I attended the 5th grade, school year 1970-71, as a new student at Saint Andrew's School in Parañaque, then only a sleepy coastal town, now a full-pledged city. Earlier that year, in January, the family moved from Makati, into its own home in Las Piñas, Parañaque's neighbor. My brother Benjie and I had to finish the remainder of school year 1969-70 at Paco Catholic School in Manila. For more than two months, Dad drove us from Las Piñas to Paco each morning before going to work, and then collected us at midday to take us home. Mom's hot lunches always awaited us. Dad then went back to work after lunch. He didn't have a desk job, but was in selling and so was often on the road. It did the trick. Someone with a desk job would have been immediately fired for tardiness and extra long lunch breaks on a daily basis. Traffic jams were unheard of at the time, and the first global oil crisis was still some three years away. From our house to Makati took a mere 30 minutes; now it takes over an hour under normal traffic conditions, up to 2, 3 or more on a really bad day. Gasoline was something like 14 centavos a liter.
Kids have this remarkable ability to simplify things, and after a brief period of anxiety, Benjie and I became adjusted to our new school. I recall that during the first several weeks of the school year, Dad drove us to Saint Andrew's before going to work; and in the afternoon, Mom, with Brian and Benson in tow, would pick us up in a chartered motorized tricycle. My two younger brothers were 4 and 2, respectively. If I remember correctly, Brian attended kindergarten in the morning at the sole preschool in Philamlife Village, the nascent community we moved into. The chartered trike cost Mom some 10 or 15 pesos round trip. Oftentimes, even when I can clearly remember things, I find it difficult to believe that in the not-too-distant past, money had more value and went farther.
That school year was, for Benjie and myself, novel in many respects. As transferees, we enjoyed a certain stature, although I couldn't say it was all positive. Sometimes I felt that we were outsiders, more than anything else. But we made new friends, and had to let go of old ones from our former school. We simply had no other choice. We lived quite far away from our old neighborhood now, those ties had to be severed. Friendships sometimes have the appearance of being deep and lasting, but in truth are only maintained by the magic of convenience. Take the convenience away, and most friendships simply are not there.
There were three school buses, owned by a family in Las Piñas, that served the then still sparse number of students in the subdivision. They were referred to by their colors: The blue, orange, and red buses. Students who attended Saint Andrew's or Saint Paul, both in Parañaque, were transported by the blue and orange buses. Benjie and I rode on the orange bus, finally freeing Dad and Mom from the inconvenience of driving us to and picking us up from school. There were those who attended Saint Joseph's in Las Piñas, served by the red bus. On occasion, when a bus had mechanical problems, the other two buses covered for it. Saint Andrew's was then a boys' school; Saint Paul, one for girls; and Saint Joseph's was co-ed. Although both managed by the same religious congregation at the time, the standing joke was that if you flunked Saint Andrew's, you transferred to Saint Joseph's, and if you still flunked Saint Joseph's, then you ended up in a public school. At my age now, I consider this view as despicably elitist, but at the time, I have to admit, I relished being part of a somewhat exclusive academic group, although my performance was far from being "academic" at times and, if not for good fortune and proper timing, I would have been swiftly and appropriately dispatched to a public school.
As in most other Catholic schools of my time, Saint Andrew's had only one campus janitor, who was in charge of tidying up the premises. We boys called him "Mang Johnny," the two syllables of this first name pronounced very much like the first two syllables in "janitor." Looking back, I think calling him "Johnny" was rather cruel. I believe good and righteous conduct is mostly lost in the majority of the very young, and as they themselves become exposed to the cruelty of others, they can become anti-social and fight back, giving rise to the discovery of violence and intimidation as tools to use when dealing with others; or they can become meek, submissive, and afraid, resorting to using kindness and good manners to avoid conflict. This is why the facade of civilized behavior easily crumbles in the face of a breakdown of society, and it becomes each man to his own.
