I know. This situation is not really unusual in this country. Various permutations of political dynasty exist in this country such as husband-and-wife teams sitting as mayor and congressman or father and son sitting as mayor and chairman head of the Sangguniang Kabataan. But I think not very many families have the audacity to actually want to corner both the posts of mayor and vice mayor of the same city.

What adds to the unusual situation is the fact that Bejo Romualdez is the immediate past City Mayor of Tacloban City and he bequeathed the post to his son, the incumbent. In short, he is settling for a lower position in the 2010 elections. The even more twisted thing is that the older Romualdez has been reportedly telling people in campaign sorties that the situation bodes well for Tacloban because this means that the mayor cannot misbehave since he—the father—is watching him.

That’s not it, yet. It gets even more outrageous. Former sexy actress Cristina Romualdez—Alfred’s wife—is also running for re-election as councilor and has made it known that she wants to win as first councilor of the city.

The electorate has irreverently dubbed the trio the Holy Trinity of Tacloban—the son, the father, and the wife. In a rather twisted turn of events, the Romualdezes have latched on to the joke by using the same as some kind of justification for the anomalous situation. The incumbent mayor has been publicly saying that if Catholics don’t have questions about the validity of the concept of the Holy Trinity, then they shouldn’t question Tacloban’s holy trinity. In Alfred’s words: “If there is a Holy Trinity in the Bible, then Tacloban City has its own trinity. Dynasties have existed since the time of Jesus Christ.”

I almost choked on the scallops I was eating when friends and relatives narrated the above to me. There were more reasons for consternation. Everyone had something juicy to contribute to the discussion about how the political situation in Tacloban City has degenerated to absurd levels.

There are 10 slots available for councilor of the city. There are 40 candidates who filed their certificates of candidacies. It stands to reason that anyone running for the post of mayor would field a complete slate. The Romualdez slate, however, is composed of 15 candidates for councilor. The Romualdezes want to convey the impression that they are so loved in Tacloban there’s a long list of people jumping all over themselves to be associated with them. Fielding 15 candidates for the 10 slots increases the chances of cornering majority of the seats of the City council—a highly contentious battleground in the last three years for the incumbent mayor on account of a very strong opposition—but it also smacks of cheap opportunism. What kind of a leader willingly encourages members of his team to openly fight amongst themselves while he watches benevolently waiting to raise the hands of the victors?

Putting up a brave fight against the Romualdezes is media man Bob Abellanosa; the man who for many years read the evening news for the local television channel. Abellanosa is not exactly the first choice among those at the dinner table but most of them were willing to cast their lot behind the guy firmly believing in the mantra “anybody but the Romualdezes.”

The political situation in Tacloban—something that has bordered on the absurd and the comical—has been simmering under the surface for quite some time now. The Romualdezes have only recently returned to power since they were thrown out with the Marcoses after the first Edsa revolution.

All over the city are tarpaulins of the handsome first couple of the city supposedly proclaiming the achievements they have made for the city. The joke among the citizenry is that whatever achievements are printed in the tarpaulins is unreadable as most of the space has been taken up by the huge picture of the very handsome couple. Some critics gleefully proclaim that that’s exactly the major achievements of the couple—they’ve prettified themselves.

The Romualdezes have been at odds with the Petillas for many years now. The Petillas have held sway over the provincial capitol since the matriarch Remedios Matin Petilla became governor a few years after the Romualdezes’ fall from grace. Petilla went on to become congressman and later on as deputy chairman of the Philippine Amusement and Gaming Corporation. The current governor of Leyte is her son Jericho Petilla.

The conflict between the Petillas and the Romualdezes has resulted in competition that has reached almost farcical levels— whatever programs for the common people initiated by the provincial government has been replicated by the city government and vice versa. For example, the province has a singing contest designed to discover singing talents. The city government has its own contest, held just a block away from the venue of the provincial contest. Even the backdrops of the two competitions seem to compete amongst themselves in terms of size. The provincial and city governments also compete in terms of who has the better morning exercise sessions.

The city folk have come to see the competition as akin to the kapuso vs kapamilya contest not only because it has become entertaining but more because it has become quite shallow although most concede that the competition has also somehow resulted in more services being offered to citizens.

The problem is that the competition had become dysfunctional in many occasions such as during the most recent city fiesta when the provincial government and the city government hosted their own festivals. Reports have it that the street dancing related to one festival was rudely interrupted because activities related to the other festival cut through the street dancing venue. During the recent Palarong Pambansa, which was hosted by the provincial government, the city government reportedly refused to allow the use of certain facilities owned by the city.

