Just before the Quarantine

(Part of an ongoing account started on March 13, 2020 of how the spread of COVID-19 in our country and our government’s response has affected our lives.)

We make plans to check on Nanay and her needs before the general community quarantine over Metro Manila is implemented by midnight. Trips outside the province are prohibited during the quarantine so we know that after today, we will be unable to go to her place in Antipolo City, which is located in the Province of Rizal.

However, we’ve already asked a plumber to come over and do repair work so we wait until that’s done before we leave. We set out mid-afternoon and stop by a restaurant along C5 to buy food that we can share with Nanay. The parking lot is half-empty and only a few patrons are inside. We go on the road and round a bend, only to come head to head with the giant parking lot that is the Ortigas Ave. extension.

We crawl inch by inch, not really making much headway in the traffic created by the huge number of people evidently wanting to leave the metro before the quarantine takes effect. Finally, hubby gives up and calls Nanay, apologizing that we have to turn around and head back home since we would likely get caught in Antipolo when the quarantine takes effect. She understands, as most mothers do.

Tired but still intent on catching the news, I stay up and am alarmed when my best friend calls from Cebu. Arlene, a mutual friend from abroad, is stranded in Manila.  Much as I want to immediately rush to her aid, I know I have to get the consensus of hubby and daughter, who are both in dreamland. I vow to call Arlene in the morning.

Life, as I don't know it

Photo borrowed from Heywood Hospital  

The threat of the corona virus disease of 2019 (COVID-19) first became real to me when it hit close to home or rather, the Greenhills shopping center in San Juan, Metro Manila which I was thinking of visiting to have my daughter’s drawing tablet repaired.

A 62-year-old male who frequented a Muslim prayer hall in the shopping center had contracted COVID-19 on March 5. He was the first case of local transmission in the Philippines, having no history of travel prior to contracting the disease. His wife followed suit on March 7. This convinced me that the virus had found its way to Metro Manila. It was no longer something in Wuhan, China. I remember thinking, “It’s real and it’s here in Greenhills.”

Of course, I had followed reports of Filipinos repatriated from Wuhan, China and quarantined at the New Clark City in Capas, Tarlac last February, but did not think much of it because they were all eventually released after they were cleared of the disease.

But the sight of a virtually empty Greenhills shopping mall unsettled me. Then the cases of local transmission started to rise, causing President Rodrigo Duterte to formally declare a state of public health emergency in the Philippines on March 9. He also suspended all classes in public and private schools in Metro Manila from March 10 to 14, 2020.

My daughter, who initially rejoiced at the idea of not having classes, started to worry. Her school cancelled the last term tests, announcing that the students’ final grades would be based on their class standing. Like most students, she had been banking on doing well in the finals to further pull up her grades. Also, she and her friends had agreed to meet at our house after the last exam scheduled on March 13 for a Dungeons and Dragons session, which was always fun.

Nonetheless, she remained optimistic that she would see her schoolmates during the practices scheduled for their moving-up ceremony the week after. But even that did not materialize. Government’s advice to offices and institutions to refrain from holding activities that encouraged mass gatherings prompted her school to cancel the moving-up ceremony altogether.

I think this was the tipping point for me since we were now directly affected. I wondered when her grades would be released, if they were good enough for entry to the school she had chosen for senior high school, and when we could enroll her for Grade 11. The silence and the uncertainty unnerved me.

Then I saw a news report showing the cast of popular noontime show “Eat Bulaga” performing to an empty studio on March 10.  Studio management had decided not to open its doors to a live audience in an effort "to help prevent the spread of the virus and to ensure the health and safety of its talent, staff, crew, and members of its audience."

Given the fast pace of events and everything that has happened since then, I have decided to make an account of how the rapid spread of COVID-19 in our country and our government’s response has affected our lives.

This is not an attempt to document medical or technical milestones, but rather just an account of how an ordinary, middle-income family is reacting to a new way of life brought about by the lockdown.

Life, as I know it, has changed. Fast. Drastically. I am starting on March 14, 2020 hours before the general community quarantine or partial lockdown of Metro Manila announced by Duterte takes effect. (To be continued)

“Hearting” birthday greetings

I turned 52 in October 2019. This statement should please my best friend, who always objects to my propensity to declare myself the age I am for the year even if my birthday is still months away. She is all for accuracy especially because she is a year younger and has no wish to "advance" her age. 

This year, I thought I would remove my birth date from Facebook (FB) because I am really more a lurker, just happy to "heart" or “like” the nice things that are happening to people, congratulate them on their milestones and commiserate when they lose someone dear to them.

At this age, I am also losing a lot of people I know, even those my age. I figured I might just as well begin the phase-out on social media.