Mang Johnny, although robust for his age of I estimated to be sixty-something, wasn't expected to include the individual classrooms in his daily cleaning routines. The school then resorted to using its students for keeping all classrooms spic and span. As was usual, students in a classroom were seated in rows of about six pairs per row, with some four rows in a class. Each row was assigned a school week's worth of classroom cleaning duties, done in the afternoon, at the close of the school day: Sweeping the floor, dusting the chairs, cleaning the blackboard, emptying the trash bins, and waxing the floors on the final day of the school week, Friday.
It was during the second or third month of my fifth grade when my little "misfortune" happened. It was our row's turn to be class cleaners, and I assumed that our orange bus would wait for me. I assumed incorrectly. But Benjie was able to board it home, and young as he was back then, wasn't unduly alarmed by my absence. I was big brother, and was supposed to be looking after him, not the other way around. Having completed my tasks as a class cleaner, I hurriedly went out of the campus, and outside to the parking lot where the orange bus parked to wait for its passengers. It was nowhere to be seen. I remember shrugging the incident off as a minor misfortune, and placing great trust in the "emergency money" in my safekeeping. While Benjie and I didn't have any real need for spending money, as we daily had home-made sandwiches and complete lunches we brought to school, Mom made sure we had money for unforeseen and unexpected expenses, like buying school supplies, materials for projects, and fare money for situations exactly like this one I found myself in. Oftentimes, too, Benjie and I used part of the money to buy ourselves treats, like ice cream during lunch break, or pork rinds dipped in spicy vinegar. Mom regularly audited the fund and replenished it as necessary.
On discovering that the orange bus had left without me, I then crossed over to the other side of the road fronting the school and waited for a passenger jeepney. Then it dawned on me to check my wallet. It wasn't there. Not in the back pocket of my uniform trousers, nor in my school bag, or along my retraced paths. I can recall my rather calm and resigned decision to walk all the way home from school. I learned early on that, when faced with intimidating prospects, the best thing to do is to take the most logical path available, and simply hope for the best. And so I made myself ready for my hapless journey. I was packing a big, black, rigid wall school bag with a shoulder strap on which Mom sewed a length of soft cotton cloth to cushion my shoulders against the bag's punishing weight. She must have taken pity on my frail, sickly-looking frame. I don't know why most schools, then and now, find sadistic pleasure in requiring students to bring all their books, notebooks, and other school paraphernalia each day. I also had my tin Wild, Wild West lunchbox complete with an Aladdin thermos bottle, which I've recently discovered to be a collectible item today. This provides me with another glimpse into the difference between ordinary objects and people: With age, the former become prized and collectible; the latter, discardable. Finally, I had a thick, blue, hardbound dictionary, which I took with me to school that day for my Reading subject. I still have this dictionary at home; old, yellowed, and beat-up, missing its front cover and some pages, always a reminder for me of the lessons from this experience.
Thunderstorm
I knew then that I should walk on the side of the road facing traffic, and so I started out on the left side. But after some time I felt that the sight of oncoming vehicles somewhat slowed me down, and so I moved to the right side, and stayed on this side for the entirety of my journey. I focused on the task of walking, with only little concern for my safety, as traffic whizzed past me from behind. Was I totally careless at the time, or was I hopeful and trusting that some unseen power was at work, keeping me safe? It could be that sometimes faith disguises itself as some kind of a death wish.
I was totally alright the first several minutes and probably five hundred meters of walking, and then my loads felt progressively heavy. My school bag's strap, slung on my right shoulder, felt like it was gnawing at my bone and flesh. I countered part of the weight by occasionally lifting the bag using my right arm, and by tilting my body forward and to the left. My left hand clutched my tin lunchbox, and partly, the bound side of the dictionary; with the rest of my arm pressing the dictionary against my body. I wasn't heavy-set as a young boy; in fact, I was thin, frail, and sickly, and I must have been a strange spectacle for motorists and pedestrians alike, the boy with the heavy loads, walking from and to they knew not where.
