We say goodbye to Cory Aquino but not to the legacy she has left behind that in our collective power as a people, she and the many others of 1986, showed we can change the course of our history and indeed our fate.

Do not believe what others have said that the world will condemn another people power. Do not fall for the lie, because he/she who uttered it only wanted to diminish its power and avoid its retribution.

Do not believe it because we have done it again and already, in the same manner that Tita Cory has lived her life: quiet, serene, but just the same strong with conviction.

We have done it again, with our prayers, again as it was before, decades past.

We have done it again, with the little ribbons we attach to our profile pics, on our cars, on our gates, on the lamposts, and symbolically in our hearts.

We have done it again and we are reminded.

We are reminded of 1986 and suddenly our hearts are filled with hope, again. We are inspired as though with her death, a swath of warm light has covered all of us, in bright yellow, like the early morning’s after a dark stormy night.

She was, and will forever be, the sunlight of this often times dreary country of ours.

“I still have great hopes,” she said, in her last full TV interview.

She, already suffering from cancer but still gleaming with pride in the Filipino.

She made us believe in ourselves then, she reminds us of it now.

Her death also reminds us of how hardly they who came before us have fought for our democracy, the lesson ever more important to remember especially in these times. And for as long as we keep the democracy alive, she will forever remain with us.

If it weren't for the technical glitches, the direct recording electronic machines used during the elections in the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao provided much promise.

People had an easy way during the polls, save for the failure of some machines to function properly. Some said they even enjoyed the experience.

Part of the reason of the high turnout of voters (84 percent according to Comelec Chairman Jose Melo) was the curiosity of the public how the machines look like.

At the Shariff Aguak Central Elementary School, Adela Casingal, 80, was ecstatic after she cast her vote. "Hindi kumplikado. Easy. Perfect," she said.

She showed a primer on the elections and pointed at the five steps to voting. She has been reading the primer and found it easy to understand.

Maguindanao was the only province in the region to use the direct recording electronic machines. The system uses a voting pad where the names of the candidates and the positions they are vying are shown. A voter only has to press the picture of the candidate to vote.

Tayu Calunsing, 80, smiled and said she prefers the new system even after the machine she used bogged down.

The failure of some machines to function properly revealed the areas of improvement for the system.

Calunsing's machine lost power while she was casting her vote. She was asked to transfer to another voting machine.

Vince Dizon, assistant general manager for Corporate Communications of SMARTMATIC, the company that provided the machines, said the technical glitches could be attributed to several factors, including human error.

"Pwedeng problema sa wiring. Pwedeng nakalog ang makina habang tina-transport. But we have a lot of back-up machines," said Dizon.

Dizon said the votes in a voting machine that bogs down would not be affected. A USB disk stores the votes, which would later be transferred to another machine.

The machines survived a brownout for about three hours using car batteries.

The bogging down of the machines was a minor worry compared to the problem encountered during the transmission of votes. Glitches in the transmission could be the Achilles heel of the system.

Estelita Orbase, Maguindanao Provincial Election Supervisor, said five municipalities - South Upi, Talisay, Sultan sa Barongis, Pagalungan and Pagagawan - failed to electronically transmit the results of the elections.

At 11:30 a.m. Tuesday, the Comelec announced the schedule of the proclamation of three assemblymen who will represent the province of Maguindanao. But when journalists reached the Capitol, they were told that the consolidation of votes was only 97 percent complete. The canvassers were still waiting for South Upi's USB. At 3 p.m., South Upi's Board of Election Supervisors arrived.

Elections officer Alice Lim said South Upi failed to transmit. "Masama kasi ang panahon 'dun," she said. She said they have to travel seven hours by land to reach Shariff Aguak.

Dizon said the transmission tower in South Upi in North Cotabato has been down since 5:30 p.m. Monday. They have not gone yet to the site due to "security reasons."

As of Tuesday evening, journalists continued to wait for the proclamation of the winners.

An inefficient transmission system defeats the purpose of the technology, which is supposed to electronically transmit the votes without the risky business of physically transporting the ballots as in the case of the Optical Mark Reader system used in other areas of ARMM.

The problem with the ARMM elections was it was launched with high expectations. Most of the time, expectations do not measure up to the realities on the ground.

