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REMEMBRANCES OF A HOMETOWN ~ VILLA
 By CESAR TORRES*
October 11, 2007
The expression: “Everyone needs a
hometown to love or to hate…” seems to apply to the Villahanons. I
am not really sure where I got this. Perhaps, it was an original
idea by Samar’s Poet Laureate, Aniceto Llaneta, a classmate in Samar
High. When the late Postal Regional Director Andres Cabueños was
Editor-in-Chief of “An Lambrag” and Secretary of the Province of
Samar, Aniceto and some of our classmates would cut classes to
listen to him as a convocation speaker in Catbalogan schools. Those
were simple days when we were innocent. We love the written word and
admire brainy people.
Perhaps, Aniceto got the expression from somewhere else. I don’t
know. But to me, the important thing is that this expression somehow
captures the sentiments of the Villahanons with respect to their
hometown, Villareal, Samar, the only town in the Philippines which
has an endearing nickname, Villa.
In some Villahanon souvenir publication honoring the Peruvian Saint,
the Santa Rosa de Lima, I recall writing about the “dualism”
inherent in that expression “‘To love or to hate…’ This is the moral
dilemma of mankind. It symbolizes the synthesis of opposites. The
dualism immanent in the universe – of beauty and ugliness, of purity
and corruption, of heaven and earth.”
We love Villa! We hate Villa! We love Villa… It is like a mantra of
the Hindu mystics.
The emotional force of this contradiction seems to enchain us to
Villa. The bond is stronger than steel. After all, it is forged with
every drop of our blood, every beat of our hearts. Thus, even if we
are in Singapore, in Tokyo, in Hongkong, in Norway, in Canada, in
Europe, in America, in the Middle East, in Australia, Brunei, and
other parts of the world, or sailing the high seas as lonely
mariners, our thoughts are never far from our hometown.
For some of us who are away from the homeland and whose lives seem
to be trailing the sinking sun beyond the western shores of Maqueda
Bay, frequent are the times when our minds wonder to those bygone
days. Detailed clarity might be blurring but the general outlines
are still lingering in our failing memories.
A hometown is where the heart is. It is not necessarily the place
where one first saw the light of day, like me. I was born in Silanga,
Catbalogan, Samar, a rich fishing ground many, many years ago. But
it is in Villa where my memories are rooted more intensely.
What are some of these memories?
Having been born in the Second World War, as a child, I think I saw
Japanese soldiers in Sigad in full uniform carrying guns with their
helmets adorned with twigs that had still green leaves on them. They
appeared to be crouching, crawling, then lying flat on the grass
with their guns pointed at something. I think there were three of
them. Nadulhog kami from our farm in Lam-awan to the bongto, the
poblacion, at that time.
During the war and the Japanese occupation of the Philippines, I
think we stayed mostly in our farm in Lam-awan. But even there, I
have vague memories of my grandfather, Apoy Amboy (Pablo Ranera),
and my aunts and uncles, the entire family, climbing the hills
breathing hard, almost gasping. They were escaping from something or
someone. One time, we hurriedly went to a shelter hidden in a bamboo
grove, mga kawayan, which were growing on both sides of the stream.
No one would suspect that there was a shelter deep in the heart of
the kawayan grove. Of course, I did not know why those things were
happening to us. But I remember, we would do this every time we
would hear the frantic banging of the “talutang”, that bamboo
instrument used to warn people that danger is imminent.
It must have been “Liberation”. I remember there were so many people
harvesting rice in our “hagna”. Suddenly the skies were filled with
airplanes, wave after wave after wave. Nobody told me why there were
so many airplanes. We just looked up. I did not asked why there were
so many airplanes either. After that, in the early evenings we would
sit on our individual “banko”, and face Southeast, and turn our gaze
beyond the mountains of Lam-awan. We could see lights streaming in
the distant skies beyond the mountains. I learned later that they
were tracer bullets. This was during the Battle of Leyte Gulf when
the Americans had returned to the Philippines.
I have vague memories after that. But I think we went to Tacloban
aboard some boats. I remember passing by “Bangon”, and sucking on
raw eggs. And in San Juanico Straits nearing Tacloban, there were
warships, where I could see naked white men taking showers on the
decks.
I did not see an American soldier in Villa. But I remember all those
delicious carne norte in long cans, courtesy of the American people.
And the woolen blankets. Up to the time when I was in Samar High, we
would still use those woolen American blankets, remnants of the
American return to Samar.
