Death of the Tiger Moth

I stopped flying RC planes sometime in 2004. I wasn't exactly sure why-- considering that flying RC planes is one weekend activity I truly enjoy more than anything else. The Tiger Moth had since been a wall adornment.

For six years the Tiger Moth hanged on my wall. In February 2010, I took it down and noticed a crack on the Tiger Moth's cowl. Somehow I felt compelled to repair it though I was not sure what I'd do after fixing it. Stripping the Tiger Moth of its landing gear and wings brought back good memories. I gutted the fuselage of its electronic innards; filled in the crack with epoxy; and touched up the yellow paint.

The Tiger Moth's lower wing had been broken three times in three crashes and had been glued together from what was left of the original and later from a discarded half of a wing I've salvaged from the garage of a fellow RC flier; the upper wing, on the other hand, had been broken two times. The nose had survived two major surgeries: one involving the replacement of the motor mount and the other from a crack brought about by a hard landing. The Tiger Moth is now a Frankenstein monster with lots of character.

After the nose job, I oiled up the motor and fired it up. Interestingly, it whirred to life. Smelling the hot oil and hearing the little geared motor gave me a thrill. Can it fly still? Something stirred within me.

I could feel the thrill of the build and the joy of flight sucking me in again-- now I felt even more compelled to see the Tiger Moth fly again. That's the thing with this hobby. You could scratch build anything that resembles a plane, balance it, trim it and make it fly. The fun to fly your plane a thousand feet away then make it come back and land it on your feet is as fun as the challenge of building (or re-building) a monstrosity from scraps that defy the forces of gravity. Or, building and flying an accurate scaled replica of your dream plane.

Early the next morning I went to a vacant lot; plugged in the Li-Poly battery pack onto the Tiger Moth and fired up my old trusty TX (-- a Hitec Flash 5 System X at FM 72.250/channel 23). I gave the motor a full throttle. Nothing. I checked. Fired it up again. Still nothing. I checked it one last time. Nothing. The motor had died*. It was a noble death for the Tiger Moth-- it died on a flying field.

I hanged the Tiger Moth on my wall again and looked at it as I sip on a cup of coffee. It really looked good on the wall.


Later in the evening, I felt an itch coming on...


* The kit motor for the Tiger Moth is no longer available; upgrading to a "brush-less" motor equivalent would entail nose "foam surgery" to replace the motor mount and an upgrade of the ESC as well.