The feeling that one gets while waiting for the proclamation of winners, roughly 28 hours after the elections, was familiar. One could almost imagine the teachers painstakingly writing the figures on Manila paper posted on the blackboard, like in the old days.

The wait is still long.

Indeed, the road to automation is paved with learnings, such as the ones we have experienced in Shariff Aguak in Maguindanao. If there's one consolation, it is perhaps the fact that people went out to vote despite the tense security situation. By the truckloads they came and showed a crucial ingredient of any election, and perhaps governance: Faith in the system.

Are we ready for an automated elections?

The answer to this question will be known this week, when the people of the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao or ARMM get out of their homes to take part in this historic elections - the first automated elections in our country.

Maguindanao will use a technology which is called direct recording electronic election system or DRE. This technology will be the fastest in all of ARMM since the other areas will use the optical mark reader or OMR.

The difference between the two systems is that the DRE will have a voting pad where the names, faces and the positions being sought by a candidate are found. A voter only needs to press the name to vote for a candidate, much like getting a can of soda in a vendo machine. The Comelec says a voter should be able to do it in less than three minutes.

The OMR which will be used in areas like Lanao del Sur, Basilan, Sulu and Shariff Kabunsuan, still uses the ballot, but unlike in previous elections where a voter should write legibly a candidates name, he or she now only has to shade an, oval which corresponds to a candidate's name.

After the voting comes the face of the "old" elections; the ballots from precints will have to be transported by the Board of Election Inspectors from the precincts to Cotabato City, specifically to the Cotabato City Polytechnic College where the municipal and provincial counting and canvassing centers are located.

There will be counting machines that will tally the votes from the "electronic ballot." It will be easier and relatively faster than what we were accustomed to when teachers would painstakingly record in "taras" the number of votes on the blackboard.

All election returns will be consolidated in a municipal canvass and then in a provincial canvass. The results of which will be transmitted online to the regional canvassing area which is in Manila. The results will be known almost simultaneously in ARMM areas and in Manila.

The ARMM election is a historic day for all of us and it's taking place amid the tension between the Moro Islamic Liberation Front and the government over the botched signing of the memorandum of agreement that would have paved the way for the creation of the Bangsamoro Juridical Entity.

If one takes a long hard look at these two events happening in Mindanao one can see similarities. Both the elections and the clamor for a BJE have one objective: representation. People in these areas want to be represented by a leader voted by the people in the case of the elections, and the right to be represented as a people, unique with tradition, culture and history in the case of the BJE.

These are two different but intertwined paths to peace. We cannot take one at the expense of the other.

(After my one week coverage of President Arroyo in Washington and New York, my cousin, Erlinda Sanchez - Ate Linds, as I'd call her - flew me in to San Diego, California, for a visit. She has never seen me in person yet, having left for the United States a couple of years before I was born. It was my first time to meet her and the rest of my cousins and their families. A reunion of sorts, a bridging of generations even. This is our story.)


ON the plane now en route to Minneapolis then back to New York to catch my flight back to Manila.

Ate Linda and Kuya Chris saw me off at the airport. I felt like their kid, at one point, going away from home for the first time for college. Only, I am going home, back to Manila where I've been away for two weeks (first week spent covering President Arroyo and the second, catching up with my relatives in San Diego.)

At their home in National City, the kids were still sleeping when I left. Victor, my nephew was sharing the bed with my nieces in the living room. He said goodbye last night, asking me too to send his regards to our relatives in Lucena whom he has not seen but might have heard of.

Sweet little Alex, Victor's younger brother, I wasn't able to say goodbye to though, and Roxie, their little dog, which he calls her sister.

Last night Alex and I caught (and killed) a lot of beetles (generically called by Alex as 'bugs'). "We caught a lot of bugs tonight, boy!" I told him. "Yes!" he said proudly, motion-clapping his Mickey Mouse-hands, which we used to squish the poor little bugs.

Last night, at Kuya Rey and Ate Elvie's house, I met almost all of my cousins – most of them for the first time. One fact again was reinforced: we are a big family, in both San Diego and Lucena.

