all that matters

THE DGT in Matina offers a fine backdrop on this particular Friday afternoon—a pocket of urban calm where my dear friend Tayna and her grown-up children have traded the week’s rush for the simple utility of folding director’s chairs. There is a profound, peaceful stillness in “shooting the breeze” with them, watching the light shift as the oppressive midday heat finally begins its slow, graceful retreat toward dusk.

​It is in these quiet spaces that the conversation inevitably drifts toward our shared history. There is nothing quite so restorative as meeting friends on a lazy afternoon, feeling the softening breeze on our weathered faces as we reminisce about our parallel journeys: the whirlwind years of young motherhood, the relentless grind of the breadwinner, and our own “days of disquiet, nights of rage.” Today, we navigate the gentler, though no less significant, roles of empty nesters and “grandmas-in-waiting.”

​Yet, our ramblings eventually circle back to the temperature. We have come to realize why we no longer seek each other out when the sun is at its zenith; outdoor activities lose their charm when the air grows heavy. We must admit that we can no longer withstand the intensity of the peak hours. Gone are the days of carefree sun-seeking; in the midday glare, a summer outing feels less like a getaway and more like an appointment with a furnace.

​To understand how this heat truly affects the body, we took a quick look beyond the simple numbers on the thermometer. We’ve learned that the Heat Index is more than just a buzzword; it is a measure of how the environment actually feels when relative humidity is factored into the air temperature. While a thermometer captures the kinetic energy of the air, the Heat Index captures our physiological reality.

As the sun beats down on our streets, from the bustling stalls of Bankerohan to the quiet corners of our homes, we are reminded that while the sun gives life, it can also be a silent predator.

Protecting our most vulnerable—our children and our elders—is not just about comfort; it is an act of communal care, an extension of our “kapwa.”

​Children and the elderly are at the highest risk because their bodies don’t regulate temperature the same way ours do. For the little ones, their smaller body mass means they heat up much faster than adults. For our seniors, underlying health conditions or medications can dampen the body’s ability to sweat and cool down.

​To keep them safe, we must look at heat through three lenses: Hydration, Environment, and Timing. We accessed the website of the World Health Organization, and on their topic heat and health, we got the following summary.

• Hydration is Non-Negotiable: Don’t wait for them to say they are thirsty. For children, make it a game or offer water-rich snacks like watermelon or cucumber.
• The “Golden Hours” of Staying In: We must respect the peak intensity of the sun, typically between 10:00 AM and 4:00 PM. If the kids want to play or if Lolo wants to garden, encourage these activities in the early morning or after sunset.
• ​Dress for the Climate: Opt for loose-fitting, light-colored, and breathable fabrics like cotton or linen. These materials allow air to circulate and sweat to evaporate, which is the body’s natural cooling mechanism.

​Understanding the signs of heat exhaustion is critical. If a child becomes unusually irritable or if an elderly family member feels dizzy, nauseous, or develops a headache, move them to a cool area immediately.

If someone stops sweating, becomes confused, or loses consciousness, this is a medical emergency. Apply cool cloths to their skin and seek professional help instantly.

​In our culture, we often pride ourselves on our resilience, our ability to “agwanta” or endure. But when it comes to the extreme heat of April, resilience means being smart, staying cool, and looking out for those who cannot easily look out for themselves. Let’s keep our homes ventilated and our spirits hydrated.

Over the Holy Week, we had the time to meet some dear friends to catch up and, as the season calls for, reflect on our lives over the past years—the choices we made, the trials we weathered, and, of course, the glass ceilings we smashed. We also found ourselves discussing the many things unfolding in our community beyond the realm of politics.

As creatives, we couldn’t help but enthuse over the upcoming DreamWorks film, The Forgotten Island. It marks a significant milestone as the first major animated feature deeply rooted in our culture with an all-Filipino cast. Set to be released this September—just five months away—the film was the centerpiece of our excited chatter.

Our good friend Art Boncato Jr., former Assistant Secretary of the Department of Tourism during the leadership of Jimenez and Tourism Undersecretary during the Pres. Rodrigo Duterte’s administration shared a fascinating bit of history: this “germ of an idea” was actually hatched around 11 years ago, during the tenure of the late Tourism Secretary Ramon Jimenez Jr.