Just as I was approaching Kabihasnan, La Huerta's neighboring barangay, a thunderstorm came to pass. I was caught out in the open and was drenched. I found shelter in an overhang of a gated private compound, the Guevarra Compound, if I recall correctly. The heavy downpour lasted close to half an hour, and it gave me the opportunity to put my loads down and recover. It was then I discovered that my white shirt uniform had been stained blue by my dictionary's cover. I remembered my little mishap of an adventure each time I wore that stained shirt the remainder of the school year, although the stain was considerably minimized by Mom's laundry skills.
While waiting out the thunderstorm, I dwelt on a lot of things; like what got me in that situation in the first place. If I had been more careful with my wallet, then I would have been home safe and sound and well-fed, having feasted on toasts spread with State Fair margarine, and a glass of cold milk, which were Mom's, I would say, traditional school day afternoon snack. But blaming myself, coupled with a lot of ifs, were the order of the day at the onset. After a while, though, I realized they got me nowhere nearer my destination. I didn't resort to self-pity either, although I remember an occasion when I did: I got a very serious and harsh scolding by Dad on my 10th or 11th birthday, and I simply cried myself to sleep. But that is another story altogether.
On the Outside Looking In (Passing By Reynaldo Suliguin's Home)
After the thunderstorm, it was time to continue my journey home. My clothes and loads were wet, and I felt a bit cold. It wasn't an ordinary kind of cold, but something of aloneness. It has left an imprint in my memory, and each time I find myself alone against intimidating odds, with little or no help from anyone, and the gloomiest of prospects, I feel exactly the same way. I marvel at the way memories are roused by certain stimuli.
Rey Suliguin was one of my first acquaintances in the new school. I remember him as a likeable, curious, and helpful fellow, always on the ready to answer my inquiries. It probably helped that his family name always preceded mine in the class roll call. Suliguin. Present! Sulit. Present! When I passed by their home, the middle unit in a row of apartments which they owned, along the national road, almost fronting the Saulog Bus terminal, whose drivers gained notoriety from their reckless driving, he was watching cartoons with his siblings. I recognized his voice. I momentarily slowed down, and thought that I, too, should have been home that same instant, watching cartoons or having a conversation with Mom on the day's events. It also occurred to me to knock on the Suliguins' door and borrow fare money, but I didn't. Instead, I picked up my pace and continued on my way home. Early on, I was proud, and have always wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible. I can be gone a long time, and most people will hardly notice. Which is quite good, if you ask me.
From the Suliguin home I pressed on. It was getting dark and I wondered if I could be home in time for dinner. Sometimes the way to make sense of the world is through pure simplicity. Dinner instead of possibly getting hit by a car and dying on the roadside. Or perhaps I was shortsighted, as I am now, focused on the mundane, delving a lot on the past, and resigned to the future.
Haven
My strength was now ebbing fast, and I needed to rest more often. I rested by stopping for a few seconds, and putting down my loads. My right shoulder and both arms felt abused and sore. As I neared St. Joseph's School, it was almost dark, and the headlamps of cars from behind made me cast a long, graceful shadow on the road in front of me. At times it amused me momentarily, taking my mind off my burdens.
St. Joseph's was by now a dark, empty campus. I could see the faint light from inside its famous church, most probably from altar lighting; the daily evening Mass was now over. I then felt I had to rest, not just awhile, for the final push homeward. I found myself a somewhat cozy nook, the concrete steps leading to a small bank or medical clinic, sheltered by an overhang. I put down my loads and sat. An immense sense of relief coursed through my body.
Various thoughts also coursed through my mind. Funny now, but I think I was feeling more inconvenienced than afraid. I missed my bus, my afternoon snack, and my cartoons. What was for dinner? I wondered. And was Dad already home? How could he have missed me if he had taken the same route? Or maybe he took another? After more than an hour (or was it two?) I knew I had to leave the safety and comfort of that sheltered spot.
