My father and maternal grandmother are from the fishing town of Unisan, Quezon. But that doesn’t mean it’s my place of origin. Most Filipinos today say that they’re from this and that province but the truth is, they never grew up there; they just spent summer and Christmas vacations in their folks’ place of origin.

Thus, Friendster is politically correct in the profile section where it tells account holders that their hometown should be the place where they grew up (since I was reared in Parañaque, then that’s my hometown).

So that’s the reason that although I’ve spent a lot of happy childhood memories in Unisan, I really have no attachment to the place (albeit a multitude of relatives). Especially now that I’ve grown up. No, I don’t hate the place nor am I ashamed of it — why should I? It’s just that Unisan is a faraway place for me, both literally and figuratively…

But now, aside from its polluted seashore, I have one reason to be ashamed of it: its local police.

But before that, to further expound my point about homecomings…

…It’s just the same way I feel towards Lucena City, Quezon, the place of my nativity (DISCLAIMER: I am no savior; that’s why I’m in SKIRMISHER.  The word just popped into my mind due to the auditory beauty of the word’s semantics.). Whenever I pass by the place, I don’t feel anything — no excitement, no “Green, Green Grass of Home” stuff, no nothing. The place is historically fascinating, but I don’t feel any sweet homecoming.

But in Parañaque, although we have never had our own house there (and no matter how sleazy it was during Joey Márquez’s garbage-filled tenure), I feel a sense of belongingness. I now live in Laguna, but whenever I pass by Parañaque –to borrow from ol’ Nick Joaquín– a pang of childhood happiness smites my heart.

Unisan used to be beautiful. Naturally beautiful. What reminds me of my childhood Unisan is its spectacular bay and seashore, modest Malatandang Beach, pristine brooks, coconut forests, a fun rough road trip, fresh seafood, halo-halò, pinagóng, puto báo, scenic farms and nipa huts, its mysterious river (including the bridge on top of it — one of the longest I’ve ever been to), rolling hills and plains, and the queer Tagalog accent of its natives. Most of it are all gone or fading away due to the “blessings” of “progress” and “development”.

The major disappointment is the Población‘s seaside. I still remember frolicking and swimming there when I was small. I’ve even seen pictures of my family members enjoying the beauty of the place (the aplaya, derived from the Spanish la playa for seashore or beach, was just a few meters behind the Alas home).

What happened to it now? Please, don’t bother asking me (*sniff*).

However, I noticed that recently there have been sporadic movements to bring back its seaside to its former glory. There have been notices painted on some public walls such as ILIGTAS ANG DAGAT, ILIGTAS ANG BUKAS (Save the Sea, Save the Future). As if it can do the most damage to polluters – is that really enough to inspire the townsfolk of their responsibility? Heck, even grownups there nonchalantly throw litter anywhere they could…

The state of Unisan, to put it more bluntly, makes me sick.

The good news is that ever since becoming an amateur historian, the only thing that sparked an interest in me towards Unisan is its quaint historical houses we call bahay na bató. I never cared for them when I was a kid. There are still several there which, I dare say, could rival the Antilean houses of Taal, Batangas.

But the town’s historical houses are also being victimized by modern evils such as abandonment (the Constantino and Carrillo houses), vandalism (the Valerio house), apathy (the Évora house), and stupidity (the heart-rending rubbles of the fabled Maxino house, the first bahay na bato in Unisan which was built, if I remember correctly, around the 17th century).

So here is where my story actually begins, i.e., the main reason why the title of this post serves as a warning to potential tourists…

Yesterday morning, I was strolling at the Población with my sister Jessica, taking pictures and videos of old Spanish houses using a Motorola RAZR V3i. I thought it was a great idea to include photographs of these houses in my upcoming Spanish blog. Behind the old municipal building was yet another seemingly abandoned and dilapidated house which I thought was owned by the Constantinos of Unisan. The architectural design was enough to fascinate the tastes of a connoisseur of Fil-hispanic/Antilean architecture. After having videoed the once glorious house, a bulky man in a white shirt and camouflage pants riding a motorcycle summoned me. He was stationed right in front of the precinct with a couple of mothers and their kids (typical provincial folk). I assumed immediately that the guy’s from the armed forces.

Boy, halica dito. Come here, kid, he said in a commanding voice. At least, the guy called me kid, and I was thankful inside: that means I really don’t look like I’m 27! Hurrah!

I went up to him, my sister behind me, and with the old houses and Spanish Unisan still thick in my mind, I asked him without much concern ¿Anó ho iyón? Yes, what is it?.

