The mass on Palm Sunday was rather too long because of the reading of the Passion. This was followed by a blessing of palms and procession around the church. A few would faint.

Poblacion residents rarely carried a palm to church, they simply asked from the barrio folks who come to church loaded with lukay.

Religious processions were perhaps the most awaited event during the holy week celebration. The first around-town procession was on Miercoles Santo.

Nearly twenty carrosas would be in the Miercoles Santo Procession – called the Paso.

Most of the carrosas were owned and decorated by town folks – like Berting Enriquez’s who had the Maria Magdalena; Isay Tabla family owned the carrosa with Jesus carrying the cross and beaten by the Judiyos.

That was the one I like most. The Judiyos looked so mean and real.

Manok ni San Pedro

There was another carrosa owned by Berto Gonzales that carried the San Pedro with a sunoy (rooster). San Pedro was the procession’s Grand Marshall, first to come out and served as the lead carrosa.

Following the San Pedro were few of the town’s sabungeros apparently praying for better luck in the coming sabong.

Kids preferred to be in the first carrosa because when it arrived back at the church yard, the last carrosa had not moved yet. Then they could watch the rest of the procession at the side of the street or be gone home.

Little boys and girls were fascinated by the well lighted carrosa of the Maria Dolorosa bedecked with expensive flowers and the band music by the town’s musikero.

For older boys, it was more fascinating to watch the town’s beautiful ladies dressed in their best during procession, as if in competition for the title of best dressed or Danao’s prettiest

Guys would be closely watching in great admiration at these popular town beauties as they graciously walked like fashion models at the procession.

Most popular among procession watchers were the cousins Agnes and Baby Almendras, Rosalinda Tecala, the Osmena twin, Flora and Susing Gomez, the Canga sisters.

Then years later the favorites were Susan Mandolado, Eli, Flora, Marilyn Duterte, Myrna Gorre, Dolores Canga, Leni Castro, Melinda Derecho, etc.

Watching these ladies were more delightful than looking at the carrosa carrying the Maria Dolorosa or the Maria Magdalena, more fascinating than the Santa Veronica holding a cloth impinted with the image Christ.

New Dress for Processions

Most girls in town would always want a new dress to show off at the procession. There was no other occasion they could look pretty and be seen by many.

Thus, we often hear our sisters saying ‘dili ko mokuyog sa prosisyon, kay wa koy bag-o’. Or they would cry non-stop until they get assured they would have a new dress for the holy week.

Mothers would find ways to get money to buy a dress for their daughters so that they could comply with their religious obligations.

Jueves Santo

Jueves Santo was no meat day like the Viernes Santo. It was time to go to Looc for a fresh kinilaw.

This was supposed to be a very holy day. Yet during Jueves santo a lot of people went to the beach for a picnic. Kinilaw, camote, tuba would be plentiful. Despite being little bit tipsy, still we managed to go church in the afternoon.

At the Jueves santo service, the 12 Apostoles made their first appearance for the washing of the feet.

Then there was the procession inside the church of the ‘Santissimo’ or the Holy Eucharist.

Instead of a bell, there was the clack-clack sound of a wood clapper following the Santissimo.

As the priest in Canopy passed, we knelt, bowed our head in great reverence.
After the service came the vigil of the Blessed Sacrament or the visita iglesia lasting until midnight.

Viernes Santo is Benignit Day

If ‘biko’ was for Christmas, it was ‘benignit’ for Viernes Santo. It could also be Mongos day for some.

Viernes Santo was not only a no-meat day, it was also a ‘puasa’ or day of fasting. Yet in most homes there would be a huge pot of mongos linubihan for lunch, then another big pot of benignit made out of camote, banana, landang with coconut milk for snacks.

So instead of fasting on Good Friday we would be overeating mongos and benignit only to complain later of a stomach ache.

Siete Palabra

Church service in Viernes Santo started at noon time. Some people preferred to stay home, tuned-in to DYRC listening to a live broadcast from Cebu Cathedral’s siete palabras or seven last words.

Others would go to the Chruch yard, standing under the blistering heat to hear the town’s great orators speak at the siete palabra, such as Inting Camoro, Jesus Navarro, Pio Roble, Pastor Lawas, etc.

The siete palabra culminated with the reenactment of the piercing of the cruficied Christ with a ‘bankaw’ performed by Tatong Depositario, the town’s meanest looking character dressed as a Roman Centurion.

As the last speaker in a shivering voice announced Christ’ final breath, someone at the back of the crucifix would pull a rope tied to crucified Christ’s head making it bow three times.

At this moment some old women from the barrios would scream and cry in great pity of the dying Christ.
Then they would rush in tears, towards the big crucifix, wiped the feet with a dirty handkerchief, tore leaves or flowers, to take home to be used later as medicine for whatever ailment.

Friday at 6:00 p.m. was another big procession of the “Santo Entierro” (Holy Sepulchere) and the Maria Dolorosa.

The ladies among the town’s social elite would make sure their dress would not be the same as in the Wednesday procession. They would worry that people watching would remember the dress they wore in a previous procession.

At the Viernes Santo procession I would follow the “Santo Entierro” closer to the priest and the singers.

I was known to sing ‘yabag’ but I loved to sing along with perennial Viernes Santo singers – Periang Mata, Kikay Manulat, Citas Villareal, Elsa Mansueto, Beyay and Castor Dagatan.

Accompanying the singers were Pepe Banzon, Jaime Alvez and Cesar Arsenal with their accordions.

There was another procession around town at 10:00 p.m. on Good Friday. At this late evening procession the singers and the accordion would be following the carrosa of the Maria Dolorosa.

Sabado Santo – Sugat

Jesus has not risen yet on Saturday evening, but merry-making started early in Danao to celebrate the resurrection. This was the Sugat. La Esquina at Tupas and Bonifacio Sts. was center of entertainment this Saturday evening.

Two carrosas – one of Mother Mary and the other that of the risen Jesus would be on an early morning procession. These carrosas went on opposite directions which would later meet at exactly the same time at the La Esquina. Thus, the term ‘Sugat’.

Upon arrival, a girl dressed as an angel, tied with a rope would be raised above the stage and over the carrosas singing ‘Regina Coeli Laetare’.

People in Danao loved to see this spectacle taking place at 4:00 a.m. The ‘anghel nga bitayon’ was a very coveted role among young girls.

While waiting for the sugat, there were balitaw and curracha competition to enterain the people.

Easter Sunday

On Easter Sunday the 12 Apostoles after a big breakfast in the convento would be sent all over town going house to house to make the annual easter collection.

Going to the beach on Easter Sunday was a good excuse to be away from home when the Apostoles was certain to come knocking the door for church donations.

As signs of the holiday season, from radio music, to mall decors, to the cool weather get into our systems, older U.S. Pinoys start to get nostalgic and feel an irresistitble urge to visit their hometown and reconnect with old friends and relatives for Christmas.

But it seems this doesn’t hold true among Danawanons in the U.S. Rather, the city fiesta in September actually beckons more Dananawons than does Christmas.

Someone said maybe we’re just very kuripot (stingy) scared of our many friends and relatives asking for pinaskohan so we don’t go home on Christmas.

Since my high school in 1967 I have never spent a hometown Christmas and I have almost forgotten what I was missing.

I guess there was nothing much happening at Christmas in Danao that would draw Danawanon back home at this time of year.

In many Filipino literatures, travel brochures, magazines, in Christmas jingles, so much we read or heard about this unique Filipino tradition of Pasko, such as “Misa de Gallo’, musikeros, aguinaldos, ‘mano po ninong, mano po ninang”, etc.

As a young kid growing up in the poblacion I couldn’t claim it could be also my hometown’s tradition. But I could be wrong.

I have attended maybe once or twice a ‘misa de gallo’ (mass at 4:00 a.m) at the church in Danao. I could not recall there was anything fun or any excitement right after the mass.

There was no such thing as ‘kantahan, sayawan, kainan’ awaiting church goers as what we see being depicted in Christmas cards, travel brochures, or even on TV, etc.

