Pamasak-Butas

by Comma Typer

Ibong Sawi

I’m soaking wet. The rain won’t let up. I’ve got a jeep to catch, but I’ll be late anyway.

Taking one for the team and being the last one to check out seemed noble then. Only then did I realize how valuable Boyet was to us. He knew everything about the applications, the records, and everything else like the back of his hand. I didn’t know everything and I didn’t do the job that well, but, hey, it’s over. As for the others? Bahala na. Come what may.

First time I’m leaving the job in overtime, and then I’m rewarded with endless rain. The houses out here in Addition Hills already have their lights on, and the streetlights shine down as hard raindrops streak down walls, cars, and telephone poles. Barely a soul out here.

Put one foot in front then the other one. Still have to look professional though no one’s looking.

A gated mini-village passes by. Drenched shoes avoid puddles while the downpour drenches my head. That’s despite the trees supposed to cover me.

The minutes are forever, but I make it to the last street before Shaw Boulevard. One last stretch and all else I need is an open jeepney. Then, home is guaranteed.

Brick or stone walls of old houses and the cleaner concrete walls of newer “apartment” complexes are assaulted alike by the storm. The local sari-sari store, one among a dozen here, weathers the weather as the owner sits and watches soap operas on a fuzzy TV. Have to dodge raindrops from the wires above, bundled up and dancing in the wind. Slowly, the water erodes paper posters dotted with phone numbers and requested services lined out in bold text: hopeful tuberos or plumbers at a moment’s notice, or maids in need of good pay and a nice household.

I reach Shaw, a barren wasteland in the rain. Farther on: Ortigas, busy district with all its malls and its offices glowing against the gloomy rain—much of the traffic’s trapped there in this rain. Here, a gas station-turned-parking lot and some off-the-wall diner—Indian or American or a hybrid of both, I can’t tell. Haven’t paid much attention. I don’t eat there.

My hand waves at every wheeled thing. I shout at them, but they shun me: jeeps, taxis, FXs—ridesharing’s no option since it will kill my wallet. The road shines with their speedy headlights, and I can see silhouettes of passengers—insides ever full, no room for me. The ones headed home are always full; the empty ones deceive because they’re on the wrong route. A barker calls out the right route. No, someone else gets on it, and they hurry away and vanish in the watery curtains ahead. “Isa pa! Isa pa!” yet I’m too slow to catch that room for one more.

Wala na. No chance. I’m too wet thanks to wheel-hit puddles splashing onto me. Tired of running here and there to a too-late vehicle—going somewhere else, someone gets to me already, or I’ve been lied to with isa pa. Can’t keep on like this, at least not without a break.

To rest, I rush to the food cart—umbrella and shelter by the corner. I get by and hunker down—already hungry too, thanks to the smell of fried stuff.

Everything stops. The sputtering sound of cooking oil, summer heat wafting out of the kawali pan: they’re familiar friends, cozy memories. Someone eats, chewing on a skewer of kwek-kwek. A woman in business casual, likely the same age as me, enjoying fried quail eggs. Eyes to the road, waiting for a commute like me.

Suddenly, she dashes to an open taxi. No umbrella: just her, running. The next car stops, honks with the taxi suddenly stopping, but that’s how it is. She goes, the taxi slows, and nothing moves until the taxi driver takes off.

I don’t check if it’s on the way home. Then I remember: it’s a taxi. Can go anywhere you want. Chances are she’s not going anywhere near my house. Never mind.

Attention returns to the cart and the little starchy chunks of food floating around in boiling oil: leftovers. I say to the vendor, “Sampung fishball po.” Ten fish balls please.

A talon takes my coins away, stashes them in the money box.

I’d forgotten about the griffon, but the sizzle fills my ears. For a few seconds, I don’t mind.

---

It’s the Monday before, the beginning of the workweek.

Last Friday, we caught wind of someone dying in his sleep: Mang Fermin. He was the guy that served street food at the corner of Luna Mencias and Shaw Boulevard for decades. Always with a stoic face. Ninety-eight when he died, but you’d think he was only seventy with his wispy hair and his trimmed beard. Mother was one of his loyal customers when she lived deeper in the city during her college days. When she took me to meet him—I was only five or six, he was already an old man. When I got to college, he was still there and he still cooked. Ate at his place with friends when we had the time, and it was always a blast.

When I started my current job, it turned out his cart was right on the way there. I’d buy food from him before I got to the office. Did that every day. That’s how it stayed until the end came near.