I stood up, lifted my loads, and resumed walking. I felt a bit replenished. But after a hundred meters or so, my loads weighed me down again. I was simply tired; and now I felt thirst and hunger. My tin lunchbox rattled, a sign that it was empty. I met people along the way but I didn't matter to them, or they, to me. They most likely lived nearby, out on an errand or something. Occasionally, I smelled food frying, and heard people's voices from inside their homes. One very peculiar thing here and elsewhere is houses very close to the road. It is as if the houses came first, and they had to cut a swath in them to build the road. Talk about maximizing space, but I believe it doesn't provide very well for privacy.
Salt Beds
I finally was near to rounding up that bend that I considered as a landmark in Las Piñas. South-bound, as one was about to round that bend heading left, there was a longish town plaza on the right, with a concrete stage, where special town presentations, contests, and the like were held; and this area became alive and colorful at the approach of the Christmas season because it was where "parols" or star lanterns were sold. I'm not sure if this still is the case nowadays, as it has been decades since I last set foot on this place. As I reminisce all these, I actually have the urge to one day retrace my steps in this unusual, once-in-a-lifetime journey, to look for all the landmarks that are still there, or to discover what had replaced them. I hope I can devote time to this endeavor before it's time for me to go.
Rounding up the bend, I came upon two of the largest salt beds at the time, to my left and right, and which helped put the then town of Las Piñas on the national map and consciousness. This stretch of road was dark and unlit, with the next lamp post not until the historic bridge spanning the Zapote River, where a public elementary school could be seen on the right, just before the bridge's approach.
Traversing this lonely stretch presented me with a panorama straight out of a wary dream or a feverish hallucination. There were momentary lightning flashes, probably remnants of the thunderstorm earlier, or another storm brewing. The flashes illumined the salt beds in a weak, ghostly light, and gave rise to a landscape quite difficult to describe, but added to the loneliness of a weary traveler. Occasionally, the headlamps from an oncoming car, or one coming up from behind would pierce the loneliness with artificial light. I must have appeared as a young boy with a purpose, trying to discover something in that dark, lonely stretch of road, rather than someone who needed help. If I remember correctly, there were merely two motorists who pulled over and asked me if I needed a ride home. To both of them, I said no, and on that day I knew why I did so. Most of us are always on the lookout for once-in-a-lifetime adventures and opportunities, and I must have found one of mine that day.
I finally reached the bridge, and the street lights now resumed at more or less regular intervals. Street lighting at the time was either whitish or bluish, and certainly pale and weak, so very unlike the strong, amber, all-weather ones nowadays. Today's street lighting bathes areas with a kind of warmth that helps dispel depression; yesteryear's made things look a bit more desolate, sickly, and surreal, if not already so. But they made surroundings look rural, and went very well with strong breezes and the rustling of leaves. I crossed the bridge over to the other side. It wasn't a very long bridge, but it was a kind of milestone for me, a marker for the succeeding phase of my journey.
Unforgettable Kindness
I was now effectively in Pulanglupa town, and by this time I was way past my threshold of pain. My shoulder was sore, bruised even, from lugging my heavy school bag, but I felt it as the smallest wound, worthy of only brief attention and concern. One learns to lick his wounds and live with them. Life is so far from perfection. We always have something we worry and complain about, something we want but cannot obtain, or we could've but passed up. Like my heavy school bag, we always lug them around, bruising our souls and our egos. It is not to say that we should forget lessons learned but, on occasion, we should put them down and obtain some measure of relief.
Pulanglupa was another town that devoted substantial acreage to salt beds. I'm assuming that most of them, if not all, are gone now, having given way to unstoppable development. I will find out when I retrace this journey one of these days. It was also home to Sarao Motors, the first and original producer of the Filipino icon both loved and hated, and used each day, the jeepney. Sarao Motors is now effectively defunct, falling victim to the harsh realities of doing business. It began losing steam when its founder passed away. All good and great things come to pass. No exceptions.
