Running in Gyeongju – a travel back in time

Dr. Yong Larrazabal recently wrote an article for SunStar Cebu about his feat at the Gyeongju International Marathon in South Korea last October 16. It was a notable achievement for him, having set a new personal record of 3:45, beating his previous 3:47 at the Seoul International Marathon in March last year.

He was right about running in Korea; the routes are mostly flat and the weather is relatively cool in the fall and spring, making these seasons all cramped with weekend marathons. And he was right about Gyeongju too. The city is a perfect venue for running, especially for foreigners; it features a rich infusion of history and culture. And unlike metropolitan Seoul, it affords an urban-yet-laidback lifestyle. It was the capital of the ancient South Korean dynasty of Silla – an age-old prominence that gave the city its rightful entitlement as an “open museum”

Pre-race assembly at Hwangseong Park

But he wasn’t right when he said he was the only Filipino in the race. I was there too, however, obscured among the thousands of eager runners - restless and enthusiastic as the gun time approaches. And I wore the same tiny Philippine flag I had on proudly at the Incheon International Marathon last year. I took time to buy felt papers of yellow, red, blue, and white at the university store, cut them into shapes and glued the pieces together to make that gallant symbol of my pride.

Proudly donning the national colors

I guess Dr. Yong and I hinged on the same wave of feeling of being the only Filipino among the 10,000 runners coursing through the downtown, along ancient historical relics, rice fields, and highways. But unlike me, Dr. Yong is one distinguished Filipino runner/eye surgeon back home. I could liken him to the celebrated Japanese runner/novelist Haruki Murakami whose book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running has greatly inspired me to take running as my life’s metaphor. And he has already been trailing clouds of reputed glory both in running and in his medical practice. He and his wife, the renowned Donna Cruz, have been running together in several marathons both local and abroad, making them a celebrity running couple whose merits as regular runners are measures of their métier for the sport that tests discipline and endurance.

In Korea, road running is also a favorite pastime - Koreans being avid about wellness and sports. Their fondness for marathons inspire admiration – you see a bunch of spruced up girls in pretty ponytails, a couple at their senescence, a paraplegic on a wheelchair, a father and a daughter pacing alongside – all weathering the distance with dauntless spirits. But these all make sense in a health-conscious society and a sport that bears significance in the Korean history.

Daereungwon Tomb Complex: Gyeongju's famous landmark

Anapji Pond

1936 Berlin Olympics: Korean marathoner Sohn Kee-Chung took the gold. But the country was under the rule of the Japanese Empire and so the flag on his uniform wasn’t Korea’s and Japan had the official gold credit. Expressing his dissent to the orders of the colonial government, Sohn refused to sign his name in Japanese characters and bowed his head in protest at the awarding ceremony. When Dong-a Ilbo, one of the major newspapers in Korea whose nationalist founder Kim Sung-soo became the country’s vice-president in 1951, published a photographed of Sohn with a blotted out image of the Japanese flag on his uniform, the colonial government was infuriated. The publication was suspended for nine months and eight people affiliated with the newspaper were imprisoned. Sohn later become a heroic symbol of nationalism and patriotic sentiments.

While we have nothing so monumental and profound a historical account in marathon as the Koreans do, running in a foreign country brings a patriotic wave. I wear my flag conspicuously above my race bib – being certain that however obscured runner that I was, I have pattered dusts of Filipino resplendence on this part of the world. And that is the best part of the race.

Now I’m back to my corner in Iksan City, where I work as a professor, contemplating on a selection from a number of marathon schedules in the spring time. By then, I’d be in Gyeongju serving a new academic ground in a city that brings everyone to a travel back in time. Dr. Yong might be coming back for the Seoul International Marathon in four months. I wish to see him at the finish line and cheer for a highly esteemed fellowman and a former boss.

Life’s Metaphor

A line from Oprah Winfrey goes, “Running is the greatest metaphor for life because you get out of it what you put into it”. In running, I have one favorite word: endurance. And that's basically how I get through life as well – the power to withstand life’s trials and difficulties.

Last week, I had my first international feat at running, at the 11th Incheon International Marathon in South Korea where I’ve been for the past seven months as an expatriate. I signed up for only 5K since I had little time to train; besides, I haven’t tried running on a very cold weather. It’s late March but there hasn’t been any sign of spring yet.

The start and finish line.

Weeks before the event, i only managed to run a total of 12. 4 miles, a lame preparation for an important milestone in life, especially for someone who is no longer young enough to depend on agility and strength alone. Again, going out for a run on a cold weather was a struggle. But I had to run nevertheless and get used to the weather or I wouldn’t have made it to the race day.

I’m practically a newbie (and a late-bloomer) at running. I started just over a couple of years ago, after more than a year of bout with hyperthyroidism. So it was like a form of resurgence, a reawakening of a dispirited self. Since then, I felt that every time I run, I purge myself of the remnants of the disease that gripped my body with heavy night sweats and palpitations. Running has helped me claim back the vitality I lost to an unseen enemy whose battle is silent yet costly.

Soon I found myself signing up for marathons, which I have in my “life’s bucket list”. I bought myself a good pair of running shoes and dry-fit shirts for weekend runs with Chris, who was more than happy to see me back in shape.

