They had us at Hola: A History Lesson

Fernāo Magalhaes was a nerd.  He was the son of the mayor in his native town, and as a boy, he studied map making and navigation.  In his 20’s he joined a Portuguese fleet, engaged in battle and in the process got himself wounded.  As a result, he walked the remainder of his life with a limp. While nursing his injury, he was falsely accused of illegal trading with the Moors and despite his services to Portugal,  Fernāo fell from the grace of the King.

Ferdinand Magellan

He eventually renounced his Portuguese nationality, and then pledged his allegiance and offered his navigational services to Spain, and took the name Ferdinand Magellan.  Because really, what were his other options?

In 1521, Magellan and his fleet of 5 ships came upon the Philippines and claimed all of her 7,107 islands for Mother Spain.  They weren’t really the first foreigners to arrive the archipelago seeing that Indians and Chinese were already trading with the natives, but first to claim to have discovered it.  These Spaniards were just too cheeky for their own good.

Naturally, the natives were greatly impressed with Magellan's circumnavigation project and very much in awe with this bunch of sweaty armor clad mestizos.  They smiled graciously and went for the beeline to be baptized. They gave up their land and proclaimed an unknown crazy man as their King who lived half way across the world.  Because as a people, we bow and say yes to whatever a white looking dude tells us to do. (Note sarcasm here. Actual historians, hold your hate mails.)

We as Filipinos are known for our hospitality, as evidenced by travel books and websites. It must have started here.  We're so hospitable we gave our land away. It would've been crass not to.

Battle of Mactan, 1521

Not everyone took to the Spaniards, though.  A native tribal chief warrior, Lapu-Lapu, was not impressed with the foreigners and refused to be the vassal of Spain.  Magellan and his men wanted to give him a lesson, went after him, but in the end, got their asses resoundingly whopped.

My friend XabiWanKenobi assumed that Magellan died from a disease during transit back to Spain.  This is historically incorrect.  He was killed in battle by the great Lapu-Lapu from Mactan, Cebu.

There is little known fact about the great Philippine hero Lapu-Lapu, which coincidentally is also the name of a type of fish.

Years ago I attended a film workshop by a brilliant Filipino filmmaker with metal plates in his head.  Noel Lim went off topic and discussed his own theory about Magellan and Lapu-Lapu. 

Magellan is peddling ashore one morning and a giant fish jumps out of the water and devours him.  “What the heck was that?” cry his men.  “Lapu-lapu!” a native onlooker answers.

The Spaniards head back to their Motherland and report their commander’s untimely demise.

“Who killed Magellan?” the King asks.  “Lapu-Lapu.”, they say.

“Who is this Lapu-Lapu?”

His men look at each other in silence, contemplating on their beloved leader now reduced to fish shit in the bottom of the ocean. The most loyal in the group speaks up, “Um…err…he was a fierce tribal warrior! Yeah, yeah…that’s right…he was so big and strong!”

Because of Noel’s genius as a writer and filmmaker, I’m sticking to this story as historical fact.  It has more pizazz.

Anyway, the Spaniards came back a few years later, this time bringing with them mean chubby friars and converted everyone into guilt-ridden Christians. They overstayed their welcome for more than 300 years.

That’s how ‘Shit, coño dude!’ came to be.

nyc with love

Ours is a common story everyone has heard of.  We met at a time when his first marriage had run its course, and I was psyching myself out of a toxic relationship that was not meant to be.  I was heart broken, confused and unhappy. 

After a casual encounter, we inadvertently got ourselves involved in a series of texts and emails that gradually turned into expensive overseas phone calls (he lived in Toronto and I was just starting a business in Manila), virtual chats and hand-written, stamps & postman-involving letter exchanges.  For some reason I got smitten in the process.

Six months after our first meeting, I took a leap of faith and agreed to see him again, this time in New York City.  A commitment about our future together was never discussed, but we promised each other it will be the best weekend of our lives.

In retrospect, I do not recall every single detail of that weekend, which is very surprising to me and those who know me well.  I believe that it’s the small details that make or break me. 

I do however recall the long wait at JFK.  It was hurricane season and flights were cancelled and delayed.  I remember the smell of Room 1602 at the Helmsley in Manhattan, and how the bathroom window had the view of the top of the Chrysler building.  I remember the Brazilian festival on 5th Avenue, packed with shiny and sweaty olive skinned Portuguese boys.  I remember walking the streets of New York, feeling so genuinely happy being with this man.  In my mind I knew that his presence in my life was temporary given the different worlds we lived in, but I savoured every second of bliss I felt. 

That weekend in New York, in one of our walks on 5th Avenue, he professed his love for me in front of a Bank of America branch. I don’t recall if I took him seriously since we barely knew each other and have not spent that much time together.

I do not remember the number 1 song that weekend.  Nor the top 3 movies in the box office that summer - these I have immediate answers for if the dates in question are that of my children’s birth days.  It frustrates me that all those small details are now lost on me.

A day after our beautiful weekend, the World Trade Center in Manhattan was attacked.  I was at a hotel in Minneapolis having breakfast, watching Aaron Brown on CNN with the rest of the world, as the second tower was hit. 

I stared at the television and saw the streets where I was literally dancing on a few days before with complete strangers.  Those were the same streets of New York where my husband and I spent the best weekend of our lives.  That’s where I found myself being happy again.  Minutes later the whole of Manhattan was covered in a cloud of darkness and horror. 

It may have been at that moment when all the small details got lost on me.  Everything seemed insignificant. More than 3,000 people died that day, and for millions of others a huge piece of themselves died too.

The world was never the same since that week in September of 2001.  And neither was mine.