CHAPTER 2: THE DRINK CALLED "2013" (Part 1/4)

The year is 2026, Manila, Philippines. Rain drums against the windows of a small building tucked between a busy jeepney terminal and a row of colorful sari-sari stores in Intramuros. The Dark Room appears tonight as a cozy space that blends modern Filipino design with Spanish colonial touches—narra wood furniture, capiz shell chandeliers that cast warm light, and walls adorned with paintings of local landscapes.

Chinggu stands behind the bar—today he has dark hair styled in a neat undercut, wears a barong Tagalog over dark trousers, and speaks Tagalog with the smooth lilt of someone raised in Manila. He’s arranging a display of local ingredients—calamansi, mango, coconut, and luyang dilaw (turmeric)—when the door opens, letting in the sound of rain and a young man in his late twenties. He wears a worn hoodie and jeans, his shoulders slumped as he scans the room.

“Mabuhay,” Chinggu says with a warm smile, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. “Come in, come in—you’re soaked from the rain. Would you like to sit at the bar where it’s warm, or would you prefer a corner table?”

The young man hesitates, then heads for the bar, sliding onto a stool. “Bar’s fine. I… I wasn’t looking for anywhere in particular. I just needed to get out of the rain, and this door was right there.”

“The Dark Room has a way of showing up when people need shelter—from more than just the weather,” Chinggu says, handing him a small towel. “I’m Chinggu. What’s your name?”

“RJ,” he says, drying his hair. “RJ Dela Cruz. I work as a software developer—well, used to work as one. I quit last week.”

“A big decision,” Chinggu says, pulling out a glass and setting it in front of him. “Would you like something to drink? I have hot champorado if you want something warm, or I could make you a cocktail I’ve been working on. I call it ‘2013.’”

RJ looks up, curious. “2013? Why that name?”

“Let me tell you while I make it,” Chinggu says, reaching for a bottle of local rum—Tanduay Rhum 5 Years. “2013 was a big year for the Philippines. Trivia for you: it was the year the Philippine Space Agency was established, the year we hosted the Southeast Asian Games, and the year the first Filipino-made smartphone was released. But more than that—it was a year when a lot of young people started asking questions about what they really wanted from life.”

He measures out the rum carefully, then adds a splash of calamansi juice—its bright acidity cutting through the rum’s warmth. “I created this drink for people who are at a crossroads, just like the country was back then. It’s made with all local ingredients—rum from Batangas, calamansi from Laguna, honey from Mindanao, and a touch of luyang dilaw for depth. Each part represents something different: the rum is your roots, the calamansi is the sharp reality of change, the honey is hope, and the turmeric is strength.”

As he muddles a few fresh calamansi slices in the glass, RJ leans forward slightly. “2013… I remember that year. I was in my first year of college, just starting to study computer science. I thought I had it all figured out—graduate, get a good job at a tech company, make good money, buy a house for my parents. That was the dream everyone told me to chase.”

“It’s a common dream here,” Chinggu says, adding a spoonful of honey and stirring it in. “For generations, many Filipinos have focused on stability—on building a life that’s secure for themselves and their families. Trivia: according to a 2013 survey, 78% of young Filipinos listed ‘providing for their family’ as their top priority. It’s a beautiful thing, but sometimes it can make us forget to ask what we need.”

He adds a dash of turmeric syrup, turning the drink a warm golden color, then tops it with a splash of coconut water for lightness. Finally, he garnishes it with a thin slice of dried mango. “There you go—‘2013.’ Try it and tell me what you think.”

RJ lifts the glass, inhaling the mix of sweet, tart, and earthy scents. He takes a small sip, then another, his eyes widening in surprise. “It’s… amazing. It tastes like home, but also like something new. Like looking at a familiar place with fresh eyes.”

“That’s exactly what I was going for,” Chinggu says, leaning against the bar. “So tell me—why did you quit your job?”

RJ runs his hand through his wet hair, sighing deeply. “I was working at one of the big tech companies in Bonifacio Global City. The pay was good—really good. I was on track to buy that house for my parents in two years. But… I hated it. Every day felt the same—staring at a screen for twelve hours, solving problems that didn’t feel like they mattered. We were building apps that people used for five minutes a day, then forgot about. Meanwhile, my hometown in Quezon—there’s no reliable internet there. Kids can’t do online classes when it rains, farmers can’t check market prices easily. I kept thinking—I’m using my skills to make rich people richer, when I could be helping my own community.”

Chinggu nods thoughtfully. “You’re not the only one who feels that way. In 2013, after Typhoon Yolanda hit, a group of young tech developers quit their jobs in Manila to start a nonprofit that builds affordable communication tools for disaster-stricken areas. They called themselves ‘Tech for the People.’ Trivia: their work has since helped millions of people across the Philippines and Southeast Asia stay connected during emergencies.”