The Adventure of the Missing Pocket Dictionaries

I look back to it as a defining moment-- a demarcation line, a sort of scorched wasteland, between childhood innocence and street smarts.
I was probably ten-- a year older than most of my classmates in the 3rd Grade. I was a year late going to the 3rd Grade because I was made to stop going to school-- barely a month into the school year, and had spent the rest of the year, because there was nothing better to do, hunting dragonflies on an open sewer canal that ran in front of our apartment complex. I went back to school in the year that followed, but had to carry the label of a “drop-out” and consequently must “repeat” 2nd Grade. My return to the educational system, however, was marked by a recognition for academic excellence-- a Gold Medal. And because of this I was upgraded to the "Honor Class" for the 3rd Grade and transferred to the “Morning session” where the pupils, I was made to understand, were supposedly "smarter" than the “Afternoon session”.
And so there I was: the “Afternoon session” upstart diving into the big pond to swim with the big fishes. But, it was more like swimming with fish fries and shrimps for all my classmates were smaller-- not only in height, but in overall body mass; maybe waking up early in the morning had stunted their growth. To make matters worse I was tall for my age; and so I stood out even more-- all for the wrong reasons. They referred to me as the “Transferee” but they make it sound like it was some kind of a contagious disease. But, after the “second grading period” I was no longer seen as a threat. I did poorly in Arithmetic; worse in Music; even worst in P.E. Though I was good enough in anything that involved the American English language, I was no longer in the running for the Honor Roll. By sheer lack of aptitude for numbers (as well as lack of musical and athletic ability) I was condemned rather than helped; but, being in the shadows was liberating. Nobody was watching me anymore.
It was a time when teachers could still whack a pupil’s butt for being a “bad” boy (or girl); it was also okay to torture a child by making him stand or kneel for hours. Aside from emotionally scarring a child for life, it was also a deterrent for bad behavior; and it was certainly at the back of everybody’s mind whenever mischief is contemplated. It worked, too; well, most of the time. But it also worked, I think, the other way around-- it encouraged innocent little boys and girls to do whatever should be done to save their butts.
It was certainly on my mind one night as I sat on our dining table staring at a copy of Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. It was huge. It was hard bound with what appeared as rough cloth and it was so thick I couldn’t grasp it with one hand. I stared at it for a long time. Our English teacher required the class to bring a dictionary in school the next day; and so I sat there while I consider bringing the behemoth to school if only it could fit in my bag-- it didn’t; it was actually bigger than my bag and I doubt I could carry it for more than ten paces.
And so, the next day I went to school sans a dictionary. Our class was buzzing that day. Everybody is into some kind of gag, scuffle, joke, or shoving match on top the excitement over the assignment for that day. Everyone around me were flashing their spanking new pocket dictionaries though English class would still be after recess. Noticeably, most the dictionaries looked the same; obviously published by the same printer and even bought from the same store. A germ of an idea flitted through my mind. And, without really meaning to, I took a mental note of where my seat mates were stashing their dictionaries.
The three morning classes breezed by then the bell for recess sounded shortly; class was dismissed and the usual rush for the door followed. I lingered; and as soon as I was alone, I fished out five similar pocket dictionaries from my classmates’ bags; made sure that indeed they were copies from the same publisher; and that they did not bear any name or mark; shuffled them; threw two copies over unto the top of the cabinet-cum-blackboard; switched the other two with two more dictionaries randomly picked from two other bags; the last one I tucked under my waist band. That done, I ran down to join my classmates for recess. Made sure I was seen then went straight for the restrooms and locked myself inside a cubicle. Alone once again, I pulled out the dictionary.
The bell rang once again signaling the end of recess. I ran up the stairs and managed to be the first inside the classroom. I pulled out the dictionary from my waist band and dropped it unto yet another classmate’s bag. Even before our English teacher came, there was already a bit of a commotion around me.
The teacher eventually restored order and to sort the matter out, asked that all the dictionaries on our row:-- two pupils seated together, eight deep, sixteen pupils in all-- be passed and stacked on her table. Only the boys were involved and while there are girls in the class, there is a wide aisle in the middle to separate the boys and the girls. She examined them and looked for identifying marks; then, she held up the dictionaries one at a time and asked the owner to come up and claim them.
Finally, she held up the last three unclaimed dictionaries and asked those who were still missing theirs to examine them. Five stood up. As they walked up to the front of the class, I raised my hand and the teacher motioned me to come up as well. We were asked to examine the three copies left. One was claimed by a classmate who explained that his had a tear on a page just like the tear on one of the two copies left; the ownership of the other was settled by a bookmark. One copy was left-- with four claimants. I stared at the lone unclaimed dictionary and contemplated my options. Then something like a sneer or a smirk uncontrollably quivered on my lips. I covered my mouth with a hand fearing I would break out with an uncontrollable laughter. At this point, all is good. It would not be right to "punish" all four of us; after all, we were victims. And the culprit is yet to be caught. So, no harm done. I've saved my butt and after a few days everything will be sorted out. It could have stopped right there.

Then a classmate grabbed the dictionary on the table and declared that it was his. I heard screams inside my head: Liar! Opportunistic thief!

There was silence for a second or two. A second more would have cemented his claim.

And so I spoke, rather sheepishly, requesting that if they would be kind enough to check page 57 of the dictionary, they should find certain letters had been encircled with pencil-- the letters should spell out my name.


"When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him."
--Jonathan Swift, Thoughts on Various Subjects, Moral & Diverting

Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 4: Ang Bertud

He turned to the wall of vials and ran his forefinger through the rows and rows of vari-colored phials; momentarily lingering on one before moving on to another; finally, he extricated three dusty vials. He then stepped back to the console and pulled out his itak from its slot. Then he turned to face me as he tapped on a combination of jewels on the itak’s handle to release and separate a thin scalpel like knife from the itak’s blade. He handed me the vials.

“Nagkakamali ka. Wala akong alam sa pananambal...”, I said.

"Hindi na ako magpapaliguy-ligoy pa." His manner now more deliberate, he no longer circle about a topic or double back to restate a previous sentence; I even detect a hint of urgency in his voice.

"Ang pinakamahalagang nagawa para sa akin ng iyong ninuno ay ang pagtago at pagpapayabong ng isang bertud-- isang butil ng pag-asa para sa akin, sa isang lugar na walang makakakuha."

