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My Banana Republic Memoirs Part I
A house similar to Papô Ake's
Reminiscing Botolan…
My grandpa’s house like most houses in my hometown was built on stilts anchored by concrete piers. Being in the construction business I never understood the reasoning behind it at first. But I now come to realize that it might be a better method after all, compared to a monolithic or continuous concrete footing especially in the earthquake-prone areas. Since it is not as rigid, the structure will sway or the piers can move in any direction. In addition, the breezeway-like opening beneath the house makes it much more forgiving during high winds due to the equal pressure above and below the structure. Thus, just like a bamboo tree, it will bend with the elements. I guess it is also more convenient to build the houses five or six feet above the existing grade to mitigate the floodwater issues during monsoons than to bring in some dirt to build a mound and raise the building pad. This, plus the
unavailability of earth moving equipments during those days made this construction style more economical and prudent for the locals.
It was a big house like most houses in that part of town. I guess the house had to be large for my
Papo had two daughters and seven sons. It would have been a dozen all together but three died while infants. There were four large bedrooms and a large
sala or living room, a dining area (not really a room) and a unique covered porch, which was made an integral part of the house, with a narrow covered catwalk around the perimeter. The “walk” completely surrounded the stairs and landings. It was also my grandma and auntie’s smoking area. I hang out with them quite a lot too… to ogle on the pretty girls from
Bancal, Paril and Santiago walking by.
All the rooms had hardwood floors except for one particular room. That room was my favorite when I was growing up because it is the coolest part of the house due to its bamboo-slatted floor, which let the cool breeze in from below, especially during the hot, sticky and muggy months.
I often wondered why I am always drawn to that one particular room whenever I visit. It feels like some unknown force pulling me in. Now I know why… I found out later that I was born in that room. It’s like the birds being drawn to roost on the tree where they were born. Oftentimes I would be sitting on a chair looking out the window just taking in the view outside. Hearing from my aunties’ stories, I learned that I was delivered by
palterra, who in our nick of the woods is a traditional medicine lady who does the duties of a natural birth attendant. By the concoctions (roasted garlic and other smelly stuffs) she puts on the belly button after cutting the umbilical cord she may also be an herbalist.
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When my dad passed away ten years ago, I remember being in that room alone with tears flowing down my cheeks, when his body was brought up to the house for a half- hour stop. It is the old folks’ superstition to sort of letting the body come home, before heading to the town church for the funeral service. My dad built his own retirement home in the barrio of
Mambog about 4 miles from grandpa’s house when he retired from NWSA.
This old house has now been abandoned and left in disrepair, so I was not able to go in that room the last time I went home. My grandparents passed and only one uncle and aunt are still living. Both own their houses. And maybe none of my cousins have any interests in preserving the house because they don’t feel the same attachment I have. If I ever had any slim desire of retiring in the Philippines, I would have invested some monies to preserve the place.
I had fun and some not so fun memories of Botolan. Sad time was when I had to walk home buck-naked holding my hands cupped over my ‘you know what’, after taking a bath (skinny dipping) with three of my friends in the
Bucao River. We just got done giving our damuwags (water buffalo) a refreshing bath then. We found out later after a week that the low- life- juvenile Ernesto B. stole all our clothes, not as a prank but so he can wear them. Looking back now, I think it is hilarious.
Another episode was when my cohort Alfredo V. and I were caught misappropriating (stealing sounds harsh)
bayaba off Balda’s yard adjoining our elementary school by Mr. Datugan, the Principal. The bottom of our tucked-in T-shirt was almost coming loose from the weight of these fruits when the Principal appeared at the barbed wire fence and told us to come down. He asked us for our names and our parents’ names. We were so troubled during that weekend and up to the Monday morning’s flag ceremony. The fear that our name will be announced right after the flag ceremony in front of all the teachers, students and especially to our
ankalabayan or teenage crush was so unbearable. I was not able to eat and sleep the night before. I hoped that Monday would just go away. It turned out that the Principal was my distant Uncle and my mom lived with them for a few years. Mr. Datugan, bless his heart, never announced our escapade.
And would you believe that both Fred and I retired from the U. S. Navy. We have been sending Christmas cards to each other since we met a few years back at a dinner dance in Long Beach, California sponsored by the Botolan Association of Southern California. He now lives in Fremont, CA in the Bay Area. Also, that the current owner of the
bayaba property was one of our classmates. This is truly a small world full of surprises.