"Ganito kami dito pag may okasyon, andami," Ate Gina, Kuya Edwin's wife, said. I chuckled and told her that it's like that too when people get together in Lucena. I felt at home.

We took a lot of photos last night, with each of my cousins' families – to preserve the memory and to serve as reference for anecdotes that are waiting to be told once I get home to Lucena.

I'm trying to remember as much of their stories too when they were still living in the Philippines – oral histories to be written about and then to be told again and again to generations that will come later on.

For example, Ate Fe (who wants to be addressed as Tita not Ate) because she is not my cousin but in fact an aunt being the eldest among a brood of 13. He he he. She recalled, well almost everyone I think who had the chance to see my grandmother alive, that she was a very strict Española (from the Paco and Alialy clan) who liked to drink lambanog (fermented coconut juice) in the afternoon.

When Lola Celing (Cecilia) is drunk she would ramble off her sons' and daughters' names (in order?), or when she's mad, she would hit with a stick whoever commits a mistake.

Ate Fe said that there were times that lola would even bite them and they had to hide in the living room ceiling to escape or climb on top of cabinets.

Ate Linda (Ate Fe's daughter) recalled the time when she and Ate Gloria would sneak out of the house to attend a sayawan. She told me too of the time when she and Ate Gloria had a crush on the Consul brothers: Kuya Dario, who ended up with Ate Glo, and Kuya Dante whom Ate Linda had a crush on.

Kuya Edwin is my yosi companion in San Diego. Almost everyone quitted smoking, but I was lucky to at least have someone who still has the same vice. He he he. When I visited their house one time, we ended up talking about his love story with Ate Gina, over cigarettes of course. He told me that he had a lot of girlfriends back then, but with Ate Gina, he said it was different.

"Iba 'yung tibok ko sa kanya," he told me, looking into the horizon as if in remembrance.

It is perhaps like that, I can imagine, when one finds the love of his life. It's unmistakable. There's no second-guessing.

As there are old memories, there too are new ones made in San Diego.

Ate Annie, Kuya Abott, Ate Linds, Brianna, Rainier, Victor and I went to Universal Studios where the kids rode "The Mummy" four or five times at least. Ate Annie and Ate Linds tried it too even after I told them that it was scary as hell, he he he.

Rainier and I were able to cajole Brianna and Victor to go into the "House of Horrors." We told them it was more funny than scary.

The next day, Ate Gina, Kuya Edwin, Ate Fe and I went to Seaworld. Ate Gina, Kuya Edwin and I rode the "Shipwreck Rapids" where we got wet.

Kuya Rudy, Ate Omi, Kuya Chris, Ate Linda and I went to Viejas where there was a American-Indian cultural show.

There are indeed many stories but one memory stands out: that of Alex and I hanging out at the backyard porch on my last afternoon in San Diego. We were tinkering with my iPod. He was listening to "No Air" by Jordin Sparks, which is his favorite song because Frank, his dad, sings it a lot.

"That's my Dad's favorite song," he proudly said.

"I know," I said. "But he sings it like "No Claire" (my niece's name, Frank's wife)," I told him.

He smiled and proceeded to sing.

At that point, it felt like being between the past and the present – and how the two inextricably are forged.

My trip to San Diego somehow felt like a bridge between and among generations – between and among lives lived in America and the Philippines.

We are our family's stories and experiences. This is a new chapter.

Some may say that they have learned to sing first before they could actually talk, or dance before they could walk but I have learned to draw before I knew the colors of the rainbow.

Ask me then what I wanted to be and I would tell you I would want to be a painter when I grow up. Such was my childhood dream that I thought I have forgotten.

But after 28 long years, I am, once again, dreaming. But this time, it feels I'm actually fulfilling it.

I have just enrolled as a Painting Major at the University of the Philippines College of Fine Arts; freshman once again, twelve years later.

I thought the passion has left me, thinking it was one of those things children do when they were little – like fly a kite or take care of pet chicks. Once one grows up, you are told to be more practical.

In college I took up and finished journalism. I recall, when my parents and I were trying to explore career options and I broached fine arts. It was dismissed for a more practical option, which was journalism.