He didn’t call in sick the day before. Made his death all the more surprising. Came home from work like any other day, went to sleep, and died.

Dead just like that.

We attended his Sunday funeral. The family and relatives he left were there plus the rest who knew him but weren’t that close—they had to bring in additional chairs outside to accommodate everyone. I’m not sure if his great-grandchildren cared; they were bickering with each other and playing with their toys, but that’s them. Let them be.

After he was buried—deep in the ground, which the family had barely enough to afford—there was the usual get-to-know-each-other talk with everybody present. I didn’t know much about him; I only knew Fermin the Food Vendor. So, hearing those other stories about the rest of him made me appreciate the guy a lot more. He was a funny man with limitless jokes stored in his head. He crocheted in his spare time and had crafted lots of bags and purses at night. He participated in the local epics on stage whenever he returned to his ancestral home in Albay.

When it was all over, everyone headed home, but despite all that good talk, I couldn’t shake off the thought of now-dead Fermin. Now, who’d be there to man the food cart? A close friend carrying on his legacy? A nephew running on family name and blood? A total stranger who saw empty space but never knew why it was empty? Or would there be nothing for the foreseeable future? I might’ve heard something in all the talking, but I couldn’t recall.

I went through the rest of Sunday in a daze. In a way, I shouldn’t have felt like that. Fermin wasn’t related nor did we buddy-buddy together, yet, that’s what death did: made the world stop, made me think.

You don’t know what you have until you lose it. Now, this old familiar face is gone. With him, a big piece of unwritten history and a part of our hearts is gone too.

~ ~ ~

For all my death-fueled contemplation, there is still work to do this Monday. I could use my leave, but no.

My mind wanders as I take a bath, fix myself up, and eat fresh hotsilog—hotdog, garlic rice, egg, and banana ketchup. It’s Mang Fermin, Mang Fermin, Mang Fermin. He wasn’t one to talk much, but he was someone to talk to apart from loved ones and the usual friends or co-workers. There to see me check in for work, there to watch me eat his straight-from-the-pan snacks. An old root or bridge, connecting the past of families and villages with the present of corporate ladders and grown-up me.

Who will replace him? No one in the family has the answer yet. All we know is that, according to an aunt close to Fermin’s survivors, it’s some brand-new guy named Garlan. Decided to take up Fermin’s spot because it was available. She had eyewitness testimony too: saw an empty food cart by the side herself, and a buried man definitely wasn’t out for lunch break. Shouldn’t be too worked up about it. Food is food. It’ll just take some time to get used to, that’s all.

My commute begins with a ten-minute walk out of the village to the beef pares place by one of the busier roads. Usual stuff on the way to work: people walking around in the cracking dawn, car windows shooting new sunlight into my eyes while businesses start the day with the rattle of opening those metal pull-up gates.

Doesn’t take long to find an available jeep on the usual route. Ride until Quezon Boulevard, walk to the other side and hop on a jeep going straight to Pasig, and keep riding until I reach Luna Mencias road by Addition Hills in San Juan and then walk five minutes to work. Close to an hour on a very good day, one and a half otherwise.

I get up, find a spot, and walk narrow so no toes get stepped on in this half-full sardine can of people. Sit at the front, right behind the driver and passenger seats. Means having to pass many fares to the driver, but I’m up for it with a ready hand.

I don’t need to say where I’m going. We know each other but only by face, not by name.

“Isa po,” I say. One person on the way. That’d be the usual nine pesos which I drop onto his outstretched hand.

The ride begins, and there’s little to do: sit, wait it out, and Fermin enters my mind again. Like going to a friend’s house knowing he won’t be there. Everything else will go on like normal. My co-workers will be there; my boss will be there; the same flock of jeeps will be there; my family, both close and extended, will be there back home. Everything and everyone will be there.

Everyone except Fermin. No Fermin but this Garlan guy instead. Okay, he can make a good first impression on his first day on the job. Could also make no impression... but I should save that for later.

As we go down the main road, my eyes lean to the outside. Across a hardware store stands an abandoned or under renovation gas station; has been that way for years. A nail spa and a print shop sit beside each other, and beside them sits a grill place: get your nails done while you print important papers, and then, for breakfast, have some barbecue. If I want something faster, there’s the 7-Eleven farther down. Still farther down, there’s Aling Nelia, one of the few landmarks we have that makes our little barangay stand out. Roasted pigs on a spit, standing up skewered with big sticks for all to see outside. Someone’s always out there to take care of the roasted pigs and advertise the meals to the usual passers-by. Vloggers and articles keep it the most famous pride of our village.