I was stunned by his irate reply: O, ¿ba’t ang yabang mo? Well, why are you so arrogant?.

Arrogant? Mayabang/Arrogant?! I was only taking pictures of old houses using a costly cellphone! Perhaps he’s miffed with my getup since he’s too old to don one and he’s already bloated; I was just wearing an Adidas jogging pants and a basketball shirt given to me by my mom, a rock-concert bandana, a pair of loud-colored sandals, my fancy bracelets and other special effects which my wife fondly calls borloloy, and I sport a Macario-Sákay-like hair — does that make me look like mayabang? (Maybe, Pepe). Or maybe it’s my gait; my wife noticed I’ve been impulsively walking like a professional wrestler — is that mayabang? (Could be). Or maybe because he heard me speaking to Jessica in English — is that mayabang? (Perhaps). I’ll never know (my fault: I didn’t ask him). But honestly, I never intended to show-off. Each individual has his/her own way of expressing him/herself. And this stupid “law enforcer” perhaps needed to be taught lessons on Freedom of Expression 101.

Whatever the case maybe, I was 100% sure that he’s the one who’s showing off his “authority” when he called me mayabang (arrogant or boastful). Of course, there shouldn’t be other braggarts within a 10-mile radius of a police precinct other than them boys in blue, stupid me.

So when he started showing-off his dubious authority, I sensed trouble.

I defended myself, saying in a polite but humored tone that I have nothing to be boastful of, and that I was innocently taking pictures of old houses. He then asked me, still in a sigà (hooligan) tone if I was related to the vice mayor. The hell with the vice mayor, I thought. I don’t even know who the mayor is (I learned later that the mayor is Nonato Puache, an acquaintance of the Alas clan).

This guy’s nuts, I thought. 

But I thought that maybe he’s referring to the Constantino house where he saw me and Jessica walk away from. Perhaps he’s guarding the place (from what? there was nothing to steal from a house abandoned), so I explained to him that I’m an amateur journalist innocently taking pictures of old houses for possible publication. But of course, since he’s a “law enforcer” he wouldn’t care to listen to that nor even understand it.

Things were starting to become an argument, which is what I hate the most. But he did not intimidate me one bit because the asshole doesn’t even know that I am an Alas; the Alas clan is one of the most prominent group of families in the town of Unisan (now that’s mayabang speak, hehehe). Besides, having been a fan of World Wrestling Entertainment for close to two decades, I’m confident that, despite my lanky frame, I could seriously pin down a goon or two twice my size (Sweet Chin Music! The Stunner! The Pedigree! He’s got the scumbag in an Ankle Lock! My god, King! What a slobber-knocker!!! SECOND DISCLAIMER: Please, don’t try this at home).

He then asked where I was from, and I told him I was from Parañaque (it was on impulse). For a moment, I saw his eyes glow. He then got confident that I was not from the place, that I was a tourist, and that I was a PERFECT victim for any potential evil only a police officer could think of.

The goon really started to tick me off. But I still asked him politely –despite his lack of manners to a law-abiding citizen– if it was prohibited to take pictures of old houses in Unisan (¿Baquit, bawal po bang cumuha ng mgá retrato ng bahay dito?). Guess how he intelligently answered that: ¡Abá, icáw ang may sabi niyán! Well, it’s you who said it!

At that point, I felt that the conversation is turning out nowhere, and that he’s already talking NONSENSE.

To put an end to that waste of time which he initiated, I asked whether he’s a policeman or an army guy; I really can’t tell because he’s not wearing his uniform, and that the police and the army in Unisan share the same building (yep, smelly hogs and their shit are naturally found in the same sty). He proudly said pulís acó, with his chin held up high.

PULÍS ACÓ. Bwhahaha! So that’s why. It sounded too comical, the usual one-liners you get to hear from old 80′s Tagalog comedy movies depicting the police as scumbags (which I believe they all are). I could feel my insides laughing.

But since I was losing my patience because he was wasting my time with his non-intimidating scare tactics (I had to leave that afternoon for Alabang, Muntinlupà for my work’s on a graveyard shift), and especially since I have my sister with me, I frankly (BUT in a polite tone) told him this:

Ah OK, pulís palá cayó. Ganitó na lang ¿’no, sir? Cung balac niyó acóng daraguin (intimidate, scare), eh, calimutan niyo na hô casí hindí niyó acó quilalá. Alám co na yang mañgá estilo niyóng iyán. Ibá na lang ang tacutin niyó, OK?. Iyon lang hô. Paalam. Ah, OK, so you’re a police officer. Let’s put it this way, OK? If you even dare to intimidate me with your (usual) scare tactics, forget it because you don’t know me. I already know that kind of style you’re trying to put me on (police extortion, what else?). Just find someone else to intimidate, OK? That’s all, bye.