At the subway plying the Incheon Line 1, you could actually point out who were heading to the Munhak World Cup Stadium – those with timing chips attached to their shoelaces while others had race packs in hand. I got to exchange a smile, a guess-we’re-heading-the-same-way kind of smile, with a middle-aged man who caught me staring at the timing chip on his shoes. I felt somehow we understood each other; besides he must’ve noticed we were both wearing Mizuno, like the couple of other runners in the same car.

The Munhak Stadium hosted some matches in the 2002 World Cup 

where Ji Sung Park scored a victory against Portugal.

That’s what I like about running. There is one common denominator among runners – the silent vigor and the motivation to reach one’s goal, without the dictum of competition (except, of course, for elite runners competing against their rivals). The race sets off and you race against time, and not against each other.

Running has also become like a sort of spiritual process for me. I get to feel the cold breeze and watch the outline of trees against the blue sky as I run. From these, I imbibe the inspiration to think, write and believe - on the basis of reason and emotions, that running is my life’s metaphor.  And at the culmination of each run, I feel a sense of gratitude, a feeling that I usually carry over to the next run.

Yesterday, when I did a sort of reconnaissance run around Hamyeol, where our university moved all foreign professors’ accommodations, I saw how perfect the place is for running. A short distance from the campus is an endless row of orchard, covered by a thick morning haze. I stopped by the roadside to watch an old stooped woman pruning her plants and placidly snipping off some weeds from her garden.

In What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Haruki Murakami writes that no matter how long mundane some action might appear, keep at it long enough and it becomes contemplative, even meditative. And I say amen.  

Wearing the Philippine flag was the best part of the race.

I have five weeks till the 2011 National Half Marathon in Busan, and I have to cover a longer mileage to prepare myself for another arduous test of endurance. And as I stretch out over a distance, space, and time, I’ll give heed to the silent and often inconspicuous sources of inspiration along the roadside. It’ll be spring soon; maybe just a couple of weeks more and the trees will start growing back their leaves obliterated by winter.  I’m glad I have the spring to stir my imagination as I gear up for Busan. Again, I’ll run against myself and my own time; I’ll also run with others who live the same metaphor as mine.

Kamayo in Spirit

N.B. - The Kamayo poem after this article was written in 2008.


One thing I share in common with my father is our growing interest in writing Kamayo poetry.  Two years ago, when I asked him to write a poem for the Balik-Marihatag newsletter, I saw his face lit up with excitement. He grabbed his pen at once and wrote a series of metrical writing in Kamayo – a poem he entitled “Layat-layatan”. It was an amusing poem of two parts, uniquely Marihatagnon for it contained names like Pisaw, Tarin, Puwahan, Mantika, Liswit, Kagwang – all twit names we use to call someone instead of their first names, sometimes a collective “layat” for a certain clan.

The eternal Omagon spirit has been witness to the unfolding 
of generations.

The first part of his poem tells of the cheerfulness of Marihatagnons, lighthearted and placid even at the mundanity of rural, commonplace life.

                                Sa una na panahon

                                Ang kanatu mga ginikanan

                                Kalipay ang mag layat-layatan

                                Abu da haw magkatipon da gani siran

The last lines in the second part were pieces of  imagination, a fictitious product of a Marihatagnon’s mind who remains unflustered by layat-layatan.

                                Gapabuto ng Bulog

                                Kinargahan ng pulbura

                                Adto pasingud sa tubig

                                Yangabungog ang mga Pisaw, 

                                Boriring, ug Latab

                                Yangahug ang mga Bayabas

                                Itangag ng Kwahaw

                                Ihuwesan ng Buwakaw

I remember writing an entry to a Kamayo-poem writing competition sponsored by the hosts of the 2002 Pakighimamat. The competition received a good number of entries and we were made to read our works on stage.

I take pride in that first literary piece I wrote in Kamayo, and I’m sure the many others who wrote their works must have felt the same – a sense of ownership of each word in every line, for we speak the language that represents the heart and soul of a Kamayo. 

Writing in the vernacular is marked by profound insight, as one is able to go deep into each word and its meaning. The fluidity in expressing the ideas is lucid for the language is embedded deep in the person.

Indeed, there is “there is truth in spirit”. And that spirit of the language that we speak defines us, creating an embodiment of what Marihatagnons are truly like.  
                           

                                                               

                                Hain Da Kaw? 

                                Pira pa ka tuig ang yalabay

                                Sukad pagbiya mo

                                Ani sa lang ako… gatagad, yanghamay

                                Basin kadi mabalik pa kaw

                                Kay amo say gisaad mo

                               Yauso ra lang and cellphone ug text

                               Wara sa gayud lagbong mo na yabalik

                               Basin matahay da lang ang suba sa Tugbungan

                               Diri mo gayud ako kadumduman

                               Dayaw pa ang hinangkan

                               Mauli haw mahapon sa punoan

                              Haw diri da kaw gayud kanako

                               Pagpatigam lang…

                              Sarig kay ang buhok ko sa alipudhan

                               Maihap da kuman

   

'Ya Anul

It’s past two in the afternoon and she sets up, inside her tiny hut, her usual necessities for the day’s affair: sacks of baliongan (coconut husk), a makeshift pugon (oven) made of empty oil cans, a long, wooden spatula, and trays of freshly kneaded dough shaped into small circles and ovals.