But then my birthday came around and sister started the ball rolling by greeting me on FB. Someone picked up on that and then a friend of that someone and soon enough, I have a lot of birthday greetings in just minutes.

I am the type of person who wants to respond to each and every greeting, but when you’re with actual, physical people celebrating your birthday early in the morning with breakfast, you can’t. You can’t ignore them because you’re on your phone.

So you put it off and soon enough you’re going out and real life dictates that you spend the time doing this and that so that you can actually leave the house even as you sneak in a "heart" here and there to show the FB greeter that you love their message, which you really do except that you can’t be physically present but on the phone with the people who want to celebrate your birthday with you.

So you content yourself with “hearting” their greeting for the moment, all the time feeling uncomfortable that you cannot thank them properly.

I have only 660 FB friends. I cannot imagine how it is for those who have thousands.

But then again, I am 52 and considered old school. Maybe in this age of social media, a “heart” is really just enough.

Of course, I say this after I have replied, singly or in groups, to the birthday greetings that I “hearted” a while back.

Time is our friend in Perth

My family and I just came back from a short trip to Perth, the capital and largest city of the state of Western Australia. 

It was a very pleasant trip mainly because life ambles along in Perth, which contrasts greatly with how it seems to be in danger of getting choked in the road and pedestrian traffic that gurgles and rushes to fill any gap in Metro Manila, where I live.

We're the only ones waiting for a free ride
on a blue CAT bus that will take us
to the Fremantle Markets.

First, there is no heavy traffic, even in the commercial business district of Perth. We ride bus after bus for free, and we don’t even line up to get on one. Perth provides zero-fare bus and train trips around the city center (the "Free Transit Zone"), including four high-frequency CAT (Central Area Transit) bus routes. 

Compare this with the line of people stretching along Epifanio de los Santos Avenue (EDSA) to get a bus ride, with some even ignoring the danger posed by Manila’s major thoroughfare to break into a run and meet oncoming buses in an effort to get on first.  Add those waiting to get tickets to the Metro Rail Transit (MRT), whose line also snakes all the way down EDSA. 

In Perth, one can actually breathe. Look around. Walk. 

It isn’t just because we are on vacation mode.  The energy is different. People get to where they need to go; there’s just no tension about it.

The view from our room at the hotel, located
near the Elizabeth Quay of the City of Perth.

Maybe it’s because Perth is considered one of the most isolated major cities in the world, with the Indian Ocean on one side and the Australian outback on the other. The nearest city is Adelaide, which is over 2,092 kilometers away. There are some 2 million inhabitants, with about the same number of visitors in a year.

Everything closes at 5 p.m. OK, maybe not everything. Some at 5:30 p.m. and the few beyond that at 8 p.m.  I look forward to coffee after dinner and am aghast to find coffee joints closed. We get off a bus stop past 5 p.m. along St. Georges Terrace, Perth’s main street, and find stores and offices shuttered, even the main grocery chain Woolworths, where we had hoped to get some items we’d forgotten to pack. 

So we walk on, because in Perth, there are a lot of public, open spaces which we want to explore. Except that the cold, cold wind is against us. We are in Perth in September, on days when the temperature is recorded at a maximum 21 and a minimum 2 degrees Celsius. We are quickly disabused of the notion that it is better to walk late in the afternoon when the sun is low, and decide it is best to do so at noon when the sun is highest.

We see the Perth City skyline from Kings Park.

We quickly adjust to walking around, barely perspiring in the cool weather, even during hours of walking at Kings Park and Botanic Garden, which covers 400.6 hectares and is one of the largest inner city parks in the world. We are wowed by the views since Kings Park overlooks Perth City and the Swan River. But what holds our attention is the beauty, size and variety of the West Australian flora painstakingly planted and documented in the park’s cultivated gardens.

Hubby poses in front
of a 750-year-old (estimated)
Boab tree.

My daughter quickly gets lost taking picture after picture of the flowers and plants which catch her eye. Even my husband, whose only motivation for walking seems to be a game of golf, doesn’t complain. He points out the magpies and parrots that ignore us, chirping away as they arrange themselves on tree boughs and flutter to the ground every now and then. 

I look around and note the absence of ambulant vendors and food stalls, which pepper public open spaces like Luneta Park in Manila.  We agree that this is one of the reasons King’s Park retains the feel of a natural habitat, and remains pristine and clean even as my daughter remarks, “I could use a hotdog just about now.”

We visit the rest of the sites the same way, unhurried and in hand with Time: Elizabeth Quay; the Esplanade; the streets of Hay and Murray, where the malls are located; the markets and streets of Fremantle and Perth’s cultural center.