The cop replied, ¡Walá acóng paquialám cung sino ca pa! I don’t care who you are!

But his voice sounded hollow. Yes, he was the one who started to get intimidated by what I said, but I still didn’t reveal my last name.

Eh ‘di walá rin ho acóng paquí-alám cung sino cayó. Sigue hô, aalís na camí. (Well, neither do I care who you are. We’ll be on our way, then).

He didn’t even care to summon me back nor to follow me! The rascal must have wet his pants! Of course, I knew that he would have wanted to beat the bloody hell out of me. But the mystery of my identity which I threw at him was a far more stronger scare tactic.

But the group of women with the hooligan policeman were the ones who sounded terrified. They started calling for my sister, begging her to stop me and come back.

What for? Are the police our lords? Shouldn’t they be the ones who should give us ordinary citizens the respect all of us deserve? The civilians should be more powerful than the armed forces. It’s in the current Constitution which the evil Joe de Venecia and his political allies from Abaddon wanted to use as mere toilet paper. Have these hoodlums in uniform –and I’d like to include here corrupt politicians, as well– forgotten that their salaries are derived from the people’s taxes whom they terrorize and abuse?

One disrespectful attitude deserves another, and that’s what I just gave back to that licensed hooligan with the motorbike.

I was just enjoying Unisan’s historical past, for crying out loud!

Me and Jessica didn’t mind the ladies calling us back. I even turned my head to check if the hooligan cop would follow us. I saw him still petrified in his motorcycle, a surprised look on his face, perhaps stunned that for the very first time in his corrupt life, an ordinary citizen (and a bespectacled one, at that) finally stood up for his rights and never showed fear towards the evil that he had wanted to engulf me with. I even gave him a disapproving wave of my hand. Me and my sister just kept on walking towards what was left of the nearby Maxino mansion, another victim of injustice… historical injustice, that is.

Amidst the evil environment, my jovial sister Jessica showed no fear.

***

A few minutes later, as I was erasing unwanted video clips from my V3i (the free space left in it was small), I heard a commotion from the nearby precinct. All of a sudden, a group of policemen, garbed in full uniform, ready for battle, was summoning me.

Here comes the pride of the Philippine National Police, about to intimidate and perhaps beat the holy hell out of a scrawny “boy” for not bowing down at the taloned feet of one of their own human slime!

O, Unisan! O Philippines! Be proud of them!!!

Seriously, it was a funny scene. There I was, dazed by the morning heat and unarmed and crime-free, about to be confronted by angry looking policemen. One of them cursed at me and bade me to come to them in a very loud voice. I was about to curse back, but I was able to hold my cool; I think I’d go over the edge if I do that, I thought. My sister was with me, and they got guns. My only potential weapons were my fists, teeth, and the V3i. But it never occured to me to run.

I bade Jessica to go home. She ran to ask for help.

The uniformed hooligans, (I think there were around four or five of them) started to march towards me when I just remained standing in front of the Maxino rubble and stared at them like an amused dumb cow. I even heard one of them challenging me to a fisticuff (o, the folly of this world… we really get the government we deserve…). But I didn’t see the petrified slob cop with the bike.

Perhaps he also shit in his pants!

Their shouts were getting angrier, and I thought of their guns. A crowd was beginning to gather, thus it’s unlikely for them to shoot me. But you can never foretell their evil police ways. So I thought of an idea.

I videoed the assholes with the V3i.

From afar, I could see that they were stupefied. The one who challenged me to a fisticuff turned away. They’ve gotten nervous, perhaps, with the video.

But one of them walked slowly towards me.

Back then, I wasn’t sure if I should give him a Sweet Chin Music or talk to him diplomatically. Running away wasn’t even the last option. But since the cop was walking slowly towards me, I assumed he was OK to speak with. He gently tapped my hand and asked me not to video him (he was obviously daunted). He just came to talk and probe on what had transpired. And so I did, especially since I saw two of my uncles with the rest of the police gangstas. Jessica called them.

The fools then learned that the ”boy” they’re trying to bully was –gasp!– a member of the Alas clan.