We stop and go for more or less commuters—ride on or get off—from different walks and collars in life. No divided seats or big spaces to separate us: we’re all here. We don’t know each other, but we’re here, on the way to a couple somewheres.

In front of a cemetery’s entrance—not the same one Fermin is buried in—the jeep stops again. Big and loud voices outside. Definitely some tourist or two. To prove my point, one of them shouts, “Yoo-hoo! Is there still space there? Alright, let’s go ride this one!” Yeah, tourists: excited to ride on our nifty public transportation and experience this national icon. If you somehow believe the marketing, commuting’s more fun in the Philippines. Just ignore all the hour-long traffic jams and the years of wasted life on the road.

Instead of Americans or Europeans—judging from the voice—or any other human foreigner, it’s a trio of ponies waltzing in. They say their little excuse me!’s as they get onto some empty part of the seat. Lucky me: it’s the space right across me. They clamber up the seats, sitting down like dogs.

The Earth pony fumbles with her coins. Her fast hooves catch them before they drop to the floor. “To the… uh, what is it again?”

“Rizal Park,” replies the pegasus. He holds on to his friend’s purse with a hoof while managing a brochure with a wing.

“Let me handle it!” says the unicorn as she levitates all the coins with her magic.

The coins ignore the driver’s open hand and go straight to the coin box on the dashboard. Needless to say, the driver turns his head around. Doesn’t question it once he sees the cheerful ponies in his jeep.

About those cheerful ponies.

Some years back, Earth made first contact with a world from another universe: Equestria. Equestria, as in the land filled with magic ponies, rainbows, and sunshine. The same Equestria from that My Little Pony show.

To say the least, it was interesting. Everybody tuned into the news to see a purple horse princess speak in the United Nations headquarters. Held negotiations with the franchise’s toy company and just about every country in the world. The goal: spread the magic of friendship to a whole different kind of people, and establish good relations with humanity. As for Hasbro, they’re the happiest company in the world ever since Twilight okayed the toys of real-life personalities. Also said she wanted to find a way for the brand to continue beyond toys. Cue the documentaries, the human-pony expeditions, the exchange programs, the new live-action slice-of-life shows, so on.

When the portal hubs started opening up, thousands went through from both sides. For pleasure, for business, for study, for more. New horizons lay out there, and we were living on the edge. Didn’t take long before they opened a hub here in Manila as a companion to the airport.

As for why ponies from a land filled with magic and friendship would want to visit Earth, much less the Philippines: friendship’s my best bet. Novelty’s a close second; everyone likes to go to the big destinations, so you’re automatically cool if you go somewhere else. We also house one of the show’s animation studios; places and people involved in the show are must-see material for both human and Equestrian tourists. They’ve probably visited Canada, the United States, and Ireland, so run here to the finish line in the summer islands at the edge of the Pacific Ocean.

I think that’s what these ponies are doing here—part of it, at least. They go on talking to each other about their first time on a jeep, speaking loud and clear. They manage to chat with the other commuters: a mother is there, daughter left at home, and she’s excited to meet the ponies. They make conversation with a frail grandmother, her wise and golden English surprising them, though they’re speaking too fast for her. They pester the driver for chit-chat, and the only thing they get is him pointing at a piece of paper showing the fare rates.

Then the ponies look at me.

The pegasus grabs an English-Filipino phrasebook from his bag pocket. Has been referring to it for some time now.

“Oh, um, uh—M-magandang umaga! Kamusta kayo?” he says. Good morning! How are you? Pronunciation’s a bit off, but I can’t blame them. They’re learning.

I politely put out my hand. People aren’t this straightforward most days, but these aren’t your usual people. Or at least human people.

“Okay lang,” I reply. “What’s your name?”

The three ponies are surprised again. “You speak Pon—uh, English?” asks the unicorn. Both Ponish and English are pretty much the same despite developing universes away. Up to today, scientists and mages are still stumped as to why.

“Yeah. I work in a finance firm, so I had to learn how to speak good English.” Really, though, many in the city speak English to some degree, and every school teaches it too. It’s good for dealing with business and globetrotters, among other things. “I’m Macario,” I go on. “Nice meeting you.”

The phrasebook gets put away.

The pegasus shakes my hand with his wing. It still feels strange to grasp what should’ve amounted to just feathers. He moves them around with maybe pinions, but it’s firm to grip.

