Post by L Roebuck on Jul 17, 2006 8:17:52 GMT -5
;D Just had to post this one.... 
REBEL WITHOUT A CLUE
How to go spelunking
By Patricia Evangelista
Inquirer
Last updated 01:27am (Mla time) 07/16/2006
Published on Page A11 of the July 16, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
SAMAR -- Spelunking (or caving) is the recreational sport of cave exploration. The challenges of the sport depend on the cave being visited, but they often include the negotiation of pitches, squeezes and water. Climbing or crawling is often necessary, and ropes are used extensively. It has recently come to be known as an extreme sport by some, requiring protective wear and equipment.
“What I Have Learned (While Spelunking in Samar)”:
1. Do not wear a short, mint-colored, cotton sundress with a plunging neckline, for, while lovely on a mannequin in the middle of a mall, it is not quite proper garb for adventuring among rocks.
2. In the event that the cotton sundress is unavoidable, do not bring a parasol into the cave.
3. In the event that the cotton sundress is unavoidable, and you do -- for some insane reason -- bring a matching parasol into the cave, do choose to wear underwear other than ruffled granny panties.
4. In the event that the cotton sundress, parasol and ruffled granny panties are unavoidable, ensure that there is no video camera in the vicinity.
5. In the event that the cotton sundress, parasol and ruffled granny panties are unavoidable, and a camera exists, make sure it is not rolling at the moment when you slip down an elevated cavern floor, with your skirt flying overhead and people watching from below.
6. In the event that the cotton sundress, parasol, ruffled granny panties and video camera are unavoidable, and that same camera is rolling when you fall on your *ss, make sure that your tour guide does not think he is Steven Spielberg yelling “Take 2!” after every fall.
7. In the event that the cotton sundress, parasol and ruffled granny panties are unavoidable, and a video camera exists, and that same camera is rolling when you fall on your *ss, and that the tour guide does think he is Steven Spielberg, do not stand up, smile and do everything all over again.
Getting to the Sohoton Cave means an hour-long ride on a bamboo boat along the Basey River. The boat is motorized, captained by an old “timon” [rudder] sitting at the very tip of the boat, his sunburned face a network of wrinkles. We pass by mothers rowing children to school and skinny houses on stilts that tilt over the water, looking as if they were looking at their reflections.
The bones of dead men guard the entrance of the cave. Long ago, Filipino rebels waited at the top of a cliff to ambush unsuspecting Spaniards. They were buried at the mouth of Sohoton Cave. When the locals realized this, they began burying their dead side by side with the white men. The Spaniards have long since been exhumed, but there is no telling how many of our men are left sleeping at the cave’s mouth.
Keeping your footing on damp ground -- which vaguely resembles chocolate ice cream left forgotten on a kitchen counter -- is a challenge in itself. There is a sentry at the opening, and I see him through a gap in the cavern wall. He stands half-hidden by the gloom, gun on his slouched shoulder, feet shod in white boots and cap pulled over his face. When the beam from my flashlight swings over him, he disappears and becomes just another lump bulging from a wall of rocks.
I walk through cavern after cavern. I’m told that water from the trees above the cave has seeped into the rock, forming calcite and limestone that accumulate for thousands of years until they become stalactites and stalagmites. I understand what the guide says -- somewhat; but science and I have never been friends. I am perfectly happy believing the caves have always been here, and that the projections are princes frozen in perpetual sleep, waiting to be kissed awake by a maiden with a pure heart. Or something like that. Before I could start kissing any rocks -- I can just imagine carting a half-dozen dazed Legolas-types to my parents’ house and presenting them to my mother -- my guide asks if I want to view yet another musical organ.
His flashlight streaks up the walls. I look up, and there it is, the great organ itself, thrusting out of the ceiling, quite excited to see us, to all intents and purposes anatomically correct. The hoots of masculine admiration are, I’m sure, a familiar sound to the cave walls.
