Hello, folks. My name is Brad, and I'm a retired English teacher who specialized in seniors and juniors at a Massachusetts high school. I love a good novel, a fine poem. My home for the past seven years has been in Cabanatuan City, which is centrally located on the island of Luzon in the Philippines. My girlfriend/caretaker Glenda and I, along with Glenda's daughter Krizza, live in a cozy outbuilding on the estate of Teresita Tecson, whose family asked me to come live with them four years ago. I've met many fine people here, made good friendships, helped out where I could, accepted help when it was offered. Started this blog a few months after coming to the Philippines, and have kept a double focus throughout these pages: one, to let you enter my personal life and the lives of Filipinos close to me; two, to offer overviews of current issues important to Filipinos, as well as the customs and heritage of a remarkable people. Cheers!

10.13.24

Glenda's Birthday

Ha, our friend Melvin roasted a big fish in foil out on the sidewalk for us, but unsurprisingly Glenda did most of the cooking for the impromptu party: we had fixings for spring rolls in the fridge, and she rolled up a large pile of these and fried them; also, she made a huge pancit canton (Philippine noodles) with shredded pork, cabbage, carrots, and onions.

Glenda's friend Clara Mae came with her son Frinz and nieces Donaiza and Adelle, and Adelle's classmate friend. Melvin appeared with the fish and his wife and baby. Don-Don and Clara Mae's husband Robin sat at a table in the compound outside, drinking, eating pulutan, and catching up with each other. It was a school night, and after they'd eaten their fill the young'uns sat down to homework while the old'uns raided the fridge for Red Horse beer, of which there was plenty. Happy 32nd, dear.

The car is still in the body shop and may be there for another week or so while they wait for parts. After the body shop it goes to a glass shop for a new windshield. The kid who walks away from that accident with only scrapes and bruises is a tough kid; when I take also into account the courtesy he showed the man who ruined his day, I feel he'll make a fine police officer once he completes his course of study. Thank God he's a helmet wearer. There's no requirement for motorcycle riders to wear one here, and many ride helmetless.  In fact, I have two friends who lost friends who were not wearing a helmet when they had accidents on their motorcycles.

Glenda, Krizza, and I are hiring tricycle drivers to get around; as you know if you've been reading this blog for some time, there is a tricycle station just outside our door. We are buddies with at least half the drivers at our neighborhood stand, and they welcome the extra business.

10.4.24

Pulis

He is a criminology student at a nearby university, and he must have been riding close to the oncoming line of cars as I turned out of that line, blinker on, heading for the entrance to Celcor, where I was to pay the monthly electricity bill. (We can pay the water bill online -- why won't the power company allow its customers to do the same?) The line of cars I was in partially obstructed my view of the lane I needed to cross; should have had patience and allowed the traffic to move ahead so that I could see better into that lane, but I didn't. Then there was the crash, the helmeted figure flying over my hood. Without a doubt one of the three or four worst moments of my life.

Put the car in park and bolted out the door. He was sitting in the street. Relieved to see he was conscious, I put my hand on his shoulder and held it there. Bystanders were on cellphones calling for help. Some stood in the street and directed traffic around us. Within ten minutes, a barangay security officer and an ambulance were there; EMTs removed the young man's helmet, laid him down on the pavement, tended to his scraped hand, the abrasion on his forehead. They looked at his bruised knee, and after making sure there were no broken bones they helped him to his feet. Glenda was visiting Clara Mae (Aiza's sister) at the time, and Don-Don was checking in with Clara Mae's husband; the call to Glenda came directly after the accident -- from an acquaintance who had driven by the scene. They soon arrived, and Don-Don moved bike and car into Celcor's entrance as the young man was helped into the ambulance.

Two city policemen had shown up at some point in a marked Nissan SUV, and after the young man was taken away Glenda and I were asked by them to climb into their back seat. We would be taken to the central pulis station, across from City Hall, and there we would wait for the young man's parents in order to see whether a settlement could be reached. The traffic was very bad. The men were talkative and seemed to try to put us at ease with their talk, which was mainly in English. They found out where I was from, and we talked about the Celtics, world champs, for a while. "Who do you think is the goat in basketball, Jordan or James?" I said Jordan, and the questioner didn't seem pleased with the answer. We moved on to other topics.

The young man had walked well to the ambulance. No limp. I prayed the head was not concussed or worse. The pulis station was a large warren of rooms surrounding a reception area with benches against the wall and a long front desk. Every space clean and brightly lit. Policemen and women walking back and forth chatting, often laughing. One man took down my narration of what had happened, then asked Glenda and me to wait for a while; the parents were coming from an outlying town, and they would first, of course, go to see their boy at the hospital. There was a vendor at a wagon across the street; I went over and watched her fry some fish balls for Glenda and me to eat. The station was not hopping, but there were cases to deal with. A restaurant manager came in with a heavy hand on the upper arm of a young woman -- she had walked off, then run off, with a bag of takeout worth more than P1,000. The woman was well-dressed and had a smartphone, but she had no ID. She did not seem well aware of her surroundings. We overheard the words "mentally impaired" pass from one policeman to another. Ah, drugs. Players in another traffic accident came through the front door and sat down together, were interviewed by one officer, and then awaited their turn at the settlement table.

The mother and the young man himself arrived about four hours into our stay at the

station. I held out my hand and he took it. The mother took my hand. I apologized,

admitted I was at fault, got that all up front. The young man (I will avoid his name, in the

interest of the family's privacy) seemed in good shape, the head abrasion hardly noticeable,

a small bandage on his hand. Beneath his long pants, I knew there was heavy bruising.

The motorcyclist walked into a room with an officer and came back after a few minutes.

"________ would like you to cover the cost of motorcycle repairs, also the cost of a new 

helmet," the officer said. I readily agreed. After a while, a document in triplicate was 

produced, which we read. The young man, the officer, and I signed all three; then the officer

handed one to me, one to him, and kept the third for pulis files. As we moved toward the 

door after more handshakes, a cop with whom we had not interacted raised his hand to me

with a kindly smile. "As they say in the U.S., 'Shit happens,'" he remarked.

I would meet with the young man again at my barangay's office, where I would pay                                       At the pulis office.

damages to him in front of witnesses -- the bill came to P22,000, about $450 American. My

car is in the shop, and I'll be paying P45,000 for its repair. Insurance? Comprehensive insurance is bought here by people who own expensive, and relatively new, cars. The insurance required by law covers personal injury only, which is why I did not have to pay the college student's medical bills. The comprehensive runs to P25-30,000 a year -- is wicked expensive, in other words. After six years of driving with only a small payout for a side mirror I lost, and now this, financially I still come out ahead.

Feeling shaken, even now, by the damage I did to that young man's body, though.  , , , In my fifty years of driving before this, I had never hurt anyone on the road. There's a tightness in my stomach, I'm not sleeping well, etc. Glenda has agreed to do the driving that needs to be done in the city, from now on. And I'll be a stint driver on countryside treks -- but my Cab City driving days are over.