The barrio of Tumaga in Zamboanga City, Philippines is where I was born. The tumaga river ran through our 1.7 hectare (4.2 acres) property in TumagaPorCentro. The land was fertile, flora and fauna was plentiful and wild. Growing up as a Tumaga boy was a blessing from God.
This will be my attempt at writing down whatever comes to memory.
Stories:
I must have been 4 years old. I was left alone in the second floor of our house. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms, separated only by a curtain. The sole entrance to those rooms was through a single main door which was locked. I don’t remember why I was locked upstairs alone. Must have been for a nap time or a long time out. All I remember is being unable to leave and hearing the sounds of laughter and bustling activity coming from the west side of the house.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn’t resist peeking through a small hole in the wall. The wall was constructed from sawali, a type of bamboo material. Outside, I saw children running around while adults gathered around a crackling fire, engaged in the process of butchering a pig. Eager to witness more, I distinctly recall climbing up onto the west bay window. The window itself had wooden grills on all sides, preventing anyone from climbing in or out. To my young eyes, that window seemed immense, although in reality, it was just a modest 5×5 bay window.
Standing there, my small hands tightly grasping the grills, I shouted desperately, hoping someone would hear me. They did hear my cries, but nobody came to my “rescue”. Overwhelmed by a mix of frustration, fear, and loneliness, I remember tears streaming down my face, unable to comprehend why I had been left alone in that moment.
My mother took me shopping downtown. We boarded the ZamtranCo bus#20 for the journey, which felt quite long to me. The bus driver, known as Ñor “Ko,” lived in the hilly area near our home. One of his children, Luis, happened to be a good friend of mine.
As Mama and I arrived at the clothing store downtown, I was immediately drawn to its entrance with its four white pillars. While my mother went inside to shop, I ventured outside and began playing around those pillars. People passing by looked at me with curiosity, as I seemed different from most Zamboangueños. With my fair complexion, very light brown hair (almost blonde), and a freckled face that turned red when I became active, I remained unaware of my distinctive appearance. It was during this time that a lady emerged from the store, caught hold of me, and informed me that my mother was worried and searching for me. Once reunited with Mama, she scolded me for wandering off. I was about five years old at the time.
After our visit to the clothing store, mama decided to head towards the nearby market, locally known as “magay.” It was conveniently located within walking distance from the shopping store. As Mama focused on purchasing dried fish and bargaining for the lowest price (Mama loved to haggle). Meanwhile, I couldn’t resist the temptation to explore further and found myself drawn towards the street where the buses were parked. Coincidentally, this particular spot was situated right across from the police station. Guided by curiosity, I began to wander amidst the buses.
It was at this moment that an older lady called out to me, insisting that my mother wanted me to board the bus and that my mother would join us shortly. Trusting her words without hesitation, I allowed her to take hold of my hand and guide me onto the bus. Little did I know that this bus was headed somewhere other than Tumaga, our intended destination. This particular bus had benches for seating and a rail on one side of the bus that allowed the conductor to move from the front to the back, collecting bus fares along the way. I settled beside the window, patiently waiting for my mother as instructed. Intrigued by my surroundings, I couldn’t resist the urge to stick my head out of the window, hoping to gain a better view of the bustling scene.
Suddenly, I heard someone call out my name, “Ri” (my nickname), asking where “Lianing” (my mother’s nickname) was. The person who called me was Peñang, a woman who lived in Tumaga, just across the street from us.
I responded, indicating that I didn’t know. Due to the noisy engine of the bus, she raised her voice and asked loudly, “Who are you with?” I stood up and pointed to the woman next to me. Peñang screamed and leaped onto the bus, resulting in a struggle. It’s worth noting that Peñang was quite petite, standing at around 4’7″ and weighing about 90 pounds. Despite her small size, she fearlessly pushed the other woman, hurling all the insults and obscenities at her in the Chavacano language.
Peñang prevented the attempted abduction and rescued me from the bus, while my mother, having heard the commotion, deduced that it was related to me, as she had been anxiously searching everywhere. As I saw my mother rushing towards us, I knew I was in deep trouble once again. People instinctively cleared a path for her—she was a formidable figure when worried and angry. Standing at least 5’8″ tall and possessing great strength, she forcefully made her way through the crowd.
