The days were all covered with work and work was tough, so the moment I was given the oportunity to take a vacation I grabbed it like a nipple to a hungry baby. Off I went to Bahamas, and I don't want to talk HOW I went there, you don't want to know either and I don't want to tell because it was horrendous; as horrendous as becoming married when your single life was so free and happy. I went to Bahamas all by myself and was somewhat excited by this prospect, I fantasized opening my cabin window in the evening listening to the sound of waves and to music - but before I get carried away and give you the impression that going solo is fine - let me say it's so NOT. But I am a poor hard-working man and all I want to remember in my days-off are things beautiful and relaxing. Like water is relaxing. Like the movie Pirates of the Carribbean is relaxing.



Water is my Chinese sign. I am water. I am one quiet son-of-a-bitch who can penetrate even the most tight crevices in the world. Water is unique in an odd way. I can slide in a flash like flood or I can drop bit by bit like water dripping from a loosely tightened faucet. Tak. Tak. Tak. I am water, I think, enough reason for me to always spend my time beside it - river, lake, ocean, sea. Water mesmerizes me, when I see it, my imagination soars, the way it soars right now, so I tap my keyboard in a hurry, before my imagination falters, before my inspiration is over, before all the things I saw fade; because if that happens, I run the risk of offering you a mealncholy story; it will never be the same.



Just this morning I was standing on the sun deck of the ship I was about to disembark, I was promising myself to write what I've been dying to write since I boarded the ship two days ago but I could not because my skin allergies were severe inside my cabin and it was so wonderful lying on the highest deck of the ship, listening to the Queen of Depression Songs - Karen Carpenter - and watching the stars and listening to the splash of the waves and drinking beer. No, I would not keep myself inside my cabin to write when other relaxation choices were available. So I was promising myself that I'd write this shit of a piece, as I was standing there waiting for the disembarking announcements. I was promising myself to write this story while I was observing the Filipino crew who were docking the ship, spewing out the ladder, tying this and that rope, assembling this and that rail. I was promising myself to write this story as I was waving at the Filipino bellboys who were shyly waving at me - it was odd to become a tourist in a ship being served by Filipinos. How would I feel if I were in their position? I could not act as a tourist to them. As I sat beside my fellow tourists, I pretended to listen to their discussions with my occasional nods of yes, but my eyes could not gaze away from the Filipino waiters - and it was frightening. They are meek. They are humble. They are ---



I made my orders in Tagalog. "Sorry, sir", they told me.

For what? "Ay huwag mo naman akong i-Sir", I responded.

"O sige, pasensya ka na pare".



I ask myself what he was apologizing to me for. His service was impeccable, he should be high-fiving me for his talent and his capacity to make this trip wonderful for many tourists. Heck, I work with patients everyday myself, and I am screamed at by them in pain. Unlike the Filipino waiters, I don't think I deserve a tip.



Of course, as we Filipinos are often inclined to do - we talk in silent corners when we have opportunity, the one I speak to holds a mop, his flighty eyes keep checking no one sees him. He is talking with me instead of mopping. I understand. And we talk how hard life in the Philippines is; how many relatives we have to support; how this and that failed to improve our lots...Etcetera, etcetera. You know our Pinoy stories.

But that won't be my story to tell, last night I stayed at the top deck of the ship, listening to the waves and Karen Carpenter, drinking beer and imagining things. This must have been the way it was during the Pirate days when everything around was dark, and the wind was strong, and the taste of waves is salty. It must have been a great time.

I woke up in the Bahamas.



Since the vacation is over, I am back in my quiet room to write. Anything. Anything that comes to my mind. I am physically tired everyday with my work, especially after transferring from a Cardiac Hospital to Trauma Hospital. Trauma is so much exciting in a sickly kind of way. Gunshot wounds; motor vehicle accidents; drunk victims; mothers; fathers; children ---- and sad sad sad sad stories. Sad, that is what hospital work is. It is not the kind of job where you debate with others and explore the profundities of life , no, my job is appoaching a man or a woman and asking "how do you feel?" Most of the time, they don't answer because of pain; or because they don't want to face painful reality; or because they have shit on their beds; or they have tubes in all the orifices of their bodies. I'm used to it. For instance, I treat a father and son who had a car accident. Father had all his leg bones broken but he was stable. 16 year old son was still in critical condition. I wonder how I would feel if I were the father who had an accident with my son nearly dying while I survived....

Please, he begs me, bring me to my son. I get the permission to transfer Father to wheelchair with aid of sliding board. Thank you very much, he says to me.

I wheel him to the ICU, he holds his comatose son's hand, whispers to him things that are whispered between fathers and sons. Which I do not want to hear. I would not hear. I walk away. In the bathroom. Because I want to cry. I cry and cry and cry. Then I go out of bathroom fresh and smooth and smiley.

"Did your son respond to you?"

"No."

And that is just the first of the ten trauma patients I am about to see for the day.

I really needed the vacation.

I want to have a vacation back home - in Pampanga - maybe it will refresh me. An American tells me, I've been to the Philippines and it was soooo beautiful. I think it is the most beautiful country in the world.

I smile especially after learning he visited the Philipines in the 1950's.

A Malaysian e-mailed me about my web writing asking, Is it really that bad in the Philipines? The Philippines is such a resource-rich country isn't it?

Yeah. It is beautiful and rich.

It is also full of politicians. So crook they are they want to make hell appear like heaven. They want to use the definition of Satan for a Saint.

But they would not know anything wouldn't they? They do not work in hell like us, overseas workers, dealing with all the sadness of the world while we keep smiling our fake smiles. They would not bow their heads in shame like us when we are told our country is so beautiful and resource-rich while we work as slaves in other countries. And they would not meet the Filipino waiters and laborers in cruise ships, who, when they see me as a tourist bow their heads as if ashamed

"Do you want anything else Sir?"

"Are you happy with my service Sir?"

"Let me carry your luggage Sir."

And I bow my head ashamed to be a fucking tourist when I know I am just like them, slaves in a different setting.

But nobody would know that. Nobody would see our cries inside bathrooms. Crying over sadness. Being raped. Being screamed at. Waking up at five in the morning and finishing the job at ten in the evening. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, until the end of a six month contract. And then go home to a country where the only thing Filipinos could do is to throw shit against one another, to protect their profiles for the next election, to make sure that their intense corruption is converted into piety.

I don't know why they are not yet burning in hell like the rest of us!



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