My first day in Grade One, at least, the first early morning, is
still clear in my mind. I think together with my aunts and uncles
who were going to school also, we hiked from Lam-awan to the
poblacion. It was still dark when we arrived in the elementary
school. We were made to assemble below that famous acacia tree where
enkantados have been rumored to be in residence. There was community
singing. I do not remember the song. My teacher in Grade One was
probably the late Mana Anggay.
Thereafter, life was a blur. We constructed a house in Tayod. But we
still maintained our house in the “Uma”, the farm in Lam-awan. The
poblacion was a sleepy town where you can hear the chirping of the
crickets, ngiya-ngiya, even at noontime, and the romantic singing of
the Villahanons especially in the early evenings when they were
drinking tuba, men and women. When you walk the grassy streets, you
might step on dog poo and pig’s leavings – the most kadiri to me
especially when it happens to you when the ground was wet after a
rain – and when you go to the laguertas which were green with guava
plants, you cannot miss the colorful and rotting waste of many
Villahanons. I don’t know how many had toilets at that time. There
were some of us from Tayod who would go down to Hawod to relieve
ourselves. Doing this between two big stones while gazing at the
beauty of the starry night and conscious of the gentle swishing of
the wavelets around you was almost a mystical experience.
Unsanitary? Oh yes! But we were one with nature, a process of
recycling especially when the fish would gobble them up which we
then would catch and broil. Aaaarrrrgh!!!
We were already in Tayod when I first heard the sound of a motor
vehicle in Villa. It must have been stuck in that Bayanihan road. I
don’t know if it arrived intact in the town. I recall also that we
pupils in the elementary school had to bring one stone every day to
the school, stones which we then deposited on the Bayanihan Road.
We would go to the farm to plant rice, corn, camote or bilanghoy or
gaway or harvest them. We would go to the farm to get firewood. We
would roam the hills and the meadows stupidly trying to kill the
defenseless birds with our slingshots. During summer when there was
no drinking water, a group of us, boys and girls and our elders with
long bamboo tubes on our shoulders, we called them “salod”, would
parade on the trails via the Sigad, to get drinking water. We would
have been a sight during moonlight nights, six, 10 boys and girls
with long bamboo tubes on their shoulders, marching on the trails
one after the other.
My family had no money. But I did see American coins, leftovers of
the American occupation. So if we had no viand, no sura, and we are
sick and tired of the salty hipon or shrimp paste of salted bahong,
of kayod, and kisiyo, of bulad, we would troop to the seashore at
low tide, during humbas, para mamangti, looking for seashells –
sangpiyad, bukawel, karang karang, tikod hin daraga or just plain
dahonan and lato. We would eat sangpiyad raw, we would get two of
them, knock them on each other, and scoop out the sangpiyad flesh.
One time, I stumbled on a binga. It was a happy day for my brother,
Lope, and me and my family. Since many Villahanons were “cashless”,
the adults would use their nets, sudsod, to catch fish, shrimps,
crabs, crustaceans, and other products of our sea. Having a tinola
of sinudsuran is more delicious than the French “bouillabaisse”.
For us youngsters, fishing, swimming, beachcombing, doing errands,
going to church, to school, getting firewood, playing were integral
parts of our lives. Our toys were organic such as orokay which we
used as tires when we were crafting cars and trucks. Except for the
plastic heel of worn out shoes which we treasured for our games, our
toys were all biodegradable. We played sato. We would go around the
town from Tayod to Rawis to Kan Pia Otot, it seems this has a new
name now, hitting that small stick with a long one, while our
opponents would try to catch the short stick; and then running while
holding our breaths. There was tatse, barobanyakay where we kicked
bundled multicolored rubber bands, nirotigbasay during moonlight
nights, rurumba (racing against each other whether in the school
plaza or in the town streets in the afternoons, Virgilio Latorre was
unbeatable), tago-tago-ay (hide and seek, I like it very much when
the girls would join us especially during dark nights or even during
moonlight nights provided there were dark nooks and hiding places).
I think every Villahanon was a Roman Catholic at that time. So all
Villahanons went to the Church of the Santa Rosa de Lima
religiously. We listened patiently to masses said in Latin, which
was of course weird because they were incomprehensible to us, even
the “Ora Pronobis and the Pater Noster”. We confessed our sins and
took communion. Then we sinned again, whatever they were. We studied
cathecism in summer, especially in May. I was very good pupil. I
even got a Pals Pomade as my reward. In May, we loved watching the
girls in their white uniforms with flower garlands around their
dainty heads and their blue sashes around their slim waists. We
vowed to marry the pretty ones by eloping with them while riding on
a white horse to Paradise.