The second choice was theater, and in fact I enrolled as a theater major in 1996. But every weekend that I was in Lucena during my first year in college, my Dad kept bugging me about shifting to journalism. Thinking it wasn't too much of a departure from the arts, I settled for a happy compromise.

Call it father's wisdom but the compromise served me in good stead years later. After graduating from college, I was accepted in GMA 7.

But that road seemed to have inevitably led me back to the relegated other option: painting.

I was and still am happy with writing, which is what I do in every report, and before in extended reports in "Reporter's Notebook" – it being also a creative process similar to painting except that in lieu of paints and brushes, I use words and phrases to paint a scenario.

But when the opportunity to sketch presented itself while I was covering the Subic rape case – I knew my passion to paint was still there, the hunger unfed.

There are great loves in our lives – the ones that come and go never to be thought of again, the ones that come but leave unexpectedly and there are those that stay and never leave. Painting is the third type, I look back and there it was like a secret lover patiently waiting for a sideglance.

And we're back in each other's arms so to speak, after 28 years.

The reunion was not easy. Since childhood, it has always been an outlet. When I was angry, I shut my bedroom doors and draw angry people with slit eyes in sheer disgust, mouths wide-open as if shouting. Or when I was sad, I would sketch eyes, always eyes, as though they would stare me back and console me.

Reacquainting myself with painting now would require some measure of pain to get my hands into it. I had told a friend that pain was the ink in our pens or the paints on our canvass.

As fate would have it, painting was there when I needed it most.

Lonely, I bought myself a canvass, some paintbrushes, some paints and an easel. At home, I tentatively started to sketch an outline of two lovers on both sides, in between them stems of roses in various stages of life – to represent what has been and could have been, the past and the forgotten future.

Then, mustering enough courage, I applied acrylic, my first in so many years. One stroke led to another until I was consumed, almost possessed by my anger, by loneliness, by my fear.

At a moment when I thought I was lost, I found me in the company of a different kind of lover that has always been there and has never left me. I remember telling myself that painting was what I also wanted to do.

So I jumped head on over the cliff, so to speak, with utter abandon, the wind of possibilities against my cheek. I applied, took the talent determination test and enrolled. Not once did I think I would have problems running after my dreams – (It is never a fault to follow one's passion.) not my schedules, not the extra time I would need, not the money that will be involved later on.

But already the reality of the situation is kicking in. First, there's the problem of schedule. True enough, taking a second degree while working full-time as a reporter presents some problems. But I have not, and will not, lose hope. I'm sure I'm not the first person to get a second degree, so I'm sure there's a way around it.

I was transferred to section "Y" from "Z" because the schedule was friendlier. I am able to take three subjects without compromising my work schedule. And work will always be, and of course, my priority. I just wanted to do it finally, no matter how long it will take for me to finish the degree.

There was a story that my Dad told me about using one's talent.

There were three siblings, he said, who were left with 30 gold coins by their father who was going on a journey.

"It's up to you what you do with them," their father said.

In the days that followed, the eldest son invested the money. The middle child buried the coins. And the youngest, invested and lost.

After some time the father returned. He called on his sons and asked what they did with the coins.

"I now have 100 coins, Father," the eldest son proudly said.

"I still have 30 coins," the middle child said.

Ashamed, the youngest, did not want to come forward. But his Father asked him to sit beside him.

"What happened?" the Father asked.

"I only have 5 coins left. I tried to invest it but lost miserably," he said wryly.

The father was silent. And then he spoke. He commended his eldest son but was angry with his second.

"Why did you just bury the coins?" he asked.

"Because I did not want to lose them. At least now, I still have 30 coins," he tried to explain.

"I'd rather that you did not!" the Father said.

Then he turned to his youngest, and in a consoling tone, he said: "It was better to have wagered and lost than not risk it at all. You may have lost but you have the wealth of wisdom from the experience. It was better to have done something with what you have than do nothing at all. Well done, son!" he said as he hugged his youngest.

My father told me this story when I was still young and it stayed with me until now. At the end of my life, I don't want to face my Creator and be the middle child. I would rather be the youngest who tried even though he failed.

But who fails doing his passion?

This is a new journey to who knows where that I'm embarking on. And I am thrilled.

I am a child of many mothers.