I am startled to see some men and children walking barefoot along city streets, in groceries and at the Fremantle markets. I understand that some people in Australia prefer to walk barefoot because they believe in a way of life that makes them feel more “free” yet connected to the land. I cringe inwardly at how unhygienic and unsafe it is, but that’s just me.

But I applaud at the way they take pride in things made and grown in Australia, as illustrated by the many signs put up in market stalls, cafes and other commercial establishments.  They have every reason to be proud of their produce.

At a market in Fremantle, I can only sigh at the sight of the

There are so many fruits and vegetables
we cannot bring home.

gigantic-sized bell peppers and the even larger sugar apple (atis), which I know I cannot bring home per a 2015 joint circular of the Department of Health, Food and Drug Administration, and the Bureau of Customs which prohibits bringing in fresh or frozen unprocessed foods - even in quantities for personal use - into the Philippines without prior clearance from the Department of Agriculture of the Philippines.

There’s a burst of energy on Friday nights, it seems.  The streets come alive as professionals break out of their offices to fill watering holes and end the week relaxing and drinking. We are not drinkers so we avoid the bars, even if we cannot escape the din from joints like Public House Perth along Adelaide Terrace which stretches all the way across the street.

With the St. Mary's Cathedral in the background.

The rest of the days, it goes back to slow, even crawling to a near stop on Sundays. A last-minute decision to visit Rottnest Island falls through so we decide to explore the heritage buildings on Perth’s east end after attending Mass at the nearby St. Mary’s Cathedral. 

Aside from the beauty of the church and the solemnity of the Mass, two things stand out to me: Majority of the boys who were installed as new choristers after the Mass bear Filipino surnames, and there are customized envelopes for tourists, allowing them to make contributions via credit card.

We take the time to buy souvenirs, confirming what we already know: In Perth, things are expensive. Because of Perth’s relative geographical isolation, you have to pay a bit more to cover the costs of freight and logistics in getting goods delivered. 

Too soon, it seems, the trip ends. We end the time warp we find ourselves in Perth and go back to busying, hurrying and running around in the humid, wonderful familiar that is our home country. 

But if given the chance to visit Perth again, we certainly will to explore the places we missed and catch up with friends we did not get to see. And yes, to renew the friendship we made with Time in Perth.

Babang Luksa

It is customary in the Philippines to mark the first death anniversary as the end of mourning or “babang luksa” as the Tagalogs call it. The word “baba” means to lower, referring to a veil customarily worn to mourn the passing of a loved one.

As prescribed by tradition, my sisters and I offer prayers for my mom and celebrate with a meal, signaling that the period of bereavement has ended. It hasn’t and I doubt if it will anytime soon.

But we are dutiful daughters. My sisters in Cebu go to Mass, visit Mommy’s grave then have breakfast together. The rest of us attend Mass where we are located. As usual, I go on overdrive. I have the 7 a.m. mass said for my mother at the nearby chapel of a Formation Center, then again at 6:30 p.m. at the Parish Church and one at the Minor Basilica of Our Lady of the Most Holy Rosary of Manaoag in Pangasinan. Except for the last which is celebrated some 200 kilometers away from where I live, I attend both masses.

I am not the only one. My youngest sister also has two masses offered for Mommy on her death anniversary. Everyone, including those in the US, have flowers bought for her grave. One of them puts out an ad in the local paper to honor her memory. What harm can it do? My sisters and I laugh about it over the phone, in between bouts of crying. No, this mourning period is not likely to end anytime soon.

I think these traditions for the dead are more about enabling the living to cope with their loss and to feel that they have dutifully mourned the passing of their love ones.

I believe in praying for the repose of our loved ones’ souls and/or offering the Holy Mass for them. God is with us, whether it is in this life or the afterlife and He has dominion over all. We have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

But I do know that we, myself included, overdo things because we feel that somehow, we need to do something more for our loved ones who have passed away.

I believe that Mommy is with God in heaven yet I feel the need to fly to Cebu to visit her grave, buy flowers that easily wilt under the heat of the sun and light candles that are quickly extinguished by the wind or worse, disappear once our backs are turned. Because I MUST do something on her death anniversary. Mommy would scoff at me, but she would still be touched and if just for that, I do it anyway. Because it makes me feel better.

So we go to the noonday mass Mommy liked attending at a certain chapel then proceed to a restaurant where I ache remembering the countless times she treated all of us to a meal there because the younger ones cannot have enough of the chicken skin.

Then I fly back home still aching but feeling better that those of us who could, gather in prayer for Mommy on her first death anniversary. I am glad we all made the effort even if honoring the babang luksa does not end our grief over losing Mommy. In my heart, I know Mommy is glad for any reason for her children to come together, even if it is her demise.