We even became privy to the correspondence between the late Tourism Secretary and Jeffrey Katzenberg, then CEO of DreamWorks Animation SKG (Margie Cohn recently took over). Shared by then Jimenez’s Executive Assistant Ren Sapitan, these correspondence revealed very interesting insights into what could be the origin story of this film, which is now finally ready to be shown to the world. With the teaser already circulating online, it is heartening to see the many vibrant icons and representations of our culture and our country finally taking center stage.

On July 8, 2015, Sec. Jimenez wrote to Katzenberg, confirming the Department of Tourism’s intention to collaborate with DreamWorks following an initial meeting during the World Travel and Tourism Council Summit (WTTC) held in Hainan, China.

Jimenez wrote: “DreamWorks has paved the way towards enriching the imagination of its viewers by forming a mental image of the life and ways of every culture presented in its films. Kung Fu Panda, for instance, sparked interest among viewers to experience Chine Culture because of its strong reference to the Chinses way of life, The same is true for Madagascar, that gave a visual image of this island country to. World that was less aware of it. As they sre ll grounded on real life settings, these films have served as a receptacle for interest among the audience that, in the process, invoked the desire to experience it.”

He invited DreamWorks “to come into play and work with us towards a possibility of producing an animated film about the Philippines. We are open to discuss with you further details of this invitation.”

Katzenberg replied immediately on July 9, 2015: “We always keep in mind that the creation of our films has many sources of inspiration – and in turn can also serve to influence and inspire others – so your thoughts on the cultural relevance of many of DreamWorks Animations previous films are much appreciated. Thank you for the seed of interest in the rich history of the Philippines and the optimistic outlook of its people. As we look at our future development slate, when we have an idea that lends itself to exploring your world and culture, we will be sure to be in contact with you.”

We would like to imagine that this very conversation between the Department of Tourism and DreamWorks made this film possible. It took a while, but we will soon be watching our own culture brought to life through world-class animation, with our own artists voicing the characters on screen. The lead roles are a “who’s who” of Filipino talent: Lea Salonga, H.E.R., Liza Soberano, Manny Jacinto, Jo Koy, Dave Franco, Jenny Slate, Dolly de Leon, and many others.

The story itself feels deeply personal: “The story follows two lifelong best friends, Jo and Raissa, who have been inseparable since childhood. As they graduate high school, they face the bittersweet reality of adulthood: Raissa is preparing to move to the United States, threatening to end their constant companionship. During a night of karaoke and celebration, the pair is mysteriously transported through a portal to the magical island of Nakali (the titular “Forgotten Island”). Nakali is a realm populated by legendary creatures from Filipino folklore, but it holds a devastating secret: the longer a person stays on the island, the more their memories fade. To find their way home, Jo and Raissa must embark on a race against time and face the terrifying possibility that the price of their return is forgetting the very friendship they are trying to save.”

This is another film we look forward to watching this year—and we will be watching it with pride and a lot of snacks in our movie theaters.

I MET Cardo near the foot of the new Bucana bridge, where the asphalt of the Coastal Road meets the salt air of the Davao Gulf. He was sitting on a plastic crate, repairing a net he hadn’t cast in weeks. Further away, the hum of passing vehicles sounded like an erratic heartbeat, and the heat sizzled happily.

​”Davao is getting taller,” he said, squinting at the buildings along Roxas Avenue.

​In the last ten years, our city has undergone visible changes in its landscape in terms of infrastructure and way of doing things.

We see it in the slow phase-out of the iconic jeepney for the High Priority Bus System—a move toward the ease of transportation that has burdened students and workers, but which has, on the other hand, diminished the moving folk art of our streets.

We see it in the Coastal Road, which has turned our city’s face toward the sea and gave us the beauty of the Samal Strait while placing a physical barrier between the water and the fishing communities who have been its stewards for generations.

​Historically, as the elders would say, Davao was a “radial” town – business and personal activities bled into the center of San Pedro and Santa Ana. Today, we are witnessing the rapid shifting toward a more multi-centered development.

We no longer dance to the beat of one heart; we now have many unique centers that can stand on their own.

From the university towns in the north to the industrial hubs in the south, the city is breaking into self-contained pods of efficiency.

​I stumbled across the word Palimpsest and asked Architect Gloryrose Dy what this means in relation to the city. She said it is seeing the urban fabric as a narrative. It is defined as a piece of parchment where the old writing is scraped away to make room for the new, yet the faint traces of the original script remain.

