As a child, i was carefree and adventurous. I grew up in a small town, by the purple shores in the south of Panay Island in the Philippines. Once upon a time in history, the ecoregion was almost completely forested and harbored some of the highest levels of endemism, but when greed prevailed, it lost all of its grandeur, and many of its species no match against human-lit inferno, went extinct and vanished for eternity. It was said that nowhere in the country was environmental degradation quite so acute, but despite the obvious chronicity of the issue, it never was pressing enough for anybody to really give a damn. Nothing is perennial, nor evergreen, i guess.
The island was my playground. After a whole day of escapade, my hair would smell sour and pungent as a palm wine and salty as the tropical wet air. There were afternoons that i have spent alone, digging schists and ultramafics from the muddy sundaic earth with my barehands, and there were nights i have spent by the shore with older friends, firing carbon-carbide fueled bamboo cannons. The next day they were my worst enemies, the empty beach was our battlefield, and at each other we threw moist clumps of sand, until we were friends again. As an adult, i have become more adventurous.
The summer of ninety six, was especially uncomfortable, the combination of ridiculously warm temperature and absolutely high humidity was a recipe for heat strokes, a sauna-like atmospheric condition foreigners from the west passionately despise. Despite the constant reminder from my mother to not play beyond the confines of our residence, with a head as hard as Moh’s indestructible minerals, i ventured into the outside world in the swelling heat of the sun, without a care in the world. I have preplanned to ride the trisikad, a small rickshaw that can only transport a child as heavy as half a sack of rice, not used for business but only for leisure. The brand new toy had three no-flat tires, a solid non padded saddle that were the most uncomfortable to sit on, the kind that will make the skin over your ischial tuberosities turn red and sore the next day, handlebars that were too loose, and a metal crossbar with bright neon green letter stickers that read Toto, thus it wasn’t really my belonging. The thought of spinning freely down the road in the sunshine made me feel joyous, why riding a bike, or in my case, a tricycle, was so much fun, i did not know.
The faster i pedaled, the faster my heart beat and the happier i was, a perfect example of an exhilarating moment in a child’s life that triggers a cascade of hormonal responses starting in the human brain, stimulating the glands found directly above the bean shaped kidneys to release adrenaline into the systemic circulation. Adrenaline rush, something that makes you breathe faster, something that makes your heart race, something a child would not easily understand or would even care about , and something some young adults unknowingly seek constantly. I moved unbelievably fast and was in total control, like a blind fruit bat with a surprisingly perfect sense of direction.
The full-force humidity reminded me of the heavenly comfort of the cool bamboo flooring of our tiny home, a box shaped architecture that has stood the test of times, its confused aesthetic of patched up metal sheets was an unpleasant sight to behold, its crudely stacked hallow cement blocks and solid mahogany posts provided a somewhat strong foundation to withstand extreme weather inclemencies, super-typhoons, strong earthquakes, floods or landslides. Red bougainvilleas tower over the bamboo fences, with unforgiving thorns serving the same purpose as the spiked iron gates of the rich, and anything trapped in their complicated network of wood vines, hats, slippers or a beach ball, were irretrievable. Across the house was a two story Spanish ancestral home owned by an affluent family of full bloodied Filipino parents with skins as dark as cocoa bars, and whose unfriendly sons and daughters went to a private school next town, ran by strict nuns who never let the female students wear skirts above their knees. Next to our humble abode was a sari-sari store, where you could buy a portion of any known household products there was. Bing, the stay-in lady store keeper regularly displayed an even row of glass jars filled with assorted candies in silver and golden wrappers, my favorite were the caramel candies, fifty centavos a piece. Sachets of shampoos and conditioners hanged like draperies on the wall, cooking oils in large see-through plastic bottles sold by milliliters funneled into small transparent plastic bags, five-day old bread rolls a peso each, refrigerated coco-cola in glass bottles, and unhealthy monosodium-rich flavored snacks in aluminum bags, were just some of the overpriced goods sold. Out of probably five sari-sari stores sprawled in our street, Bing’s was the most appealing, but had products that were usually ten or fifty cents more in the price tags. Bing’s head magically appeared through a small opening in her store's chicken wire meshed window, and instantly threw at me a dagger look as i slow down and sped up the trisikad. She was in her late forties, she had a long black, straight hair unusual for her age, brown eyes, a light coffee complexion and thick lips wearing thicker red Avon lipsticks. At the top of her lungs, she yelled, slow down you crazy child or you’ll be sorry! I went faster.