Danawanon my age or older probably had nothing much to reminisce Christmas memories in Danao other than the display of parols, ‘panaygon’, overeating biko, hand injuries from rebentador explosion and lantaka (bamboo cannon).

As a kid the only thing I looked forward to at Christmas was the two or three week vacation from school. No gifts from a ninong or ninang either it was not their custom to do so or more likely they had no money at all.

At the elementary school there was some little excitement on days before Christmas break. Our teachers would tell us to make a nice parol to be entered in a contest or for display at the tennis court during a Christmas presentation. Some pupils would be practicing songs or dances to be presented at the Christmas program at the stage fronting the town’s tennis court.

The star lanterns (parol) was and probably still is Danao’s most popular Christmas symbol. A belen (a scene depicting the birth of the Child Jesus in a manger with several figurines from Mary and Joseph, Child Jesus, to the sheperds, the Three kings, the animals, etc.) was only always displayed in the church, some more affluent families also had their own at their homes.

All that were needed to make a star lanterns were ten long bamboo slats of equal length and 5 short.

Almost everyone knew how to make a parol, because students were made to make one. Some would come up with imaginative lantern designs, like an airplane, a rocket, a ship, even a house and many others that had nothing to do with commemorating the birth of Jesus.

At the start of the Christmas break school kids would gather tansans (soda bottle crowns) and they made them into some kind of musical instrument, called “pandaritas”.

Early evening they went house to house, in the neighborhood, singing “Ania Kaming Nanag-awit, Kasadya Ning Taknaa, O kam olye petpol or O holi nai”. In the end they would shout ‘maayong pasko tagbalay’.
Some would give a few centavos, some wouldn’t.

They would go around and cover as many as twenty houses in one night, earning as much as two pesos for the night. About half would give 5 centavos, or at the most 25, the other half, would not give at all and scream at and drive kids off their house or had their dogs do the job.

Christmas caroling had so much competition, so many groups trying to get money from the townfolks, young kids, old and not so old. Some groups had complete rondallas, portable sound systems and even hired a passenger jeep to drive them around town. and some would be showing a permit signed by an official of the Social Welfare.

There was one family, I recall, said to be from Maslog, that literally signaled or fired the Christmas salvo. Three young girls were dressed up in outlandish outfit, made from colored paper and face made up with too much red lipstick.

The father played the guitar, the mother, the tambourine, an uncle played the banjo. The girls sang and danced, wiggling their hands with castanets. It was the most vivid Christmas memory I had while in the elementary grade in the late ‘50s or early ‘60s. I even remember the ending lines:

“Alabado kay alabado, si Jesus atong
Ginoo, si Adan atong puno-an, si Maria
Birhen nga ulay, maayong pasko
tagbalay’’

I don’t know what ‘alabado’ meant and surely the singers didn’t know either. Definitely not Spanish or Latin. Like the pied piper, kids followed them as they performed around town.

Another popular Danao caroler was Dencio Y. K., also from Maslog. How he got his last name, nobody could tell, but apparently it must be because he was gay or ‘bayoton’.

He earned his living selling candles in the church. But he looked forward to Christmas as it mean extra income – caroling all over town, singing Christmas songs – solo, no guitar, not even pandaritas to accompany. His caroling starts right after All Saints Day (Adlaw sa Patay)

Even without a sound system Dencio Y.K. could be heard three blocks away and sounded like a carabao slaughtered at the ‘ihawan’ or a cow in heat attracting a bull.

The man or woman of the house would immediately come out to give Dencio a few centavos even before he could start, so that he would go away and not hear him sing (which they termed ‘tawag sa hilanat’, literally “call of the fever’).

Something I haven’t witnessed, but always heard about (I missed six Christmases in Danao while a student in Manila) was another very popular caroling family – the Villareals led by their mother Citas.

The Villareal children were neatly dressed in nice costumes, six very beautiful young girls, and two boys under seven years old, sang like angels and could all dance gracefully. They said they must have earned much because people tend to be generous, impressed of their fabulous performance.

On Christmas eve my Tatay and Mama would attend the midnight mass or noche buena. Children stayed home because the church was overflowing with people and it was hard to get a seat unless you went early.

Before midnight we would visiting the homes of relatives around the block. There was biko in every house. Biko was made from a special variety of rice (sticky or pilit), brown sugar and coconut milk and flavored with anis. Wherever we went, we were treated with a plate of hot biko until we threw up and swore to God never to eat biko again.

At noche buena kids would be sleeping past midnight. We would wait for our parents to come home from church. As soon as they come home, we would be eating again – another biko and a hot chocoloate drink (sikwate). Probably, my fourth serving of biko that Christmas eve.

Early the following morning we would be awakened by the sound of the tiling-tiling. Pax Te *censored* time. Collection for the church.

Three sacristans going house to house, dressed in red and long white garment, one carryied a tiny figurine of Little Jesus, the other was a bell ringer and the third held the collection box.

As soon as the sacristans got inside the house, we knelt down to kiss the perfumed baby jesus, the young sacristan said ‘pasti*censored*’ and we responded ‘amen.’
My mother would then drop a coin into the collection box.

One week after Christmas would be Bag-ong Tuig – New Year. Danao kids would try to have the most over-sized rebentador or firecracker that could produce the loudest bang on New Year’s eve.

My preference was the bamboo cannon or lantaka. It was a mixture of kerosone and carburo put into a 5-ft bamboo and lighted to produce a loud boom. Too dangerous, some kids lost an eye or severed a hand, yet we went for thrill.

So, what I must have missed was the loud bang on New Year’s eve.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Parent-mandated marriage is a common practice, even in modern times, especially in remote villages in some third world countries, including the Philippines.

It is definitely resented and despised in more civilized and free societies. It’s an infringement of basic human rights.

Yet, Filipino parents do wish, we can dictate our kids who, where and when to marry. How I wish my three kids will give me a free hand.

We generally don’t trust our kids’ intuition, in matters of the heart, so we attempt to exercise parental authority over their choice of a boyfriend or girlfriend.

In free America or even in the Philippines, it is somewhat unthinkable for parents to tell a son or daughter when and who they should get married to and live with for the rest of their lives.

Perhaps the most we can do, as parents, is make an effort to influence our kids to conform to our wishes, in some subtle ways.

Considering the high rate of divorce in the U.S. (over 50% of marriages end up in divorce after ten 10 years), we want to spare our children from the havoc of a broken marriage.

Hence, we feel we have a right to intervene in our kids’ love affairs, for their own benefit, so we claim.

My wife, Darling, dreads the thought when one day our son Matthew brings home and introduce a tatooed punk for a date, with spiky and multi-colored hair, pierced lip and tonque, rings on the nose, in the eyelids and belly button, etc.

At the mere thought, she would she would mumble, “simbako intawon”. Because of a fear that Matthew will one day marry a typical L.A. girl and later face the prospect of an emotionally and financially draining divorce process, Darling wishes our only son will choose to become a priest instead.

Bahala nag dili mosanay ang Barriga, as she always said. To allay Darling’s paranoia I sometimes would joke that when Matthew is through college, I will encourage him to do volunteer work at a Danao barrio health center.

Who knows he’ll find for a wife a young beata or a true-to-life Maria Clara, maybe in Manlayag or Manghilaw.

By marrying a Danawanon, the probability of a divorce is almost nil. Kay ang dalagang Danawanon, according to my Tatay is “buotan, mahigugmaon ug matinud-anon”.

My Nanay added four more desirable qualities: maayong moluto, molimpyo, mohilot ug labaw sa tanan maayong modaginot.

I should have listened to them noong araw. But then as the saying goes, ‘dili palad.’ Not my fate.

Because I haven’t lived or stayed in the barrios since I got married 24 years ago, I brought up the subject with a friend as he visits Danao more often than me.

He laughed, telling me to dismiss this crazy idea for I’d be frustrated. He was saying that the young Maria Claras of Danao I had in mind, are not only endangered species; they’re gone – kaput. As extinct as the beautiful antolihaw that we loved to tirador when we were batang yagit in Dungga.