“Ah, let’s introduce ourselves!” says the only stallion in the troupe. He retracts the wing and the ponies bunch together—they practiced for this. “I’m Weatherwise!”

I take a good look at the maybe weather pony. His black coat and yellow mane make him look like a road. Has golden eyes too which is quite something. First time seeing yellow eyes up close.

“My name’s Hot Shot,” the Earth pony says with a wave. Makes sense, now that I see her chili pepper cutie mark; the pegasus with his storm cloud cutie mark fits his name as well. As for Hot Shot herself, she definitely looks like a ponified chili pepper with her red coat and her curly green mane.

Which leaves me with the unicorn and a queen chess piece as her cutie mark. Green coat accompanied by a striped red-orange mane sprinkled with little blue bows and ribbons strewn on her mane. She looks a lot like a candymare, honestly.

“And I’m Skittles!” shouts the unicorn.

She must be joking.

“The candy?” I ask. Maybe ponies got addicted to Skittles and were already naming their foals after brands. Though she’s too old to have been born after first contact.

“No!” she replies with a shake of her head. “It’s Skittles as in a nice, fun game of chess! But I love the candy! In fact, I brought them over!”

She brings a pack of her namesake out. Those sweet and sour bits of imaginary rainbows. “Want some?” she asks excitedly.

Okay then. I decline and will not question her about it. I’ll search up the chess term later.

“No thanks,” I say, and that’s that for the not-a-candymare.

The conversation over, the ponies talk to more fellow commuters. I’m safe for now.

That’s them: ponies. They’re the most optimistic and idealistic creatures I’ve ever met. Innocent and wistful when it comes to many things, like they belong to some fantasy land. No, they do belong to some fantasy land where friendship beams are a thing. It’s like that Enchanted movie with some naive princess winding up in New York, multiplied by ten.

It can get pretty awkward. First pony I met was during the portal’s early days. I was passing by the hub to meet some overseas relatives coming to visit. A pony came up to me and asked me for directions to the bay so she could take some beautiful sunset photos. She was so sweet: pink coat, cutie mark of hearts, cutesy voice, holding the map up with her wings even though we’d all moved on to online maps stored in our phones. I just pointed out where to go. She was a pegasus, so she didn’t need to memorize the streets’ layout.

“So, where are you going?” Hot Shot asks me. Her tilted head makes her all the cuter. Did they ever realize that they were one of the most adorable societies of all time?

Alright, where was I going? Work, duh. Shouldn’t say it like that, especially to ponies who are just visiting. They haven’t come all the way here to get insulted.

“I’m going to work.”

“Ooh!” She squishes one of her cheeks with her hoof. This is getting very sweet very fast. “Where do you work?”

“It’s over in San Juan,” I say, jerking a thumb outside. Don’t know where it’s pointing at. “You know, the one with lots of malls.” Then again, malls are everywhere, so I’m not really answering their question. I am technically correct, though, even if Ortigas techincally had many more.

Now it’s Skittles’ turn to ask. “You work in a mall?”

“Not really. It’s close by though, inside a village.”

“Alrighty, then!” says the happy unicorn. Closes her eyes and they turn into cute black lines of eyebrows and eyelashes.

That’s when they talk to all the others again. The rest of the ride goes on like that, with everyone talking to the ponies in the jeep. Certainly keeps the ride alive and fun. Have to thank them for that.

~ ~ ~

I get off at Quezon Boulevard, the ponies still on the jeep to Manila proper. Go figure. Hope they enjoy the sights. Heh, they have calesas there. That’d be fun to see: ponies on a horse-drawn carriage. Though, if they’ve been anywhere else, I guess they’ve already met a horse and tried it out.

After crossing the boulevard via overpass, I get on my second and last jeep for the trip.

Without the ponies, it’s business as usual. Just sit and wait it out through long stretches of avenues, past old-style buildings. Not much traffic, but we do encounter a few hiccups. Other jeeps try to overtake and ours tries to overtake too, sometimes to be rebuffed back onto our lane. Have to hold on to the ceiling handles so I don’t fall over and knock my nose on the metal floor or the iron knees of the bodybuilder before me.

It takes another main road exit to the right and crossing over the river before I enter Mandaluyong proper. Up ahead, the Ortigas skyline rises in the sky, imposing its morning power on all of us tiny humans with our little stores and our tiny houses. Everyone’s going there: see the steady march of cars rolling onward to the mass of skyscrapers.

