(An open letter to my childhood friend Pareng Jomar who is now an architect in Singapore)
I know this letter is long overdue. My apologies for not responding to your letter immediately. I had been perpetually caved in my mousehole since I enrolled in law school. It’s been a long time since I visited home; so I do not have news. I only decided to go home after constant cajoling and coaxing of Mama. I gathered it would be the perfect place to relax after the tedious and heart rending preparation for the bar exam. So there.
There isn’t really much change since you left seven years ago.
The roads leading to town is repaired and concretized. No longer you’ll be choked with the swirling dust or annoyed with the rattling stones and deep potholes when you get home. It's now the perfect time to buy a new car.
I am saddened though by the demolition of our make-shift hut near the road at Aling Loting where we usually jam together and discuss our dreams over a plate of fried grasshoppers and beetles. A waiting shed was built there named after the mayor in big and neon letters. In fact, every waiting shed on the street is named after him. Aling Adeng no longer sells there; she flew to Hongkong to become a maid. I really miss her betamax (coagulated chicken blood), helmet (chicken head) adidas (chicken feet) or IUD (chicken innards), our favorite pulutan.
Remember Aling Nita’s nipa where we used to play tong its? It was transformed into a ten-room palace. Her lesbian daughter, worked as a care giver in the States. She must have been earning a lot of dollars because she engaged herself in an unbridled house construction. All Her siblings wanted to live there. They did not get along well so they tried to kill each other.
Don Imo, the despicable land lord who tried to cheat us with our wage when we worked in their farm died of a terrible affliction. Obscure cancer cells grew from his crotch into a considerable amount until he could no longer get up. All his properties went to hospitalization bills. His lowly tenant whose son is a seaman bought his land. Talk about Karma. Rumor has it that it was Aling Sima, the Witch through a magical spell killed him because he refused to let her borrow a ganta of rice when she begged from him. The same Mangkukulam whom your mother thought was responsible for your uncle Turo’s death although the doctor said he had acute Tuberculosis.
Aling Dalena never retired from whoring despite several assaults on her person by the wives of the husband whom he stole including their income. In fact some of the women who envy her new lips tick, other cosmetics, necklace and cell phone became whores also and made it their career. Based on the description of my mother- orange-dyed hair, unusually fair face fairer than rest of her body- I think we have over ten whores here already. Maybe their guilt compelled them to clean themselves through assiduous application of astringent on their face, (or is it Chin chun zu?) to remove the grime and filth they feel. I hate to tell you but get ready for this: Nene you childhood sweetheart became a whore too.
Our sari-sari store still stands. We still supply the basic needs of the neighborhood from sardines to nails for coffin. Our best seller tuyo is no longer patronized because as one mother claimed: Napaparami kain mga bata ng kanin. Sa hirap ng buhay ngayon kailangan maghipit ng sinturon. The whole Soriano clan from the great grand mother to her great grand daughter has been our loyal costumers. They still buy armed with various sizes of bottles: the mayonnaise bottle was for two-peso Bagoong, the Tanduay Rhum bottle for five-peso lard, the gin bottle for one-peso soy sauce or vinegar. Mama who should sell a bulb of garlic for three pesos divides it into cloves for a peso to fit the buying capacity of our neighbors.
I could no longer find the large mango tree of Aling Iling where we used to climb- the mango tree was a mute witness to our rich childhood. I was told that it was uprooted by the bulldozer to make way for a road to reach the heart of the farmland courtesy of a congressman during the campaign period. After the election however, it was abandoned unfinished.
How could I forget? Under that mango we, little rascals organized by 12- year old Rey, a scheming gay boy, pledged allegiance together. It was where we hatched plans to attack the rival group from a nearby neighborhood. It is where we conspired crimes masterminded by Rey: to steal ripe mangoes of Aling Iling, coconuts of Mang Berting, the young corns of Don Imo. Once, we were caught stealing the large steel kettle of an old man thinking that it would cost much when weighed in the junkshop. Father whipped me to shreds and I was made to kneel over mongo seeds. Under that mango tree, Mang Kuset split our foreskins to make us men while we chew the guava buds.
Etched in that mango tree was your side kick Bong’s declaration of an unrequited love of a gal not of the same status: I heart Sharon (with a heart pierced with an arrow). Because of that heart break he never went back to school.He became a bonafide tambay. He spent the rest of his life swilling cheap wines. Only later I found out he was murdered, hacked with a bolo by a stranger in our neighborhood because of a petty altercation.
Under that mango tree, we played hide and seek under a full moon or role playing the TV soap Yagit. Nene was Joselyn, Ingga was Elisa tony was Tom Tom, Yolly was the villainess Dona Claudia. You, because you are manly and menacing are the tulisan Mang Damaso who would kidnap Jocelyn and the rest of the Batang Yagit. Our child play turned out to be the sexual awakening of the some of the girls. And the naughty you, lost your virginity at age of 12.
