Nangka Ninja

We were in 1st College (SY 1980-81) at the time, occupying the narrow, rectangular St Luke Dorm on the 2^nd floor of the College building, which was directly above the faculty room. There were six of us in the dorm: Ramonito, Batchoy, Nick, RamCims, and I. Right beside St Luke was Dorm A. On the other side was the fathers' area. The St Stephen Dorm, occupied by Soc, Oloy, Juntabs, Marjals, Baloy, and Quiao, was on the other side of the fathers' area.

It was a carefree period when we didn't take things seriously. During one of the rare occasions that we went to the canteen near the crocodile pen, there was a low hanging nangka tree that was bearing several large fruits. The students never missed noticing its presence when the sweet smell of ripe fruit wafted in the air, overpowering the odor of tar and diesel oil coming from the motor pool and generator shed. They would peek behind the canteen and see that somebody had taken care to wrap the fruits in newspaper to keep the insects away. RamCims and I did exactly that. But we went further. We peeked underneath the newspapers, tapped the fruit and determined which one was ripe enough to harvest. It was conveniently chest high.

That night we waited until light's off before making our move.

There was a clump of dama de noche below the Dorm window facing Cabalit St. The leaves were lush and covered the faculty room window. From our dorm, we would dangle a thick rope down towards the dama de noche and at night would practice rappelling down to the ground. It served some purpose for RamCims and Ramonito when they come in late after a rendezvous with friends in the city.

That night, RamCims and I wore dark clothes and rappelled down the window. We moved stealthily towards the back of the canteen, not daring to use the flashlight since we were afraid that some insomniac seminarian might spot the light. We tried to be as quiet as the crocodile inside the pen, as we went round it towards the nangka tree. It was there that I capped the flashlight with my hand to allow just enough light for us to determine that we were picking the right fruit. I then held the fruit at the bottom, while RamCims took out his bolo and cut the stalk. 

Everything was done in utter silence, not a word spoken, and in pitch black environment. After cutting the fruit, we discarded the newspaper wrap, retraced out steps, then securely tied the fruit at the end of the rope. RamCims climbed first, and I followed. Then, slowly, we pulled the fruit and stowed it inside one of the overhanging cabinet inside the dorm, and went to sleep.

Nobody spoke of any missing fruit the following day. Everything went on normally. But for the next two days, the seniors occupying Dorm A would randomly throw comments on how ripe the nangka fruits must have been since they could smell them even from their own rooms. 

The fruit was large enough and we had to invite some seniors of Dorm A to partake of our feast. It was only then that they understood why their dorm had been stuffed with the sweet smell of nangka. (-- nox arcamo)

A Jamboree

Military training was part of the curriculum. Since First Year High School, we were already holding wooden rifles as YDT cadets while marching under the heat of the sun. We detested it but couldn’t do anything about it.

In third year high school, we had a short break from YDT when we were informed that we would be joining a Boy Scout Jamboree. We were so excited, of course, for camping was way better than marching. But somehow we also felt awkward because we thought that we were old for this kind of stuff. We were boy scouts in grades 5 and 6. But high school? Anyway, it didn’t bother us later on especially when we learned that we will be in the same Jamboree with the Holy Spirit School Girl Scouts. That made the difference. Nobody can be old for this kind of stuff, we thought.

We didn’t have time to prepare for the jamboree. We had even forgotten the Boy Scout Motto and the Pledge. But we were highly motivated. Our classmate Rene was selected as the national officer of the Boy Scouts of the Philippines.  It was a position that gave us great pride being his classmates. Sir Eronico, CAT/YDT commandant, was our Scout Master. We imported Brydon, who was a year ahead us, and Eric, who was a year below us, to augment our group.

The Jamboree was held in Dampas, on a flat, arid and deserted place. We pitched our tent near the delegation from the Divine Word College. We organized ourselves into committees taking charge of different responsibilities. Familiarity borne out of growing up together in the seminary, I guess, was a great advantage in terms of organizationg ourselves. It was easy for us to assign what to do by whom.