The rock menagerie marches on from one end of the cave to the other. There is an eagle, two stories high, which will do any blue-blooded Atenean proud. Dumbo lifts his trunk beside a sitting dog, a howling lion and a napping cat. It’s like a walking tour of a strange new city. “There, the Rice Terraces,” Francisco says. He has a name for every chunk of rock we pass by. The Three Kings! The Angels! Mount Pinatubo! Our guide, Francisco Corales -- he claims to be related to Pilita Corrales -- explains the naming of the rocks. He says that whenever a new group wanders through the cave, it gives new names to the formations. What is the Statue of Liberty to one is the face of Snoopy the Dog to another.
There’s one cavern that my all-male crew prefers -- one whose name, there is no doubt, fits. “We call this the nursery,” my intrepid guide says, then points his flashlight up to the low ceiling.
And there, in all their womanly glory, dark nipples pointing downward as if pulled by gravity, are dozens of breasts in every variety -- perky 16-year-old breasts; full breasts that drip ice water; and long, elongated breasts that seem too tired to take notice. They run the gamut of cup A to triple F, crowded in a six-foot-square space.
I remember when I was 15 and listening to an older woman giving me advice. We were standing, toe-to-toe, with me exerting Herculean effort to keep my eyes on her face. She was wearing a bright, fire-engine-red blouse with a ruffled, plunging neckline -- no, not plunging, but plummeting -- that displayed to all and sundry an incredibly healthy bosom. I remember being momentarily afraid -- probably the same way astronauts feel when they bump against the rim of a black hole. Who knows what might fall in?
Chalk it up to insecurity.
Orson Welles claims that man’s departure from the caves can be attributed to the descent of Woman. “If there hadn’t been women, we’d still be squatting in a cave eating raw meat, because we made civilization in order to impress our girlfriends.”
I beg to differ. Personally, I believe it was Woman who went out of the cave with a club and dagger to carve out civilization -- anything to get away from the boyfriend comparing her breasts to the interior decoration.
Wandering around caves has a distinct side effect. I like to think of myself as a reasonably self-assured individual -- sometimes rational, more often reckless, usually my own No. 1 fan. But confronted with millennia of history, soaring caverns and hurtling pillars, I suddenly feel very insignificant.
Especially around the chest area.
Article: opinion.inq7.net/inquireropinion/columns/view_article.php?article_id=10016
REBEL WITHOUT A CLUE
How to go spelunking
By Patricia Evangelista
Inquirer
Last updated 01:27am (Mla time) 07/16/2006
Published on Page A11 of the July 16, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
SAMAR -- Spelunking (or caving) is the recreational sport of cave exploration. The challenges of the sport depend on the cave being visited, but they often include the negotiation of pitches, squeezes and water. Climbing or crawling is often necessary, and ropes are used extensively. It has recently come to be known as an extreme sport by some, requiring protective wear and equipment.
“What I Have Learned (While Spelunking in Samar)”:
1. Do not wear a short, mint-colored, cotton sundress with a plunging neckline, for, while lovely on a mannequin in the middle of a mall, it is not quite proper garb for adventuring among rocks.
2. In the event that the cotton sundress is unavoidable, do not bring a parasol into the cave.
3. In the event that the cotton sundress is unavoidable, and you do -- for some insane reason -- bring a matching parasol into the cave, do choose to wear underwear other than ruffled granny panties.
4. In the event that the cotton sundress, parasol and ruffled granny panties are unavoidable, ensure that there is no video camera in the vicinity.
5. In the event that the cotton sundress, parasol and ruffled granny panties are unavoidable, and a camera exists, make sure it is not rolling at the moment when you slip down an elevated cavern floor, with your skirt flying overhead and people watching from below.
6. In the event that the cotton sundress, parasol, ruffled granny panties and video camera are unavoidable, and that same camera is rolling when you fall on your *ss, make sure that your tour guide does not think he is Steven Spielberg yelling “Take 2!” after every fall.
7. In the event that the cotton sundress, parasol and ruffled granny panties are unavoidable, and a video camera exists, and that same camera is rolling when you fall on your *ss, and that the tour guide does think he is Steven Spielberg, do not stand up, smile and do everything all over again.