Southbound, Sarao Motors is on the right, flanked by salt beds on its left and right. But before you passed those salt beds, you came across Naga Road on the left. In later years I discovered, on my bicycle, that this road linked to one of the largest residential development back then, the Manuela Subdivision, which actually was almost a next-door neighbor to Philamlife Village. I loved biking along this road, which I considered a circuitous shortcut between two towns, Pulanglupa and Pamplona.
I passed Sarao Motors and its dimly-lit jeepney showroom, and wondered when my long and difficult journey home would culminate. I, of course, knew it would, I just didn't know when or how. It was faith, I think, or plain obstinacy. The distinction between these two is sometimes a blur. I was more like slogging now because of exhaustion. I could hardly make out the outlines of the salt beds on my right because this stretch was unlit, save for the faint light from one or two lamp posts on the other side.
Then it happened. He came out of nowhere, or so I thought; a dark-skinned, nondescript man driving a run-down, smoky, two-stroke tricycle. He was northbound, at breakneck speed for a trike; I was heading in the opposite direction, on the other side, homeward-bound. I could tell he was also on his way home, probably from making a living the whole day, or from an errand. He was perhaps looking forward to resting his tired bones, as I was. I dismissed him, in the same manner I dismiss those who or which I think cannot be of any help or significance to me. At an early age, I had all the makings of a politician but, unfortunately, I failed to capitalize on it. If I did, then I would have become rich, famous, and despicable. I pressed on, dinner and bed in mind to keep me motivated. We each should have something to inspire us in the drudgery of existence, be it grand or trivial; something to pine for or hold on to, something to help pull us through, if not wholly, then at least partially.
The man who looked mediocre and insignificant did something I totally didn't expect. I never flagged him down or anything, nor looked beseechingly in his direction. I was way past the halfway mark now, and was bent on getting home through walking the rest of the way, in whatever conditions prevailed and with nary a care for whichever obstacles remained. He slowed down, then stopped and asked me in a yell if I needed a ride home. I wasn't surprised that I said yes. I was plain exhausted. From across the road, he maneuvered to my side, and after mumbling my destination, I got in the trike.
Notwithstanding its dilapidated condition, the trike felt like the most comfortable of them all. The seat, with its cheap and lumpy upholstery, felt luxurious. The clickety-clack of the two-stroke became rhythmic, sweet, and soporific. I fought with my best the desire to just let everything go and fall asleep, so that I could continue giving directions to the man. I wondered what he thought; or my predicament could have been quite obvious and no questions needed to be asked. It was tacit understanding. I trusted the man, but he was a total stranger. Or was he? He lent an aura of confidence to the manner he drove his trike, and of kindness to that very act of taking me home. Inside the trike it felt like a safe haven, with the flapping of those transparent plastic tarps to keep out rain, and road imperfections and bumps, all conniving to produce an almost hypnotic kind of regularity.
When the man finally got me home, I found it abuzz and ready to spring into action. The lights outside were lit, and at the first sound of the trike's motor, and the first clang of the steel gate's handle, the front door flew open, and out rushed Dad and Mom. I found out that they were all set to launch some kind of a search party to locate me, possibly involving the local police, if the need arose. I matter-of-factly told them that I missed the school bus and lost my wallet with all the emergency money in it. Attention centered on me, naturally, and the man was almost completely forgotten. Mom mistakenly assumed that I rode on the man's tricycle only from the village entrance up to our home, and so paid the man 50 centavos, the fare for the distance. I was too exhausted to rectify Mom's mistake, so that she could pay the man what was rightfully due him.
The man never complained or explained. He accepted the fare and thanked Mom. Never saw him again after that. Never thanked him for his kind and generous heart. If he had a wife, then I was quite sure he loved her dearly. If he had children, then I knew they were brought up well, steeped in character and dignity. I was a total stranger, and he was concerned that I got home safe and sound. He could have chosen to ignore my plight. I could have died that night; it was rather very late, the roads slippery from the drizzle of another impending downpour, and dark from poor lighting. A frail, little boy walking on the wrong side of the road, exhausted and wobbly from his heavy loads, could easily have been missed by a motorist, impatient and speeding towards his destination.