JunTabs was appointed as our Troop Leader, Nox was the Scribe, Quiao the Quartermaster, LikLik the unofficial girl scout whisperer since he was popular with the HSS scouts. Walking towards the HSS girls tent, we all found unnerving, but not for Liklik.

There were several competitions that involved showcasing one’s talent. In the area of arts, Brydon excelled. He selected a piece of white limestone and sculped a squatting fierce-looking anito using a Swiss Army knife. The judges initally didn’t believe that he made it, so he picked another piece and sculpted it in front of them.

In the area of orientering, we were divided into groups of 3 or 4. Each group was given a map with certain marks pointing to hidden cartolinas with numbers on them. We were to write down the numbers as proof that we had found them. The different groups were sent off at different times. We were glad when one official announced that the HHS Girl Scouts would leave at a certain time, followed by the Boy Scouts from IHMS.

But it didn’t really matter since the area was so wide that we didn’t get to encounter much of each other. RamCims and I were in the same group with two others. We were pretty good with directions. We found one on a tree, another one in the bushes. RamCims was sly in his strategy, leaving behind a fiery destruction in the thorny bushes behind us. We naturally won.

During the cultural night, we performed a short skit based on the biblical story of the good Samaritan. The skit was about a Boy Scout helping a wounded person who was mugged on the road. Our presentation was well received as evidenced by the loud applause of the audience. We capped that night’s presentation with a choral rendition of a familiar Simon & Garfunkel song, “The Boxer”, and the song popularized by Melissa Manchester, "Looking Through The Eyes Of Love" with Eric on the guitar.

We went back to the seminary after the jamboree feeling proud and happy. It was a welcome break from YDT. If I am not mistaken it was probably the first and only time that IHMS joined a Boy Scout Jamboree.                    

(nox arcamo)

A Lovely and Lonely Time of the Day

I had so many quiet moments in High School, especially during siesta and late in the afternoon. It is those moments that remain vivid in my memory.

I remember lying in bed during siesta, fully awake. Siesta was required. You have to stay in the dorm, on your bed, even if you can't sleep and you have nothing else to do. I would simply weave stories in my head, listen to the occasional sound of tricycle, watch the clouds forming strange figures, while waiting for the bell to ring, signalling the start of afternoon classes.

I developed a passion for reading. Unfortunately, I didn't have the resources to buy even a single book. I was though glad that a well-to-do classmate, Raul (we called him Iking), got hooked after introducing to the Hardy Boys novel, The Shore Road Mystery. I immersed myself in the adventures of those daring teenagers, imagining myself to be one their friends in solving crimes and mysteries. Siesta wasa good time to read those novels. (Today 1/1/19, I receive news that Iking died of cancer.)

Later when Iking bought almost all of the 64 novels in the series and I had sated my desire for adventure, my attention went to learning the piano. I learned the basic chords from Recera, and I started playing on my own playing and singing the Beatle song, "Let It Be" in the auditorium when nobody was around. I really didn't have a musical talent. But that didn't deter me from learning. That was how I occasionally spent my afternoon before Angelus, alone in the auditorium or sometimes in the chapel with the organ.

One of the lessons I learned during this period was to fight it out when you're angry with someone and not hold a grudge. That's what happened one afternoon when RamCims asked me to come along to the back of the building near the auditorium. In the middle of the bushes was a small clearing near the coconut trees that the mananggot climbed every morning to attach the sanggot and in the afternoon to gather the tuba. Earlier he had a misunderstanding and got angry with Ariston, so he invited him to a fight. He wanted me to go with him. So with bare fists, they slugged it out. It was bitter, but fair. He ended it with a right jab to Ariston’s face, with the words, “Ultimatum ni!” And that was it. They stopped and went on their separate ways. They didn’t fight after that nor held any grudge.