In the city, one can find the “old writing” in the pungent scent of overripe durian at Bankerohan, or in the heritage trees standing along Dakudao Avenue, watching over a growing urban landscape.

During the recent Throwback Thursday organized by the Davao Historical Society, Architect AJ Verga was asked how she imagines the future of Davao City. She said that the city should be a co-created space with communities being part of its development concept, using nature-based solutions and eco-conscious resources to make it sustainable. She said “sustainability is also about designing for what people care to keep.”

​The impact on our lives is also measured in Social Capital. When a coastal community is relocated to a land-based housing project, they don’t just lose a view; they lose the invisible net of neighborly support that kept them afloat.

Cardo eventually put down his net. “The road is smooth,” he admitted, watching a cyclist glide past. “It’s beautiful. I just hope there’s still a place for a man with a boat in a city built for buses.”

​As we move toward “Smart City” status, our challenge is to ensure that progress doesn’t become a process of erasure. The only development that truly matters is the kind that remembers the people who laid the first stones.

On my way home from the airport with a colleague last Thursday, the conversation drifted toward the exchange rate—the climbing dollar and the sinking peso—and how these abstract numbers finally hit the pavement for those of us living on a daily wage.

Our cab driver, George, a man in his 50s with a face lined by decades of navigating Davao’s streets, couldn’t help but weigh in. For him, the “exchange rate” was once just background noise, something he only heard about on the radio between songs. He doesn’t own dollars, he doesn’t shop at high-end malls, and he doesn’t have relatives abroad sending remittances to a Davao bank account.

“It’s only now,” he said, “that I realize how much those numbers actually matter.” He spoke with the quiet clarity of someone who has watched his daily earnings vanish into the fuel tank. What was once a vague economic concept has become a very real threat to his livelihood.

With the Philippine Peso sliding past ₱60.00 to $1.00, survival has changed for millions of daily wage earners.

In Davao, everything moves on wheels, from the pomelo crates coming out of Calinan to the commuters braving the rush hour on MacArthur Highway and now, CP Garcia Diversion Road. Since we buy our oil in U.S. dollars, a weak peso means we are hit twice: once by rising global oil prices and again by our own weakening currency.

George explained that he now shells out an additional ₱300 every day just to keep his tank running. It’s the reason why the streets of Davao feel different lately – instead of plying the usual routes hoping for a random flag-down, many cab drivers now spend hours in long, slow moving  lines at malls and the airporfor a guaranteed fare.

That extra ₱300 is the “missing” three kilos of rice on his family’s table, or the kilo of chicken or fish that he can no longer afford to bring home.

For the sales clerk at a mall or the factory worker in Panacan, every peso added to the fare is a direct hit to a ₱481 daily minimum wage that is stretched thinner than a side-walk pancake.

Lenlen, a regular at the Bankerohan Public Market, has felt the shift at the rice stalls firsthand. She notes that as the price per kilo leaps by several pesos, her weekly budget no longer adds up. Instead of the usual five kilos she needs to feed her family for a week, she now heads home with only three. It is sad that even here in the agricultural heart of Mindanao, our rice prices are linked to global triggers and the costs of imports.

For a daily wage earner in Davao, a “savings buffer” is often a luxury they can no longer afford. For those who did manage to set aside a little for a rainy day, those emergency funds have been slowly bled dry by a cost of living that crept up on us almost invisible at first, but now staring us directly in the face with every trip to the market or the gas pump.

While economists in Manila talk about “macroeconomic stability,” the reality on the streets of Davao is much simpler. A weak peso is a silent thief. It steals a spoonful of rice here and a slice of fish there until our working-class families are left with nothing but wit and difficult choices.

We are all tied to this economic crisis, watching with a growing sense of dread as conflicts in the Middle East rage on and the global economy remains in a tailspin. It is time we look inward at what we have here in this “Garden of the Gods”—as our colonizers once described our land—and reclaim a sense of self-sufficiency.

While being self-reliant is certainly easier said than done, we can look back at the lessons of the COVID-19 pandemic. We learned then that we could grow our own food and sustain our own neighborhoods when the world shut down.

As we pulled up to my home last Thursday, our conversation ended on a note of resilience. We realized that staving off hunger isn’t about waiting for the next government ayuda, it is about using our own creativity to survive and surpass a series of crises that show no sign of ending.