Hanging by the thread

Somebody stop me. I'm in combat mode. The trigger safety lock is off. From single shot, I've slid the lever all the way up to full auto to make sure I don't miss anything. This is going to be down quick and dirty. You can count on it.

I'm not talking about the AK-47 or M-16 rifle variety. I'm talking about my old, sturdy DSLR Nikon, now cradled heavy in my weary arms as I survey the barren landscape. I've been hobbling about since morning looking for a worthy target, anything eye-candy, but I have yet to pull the trigger.

I stopped on the road to check on m SD card. I still have to use one of the available 2,000 shots. Can’t see anything much. I’ve been blinded by a mile-long tarpaulin. Congratulations to this and that. Lo and behold the enthronement of Sultan sa Agama Niyog! And, thanks to Photoshop, the head of his royal highness can be now be grafted onto a ceremonial suit without him wriggling out of his jeans and shirts. No sweat. And what about Baì Macalbi? With her mug-beer lips, no amount of downpour could smudge away the thick wad of lipstick on it.

The sun is pulling up, I'm beginning to worry the best time of day for shooting is passing me by. Feeling the tactile contour of the camera, my finger is etching to depress the shutter, if only to break the ice, but I'm in no luck.

I was up early dawn that day when a call from a dozen minarets bounced in all directions, echoing on the rusting rafters of the houses in Marawi, hastening everyone in singsong voice that "prayer is oft better than sleep." This day is going to be a blast, I told myself, as I rushed out of bed, my feet groping for slippers on the cold floor. It's been years since I've come home, and I was excited as I was certain there were going to be changes this time, if only for change's sake.

The streak of red on the horizon was erasing fast when I brought a 3-in-1 cup of coffee to the balcony to observe the main thoroughfare of the town while I drink and plan my day. Then it had gone 7:30 already and I only saw vehicles and people milling around without any particular intention to commit themselves to real work. I grabbed my camera and hopped down to street level to have an up-close look on things myself.

It was 8:00 and the pointless zombie milling around continued. If anything, it turned even more chaotic and acute as children and students joined the throng headed for school and madaris. By 9:00 the line leading to the entrance of the yet to be opened Land Bank had grown a long tail. It seemed to me this is the only semblance of commerce in town. People were lining up to cash on their salaries, pensions, remittance claims, and anything but business transaction.

A group of crows waddling down the streets caught my eye and I thought they might be worth a click or two. I raised my camera and waited for them to come my way. But they were only a herd of women clad in black, looking at the world through the slits of their hijab like submarine sailors who haven't seen land in months, peering at me through a periscope.

I kept my peace and lowered my Nikon down at elbow level lest there would be misunderstanding. Although I was rooted in Marawi, I have to accommodate the declaration that this was an Islamic city after all, whatever that means. And here the rules are unwritten. We make it up as we go along, and play by the feel mostly. The hijab thing started somewhere in the late 80s during the oil boom in the Middle East. One of my sisters couldn't be talked out of it and when she eats she secretes the loaded spoon through the hem of her hijab and I watch it disappear only to come out magically empty. It reminded me of a horror story where to feed the monster, the keeper slides the bowl of food through a trap door. At least it assures me that my sister still got a mouth to feed. It’s now close to eight years since I last saw the face of a wide-eyed pretty girl who wanted to become a nurse and work in California. I thought brain-washing was a communist-patented item.

Sweating a bit, I went inside a coffee shop swirling in smoke. Men in shirts with crocodile epaulet on the breast were hunched together, holding congress in earnest. They were plotting their next move in the coming election which, a year from now, is around the corner just the same. After all, September in the country feels almost like Christmas. In a far corner, a mayor in one of the towns that dot around the lake was holding office. He was busy signing a thick wad of documents while his driver was standing by to ferret the papers to Cagayan de Oro airport for Manila. Another group, a bit laid back in their Pakistani shirts and shalwal, were having a seesaw debate over a certain passage in the hadith. The lips of a man with unkempt beard and skullcap was pulled back tight while he vigorously brushed his stained teeth with sewak even as he listened. On an isolated table, I overheard as someone warn his companion across that big trouble is brewing in their clan. Their nephew, no more than fourteen, had avenged the death of his father, and they needed to stockpile on ammunition.