My mothers come in many forms, in various shapes and personalities. They all sprung to my life when they were most needed. True to form, mothers recognize and nurture a hurting child even without hearing him or her cry.

You may recognize some of them as your own: the mother hens in our group of friends, the flamboyant mudra, the wiser (not necessarily older) best friend, even a former college professor and, of course, our very own, who delivered us into this world.

Thelma

My mother, Thelma, taught me resilience. She always sees the proverbial silver lining in the dark clouds. Not one to give up, she always tells me to be optimistic that I have what it takes to make it, even if I don’t believe in myself.

If I knew what love and loving is, it is because she taught me these things.

Once, on a beach outing, I overheard one of my uncles ask my other relatives why mom wouldn’t just leave my dad.

My dad at that time has suffered a stroke that made walking very difficult for him. To them, my dad was too much of a physical burden for my mom. My mom happens to be younger than my dad by about a decade. Perhaps, my relatives thought that she deserved a younger man. It didn’t help that there were tumultuous events in my parents’ relationship that time (mostly brought about by the issue of discipline and taking responsibility of my younger brother).

In the distance, I saw my mom hold my dad’s hand as they walk on the beach – laughing, reliving perhaps their younger years, unmindful of the criticism.

There were a few rough times between them, as all other couples have – so rough that the only way to stop them was to get out of them, and the marriage. But my mom knew better. She stuck it out with dad through bad times, becoming his metaphorical cane in his old age.

My dad passed away on February 14, 2004, in his sleep – with my Mom beside him. I knew it was what he wanted, to pass on beside a person who loved him all these years. My mom has, after all, served as a bridge between a prodigal son (me) and a stoic father. But aren’t all mothers like that?

Once in college, my mom told me that dad wrote her a letter about me. Like me, perhaps, he didn’t have the courage to tell me things in person.

As I see myself now, I see my Mom in me, sometimes. But I am only too happy to be her in some ways. As I grew older, I noticed that I tend to gravitate towards friends who have the same quality as my mom: strong-willed, tenacious, loving, and, yes, a spoiler.

D.B.

A professor is the farthest person I think would become a friend. D.B. was my professor in Journalism 102 (Basic Newswriting). I remember her to be a slave driver – almost taking most of our time away from our other subjects. She would send us to beats, to police stations, and do things journalists do. During our final exams, she gave us a Sandiganbayan decision on Imelda Marcos and told us to write a story.

The final exam proved to be a foreboding of things to come as I would eventually be assigned as a courts reporter. Reading and writing stories about very thick court decisions in a very short time was a good training for me.

Years later, my former teacher and I would find ourselves in the same coverage, sharing notes – the former professor and the former student asking questions from the same source, doing our own stories. I hope that she is proud that she has made me a journalist.

But it wasn’t only about newswriting that she taught me. I don’t know how it happened, but I found myself confiding about personal things to her, and she to me. She was one of the few people I turned to when a relationship failed.

Like a mother to a child, she showed me what I couldn’t see in those dark hours – that beyond the dark road is a path waiting to be explored. She had been there, and she is too willing to share the wisdom.

Recently, after another failed relationship, I turned to her again. And she never failed me.

“This is the year we make our dreams come true,” she said, focusing on the benefit of sorrow. She had enrolled at a law school while I got myself into a second degree in painting.

As she seems to suggest, we overcome failures by overcoming ourselves.

Was it in the movie “The Brave One” where Jodi Foster’s character asked the question: “How do you survive a tragic incident as having your partner killed?” She said: “You don’t. You become a different person.”

True, we become different persons after the long hours and days of tragedy. We become better.

T.P.

T.P. is our barkada’s appointed mother hen. She is seen as the saner one in the group. She is married, with two kids, and her real-life mother role provides us some real-time mother’s wisdom.

She would shock me into reality when I’m down in the dumps, hopeless. It’s cariño-brutal at its finest. If you wanted to know the real deal about a situation, she would tell you how it is over cigarettes.

I remember her inviting me to her house one New Year’s Eve. And it was a start of a friendship. To all our other friends – R.C., N.C., K.D., and A.C. – she is the one to turn to for serious advice. She is our reality-checker.

N.C.