There was a silent atmosphere during our ride back to Tumaga. However, after some time, Mama eased the tension by giving me some candy.
My fourth oldest sister, Bessie, was occupied with the task of filling the banga with water. We relied on a deep well equipped with a hand pump. Bessie diligently pumped water into a bucket and then poured it into the banga, which was already resting on the pajagat. Eager to help, I did my best to assist with the pumping, holding onto the handle with all my might. Looking back, I realize I probably annoyed Bessie more than anything. All I can recall is that we were embarking on a trip to Putik to deliver essential supplies and water to my father.
My father had built a small house in Putik, accompanied by a splendid garden that had earned quite a reputation among locals. It flourished with a variety of vegetables and flowers. I vividly remember the presence of a pond, perpetually brimming with water, and a grand Sampaloc tree gracefully adorning its side. During the rainy season, the pond would be teeming with frogs. As a five-year-old, frogs held a special fascination for me.
The journey itself was an adventure. I was instructed to fetch Pito, our carabao, and I can’t recall which of my older sisters had Pito hitched to the pajagat. We didn’t follow any conventional roads but instead traversed private properties that belonged to our cousins, the Ramillanos. There was a particular stretch of land that remained perpetually dark, even in the middle of the day. It was densely populated with lanzones trees, creating an almost impenetrable canopy. Emerging from the labyrinth of lush foliage, daylight reappeared. Pito, strong and reliable, was guided by Bessie, while I enjoyed the ride on the pajagat.
Putik sat at a higher elevation than TumagaporCentro, and along the way, I noticed areas with clay-like soil. Recent rainfall had left the path muddy and sticky, making our journey slightly more challenging. Only one house neighbored my father’s place, its distance seemingly elongated by the presence of thick bushes, shrubs, and trees. Bessie recognized the neighbor, and they exchanged friendly waves and words before continuing.
We finally arrived at Papa’s house. Papa was not known for his jovial nature, but I greeted him nonetheless. Though he offered a smile, a warm embrace was absent from the encounter. The process of unloading the water and transferring it from one container to another escapes my memory. What remains vivid is the joy I experienced while leading Pito to a designated area for him to rest. Papa’s house was nestled on a hilly side, granting me ample opportunity to revel in the thrill of running from one end to the other. Occasionally, I would pause by the pond, delighting in the mischief of disturbing the frogs. From the hill’s vantage point, I could gaze upon the towering Banuang tree in Tumaga, a prominent landmark in Zamboanga, reaching an astounding height of over 250 feet.
News spread that my sister Joyce was preparing to embark on the journey of marriage. Whispers and discussions amongst my sisters filled the air. One question lingered: Who would take over Joyce’s room? We all shared the second floor of our home, with Joyce and James having their own rooms while the rest of us, a group of six, slept together in the neighboring room, sprawled across the floor. In Joyce’s room, there was a bed, a luxurious privilege that we didn’t have. Instead, we relied on mats, pillows, and blankets spread across the floor. Each morning, the mats would be neatly folded, and the blankets and pillows would find their place stacked in Joyce’s room.
The excitement within our household grew as the day of Joyce’s wedding approached. She was on the cusp of turning 21, radiating beauty that outshone even our other stunning sisters. Though they were all remarkable in their own right, Joyce held a regal air that captivated us all.
It happened to be the rainy season, coinciding with the luscious mango season. Reflecting upon the timeline, it must have been June of 1957. I was a tender age of six, consumed with a single desire—to head to the river and indulge in playful adventures.
Soon enough, I received the news that I would serve as the ring bearer during the wedding. Naïve to the concept of a ring bearer, I embraced the role with unadulterated joy, primarily because it entailed acquiring a brand-new pair of leather shoes, pants, and a smart shirt—a wardrobe fit for the occasion.
The wedding ceremony took place at the venerable Bayot hotel, nestled by the sea. Its antiquated charm lent an enchanting backdrop to the matrimonial celebrations, further heightening the anticipation and splendor of the moment.
After my father fell ill, he left his rest house in Putik and returned to Tumaga. I was nearly six years old at the time, which I believe was late 1956, as I have a clear memory of my siblings caroling him by the window on Christmas Eve.
