Our verdict: Dining at Hayop is like being back in the Philippines and having a meal at home, if your home is in one of those posh, exclusive gated communities in Makati.

It seems a bit bold, I think, to name a Filipino restaurant “Hayop”.

We Filipinos say “hayop” – which is Tagalog for “beast” – out of either admiration or disgust.

We say, for instance, “Hayop naman sa ganda ang kotse mo!” to express our wholehearted approval: Your car looks awesome, man!

But we also say “hayop” to express something closer to its literal sense, as in, “Hayop ka! Lumayas ka!”: You asshole! Get out, now!

Hayop ni Manam, a “fine-casual” Filipino restaurant that opened on Amoy St in Singapore in July 2024, is, of course, seeking to be admired, not detested, and it delivers as advertised.

If you’re looking for really good Filipino food in Singapore – and then some – this is where you should go.

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My beef with Filipinos’ idea of a beautiful human being – towering height, chiselled chin, angular nose and fair skin – is that it has been a bit of a drag on our national identity.

The Philippines’ obsession with beauty pageants probably began in 1969. It was like lightning. It came out of nowhere, and it struck with such force, ferocity and light that till now, Filipinos are blinded by it.

In 1969, the first man landed on the moon. But something else made that year even more magical for Filipinos.

That year, an 18-year-old Filipina – Ms Gloria Diaz – was crowned the most beautiful woman on the planet.

Since then, the Philippines has followed beauty pageants as wildly and passionately as some nations follow the World Cup.

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At the Manila RAC, a nine- year-old girl was said to have been pimped by a traffic constable after she was handed over to him by her stepfather who had raped her. In another particularly disturbing case at the same centre, a boy with mental illness was found lying naked on a cement floor, all skin and bones, his skin dotted with scabies and bruises.

At a busy corner of Roxas Boulevard arcing Manila Bay, Dennis, only three years old but spunky, dashes for a jeepney – a repurposed passenger jeep – as it waits for the light to turn green.

He dives into the open rear of the vehicle on all fours. With a dirty rag in his hand, he wipes the feet of the passengers, then stands up and starts begging for money.

Sometimes, he gets a coin. Sometimes, just a pat on the head. At other times, it may be a scolding. But most of the time, he is ignored.

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Here, the sea is life. It brings silvers of fish, the peace that goes with blissful solitude, and rumours of war.

Batanes is where you settle down when you realise you’ve finally reached the end of the rat race, and there’s no point in running anymore.

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I had thought about seeing one that featured a retro musician or band like Air Supply. But then I asked myself: Do I really want to see an ageing Rod Stewart singing “Hot Legs” while desperately trying to keep his balance on stage? So, Lady Gaga it was then.

The last concert I remember going to was in 2010 – 15 years ago – when Tears for Fears came to Singapore. 

Curt Smith and Roland Orzabal were still hitting the high notes and rocking the stage with their 80s rage, but they were, by then, past their prime.  They were rocking on with just nostalgia powering their sails. 

We were there for that. We were all in for that.  But there weren’t that many of us left.  The concert wasn’t in some gigantic sports arena.  It was just at a cavernous meeting hall at Marina Bay Sands.

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Beneath its shade, life unfolds. A wedding proposal. A fork in the road reached. An epiphany. A dream. A lazy afternoon well spent. Here, with the tree as witness, travel plans are made, bonds are deepened, renewed or broken, vows are said, and lives are reset.

There is a tree here at Upper Seletar Reservoir Park, a Casuarina, that they call the ‘lone tree’. It is, however, neither alone nor lonely.

Beneath its shade, life unfolds. A wedding proposal. A fork in the road reached. An epiphany. A dream. A lazy afternoon well spent. Here, with the tree as witness, travel plans are made, bonds are deepened, renewed or broken, vows are said, and lives are reset.

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We shouldn’t really be deriding or diminishing those who voted for “that guy who helped” as stupid or daft if we really want our “big issue” candidates who prefer talking about human rights, inflation, freedom, accountability and corruption to get a seat at the table.

I had once been a board member at our homeowners’ association. It was a lowly grassroots post, but it did offer a good perch from where I could see how politicians manage to round up and keep votes that they then cash in on polling day.

They are always there, and they give when asked.  They rarely say, “no”.

They are there to exploit the two emotions that often leave deep impressions in a person’s life: despair and ecstasy.  

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Bagong Lipunan was the anthem of martial law.  It was the soundtrack to an era when one man ruled the Philippines like a tyrant – with absolute power and absolutely corrupt.

I AGAIN heard the song “Bagong Lipunan” played after so many years in a video that circulated online a few months back.  It was at a hush-hush event.  I think it was at a birthday party for Imee Marcos, as a monstrous typhoon was devastating large swathes of the Visayas.

There they were – more than a hundred Marcos supporters – clapping, dancing, shouting at the top of their lungs: May bagong silang! May bago nang buhay!  Bagong bansa! Bagong galaw!  Sa bagong lipunan!

It felt like watching a rally of neo-Nazis.  “How could they be so brazen?” I thought.

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Pepsi. Iyan ang pangalan niya. Uulitin ko
upang ‘di mo malimutan,
tito.
ano nga bang nagawa niya’t
‘na-ano’ mo siya?
gan’un lang talaga siguro.

ikaw
na malinis, na may pangalan
at siya? ‘di man lang Pepsi ang tunay niyang ‘ngalan.

marahil ganid ka lang talaga
o isinilang na walang ina.


Marcos, for me, was the name that was always on the tabloids my father liked to read and then fold into a whipping rod, and the marching hymn “May Bagong Silang” that wafted at exactly 7am through our shack from a public school just a stone’s throw away.

DinoDoliente14b

Growing up in Baclaran in the 70s, being anti-Marcos was not part of the family mission, especially since my father was an Ilocano and, by association, a Marcos loyalist. We were poor. Our main concern was not politics, but to put food on the table.

Marcos, for me, was the name that was always on the tabloids my father liked to read and then fold into a whipping rod, and the marching hymn “May Bagong Silang” that wafted at exactly 7am through our shack from a public school just a stone’s throw away.

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