The result of all these is that there is now a seeming exodus to relocate most businesses to the nearby town of Palo, which already hosts most government regional offices. SM is reportedly building its first mall in the region in Palo and the Petilla matriarch, Remedios Petilla, is now running for the post of mayor of the town. There is also the plan to move the provincial capitol to Palo eventually. If all these happen, Tacloban will most like degenerate into a shell of what it used to be and what it could have become. No wonder “have mercy on Tacloban City” is an oft-repeated plea that’s being whispered around by concerned citizens.

The way I see it, writing is a craft that requires a certain degree of commitment—a commitment to perfection or at least the quest for it—something that I just don’t have the time or the temperament for. Unlike some friends who can truly lay claim to the title “writer,” I don’t agonize over a misplaced preposition or spend sleepless night searching for the right metaphor to express something. This is not to say though that I don’t value the craft because I do.

At any rate, one question that I am often asked is: How did I get into writing? This question is always mystifying to me because I always get the impression that people actually think that the ability to write is something one is born with. I get the feeling people who ask that question expect me to provide an inventory of the chromosomes I got from my ancestors. Sure I was a co-opted into joining—and becoming editor—of my high school and college papers but the truth is that by no means of the imagination can what I did then be classified as writing. I am aware that there’s not a single “writer” in this world who does not cringe or is tempted to commit self-annihilation when confronted with the stuff one wrote in high school or college. I assure you I am not being facetious and I am being truthful when I say that I produced hideous stuff back then.

There’s actually a story behind how I got into writing; a story that needs to be told now because the man at whose feet I learned the rudiments of real—or serious—writing, the man who inspired me to try to be good at it, the man who took pains to mentor me, even teach me to unlearn bad writing habits, is now gone.

Agustin Gus Arnaiz Sr., the crusading provincial journalist who valiantly championed press freedom in Leyte and Samar for many decades passed away Saturday evening in his hometown of Maasin, Southern Leyte. He was 85.

I was a college sophomore when a couple of my friends and I walked into the offices of The Reporter, a weekly newspaper in Tacloban City to gather some data for a term paper we had to produce for school. At that time, Gus Arnaiz, publisher of The Reporter, was already quite a “legend” in the region. He had just come close to winning a seat in Congress against the powerful Romualdezes, who, incidentally also put him behind bars for writing about rumors around then First Lady Imelda Romualdez Marcos. All throughout the Marcos regime he was incarcerated four times and arrested a grand total of 19 times. The Reporter was then the lone beacon of freedom and fearless writing in the whole of Region VIII. In the eyes of a then-neophyte activist, Arnaiz was a giant.

Arnaiz granted our group an interview. To this day, I still do not know what he saw in me or what possessed him to do it but he offered me a job on the spot as associate editor of the weekly paper. I learned later on that the post had been vacant for quite sometime simply because Arnaiz didn’t find anyone he liked well enough. It dawned on me many years later that he wasn’t really looking for an employee—he was on the lookout for someone he could mentor like a son. He paid me full wages for a job that was really part-time as I was still studying then. As if to make up for the hours I was in school, I would accompany him some nights and during some weekends in the long drives he made around Tacloban and the Leyte-Samar area. He was always visiting friends and colleagues who were always more than too happy to host him. Arnaiz was a genius at making conversations. I later on learned this was how he got the various “exclusive” stories that he wrote for the weekly paper. It was from these long nights that I learned how to listen, really listen.

It was on those long, very long drives —sometimes we would be driving for hours, even whole days—that I learned so much about writing and life in general. Arnaiz loved to talk—he was conversant about almost anything— from history to politics, from business to current events—despite the fact that he didn’t finish school. He had to drop out from high school due to poverty. I guess telling stories came naturally for a man who lived a very exciting and fulfilling life. Arnaiz was the classic example of a self-made man. He was a war veteran (he finally received his war veteran benefit from the United States government last November). It was from the man that I learned how to weave stories and tell them.

Arnaiz coaxed me out of my shell. He even maneuvered to put me in the board of the regional association of media people where, at 17 years old, I sat as the youngest director for one term. He taught me how to use a typewriter, edited my work right in front of me, and alas, also taught me how to smoke and drink.

I had to quit working for the weekly paper when I was in senior college to yield to paternal pressure to get a diploma. But my relationship with Arnaiz continued, shifting from mentor-mentee to friends. For many years in the late eighties I continued to write pieces for the weekly paper, stuff that I had to send by snail mail every week from Manila where I was already working.

From him I learned how to write letters. Arnaiz was a man who wrote real letters—he typed even social and personal letters using a formal format and with carbon copies too.

The Reporter eventually folded up last year. Although his children tried to sustain the paper with the same fervor and spirit that Arnaiz breathed into it, I guess some things in this world are just never the same without the moving force driving it.

We all have personal heroes that we look up to; people to whom we owe what we’ve become. It had been ages since I last talked to the man but the years have not diminished the affection and respect I keep for the man who taught me how to write.

Farewell, Gus. Thank you for the many valuable gifts you so selflessly shared with me.