Having my father in Tumaga and being able to see him every day filled me with immense joy. Classical music was his passion, and he had a collection of classical records. Among his favorites was “Les Toreadors.” I can still picture him sitting in his favorite chair, placing the phonograph on the small coffee table, winding it up, carefully setting the needle on the record, and conducting along with the music. The sight and sound remain etched in my mind.
Sadly, my father passed away in August 1958 when I was seven years old.
Despite being a mere six years old, a strong longing to attend school burned within me. Alas, the entry age requirement mandated a minimum of seven years. Birth certificates were not yet compulsory, so a peculiar practice arose as an alternative. The age-old tradition of touching one’s ear by curling the arm over the head became the yardstick for admission. Regrettably, my tender stature rendered me unable to achieve this feat.
Yearning to join my elder brother Al in his educational journey, I took matters into my own hands one fateful day, near the conclusion of the school year, around March or April. Following Al’s footsteps, I ventured into his first-grade classroom during the afternoon session. As the clock struck one o’clock, signalled by the whistle from the nearby ice plant, all students were expected to be in class. However, due to inclement weather or other circumstances, I was instructed to wait for my brother outside the classroom. Excitement filled my being as I lingered in the hallway.
It was during this fortuitous moment that Mrs. Mendoza, the teacher, emerged from the classroom and graciously invited me to join the class as an observer. Overwhelmed with delight, I eagerly accepted her offer. Taking a seat beside a fellow student who diligently inscribed his name on paper, I discovered an extra pencil and sheet at my disposal. Inspired, I proudly wrote my own name, “HARRY.” Mrs. Mendoza, already acquainted with my brother Al as a bright and diligent student, soon learned of my inability to enroll due to the age requirement. As fortune would have it, the school year was scheduled to commence in June, a mere three months away. Seizing the opportunity, Mrs. Mendoza decided to take me in as an “alimbunan,” a follower, for the remainder of the school year. Thus, for the majority of the days until the year’s end, I participated in first grade as an “alimbunan.” This unique arrangement persisted for approximately two weeks.
When June finally arrived and the new school year began, Mrs. Mendoza extended her generosity once again, granting me the opportunity to continue as an “alimbunan” during a trial period. As weeks passed, my progress caught Mrs. Mendoza’s attention, prompting her to discuss my case with the principal. To my delight, I was ultimately accepted as a permanent student, marking the realization of my fervent desire to embark on my educational journey alongside my fellow classmates.
The exact moment when I first encountered the pitikan, a trusty sling shot, eludes my memory. It seems that for as long as I can recall, I have always had one in my possession, often hanging around my neck as a faithful companion. Whenever boredom gripped me, I would make my way to the nearby river, particularly during the summer when its waters ran shallow and teemed with river moss, rendering it less inviting for swimming but ideal for fishing. I would position myself on the riverbank, surrounded by an abundance of pebbles, and devote my time to honing my shooting skills with the sling shot. Engaging in this pursuit brought me immense joy.
While there were no formal competitions for sling shot shooting, I developed a remarkable level of proficiency with my pitikan. Birds, insects, snakes, and even the elusive river lizards known as ibit became my targets. Our neighbors, the Bulaons, had an unfortunate habit of discarding their empty canned goods containers onto our property behind our house, resulting in an unsightly mess. On occasion, I would venture to that area and take aim at the cans, indulging in a satisfying display of accuracy. Sometimes, I would cross the barbed wire and hog wire fence, venturing into the company of Myrna, a girl a year younger than me. She would enthusiastically toss the tin cans, providing me with delightful shooting challenges. Occasionally, my friend Arturo, who was two years my senior and a close associate of my brother Al, would join us in our playful escapades.
Many a time, I would venture into the enchanting bamboo grove situated on the opposite side of the river. Towering clumps of bamboo dominated the landscape, creating a haven of shade and respite from the direct sun. It was in this sanctuary that I would embark on bird hunts, stealthily navigating the dense foliage in pursuit of my winged targets.
In the past, our coffee grove predominantly comprised Robusta trees that had stood tall on the land even before my parents became its proud owners. Every year, I would join my sisters in the laborious task of harvesting coffee berries. Afterward, my mother would diligently dry them, skillfully using a large mortar and pestle to separate the dried skin from the precious seeds. These seeds were carefully stored, awaiting the moment when they would be roasted and brewed into a satisfying cup of coffee. My world revolved around those robusta coffee trees, until a serendipitous encounter changed everything.