Another lesson I learned was resourcefulness. Meal was served on our plates. It was always "not enough" for a growing teenager. So, we had to scour the kitchen for mantika, asin, limonsito, and sili. We would mix them with plain rice to create our concoction for a feast. It was out of necessity for us who, unlike some of our classmates, didn't have the luxury of having enough allowance to last the entire week.

Harvest time was particularly a boon for us. I remember one siesta time in 3rd Year High school when RamCims told me about the harvested mongo stored in several sacks just lying unattended on the first floor corridor below the dorm. We sneaked out of the dorm and got two handfuls from a sack and hid in the bushes near the basketball courts. There we used a washed empty can of sardines, built a fire, boiled water with the mongo inside, and waited until the mongo was soft enough to eat. We didn't even have sugar or salt for the mongo, but we ate to our hearts content and enjoyed a quick adventure before the afternoon classes.

There was another time when we just enjoyed the fruits of our labor, never bothered with any worry whatsoever. It was siesta time in 4^th high school. While most of our classmates were sleeping, and some were surreptitiously listening to a radio program, we would roam the field and occasionally climb one of the coconut trees. It was towards the end of our high school since we were given a lot of freedom. RamCims and I got a couple of botong near the grotto, but instead of opening them right there in the open, we decided to enjoy the coconut at the payag located right at the center of the rice field. It was empty at that time; the farmer was plowing some distance away. So, we borrowed a bolo and ate like hacienderos to our hearts content. It was a sunny day and the breeze was mild. Several maya birds were frolicking amidst the swaying grass, rice stalks and scarecrows, providing a soothing sound while we enjoyed the cool, refreshing botong. Nothing disturbed our peace as we enjoyed the moment. We were not in a hurry. We just talked and enjoyed every moment of it, right in the middle of the rice field, while everyone else was asleep.

Siesta and late afternoon in IHMS were always quiet moments for me. Mostly alone and sometimes with a classmate, I remember those times as quiet and lonely moments. That's why even now I still love these times of the day. And I have come to be at peace with my loneliness. It reminds me of IHMS.

(nox arcamo)

The Person Behind That Name

Even in college, becoming a priest was somewhat remote from our thoughts. We were simply teenage boys growing up in an enclosed environment, away from the hustle and bustle of the city island life. We were enjoying life, never bothering to consider what and how life would turn out to be outside the four walls. No care whatsoever. We were having all the fun, I remember.

I was engrossed in a book inside my room in Dorm A, on the side occupied by the college juniors when I first heard her name mentioned. I was occupying a room near the chinning bar. It had a vertical wooden slat for window that opened up to the second floor corridor. From my bed I could see the top of the avocado tree in front of the canteen. It was the only window of my cramped existence that surprisingly fit a single bed, a table set against a wall with barely enough space for my elbows, a chair and an open cabinet. It afforded me a view of the flagpole, rotunda, and high school building. And if I keep it open at night--which I always did even if passers-by could easily peek through the window--it would offer me a view of the stars. The evening star and the occasional distant rumble of tricycle would always lull me to sleep as I laid down on my bed.

I remembered a commotion late that Friday night when a vehicle entered the Seminary gate. I heard some seniors scramble from their respective cubicles to get a good look of a passenger inside. And that was the first time I heard her name. “Naa si Annie, bay (not her real name of course),” I heard someone brag at having had the good fortune of seeing her when the car passed near the lighted area. She was with a group of Divine Word College students who were taking part in some school play directed by one of the seminary priests. After the practice, they brought Fr. Joe home.

I looked out nonchalantly from my window but didn’t see the vehicle. I didn't bother to leave my room. The poetic musings of a Filipino Jesuit priest about the despicable social injustices committed by the Marcos regime were far more fascinating. I went back to my reading.

The next day, however, I was curious. I also learned her family name from Juntabs who seemed to possess the uncanny skill of extracting information on almost anything going on in the city, things that you don't learn in the classroom or in casual conversation, as if he were a character in some spy movie who had local knowledge of the underworld.

