Super Friends

(Originally posted March 18, 2005, on the occasion of our batch's 18th Anniversary): One hot and humid summer afternoon, we filed out of the bus and planted our feet on the driest, most infertile Philippine soil known to man. For someone who spent all her life in Manila, this place seemed like Alcatraz…more so when we were told that we could only leave the place every six weeks. I was mortified, but there was comfort in numbers. Some of my batchmates even hailed from the remotest of islands, so who was I to complain?

And then the dreadful moment came: It was time to give out room and dorm assignments. Growing up, I hated having to share a room with my sister---now I had to bunk up with a total stranger! Oh please, don’t assign me with an axe-murderer-slash-Tourette’s syndrome-patient roommate…

I don’t know how many days since that dropoff when my bosom friends and I gravitated towards each other, but it was kismet and we bonded through the months as if we came from one and the same womb (by different fathers, of course, seeing as how we physically couldn’t pass for siblings).

The cord that tied us together was the obligation to cook for the group. Either because of being born with silver spoons in our mouths or simply being cretins about anything involving kitchenware, we had to learn the hard way: flaking 2 kilos of talangka to prepare nape-throbbing aligui, cooking a bottomless pot of sweet and sour sauce (because of having to adjust the taste, what was originally intended as a saucerful turned into a big tureen of red pasty liquid just about fit for a Friday the 13th movie set), dividing 10 two-inch pieces of sardines amongst ourselves because there was nothing else to eat after the marathon blackouts…

After sometime, it was comforting to know that there were friends to come home to after five hours of talking to spaced-out students; our dinner conversation ranged from angst-ridden (“I refuse to entertain visitors after working hours!!!”) to insane (CT’s “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all---“) to sarcastic (“Let’s wait a bit for that ‘klonk’ sound from the doorknob…”) to suspicious (“Where’s KMS and LP?”). Of course, there were attempts to be cultured, by having the occasional wine and cheese stolen from our mothers’ pantries, but it was very difficult to keep a tony lifestyle when the vendors don’t even sell celery at the market.

Camp became second home, or first, to some of us who, after a few months, decided to forego the Manila sojourns in favor of trips to Neighborhood 10 or weekends at the twin sin cities of Angeles and Gapo. Even the work itself became just a diversion from the “main concern” which was nurturing the friendships that were unintentionally forged there.

My friends of recent past envy me in that I was able to have a phase which I could look back to and with profound but genuine nostalgia say that those were the best months of my life. We had surprise birthday parties, drinking under the stars, authentic Asian cuisine capped with iced latte (way before it became fashionable in Manila), biking up and down the rolling terrain, swimming till the stars came out. Three of our friends play guitar and we would sing like wounded NPAs to our heart’s content. Entertainment would be turning up our 80’s hifi to full volume and slam-dancing to Pat Benatar, Power Station, U2 and The Pretenders. When feeling mushy, we listened to Sergio Mendes, Stevie Wonder and Donald Fagen. Heck, we even performed once with a 4-piece orchestra: flute, keyboard, guitar, and percussion, to the tune of “Morning Has Broken.” We had no TVs nor VHS players but we were happy. Better to watch a play in the Rec Hall or a gratuitous Lisa Macuja ballet presentation at the PASS Gym.

Looking back, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine how we could do those things over again, at least not at our age now. Climbing a flagpole to steal the U.S. flag, scaling the water tank, holding drinking sessions on top of the dorm’s roof, eating unhygienically-prepared bhan-mhi, singing in the storm with upturned umbrellas, running in a panic to escape water-throwing refugees during Tet, waving bras at other drivers along the Bagac Road, playing mini-olympics at Montemar, downing Red Horse like there was no tomorrow. It was brazen youth that did it, all the while relishing the thought that in that part of the world, we had our little paradise, a place where we can be ourselves, and friends whom we loved more than we did our own sisters.

After camp, we physically drifted apart; there were even one-year stretches when we didn’t know of each other’s whereabouts, but neither distance nor time would take away what good things we once shared.

I don’t know about my quasi-siblings, but I wax sentimental whenever I hear “Somewhere Out There,” preferably the chipmunks version. Or hear “Like A Lover” on the radio. Or play Pictionary. At times I don’t even want to look at our old photographs, knowing that that place looks nowhere near what it once did. I’d opt to just remember those scenes in my mind, and play them back, preferably on a dark, stormy night…with a bottle of cheap burgundy and purloined cheese.