The Pot-Pot Connection

It is our last weekend at George’s self-proclaimed Big Brother House in Tampines. Fresh from the past month’s move, my big blue luggage is getting its fill of twice the number of badly ironed clothes and carelessly accumulated toiletries. Even my soiled t-shirt has to be included in the mix. It still has remnants from last night’s ice cream, a souvenir from naughty Angelita’s playful little hands. The spontaneous walk in the neighborhood playground at 8:00pm simply confirmed that nothing cheers up a child more than a cone of dripping ice cream and a turn or two at the swing. She might be the female epitome of Dennis the Menace but it is exactly that quality that makes her unforgettable. Just like the “pot-pot” sound that resonates from the kitchen window.

I always knew that my first encounter with that familiar sound back in Bukit Batok should have an encore. I can’t wait to find out whether there’s proof for my suspicion of it being not just the herald of abundance as a pandesal supplier, but also of it being a distinctive icon of a culturally homogenous Asian lifestyle.  Now is my chance. I temporarily paused my packing and walked straight towards the kitchen. Nanay, who is busy cleaning up after Angelita’s mess, noticed my beleaguered stance. She looked at me nodding with her mouth partially open and that articulate glance that seems to always know when I’m about to ask something.

“Is that a pandesal vendor?” I asked her a bit hesitantly.

“Nooo, that’s not pandesal. That’s the guy who collects old newspapers.”

“Oh, I see. I thought it’s the same as in ‘Pinas…”

“Sounds the same, I know… Anyway, George just asked him to come upstairs.”

Seeing it now with my own eyes, all my previous suspicions are now put to rest. It is not a pandesal vendor after all. No pandesal and no profound cultural link. It is just a matter of two countries utilizing the same tools, a bicycle and a “pot-pot”, but for different reasons. I wonder if this “pot-pot” madness will resurface in Tiong Bahru.

The day eventually came for Marie and I to leave. My luggage now feels heavier than before. For the first time I didn’t care about how I look and simply decided to wear a daster. The matronly green shade of this informal house dress doesn’t give justice to the breezy comfort that this one dollar find renders. I hailed a taxi as the afternoon drizzle began to pour, quickly dumping our luggage inside the trunk and never looking back. Nanay wouldn’t have wanted any semblance of nostalgia anyway. People come and go, change happens and future beckons. Yet, the Filipino sense of family that they shared with me will always be remembered.

I take delight in the possibility of another encounter with the “pot-pot” vendor wherever I go. I shall welcome it dearly just as I would embrace the valuable memories of Big Brother House.