During the days leading up to Christmas break in SY 82-83, our class was busy preparing for the caroling which we planned to benefit the prisoners at the provincial jail where we go every weekend for apostolate. I was in charge of collating a list of potential families to visit for the caroling. So I decided to look up her family name in the phone directory. There was only one entry under that name. A daughter of an engineer, I discovered, and wrote down the address. During our free time, I together with JunTabs went around Tagbilaran to deliver the letters to the families we identified earlier. To save on cost, we had to walk. We did not mind walking. We were young and energetic, all rearing for adventure. Besides, it was not only a good break from a regulated life inside the four walls of the seminary, but we soon realized that we enjoyed walking.

We enjoyed every moment of it . . . visiting the homes and delivering the letters to houses along J.A. Clarin, Espuelas, Borja and Toralba sts. Although on several occasions, Juntabs would complain, "Paspasa nimo mo lakaw, Nox, oy!" Of which I would reply, "Hinay ka lang molakaw ug gamay pud ug lakang." Of the number of letters in our possession, we set aside one letter for last.

It was still early in the afternoon. The sky was clear and the breeze cool. There were few vehicles on the streets. I cannot remember now if it was a week day or a weekend, or if it was the start of the Christmas break. Anyway, the streets were lonely and in most of the houses we visited, the father or the mother was not home and we ended up leaving the letter with the house maid or in the mailbox.

Finally we were down to the last letter. We went up and down the street but couldn’t find the house number. Juntabs and I inquired, but nobody seemed know that family name, which was strange because even in the city, people usually have an idea of their neighbor's family name. We almost gave up, but we decided to try one last time. We then realized that we were searching on the wrong end of Torralba Extension. We finally found the house. It was not by the roadside. That was probably the reason why we also missed it.

A short fence made of thin vertical iron bars fringed a small lawn in front of the house. The property was wedged tightly between residences and a young kid was playing on the lawn. I asked him if it was the residence we were looking for. He said yes. All the while Juntabs was straining his neck looking for her. I handed the boy the letter asking him to give it to his parents. There was no one else there. Then Juntabs told me that she must be inside the house. He instructed me to ask the boy. So I asked the boy if he had a sister by the name of Annie. He said, “Yes”. Our hearts jumped. I grabbed the letter from his tiny hands and told him to call her, which he did.

When she peeped from the door, smiling, our jaws dropped. I could only manage to raise my hand holding the letter. Her hands were covered in white lather. She was washing, she said. She was kind enough to stop what she was doing and came to the gate. I started explaining to her our purpose--the caroling, jail apostolate, the reason for doing it at all. The explanation probably took more than 5 minutes, until Juntabs and I had nothing else to say. I looked at Juntabs hoping that he would continue where I left off. He looked back at me hoping that I could also think of something else. There was nothing else to say, but we wanted to stay some more. For a few seconds we were speechless. It was then that I started to laugh, disbelieving at our folly. Juntabs too started laughing uncontrollably.

She looked surprised, not knowing why we suddenly burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. We were at a loss for words. We did not know what to say. Finally I decided to tell the truth that our other reason for going there was to see her in person. I then told her that I had heard her name mentioned quite a lot of times, but never had a chance to see her. That’s why we went to all the trouble of delivering the letter just to see her..

She must have been taken by our candidness. She smiled and invited us into the house for a glass of water. Oh, we were more than glad to obliged, of course. We did not only get to drink cold water--which I swear was sooooooo sweet. We also got to talk to her, and even played the guitar, and sang songs with her. We stayed for more than two hours.

The caroling at her house turned out to be much anticipated by our classmates. But I wasn’t very curious anymore, for I had known the person behind the name that they always spoke about.

(nox arcamo)

We have changed

More than 42 years have passed since we entered IHMS in March 1976, the time when first met each other. Through all these years, we know that we have changed. We can see the change for ourselves. We grew white hairs or lost lots of them. We have moved on and pursued other dreams--dreams we never even thought of back then. And, for most of us who have left, we have seen our kids grow into adulthood.