N.C., is the mudra of the group. I sometimes see myself in him. Our experiences are similar, so I turn to him sometimes for advice, serious or not.

Because of our circumstances – he leads the life that I know I would lead somehow – I ask him, someone who is a few steps away, for guidance. And he is generous with it, never mind that sometimes he needs T.P.’s cariño-brutal, too.

Once, he saved me from a rather traumatic (in a funny way, if there is one) blind (emphasis on the blind to warn that one should never really do it hehehe) date.

Trivial as it may seem, I know that as friends we always have our backs covered.

R.C.

R.C. is a different matter. She is more of a sister than a mother, mainly because she will object to the suggestion of her being older than me. Of course she.

Like D.B., R.C has figuratively held my hands in my days of darkness. She has been with me in the worst days of my life, and when these are over – she is one to share bottles of ice-cold beer until we’re blind drunk.

There was a period in our lives when we saw ourselves drinking almost every other night – over sisig, tokwa’t baboy and beer (lots of ‘em). We empty ourselves of our frustrations and fill ourselves with dreams. Then we wake up the next day groggy but ready to take on the world again.

Like a mother to a child, she has walked with me in this journey of ups and downs.

Living away from my mom, it was instinctive to stitch my own social fabric. It is like that with them, my other mothers, my friends. My Mom is dearly missed of course, but she would be delighted to discover that her son is being taken care of.

We are born into the world not once but many times. We are born amidst the darkness of pain, the misery of sorrow, and the trials that test our spirit. But we are born glorious and triumphant because each time there is a mother who ushers us into a new phase, a new beginning.

Behind every strong person is a great mother.

A story on camote bread is definitely out of my league, considering court reports are usually my fare.

But an opportunity to do a story on something of an icon in Baguio's culinary culture is uhmn, too yummy to pass up.

Some say you've never really been to Baguio if you haven't tasted the camote bread.

This is my third or fourth time in Baguio – but yes, this is my first arrival.

Ms. Laida Lim, the owner of Café by the Ruins was generous enough to share us the "secret" recipe to this famous bread.

Not only that, she gamely set up a section of her café for our impromptu cooking show.

Manong Johnny, her baker, was there to show us the step by step procedure to cooking the camote bread.

Below is a recipe which Ms. Laida gave me and which I'm reproducing for your reading and eating pleasure:

CAMOTE BREAD

Ingredients:

½ kilo of boiled camote
6-8 cups of bread flour
2 ½ to 3 cups of warm water
½ cup fresh milk
¼ cup corn oil
3 teaspoons yeast
¼ cup sugar
1 tablespoon molasses

1. Boil the camote and when they're done, peel and cut them into small cubes. Grate.

2. Place the grated camote in the bowl of Kitchen Aid.

3. Mix the yeast with the lukewarm water.

4. Mix all the other ingredients in the Kitchen Aid bowl.

5. When all the flour is incorporated, transfer dough to a well-floured table and knead by hand until the dough is elastic and springy.

6. Place dough in an oiled bowl, turning it over to coat the top of the dough with oil.

7. Allow dough to rise until doubled in bulk for about an hour.

8. Punch down the dough and knead to deflate most of the air bubbles.

9. Measure out the dough in pieces.

10. Roll out each piece to ¼ inch thickness then shape into small loaves.

11. Allow loaves to rise until doubled in bulk.

12. Bake in hot oven 30-40 minutes.

After this, voila, your camote bread is ready to eat.

Ms. Laida gave me and my crew a strawberry jam-butter dip which complemented the bread.

It's moist and feels heavy on the stomach. And yes, you know what they say about camote and farting? It's true. But it's healthy I guess, getting all your toxic gas out of your body? Hehehe.

But this sweet little bread offers a bit of wisdom in our present times.

Ms. Laida said her brother, Ernie Lim, invented the recipe after looking for a cheaper alternative to regular flour. Camote, being abundant in Baguio seemed perfect. And it was.

What a creative way, not to mention tasty, to deal with the times.

Initially he offered it in a sandwhich bar on Session Road until it found its home in Café by the Ruins.

Ms. Laida said she wanted people to know they can bake the camote bread in their own homes. Times are hard but it's no reason to miss out on life's little surprises.

