The Filipina Named “Nyah”

Last week’s typhoon made me do things I wouldn’t have done under normal
circumstances. My usual arrogance had made me think that if things
would go bad in my den, I’d just "escape" and continue working in
another cave. I’ve been pretty much hit-and-run, SOT (sit, operate,
transfer) in the past several months, anyway, so I thought, Let’s see
how Milenyo could actually "damage" me.

But the goddamn typhoon
made sure escape wouldn’t be possible; at least, not within the large
island of Luzon. And with all the almost incredible destruction
anywhere I’d turn, I was just too petrified right on my little spot.

So
there I was, pickled, sore, and angsty in all the boredom a massive
blackout could lavish me with. I read books, schemed, slept, ate, and
schemed some more — activities that are not very different from what
trapped small animals do all the time.

Worst, sheer boredom forced me to actually read a Paulo Coelho book.

The book in question was Eleven Minutes.
It was insufferable, as usual, save for one little funny detail:
there’s a cameo of a Filipina prostitute in Geneva, who Mr. Coelho, in
his wonderful wisdom, gave the heart-stopping name of "Nyah."

Nyah.
Genius. That just made me stop and think and kick the neighbor’s dog.
I’ve never met anybody with a name like that. My little theory is that
Coelho probably was browsing around and found Nyoy Volante’s website.
He probably thought “Nyoy” would be a cool Filipino name, except that
he needed something for a woman. No problem, he thought, just feminize
it. Make “Nyoy” into “Nya.”

But wait. Nya lacked
something. Coelho researched some more, until very reliable online
sources enlightened him on the Filipino habit of putting “H” into their
pet names, in which “Roger” magically becomes “Rhogher”, “Pitoy”
becomes “Phithoy”, and “Joe Bert” becomes “Jhoe Bhert.”

In the end, Paulo Coelho decides to name the very minor Eleven Minutes character, “Nyah.”

But
that was just me and my “theory.” I was still rankled with a deep,
almost desperate craving to squeeze some answer from the author
himself. So on that sweaty blackout afternoon, already like a dog in
heat and stir-crazy from my lack of online access, I did what Lex
Luthor would have done: I paid people to buy me several meters of
copper cable and hook me up with some power source, insisting that I
didn’t care if they had to step on somebody’s toes or make a government
official cry.

And you know what, talk to the right kind of
thief, like Oskar Schindler used to do, and you’ll remain on top of the
brutal food chain.

There’s probably a God somewhere clucking His
ethereal tongue disapprovingly of the filthy things I have at my
command, but I’m ready to send people to kick the living daylights out
of the Almighty Himself for sending something dirty and very
inconvenient like that typhoon.

When
I finally had power (I had electricity while the rest of the darned
town groped in the dark), the first thing I did was fire off the
following email direct to Mr Paulo “I Have The Hots For Filipinas Named
Nyah” Coelho.

Dear Mr. Paulo Coelho:

I just finished reading your exceedingly fascinating 2003 novel, Eleven Minutes.
I just have one minor question, though, that I hope you won’t ignore.
I’ve been a Filipino in the past 30 years and I personally know about
50 million Filipinas, and none of them has this strange, outlandish
name, Nyah. I’m wondering, why not Ginalyn? Or Edmilyn? Or Inday
Badiday?

Therefore, I’d just like to ask:

Were you shitting all of us?

Sincerely, your number one Filipino fan,

Nyoh

Two days later, I received this response:

Dear Nyoh,

Thank you for your opinion about Eleven Minutes.

I value your opinion a great deal.

It is very gratifying to know that you understand my book as it was
meant to be understood.

Always follow your dreams and fight for them with faith.

Sincerely,

Paulo Coelho

When
I read it, the thought in my head was, “Shit. He bought Scott Adams’s
Automatic Bullshit Generator and he’s using it to answer all fan
queries!”

I knew then that in order to reach the man, I had to
resort to my old tricks. I called up my friend in Brazil, some thug I
met in Rome more than a decade ago, and asked him, Do you know where
Paulo Coelho lives?

The person on the other end grunted. “He’s in Rio de Janeiro.”

“I’m just wondering,” I said, “Can you kindly please beat the shit out of him?”

My Brazilian thug gasped. “You mean, all his shit? And out of him?”

“Not really,” I said, “just keep him alive enough to answer my email in the nicest, most helpful way possible. This is very, very important.”

My Brazilian thug grunted once more before the line went dead.

I’m pretty sure Paulo Coelho’s happily personally answering my email
right now, as my good Brazilian thug lounges on a couch nearby,
persuading Mr Coelho with the oft-repeated tale of  how, a long time
ago, he “accidentally” dropped a famous, impossible-to-bother writer
out of a seventh-story window.

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