There were two type of changes that happened in our life. One was drastic, like the time when we first set foot in IHMS 1976, or when we left IHMS after HS to pursue other interests in 1980, or when we finally moved on after College in 1984. The other change was more subtle, slow, and sometimes discernible only when we look back at our life.

But one of the subtler changes that we may not have notice yet is our attitude and interest. On the surface, we may think that we are the same as we have always been. Yet, our concerns and interests are quite different now than it used to be.

It could be due to the role we took on. We have put behind us our carefree days, and we have taken on a more serious and calculated demeanor, as we are charged with the more serious stuff of rearing and caring and educating carefree children.

Or it could all be just part of growing up. Just like Puff the magic dragon’s friend, we have outgrown our toys and pirate ships. And the once oft-repeated jokes, recollections, and biay-biay that once elicited even more jokes and biay-biay don’t hold much sway anymore as they used to, but on the contrary may even elicit a sense of alienation, a feeling that the joke is trite, repetitive . . .  and that we don’t belong anymore.

And that’s when we realize that we have changed.

This is one reality that we haven’t anticipated, since no one has told us about it. Those who came before us probably just faded away from each other, lost contact, and finally lost memory. Out of sight, out of mind—as the saying goes. And they never bothered to make sense of what happened and how they lost each other along the way.

But there are memory keepers among us who we were so enamored with the years that we spent in IHMS and have refused to relegate those memories to oblivion. Those golden years in IHMS never lost luster for them and they have managed to keep those memories alive, yes even after more than 40 years.

Our batch is growing old. We have in fact lost a few since our last reunion in December 2005--like MarJals who came with his wife, and Alex who raved about Scriptum, urging us to continue writing and was looking forward to the next reunion.

Yes, we have changed; but nonetheless, let us not allow time to cloud our memories of IHMS. Let us continue to remember the stories we used to tell under the mango tree, the talisay tree and the avocado tree near the canteen. We still have a few more chances to rekindle those memories and keep the spirit alive. But only if we want to.

So, mark the year, 2020. It may be our last chance to meet everyone in our batch who for a few years had walked beside us.

(nox arcamo)

Love in the Time of Typewriters

Jones resigned as editor-in-chief of LEGITE in my junior year 1982-83. Finding no one else who loved to write and was willing to slave and toil to create something decently readable, the editorial board and the school administration chose me to take his place.

Nothing really changed, as far as I was concerned. I still had to do the same tasks I had been doing as associate. That means I had to cajole, plea, beg people like McAbs, Ping, Soc, JunTabs, Leonel and others to write just about anything they could think of, then follow them up repeatedly, then edit and type their work on a stencil, then ask the graphic artists to draw anything on the empty spaces, then operate the mimeographing machine. And toil I did for two years.

There were no computers. We hadn’t even seen one, not even in sci-fi movies. But it was during this time when Fr Khing allowed us to use one of the Olivetti typewriters donated by a German foundation. The massive typewriter was placed in the new publications room, beside the library. It was adjacent to the testing room where I found old filled-up psychological testing materials, some from years back, which contained several sentence completion tests. I read answers to the questions and wondered how naive I was in high school, only to realize that actually I probably would have answered those questions in the same way I did. I also read some of our classmates' responses, laughed  at their answers, and realized that I was not alone in my naivety.

During my spare time and after editing the write-ups, I would type them on a folded sheet of legal paper. The fold on the paper would indicate the column width and I would know when to start another line. The number of characters per column and the number of lines used per article should just be enough to fill a space allotted for the article. So I had to do a lot of editing while typing.

Once finished, I would re-type them to a stencil, in 2 columns, leaving some space for Jones, and occasionally Bobong, to draw something pertinent to the article. Errors were corrected using the pink-colored liquid correcting ink. Jones and I would then do the mimeographing. And the finished product would then be distributed.

It was a labor of love, but we all enjoyed doing it.

(nox arcamo)