In this case, we can make our own in the comfort of our homes.

Tex Jimenez, one of our bosses, said the camote bread is best enjoyed with a special someone – while holding hands, amidst the cool breeze of Baguio's city nights.

That, too. But in the absence of a special someone, the warm company of good friends may suffice. Don't hold hands but laugh your hearts out. Be careful though, farting is such a sweet sorrow.

Taking a respite from the coverage of the Supreme Court's summer session my team decided to go to Tam-awan Village in Baguio City to take some culture as Baguio is known for.

It's my third or fourth time to visit the place, and each time there's always a surprise.

Originally established as an exclusive artists' village in 1996, it was opened to the public in 1999 and it offers various things for the restless traveler: from exhibits to cultural shows, to sketching sessions and some good ole Cordillera tapuy (rice wine).

Tam-awan is Ibaloi for "vantage point" as tanawan is in Tagalog. And it lives up to its name offering various perspectives on history and culture.

On this particular visit, I decided to focus my attention on the tradition of married life in the Cordilleras.

Nestled amongst a rich greenery, a fertility hut sits. A typical A-type Ifugao house, it measures half a classroom. Devoid of any decorations, it is as simple as a house could be.

But its simplicity defies the grand purpose it serves.

A curious tourist looks into what's inside the fertility hut in one of several Ifugao and Kalinga houses in Tam-awan Village in Baguio City.

We were toured in the area by Jubeile Dumasig, one of Sir Chit's staff in the village.

Jubiele explains that the fertility hut in Tam-awan is one of two fertility huts in the whole of Cordillera, surely a sign of a fast-vanishing part of a culture.

The fertility hut played a crucial role in the marriage of couples back in the old days. Jubiele says, as tradition dictates, couples who couldn't have a baby for a year resort to living in a fertility hut.

There, a shaman would perform rituals to aid the couple in conceiving a child. The couple is to stay in the hut for a month, where they would try to have a child.

But prior to entering the hut, the wife, with husband in tow, must rub the belly of a fertility bulol – a pregnant stone-figure.

After a month, and the effort is fruitless, a painful decision must be made.

Both the husband and the wife have the right now to choose a new partner.

Jubiele explains that children were considered treasures in a family, hence the importance accorded to having them.

Tourists, upon knowing this, are surprised.

Marlo Espinueva, a tourist, said half-jokingly that it was more convenient (and favorable) that way. Each can find a partner who could bore him/her a child.

But he turned serious and said that not having kids nowadays is not a reason to break up the family.

"Syempre, mahal ko asawa ko, kahit walang anak," he said – his wife in the vicinity, smiling.

I know of many other couples who waited for years to have a child. My cousin, Ate Leah, waited for six or seven years before Den-den (my inaanak) was born. A colleague in the media Arlene Farol waited for years before their firstborn. Hazel Recheta, a dear friend, had to wait several years too for Sacha.

Waiting is such a sweet period for an awesome gift as a kid.

But for those who were not successful in conceiving a child, like perhaps the many couples who had to go through the fertility hut period before – there are far more many reasons to stay together, foremost is the love for each other.

The challenge of not having a child is only a metaphor of the problems (and sometimes, the crises) in a relationship. It is a test that love can overcome.

So it goes with all the other relationships in our lives. Challenges will come and test us. But they are there to distill us into what we are: strong individuals bound by love.

Having each other's hand to hold is more than enough.

"Abogado na ako! Abogado na ako (I'm a lawyer already)!" an examinee shouted amidst the nervous crowd waiting for the results of the 2007 Bar Examinations at the Supreme Court.

At another side of the hall, an old man spoke on the phone to somebody who could be his brother or a family member, and announced the good news: "May lawyer na tayo," he said.

Pride filled the august halls of the Supreme Court. At that moment success almost feels tangible you could taste it, and happiness is not just a concept but a real feeling. One could almost see a whole new world of possibilities open.

If only for that one singular moment of victory, I would want to take the bar. But not for now. Right now, I am an observer, a reporter covering it.

Covering it for a couple of years did not make me immune to a wide spectrum of emotions from pride, to quiet defeat, to a steadfast optimism.

The Supreme Court initially announced that it would release the results Friday, but postponed it to Saturday.