I don’t join them since I get off at the corner of Luna Mencias and Shaw. It’s a very familiar place, this gateway from the rush of downtown life into the peaceful residence of Addition Hills. On the other side of Shaw, there’s a gas station-turned-parking-area with a restaurant on the side: seems full today. On my block, there’s some small branches of fast food stuff, pizzerias, and Chinese cuisine. Past the little crossing which Mencias makes with Shaw, there’s Mang Fermin’s food cart as people crowd around him under the cover of a huge rainbow umbrella.

That’s not him.

I peel my eyes, check what’s going on.

It’s a crowd, most of them locals. What’s unexpected is how big it is and how there are more than a few tourists gathering around. All the chaos with people ordering—“Tatlong fishball!” “Pwede sampung kikiam?” “Um, I’d like to have three of those!”—all waiting or eating, talking to each other, poking and picking food with their sticks one by one, all while some talk and get to know the new guy.

A break forms in the crowd, a voice telling them to not block his sight. The source of the voice, the vendor behind the scenes, is revealed. Whether I like it or not, I see Garlan, the man who replaced Mang Fermin.

It’s not a man.

I freeze when I see a griffon manning the stall. Brown and white feathers, beak of yellow. Eyes are a piercing mustard too. Those wide eyes tell me this is an Equestrian griffon, not some local eagle standing on his two feet. Don’t see much else of his body behind the cart, but I can see his tail swaying once in a while. His wings show too, acting like two more hands to hasten the job by grabbing this and that.

Here’s someone saying their order. Can’t hear it myself, but it doesn’t take long to see: his talons use some tongs to grab five prefrozen fishballs with and drops them into the cooking oil-filled pan where many other fishballs and finger food swim around—from the juicy squidballs and the meaty kikiam to the orange-battered kwek-kwek or quail eggs. Wonder if the griffon is okay with cooking and selling bird eggs himself.

An outdoors free-for-all feast for everyone here. Other vendors would put the food in separate strainers or just one huge strainer bowl. Here? You get it straight from the frying pan, as if the griffon doesn’t care about the regulation craze. Old style.

As for the sauces, they’re all in open containers and they’re all there: sweet or spicy, onion-garlic-chili vinegar or the thick brown sauce which many call manong’s sauce. It’s all open for free dipping, no questions asked. Not like the newer ones where they pour it on your plastic cup of food: here, just dip your stick of food into it. The only rule: don’t double dip.

As far as I can tell, everyone’s enjoying their food, and some enjoy talking to him all the while. A griffon serving fishballs for cheap is something new.

So this is Garlan. Garlan the griffon. Not a smile but a blank face. That face says, I am here to serve. Enjoy.

The smells entice me; they beg me to buy again. Still, the crowd is unusually dense. I may end up late for work if I have to wait, and what if this griffon ropes me into a conversation? They’re not parrots, but people talk of the hippogriffs having a gabby reputation.

I leave and go on my way to work.

~ ~ ~

My workplace is a financial planning firm on the third floor of a multi-purpose commercial building, a ways away from the packed main roads. We’re roommates with a trucking business’s second-floor office and the ground-floor laundromat.

Up the side stairs, I make it to the office. Couple of the early birds already opened it up and are now cleaning the place. Floors gleam under sun- and office light. I join in after we exchange greetings: sweeping and mopping the floors, wiping the windows from the inside and out, turning on the computers and the air conditioning, and more.

“Ah, Cario,” Sarina says, loading a copier with blank paper. She’s a veteran here for two years and is never seen without her ponytail. “Nakita mo ng bagong tindero sa labas?” Have you seen the new vendor outside?

I nod my head. “Oo. I have.”

She gives me a curious look. Knows about the thing I had with Fermin; probably doesn’t know about his current condition.

“Uh… what do you think of him?” she asks.

I shrug. “Okay lang. Haven’t tried it yet. New guy’s a surprise though.”

We continue cleaning.

~ ~ ~

What we do here is the usual clerk stuff. Filling out digital forms and sending them to the BIR, signing checks and depositing them in nearby banks, maintaining a database and record of accounts with our clients. Our boss is one of those fancy top-tier graduates who, instead of moving on to some big corporate conglomerate, settled down in some random village to help the locals with their small shops and services. No suit or tie: just a polo shirt and much more cologne than necessary. A man of the people, they say, if only a strong-smelling one.