The JICA Hall next to Bing’s sari-sari store , was crowded. The concrete government super structure served as a hub for local authorities such as the head of the barrio and his subordinates. It is one of the many facilities built nationwide by Japan, the country’s major strategic development partner for several decades after World War II. Japan built town halls, hospital, class rooms and many other structures all over - a seemingly perfect way to attempt to heal and erase the history of the heinous wartime crimes they have committed. Filipinos will never forget, for the war veterans and many others, these are just emblems that rekindles the past that tells a thousand stories of atrocities by the blood-lustful Japanese soldiers against our countrymen, whom they victimized, raped and murdered. On other occasions, it housed a dozen of prepubescent children, there for the towns medical circumcision drive, a cost-free salvation for the shame of undergoing the same ritual at an older age. Older town folks claimed it was both a religious and a cultural practice to recognize manhood in the community, while my parents said it was a health-promoting practice. Visibly shocked newly circumcised children, hobbled in various directions like drunk zombies, walked the walk of shame, most of them wearing skirts, their gait awkwardly wide based, none of them were proud and none of them were happy.
Having deliberately defied Bing’s early warning, I continued pedaling towards the mob of local rickshaw drivers gathered right in front of the hall, i stopped and eavesdropped a little. They were complaining about something which i did not really care about, the head of the barrio said there was nothing that he could do. Mr. Den, a slender six footer man with a fair skin complexion was standing next to his 1996 white Toyota Corolla, on its rooftop was a sign that says TAXI. He was the same age as my parents and has a daughter who was a table tennis athlete, her name was all over the school’s publication after finishing third in the division level championship, which meant she battled against all other five districts in our province. Why recognition was important, i did not know. In addition, in celebration of her success, she was honored with one of those massive congratulatory tarpaulins being mounted high on the walls of the school for the public to see, similar to those garbage ads, oversized, misplaced and mounted literally wherever possible, the higher the better, obscuring every possible view, bearing names of candidates running for office, a political campaign strategy worth millions of pesos then considered legal, how, i did not know.
I went on with my business, pedaled the hardest towards the parked car, i squeezed the loose handlebars tightly, and pretending it was a motorcycle’s throttle I extended and flexed my wrists repeatedly. In a matter of seconds a rush of adrenaline flooded my system, I was once again moving unbelievably fast, i was in extreme euphoria. The toy glided smoothly and effortlessly along the cobblestone driveway. The rest of the moments were kind of a blur, it all happened so fast, i immediately lost control of the steering and violently crashed the new toy into the flashy white sedan, leaving an obvious scratch on the driver side’s lower door. The permanent mark was as long as my arm-span, an unholy sight that was too much for Sir Den’s seemingly scant patience.
The mob circled around the scene. Bing squeezed through the crowd screaming at me I told you so. I picked my self up, and wholeheartedly apologized to Mr Den. Mr Den grabbed me by the collar , pinched a portion of my left sideburns and quickly pulled it upwards. I was screaming inside, but i never really cried. I was obviously shocked. Curious spectators grew in number , they did not really do anything other than watch the situation unfold before their eyes. It was a moment of fear for me. In an instant it felt like it was me against the world, it was me against Bing, it was me against Mr Den, who i learned that very moment was a cop. Go home he said, or i will hand cuff you and put you in jail. I picked up the toy, pedaled for my life out of the scene and never spoke about it for forever.
