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The
Botolan I left
Botolan
is located right in the heart of Zambales province, in between the towns
Iba and Cabangan. Until the Pinatubo eruption, it remained practically a
quiet, bucolic, farming and fishing town comprised mostly of rustic
country people ingrained in the area in the past two or three or even more
generations. Botolan prides herself of an old Catholic church, the Sta.
Monica, built in 1700 out of coral blocks located right across the town's
plaza and white pristine or black sandy beaches at the littoral zones,
ideal for sea side camping, day picnics, rendezvous for nature lovers. It
is important to mention that the inhabitants are classified into two
categories: the highlanders or the Aeta minority who populate the
foothills of mt. Pinatubo in barangays: Moraza, Villar, Maguisguis, Belbel
and now at the resettlement area in the lowlands in Loob-bunga, and the lowlanders
whose dwellings you pass by driving through the paved national
highway.
Before
the '90s, the town boosted itself with several general merchandising
stores and groceries dominated primarily by the Lim family, yes, cousin
Lito's family, bakeries; "Midtown", established probably in the
60s or earlier is owned by the Nepomuceno clan, where I used to buy "pasensiya"
or tongue cookies, Eva Lim's bakery and restaurant cum photo shop came
later, a municipal building; next to it was the old "palengke",
the agora market was built right after I left the country in '87, and a
gas station. There used to be an old cinema house that featured double
programs, locus of my cutting-class and slaphappy days with my high
school friends, located next door to the "Iglesia ni Kristo"
building along the national highway. Ah...I can spend the entire day reminiscing the past but let me
first tell you about the face of the Botolan I knew and left behind.
The
town's only Catholic and private school, the Botolan High School, run by
the local diocese and the Franciscan nuns is my alma mater where I spent
my last two years in high school, the best ever years in my academic life
not for the results but for the mischiefs I had done alongside my high
school barkadas, dolled up in checkered green and white skirt, marine
collared white blouse and tie school uniform. Our gambolling turf, the
only beach resort at the time, the Villa Loreta, distances a few
kilometers south of the town proper, right after passing the Bucao River
and before reaching barangay Porac. Blest with fine, black sandy beach and
acres of pine trees just before the descent down toward the beach, the
resort provided one incredible hideaway.
More edifices, beach resorts and
landmarks have sprouted all over town as a result of the inevitable
progress, in adagio but advancement all the same, during the past decade
or so but this is the Botolan I knew and will always look forward to come
back to.
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Barrio
Capayawan
My
parents' house is located a few houses from the bend at the entrance of
barrio Capayawan. Mom and dad had this built in the early 1950s right
after their wedding; renovation was done amidst our protests in the early
90s. Around it, a backyard lined with fruit trees: cashew, mango, coconut,
star apple, papaya, guava and one pomelo tree that never bore fruit so mom
had to have it felled in latter years. Mom grew vegetables at the back
too: malunggay, kamias, kamote and ginger.
It
is not clear to me when did she start raising pigs, chicken, turkey, and
ducks for they were already there for as long as I can remember. The
pigsty at the back of the house is of good measure. Built in concrete
floors and walls and "pawid" (strung together then sun-dried
palm fronds used for nipa house making) roof it provided a comfortable and
cool place for the animals that lived and wallowed there.
At
the side of the house stood the deep water well that was connected to
steel pipes. These pipes snaked to opposite directions, one went to the water
reservoir next to our back entrance, the other led to the gasoline-fed
motor pump which resembled more like the same "Briggs and
Stratton" fishermen use to run their fishing boats with, only this
was bigger. I remember my father, after his retirement from the navy, that
is, would rev up the motor by looping a robust piece of rope around its
wheel-like attachment, making it come to life with just one pull. Once up
and running, the motor would belt ear busting, high-pitched falsettos that went
in perfect duet with the occasional baritone-like backfires. Funny audios
we didn't really mind since this was the only way for us to have our
supply of water in the main house throughout the day. We were lucky I
guess to have faucets that really worked, showers with constant pouring
water and toilets that flushed in the house even before electricity
reached our barrio.