Obviously a pessimist, my friend said it is more likely that Matthew may come back with a sexy young Japayuki or worse a shabu addict instead of a young beata. Darling mumbled again, “simbako intawon, buanga ka”.

My friend was telling me that with cable-tv almost in all homes, carrying prime channels such as CNN, HBO or MTV, and with shabu sold in many sari-sari stores along with saging ug camote, present day Danao girls, even in the barrios, are not that clueless as we thought. “Even a bibingka peddler or some lab-asera has a cell phone”, he said.

There are no Maria Claras out there anymore, he said; Danao’s dalagang bukid as young as 16 are being lured for a promised high paying jobs abroad, as “cultural dancers” in Japan, domestic helpers in Hongkong, Singapore or in Middle East or as GROs in Manila bars.

Thousands work like robots in assembly lines at Mitsumi in Sabang, living in cramped quarters. Young men and women together are packed like sardines in a room.

My friend further said, “surf the internet, use any search engines and type down Danao City, what you get are many photographs of Danao girls as young as 15 being peddled to phedophiles and dirty-old-clients of mail-order bride operators.”

“Today you can find your Maria Claras in Taytay – sa sementeryo,” my friend said in sarcasm.

Very sad, indeed, if true. I never believed entirely what my friend was telling me. I tend to surmise he was joking or trying to exaggerate to make a point.

What he said was cruel if not insulting to Danao’s young ladies when it can be true to only a few. I’ve been out of touch too long, never stayed in Danao long enough, but my friend’s portrayal of Danao’s young women is a blatant disrespect.

I was in Danao lately, talked to people, and to be honest, very little has changed. Danao City currently has a population of nearly 70,000. There is no question there are a number of unfortunate Danawanons who fell prey to predators, generally due to economic necessity.

Assuming the number of single young women is approximately around 8,000, no more than 5% had become “cultural dancers in Japan”, GROs in Karaoke bars or had turned drug addicts.

The few wayward children who are innocent victims of cir*censored*stances is a tiny percentage of the entire population. True, more and more may join their ranks unless the community does something about it.

At least there still remain over 7,000 nice young Danawanons who are buotan, mahigugmaon ug mati nudanon – endowed with desirable Danawanon traits and religious values that we all treasure and cherish.

Despite the ugly impression my friend had of our town’s youth, I still promote the idea of sending our children back home – that they may learn and appreciate our rich cultural heritage and hopefully find someone special along the way.

My teacher once said the best place to find someone to marry is in your parents’ hometown. I agree.

That’s exactly how I’m going to tell my son how he can avoid the horrifying aftermath of a divorce, i.e. custody fights, child support, alimony, and of course, legal costs.

For same reason a growing number of Europeans and Americans come to Cebu hunting for a bride.

The Chinese, Korean, Armenian immigrants, etc. most of them send their children to their homeland to find a wife. We should too.

A family from India I know well still practices this age-old tradition of pre-arranged marriage for their children. It does work, I was told.

A 24-yr old pretty Indian office mate who came to the U.S. when she was 16, was happy when her parents arranged her marriage.

Judy had no boyfriend, no prospect in mind, not even a pen-pal. Yet she obediently went along with her parents’ plan.

Contacting their relatives in India, Judy’s parents announced that their daughter is ready for marriage and would be going home in six months for a big wedding.

She bought a nice and expensive wedding gown for herself and more gowns for brides maids, etc. The parents simply called some close relatives to scout for candidates as Judy’s potential husband.

“Identify at least 5 college graduates, young good looking men,” the parents told relatives.
“Send resumes with photographs”, instructions continued.

In two weeks, bio-data with pictures of 8 candidates arrived, three engineers, a doctor, 2 medical technologists, a school teacher, an accountant and one with a master’s degree in computer science.

All appeared to be good looking with ages ranging from 24 -31. Our friend was sport enough to show us the resumes and photos and even jokingly asked for our picks.

All have the same choice, 27-year old Steni, the one with a master’s degree. Judy asked for a two-month vacation and flew to her hometown in India to begin the selection process and prepare a grand wedding.

From eight candidates she chose three to meet for a face to face interview and screening. Expectedly, she picked Steni.

A 2-week whirlwind courtship, followed. They strolled at the beach together, went horse back riding, motorbiking around town, disco dancing along with a coterie of relatives as escorts.

She avoided having sex before their wedding. She was 100% certain Steni wasn’t gay or impotent.

There was a big wedding – eating and dancing for three days as was the custom in India.

After a month-long honeymoon, Judy reported back to work leaving her new husband behind. She filed an immigrant petition for Steni and in six months they were reunited.

Being a professional, Steni got a high paying job in a softwre company in Los Angeles.
The couple are real love birds looking very happy all the time.

I related this story over and over to my two daughters, 20-year old Mariel and Monette who is 19, hoping they would buy the idea.

“Maybe our relatives in Guinacot can do the same and recommend some good men in the barrio for you to choose from when the time comes,” I told Mariel and Monette.

The reply is quick, “wake up, Dad, we’re not in Afghanistan”.

Ay, Señor San Roque, patron a Looc, how I miss the barrio fiestas. So do many other hard-boiled Danawanon who left town, eking out a living in places, oceans away from home.

They must be as nostalgic as I am comes month of May, the town’s fiesta season. Way back, in the not so old days, when everybody in town knew everybody, my friends always had in their wallet a year-round `listahan’ of barrio fiestas.

My sacristan-friend Nicomedes Parangan, my buddies Eduardito Valdez or Dario Reyes could recite the fiesta dates including the patron saints of all barangays, from Awihaw to Tubiga’g Manok. More Knowledgeable than the parish priest, of course.

Going to a barrio, it didn’t matter, we had , a friend or not. At a fiesta no one went pasmo’ because people literally opened their doors to everyone – even to strangers. If we had no close acquaintance, me and my buddies, all convento istambays, would go along with Padre Manalili or Nick Bacalla.

We would insist carrying the mass paraphernalia, to make ourselves appear as church alalays. Being with a priest earned us the right to be seated on the main table or be on the first batch at lunchtime.
We would get the best prepared dish, hot and fresh – served with humay (rice), regardless it was NARIC or RCA, so long it wasn’t corn.

The ultimos had to wait until the priests and his party had their fill as well as the special guests from town, usually a police or a cartero. The less important guests or the ultimos would have to savor themselves with left-overs. It could be puro tambok’, pork or carabao bones with lots of nangka or gabi or adobo-baboy-butihon served with mais instead of hurray.

After the mass we would be helping the priest in the baptism, writing down the names of children to be baptized and their godparents. In many instances, children only had their mothers – no ninong or ninong – so my name would appear on record as the godparent.

I must have been a ninong to over a hundred children just because Padre Bacalla said so. I feel sorry for those kids (must have their own families now). They never got a gift or had met their deadbeat ninong.
The last fiesta I’ve been to, probably 25 years ago, was in Santa Rosa – at the house of the late Benita-Muni. May they rest in peace. (Not sure though, if rest in peace is appropriate.) But am sure someone told me they’re dead.

If I’m wrong, it is an honest mistake and I ask for an apology, and may the good Lord grant them many more years to live.

I was born and raised in Bunga, a sitio of Santa Rosa. Our farm house was situated right at the boundary of Ibo, by the riverside. I remember that everytime fiesta in Ibo came on the 3rd Saturday of October, Tatay Kekong would be telling friends in town that our house was part of Santa Rosa, so we had no hikay.

Came August 31st, the fiesta of Santa Rosa, my Tatay would, at this time, tell friends and relatives that our house was actually part of Ibo, so there was no kumbera. Bunga residents had no kapilya, so no fiesta. They would celebrate it at other people’s homes. Wise.

Years later when we became taga-lungsod I rarely missed a fiesta in either Ibo or Santa Rosa. I would brag to friends I knew every family.

So, “let’s go to Santa Rosa and “eat the house one by one”, as the late Joe Rom used to say. Most barrio fiestas in town are observed and celebrated during summer break – when students are off school.

In my friend’s listahan sa fiesta the summer *censored*bera starts in barrio Mantija, last Saturday of April.
The patron saint, according to my fiesta consultant, was and still is the miraculous San Vicente Ferrer.