During my first-grade years, I befriended a classmate who happened to live just a short half-kilometer distance from us. Their humble nipa hut was nestled beneath the sprawling branches of a majestic giant banuang tree, overlooking the serene flow of the tumaga river.
One fateful day, I paid my friend a visit, and together, we embarked on a playful adventure. Captivated by the sight of a cluster of majestic trees, towering high like small mango trees near their residence, a compelling idea sparked within me—could these be coffee trees? Curiosity getting the better of me, I inquired about them. To my delight, my friend confirmed that they were indeed “cafe beria,” a different kind of coffee. Eager to introduce me to this novelty, he proposed that we taste the fruit.
Initially hesitant, I considered the effort involved in extracting the sweetness from the small coffee berries. However, my friend persisted, emphasizing the size of the tree and its climbable branches. Intrigued, we ascended the coffee tree, where my friend plucked a ripe berry and handed it to me. To my astonishment, the berry was as big as a marble, at least three times larger than the familiar coffee berries I knew.
Filled with unwavering excitement, I eagerly bit into the fruit, being mindful to avoid the seed, and savored its delightfully meaty texture and heavenly flavor. Rolling the seeds around in my mouth, I extracted every last bit of sweetness and goodness before swiftly spitting them out. With a renewed sense of delight, I continued picking more berries. Intrigued by the tree’s ability to bear ripe fruit even outside the coffee fruit-bearing season, I turned to my friend for an explanation. To my surprise, he was unable to provide an answer, but he did inform me that this particular tree produced fruit throughout the year, adding to the mystique of our delightful Liberica coffee adventures.
From that day forward, I became a frequent visitor to my friend’s nipa house, and like a pair of mischievous little monkeys, we would climb that magnificent tree, plucking and indulging in the flavorful Liberica (Cafe beria) fruit. It became our secret haven, where we delighted in the abundance of nature’s gift and created lasting memories.
The white van roamed the streets of Tumaga, announcing an exciting free show set to take place across from Tumaga Elementary School in the evening. Excitement filled the air as people from all over the village began making their way to the designated area, about a kilometer from our house. Among the crowd were my friends, cousins, brothers, and sisters, eagerly anticipating the upcoming event.
As the newsreel started playing, I couldn’t recall the specifics of its content. All I can vividly remember is the main show: boxing. The screen displayed the old championship fights of Rocky Graziano and Rocky Marciano, fights that had taken place years ago. Yet, I found myself enthusiastically cheering for my two boxing champions, the two Rockys. Watching their matches ignited a spark within me, igniting a desire to learn the sport.
My brother James shared the same passion for boxing, and he came up with a unique idea. He decided to make boxing gloves out of blue jeans stuffed with cotton. James sought assistance from his girlfriend’s mother, a seamstress, who skillfully fashioned two pairs of gloves for him. These handmade gloves, though lightweight at only 6 ounces, would soon become the catalyst for our boxing adventures.
Young men from the neighborhood flocked to try on those gloves, engaging in spirited sparring sessions. However, the gloves’ thin padding resulted in bloody noses and mouths. Despite the less-than-ideal protection, we were undeterred. My brother James took on the role of our boxing instructor, enforcing strict discipline.
Under James’ guidance, we began our boxing training with shadow boxing. Alvin, with his quick hands, focused on perfecting his jabs. Edwin, known for his brawling style, worked on harnessing his strength. As for me, the runt of the group, James challenged me to channel the fighting spirit of Rocky Marciano and Rocky Graziano from the movies we had watched. I embraced the role, practicing my shadow boxing skills wherever I went. Alongside Al, I quickly developed our boxing techniques.
Word spread throughout the village about our boxing endeavors, and boys my age would come seeking a challenge. Ed wasted no time in inviting them to spar with me, knowing that I always had a steady stream of challengers. Some of the older and larger boys overpowered me, but I never backed down. Al, on the other hand, rarely found challengers as his skills proved formidable. Even Ed, with his impressive abilities, had few contenders.
To enhance our stamina, James incorporated swimming into our training regimen. He would take us, his three younger brothers, to the deep end of the river (area called paso ingo) for rigorous swimming sessions lasting nearly two hours. These sessions were focused solely on training, leaving no room for play.