At 6:00 o’clock in the evening, the towering kampanaryo would chime
with the bells. The kampanaryo which was probably constructed out of
the slave labor of the Villahanons, the towering kampanaryo which
had a panoramic view of Maqueda Bay to safeguard Catholic Villa from
the onslaughts of the Warriors who believe in Mohammed and the
Sultanates of Sulu and Maguindanao. It was Angelus time. If we were
on the streets, we would stop, make the sign of the cross, and hurry
up to home. At home, after our simple supper, we would wash the
dishes. And then we would gather around the living room, perhaps the
sala for the likes of Mila Figueroa and Virgilio Latorre who were
rich and had big houses. Since there were no radios, no TVs, no
computers, we would listen to our elders tell stories to us, part of
our oral tradition. Usually, the stories were about engkantos and
aswangs. And then to provide more drama and legitimacy to the aswang
stories, something would fly overhead making the sound of “Wak, wak,
wak, wak.” So we had no doubt whatsoever that indeed there were
Aswangs or Wakwaks.
During summer the cycle was the farm, the sea, picnics, marking the
nests of the birds, playing with our kites, fetching drinking water
with our salod, getting firewood from the farms sometimes from the
mangroves in Pangpang, rising early and going to bed early too.
During Christmas, there were panarits, Christmas Carols, and lantern
contests. Even in the farms, there were groups who would walk from
one hill to another hill singing the panarits all night long. And on
Christmas Day in the poblacion, the Child Jesus would be paraded
around the town. A kiss and a ting-a-ling of the bells of the
Sacristans would earn the Church P0.01. One centavo at that time
could still buy you a butterball candy.
There was some kind of a physical, cultural, economic, and political
divide between Tayod and Hawod. There were “warfares”, “invasions”
among the young warriors of Tayod and Hawod. The weapons were
organic. Just bamboo guns with bullets carved from the roots of a
tuber. There were haringas, water guns. Nobody died of course, like
what is happening now between the soldiers and the NPAs and the MILF
and the MNLF and the Abu Sayyaff. The world has become more
civilized and more advanced.
Since there was no radio, no TV, no movies, and many could not
afford to go to Catbalogan to watch a movie, entertainment for
special occasions such as the fiesta in August, was through a “Komedya”.
The rehearsals were done on a site near the building of the Holy
Name Academy. The usual theme was the classic confrontation between
systems of belief represented by the Mujaheddins of Saladin and the
Knights of Richard the III and the Crusaders (perhaps the mysterious
Knights Templar), a confrontation that goes back to Granada in 1492
and which continues to unfold today and could sound the death knell
of mankind. It seems this Villahanon Komedya was known far and wide.
Visitors from the neighboring towns and as far away as Carigara in
Leyte, would come in boatloads to watch the Villahanon Komedya, sell
their wares, partake of humba and other delicious Villahanon
preparations for the fiesta, imbibed on tuba and whisper sweet
nothings to Villahanon lasses. And the Villahanon swains would do
the same to lovely lasses from such neighboring towns as Zumarraga.
The late Villahanon educator and icon, Ninang Maring Romano, told me
that there would be hundreds of boats anchored from end to end on
the Villa waterfont. The late Eduardo “Dadoy” Hilbano was a towering
figure in this art form.
While there was scarcity – having scrambled eggs seasoned with the
fragrant sibuyen or having fried chicken were abnormal occurrences –
there was also abundance. In August, the rice harvested in the
previous planting season could not last the whole year through. So
families had to make do with duma, root crops, and corn, which seems
to be the favorite of the Cebuanos. However, cooking corn grits with
coconut milk with a buraw barol embedded in the daba and then
partaking of the combination is beyond description. We would close
our eyes with the delicious preparation. And as a test how delicious
the combination was of corn, cooked in coconut milk and barol nga
buraw, we had to gulp water from a coconut shell because we were
hinihibol.
There was abundance of camote, bilanghoy, saging, all sorts of
saging you would not believe the variety of saging at that time,
silot, pako, fresh air, tubo, bokawel, tuba, bulad, sisi, fruits,
sweet, luscious fruits, pasayan, and fresh fish. Tabangongo was and
still is a delicacy. Having tabangongo with bihud or mother bangus,
bangrus, which were so fat and so cheap and hanananaw, a sting ray
with white liver which was the main ingredient of binakhaw, can make
you forget everything else, even your girl friends or boy friends,
including your numerous “Good Fors” from Mana Sabel and Mana Leling.