Thirty years ago, there were no passenger jeepneys commuting to and from Mantija. Fiesta goers from the poblacion had to take a tricycle ride up to Guinacot only.

We hiked uphill, run downhill, and climb more hills, approximately for over two hours, under the scorching summer heat. On the way up Mantija we crossed a river four times.

Leaving early morning without breakfast (nagpagutom), we would be in the brink of collapse from fatigue and hunger once we reached the kapilya, hub of fiesta activity. Seriously, at this point, we could eat anything that looked like food.

My maternal grandparents being from Mantija, it was unnecessary to hold on to Fr. Manalili or Fr. Bacalla’s sotana. Having many relatives in Mantija, the Giangans, the Cal families, etc. I could bring all my friends in town and be “eating the house one by one”.

The first two meals at noon time was a warm-up. On our third lunch for the day, we would still be having the appetite of a Great Dane. Before proceeding to our fourth stop, which could be farther over the hill, we made sure we had cold beer or hard drinks or tuba ok lang.

By nightfall before the big baile or discoral started, we should have covered seven houses. After a few rounds of drinks, we then hit the bailehan.

Although our breathe (from bahal or Tanduay Rhum) could kill a mosquito, plus the dried singot from the hike, no deodorant and no bath in the morning, still we danced at the baile, sweet music, cheek to cheek with barrio bailerenas or dalagas.

The girls, many of them, also had a smell of copras anyway. So, there was no complaining of how anyone smell at the bailehan. The dance started early evening, ending at dawn after the coronation. of the barrio queen.

Hardly recovering from a headsplitting hangover, the barkada would be taking a trak-de-carga bound for another fiesta. This time to Lawaan, one of the town’s remote far flung mountain barrio.

Our good friend Fredo Giango, whose parents Osting-Oping owned and operated the Lawaan Gaisano, would be our boss and guide, to another round of `eating the house one by one” in barrio Lawaan.

There were 15 of us in the group, that went fiesta hopping, entering a house altogether at same time.
We were welcome, because we were taga lungsod, college students and pretty good looking boys as well (sa among paminaw).

In Lawaan, we got there on besperas (day before fiesta) and left during liwas (day after). The host had to feed us for three days while drinking tuba day and night.

Had we stayed in Danao much longer, Osting-Oping would have gone bankrupt or Fredo disowned. From Lawaan, we rode back to town on a trak-de-karga – right atop a load of coal or sugar cane. Just a little after making a quick appearance at home, to let parents know we were still alive, we would be hitting again another fiesta. Tres de Mayo could have been fiesta-de-Santa Cruz in Manghilaw, but we skipped that, because according to rumors, the plato didn’t get washed, just wiped with dirty cloth, `cuz atabays were dry. Besides, food in Manghilaw was always pansit-de-sibuyas, or at best, half-cooked meat, so guests can’t eat much. One sirokan in town said so; it couldn’t be true. Cuatro de Mayo, fiesta in Tabok Guinacot, San Vicente Ferrer, the patron saint. All residents are relatives, Tatay Kekong being from there, so I would be the hepe-de-viaje in this round of `eating the house one by one’.

There was a barrio or two that my barkada kept away from or never go to. One was Manlayag. When we were younger and ignorant we tended to believe a town legend that was disgraceful to the good people of Manlayag.

The story was pure hoax, but some people believed it anyway – that a number of families is Manlayag were ungo (witch).

The story went further that if you ate at the house of an ungo, you’d become an ungo yourself. At their fiesta the ungo host, according to rumor, would put a potion on your food. A few days later you would be salivating (laway way putolputol.)

Soon thereafter an egg would form inside your body. The moment the egg hatches and let grow into a wak-wak, as the legend went, you’re a hard-core ungo.

In fairness to the good people of Manlayag, there was no basis whatsoever of this rumor. As to who started it, nobody knew; probably someone from Manlayag, so less people would go to their fiesta.

My barkadas have been so intrigued for years and eager to discover the power an ungo or wak-wak . If an ungo can live longer than ordinary mortals and can fly as they say, my barkadas will be willing subjects. I guess my friend, Lemuel Alcoseba, can hardly wait to be first in line.

Anyone from Manlayag? Please extend the invitation or we will just pretend to be church alalays again.

The ringing of a bell signaled the end of a 30-minute break.  Then children would stampede back to their classrooms in a rush.

Social Studies was our next subject. Mrs. Ypil for nearly a month taught us everything she knew about our town of Danao and  the province of Cebu.

She loved to relate heroic deeds of Spanish time Dana- wanons who built the town’s old church and about brave guerrillas who valiantly fought the Japanese soldiers during the war.

She made us memorize all the names of town officials.  Ms. Ypil must have done a good job as we remember those names very well.

At one time we had a field trip in conjunction with our lesson.  The whole class walked across the street to the town hall and took a peek at town officials at work.  The mayor then was Beatriz Durano, vice mayor – Rosita Almendras.

The 6 councilors were Mariano Banzon, Justino Palma, Jose Pantoja, Olympio Alerta, Gregorio Penas, and Leonardo Enriquez.

The municipal secretary was Atty. Jesus Navarro, Treasurer, Gervacio Alvez , Muncipal Health Officer was Dr. Jose Laude and Chief of Police was Romualdo Romagos.

These people were Danao’s VIPs in 1959.  Town councilors then were receiving a princely salary of about P100.00 a month, attending one session each week.

The police force of Danao must have been the most relaxed in the entire country.

For being able to impound a bicycle with an expired plate number or making arrest for violating the “hantak” or illegal gambling ordinance was such a big deal that one could expect a medal or a promotion in rank.

There were no more than ten policemen keeping the peace in the whole town with a population of approximately 12,000.

Among them were Emigio Alvaro, Panfilo Ramos, Arsenio Hermosilla, Matias Casas, Rizalino Paring,  Marcial Munoz, Paul Barriga, Joaquin Perez, Damian Manulat and Quiroz.

Although their monthly pay was only P80.00 a month, the town cops of Danao were very honest and righteous individuals. Not one was accused of extorting money from drivers or vendors.

Rarely was a crime committed except for occasional fistfights in the tubaan.   Child abuse or child molestation was not a crime requiring police action.

Although rape was rumored to have happened, a rape victim would never run to the police for help as it would bring a lifetime of shame.  (There was a person in town, though, known to be a serial rapist, Torio Manlulugos, and he did serve some time in jail.)

Paltik making was people’s livelihood and could not be touched by the police.
Because the policemen didn’t have much to do but sit all day with eyes fixed at the far horizon, apparently watching for passing boats or possibly counting the few trucks that passed by, Danao cops had developed huge bellies.

They would become very energetic and in high spirits when they get assigned to barrio fiestas. To prevent trouble from happening they had to make their presence visible in barrio fiestas or any combera or bankete.

As their way of establishing rapport with barrio folks the policemen had to “eat the house one by one” during fiestas, as Joe Rom once said.

People then would make joke when referring to an easy job: “hayahay pa’s pulis sa Danao.”

Around this time Danao had a new town hall.  With the vice-mayor being a sister-in-law of President Garcia, Danao easily obtained aid from the government to have a new town hall built.

Nothing was left of the old municipio (presently the site of the children’s playground). Not even the monument of  the unknown soldier was preserved.

The town in 1959 neither had a public nor a private dental practitioner.

If one had a dental problem  he or she would take a bus to Cebu City, i.e. if they could afford it, or they go to an arbolaryo instead.

There was in town a popular arbolarlyo who was known to pull out, in a split second, an aching molar with his bare dirty fingers and a spoon – bloodless and painless, as many had claimed. No need of antibiotics or pain medications.

A patient could also ask for some herbal concoction to relieve a tooth ache. This quick dental service could cost only a liter of tuba or 20¢.

Mrs. Ypil said we should never go to an arbolaryo but to a real dentist.

Every year one dentist and an  aide would come to the Danao Central School to provide dental check-up or do tooth extraction for nearly 1000 pupils.

So, she made it compulsory for all of us to see the public dentist when our schedule came.