We were fortunate to have a basketball court, thanks to the efforts of Joyce’s husband, Ernie and Jame’s friends who helped built the basketball court. The court became a gathering place for the young boys and men, fostering a sense of community. It also served as an opportunity to find worthy sparring partners for our boxing sessions. After a basketball game, the gloves would come out, and the boxing matches would commence.
James soon found himself in a predicament. To secure sparring partners for either Al or me, he had to offer payment of 10 centavos. Later, even with the bribery of 10 centavos. There were no challengers left.
Al rarely needed to employ his boxing skills for self-defense, as nobody dared to tease or provoke him. However, I, with my American-like appearance, became a target for taunting and bullying. They called me “cano pul-pul”, meaning a fake American. Consequently, I found myself in fights almost every week, relying on my boxing skills to defend myself.
Strangely enough, whenever my brother Ed and Al witnessed me in a fight, they remained as spectators in the crowd, not intervening to assist. Kids would gather around to witness the scuffle, while Ed and Al remained on the sidelines.
When I was just a young child of eight, my older brother James, who was twenty at the time, embarked on a remarkable endeavor—to plant coconut trees on our family’s land. Recognizing the magnitude of the task, he sought the assistance of his three younger brothers, Ed, Al, and myself.
With youthful enthusiasm and a sense of shared purpose, we gathered together, ready to transform our barren plot of land into a thriving coconut plantation. James, filled with knowledge and determination, guided us through the process step by step.
As we stood side by side, the age gaps between us seemingly irrelevant, James outlined the importance of each role. He emphasized the significance of planting the coconut trees with care, ensuring proper spacing and alignment. Al, Ed, and I eagerly absorbed every instruction, ready to contribute our energy and strength to the project.
James, displaying the wisdom of his years, offered invaluable advice at every turn. He taught us the importance of patience, reminding us that great things take time to grow and flourish. With unwavering determination, we pressed on, confident that our collective efforts would yield fruitful results.
To create a harmonious coconut grove, James meticulously planned to space the trees seven meters apart, forming a perfect square. Armed with a long stick, he marked the precise spots where the holes should be dug. And in a stroke of ingenuity, James enlisted us, his three younger brothers, as living guideposts. Standing in a line, we helped him ensure that the coconuts would be planted in impeccable alignment.
And so, the digging began. The three of us took on the majority of the work, armed with a post hole digger. I would ride the digger, using my weight to provide traction, while Al and Ed turned it, gradually excavating the soil. Since it was summer, the digging became an enjoyable task. We would pause for breaks, relishing our visits to Tia Adriana’s nearby sari-sari store, where we indulged in biscuits. With tea in hand, we would fuel ourselves before embarking on refreshing swims in the nearby Tumaga River.
This routine continued for three weeks, until all the holes had been dug. James would then go from hole to hole, expanding them further with the help of a spade. We waited patiently until late May, when the first rains of the season began to fall, signaling the perfect time for James to plant the coconut trees.
As the years passed, those coconut trees grew tall and strong, becoming an enduring symbol of our unity and perseverance. James had to leave for the USA to join the US Navy, but his legacy remained deeply rooted in the land he nurtured with his own hands.
By the time I reached high school, the coconut trees began to bear fruit, their bountiful yield bringing in additional income for our family. We marveled at the abundance they provided, a testament to James’ selfless service to our household.
Looking back, I am filled with gratitude for the vision and determination my brother James displayed during that transformative time. He taught us the power of unity and the significance of working towards a common goal. And though we were just a group of young brothers, we embarked on an adventure that would shape our lives and bond us together in ways we could never have imagined.
Those coconut trees stood tall, not only providing us with financial stability but also reminding us of the remarkable journey we undertook as a family. James’ legacy lives on through those trees, a living testament to his unwavering dedication and the profound impact he had on our lives.
When electricity finally reached our section of the Barrio, our cousin “Pi” (Felipe Ramillano), who worked for the city’s electric company and was a close friend of Jim, took it upon himself to ensure the proper installation of the electrical connection in our house. At that time, I was in 4th grade, around ten years old, observing Pi as he personally took charge of the installation.
