200 Baht

Two hundred baht is just Php 280 or about $ 6. What can it buy in Bangkok? Well, it can buy food for two days or three Thai t-shirts or roam around Krung Thep for one day.

But for Arnel (not his real name), 200 baht is a treasure. He cannot do the things stated above for fear of being arrested by Thai police though Thai authorities are tolerant of illegal migrants. So literally, Arnel is “imprisoned” in the Philippine Embassy in Bangkok. I met him when I register at the Philippines Embassy in Sukhumvit Road this morning. He is not ashamed to asked for something to eat or financial help.

Having been stranded in Phuket for four months without any documents and money, his longing to go home to Lucena City in Quezon Province and settle for good. Through the help of friends and Filipinos in Phuket who contributed for his fare and pocket money, he braved the long travel from the Andaman side of Thailand to the City of Smile that is Bangkok.

He and nine others were recruited by a Malaysian to be stevedores cum linemen in a fishing vessel. Armed only with a High School level of educational attainment (some of his companions were able to reach elementary level only) and experience from the University of Life, they contemplated on the good things ahead as they will work abroad. Upon reaching Malaysia they were turned over to an agency and transferred to another boat. And so began their hardships.

Their boat was fishing in the Burmese side of the Andaman Sea to catch tuna. He recalled that their average sleep is only three hours . The fishing boat uses a long line to catch tuna so there was no definite time to haul the catch into the vessel. The moment their storage is full, there is a small boat that will ferry the tuna ashore. Most of their time were spent in the sea particularly in the waters of Burma. Exploited, over-worked, unpaid and ill-fed he raised their concern to their recruiter to no avail to the point that the Malaysian told him to jump ship and swim his way to the Philippines.

Fortunately, the vessel's machine broke down after four months at sea. So they docked at Phuket. At first they were told to hide at the engine room everytime there are Thai authorities to inspect the vessel. In January, he demanded the payment and humane treatment from their recruiter but his gripes fell on deaf Malaysian ears.

Having no options, he and a companion eventually jumped ship. They seek refuge to the small, closely-knitted Filipino community in the island paradise to be able to survive and accepted menial jobs. However, the daily wage of undocumented worker in Thailand is lower compared to documented ones. Aside from that, there is always the fear of being arrested. Further, the longing to go home in Lucena and see his loved ones is his utmost concern, hence he went to the embassy just only yesterday after months of hiding.

Arnel's situation is similar to the situation of other Filipinos who wanted to go outside the country, seek greener pastures and alleviate their family from the bondage of poverty. He even considered himself lucky because he was braved enough to try his luck in mainland Thailand. His guts and wits in finding the embassy in Bangkok, reporting their situation and submitting himself to the embassy officials is worthy of praise. But for the eight others who are still in that same hellish fishing boat sailing at Andaman Sea, only time will tell when will they go home to their families. Arnel does hope and pray that there shall be no tsunami to strike again in that part of Indian Ocean. With a bitter smile, he even counter-joked that who knows, tsunamis might bring his friends back to the Philippines.

The Pathetic Story of Fatherhood II

Last December 12, 2008 our father had a stroke. It was his first time – nearly fatal – that cost him the right side of his body. He is only 61 years old. (Save the obituary page for now).

So much that we, his children, think about how it happened. He’s the only one who knew what caused it. But reading between the lines, he was so full of regrets, full of guilt. At least, we were not short of giving him advices regarding his diet and the binge drinking. Ewan ba, but he can’t refuse to go out from the meaning of Filipino machismo literally and figuratively.

Seeing him limped in a hospital bed, one of my brothers and I thought of the good things we and our father had shared. His strong arms that used to spank us whenever we committed childhood mischief is no longer alert. He just murmured his inaudible instructions so much so that we miss his dry sense of humor. Good thing, his brain was not damaged. He is a good father – a good provider, a strict disciplinarian and a strong-willed person. On the other hand, he also has his shortcomings, particularly with my mother. But at that particular moment she’s always the supportive better-half.

The situation brought another unfair condition for our mother. True, they were bound to stick with each other through thick and thin, for better or worse. But during those times that he was drinking, abusing his physical self, he didn’t think of our mother or his safety or the financial implications. Our mother is always at the receiving end. That’s why we can’t blame her when she snapped irritably and uttered to the doctor that “he’s my roommate.”

At this instant, my brother and I contemplated about our future as husbands and fathers. Would our wife and children be there if we’re in the same situation? Would they be around to amuse us with their humor? Would they be our ears to listen to the doctor’s instructions? Would they be our mouths so that we can speak? Would they be our arms if we’re immobile? Would they be our feet to buy for our simple needs?

Our father’s immobility compels us to be strong and brace for the tough times ahead. More importantly, we don’t want to be helpless. We don’t want to be reduced as a mere roommate or housemate that can be evicted anytime. We don’t want to be taken out from their memories.

The Pathetic Story of Fatherhood

It’s been six months, ten days, 17 hours, 37 minute, 58 seconds since I resigned from my job (again). After six years of ego-tripping, mind-bashing, voluminous paper checking, and torturous grammar correcting, I finally called it quits… Amen to that.

It’s the Gemini in me once again – a pain in the ass adventurer whose idealism precedes the real self. Fed up. Bored. Unhappy. Hence, getting out of the structured walls of work was the answer.

Freelance once again. In transition, the family roles were reversed. True to form, the pressure in a Gemeinschaft community was somewhat hard to contend with. Duhh… Why do we always have to abide with societal mores and norms?

Example 1. An equally pain in the ass daughter could not accept the fact that I’m working albeit at home, thinking and waiting for a one-shot opportunity for the big bucks. She was already immersed with the idea of gender roles – that an ideal father should always be leaving the house daily for work. So absorbed, too, in the premise that: husbands (in my case, a house-band) should not sport a goatee, more so, a long hair.

Example 2. Another dilemma is the notion of former co-workers that my “shelf life” as a yuppie (yorppie is appropriate I guess – Young Rural Professional) is nearing expiration. Sooner or later, I will be taken out of the job market shelf.

Example 3. Why am I letting my wife to study in the big city and make all the sacrifices for the kids? (A woman-friend told me this. She hasn’t heard of women’s lib and too conservative to accept it.)

Shrugging my shoulders isn’t enough to answer those queries. So too is the fact that rationalizing won’t work as people do not have the same level of understanding. One thing is certain though: they are getting into my nerves!

An erudite friend once told me: “There’s not one thing comparable to the divine nobility of being a father. It is of vernal gift to witness the metamorphosing children and no joy greater than to stand in awe at the fruit of labor as it becomes the vital part of humanity. You have the reason and meaning to live, being a father is more than enough.” Thank goodness, he didn’t puke.

My life as a father is purpose-driven but contrary to the preaching of Rick Warren. Neither would it be Og Mandino’s greatest salesman in the world. Nor living in Coelho’s surrealist world. I guess I’m best fitted with Bob Ong’s antics – A B N K K Su L T N P L A Ko. At Y N Ang N G S Yo Ko!!! (10 October 2008)