While watching a dentist doing his job of extracting a bad tooth, and seeing classmates grimacing in pain, a few would faint at the sight or pretend to faint.

Then they could go home and save themselves from the agony and pain in the hands of a dentist.

I was one of those who developed a phobia of sitting in a dental chair.  The day the dentist came to our school, I had a loose tooth that could have been a good candidate for extraction, but I decided to play dentist myself.

I tied a string to the loose tooth, tied the other end to the door knob, then . .  slam-bang  . . . door closed, tooth gone.  I didn’t have to go to the dentist then.

Whenever I had a tooth pulled out, I religiously followed a ritual learned from my Nanay.   I would place or hide the extracted tooth on a buri plant – in between a cluster of thorny stems.   As told, I would utter these words “I leave you this tooth and make one grow as strong as these thorns.  Amen”

On a hill near our house (where the Baptist Church now stands) was my special buri plant.  It  had at least five of my teeth.

Time to time I would come to the hill, look at the buri, check my teeth sank deeper into the plant.

Years later a church was erected.   At that time I really hated the Baptist Church for cutting my buri plant that held 5 of my teeth.

By 11:30 a.m. the morning class would be over and we walked home for our lunch break.   Those who lived rather far stayed behind and ate their ‘baon’ somewhere in the school ground.

Though our house was barely a few blocks away, occasionally, I brought ‘baon’ myself.

I liked the taste of corn grits wrapped in banana leaves with an ‘inun-unan bangsi’ on top.  I would join Juanito Cane, Roman Aroma (from Looc) and Zosimo Sabas of Pulang Yuta, climb a tree and ate our lunch sitting on a tree branch.

When I get home for a lunch my Mama would always ask me to run to the market, to buy sari-sari vegetables with only 5¢.

I would run fast to the store of  Henio Bayot, one of three vegetable vendors in town.

He had a space at the market stocked with fresh and a good variety of vegetables and spices.

Bayot was not really his family name, but he talked and walked like a woman, so he earned his name. He had several kids though.

The sari-sari vegetables that my Mama always asked me to buy consisted of  a small bunch of kamonggay, some alugbate, camote tops, a small cut of gabi or ubi,  a yellow and white calabasa – everything for 5 centavos.

Henio Bayot was a nice person for a  market vendor.

He would not get  irritated when pressed for pakapin, which I always did, such as,  one or two green onions and a green pepper
to go with the sari-sari, at no added cost..

My mama would then make one big caldero of vegetable stew putting in as subak one or two tulingan tinap-anan or sinugbang tamarong.  And on the side, there always was the indispensable ginamos.

And that was a good healthy lunch for a family of 8.  Occasionally there was only ginamos and nothing else to go with the mais.
When it happened, our faces would squirm looking at the ginamos, but we just ate whatever was on the table.

When my Tatay had sacks of dried copra sold in Cebu which happened once a month we could expect some special treat.

We would have some tiny portion of pork adobo or perhaps a good carabao stew or my favorite dugo-dugo.

I would be ecstatic if there was manok with kamonggay scented with tanglad.

Generally, lunch was fish and vegetables but some days Tatay could come up with a few surprises.

If one of the pigs looked ill, it was then slaughtered and we would be having adobo for days or weeks.

In some rare occasions we did get some special treat buying food from a restaurant or eateries in the market, usually at Etiang- Hipolito’s Restaurant.

For 20 centavos one could buy a plate of pansit or a bowl of dugo-dugo or perhaps paklay.  And for 30 centavos there was a good size cut of pork adobo or carabao kasahos for which Hipolito was famous for.

Other people kept away from Hipolito’s Kan-anan because he was known to have tuberculosis and he coughed all the time while his saliva spread all over the food.

I didn’t mind it at all and continued to patronize Hipolito’s because it was cheap and closer to our house. Besides his Junior was a friend and classmate.
(Part 5 – to be continued . . .)

A day in the life . . . at Grade III, Section 1

We dreaded the day we enter third grade. Third graders had that nasty habit of scaring second graders, like “You will have a hard time in Grade III, and worse, if you go to Section 1.

“Mrs. Ypil is many times meaner compared to any teacher in the entire Danao Central School.”

“Everything would be in English, reading, writing and even talking, they said. Long multiplications and kilometric division could break your head.”

There was, we were warned, a speak-English-only rule in Mrs. Ypil’s classroom and she would beat to a pulp anyone who speak in dialect.

These wild talks seemed to torture us when summer break was nearing and we were Grade III bound.

I was eventually enrolled in Grade III Section I, on the first Monday of June, 1959.

I had no choice but to enlist in Mrs. Ypil’s class because my elder sisters said so.

Besides, most of my classmates in Grade II, also as mandated by parents, enrolled in Section 1. Those whose grade were below 80 could not be in Section 1.

Not long after, we found out Grade III was not really that scary and difficult.

Ms. Ypil, was not ‘maldita’ after all. Just the opposite, she was motherly and kind to us. English was fun and we just laughed at each other’s struggle learning how to read.

Because class started rather early, I had to get off from bed not later than 6:00 in the morning. Actually, not from bed, but from a banig (mat made of buri) spread on the floor that I shared with four sisters.

I hated untying and folding the mosquito net, but that was a task I got to do.

How I wished we always had katol, Lion-Tiger mosquito killer, so there would be no mosquitero to untie and fold.

Besides, with so many holes in our mosquitero, mosquitos still got in, sucked blood and buzzing in our ears all night.

There was no need for an alarm clock to wake up people of Danao early each day.

Each morning at dawn, 7 days a week, Isming Ki-ang, the church campanero, would toll the gigantic church bells, the sound of which could be heard as far as Guinacot.

Isming would bling. . . blaang the church bells at 4:00 in the morning.

I would wake up at the sound of the bells, but easily go right back to sleep.

The loud sound bells from the campanaryo was never annoying to anyone, not even to the Protestantes.

It was some form of heavenly music regardless of belief.

Moments later after the bling. . . blaang stopped, I would hear the whistling of Untoy Taghoy passing by our house each morning going to the river. One day, out of curiousity, I followed Untoy, just to find out what he was up to.

I kept a safe distance, some- what scared walking early in the morning alone through the Kamanggahan, said to be taw-an (inhabited by bad spirits).

Walking past katubhan, kamaisan and kasagingan, there was my old neighbor Untoy squating close to a bamboo tree at the river bank, comfortably relieving himself — under the clear blue sky.

I stood behind a cocounit tree and watched Untoy doing his thing. I waited for a snake to wiggle into Untoy’s behind and see how he could run with his pants down. Unfortunely, it didn’t happen.

Untoy was a helper in the household of Mameng-Gil Lleva. He lived alone in a small payag at the back of the big house of the Llevas

Untoy looked more like an aborigine, so he could not be a relative of his adoptive family.

The old man was either claustrophobic or just could not stand the foul smell of an antipolo toilet because he always went to the river each morning. More likely he had no access to the toilet at the big house.

I learned much later that he died of old age. God bless the soul of my old friend Unoty.

Another early morning alarm was the St. Joseph Bus. At exactly 6:30 the St. Joseph would stop by the house of my uncle, Mano Angi, a copra buyer. He had a copra buying station in Cebu City and had to commute everyday

Mano Angi must have been a successful businessman because he took the bus everyday and was well groomed, white polo shirt and black leather shoes.

My ambition then was to be a copra trader like Mano Angi.

During some mornings Mano Angi was still in the banyo when the St. Joseph came to pick him up right on time.

Although there were many other passengers, Mano Angi would shout to the driver to wait as he still had to eat breakfast, unmindful of the mumbling of other passengers who were possibly in a hurry to get to Cebu City.

The bus driver wouldn’t mind waiting for an extra 15 minutes if the passenger was a suki.

Only the rich or people engaged in business would commute to Cebu City on a daily basis.

It was too costly to make the daily commute. The bus fare in 1959 was 20 centavos from Danao to Cebu or 40 centavos round trip.

It was quite a burden to most people. A public school teacher’s monthly take home pay at this time was less than a P100 pesos.