My brother Al was fascinated by the electric company employees and constantly asked questions to Pi, whom we affectionately called Tio Pi despite him being just a cousin. He was much older than us, and respect was highly valued in our family. Al eagerly observed as the wires were connected, his curiosity piqued.
Mama had the light bulbs ready, filled with excitement. We had spent so long relying on candles and kerosene lamps, studying under their dim glow as moths fluttered around. Every day, we had to clean the soot from the glass before lighting them up. Although we had a petromax, we seldom used it due to the expensive filament. The kerosene lamp pbiroved to be more economical in the long run.
Mama handed the light bulb to Pi because she was afraid of mishandling it while screwing it into the socket. As Pi flicked the switch and the light illuminated the room, we all cheered. That night marked the first time we had electric light in our house. However, certain areas of the house remained unwired, so we still relied on the kerosene lamps.
Al wasn’t content with having electricity in only a portion of the house. He disliked the idea of an incomplete electrical setup, but we were on a tight budget and electricity was an additional expense we hadn’t accounted for. We needed to come up with the extra funds.
That’s when Al came up with a plan. He told Mama that he would take care of wiring the rest of the house himself, at no cost to the family. I asked Al how he planned to do it, and he explained that electricity costs were determined by meter readings. He had discovered a way to bypass the meter by connecting a wire at night. He believed no one would suspect a thing.
It’s important to note that Al was just 11 years old and had only recently been introduced to electricity while shadowing our cousin Pi. Nevertheless, he took on the task of wiring the kitchen and ran a wire to the well pump house, ensuring it was elevated on a sturdy bamboo pole. He made all the necessary connections.
When darkness fell, we eagerly switched on the three light bulbs we had. At the same time, Al climbed onto the bay window overlooking the old Avocado tree and carried out his daring plan. He connected the jump wires. The outcome was truly remarkable. My mother was left in awe as the brightness radiated throughout the backyard, the kitchen, and even the entrance to our humble abode. From that moment on, we could freely navigate our surroundings without relying on flashlights any longer.
We continued using that jump connection for years, even though we were fully aware that it was wrong. In our poverty-stricken circumstances, we made compromises to make life a little easier.
Note: As time progressed, Al went on to become an Electrical Engineer.
It was the final day of school, and the students of Tumaga Elementary School were filled with joy and excitement. As we bid farewell to our teachers and classmates, there was no need for the usual “see you when school opens” because we all lived in the same close-knit barrio. It was almost certain that we would see each other again the very next day.
The Tumaga River still flowed shallow, its waters adorned with patches of “lumut”, river moss. Swimming was limited to the deeper areas like “paso ingo,” where the water was calm and tranquil during this time of the year. The river’s current was gentle, making it an ideal spot for fishing. Tilapia, piit, shrimp, and eel thrived abundantly in those waters.
I had formed a friendship with an old man named Melanio, who lived across the street with his sister Peñang and brother Pedro. Both Melanio and Pedro were skilled shrimp catchers, and they had a fondness for Tuba, a traditional coconut wine, often indulging in it whenever they had a successful catch. During the day, Peñang would peddle their catch, and at night they would visit Tia Adriana’s store to purchase Tuba.
When the shrimping trade wasn’t as lucrative, Melanio would venture out to fish for eel in the Tumaga River, especially at night. Being an adventurous eight-year-old, I longed for the experience of night fishing for eels. So, I sought permission from my mother, who granted it. Melanio, appreciating my curiosity and lack of shyness around older folks, agreed to take me along.
On that dark night, with no moon to guide us, Melanio prepared his fishing line, bait, and a simple lamp—a jar with a wick serving as our light source. I was tasked with making two “sulu”, torches crafted from coconut leaves—one for our journey to the river and the other for our return home. With our fishing gear in hand, we embarked on our adventure.
For about two hours, we patiently fished, the darkness adding an air of mystery to our surroundings. As the night grew late, fatigue washed over me, and my eyelids became heavy with sleep. In the end, we managed to catch three eels, with me proudly presenting a small one to Melanio. Eel wasn’t a delicacy I enjoyed, and my family shared the sentiment.
As we prepared to leave, I lit the torch, illuminating our path back home. Passing beneath the ancient Banuang tree, the night sky echoed with the screeches and cries of countless bats, their presence evident from the constant fluttering above. I had to shield my head from the occasional droplets of bat urine that fell upon us, causing Melanio to burst into laughter.