Crabs, oh boy. One time, there were so many crabs that you don’t
need to use a net to capture them. They would swim to the surface of
the sea, almost begging you to scoop them to your containers. Crabs,
crabs, crabs, fat, tasty crabs with aligue. And there was sarad, and
bahong. Lope, to earn some money, had become a proficient sarad
diver. One time when I visited Villa from Catbalogan, I saw him
selling sarad by the bucket. And surprise! His hair had become
blonde, bleached by the interaction of the sea, the sun, the air,
and the salt. Years later, when I had gone to Tawi Tawi, the Badjaos
there would remind me of Lope. And here in America, the green-eyed,
blonde, lily-skinned Caucasians would remind me of Lope and sarad.
Indeed, Maqueda Bay and the Bay of Villa were so rich with the
bounties of God and Nature. And the Villahanons, young or old did
not flinch from hard work.
The rainforest of Villa and Samar were majestic in their splendor.
Almost pristine, primeval, untouched. You cast your gaze to the
mountains, and the trees would be towering in the distance. Lope and
I went to the jungles of Sibahay one time. There I climbed a fully
grown Kamagong tree, a tree whose wood is ebony black, and now so
rare. They say the Kamagong wood is harder than steel and is more
precious than gold.
And because the “web that sustains life” was perhaps still in
perfect balance, in the late afternoons and the early evening, there
were thousands and thousands of birds of all shapes, sizes, and
colors flying from the hinterlands of Villa and Samar to roost in
the islands off Villa such as Puro. One time, Pepito Varela,
admittedly the most popular crooner of his generation, the late Jose
Negado, and I borrowed a boat. We were on our way to Banquil, to
serenade my classmate with whom the musician Jose Negado was
“eyeing”. With a full moon lighting the entire Bay of Villa, we
rowed towards Banquil. When we reached the sandbars separating Puro
and Pacao, we had to get off from the boat and drag it over the
sandbar. It was low tide. We rested after our exertions. And then
Padé Joe took out his trumpet, blew on it, trying to accompany
Pepito who was beginning to croon his Mario Lanza favorite of
“Overhead the Moon is Beaming” inspired by the magic of the
moonlight. It woke up all the birds resting in the trees of Puro.
There was a cacophony of sound. We made the sign of the cross and
stopped. Subdued and silent, we continued with our rowing to Banquil
and came back to the bongto at 2 o’clock in the morning. I think the
Protectors of the Birds punished us for disturbing their rest.
Sablay (Padé Joe) did not marry the object of our harana in Banquil.
His heart was destined to be intertwined with that of Mana Sefa.
One summer, Lope and I were assigned by our uncle, Tay Dadoy Ranera,
to take care of a corn plantation in Tingara. For several weeks
while the corn was growing, Lope and I, as soon as we would wake up
in the morning, would put on our buri hats, strap the sundang to our
waists, and hike as fast as we could to Tingara from our house in
Tayod. We had to be there early to shoo away the birds who would
feast on the sweet corn. One time, we arrived very early. While Lope
was roasting corn ears, I climbed a nearby tree which was laden with
fruits. I was there, leaning on the tree trunk when green and white
parrots, picoy and abucay alighted on the tree where I was hidden by
the foliage. I think the birds must have noticed me. But they were
not bothered by my presence. They just went on eating the fruits of
the tree. Those were halcyon days for us. Our breakfast was roasted
corn. Our lunch was roasted corn and broiled fungus. Sometimes we
had roasted wild bird, tikling. And we roamed the hills and the
meadows and hobnobbed with the wildlife.
I finished up to Grade Five in the Villareal Elementary School. Our
poverty was not a hindrance to “the life of the mind”. The library
was bursting with books. I would borrow one and bring it to Lama-awan.
There, I would read the colored books by the light of the kerosene
lamp.
Children will always play and dream. Dr. Jesus Reyes, “Esong”, and I
were seatmates in Grade Two I think. During recess we would discuss
how Superman might go to Korea, fight the enemies of the American
and the Filipino soldiers. When we were already in Manila, Esong was
in UST for his MD and I was in the UP for my many degrees, Esong and
other Villahanons would have a party now and then. One time, we ran
out of cigarettes. We had no money to buy the cigarettes and no
money to get a taxi because it was past midnight. What we did was to
go around the yard where we had that party. We were picking up
cigarette butts kay matapsi.
