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

RJ keeps writing in the abaca notebook, his pen moving quickly across the pages. He sketches out wireframes for his platform, jots down notes about potential partners, and lists the communities he wants to help first—starting with his hometown in Quezon. When he finally looks up, the rain has stopped entirely, and the capiz shell chandeliers cast dancing patterns of light across the bar.

“I can’t believe how much I’ve already written,” he says, closing the notebook with a satisfied snap. “I had all these ideas in my head, but I never thought to put them down like this. It’s like they’re finally starting to make sense.”

“That’s the power of writing things down,” Chinggu says, wiping down the bar. “Trivia for you: Jose Rizal kept a notebook just like that when he was studying abroad in the 1880s. He wrote down his ideas for reform, his observations about different cultures, and his hopes for the Philippines. They say he’d often write while drinking tsokolate—hot chocolate—just like how you’re writing now with your ‘2013’ cocktail.”

RJ laughs, picking up his glass. “I never thought I’d be compared to Rizal, even in a small way. But I guess we both want the same thing—for our people to have better lives.”

Just then, the door to the Dark Room opens again. A woman in her late twenties walks in—she’s wearing a crisp blazer over a simple dress, carrying a leather briefcase and looking around the room with a curious expression. When her eyes land on RJ, her face lights up.

“RJ? Is that really you?”

RJ stands up so quickly he almost knocks over his glass. “Maya? What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” She walks over to the bar, giving him a quick hug. “I was walking back from a meeting near Fort Santiago when I saw this place—something about it just drew me in. I can’t believe I ran into you here.”

Chinggu smiles, already moving to prepare another glass of “2013.” “Looks like you two know each other. Would you like to join him? I’ll make you the same drink—you’ll love it.”

“Please,” Maya says, sliding onto the stool next to RJ. “I could use something after that meeting. I’m Maya Santos—I work for the Department of Trade and Industry, focusing on helping small businesses in rural areas.”

“Maya and I went to college together,” RJ explains, still looking surprised. “We were in the same computer science program for two years before she switched to business.”

“I realized I wanted to help people build things from the ground up,” Maya says, accepting the glass Chinggu hands her. “This is amazing—what is it?”

“It’s called ‘2013,’” Chinggu says. “Named after the year a lot of young Filipinos started rethinking what success means. Would you like to hear the story behind it?”

As he explains the ingredients and their meaning, Maya takes a slow sip, her eyes widening with appreciation. “This tastes exactly like how 2013 felt to me. I was switching majors that year—everyone thought I was crazy for leaving tech for business, but I knew I needed to understand how to make good ideas sustainable. Trivia for you,” she adds, looking at Chinggu, “2013 was also the year the DTI launched its ‘Go Lokal!’ program to support local products. We’ve helped thousands of small businesses get their products into stores across the country.”

“That’s exactly what I need to know,” RJ says excitedly, leaning forward. “I’ve been sketching out a platform to connect small farmers directly with buyers, but I had no idea how to make it sustainable. I was worried I’d build something that looked good on paper but couldn’t actually help anyone.”

Maya’s eyes light up. “That’s exactly the kind of project we’ve been looking for. The DTI has been trying to find ways to use technology to bridge the gap between rural producers and urban markets. We have funding available for pilot programs, and we work with a network of mentors who can help with everything from logistics to marketing.”

“Really?” RJ asks, his voice full of hope. “I thought I’d have to do this all on my own.”

“Filipinos don’t do things alone—we have bayanihan,” Maya says with a smile. “Remember how we used to work on group projects in college? We’d always find a way to make things work, even when it seemed impossible.”

Chinggu nods, refilling their glasses. “Bayanihan is at the heart of Filipino culture. Trivia: the word comes from ‘bayan,’ which means both ‘community’ and ‘country.’ It’s the idea that when we help each other, we’re not just building a better community—we’re building a better Philippines. That’s what made 2013 so special—so many people coming together to help each other after Yolanda, to build new businesses, to chase new dreams.”