Our infamous multi-purpose building where we used to play basketball still stands. It’s still called multi-purpose because during week days, it serves as a school for kindergartens, during weekends it becomes a basket ball court. At night since it is not well lighted, strange things happen. People say that it was infested by spirits, moaning spirit that is. We both know that there are no ghosts in there but the Barangay chairman molesting young boys for 20 pesos. Occasionally, during holidays and fiestas it becomes a dancing hall for fundraising projects. You were always excited for you can dance a lady of your type for 5 pesos. Barrio ladies were then coy and modest -the abaniko fanning ladies who cover mouth with their hanky when they smile and who just flutter their eyelashes when you talk to them.
I am sure you miss swimming in the river. The Cagayan River was our playground. We swam, dived, built sand castles. We bathed our carabaos after grazing, wash our clothes, scrape charcoaled kettles and pots, rubbed our tar tared teeth with the sand. We peeked at young girls’ breasts and mounds.
The river’s imposing beauty was abandoned and forsaken by our barrio folks. Nobody swam and washed there except for few farmers. It has eroded hectares of land including ours. It has claimed many lives. I was told that beneath the river resides a beautiful but avenging mermaid Zirena who has claimed the lives or pretty girls and handsome boys. The former to be her slaves while the latter to become her husband. For five years in row, at least a life had been sacrificed.
They are very serious in their effort stop Zirena. They, mostly mothers even lobbied to the local legislators to enact ordinance outlawing swimming in the river. They organized a full-force team that would capture the Zirena and jail her. Although I just grumbled since every effort is futile to make them realize their prizewinning idiocy, I imagined it’s kind of amusing to put to jail a nude and scaled Dyesebel in a bath tub.
This year, the mermaid will be out again looking for the next victim, they warned. She’s waiting for the right timing. I never thought they were that frigging serious until Mama alerted the whole neighborhood armed with bolos and spears to fetch me upon learning that I went alone swimming in the river. My mother almost fainted. I assured her that the mermaid will never take because I am not handsome. Unless of course she likes scruffy looking guys… er, the likes of Brad Pitt.
I can go on and on like Pigafetta chronicling every change here but my fingers are getting numb… unless of course you buy me a laptop. I heard it’s a lot cheaper there.
Hasta la vista,
lante
I know this letter is long overdue. My apologies for not responding to your letter immediately. I had been perpetually caved in my mousehole since I enrolled in law school. It’s been a long time since I visited home; so I do not have news. I only decided to go home after constant cajoling and coaxing of Mama. I gathered it would be the perfect place to relax after the tedious and heart rending preparation for the bar exam. So there.
There isn’t really much change since you left seven years ago.
The roads leading to town is repaired and concretized. No longer you’ll be choked with the swirling dust or annoyed with the rattling stones and deep potholes when you get home. It's now the perfect time to buy a new car.
I am saddened though by the demolition of our make-shift hut near the road at Aling Loting where we usually jam together and discuss our dreams over a plate of fried grasshoppers and beetles. A waiting shed was built there named after the mayor in big and neon letters. In fact, every waiting shed on the street is named after him. Aling Adeng no longer sells there; she flew to Hongkong to become a maid. I really miss her betamax (coagulated chicken blood), helmet (chicken head) adidas (chicken feet) or IUD (chicken innards), our favorite pulutan.
Remember Aling Nita’s nipa where we used to play tong its? It was transformed into a ten-room palace. Her lesbian daughter, worked as a care giver in the States. She must have been earning a lot of dollars because she engaged herself in an unbridled house construction. All Her siblings wanted to live there. They did not get along well so they tried to kill each other.
Don Imo, the despicable land lord who tried to cheat us with our wage when we worked in their farm died of a terrible affliction. Obscure cancer cells grew from his crotch into a considerable amount until he could no longer get up. All his properties went to hospitalization bills. His lowly tenant whose son is a seaman bought his land. Talk about Karma. Rumor has it that it was Aling Sima, the Witch through a magical spell killed him because he refused to let her borrow a ganta of rice when she begged from him. The same Mangkukulam whom your mother thought was responsible for your uncle Turo’s death although the doctor said he had acute Tuberculosis.
Aling Dalena never retired from whoring despite several assaults on her person by the wives of the husband whom he stole including their income. In fact some of the women who envy her new lips tick, other cosmetics, necklace and cell phone became whores also and made it their career. Based on the description of my mother- orange-dyed hair, unusually fair face fairer than rest of her body- I think we have over ten whores here already. Maybe their guilt compelled them to clean themselves through assiduous application of astringent on their face, (or is it Chin chun zu?) to remove the grime and filth they feel. I hate to tell you but get ready for this: Nene you childhood sweetheart became a whore too.