He laid his forefinger on my chest and tapped.

"Nandito...!"


Itutuloy...

The Fellowship of the Smoke Ring

I was nineteen when I started buying cigarettes by the pack and smoke on a regular basis, before that I smoked intermittently since I was fourteen. Contrary to popular belief I was not sucked into the habit by sinister subliminal print ads nor by juvenile peer pressure. Smoking requires deliberate decisions. Nobody gets hooked on their first cigarette. I bet most smokers didn't enjoy their first cigarette. It probably made them cough and retch followed by clammy dizziness and nausea. A smoker only got hooked because he stuck long enough, in spite of these initial drawbacks, to get addicted. That, I submit, is a deliberate act. Personally, I got into smoking because I enjoyed it. After smoking a few sticks of cigarette, the initiate must make a choice-- which requires an even more purposeful deliberation: menthol or regular? And lastly, the smoker decides on a brand. Finding a brand is like choosing a gang or a second religion, it defines you.

Me? I was born to be a Marlboro Man.

In the old days, Marlboro comes only in one unadulterated dose:-- full strength. There were as yet no anemic Lights, sissy Mediums nor heretical Greens-- which, I think, only gave false hopes to smokers who fear death from smoking by being led to believe that they are smoking less lethal versions of the poison. I preferred the full on Reds particularly the more lethal Military or Reynold's. They were so intense my forefinger and middle finger would turn yellow orange from smoke exposure; and Marlboro comes only in two sizes: “Filter Kings”-- the regular sized cigarettes and in “student” size. The "shorties" was pure genius. Marlboro wouldn’t admit it but it was really meant for teenagers. Shorties comes in flip top packs which are no more than two inches in an almost square configuration that could easily be hidden by tucking it in your socks or rolling it in your T-shirt sleeve.

Back in the days of yore, one could light up anywhere— like you could be a doctor examining an asthmatic child or a priest administering Extreme Unction, and you could go ahead and light up. Nobody would mind. Smoking back then was a personal thing that was tolerated much like farting is in public rest rooms. You could smoke even if you're riding in public transport. You could get a stick of cigarette from your trusty “Ta-Ka-Tak” boy, light up and blow smoke on the face of the person sitting next to you. It was an accepted inconvenience in public transportation, nobody complained about secondhand smoke or any of those lame issues wing nuts dreamed up.

And because smokers can light up anywhere, anytime, I didn’t much notice my fellow smokers until we began to be cordoned off from the rest of humanity sometime in the 90s. It was still possible to smoke though. Not as easy as it had been in the 70s or 80s, but most places still tolerated it, there was always a “Smoking Section”-- separate sections in restaurants and hotels, or a “Smoking Lounge”— a cordoned off area with carpeting and upholstered divans.
 
Then suddenly schools, government buildings and hospitals became “Smoke Free Zones”. Then not just buildings, but entire cities have since banned smoking in public. In order to have a cigarette in airports, I had to drag my tired ass and huff and puff back to the main entrance. Pass through at least three security checks then walk about fifty meters away from the main gate to a place where other losers hang out, I usually find a bunch huddled around a trash can. Only then am I allowed to smoke, but even then I still have to endure the killer stares of passing self-righteous cranks who looked at me as if I'm defecating in public.

While most places still provided a place for smokers, it had become shabbier through the years. Now, instead of a “Smoking Section”, smokers are directed to the “Smoking Area”, which is usually a designated place in a back alley alongside stinking garbage cans and toxic trash trolleys; a miniature pocket of slum where twisted butts and yellow-green spit decorated the ground around a caramel stained ash tray-- disguised as a garbage can, that nobody bothered to empty. You’ll know it’s the place because it smells of neglect, a dreary communal pyre where smokers gather to sacrifice their lungs to an unsmiling god. A place where the fellowship of the smoke rings still holds its regular meetings and where adepts exchange secret messages by sending out smoke signals to each other. Passing prigs would often stop by, cover their snotty noses, give you their best death-stare, point and say a bad word or two.

It has come to this.

The world has become inhospitable to smokers. It pains me to see hard-cores hot-boxing three quarters of their cigarettes then quickly walking away from these gatherings. They probably could not stand how things have become. Personally, I never liked the imposition nor the insult. I'm old school, a firm believer that a smoker should be able to light up wherever, whenever.
 