With that salary, however, a teacher who knew how to budget, could have their children study medicine and engineering, just like Mrs. Ypil’s kids.

In Lapulapu Street only a few household had water connection. The rest either bathed and did laundry in an artesian well (puso) or in the river.

In 1959 Danao River flowed from the mountains down to the sea all year round. Even in the driest months shrimps and fish thrived in the nearby river.

The water in the river was clear and clean, although at times while bathing in the river, one could get smeared of carabao manure or bumped your head on a dead cat.

The artesian well (puso) was right beside our house, so I didn’t go to the river to bathe.

On Saturdays I would go with my mother and sisters washing clothes not to help but play and swim in the river.

There was an existing ordinance making it a misdemeanor to bathe or do laundry in the perimeter of the puso, carrying a penalty of 2 days in jail or a fine of 10 pesos.

However, it was rarely enforced. In fact, I remember only one incident that a police came to arrest a man taking a bath in the puso.

The arresting officer was a neighbor — Nene Paring, said to be the toughest, meanest cop in the entire Danao Police Dept., a force of no more than ten policemen, headed by Chief of Police Romagos.

Judging from their pot bellies, the town police spent 99% of their duty-time sitting down playing dama as there were no criminals to go after.

The cops kept themselves busy, keeping the peace in barrio fiestas making sure they have some putos on their way back home.

At times I would see these town cops chasing kids caught playing hantak, but they could not catch them because of their big tummies.

Probably, Nene Paring had a quarrel with his wife the night before, or simply disliked the face of the person bathing in the puso one early morning, that he remembered to enforce the no-bathing-in-the-puso-ordinance.

Patrolman Paring dragged poor Goring Alquisalas to jail, still wet in his carsonsillo and soap suds all over his body, despite pleas to give him few minutes to dress up.

The last wake up call, obviously the most awaited, was the poot..poot…poot sound of a bicycle horn. It was Victor, the bread peddler of Anoy’s Bakery, whose bike was loaded with a big basket of assorted bread. Anoy’s pan-desal at 10 pieces for 20 centavos was so good with sikwate. ]

It was only on special occasion we had pan de sal and sikwate-ispiso for breakfast.

Although Mama only had the barest minimum of education, she must have known much about healthy diet.

I could not recall having bacon and sausage for breakfast.

My mother must have known these had high cholesterol and no good for our health.

So a typical breakfast consisted of lugaw-binlod mais, dehydrated or dried pot-pot and kaling-bolinaw, cooked in charcoal.

At rare times, mother could have these cooked in pork manteca, especially on days after the fiesta when she did not give away all the manteca to visiting relatives who would not go home until they get a bottle of manteca and some adobo.

Before leaving for school, Mama made sure we drank our daily dose of energy drink which Mama said was a very good “sustansiya”.

It wasn’t milk but a coctail consisting of tuba, egg and light hot sikwate. We called it kinutil.

After a big gulp of kinutil, my cheeks would turn reddish and I was ready for school.

(to be continued next issue.)

A day in the life .  .  . at Grade III, Section 1

A plate of corn grits with buwad or tinabal or inununan (fish) for breakfast would not last till noon. We had to eat again by mid-morning at recess.  If we didn’t, we would be starving before the last period.

While in third grade, five of us were in school, two in college, one high school and another in sixth grade, so it was somewhat a struggle to squeeze a 5¢ ‘baon’ from my Tatay each day.

Suppressing a craving for a snack was not much of a sacrifice, but watching other kids munch food at recess and you weren’t, was some form of torture.

Young kids didn’t want others to get the impression their family was that miserable as not to afford to give a child 5 centavos baon.

Out of necessity, I acquired entrepreneurial skills at age 8. I had to earn at least 25 centavos for a week’s recess allowance.

Yes, Manang Biday, having 5¢ at recess was good enough. You were some big shot then if you had 25¢ in your pocket.

I learned 101 ways to earn 25¢ on a weekend.  Running errands for some neighbors was one easy way, a hard way was rummaging for scrap metal, empty bottles, etc at the town’s many garbage dumps weighed and sold at Marcelina’s backyard for recycling.

The City of Danao started collecting garbage on a daily basis, only in 1963 with jail inmates as unpaid basureros.

Before that time, every backyard in Danao was a garbage dump where kids rummage for anything  they could sale for recycling.

Scavenging one whole Saturday for broken glasses, scrap iron or aluminum, enabled kids to earn 25¢, enough for a week’s baon, Monday through Friday.

Also, some Sundays I could  be at the town’s *censored*pit, not to bet, but look for coins that some drunk and tipsy gamblers had dropped.

A *censored*pit owner, Ruben Derecho’s son, Zoroaster was a friend and classmate, so at anytime I was in and out of the sabungan. His sister, Minviluz, at the entrance, would just let me in without paying the 20¢ admission.

There was no age restriction to enter a *censored*pit; even to bet or wager.  It was a common spectacle at the *censored*pit, small kids along side adult gamblers barking “inilog . . inilog  . .  biya . . . biya”.

No one would ask for IDs or cedula to prove you were old enough to place a bet in a sabong.

Two classmates, Melchor Buot and Zoroaster, were already making bets in the sabungan long before they were cir*censored*cised.

Having learned from a *censored*pit masiador and master *censored* handler, Gavino Capitan, my two market-side buddies had more winning  streak than some older sabungero.

They were good, as well, at the hantakan, and always had the biggest collection of lastiko, playing cards and diolin (marbles).

Despite my constant visit to the *censored*pit, I had not acquired any gambling skills and could not tell a native *censored* from a manok amerikano.  When I got a feeling it was my lucky Sunday, I would ask either Melchor or Zoroaster to make a side-bet, at most 25¢, either at the sabung or  hantak.

More often than not, my money would be doubled, with either Melchor or Zoro placing the bet.

If I lost I would be lurking at a corner during recess salivating for 5 days while other school kids were eating and licking ice-drops.

Although our teachers insisted we bought snacks at the school canteen that sold pan bahaw, most pupils preferred outside vendors.

Our favorite vendor was Mana Ponyang who came to our school each morning with a pushcart filled with  fruits and snackables.

Two big ripe boiled bananas, masi, salbaro, 3 camote  all for 5¢.

Mana Ponyang also had some  garapons in her pushcart filled with piñato, diskotso, bag-ong bayan at no more than 5¢ each.

If we were hungry we would have a good fill from two big boiled bananas.

But our most favorite delicacy of all was Ponyang’s delicious masi.

Although its ingredients were just rice, sugar and peanuts, yet it was so good. No other masi in Danao or Cebu tasted any better.

Mana Ponyang claimed she had a technique in making a good delicious masi but it was her trade secret and was confidential.

But one day a neighbor was telling people, even swore to God it was true, she saw with her eyes Ponyang’s husband, Pamping, a policeman, kneading the masi in his armpit, hence the distinct taste.

The same neighbor further added that Pamping rarely took a bath and used no deodorant.

Since then Pongyang’s masi became unpopular among pupils at the Danao Central School.

No amount of disclaimer that followed got school kids to buying Ponyang’s masi again.

Another favorite recess hang-out among pupils at the Danao Primary school was the corner store of Este-Memoy Cañares.

The store sold a variety of bread and cookies, as well as cold drinks. At 10¢ for a bottle of pepsi or tru-orange, rarely a 3rd grade pupil could afford to have one at recess.

In our class, probably only Rosemary Yray, whose father was a NARIC warehouseman and Antonio Camonggay, son of Egli, the town’s copra buyer, had that much ‘baon’ to afford a cold drink at recess time.

In third grade when Carlos Garcia was president, public schools were recipient of many assistance from the U.S. government, such as books and food items, e.g. skim milk, yellow corn, flour, etc.

Unlike in later years when school and public health officials had become corrupt, who sold donated food for extra income, in 1959 donated food did go and benefit the public.

Government officials then were honest and decent people.

These food items coming from Uncle Sam were either given to pupils to be cooked at home or cooked in school for pupils to eat during recess.

Whatever was alloted for our class, each pupil got a fair share.