It wasn’t even 9 PM when we arrived home, our eels ready to be roasted over an open fire. Melanio wasted no time in joining his brother Pedro for a drink of Tuba, celebrating the night’s successful catch and savoring the camaraderie the brothers enjoy that comes with shared experiences.
At the age of ten, with my brother Al just a year older, we relentlessly pleaded with our mother to purchase air rifles for us. The 22 caliber rifle was now in the possession of Rosalyn in San Roque. Our persuasive arguments revolved around the notion that since Jim was no longer with us, we needed a means of protection against potential intruders. Through some mysterious means, we managed to succeed in our quest.
Alvin acquired a bolt-action 22 caliber BB air rifle, while I acquired a standard pellet air rifle complete with a foot pump. The pumping process involved exerting pressure until the pump rebounded, infusing the rifle with compressed air. Al and I eagerly put the power of our rifles to the test, aiming at empty 55-gallon iron barrels. Astonishingly, the BBs pierced through the barrels with ease, showcasing the formidable force of our weapons.
During the mango season, Al and I embarked on nocturnal hunting expeditions, targeting bats as our prey. Whatever we managed to capture, we would graciously offer to our cousins, who eagerly prepared and consumed these winged creatures.
In the summer of 1961, amidst our energetic escapades and frequent swims in the Tumaga River, my brother Al and I received exciting news from our mother. She informed us that the following year, we would be enrolled at Ateneo de Zamboanga in downtown. I would be entering 5th grade, while Al would be starting 6th grade. Our brother James, stationed in America as part of the Navy, caught wind of our educational journey and generously sent us money to purchase bicycles.
The distance between Tumaga and Ateneo was approximately 4.5 kilometers, and with no available public transportation servicing Tumaga Por Centro (Zamtranco’s bus service having been discontinued), we would need an alternative means of transportation. The closest place to catch a jeepney was in Guiwan, about 1 kilometer away.
The prospect of owning bicycles filled us with sheer delight. We ventured to Thong Guan, a reputable downtown merchant known for its diverse array of goods, including bicycles. Al instantly fell in love with a vibrant red bike, while I found myself drawn to a charming blue one. Unfortunately, there was insufficient money to purchase both bicycles simultaneously. Consequently, Al obtained his desired bike, leaving me with a tinge of sadness. Determined to find a solution, I approached my mother with a proposition—we could sell my pig to generate the additional funds needed to acquire the bike. Graciously, my mother agreed. We sold my pig and successfully bridged the financial gap. The sheer joy I experienced as a result was immeasurable.
Through the process of repairing bikes, I gained invaluable knowledge from my brother Al. His natural inclination for disassembling and reassembling his own bike sparked my curiosity and inspired me to delve deeper into the intricacies of bicycle maintenance.
Al possessed a keen aptitude for repairs, and his proficiency seemed almost instinctive, guiding me through the nuances of mechanical problem-solving with ease.
Beneath the shade of an old acacia tree, right on the edge of their school grounds, the trio huddled together, their voices a blend of excitement and conspiracy. The air buzzed with the anticipation of the plan that was about to unfold.
“Guys, hear me out,” Frank began, his eyes gleaming with the kind of mischief that only spelled adventure, “What if we actually did it? What if we went to Santa Cruz Island?”
Ben, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow, “You’re dreaming again, Frank. How would we even get there?”
Manny, usually the voice of caution, surprised them both, “Maybe Frank’s onto something. I mean, when will we ever get this chance again?”
The conversation spiraled into an exhilarating whirlwind of plans and possibilities. They spoke of saving every peso they could, of sneaking out undetected, and of the pristine beaches that awaited them. The more they planned, the more tangible the adventure became.
“We’ll need a boat,” Ben pointed out, the gears in his mind already turning, “And food, and… and a plan to get back before anyone notices we’re gone!”
Frank slapped Ben on the back, “That’s the spirit! I knew you’d come around. We’ll rent a vinta. I’ve seen them by the wharf. How hard can it be?”
Manny chuckled, “Famous last words. But count me in. We’ll make it work. It’ll be our grand adventure!”