And so one fine day— one very ordinary day, I simply stopped. There was no plan. No preparation. I’ve even just bought a can of lighter fluid and a pack of flints for my Zippo lighter; and on the day I stopped, a half empty pack of Marlboro lay beside my Zippo on the table. It was as if I’ve been allotted a certain number of cigarettes and I’ve smoked them all and now I’m done.

After more than three months I guess it’s official: My thirty year affair with tobacco had ended. They say it takes sixty days to break a habit and forty-five days to break an addiction, I guess whatever you may want to call my relationship with nicotine; it’s over.
 
I sometimes walk over to the “Smoking Area” of a mall I frequent to check out on the fellowship. They are still sending out smoke signals but its gibberish to me now. When I turn to walk away, I feel their stares burning a hole at the back of my skull. I have betrayed the fellowship and now I have abandoned them. I now live in constant fear that the fellowship will one day gather around my house and throw their lighted cigarettes on my roof and watch as my house burns down.

Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 3: Ang Mananambal

"Ano ba talaga ang kailangan mo sa akin?"

I asked the question again, though I was no longer sure I was prepared to hear the answer to it. It's way passed midnight, I could tell from the color of the sky, it's now tinge with gray and blue. Like the first time I was with him, time seemed to have warped. When I looked back at him, his itak is already up in the air, and in the next moment he had thrust it down in a smooth sweeping motion as if to strike at something, though I didn't see anything there; Clank! It struck metal. Suddenly, the airship became less translucent, like a projected image coming into focus. He stepped into it with his head bent; apparently, to clear a low doorway; he disappeared into the blurriness. After a moment, an arm came into focus again and motioned me to follow.

When I watch horror flicks, I rail at characters who put themselves in situations where it is obvious that they would likely be chopped, burned or eaten alive. Idiots, I'd say to them, you deserve your fate. If this is such a movie, this is the best time to walk away. I could almost hear the audience-- Stupid, get out of there! Now, I'm not fearless and I'm not stupid either. I am standing on what seems to be a doorway. Either I walk away right now or I jumped right in. Still contemplating my options, I extended my hand beyond the surface of what could be a door. Immediately, my hand blurred out of focus. I could now only perceive the vaguest impression of my hand beyond the doorway, my wrist ending as abruptly as that of an amputee. I felt no pain though. That's good. I pulled back my hand, it came back into focus. That's good, too.

What the heck, I stepped in.

I stepped into a vacuum-- a vortex of silence that sucked all the sounds from my ears. All the sounds of the night dissolved.

He was already sitting on a wire frame chair in front of what looked like a cockpit full of mechanical dials and levers. He had put on an ornate barbute with a retractable visor that when extended gave him the profile of a horse. Again he raised his itak and thrust it unto a slot; then he pulled at it like a lever and the whole airship shook as if being unhinged from a clamp. Then he tossed what looked like glowing embers unto a metal cylinder that dominated the center of the airship. He closed the lid. Then, he flicked a switch to activate a mechanism that whined like a fan. He sat, his back turned on me, with a beam of light shining upon the golden spine on his nape. I inched forward to take a closer look until he is within arm's reach, I reached out. The skin on the tip of my forefinger felt separately alive as I did so, and my skin tingled. I couldn't understand it, but it was how I felt. Just then the airship shuddered and threw me off balanced. I fell back. We're floating up. I grabbed on to a hand rail. Small green leaves hang down from above, it smelt reminiscent of spicy mint, but not quite that, with a hint suggestive of a heady mix of freshly mowed grass after a drizzle of rain and a trace of coconut oil, but not quite any of those things, either.

Then I noticed that the wall is actually a woody-stemmed series of branches, a living vine-- probably some kind of orchid, trailing on the metal frame of the airship like a trellis of bamboo and wire Dada used to guide the growth of a row of Ampalaya plants we used to have back in Frisco. A bunch of fireflies flew in through the gaps between the branches and the titanium mesh. Then a head of a tuko came out, its mouth half open, a firefly's wing hanging out from it; the wing disappeared after a quick jerk of the tuko's head, the tuko blinked its eyes, licked its chops then withdrew into the cover of the leaves. The airship is a living and breathing ecosystem!

Every gear and mechanical device is multi-functional; streams of pinhole sized blue light streaked across and around me, flooding the capsule with an unnatural luminance. I looked around, there's barely enough room for two normal sized people.

"... pero saan ka natutulog dito?"