It was my day-off but Vic, my senior deskperson, asked me Friday to cover it since I'm the one responsible for the justice beat.

My sources told me that we could expect the results to be released after lunch, so I was at the compound at about 11 a.m.

Already, there were examinees outside the Supreme Court awaiting the results.

I did an advancer for "Balitanghali" where I reported that a source said the results could be released at 2 p.m.

But 2 p.m. passed and still there were no results.

The growing number of examinees were impatient. They tried to enter the Court's lobby where the LCD projectors were set up. The projectors would scroll the names of the country's new lawyers. But the doors unfortunately had to be shut for fear of a stampede.

Inside, my fellow reporters from print and radio spent time chatting and taking photos. Or when these became tiring, we just sat there and listened to music, which the Supreme Court PIO piped into the stereo speakers.

While waiting, Supreme Court spokesperson Jose Midas Marquez sent a staff member to ask how many mediamen were down the hall -- so he could send over merienda.

Feeding waiting mediamen means one thing -- the wait will be longer.

Which was what happened. Those of us who smoke, smoked outside, striking idle chatter with the guards and the examinees. At one point, an old man, most probably a father of an examinee, saw one of the projectors scroll names. That particular projector had "List of 2007 Bar Examinees" as heading.

"Ito na! (This is it!)," he shouted. Almost immediately, the crowd rushed to the door. Some shouted. I had to tell the man it was just a test run, and the names were from a previous bar exam result.

After a couple of minutes more, Associate Justice Adolfo Azcuna emerged, accompanied by Atty. Marquez. We positioned our cameras, the print reporters their recorders and the radio guys alerted their respective stations for the upcoming announcement.

Finally, Justice Azcuna spoke. "Congratulations!" he said.

He announced that 1,289 out of the 5,626 examinees hurdled the bar examinations. That's 22.91%.

He confirmed, however, that only 5% originally passed the exams, but the bar committee decided to lower the passing rate to 70% from the traditional 75%. He attributed the low passing rate to what he termed "unusually strict corrections" made by some of the members of the committee.

After answering questions from the press, he then ordered to let the projectors scroll the names of those who passed.

I had to rush to our live camera set-up to break the news. I did not prepare a script, instead I relied on bullets: topnotcher from Ateneo, Mercedita Ona; lowered passing rate from 75% to 70%; 5,626 examinees; 1,289 passed.

I could hear the shouting in the background. From where I was standing, I could see examinees jumping and hugging. While some cried on the shoulders of friends.

I was overwhelmed, I had to breathe deep to avoid cracking my voice in the middle of my report. Moments like these, show tangibly the demarcation line between the hardships of six months of preparing for the bar and the bliss that comes after it.

After my live report, I went around to take in the euphoria, though not mine, it nevertheless felt good to stand in a celebration.

Not far from me was a group of friends. They were very happy and they were cheering someone. I approached them and asked a girl who turned out to be a passer.

"How do you feel?" I asked, however obvious her disposition was.

"I'm so happy! Thank you for all those who prayed for me," she said.

I asked for her name for my report's chargen later on. "Caroline Exconde," she said.

"Atty... Caroline Exconde?" I repeated, stressing the new title she has acquired, and wished her luck.

In the crowd, an elderly couple, who must be in their late 60's stood out. They could not be bar takers, I thought to myself. I asked my cameraman if they had shot a video of the couple. He said yes, and told me they were there for their grandson who did not pass the exams.

In the office I previewed the tape and saw their interview.

The old man's name was Felipe Mariano. He said they had been waiting at the Supreme Court since 1 p.m. But when the results were announced, their grandson's name was not there.

Still it did not dampen the old man's spirit. "Ganyan naman yan talaga anak. Try and try until you succeed. Baka sa susunod, makuha na n'ya, (That's the way it goes, son. Try and try until you succeed. Maybe next time, you'll pass)" he said with a sparkle in his otherwise tired eyes.

Such wisdom, such hope, in the midst of chaos and jubilation.

It seemed like what he was saying was that life is a lot like taking the bar exams: we encounter defeat once in a while. But it should not be a reason to surrender. Experiencing defeat makes victory a lot sweeter.