The late Benedicto “Ubaw” Rapanan was a very good friend too in the
Grades. We would go under the Gabaldon Building I think and try to
catch those insects burrowing on the sand and play with them. As a
teacher, we believed the late Tay Antonino Varela was a universal
genius. He would teach us social studies, then music, and was in
charge of our plots which were planted with pichay. Of course, every
Saturday, we would visit our pichay plantation. One time, a
classmate, Bernardita Gabrinao who only spoke the language of the
Imperialistang Taga-ilog was on her way to their farm nearby. We
were teasing Virigilio Latorre to Bernardita. In a fit of anger,
Bernardita stepped on the pichay plot of Virgilio. I think to
replant his pichay plantation, Virgilio had to borrow some seedlings
from the rest of us without our permission.
The political bad blood among families in Villa was unavoidable even
among us youngsters. This was apparent between the Latorres et al
and the Gelis et al. I forget now what was the immediate cause. But
suddenly, here was the late Potenciano Geli and Virgilio Latorre
fighting it out in that Gabaldon building. To even the odds, I think
Poten got a piece of bamboo, a gamon. I believe Virgilio’s eyebrow
was cut. I remember blood was spurting from his face. Somehow, we
must have been able to pacify the protagonists. I think years later
when the two had become wiser, they would remember that incident as
some sort of a rite of passage to manhood.
My Grade Five schooling was a watershed in my studies. Who was the
most brilliant among us? Not Lydia Varela who was Salutatorian
later. Not Esong Reyes. Not Virgilio Latorre who became
Valedictorian one year later. Not Poten Geli. Not Cesar Torres. If
you ask us to vote, I think we would vote for Aring (Agripina)
Varela. (She left Villa when we were young. But I saw Aring once in
Tongao, Butuan when I was roaming Pilipinas in the company of
“lovely friends”. When Justice Eddie Nachura was just USEC of
Education, I was always thinking of asking him to look up the
address of Aring. It never happened. But I have always this fond
memories of a dear, brilliant, always cheerful classmate.)
As I said, I continued my studies in Catbalogan in Grade Six. In my
first year in Samar High in 1953, I was surprised to see Virgilio
Latorre in our class. Madé Doding Conise (Gertrudes Conise-Ocaña)
was another Villahanon in our class.
We had become orphans. So Lope and I stayed with an uncle in Manila,
Tay Beboy Ranera. While in Manila, we sold newspapers, magazines,
and comics. We knew the Santa Ana, Paco, San Andres, Pandacan
districts, including the shanty areas, like the palm of our hands.
After making the rounds, we would take our breakfast – a P0.05
bottle of Sarsaparilla, and I think two pieces of pan de coco worth
P0.05. Elsa stayed with our Apoy Nanang (Juana Teves Hermida) in
Villa.
After months of trying to survive with dignity in Manila, our
fortunes changed. My uncle, Bienvenido Torres was looking for me.
Because our father was a soldier in World War II and was listed as
missing in action we were finally given some compensation for his
services and his life. I went back to Catbalogan. I was still able
to enroll in Samar High for the second year, but I was late by two
periodical periods. But through the intercession of a kind woman, a
science teacher in Samar High, Mrs. Engracia Garcia, I was admitted
during the Third Departmental period. She is a mentor whose memory
is deeply etched in my heart. Lope in the meantime, enrolled in
Quezon City as Freshman. One time he had no money for jeep fare. So
he walked from his school to Pandacan where he was staying. A nice
two-hour hike.
In the Samar High, Lydia had joined us. With Virgilio, it became a
reunion of sorts. In Samar High, I believe we Villahanons were
blazing trails also. For instance, there was never any doubt that
Virgilio would someday become Governor or Congressman of Samar. He
was our student politician par excellence. In fact, when we were
just Third Year, he would have beaten Eddie Nachura for President of
the Student Council if I was not Eddie’s candidate for Vice
President. His charisma and self-confidence was undeniable. Well,
God works in mysterious ways. Virgilio was destined for other things
such as being a top brass in the regional administrative system but
with the risk of his pants being burned. With her brief stay with us
in Samar High, the beautiful Lydia was a member of the high school
social elite.