"Hindi ko kailangang matulog."

"... 'di ka natutulog? Kahit kailan...?"

"Hindi."

Vials with vari-colored liquids in them lined the wall, farther back is a ledge that served as a desk, rolls of parchment paper and a stack of books-- dog-eared ancient books, were scattered on it. One book particularly caught my attention, it's bound in leather with what appear as Arabic script printed on its cover. He said it's the only existing copy of the "Book of Ingenious Devices"; a book commissioned by the Abassid Caliph of Baghdad, Abu Jafar al-Ma'mun ibn Harun, credited as a work of the Banu Musa brothers and first published in 850 A.D. He said most of the automatas illustrated on the book were invented by them when they still freely roamed the Earth, stolen by Greek scholars, and from whom the Banu Musa brothers merely copied from. He said they destroyed all the other copies because it contained, among others, a blueprint of the airship.

My eyes were then drawn to an intricate gold locket that hung on a makeshift altar, I opened it and inside was a faded photograph of a woman, a very plain-featured kayumanggi, with nothing in her looks that would merit a second look, her long black slightly wavy hair brushed back from her plain face more as a practical convenience rather than for style.

He swung around to face me.

"Kilala ko ang lolo ng lola mo. Isa siyang Mananambal sa Isla del Fuego."

You knew Dada's grandfather? I vaguely knew Dada was a Bisaya, but I did not know that she hailed from the Visayan island of Siquijor. I realized then that I knew very little about Dada.

More dials are turned, a lever or two pulled here and there, then a tug on a chain attached to a pulley, magically the floor and walls of the airship expanded to double its breadth-- the airship is a huge Hoberman sphere, a hybrid geodesic dome that could be expanded and folded down to a fraction of its size by the scissor-like action of its joints. The gaps on the mesh have become bigger, too; I could now see the steeple of the Immaculate Conception Cathedral and the dark gray dome of the Araneta Coliseum on the horizon, I figured we are about two hundred feet up in the air. I've read somewhere that the horizon, as seen by a five foot tall man standing at sea level on a clear day, is four kilometers away. From this height, I could probably see as far away as ninety kilometers all around me. I've never been on a mountain or on a plane before, never as high up as this; the sight is simply overwhelming. The headlights on Highway 54 twinkled like stars, tree tops gently swayed with the wind as if they are dancing in the moonlight. I felt insignificant compared to the rest of the universe.

He stood up and tore off the armor plates-- the bejewelled spaulders on his broad and sinewy shoulders and equally bejewelled rerebraces on his upper arms, and showed me a deep nasty scar that ran from his right arm to his upper chest, the healed flesh a grim testimony to old violence. He had survived a mortal wound only because my great grandfather attended to him. In gratitude, he shared his own pharmacopoeia and taught my great grandfather the ancient knowledge of concocting medicine from plants, rare herbs, minerals and animal parts that were then abundant in the islands. Not long after that, he said my great grandfather became a well known and sought after mananambal. He reminisced that as he convalesce from his wound, he and my great grandfather went for long walks in search of materials and ingredients in the woods and mountains of Siquijor; and since some of the plants they needed were not endemic to the islands, they secretly planted, and farmed, these exotic plants in hidden nooks and crannies that they only knew. Most of these plants only sprout or blossom or bear fruit only once a year-- exactly seven Fridays after Ash Wednesday. And thus the quest for ingredients coincides with the Cuaresma and culminates on the eve of their Summer Equinox Gathering when the ingredients are then subjected to pangangadlip or pagpapagong and made into minasa-- a yearly quest for ingredients that was eventually ritualized by second and third generation mananambals and other followers and is now known in Siquijor as Pangangalap.

His voice then went down to a whisper-- as if wary that somebody else might hear, and said that he also taught my great grandfather the secret science of extracting esoteric ores from the deepest bowels of the Earth. He said that my great grandfather further improved on the metallurgical processes that were taught him and it wasn't long before my great grandfather was able to extract the elemental essences of these metals and minerals with the use of crucibles; and developing alternative ways to further purify these extracts.

"... iyon ang dahilan kaya ako nandito."


itutuloy...

The Plight of the Tiger Moth

In 2000, I learned to fly model airplanes. Scale model aviation is not something you pick up and go. There are a million and one things to learn. And until the late 90s, the costs of the hobby soared higher than the planes. Thanks to Chinese bootleggers-- exploiting its bloated, cheap labor force to mass produce knock-offs of well established brands, the hobby became accessible to ordinary mortals like me.

