Memories and lessons from Taiwan

No doubt the six years as head of the Manila Economic and Cultural Office (Meco, a euphemism of our connection to Taiwan to avoid the sovereignty dispute between Taiwan and China) prolonged Dad’s life.

His appointment came at the right time, too. He needed that break, a recharging of sorts, in his mid-60s. Dad had been corporate lawyer, professor of law and daily columnist in the pre-martial law Manila Times, before going into a long career in politics, which was cut short, on his fifth term as congressman for the business district of Manila, by martial law.

He remained under house arrest during the emergency, but managed yet to write a column for Joe Burgos’ alternative Malaya and get deeply involved in the fight against Marcos.

For a time, he was in fact the spokesperson for Laban, Cory Aquino’s party, in the snap elections of Feb. 7, 1983. He and Vergel resurrected the Manila Times, with the financial backing of Dad’s first cousin, Ramon. It was a glorious and exciting time to be alive. We had never felt as one nation until then.

“Do you know what credential of mine most impressed the Taiwanese government? Be sure to tell Vergel: it was my short stint as editor in chief of his Manila Times.”

Internal politics, infected by Marcos cronyism, resulted in a walkout by Vergel and his staff just as the paper was approaching the levels of its old preeminence. The rift was too serious and deep to mend; the staff refused to work again for the paper, and it suffered terminally.

Presidential appointment

Dad was appointed to Meco by President Cory. Vergel himself was conscripted away from newspapers, his life, to help rehabilitate the government’s media infrastructure under his old mentor at the wire news service Agence France-Presse, Teddy Benigno, press secretary.I never imagined him as an ambassador, but Dad fit the job well. It also helped that he had a genuine concern for the plight of Filipino workers abroad. It was a new career, and he seemed a new man. I was very happy for him.

His big frustration with the Filipino worker had to do with his perplexing sets of priority. The worker, after sacrificing everything to get his best-paying job, just as quickly threw it away, by going home, on a sentimental emergency about which he can do nothing—a parent’s death.

Dad invited me on my first trip to be his hostess for the official visit of Cory’s secretary of defense, Fidel Ramos, who was coming with his wife, Amelita. At that time, he shared his official home in Taipei with Tita Ester, the woman he chose to spend his last years with, even before Mom died, just three years before his own time.

He insisted I stay with them, and although it felt awkward, I would be glad I did. I got to know both of them from a different perspective.

Dad was lent a cozy, sprawling one-leveled home in the mountainous province of Yangmingshan, an hourand-a-half away from downtown. It was enough time for him to wind down from work. The ride home itself was scenic, a continuous view of what looked like a vast, misty Chinese landscape painting. He was assigned, along with a car worthy of an ambassador, a very respectful good driver, who, having come with the house and the position, knew the terrain well. I still remember his name—Matthew.

Freedom-loving Taiwan

The visiting Ramoses were no strangers to Taiwan. Narciso, Fidel’s father, was a wellloved “ambassador” there for the longest time. I joined Dad to meet them at the airport, car sirens blaring throughout the ride—he thought it would give me a thrill, and it did. I asked why so much fanfare.

“Ah,” he said, “in freedom-loving Taiwan, the secretary of defense is as important as any president.” I thought it might have to do with Taiwan’s precarious place on the political map, breakaway island from China.

We rode in separate cars on the way back, he with Secretary Ramos, and I with Ms. Ramos. She was not the typical politician’s wife. She was not demanding at all, not into shopping either, but rather, into museums and books, plants and gardens, the very things I am myself interested in. (In just six years, I would join the successful presidential campaign of Mr. Ramos, and many of the ladies in our group would carry on as the Winner Foundation, with Ms Ramos as chair, and create the Arroceros Forest Park.)

Dad tutored me in simple Chinese etiquette for women at formal lunches and dinners: never start a conversation; only speak when spoken to.

My handling of chopsticks was not up to par, but we couldn’t do anything about that anymore. Dad certainly knew his chopsticks. And, because uppity Chinese families judged one’s breeding by the way they handled their chopsticks on a fish head, the prized part, reserved for the guest of honor, Dad had plenty of chances to show off.

I was learning a lot, but mostly I enjoyed just being with Dad. He loved the markets—although just looking around with a child’s curiosity and a collector’s eye. We would take long breaks from his office work to wander around and chat. I also took the usual tourist tours.

Standardization of dishes

It was from him I first heard about the benefits of standardization of Chinese dishes, which might have contributed to the addicting universal appeal of, for example, the ordinary sweet-sour pork—something they’re trying to do with our very own adobo. Standardization was meant to preserve the original and well-tested dish, so that the first one you taste is the same one you will get whenever and wherever you are.

In fact, the quality of a Chinese restaurant, I was told, was measured precisely by the authenticity of sweet-sour pork. The quality of the meat, the combination of crunchy and chewy of the outer layer and the tenderness and juiciness inside may vary, but never the taste; it’s always the measured blend of sourness and sweetness in the thickened translucent golden-brown sauce.

To Dad’s growing amazement cum endearment for his Pinoys, on the other hand, one never knew how the adobo on a menu would actually turn out. It was of course the wrong time, and not the proper authority handling the process, and instead of becoming a unifying point, standardizing the adobo, which is not to say, “kill all other versions,” became just another thing to fight about. But for it to be remembered globally, shouldn’t it be first consistent?

Maybe we should have thought of standardizing ourselves instead when we had the chance after our Edsa revolution, when we were amazing at home and all around the world.

If by some miracle we manage to pull ourselves out of this pit we’re in, we should! INQ

Dad’s time as unofficial envoy not only prolonged his life, but also gave him insight into how Pinoys can learn even from, yes, standardization of dishes