantly, dengue flies are everywhere, and people are afraid to go to the malls. But there are signs of hope. Christmas decorations are starting to come up, and pretty soon the whole country will set aside their problems and shift smoothly into party mode. So congratulations, people: despite a savage segue into November, October is history.
The Halloween parties raged like California wildfires all throughout the country, celebrating the month’s long-awaited end. As usual, everybody went hog-wild on drugs and alcohol, hiding behind hideous masks — and after the big night, the next couple of mornings were days for the dead.