I am probably fated to live to a ripe, old age (Not too old, I hope.), as there have been several instances of "near misses" in my childhood. As an infant I was very sickly, and I remember Mom told me that whatever miniscule savings they had went to my medical expenses. She said that there was even a time when I got so sick, and my doctor told them that if I did not regain consciousness within a particular night then I certainly would be dead by morning the next day. Dad and Mom kept vigil, and I woke up and cried in the morning's wee hours, and went on to fully recover. I also can still very clearly recall two occasions (the first one when I was about 4, the second one when I was between 5 and 6) when I ran after some coins I accidentally dropped and they rolled and stopped right in the middle of the street, and as I stooped to pick them up, I heard the screeching of tires and, looking up, saw, on both occasions, the bumper and grille of a car, and heard the angry and panicked remarks of its driver. These events were portents of what my life would become: A never-ending pursuit of money that could end up as threatening to either life or health, or both. That's a good one, I think.
I was also scratched, bitten, and mauled by an angry monkey. I have an elder cousin on Mom's side of the family, Arthur, and they had this primate caught in the hinterlands of Davao province, and which was being reared as a pet by my grandfather in the town of Marilao in Bulacan province. It was here where I spent the first years of my childhood, and where our family first had a home before I attended any school. The animal had its own loft with a "monkey house," and was secured to the contraption by a chain originally meant as a dog leash. One morning, my cousin and I had nothing better to do other than provoke the primate by poking it with a stick. My cousin actually did the poking as he was tall enough to do it. I enthused over this mischief. I was maybe 4 at the time, but I clearly remember that the monkey hissed, gnarled, and bared its canines. We probably looked at it as an experiment on cause and effect. Poke the monkey and see what happens. Test limits. The primate reached its breaking point, and so did the chain restricting its range. We didn't notice, but when the now rabid monkey quickly went down from its loft, we knew we were in trouble. My cousin then said that we should now run for our lives. He quickly outpaced me since he was bigger and faster. I was left at the monkey's mercy. I outran the rabid animal for a while, and then it caught up with me, and started pawing and nipping at me with fearsome paws and canines. I then let out a panicked shriek, an unearthly cry of grave fear, and Mom heard me. She burst out from the house, and realizing the danger I was in, immediately lifted me with both arms and held me as high as possible. The idea was to keep me away from the rabid primate. But it was crazed with anger now and was focused on taking revenge, and it clambered up Mom, stepping on her shoulders and head, and continued clawing and nipping at me. My grandfather heard my mom's cries for help, and went to our rescue. I think what he did was to hit the monkey hard with a blunt object, and it fell down, semi-unconscious. My grandfather then decided to give the monkey away to the town barber, Mang Itoy, who also gave it away because the rascal got hold of safety matches and almost burned down his home cum barber shop. For several days (or was it weeks?) after that, I had to endure the pain and fear of daily anti-rabies vaccines. I remember trying to hide under tables and inside clothes cabinets to escape the daily shots, but I was always found out. I then daily cried all the way from our house to the municipal health clinic, a good 200 meters away or thereabouts.
There have been countless other mishaps in my life, many of them I consider as near-misses and life threatening. Some were the result of folly, or naivety, or ill fortune; some, of microbes and their attendant illnesses. But I'm still around. I'm possibly plain lucky or durable, or simply destined to last longer than some. But there are times when I think, and believe, that interventions to the possibilities of my early demise were clockwork-perfect and, therefore, unnatural; like things, persons, and situations materialized out of nowhere, sent for my timely rescue. We are all beneficiaries of these what I call "providential rescuers," but most of the time we don't see them as such. We lump them with everything that happens and should happen each day. But on closer analysis, they stand out; they do not belong. Of course, a lot of evil still happen everyday, with no apparent rescue from them. Why are we rescued sometimes, and at certain times, we're not? This, for me, is one of life's mysteries.