A migraine was building up in my head so I paid for a bottled water on the counter and didn't stay.

I walked the way headed to Marinaut. Lots and lots of changes indeed. Badly built buildings trying to mimic a modern one.  An ambitious construction stopped with just the lower half finished, the upper floors no more than twisted strands of rebar trying to reach out to a roofless sky. I couldn't locate old markers and for the first time in my life I felt I was a stranger in my own hometown. Jose Rizal's monument was all cracks about to topple, inaccessible through the cyclone fences and gathering moss in oblivion.

At last I found something that delighted me thoroughly. Clusters of green-orange madang hanging by the sidewalk were on sale. I have a fondness for madang. I used to bring sack-full of them from Madalum when I was in grade school. In the drab surrounding, it was the only thing that cheered me at the moment. I took several shots that made my camera click happily like it was filling up on an empty stomach. The seller, an old woman, was frowning at me. She looked skeptical and puzzled as I kept clicking.

When I had a fill I brought my camera down, selected three madang and asked how much I had to pay for them.

The woman didn't answer but looked at me with the same puzzled look like she hadn't heard at all.

I said, "Yes?"

"Why do you have to shoot them?" she asked.

I had a feeling the woman might charge me some royalty for taking pictures of her merchandise. I answered in the most bland and sincere way. "Because they're beautiful, is what," I said.

The woman shrugged, smirked, and said, "You're in luck. 'Tis the season. The three will cost you a hundred pesos only." She bunched the three madang together and knotted a rope handle to carry them faster than my eye could follow.

I handed her the money and she handed me the madang.

The arms-length transaction consummated, I started to turn. Before I could pull away, she couldn't restrain herself. "You know," she said in an admonishing tone, "you shouldn't be wasting shots on trifles like a madang."

"Huh?"

"Because cameras are meant for shooting people only."

I was flabbergasted. The sheer eloquence of it. I didn't know how to respond. When you try to properly answer a dumb statement, you appear dumber yourself. Liberal Arts is the best education a young person can have. It makes you appreciate the world better. When I was shopping for a course to take after high school, I couldn't see anything in Liberal Arts. So I ended up taking Business Administration. Now I know.

The woman had taken to the mechanical side of life as many of our generation had done so. In Lanao, nobody will appreciate you for being an excellent pianist but they will on your owning a brand new SUV. The woman couldn't see how a camera might be used any other way except for taking picture to have a passport, family album or a portrait for the graduation of her nephew. If she sees me spending a good one hour angling for a close-up picture of a bumblebee in flight, she might take me for someone bound for the asylum.

The lack of appreciation in the humanities, the arts and culture of our ancestors turns us all into endangered species. Nobody reads the Darangan anymore, nobody composes bayok, the dances and poetry. Many of our food recipes were lost because nobody makes or experiments with them. We don't hear the boom of the lantacas and the drumming of the tabu if only for ceremonial purposes. Where is the lost art of the haughty sipa? What I see around is sheer disorientation. If you get inside a Maranao household you'll apt to see an Indian decoration on the wall, ceramic jars from Thailand, furniture from China, and you're likely to see a samurai sword instead of a kris or kampilan.

All these perspective are lost in us. The woman firmly and honestly believed in what she said and no amount of explaining would dissuade her otherwise. It was my turn to restrain myself. And I had to fight off the urge to respond. After all, I'm a Maranao myself like her, and so full of it. But if I made a repartee, no matter how I encapsulate it in a be-all and end all manner, she won't stop, and lash back with her own.

I had to go. I spent ten frames only, and there was still 1,990 shots more to go. I didn't say anything and left her hanging by the thread…