Growing up in rural Philippines in the 1950's

If by chance God is going to ask me to chronicle my life, it will not actually amount to something worth reading; but all the same, how I relate my life from my point of view is what really matters most to HIM.

1 -10 years: my first decade

As a little girl barely 5 years of age, faced with the odds of being trampled by a berserk young carabao, I found myself at the crossroads. Would I give in to my intuition to just stay put at my side of the road or would I follow adult cajoles that I run across into the safety of their outstretched arms? 

It was then that I committed my life’s first major mistake by allowing my good judgment be supervened by elders who I was made to believe were supposed to be wise and unerring. But what could one expect from a girl who for the past 4 years had been discouraged to explore her surroundings?

Where could she get self confidence if even a coconut husk became an effective scare crow to steer her away from the stairways?

As if this experience was not good enough, my baptism of fire came sooner than soon. Even before I was given a chance to stand solidly on the soils of Laur, Nueva Ecija, I found myself being uprooted. Used to seeing water being pumped out manually from the deep recesses of the earth, I stood perplexed as I looked over the vast body of water in front of our new home in Dadiangas Mindanao. Where on earth did all those water come from? 


The never ending sea shore, the roaring waves splashing endlessly on fine sands, the immensity of the ocean that seemed to know no boundary, engulfed me body and soul. I clung tightly to the front door lest a gust of wind would blow and toss me like a floating mist over nowhere. 

Nevertheless, at the very tender age of 5, I discovered man’s inert capability to adapt. Before long, I found pleasure in chasing the waves, competing with the tiny crabs as they ran for safety into the holes that their mothers dug, picking variety of sea shells without fear of being lost, watching my brothers somersault on steel bars built over the sand dunes. I even considered it amusing to watch a real life drama as a large python chased a puppy which was chasing a kitten that was in turn chasing a mouse. 


The only fear we had then was being caught outside while a ‘Moro’ (that was how they called the Muslims then) would turn ‘huramentado’. In one such instance, we scampered to the safety of our home at the sight of a ‘Moro’ running amok waving his ’kris’ that sparkled every time its sharp blades would be hit by the flickering afterglow of the setting sun.

In less than a year however, we had to go back to the birthplace I had yet to explore, to an environment I had yet to sink in. 


I could not figure out, the chagrin of my mother when she saw me as my little feet trod the footsteps of a girl classmate while i was carrying some of her belongings. How could I reason out that the only female I had the chance to be with was her (my mother), an authority I had to follow unconditionally at all times without complaining. As a matter of fact, she would tell me that when I was little I would gather all the empty bottles, line them up and talk to them. What kind of interaction could have I gained from them?

Everything changed when I turned 9, old enough to take care of my two year old brother. With the responsibility came the privilege of finally identifying the patch of earth where I sprouted. 


Mabini Street arose from the east where at dawn the sun would intricately spread its amazing rays behind the Sierra Madre Mountains.

and ended at the west where the sun would glimmer with array of colors as it set over the rice fields & the river bed.

On rainy days, I would be tempted to find the pot of gold at the end of every rainbow that would appear on the eastern sky over the mountains. 

On full moons, we children would play hide and seek as our fathers discussed the harvest and our mothers exchanged tips about housekeeping. 


Then one night and for the next days that came, all our eyes would stare with awe and astonishment at a shining heavenly object shaped like a broom illuminating the whole eastern sky. Elders said that the tail of this comet pointing downwards almost touching the apex of the mountain was a bad omen; if it were so, I could not reckon.

It was towards the end of my first decade that I established a beautiful relationship with another body of water, the three rivers of my birthplace,  Laur, Nueva Ecija: the branch of a bayabas tree offered a vantage point for a good dive into the crystal clear water of ‘ilog na maliit’ where gently flowing mineral water served as breeding ground for underwater edible weeds which when garnished with ‘bagoong’ and newly picked tomatoes served as our appetizer for steaming rice and jumping ‘hipon’.


Family bonding was regularly spent at the ‘tumana’ which was sandwiched between ‘ilog na malaki’ and ‘ilog ng Santor’. We never dared get close to the latter as many would attest to "buwayas" taking refuge there.

Into the raging waters of "ilog na malaki" which emerged from the great hills beyond, my father would throw my five brothers one by one until by sheer instinct they would learn to swim and body raft.



The confining depiction of my gender deprived me of this exhilarating and valuable experience. The boys had all the fun, the freedom and the experience as I was only allowed to watch coyly at the sideline.

In the midst of my world dominated by six brothers, there never was a place for dolls, or ‘bahay-bahayan’; and whoever would ever play ‘piko’ with me?  Nonetheless, I was privileged to become part of the team in ‘harang-taga’ (commonly known as patintero), ‘tumbang preso’ and even ‘jolens’ (marbles) and ‘tatsing’. 


After every harvest, we would painstakingly scour every nook of the rice fields in search for left over shafts of grain. Most often than not, the boys would be able to gather enough to be bartered for a glass of halo halo; while I would always be lost following a dragon fly that could only be caught by its tail with a concentration that would defy even the need for breath to refill my lungs; and yet if I catch one, I would just give it back its freedom.

My father thought he had done his best to make me grow into one fine lady, but little did he know that I would always dip my fingers into anything and everything that the boys did. I only stopped climbing trees when once I chanced upon a ‘bahay ng pukyutan’. It was the first time that I realized I could outrun any flying object. 


Then one time, I climbed the lowest branch of a mango tree that was almost touching the ground. While I was relishing the savor of "putat" (young mango leaf) laced with salt, I felt a mango leaf still being chewed by a caterpillar got entwined on my crossed legs. With all might that can come from my thin body, I junked  the boy who was trying to scare me. Never in his wildest imagination did it occur to this bully that the frail girl he expected to scream just smocked him right onto the bridge of his nose and had volted out of his sight in a split second; and much more ran and locked herself all alone in a house feared to be inhabited by ghosts.

How could I be scared of entities of the third dimension when in the environment where I grew up, they were presumed part of our existence? Who among us children would dare venture out at the darkness of the night when there was a "kapre" smoking his tobacco while lodging leisurely inside the huge hole which we were told he created at the big trunk of the century old acacia tree at the end of the block?  when there were "white ladies" guarding the bridges built over the small stream that crossed every street in town? when by all chance we could run into "dwendes and "tiyanaks" dwelling in every backyard? and most fearsome of all, when there were snakes crossing the street with us? At some nights indeed, I would stir to full wakefulness as a distinct 'tik tik tik' would emanate from the "cogon" roof of our pregnant neighbor's house. 

One dusky afternoon as my brother and his dog were digging a "punso", both their eyes suddenly rolled up until only their white sclerae were left visible to us. Their eyes only went back to normal after the "albularyo" did some rituals, offered foods on the make-ship altar and asked for forgiveness from the mother and child "dwendes" whose eyes were hit while the soil was being scraped from the "punso" they were residing in. 


At some nights when we slept over at our "Impo’s" (grandmother) house, my younger brother would scream at the top of his lungs as he would point to a very tiny bearded man with a sack backpack enticing him to come with him to their kingdom. The crying and screaming would only stop as my aunt would arrive waving a bolo threatening the "tyanak" which was not even visible to me.

Although I may not know it by then, the first decade of my life was a learning stage forming the foundation that guided me through. The overt fragility may have been counterbalanced by invincible toughness but nonetheless, for whatever its significance, the "dwendes" in my grandparents' bedroom and the ghosts of the house where I locked myself up, would haunt me  in my dreams with utter vividness for the next 5 decades of my life.

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