My big brother and I grew up in Botolan with our Papos and Tatays and
Nanays. Since I was the stay home kid, I was their “go-fer” or
“taga haluy”. My big brother was matalâ. I was always running errands for them, like buying the kerosene for the
kinki, their shuktong (wine), Liwayway and Bulaklak magazines,
hukâ or vinegar, tuyo or soy sauce and their La Yebana cigarettes, which are sweet, thin, long and dark. The ladies smoke them with the lit end inside the mouth (I guess they were trying to hide the smoke). I always volunteered to do this errand so I can get a glimpse of one of my classmates who I had a big crush on. She lived in a big house catty- cornered from the store.
A few things come to my mind during my elementary years at Botolan North Central. During my second grade, the thing that stuck in my mind was when we were reciting the pledge of allegiance one early morning with our late teacher Mrs. Divino, when all of a sudden Jose Sarmientos’ pants caught fire. It happened when Amang V. was sticking the point of his pencil at Jose’s back pocket. I believed Jose has something that Aniceto wanted. Unbeknown to him, he had sheets full of caps (for toy guns) in his pocket. The pressure and friction of the pencil lead ignited the caps. As soon as the teacher saw what was happening, she made him take off his pants. And of course none of us boys wear underpants in those days. Everyone had a good laugh for the rest of the week.
During fourth grade, being that my Nanay Edith was my teacher, I had to bring a large pitcher and a bamboo spatula to school once a week. My duty was to mix the powdered milk donated by the
“People of the United States of America” with water to provide nourishing milk for the class. I was always looking forward to doing this chore every other Friday so as I get to serve my
“crush”.
In fifth grade, I remember giving Miss de la Rosa a lousy time one day. It happened during one of our quizzes where she gave us copies of the map of the Philippines and we had to write down the name of all the provinces and their corresponding capitals. I knew all the answers by heart and was expecting at least at 90 or a 100 on the test. I don’t know what happened, but I got all the numbers mixed up when I was transposing them and I wound up getting a big fat zero. And to make matters worst, the girl that corrected my test paper was the girl I had a crush on. Come to think of it, I also had a crush on my teacher, I guess every young boy in her class too, for that matter. I just couldn’t bear the embarrassment, so I grabbed my papers, crumpled them and threw them in the trashcan and walked out and went home crossing the rice fields (I take this shortcut when I am by myself). I remember the teacher being in tears that afternoon. Of course she had to rat to my Aunt Edith, who made me apologized to her. I found out later though that my teacher retrieved my papers and figured out what I did wrong and adjusted my test score. For that, I thought she was not only the most beautiful teacher in the whole wide world but the most kind hearted. And just like all the 10 and 11-year old boys in my class, I would have married her that year too. Coincidentally, I heard she married a sailor. No! It was not my classmate Fred V.
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In sixth grade, I remember learning songs from music books donated by the United States. We sung songs about “… home on the range where the buffaloes and antelope plays” and “…Oh my darling Clementine”. And we didn’t even know what those things were and I believe neither did the teacher. It’s just because those were the only music books available at the library.
In Botolan High School, from freshman to sophomore, the thing that stuck in my mind was during our
“Shop Classes” with another distant Uncle teacher Mr. Dagsaan. My schoolmates and I were all the time pre-occupied with
manilip (peeping tom) at the girls upstairs taking their home economics classes. The hardwood floors had a half to an inch gaps between them so when we feel dust falling down on our head, our tendency is to look up. Sad to say we guys always knew when our girl classmates don’t change their undies.
I always look forwards to the fiestas. It seems like my Papô Inyang knew most people from many barrios. Although I was not made aware of our genealogy, I gather that the people that we go celebrate the fiestas with are blood relatives. I was a very shy kid (mare-reng-eyen)
then. I remember going to the fiesta in Capayawan at the Basa’s resident (their house was right next to the basketball court and where all the fiesta happenings occur). I was not able to eat at all because of my shyness although there was lots of food being offered. Papô Ba-e had to take me home early to Tampo that evening to get me something to eat. She never brought me to any more fiestas after that. I had to go with my Papô A-ki then, which
was once in a blue moon.
Those are the good old days…priceless in my view.
In a way, I wish my kids were able to experience this chapter of my life in my favorite banana republic, the good ol’ Botolan of Z.
All I can say is “What a place to grow up”.
Bert Guiang
Tampo, Botolan, Zambales
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