We used "hasags" (kerosene lamps)
for illumination in those days. Mom and dad would only resort to running the generator for electric
lightings during feasts or on big occasions. Hasags are better preferred
than candles, unless of course, one likes to wake up resembling a
month old bluish-black cadaver face in the morning with sooty nostrils to
go.
To
our left lived my lolo, my father's father. Lolo had built and donated a
concrete edifice, which was later converted into a place where believers
like him congregated and held Sunday masses, to the founders of the
"Crusaders of the Divine Church of Christ", a religious order
led by Monsignor R. Magliba of San Fabian, Pangasinan. Although very few
people attended the ceremonies, most of them were my lolo's cronies, some
Capayawan folks and relatives, the place was equipped with all things
necessary for mass celebrations. It even had a rectory where at one time,
lines of CDCC priests arrived and held indefinite tenure in the
place.
As
the building was located in between the two houses, ours and that of
lolo's respectively, and our incompatibility in our credos was patent, the
pealing of the church bell on Sundays provided us, my siblings and I,
never-ending source of something to make fun of. I remember my brother
used to hum all different kinds of tunes each time he heard the choir sing
in an effort to whelm the canorous repertoire that permeated the air in
all the houses in within the radius of one kilometer from the church. I
remember my mom giving us that killer look that only she can exude each
time we call my lolo "apostle Machy" --his name is Macario,
behind his back. The worst transgressor in my mom's eyes I think was dad
who would promptly turn the stereo on only to listen to his Ilocano LPs,
"Diay Baybay" and "Ti ayat ti maysa nga Ubing" were
among his favorites, in full blast on a Sunday morning. Looking back at it
now I guess our actions were inexcusable. The only rationale I can think
of was our tender age.
It
has been for a while since the church was last used, probably since
my lolo passed away in 1989. To this date, the building is still there,
standing tall, defying all adverse weather conditions Zambales is plagued
of despite the neglect from the people who once shared my grandfather's
beliefs.
From
my old bedroom window I could actually see the clean blue waters of South
China Sea and the busy activities of the fishermen and their families at
the day break when their respective fishing "bangkas" (outrigger
canoe) return to their moorings after the night's fishing trip. From my
old bedroom window I could actually smell fresh salt fishes and the tangy
sea breeze, hear the zings of people trying to make a living and the
occasional tintinnabulations of the old rusty bell attached to a bamboo
pole announcing the arrival of yet another fishing boat ashore. From my
old bedroom window I could actually see myself target practicing with a
bow and arrow at the lone coconut tree we had at the back of the house just
right beside the "kamalig", a rice granary my folks use to store
their yearly harvests.
I
was introduced to bow and arrow by my dad's sidekick Bunggoy Cabalic, a
highlander from Moraza. With a highlander's expertise he taught me how to
manage the primordial but effective weapon. Under his guidance I learned
to aim for a kill a fat, "mamaya arroz caldo ka na" looking hen
from a distance, however short, distance it still was. Between him and his cousins Rolly and Berting, and mom's
angels: Nena, Elizabeth, Nene and Nining, all of them highlanders, they
taught me lessons of life. They taught simplicity, appreciation of
everything life has to give and above all, they taught me how to reach out
to people like them who had spent more years in life shying away from
primates posing as civilized homo sapiens who outrageously act out in
front of other persons whom they consider belonging to a lower class or
worse yet species.
Bunggoy
worked for my father in the house as well as in the rice fields for many
years. I was already in college in Manila when I heard that he had gone
home to marry a nice looking gal in Moraza. I was deeply saddened to learn
from Rolly, upon my return home in April 2000, that he got killed in a
brawl in front of a beer house near Bucao River some few years earlier. He
had left home a loving wife and children. Walk with God Bunggoy, someone
down here will always pray for you and your family. Rest in peace wherever
you are.
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