While other teachers would hide and take home powdered milk and later sold to their pupils as polvoron, Mrs. Ypil and most Danao Central School teachers were honest and never did such despicable and shameless act.

Some days we saved our recess money as we would all be eating yellow corn porridge (lugaw).

Mrs. Ypil would remind the class a day before that we were having lugaw at recess the next day. We had to bring firewood, plate and spoon; a few girls were assigned to cook the lugaw.

The girls designated as cook were just my age, 8 or 9, yet were already good at cooking yellow corn lugaw in a big calderon enough to feed 40 kids.

One day at recess, lugaw was ready and girls were first in line. Some 10 boys meanwhile played baseball as they were last to eat.

They used a tennis ball for a baseball and a firewood for a bat. When Manuel Beduya was at the bat, he hit the ball hard, landing into a stagnant canal coming from Lalay’s baboyan (pig’s sty).

Juanito Cane ran after the ball, picked it up from the canal and threw the ball back to the pitcher, Jonathan Lao.

Seeing the tennis ball was picked from the canal, now covered with mud or maybe pig’s manure, Jonathan just stood still, making no effort to catch the ball.

Unluckily, the ball went straight and dunked in the open calderon, half-full of lugaw.

Of course, with a tennis ball and pig’s manure in the calderon, those in line waiting to be served refused to get their share and reported the incident.

In a minute Mrs. Ypil came to investigate and rounded up all ten boys playing baseball.

She told them to get their plates and angrily demanded they eat all the lugaw in the calderon.

They could not go back to our classroom unless they finished it.

For the baseball players the 30-minute recess was extended to an hour. All ten players, at least had a plate of lugaw spiced with pig’s manure from Ramon-Lalay’s baboyan.

Jonathan Lao, Manuel and Juanito did have three servings and looked as if they enjoyed their meal while over a hundred watched in great amusement.
Luckily, not one complained of any stomach disorder as a result.

Among 20 or so boys in our class, ages 8 or 9, only three had been cir*censored*cised that summer.

These were the four Lao cousins: Edgar, Levi, Fernando and Jonathan.

Few months after their May 1959 cir*censored*cision, all four were too proud, always showing off  their newly healed cir*censored*cised ‘birdies’ to classmates who were still “pisot” and curious how a tuli looked like.

Because their fathers were, or had been in the military service, they had the privileged of being cir*censored*cised at a military clinic in Cebu City.

They often bragged that their cir*censored*cision was a breeze and painless, because it was done by a military doctor.

They said that if we had ours done by Dr. Laude, we would be in great pain while at the Arny clinic in Cebu, just like a mosquito bite.

They were telling us Dr. Laude had been using the same scissor the past 20 years, and used no anesthesia at all.

Since no others in class had a father in the military service, that scared us.

Some classmates made up their mind that they would have their cir*censored*cision through the old reliable pok-pok method by a known manunuli in Suba and not at the Dispensary by Dr. Mariano Laude.

Inserting a sharp knife into the foreskin of the penis on top a tadtaran, the manunuli strikes the knife with a piece of wood, splitting, at a blink of an eye, the foreskin and blood spurts.

Because the pok-pok is done real quick the pain would be gone as fast, so they claimed. (To be continued . . .  (MB)

There were no tricycles or jeepneys in Danao when I was in third grade.

Only three or four families had a car. In 1959 even Danao’s medical doctors could not afford to buy a car. Drs. Laude, Cola or Tining Canga made their house calls in bicycles.

So, regardless where one lived, could be Barrio Langlang or Pulang Yuta,  young school kids had to walk to school.

We lived in Lapulapu St, barely 400 meters from school, no more than 5 minutes walk. But it took me more than 20 minutes.

Instead of walking by Mabini St., I would take a longer route through the market side at Pio del Pilar St. This way I had the chance to walk along or walk behind Lily Macachor, or at least, with another classmate Hipolito Derecho, whose houses were along Pio del Pilar.

We would be in school by 7:30 a.m. at the designated place in front of the Home Economics building for the flag raising ceremony.

Anyone late for the flag raising would get severe scolding from the teacher or the principal, others got a beating or had to pick the trash.

Exempted from the flag ceremony was my friend Robinson Olivar. His parents were members of the town’s
Jehovah’s Witness and according to them it was wrong to pay homage to the flag. Having a birthday party was also against their religion.

Because it was forbidden by their religion, Robinson was exempt from attending the flag raising.

I was then thinking of becoming a Jehovah’s Witness so I could go to school a little bit late.

Books were provided free of charge, to be returned at the end of the school term.  So, everyone had to have a school bag to protect the books from the elements.

Mama Bening bought me a buri bag when I told her Mrs. Ypil required everyone to have a bag.

Unlike today’s Jansport-craze generation of school kids, we didn’t look stupid or miserable carrying a buri-bag to school those days. Over half of Danao’s school children carried the same school bag as mine.

Also, no one wore shoes to school. We wore slippers or went barefoot. The school then was very lenient on dress code, we could go to school even in camesita.

Nike or Adidas did not exist when I was in grade school. A more popular rubber shoes, which I had, was Elpo at P4.00 a pair, still not cheap. Tatay Kikong’s daily wage at the time was P2.00, working as a carpenter in Durano’s coal mine in Dungga, but the minimum was P4.

A rich kid could be wearing a Custombuilt (P8.00), or Edwardson rubber shoes (P9.00), while the very rich might have the imported Made in U.S.A. Converse (P30.00).

Not one kid in the entire Danao Central School was ever known to be wearing a Converse. Probably, at this time, only Tadeo and Ramonito Durano had a Chuck Taylor Converse rubber shoes.

During the flag ceremony, a sixth grade pupil, usually the prettiest and the brightest, would lead the singing of the national anthem, not Bayang Magiliw, but the old English version, “Land of the Morning”.

Either Eli or Marilyn Duterte would be standing at the veranda of the Home Economics building, act like a choir conductor with a stick on hand, and swing to the beat.

At a cue from Eli or Marilyn, several hundred pupils, standing in straight rows down the street, would sing “Land of the Morning”, as two Girls Scouts raised the flag, pulling very slowly a rope until the flag reached to the top of the pole.

As we marched to our respective classrooms, we were not allowed to talk to each other or make any unnecessary noise. Mrs. Ypil always had a rattan stick on hand to make certain everyone behaved.

Classes started exactly at 8:00 a.m. and the first subject, lasting 30 minutes, was GMRC (Good Manners and Right Conduct.)

There were teaching interns (graduating BSEED students from Cebu Normal School), helping the teachers in the Danao Elementary School. Assigned to assist in Mrs. Ypil class was Apolonia Capitan.

She loved to sing and every morning Miss Capitan made a great effort to make us learn to sing some modern hits. Her favorite was Greenfields and she made us sing that song every morning for the next three months.

It must have been very frustrating for Miss Capitan as only two in a class of 40 showed some promise in music. Though everyone liked to sing along, only Jonathan Lao and Robinson Olivar would volunteer to sing in front of the class.

There was no need to push or egg Jonathan to get to the front to sing.

Whenever Miss Capitan called for a volunteer, instantly, Jonathan Lao would rush to the front and belt out his master piece “Granada” a la Castor Dagatan, a church organist.

Then Robinson would be next, to sing and dance to the tune of his own favorite “I’m so young, and you’re so old, Oh my darling I’ve been told . . .”

During the entire year, we were captive audience to Jonathan’s Granada and Robinson’s Diana, listening to them sing the same songs repeated over a hundred times.

Mrs. Ypil was short and plumpy and is remembered by her pupils, how funny she looked, when she “Wibble, Wabble” her hip showing the way to execute a dance and action song “Three Little Ducks”.

She would get mad if we just stood straight as a post, and would not “Wibble, Wabble” along, or gracefully grind our hips.

At the GMRC class, Mrs. Ypil reminded us that if there was a need for us to go out of the room, to pee or pooh, we have to raise our hand and say, “Excuse me Ma’am, may I go out for personal necessity.”

We exactly did that every time we went to the toilet or to buy candies at Norma’s store of Este-Memoy.