My first basher plane was a "Swallow". My first attempt at remote controlled flight was a disaster; the second was no better; and after about thirty or so more crashes, I got the hang of it and eventually earned my wings. Three months into the hobby, I thought it was time to move up. No more overgrown dragonflies. I want to fly a model plane that actually looked like a plane. And so I got myself a Tiger Moth kit: semi-scale pre-painted foam ARF of the 1931 classic British double-winged two-seater Havilland trainer.

While I have experience as a static scale modeler, it was my first build for an model plane. It took me the better part of two weeks-- working nights, mostly figuring out a work around. For one, the glue that came with the kit wasn't good enough; I experimented and came up with a home brew of Epoxy mixed with ethyl alcohol and baking soda (-- the baking soda made the mix bubble up, making it lighter and was a good filler, too). For another, the parts did not mate true to specs; some even a bit twisted. Another hurdle was keeping the dihedral of the upper wing within recommended specs; it was a challenge by itself. But, overall it looked promising. With all the parts glued together, it began to look like a decent model plane. From there, it was just a matter of putting in the two mini servos and a 2Amp ESC, and the Moth will be ready for flight.

I chose a calm late afternoon for its maiden flight. I drove out to the Global City where High Street is now. The Moth is classed as a ITF Park Flier which meant it had a small motor; flies only at slow speed and is better off flown indoors. I chose to R.O.G the Moth for its maiden flight, it veered to the right then lifted three feet off the ground. I put in too much up elevator and it lost its lift. It stalled and crashed on some thicket, damaging its flimsy landing gear. I trimmed the rudder by dialing an offset to the left. Throwing caution to the wind, I revved up the motor and hand launched the Moth; it flew straight; then it lifted. I pulled in too much elevator again, the plane started to go on a stall again. But, before it did, I pushed the elevator down a bit. It recovered. It twitched to the right. I let go of the sticks. The wing dihedral did it job and the plane corrected. I pulled in a bit more up elevator. Slowly it climbed up to about 20 feet cruising majestically at less than 8 kph.

The damn bitch was flying!

It was a great day. It was followed by more glorious days.

RC flight offered an escape from my demons. Maybe, I think, if I can focus on controlling a model plane, I’d have respite from the things that went wrong with my life. Besides, it seemed to be a great idea having control for once… of course, I was wrong (again). You don’t. You listen and feel model planes. You adjust to its mood and idiosyncrasies; and the will of the wind-- much like this wretched life; and beg the mercy of wind gods for gentler gusts, minimum down draft, less rain, more sunlight; more clouds and a forgiving sun so you could have a second more of that magical moment… nay a communion, with the Big Guy up there who is truly in full control.

I’m still here, you bastards…
-- Papillon, the movie; Steve McQueen as Henri Charrière

Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 2: Isla del Fuego

I was in my early twenties, in the crossroads of my life; silently sobbing, flipping and clicking the top lid of my vintage Zippo lighter, muttering like a fool in the moonlight when a cold hand tapped on my head, and I looked up. He was back! He's huge: almost ten feet, I think. He's more or less translucent: I could see the avocado tree behind him, dimmed but still visible. His shoulder length hair is unkempt and had bits of bark and small leaves in it; his eyes bulged; his carnivorous teeth white and massive, made for foraging. He's the stuff of all my nightmares given flesh. His hairy arms and legs had intricate armored plates-- reminiscent of medieval armor, of woven titanium alloy peppered with rubies, agate, diamonds and black opals set in a complex amalgam that mirrors and reflect images from behind him which made him almost invisible at certain angles, an ingeniously designed camouflage. He is naked from the waist up. On his right hand he held a huge bejeweled itak. He took a step closer, and as he did he tucked his itak behind a leg as if he was embarrassed by it. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided not to; his breath smelled of leaf mold and the underneath of a rotting log. As he came closer, he became more and more solid; more and more real, and the world around us became a flat two-dimensional painting and began to fade into gray.

“Paano ka nakarating dito?”

He pointed to the vacant lot beside our house. I didn’t see anything that could pass for a ride, and so I asked:

“Ano ba dapat ang tinitignan ko?”

He motioned to me to take a closer look. He then led me over the fence. He was agile and fast for his size; he practically skimmed and floated over the fence and I had to double time to keep up. He pointed to a spot where I could discern a shape but it too was translucent. 