Weeks passed in a flurry of preparations and whispered conversations. They scrimped and saved, their excitement growing with each passing day. Finally, the morning of their escapade dawned bright and clear.
Standing at the wharf, their hearts raced as they approached a fisherman, the owner of the vinta. Ben, with his charm and a well-spun tale, secured them a vinta for the day. The fisherman, with a knowing smile, warned them of the sea’s caprices.
As they pushed off from the shore, the world seemed to open up before them. The city faded into the distance, and ahead lay nothing but open sea and sky. Their laughter filled the air, a melody against the backdrop of the waves. The boys, caught in the euphoria of their departure, belted out the popular songs of the 60s, their voices carrying over the water. The tunes of The Beatles and The Beach Boys became their anthem, a soundtrack to their adventure.
“Look at us, huh? Who would’ve thought?” Manny said, awe coloring his tone as he dipped his hand into the cool, clear water.
“We’re explorers,” Frank declared, a wide grin on his face, “Charting our own course.”
Ben, who had been quietly navigating, finally let his guard down, “This… this is freedom, guys. We’re actually doing it.”
The island greeted them like a scene from a dream, its pink beaches untouched and inviting. They explored, swam, and for a brief moment, lived a life unbound by the constraints of their everyday struggles. The simple joy of friendship and the thrill of adventure enveloped them in a blissful bubble.
As the day waned and they prepared to return, the sea’s mood shifted. The once welcoming waves grew capricious, and their vessel was caught in an undercurrent, pulling them towards Baliwasan instead of back to the city. The jovial songs of the 60s gave way to a tense silence, broken only by the rhythmic splash of their paddles against the water.
Panic began to set in as they realized the gravity of their situation. It was Manny who broke the silence, his voice trembling as he began to sing “Come Holy Ghost,” the prayer turning into a plea for safe passage. The Hail Marys that followed were fervent, a chorus of hope amidst the growing fear.
The undercurrent that had stealthily redirected their journey now became their most formidable adversary. Despite their efforts, they found themselves drifting further from their intended destination, the shoreline a distant promise.
In the face of adversity, their friendship became their anchor. Manny’s prayers, Ben’s leadership, and Frank’s resourcefulness guided them through the perilous waters, a testament to their unbreakable bond. With Manny bailing out the water and Ben and Frank paddling with renewed vigor, they slowly made their way towards the safety of the shore.
Back on the shore, as they said their goodbyes, the adventure already felt like a distant dream. But the glint in their eyes, the shared smiles, spoke of a story they would carry with them forever.
“See you Monday,” they said, but what lingered unsaid was the knowledge that they had shared something extraordinary, a testament to their friendship and the dreams that would always unite them.
Monday morning arrived with the usual clamor of high school life, but Ben, Manny, and Frank carried with them the marks of their adventure – sunburned faces that stood out among their peers. They hesitated to share their escapade, the weight of their experience a silent bond that only they understood. Their adventure to Santa Cruz Island had been a rite of passage, a secret kept close, shared only in knowing glances and subtle smiles. It was a memory etched in the very fabric of their being, a reminder of the day they dared to dream, to laugh, and to live fully, side by side. “Island Dreams” became more than just a tale of an adventure; it was their testament to friendship, courage, and the indomitable spirit of youth.
When I was a young boy, I had the opportunity to spend time with my older cousins, uncles, and Lolos at the Tubaan. It was a place where they would gather, enjoy each other’s company, and share stories. They often indulged in drinking tuba, a local alcoholic beverage. As I walked home from Tumaga school, they would call me over to join their conversations. I loved listening to their tall tales while they served tuba to an old monkey by the coconut tree. It was a fun and unique experience, but one that I never allowed to define me.
As I grew into my teenage years and entered college, I continued to hang out with them. Despite their lifestyle and struggles with alcoholism, they always treated me with respect, and I reciprocated that respect. I recognized that their choices were their own, and I had the power to make my own decisions. I chose not to follow in their footsteps and become an alcoholic. I understood the importance of personal responsibility and the impact it could have on my life.
So, while there is a saying that goes, “Tell me who your friends are, and I’ll tell you who you are,” I proved that it doesn’t always apply. I demonstrated that one’s character is not solely determined by the company they keep. I embraced my own individuality and made choices that aligned with my values and aspirations.
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