There was one toilet for nearly 300 boys, and another one for about the same number of girls. This was an antipolo type of toilet with not one person assigned to keep it clean. One could notice the foul smell from 100 yards.

The school janitors, Meliong Capitan and Andi Derecho, would have preferred to lose their jobs, than be cleaning the school toilet. These janitors were performing clerical tasks, not cleaning toilets.

Probably no teacher ever used the school toilets, especially among the women. Each one of them had urinola for her own use.

Mrs. Ypil had a queensize urinola she kept at the back of the door.

Everytime our teacher used the urinola, doing it behind the door, she would ask a pupil, most often, Josefa Beduya or Grace Ypil, to get a pale of water, pour into the urinola, and water the plants.

She said urine was a good nutrient for the flowering bougonvillas.

Our classroom was in the second floor and below were classrooms for the first graders, under Miss Manipis, Grade I, Section 1, Miss Banzon for Section 2 and Mrs. Sullano, Section 3.

When Josefa or Grace, sometimes Carmen Cola, was watering the plants, with our teacher’s urine, they made sure some Grade I kids were playing down below.

Many would get wet every time third graders above were watering the bougonvillas.

Later, Ms. Manipis would berate her pupils for coming to school, not taking a bath and smelling urine.

She then would drag some foul-smelling pupils to the faucet, stripped naked and bathe them with a garden hose.

My Tatay and Mama were deeply religious folks, but it was only in Grade III that I learned how to pray.

I would, and surely all others did, pray to God, that we would not get a score “below the median” during a “resapling”.

The result of the “resapling” (actually a short quiz given every two weeks), would determine where or with whom one could sit. (It was in high school I came to realize it must have meant “reshuffle”.)

If one got a score “below the median”, he/she would be seated in the third or fourth row and paired with someone as dumb and smelly.

The smart and neat looking pupils were always in the first row.

The bright boys in Grade III, Section 1, Jose Palma, Jonathan and Edgar Lao, Fredo Giango, Anacleto Esoto, were always in the first row.

Unfortunately for me, I could be in the first row one day, and then moved to fourth row, the next.

A boy and girl were paired and seated together in a wooden desk.

Everytime there was a “resapling” we would wish, pray to God and all the saints, we would be seated with someone bright and neat.

The moment Mrs. Ypil started reading the results, some boys could be heard mumbling, “Ginoo, malooy ka, tapad ‘ta mi ni Carmen Cola, Lily Macachor, Jesusa Manulat, Rosemary Yray ba, Elvira o Grace Ypil, Perla o Josefa Beduya, ayaw tawon ko ibutang sa 4th row.”.

We envied Fredo Giango, Jose Palma and Jonathan Lao.

Everytime there was a resapling, these guys were always in the “above the median” and could sit with any of the girls of their choice.

It was a real big disappointment if we scored “below the median” and ended up seating beside a girl who was could be the most bugo in class.

I sobbed in silence everytime I was seated with some girl I didn’t like, more so, someone I could not copy a correct answer during a quiz.

(To be continued – Part III – Recess)

An epidemic more serious and far more debilitating than any disease is softly killing our children. Shabu is a real killer. It attacks the mind, the body and the pocket.

It’s not only the children of the city’s affluent families, also some pedicab drivers, Mitsumi employees who work long hours, istambays, boys and girls as young as 12, are hooked.

In my teens, tuba was the evil thing, a poison to society’s moral fiber.

Ironically, parents of today’s teenagers, mostly my age, could only wish their shabu-sniffing children would instead be drinking tuba, that their parents strictly prohibited them from doing.

Thank God, shabu, in my time, was not yet invented. Besides, hardly any family, other than two or three, were rich enough to get their kids addicted to mind-altering drugs.

In a way, it was a blessing that we were poor. Otherwise, most of us would have been dead by now.

When I was sixteen a liter of bahal cost only 20 centavos at Taling’s Tubaan, enough to get high and tipsy.
In the case of shabu, you have to sell your only pair of shoes to get a snort.

The after-effect of drinking tuba is not as deadly as shabu. The worst is having a morning-after head-ache. But, once you higop init sabaw kamonggay, it’s gone in an instant.

There being no drugs in my time for a short-time high, some adrenaline- pumping, death-defying stunts, did give us some natural high and kept us kids far from getting bored.

We had so much fun and adventures those days that young kids today could only imagine.

Picture a young boy of 10, chased by a bolo-weilding old man. It is a bone-chilling scene to imagine.

Yet we derived some thrill and much fun being chased around town by Dr. Palatiyo. (Atty. Naring Flores said it’s Filoteo, not Palatiyo)

He wouldn’t have hesitated to hack our back with his pinuti or split our head, being pissed off by our constant taunting and teasing.

The instant the old man drew his bolo, we would accelerate 0 – 30 mph in one second. No way Jose, he could catch.

It was unfortunate no one discovered us to try out for the Olympics. I swear to God, we broke some Olympic records when Dr. Palatiyo came running after us weilding a pinuti, sometimes a sanggot.

The old man Dr. Palatiyo or Filoteo, who lived in a payag at the back of Upland Elementary School, was not even a quack-doctor, yet would get mad when kids taunted him “Dr. Palatiyo”.

Another thrill, another high. We, the Cambiohan Boys, during some boring weekends would attack and declare war with kids on the opposite block, shooting one another with luthang.

Some days we fought each other with bamboo sticks, fashioned as swords, mimicking the moro-moro.

Supposedly a harmless war, yet there was one casualty – Pinong Bulhog.

Alex Mata struck Pinong right into his left eyeball with his espada. Pinong Bulhog not only lost an eye, he lost his last name too.

When we were off-school, we were in the pantalan, jumping from atop a banca or lansa, as high as 20 ft., and betting who could stay the longest at the bottom of the sea.

It was more death-defying than taking drugs, but then instead of destroying the mind, it built up our stamina.

One afternoon, after a tiresome diving, and relaxing under the pantalan (boardwalk), we decided to have some fun at the expense of some namasol (hook and line fishermen). Our target was Untoy Taghoy.

The man was a permanet fixture in the pantalan, whistling all day long, even while asleep. No one I knew knows his real last name, but Taghoy stuck, even when he wasn’t whistling anymore in his old age.

From dawn to dusk he was fishing at the pantalan, squatting or lying in a wooden plank, holding his line. We were right underneath, unseen by fishermen sitting by the boardwalk.

We held and made a quick pull of the fishing line, then let go as Untoy held tight his fish line.

Down below we would feel Untoy being jolted by a thunderbolt thinking a huge barracuda was making a bite. We made an effort not to laugh. We did it again . . and again. At least four times, Untoy jolted and pulled the line, then felt sorry that the big one got away. After a while the old man discovered the laughing ‘barracudas’ down underneath the boardwalk.

As soon as we heard him scream in anger, warning to throw rocks, we swam ashore as fast we could.

Had their been a timer, another Olympic swimming record would have been broken as we swam away from Untoy Taghoy’s fury.

Tired of the ocean, we could easily change direction and proceed towards the mountains bringing our tirador or eskopita (air gun). Our bird-hunting trips, most often ended up shooting somebody’s chicken, because there were no birds big enough to asal. There was great excitement and thrill, shooting other’s chicken.

Feeling some guilt, we would just go to church and confessed our sin to Padre Alcoseba:

“Padre, pasayloa ko, nakapatay ko ug manok.” But after praying the 3 Maghimaya ka Marias as penance, we went panirador or pamusil again.

We developed a skill shooting other people’s chicken, not getting caught. One false move was a huge embarrassment. There was always the possible reality of going to jail.

No fried chicken in the world tasted better than a neighbor’s chicken downed by one’s tirador, especially seeing the owner fuming mad and swearing to break the bones of the ‘kawatan’.

That was part of growing up in Danao – an unusual initiation to manhood, be able to shoot someone’s hiniktan with a tirador or paltik.

The pleasure we derived probably was more than a snort of shabu.

Warning to the young in Danao: don’t try it – because jail is no fun place to be. Besides, they may not be as wily and clever as their Tatay were. (RB)