He said it was an airship; and, like the bands on his arms and legs, a woven mesh of titanium encrusted with black opals, rubies and diamonds; it works the same way, he said, it reflects and bounces off the images behind it to make it practically invisible. It’s similar to a hot air balloon, he said, but the bag-- made of some kind of transparent organic membrane to contain the hot air, could be tucked and folded to serve as a canopy to a cocoon of titanium, gold and jewels when not in use. He said it was quite safe and comfortable and he and those before him had used such a contraption for centuries to move around the archipelago.

He said he used to have a house but times had changed and it had been difficult; humans have built houses everywhere and there are now fewer places to go where there are no humans. He said the airship is now his home, too. He camps out on roofs of churches and on treetops where he is relatively safe from human intrusion. 

"... pero paano mo natuntun kung nasaan ako?"

He pointed at a hair on his upper arm, it was longer than the other hairs on his body. He told me to move around him; I saw that the singular hair pointed to me wherever I go. It was getting weirder by the minute.

"..pero bakit ka naman napadpad dito?"

Again he started to open his mouth, but hesitated to speak, he seemed to be forming words in his mind and somehow was not able to. He came across as diffident; almost like an awkward socially inept child. But, from folklore I've heard when I was a boy his ilk are notorious pranksters who would play tricks on unwary or disrespectful humans; leading humans astray and make them take the long route to where they want to go. If the human is wearing jewelries, they take some of it too. They were originally craftsmen of note; goldsmiths, and were likewise known for their fascination with jewels. But, they were never known for violence; and indeed I've never heard of an anecdote that they've harmed any human. I have asked him before about the pranks they play on humans and I remember he told me that they were not only for fun but for protection, too; humans have long hunted them for their mane of sharp spines. Humans believed that it brought them luck; a gambling amulet.

He told me that they used to congregate on the night of the March Equinox on Mount Bandilaan on an island in the Visayas which Captain Esteban Rodriguez of the Miguel "El Adelantado" Lopez Legaspi expedition called Isla del Fuego when his party first sighted it in 1565 because the island gave off an eerie glow. He told me that the Spaniards later attributed the glow to the great swarms of kulisap that harbored in the numerous Molave trees on the island, little did the Spaniards know that it was one of their gatherings that they stumbled on. The island, he added, is now known as Siquijor. He said: Siquijor island is a special place for them and they have gathered there for eons. The island actually lies at the center of the Philippines and is a portal of some kind to other worlds. It was through this portal that they have come to our world. Their race is of another dimension from where they have fled and escaped from persecution. But the portal had since closed and they couldn’t go back. They’ve been trapped in our world for centuries.

In their world they live fiercely independent and solitary lives totally dedicated to metallurgy and the craft of devising intricate mechanical contraptions and the study of the lost science of alchemy. They are also the keepers of arcane texts. Through the centuries they have learned to adapt in our world and have even forged an alliance with some of the early human settlers on the island with whom they have shared some of their ancient technology and wisdom.

In those gatherings, he said, they would summon all the kulisap on the island to the mountaintop where they would build a huge campfire, there they would gather to tell stories and dance in the moonlight. He told me that they held a contest as to who among them could first balance a chicken egg on its point; the only day in the year, he claimed, that such a feat could be achieved. It was also the night they synchronize their clocks and navigational instruments for they dabble in astronomy, too.

But humans soon found out. One day, while they lay exhausted after a night of dancing near their camp fire, a human crept up and pulled out one of three sharp spines from the mane of one of them. This man soon won the sweepstakes twice in a row. The man became a well known high stakes gambler and the newspapers heralded his exploits. The spine became worn down after years of handling, but it still brought luck. Then one night the man lost it all, including the talisman, in a single hand of cards. There were several versions of the story: some say the man was beaten in his own game by a creature who sought him out to get back what was rightfully theirs; while some say the man's luck simply ran out, that the talisman had lost its power. Whatever really happened, the man never recovered from his loss. Not long after, the man died without a centavo to his name. 

Through the decades that followed, he said that their numbers dwindled; especially after that well publicized incident since the humans who hunted them exponentially multiplied. It seems that their kind would soon die after even a single spine was pulled out from their mane. But, even then while they live long lives they eventually become way worn after two centuries or so and they too die as humans do. He was the last, he said. 

... itutuloy