Our sari-sari store still stands. We still supply the basic needs of the neighborhood from sardines to nails for coffin. Our best seller tuyo is no longer patronized because as one mother claimed: Napaparami kain mga bata ng kanin. Sa hirap ng buhay ngayon kailangan maghipit ng sinturon. The whole Soriano clan from the great grand mother to her great grand daughter has been our loyal costumers. They still buy armed with various sizes of bottles: the mayonnaise bottle was for two-peso Bagoong, the Tanduay Rhum bottle for five-peso lard, the gin bottle for one-peso soy sauce or vinegar. Mama who should sell a bulb of garlic for three pesos divides it into cloves for a peso to fit the buying capacity of our neighbors.
I could no longer find the large mango tree of Aling Iling where we used to climb- the mango tree was a mute witness to our rich childhood. I was told that it was uprooted by the bulldozer to make way for a road to reach the heart of the farmland courtesy of a congressman during the campaign period. After the election however, it was abandoned unfinished.
How could I forget? Under that mango we, little rascals organized by 12- year old Rey, a scheming gay boy, pledged allegiance together. It was where we hatched plans to attack the rival group from a nearby neighborhood. It is where we conspired crimes masterminded by Rey: to steal ripe mangoes of Aling Iling, coconuts of Mang Berting, the young corns of Don Imo. Once, we were caught stealing the large steel kettle of an old man thinking that it would cost much when weighed in the junkshop. Father whipped me to shreds and I was made to kneel over mongo seeds. Under that mango tree, Mang Kuset split our foreskins to make us men while we chew the guava buds.
Etched in that mango tree was your side kick Bong’s declaration of an unrequited love of a gal not of the same status: I heart Sharon (with a heart pierced with an arrow). Because of that heart break he never went back to school.He became a bonafide tambay. He spent the rest of his life swilling cheap wines. Only later I found out he was murdered, hacked with a bolo by a stranger in our neighborhood because of a petty altercation.
Under that mango tree, we played hide and seek under a full moon or role playing the TV soap Yagit. Nene was Joselyn, Ingga was Elisa tony was Tom Tom, Yolly was the villainess Dona Claudia. You, because you are manly and menacing are the tulisan Mang Damaso who would kidnap Jocelyn and the rest of the Batang Yagit. Our child play turned out to be the sexual awakening of the some of the girls. And the naughty you, lost your virginity at age of 12.
Our infamous multi-purpose building where we used to play basketball still stands. It’s still called multi-purpose because during week days, it serves as a school for kindergartens, during weekends it becomes a basket ball court. At night since it is not well lighted, strange things happen. People say that it was infested by spirits, moaning spirit that is. We both know that there are no ghosts in there but the Barangay chairman molesting young boys for 20 pesos. Occasionally, during holidays and fiestas it becomes a dancing hall for fundraising projects. You were always excited for you can dance a lady of your type for 5 pesos. Barrio ladies were then coy and modest -the abaniko fanning ladies who cover mouth with their hanky when they smile and who just flutter their eyelashes when you talk to them.
I am sure you miss swimming in the river. The Cagayan River was our playground. We swam, dived, built sand castles. We bathed our carabaos after grazing, wash our clothes, scrape charcoaled kettles and pots, rubbed our tar tared teeth with the sand. We peeked at young girls’ breasts and mounds.
The river’s imposing beauty was abandoned and forsaken by our barrio folks. Nobody swam and washed there except for few farmers. It has eroded hectares of land including ours. It has claimed many lives. I was told that beneath the river resides a beautiful but avenging mermaid Zirena who has claimed the lives or pretty girls and handsome boys. The former to be her slaves while the latter to become her husband. For five years in row, at least a life had been sacrificed.
They are very serious in their effort stop Zirena. They, mostly mothers even lobbied to the local legislators to enact ordinance outlawing swimming in the river. They organized a full-force team that would capture the Zirena and jail her. Although I just grumbled since every effort is futile to make them realize their prizewinning idiocy, I imagined it’s kind of amusing to put to jail a nude and scaled Dyesebel in a bath tub.
This year, the mermaid will be out again looking for the next victim, they warned. She’s waiting for the right timing. I never thought they were that frigging serious until Mama alerted the whole neighborhood armed with bolos and spears to fetch me upon learning that I went alone swimming in the river. My mother almost fainted. I assured her that the mermaid will never take because I am not handsome. Unless of course she likes scruffy looking guys… er, the likes of Brad Pitt.
I can go on and on like Pigafetta chronicling every change here but my fingers are getting numb… unless of course you buy me a laptop. I heard it’s a lot cheaper there.
Hasta la vista,
lante
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