Come lunch break, we rest and eat. Some of us bring our own lunch. Mine’s canned corned beef and egg with rice. Others go out to eat at a nearby cafeteria. For those that remain like me, we catch up with each other’s lives: Aurora’s gotten another boyfriend, Quinto’s house almost burned down because of an unattended stove, and Loretta found a job opening in Silicon Valley—the electronics company, not the California techie place. May be her final month with us now, so we wish her well.

Normally, Boyet stays here too. Today, he’s been gone for half an hour. Minutes later, though, he’s climbing up the stairs, a basket hanging by his hand. As he enters the office, we see that it’s a basket of muffins and cupcakes. An unexpected goodie considering that these things—the size of your hands—are no cheap treat. His big smile completes the suave look befitting someone who always dresses nicely and has that give-all-my-110% attitude toward work.

And a pony comes along with him. Blueberry Tart, she says. From the new bakery farther down Shaw.

Not much to tell, really. Tart’s like a lot of other ponies: very sweet and out of place here. It’s a love-it or leave-it thing. Lots of people I know were excited to be friends with a pony or any other Equestrian. People like me? It’s interesting, but I guess we never clicked that well. Or I just didn’t obsess over it. This is just another thing, another part of my day.

The treats are tasty though. I don’t forget to give her my thanks.

~ ~ ~

After lunch, Tart leaves, and it’s back to the afternoon grind which isn’t much out of the ordinary. It’s a busy afternoon since we have a glut of appointments, but it’s manageable.

By five, work’s over. We say our farewells and pack things up. Some of us stay behind to close up shop, while I and a few others go ahead and leave.

We’re on a fine, peaceful sunset walk. Having one’s office within a host of homes and houses makes for a different experience. No traffic, low pollution—of air, noise, or waste—and open space just for us to talk freely before we re-enter the gritty downtown.

When we get to Shaw again, the crowd around Garlan’s cart hasn’t shrunk one bit.

It’s strange. I’m used to seeing Mang Fermin’s old rugged face and a cart with only a few customers around him. Not that I didn’t want him to succeed. Just felt more natural, more friendly when it’s just us and not everyone. Doesn’t matter if it’s Garlan the griffon or Garlan the man or even Garlan the dragon. It’s like they opened up another McDonald’s or Jollibee here for the thousandth time. Gone are those never-changing shirts and his masterful hands and fingers fluttering above the burning pot.

Before I can get a better glimpse of the griffon, there’s a jeep on the way home. I catch it, take a seat, and that’s all for me and the new guy.

It’s full. I sit closer to the back. Squeezed between each other, holding frantically onto the ceiling handle to make sure I don’t get shunted: in this cramped can of sweaty people, I look out the back as we move away.

The griffon disappears into the crowd. The many colors of many shirts mask him from my eyes.

Author's Note:

Preliminary thoughts.

Comments

[FanOfMostEverything]

Fascinating. This carries a great sense of place, a good balance of explaining things to the reading outsider and the blase attitude that comes from describing your daily life. And that's saying nothing of the drama of some random extradimensional alien taking the place of a beloved pillar of the community. Looking forward to more.

[ILoveCheetos]

Really intriguing. This caught my attention when the title seemed vaguely familiar to me, but it was only when I was scrolling up again did I catch the description and realize that it had some Filipino elements in it. I was surprised to see something with tagalog in it here in FIMfiction. I'm glad I did. Salamat. Na-enjoy ko basahin ito.
That said, I'm looking forward to more!

[Comma Typer]

9997144
Balancing the worldbuilding and the blasé attitude wasn't that easy. I had to remember two things: Macario wasn't a tour guide, and just letting him narrate his life wouldn't be of much help to non-local readers. I'm glad that it's worked out so far.

9997192
Magandang umaga! It's wonderful to see another Filipino on this site. Warms my heart, really.

I have seen Tagalog on this site once before, but it was used as a magic incantation by Princess Luna, kind of like how Latin words are used as magic words in the Harry Potter series.

At, walang anuman!

[TomRedlion]

Excellent world building. Definitely looking forward to the next chapter.

[Venerable Ro]

It was a pleasure to help out with this, I'm glad to see that folk seem to be enjoying themselves!

[Comma Typer]

9997555
Thank you! I hope it'll be fun!

9997711
Yeah. Thanks for the help! It is indeed fun to write a story that other people enjoy. Many stories gave me that joy (or if not joy, then some other great sensation like being thoughtful), and I want to spread it to others by the grace of God.

[CrystalWaters]

It's interesting to see these ponies from the perspective of someone to whom they are merely a pleasant, momentary distraction when compared to the mundane necessities of life.