Getting to the Sohoton Cave means an hour-long ride on a bamboo boat along the Basey River. The boat is motorized, captained by an old “timon” [rudder] sitting at the very tip of the boat, his sunburned face a network of wrinkles. We pass by mothers rowing children to school and skinny houses on stilts that tilt over the water, looking as if they were looking at their reflections.
The bones of dead men guard the entrance of the cave. Long ago, Filipino rebels waited at the top of a cliff to ambush unsuspecting Spaniards. They were buried at the mouth of Sohoton Cave. When the locals realized this, they began burying their dead side by side with the white men. The Spaniards have long since been exhumed, but there is no telling how many of our men are left sleeping at the cave’s mouth.
Keeping your footing on damp ground -- which vaguely resembles chocolate ice cream left forgotten on a kitchen counter -- is a challenge in itself. There is a sentry at the opening, and I see him through a gap in the cavern wall. He stands half-hidden by the gloom, gun on his slouched shoulder, feet shod in white boots and cap pulled over his face. When the beam from my flashlight swings over him, he disappears and becomes just another lump bulging from a wall of rocks.
I walk through cavern after cavern. I’m told that water from the trees above the cave has seeped into the rock, forming calcite and limestone that accumulate for thousands of years until they become stalactites and stalagmites. I understand what the guide says -- somewhat; but science and I have never been friends. I am perfectly happy believing the caves have always been here, and that the projections are princes frozen in perpetual sleep, waiting to be kissed awake by a maiden with a pure heart. Or something like that. Before I could start kissing any rocks -- I can just imagine carting a half-dozen dazed Legolas-types to my parents’ house and presenting them to my mother -- my guide asks if I want to view yet another musical organ.
His flashlight streaks up the walls. I look up, and there it is, the great organ itself, thrusting out of the ceiling, quite excited to see us, to all intents and purposes anatomically correct. The hoots of masculine admiration are, I’m sure, a familiar sound to the cave walls.
The rock menagerie marches on from one end of the cave to the other. There is an eagle, two stories high, which will do any blue-blooded Atenean proud. Dumbo lifts his trunk beside a sitting dog, a howling lion and a napping cat. It’s like a walking tour of a strange new city. “There, the Rice Terraces,” Francisco says. He has a name for every chunk of rock we pass by. The Three Kings! The Angels! Mount Pinatubo! Our guide, Francisco Corales -- he claims to be related to Pilita Corrales -- explains the naming of the rocks. He says that whenever a new group wanders through the cave, it gives new names to the formations. What is the Statue of Liberty to one is the face of Snoopy the Dog to another.
There’s one cavern that my all-male crew prefers -- one whose name, there is no doubt, fits. “We call this the nursery,” my intrepid guide says, then points his flashlight up to the low ceiling.
And there, in all their womanly glory, dark nipples pointing downward as if pulled by gravity, are dozens of breasts in every variety -- perky 16-year-old breasts; full breasts that drip ice water; and long, elongated breasts that seem too tired to take notice. They run the gamut of cup A to triple F, crowded in a six-foot-square space.
I remember when I was 15 and listening to an older woman giving me advice. We were standing, toe-to-toe, with me exerting Herculean effort to keep my eyes on her face. She was wearing a bright, fire-engine-red blouse with a ruffled, plunging neckline -- no, not plunging, but plummeting -- that displayed to all and sundry an incredibly healthy bosom. I remember being momentarily afraid -- probably the same way astronauts feel when they bump against the rim of a black hole. Who knows what might fall in?
Chalk it up to insecurity.
Orson Welles claims that man’s departure from the caves can be attributed to the descent of Woman. “If there hadn’t been women, we’d still be squatting in a cave eating raw meat, because we made civilization in order to impress our girlfriends.”
I beg to differ. Personally, I believe it was Woman who went out of the cave with a club and dagger to carve out civilization -- anything to get away from the boyfriend comparing her breasts to the interior decoration.
Wandering around caves has a distinct side effect. I like to think of myself as a reasonably self-assured individual -- sometimes rational, more often reckless, usually my own No. 1 fan. But confronted with millennia of history, soaring caverns and hurtling pillars, I suddenly feel very insignificant.
Especially around the chest area.
Article: opinion.inq7.net/inquireropinion/columns/view_article.php?article_id=10016