RJ looks down at his drink, swirling it slowly. “I’ve heard of them. I even thought about applying to work with them once, but then my boss offered me a promotion, and I got scared. Scared of losing the stability, scared of letting my parents down. They sacrificed so much to send me to college—my dad drives a jeepney, my mom sells kakanin at the market. They think I’m throwing my life away by quitting.”

“Do you think you are?” Chinggu asks gently.

“No,” RJ says firmly, then softens. “I mean… I don’t think so. But I don’t know what to do next. I have some savings, but not enough to start something on my own. I’ve been looking at organizations that use tech for social good, but most of them don’t have the budget to hire full-time developers. And every time I call my parents, I can hear the worry in their voices. My mom keeps telling me to ‘just be patient’ and go back to my job.”

Chinggu picks up a small jar of honey from the bar. “This honey comes from a community in Bukidnon,” he says. “A group of farmers started beekeeping in 2013 after their corn crops failed because of drought. At first, no one thought it would work—they didn’t know anything about bees. But they learned together, shared what they knew, and now they have one of the best honey brands in the country. They even teach other communities how to do it. Sometimes the things that seem impossible at first end up being exactly what we need.”

He refills RJ’s glass. “Tell me—what would you want to do, if money and fear weren’t factors?”

RJ looks up, his eyes lighting up for the first time since he walked in. “I’d build a platform that connects small farmers with buyers directly—cut out the middlemen who take most of the profit. I’d set up free internet hotspots in rural areas so kids can learn online. I’d create apps that help communities track weather patterns and plan their crops better. I’ve even sketched out some of the ideas—” He stops suddenly, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I know it sounds like a pipe dream.”

“Nothing worth doing ever sounds easy at first,” Chinggu says, smiling. “Have you ever heard of the Philippine Startup Challenge? It started in 2013 too—designed to help young entrepreneurs turn their ideas into reality. They offer funding, mentorship, and office space. The winners get to present their projects at international conferences. Trivia: the 2019 winner was a team from Cebu that built an app to help fishermen find the best fishing spots while protecting marine life. They’re now working with the Department of Agriculture.”

RJ leans forward, his interest clearly piqued. “I didn’t know that. I’ve been so focused on my old job that I haven’t been keeping up with what’s happening in the tech community here.”

“It’s not too late to catch up,” Chinggu says. “The next challenge starts in three months. I could help you polish your ideas if you want—though I should warn you, I know more about drinks than I do about code. But I know people who can help with that part.”

He gestures to the corner of the bar, where a small laptop has appeared—its screen showing the Philippine Startup Challenge website. “Take a look. The application deadline is in six weeks. You have time to put together a proposal, find a team if you need one, and make your idea real.”

RJ walks over to the laptop, his hands hovering over the keyboard. “My parents… they still won’t understand.”

“Maybe not at first,” Chinggu says, “but they’ll understand when they see how happy you are, how your work is helping people. Your parents didn’t just sacrifice for you to have a good job—they sacrificed so you could have a good life. And only you can decide what that means.”

As RJ begins to scroll through the website, Chinggu moves to the back of the bar, pulling out a small box. “I have something else for you,” he says, setting it on the counter. Inside is a vintage abaca notebook—handmade by artisans in Bohol. “I started keeping a notebook like this when I was figuring out what I wanted to do with my life. Write down your ideas in it—draw diagrams, make lists, write down your fears and your hopes. Sometimes putting things on paper makes them feel more real.”

RJ picks up the notebook, running his fingers over its rough cover. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I haven’t felt this hopeful in a long time. I thought I was crazy for wanting to leave my job, for thinking I could actually make a difference.”

“You’re not crazy,” Chinggu says, refilling their glasses. “2013 taught us that when Filipinos come together and follow their hearts, we can do incredible things. This drink is called ‘2013’ because it’s a reminder that every ending is also a new beginning—just like that year was for so many of us.”

RJ takes a sip of his drink, then opens the notebook and starts writing. Outside, the rain is beginning to slow, and a hint of sunlight breaks through the clouds, casting a rainbow over the old walls of Intramuros. Somewhere in the distance, a jeepney passes by, playing a familiar song—“Pinoy Ako” by Orange and Lemons.

“You know,” RJ says without looking up from his notebook, “my dad used to play that song for me when I was a kid. He’d say ‘No matter where you go, always remember who you are.’ I think I forgot that for a while.”

“Well,” Chinggu says with a smile, “it’s never too late to remember.”

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