Skongkran Ailments
Disclaimer: The mention of “skongkran” or squatters in this article is not meant to ridicule people who belong to this social spectrum, but rather, is a mockery directed solely on the author.
It feels weird to be wearing slippers in the office today. See, I have this awful boil on the big toe of my right foot. Yesterday, I popped it open with a sterilized needle and proceeded to extract the gooey pus-and-blood build-up that caused me to skip work for two days. Anyway, the boil started off as a small lump that I dismissed as an insect bite last Friday morning. As the lump grew steadily inside the damp conditions of my stinky leather shoes, I also made the wrong decisions of wading through flood waters last Saturday and playing badminton, after more than a month-long hiatus, last Sunday. Alas, as I wore my shoes come Monday morning, the boil has reached Jupiter proportions and the pain was unbearable. Reaching for my cellphone, I sent an SMS to my boss that I’m going to skip work due to a “swollen toe” on my right foot. In my mind, “swollen toe” sounded so much better than “boil.” You can’t blame me if I intended to salvage my already lackluster image in the office.
After informing my boss about my “swollen toe,” I dialed a doctor friend, the Perpetual Soul Searcher (PSS), and inquired about remedies for my embarrassing condition. PSS prescribed that I should take Clindamycin, an antibiotic, at 150 mg doses, twice a day when I informed him that the surface of the boil has become tender with pus formation. PSS further advised me to extract the boil once I sense that it is “ripe” enough, making sure that I had Betadine and a sterilized needle in handy. Before our conversation ended, PSS embarked at his usual digs at me and blurted: “Ano ba yan. Para kang squatter; nagkakaroon ka ng ganyang klaseng sakit…” We were both laughing when we hanged up.
As I rode a jeepney towards the nearest drugstore, I remembered a college classmate who categorized people based on their social status. Using terms that were invented in his org, he came up with this list:
· Coño à people from the upper class
· Jologs à people from the middle class
· Skongkran à people from the lower class; rough equivalent of the squatters
· Kulabai à people more destitute than the lower class; think: taong grasa and prisoners (since they have no liberty)
· #$@&* à name of a person that he absolutely dislikes
Basically, the list works this way: The coño cringes at the sight of the jologs. The jologs are disgusted by the presence of a skongkran. The skongkran, in turn, spits on the faces of the kulabai. And the kulabai are happy that they’re not #$@&*. It does not get simpler than that.
Reaching the Mercury Drug outlet in Philcoa, I asked the attendant who’s a registered pharmacist, by the way, for four tablets of Clindamycin. “One hundred sixty forty (PhP160.40),” he muttered, almost with a yawn. PSS has warned me that Clindamycin is a generic name and that I’m tasked to inquire and compare the costs of various brand names. Since I was too lazy to think things over, I just scavenged through my emaciated wallet, and as I passed two crumpled hundred peso bills, I realized that the freaking antibiotic costs forty pesos a pop. The attendant handed the medicine in a short while, and in my mind, the Clusivol buy line is tattooed on his forehead: “Sa panahon ngayon, bawal magkasakit.”
Leaving the drug store, I made my way to the Chowking outlet next door to appease the grumbling protestation of my stomach. I ordered a shanghai lauriat (yep, takaw mata) with a regular serving of iced tea. “Would you like some almond jelly or halo-halo to go with that, sir?,” the store’s petite cashier inquired amid cakey foundation and smudged lip stick. “No,” I quicky interjected. It was rather short but I guess my response was definitely better than “Are you insane?! I’m not Ike Lozada for crying out loud!” “That would be ninety five pesos ONLY, sir,” the Chowking cashier told me with a toothy grin. Handing out another hundred peso bill, I became aware that I was way, way luckier compared to the skongkrans. Although we suffer the same ailments, at least I get to afford a plate of stale Chinese food whenever I feel like it.
I left the restaurant with my throat feeling itchy. I tried to pin the blame on the sesame seeds of the buchi but when I recalled that most of my officemates were down with colds the week before, I felt aghast that I was about to suffer the same fate. “Oh no, not another skongkran ailment,” I groaned. Stepping inside another jeepney on my way home, I chanced on a sampaguita vendor who’s probably no older than ten years. Clutching the fragrant garlands on his rickety arms, he pleaded with passers by to purchase his wares. When no one halted to hear him out, he proceeded to wipe the gooiest and greenest snot on his dirty, rag tag shirt. As the jeepney engine started to roar, I felt a sudden urge to whack my head back to reality.