She loads several baliongan on top of her improvised furnace and smoke ascends as she puts them burning gently.  The soft, plump circles and ovals, neatly arranged on top of green banana leaves in groups of five or six are placed inside the hot pugon, one group after the other. Subsequently, a delicious aroma wafts into the air and sends some gastronomic senses stimulated for an afternoon snack.

'Ya Anul's utilitarian furnace.

‘Ya Anul, as she is fondly called, has no name for her delectable pastry, unlike many popular breadstuffs like cheese bread, mongo bread, and pan de leche. People just come every day to her tiny hut, sitting on the corner of the bus terminal where she bakes the most popular bread in town.

   

Born Arnulfa Lozada in 1933 to Venancio Lozada and Maria Antona, she spent most of her life in Marihatag, Surigao del Sur, where even at her age, she remains an incessant figure on that corner of the bus terminal. Her marriage to Antonio Lacreo of Tagbina, Surigao del Sur in 1955 bore them twelve offspring, sustained by Antonio’s job as a government employee at the munisipyo and the unflagging vitality for her craft. She has once worked as a baker at the elementary school canteen during the Nutribun program in the 1980s.

Her process of bread making is left untouched by technology. Kneading is done manually with the help of her children and she sticks with the basic ingredients with no fancy ornamented designs – just plainly shaped as ovals and circles; the oval-shaped being the plain variety and the circle-shaped with bukhayo (sweetened coconut meat strips) fillings inside.

One doesn't need a sophisticated gadget to create something delicious.

Her simple formulation for bread-making, which her children know by heart, is like a family treasure only known to them.  Her youngest son and indispensable assistant Aurelio explains, they follow an accurate and consistent measurement of the ingredients: flour, yeast, salt, sugar, water and a small amount of oil. He adds they put less yeast in their dough unlike many commercial baking processes and they follow a considerable time for proofing (the rest period when the dough is allowed to rise) prior to baking in the oven.

The delicious stuff, seasoned with passion and skill has already been noted, even among the temporary people passing by the bus terminal– drivers, passengers and travelers. The delicious afternoon aroma leads them to that tiny, makeshift hut where ‘Ya Anul and her wooden paddle-like spatula work in constant tandem.

When love and passion are infused into a craft.

At seventy-eight, with many of ‘Ya Anul’s children gone off to marry, she takes pride in her grandchildren, some of them also taking into heart the heritage of her craft. She will continue to bring delight to every afternoon merienda, for soon, that is to be her legacy to her children, her grandchildren, to the people who come to her every day, and to Marihatag in general.  

Note: Apologies for the blurry photos; these were grabbed from the video shot we took of her in 2005. Here's the video link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KIvgofYpGo

Mario Kinghing

You don’t call him Mario. His name is always said full and complete: Mario Kinghing. And it has always been that way. Perhaps there were too many Marios in Marihatag, like the many persons whose names are Dodong, Neneng, and Inday.

But this Mario is not from Marihatag. He is from the farthest, western side of Mindanao, of Muslim descent whose father came to Marihatag on a large fishing boat called balasian in the 1950s.

The rich marine life of Surigao del Sur lured his father into settling in Marihatag. And Tugbungan, near the sabang where the Marihatag River flows out into the vast Pacific, became their home, sustaining their love for the sea and the diverse life beneath it. 

Mario was an indispensable company on his father’s fishing trips, being adept at everything about fishing like his father. He must have learned how to handle a pukot and operate a pumpboat long before he knew how to read. He admits he didn’t like school and would prefer to be at sea with his father as a boy.

Just like his father, he made the sea his sustenance, a life Elma Mondejar of Talacogon unconditionally embraced when he married her in 1974. Fishing was his way of life and his fleet of fishing gear – pukot, langre, subid, and pumpboat were all substantial economic assets for a livelihood that helped him feed and raise nine children.

The construction of new public market at the bus terminal several years ago made a milestone in his life as a fisherman. He moored his pumpboat for good, got himself a stall at the market and went into a business endeavor with his wife

Having established a good network with other fisherfolks from neighboring towns who are into large-scale fishing, it was easy for him to get a suki to deliver his daily, fresh stock of fishes and other seafood to sell. His stall, which he rents for Php280.00 every month, teems with what he says are the most saleable – liplipan (blue marlin), tulingan (tuna), tangigue (Spanish mackerel), nokus (squid), and kuabutan (crayfish). He sells 30 kilos on an average day and peaks during the fiesta in August.

He has ceased from a life of cold, sometimes stormy battles at sea, searching and asking for its bounty. But he never left it altogether. Sometimes, he sets out to the sea alone, his spirit longing for the vast expanse of the ocean. It will remain as a way of life, on that sandy shore of Tugbungan where sunbaked children run barefoot. His periodic longing to set sail will persist for he has forged an innate affinity with the sea.