The officer who spoke to me was a gentleman… a gentleman he was because he saw me with a video on hand. He said that the reason I was summoned earlier by their co-officer, the fat slob in the motorcycle who peed and shit in his pants, was that I should’ve asked permission first from the municipal government to take pictures and/or videos of old Spanish houses.

Baloney! I believe that was an idiotic excuse. Do tourists do that in other municipalities in the Philippines? Hell, no!

Do tourists in Vigan, Ilocos Norte ask permission from the local government to take pictures of the town? No!

Do tourists in Taal, Batangas ask permission from the local government to take pictures of the town? No!

Do tourists in Bacólod City, Negros Occidental ask permission from the local government to take pictures of the city? No!

Do tourists in Intramuros, Manila ask permission from the local government to take pictures of the city? Never!

And in Unisan, which is still dwarfed in terms of popularity by the aforementioned tourist spots, one should ask prior authorization from the municipio for one to take pictures of old Spanish houses which aren’t even protected by any municipal ordinance against destruction and vandalism. Phooey!

In reference to phototourism, that’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard so far. But I didn’t tell this to him.

¡Pero ang saráp talagáng magmurá sa mañgá catarantaduhang itó, grabe!

The “gentleman” police didn’t run out with stupidities when I asked for the name of the bully interlocutor in the motorcycle; he immediately gave out the bully biker’s name (man, don’t they practice secrecy? I learned the value of it during my stint as a Reserve Officers’ Training Corps official back in college), much to my benefit.

The jabroni’s name is Danny Medina. Later in the day, I learned that almost all my relatives know him. Tsk. Poor guy. He must be biting his nails in shame. Or maybe not.

I also learned that he was involved in an accident… that must have scrambled his brain cells, thus the reason for his bullying. Nah. Accident or no accident, all policemen are like that. And I have yet to meet one who isn’t. Which will never EVER happen in my lifetime. This I guarantee to myself.

Finally, the last stupidity that the “gentleman” police guy did was when he told me that the reason why his biker dude friend was hostile against me was that I wasn’t from the area.

So that’s classic police logic: if you’re not from this area, we’ll twist your head off.

So this, dear readers, is the reason for the title of this post. If you’re a tourist and have heard a low-profile yet “beautiful” place in Southern Tagalog called Unisan, forget it in the meantime. Evil policemen are on the loose, and they’re out to get you. I have to admit that if I wasn’t an Alas and was just an unknown tourist there…

…this article wouldn’t even have existed.

But don’t get me wrong. I have plans of promoting my father’s hometown to the Spanish-speaking world in my own blog, ALAS FILIPINAS, which I will launch this 1 January 2007. But unless the current mayor, Nonato Puache, do anything against his hoodlums in uniform, well, those plans may have to stay in the backburner for the safety of tourists.

Esteemed Señor Puache, I was about to lodge a complaint, but my schedule’s tight yesterday.

And one more thing, Mr. Mayor: is this the kind of Unisan you’d like people and tourists to remember you by?

If I remember correctly, election’s next year.

*** 

Aside from its unique history, its old houses and Spanish heritage, there are actually so many interesting things to write about the still romantically sleepy town of Unisan. One of local cinema’s most beautiful faces, the legendary Marilou Destreza, is a native of Unisan (and a distant relative). Multi-titled basketball tactician Louie Alas and his younger brother, upcoming coach Mel Alas (brothers of my dad), are hometown heroes. Kalilayan Bridge is set on a very strategic and scenic location. For spelunkers, there’s Cueva de Bonifacio (Bonifacio Cave). For native culture researchers and enthusiasts, the native dance Estudiantina is an Unisan original. And of course, there’s Malatandang Beach.

And so much more.

Unisan has a very huge potential for tourism. And this phrase is even an understatement.

HOWEVER, as long as this jabroni cop Danny Medina and his warlike ilk in PNP uniforms are still on duty and on the loose, then – Tourists, Beware! Unisan, Quezon Is A Very Dangerous Place To Visit!

What a sad year-ender for me in Skirmisher. Just because of those stupid policemen who, up to now, still don’t have an inkling of an idea of the true worth of their badges.

Whatever. It is my belief that all policemen and soldiers are stupid. Because if they aren’t, then they wouldn’t have been policemen and soldiers. And that includes all individuals with firepower.

It’s as simple as that.

Happy New Year, anyway.

And learn much more about the Philippines (and my not-so-interesting self) in ALAS FILIPINAS. Three days to go!!! Ain’t it exciting?

Well?