It’s a rainy afternoon and I’ve been sick for a week, so this is as good a time as any to resurrect this blog.
Been spending the past few months traveling and collecting stories– generally just living before I have to go find a proper job. The in-between time was spend taking photos.
Severely Photoshop-challenged and shooting with a second hand and fucking filthy Nikon D40 and basic kit lens. But the stories and always brand-spanking new.
We– that is to say myself and my two brothers in crime, Erick and Pat– went off to Quezon naively believing we were going on a writing retreat. No real writing happened while we were there.
We stayed in a friend of a friend’s house, one that was across the street from the abandoned train station of Lucena. The rails were rusty and rotten, the stone pillars of the station had graffiti written on it. It was oddly romantic. The adults turned it into coop for their fighting cocks (hur hur), the teens turned it into a basketball court, and the kids turned it into a playground.
The dude with the cap by the door is Arien, the man o’ the house, the friend of a friend, who is now our friend too. And these are our other friends whom we met at Quezon. They’re mostly writers or local theater actors. They’re a riot. You probably can’t see us clearly.
This is Pat being bathed by the magnificent 5:00 pm light which I just discovered. He’s pretending to write.
These are a couple of young writers from Quezon. Poets and fictionists, some of the best I’ve ever read. They prefer to talk about words than to play basketball like normal teens. Freaks.
The thing about Quezon, it’s like the region breeds hard-core heavy drinkers. No beers for these people, just hard distilled local liquor called lambanog which tastes like ethanol and kicks like a virgin. They can go for days just drinking the stuff. The good thing is that lambanog doesn’t leave hangovers for the next morning.
Just a bit of segue: we came to Quezon during the last leg of the national elections. Campaign period was in full swing. A few friends of ours were working for the local politicians and this dude Alcala was running for Mayor. This was his campaign giveaway. Needless to say, we were hammered every day thanks to the healthy system of local politics.
This is fantastic. I have no idea what this old building is. The Mayor’s office? Kapitolyo? Whenever we passed it, there doesn’t seem to be much activity inside it. It looks abandoned from the outside, but look at that awesome architecture! Or don’t look at it, I’m a shitty photographer. Just trust me on this, it’s brilliant.
This is the abandoned Lucena train station. I hope they rebuild it and keep the facade.
This is Erick. He says he’s writing.
Some time in the night, Pat discovered awesome lighting while we were at the balcony of Arien’s place. We may have been hanging out too much with theater people, or the whole world truly is a stage.
The next day, we were going to Morong, which is a couple of towns away from Lucena, Quezon. How were we going to get there? The railway, of course. But I thought the trains don’t run anymore? The trains don’t run; don’t mean the railway ain’t used.
The communities that live by the rails–enterprising and resourceful as they are– built makeshift trolleys that can ride the rails. There are some for personal use (like the one in the photo above) and others that use motorcycle machines for passengers to ride on.
This is our friend Bea’s ankles. She has awesome tattoos.
The trolley was going fast. One has to hold on to something.
There was a fascinating system at work at the rails. Since there are more than one trolley using the rails at any one time, it is common for two trolleys to meet each other from the opposite directions. One of the trolleys have to give way to the other.
Let’s say Trolley A has 6 passengers (3 men and 3 women) going –> that direction…
and Trolley B has 6 passengers (all men) going <– direction…
the passengers of Trolley B have to get off, move their trolley from the rails, and let Trolley A pass.
Any trolley with a pregnant woman > trolley without.
Trolley with young people < trolley with elders.
Trolley with less passengers < trolley with more passengers.
Trolley carrying heavier things (like sacks of rice, regardless of the number of passengers) > trolley with less things.
The trolley system seemed to reaffirm the social taboos and values of the community in an automatic and unspoken way. This is goddamn fascinating to me.
Oh, and any trolley with the Mayor in it immediately has to be given way.
We reached Morong.
Further photos and stories forthcoming. When I’m not feeling so tired, maybe.