RJ pulls out his abaca notebook and starts showing Maya his sketches. “Here’s what I was thinking—farmers can use a simple app to list their products, set their prices, and track their shipments. We’d also include weather updates and market trends so they can plan ahead. And we’d make sure the platform works even on slow internet connections—most rural areas don’t have the same speed as Manila.”

Maya flips through the pages, her expression growing more impressed with each sketch. “RJ, this is brilliant. You’ve thought about everything—even the parts I didn’t realize needed thinking about. The DTI has been working with a team of developers who specialize in building low-bandwidth apps. I could introduce you to them next week if you want.”

“I’d love that,” RJ says, his face glowing with excitement. “But what about funding? I have some savings, but not enough to build something like this.”

“We have a grant program specifically for projects like this,” Maya explains. “It’s part of the ‘Innovate Philippines’ initiative that started in 2013—we’ve already funded over 50 tech projects that help rural communities. You’d need to put together a proposal, but with your ideas and our support, I think you’d have a great chance.”

As they talk, Chinggu moves quietly around the bar, preparing small plates of local snacks—kwek-kwek, fishballs, and empanadas from a nearby stall. “You two must be hungry,” he says, setting the plates down. “Trivia: these street foods have been part of Filipino culture for generations. Kwek-kwek started in the 1950s when vendors needed an affordable way to feed people—they’d coat quail eggs in orange batter and fry them up. Now they’re a staple at every corner in the Philippines.”

RJ and Maya dig into the snacks, still talking excitedly about the project. “My parents are from Iloilo,” Maya says, “and my lola still grows her own vegetables. She always says she could sell more if she knew how to reach buyers in the city. She’d be the perfect person to test your platform.”

“My dad’s cousin is a rice farmer in Quezon,” RJ adds. “He loses so much money because middlemen buy his rice for next to nothing, then sell it for triple the price in Manila. He’d be thrilled to try something new.”

Chinggu listens quietly as they map out their next steps—meeting with the DTI team, visiting rural communities to get feedback, putting together their grant proposal. When they finally pause to catch their breath, Maya looks at her watch and gasps.

“I can’t believe how late it is,” she says, standing up. “I have an early meeting tomorrow, but we have to keep talking about this. Can we meet at Café Adriatico on Saturday? I’ll bring some of the grant documents and introduce you to one of our mentors.”

“Absolutely,” RJ says, standing up too. “I’ll have more sketches done by then, and I can start putting together a list of communities we want to work with first.”

As Maya heads for the door, she turns back and smiles. “You know, RJ, I always knew you’d do something amazing. I’m glad you finally figured out what that is.”

“Me too,” he says, watching her leave. When he turns back to the bar, Chinggu is waiting with a small bag.

“I packed some extra snacks for you,” he says, handing it to RJ. “And I added a bottle of the turmeric syrup I used in your drink. You can use it to make ‘2013’ at home while you’re working on your proposal—it’ll help keep you focused.”

RJ takes the bag, his eyes full of gratitude. “Thank you, Chinggu. I came here feeling lost and scared, and now… now I feel like I have a purpose again. Like I’m finally doing something that matters.”

“That’s what the Dark Room is for,” Chinggu says with a warm smile. “2013 taught us that change doesn’t happen overnight—it happens one person at a time, one idea at a time. You’re not just building a platform—you’re building hope for communities that need it. And that’s worth more than any job in the world.”

RJ picks up his abaca notebook and slips it into his bag. “I’m going to call my parents tonight. I was scared to tell them why I quit my job, but now I know what to say. I’ll tell them I’m not throwing my life away—I’m building something that could help people like them.”

As he heads for the door, the view through the window has shifted to show his hometown in Quezon—rice fields stretching to the horizon, a small cluster of houses with lights on in the windows. “They’re waiting for you,” Chinggu says softly. “They’ll understand.”

RJ nods, taking a deep breath before stepping out into the night. The street is quiet now, and the moon casts a silver glow over the cobblestones of Intramuros. In the distance, he can hear the sound of a guitar—someone playing a folk song about home and hope.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***