I was in Samar High when I had my first real job, supposedly with a
wage. It was a government job. Ever the kindest person that he has
always been (one time in Tacloban, when Mano Alding Oreo and I were
going to Villa to campaign for a congressional candidate, he gave me
his last P0.10 centavos), Virgilio gave me three days of the five
days he was allotted in the road work by his uncle Mayor Fidencio
Latorre — cleaning and maintaining that now famous Bayanihan Road of
shrubs and debris that were littering the road. For three days in
summer, I would wake up early in the morning. Bring bahaw and fried
usu-os as my balon, strap the scabbard of the sundang to my waist,
put on a buri hat, walk to a place somewhere beyond Igot and do our
work. I forgot now who were my fellow laborers. But I really worked
hard because even at that time I believe that it was the people of
the Philippines who were paying us for our work. And I did not want
to cheat on them.
I waited and waited for my wage of my three days of hard work. I
never got it. Not even Virgilio could tell me what happened to my
wage or if he got it in his name or someone got the money and
pocketed it. This was my first official encounter with my
Government.
During summers in high school, I would go to Villa. We had our
barkada. We would meet periodically in the imburnals especially
during moonlight nights. We would debate, trying to impress each
other with our facility of English, serenade the girls, engaged in
the occasional irignom and picnics on weekends. Since we were
teenagers valiantly trying to impress the girls, we would wear bakya,
wooden clogs, all over the town. The Japanese had not yet discovered
the manufacturing of those rubber sandals which pollute the
environment.
We graduated from high school in 1957. There were no graduation
parties and rejoicing. Ramon Magsaysay, the CIA-backed President of
the Philippines, had died in a plane crash in Cebu. After our
commencement rites, I went to Villa, as an onlooker of the
graduation in West Coast Academy. While there, we were looking
towards Catbalogan which was burning to the ground right at that
very moment. Surprisingly, I was not worried; perhaps because I had
few personal belongings in Catbalogan. Sometimes, it is nice to be
poor.
I ended in the U.P. While in Manila, we Villahanon students
obviously gravitated to each other — Budick Yu, Vincent and Nonong
Figueroa, Ubaw Rapanan, Ising Endrina, Nanding Hilbano, Lydia and
Raul Varela, Edith Latoja, the lovely Evelyn Latoja, Liit and Bing
Tizon, Gingging Dasmariñas who was our junior, the Seludos (Maruja,
Douglas and their siblings) Gironedes “Neding” Gelera, later on
Andrew Varela, then Pacit Varela, Felisa Tandinco, Baby Godo Gelera
who was not a drunkard like us, Titing Gelera Latorre who was more
of a Guiuananon than a Villahanon, and some others, and of course
Lope. We became the core of the “Villareal Youth Club of Manila”,
VYCM. I was its President. I think we helped in celebrating the
fiesta in Manila. But we did have some meetings. I remember
quarreling with Caridad Paco over some inconsequential issue.
But our VYCM was nothing compared to the trailblazing achievements
of the Villahanon Association of Metro Manila. They have shown the
way. I just hope they do not get waylaid by the wayside, groping in
the dark recesses of pride and lack of humility.
For the boys, Friday nights, Saturdays and Sundays, we would be
drinking. We did not really have extra money to splurge. But Ubaw
and Ising were already working, so they would be the patrons of our
irignom. And we would sing, blending our voices. Vincent was our
chorale master. His favorite song was “The Shadow of Your Smile”. We
would usually met in the apartment of Mana Terry Geli in Lepanto. So
we became known as the “Lepanto Boys”. Frankly, with the benefit of
hindsight, I cannot understand the infinite patience of Mana Terry
and her children, and how we survived those endless drinking
sessions. But we did have a fatality. Ubaw Rapanan who was thin as a
rail in the elementary grades, had become very robust when Virgilio
and I met him again in Manila after a period of many years. One time
while he and Ising Endrina and Lope were drinking in Malate, he
suffered a stroke. It was fatal.
One time when we had no sumsuman in Lepanto, not even paksiw because
we had devoured them, Vincent begged our excuse. He went around
wiping the table, cleaning up our sinimsiman, dropping them to a
container. He would even squeeze the wash cloth, the Trapo, (not the
Traditional Politicians) after wiping off the top of the table where
we were drinking. We were of course very proud of what he was doing,
cleaning up our drinking area where some, due to too much alcohol,
would just slide to the wet cement floor under the table and sleep.
After 30 minutes or so, Vincent would ask us to stop our debates and
our singing. “Pahawhaw anay. Higop han sabaw.” He would give us
coffee cups. Drunk as we were, we did not ask him where he got the
sabaw. We just gulped on the sabaw, grateful to Vincent. At two
o’clock in the morning, it was delicious and refreshing. Enough for
us to continue drinking Tanduay raw.
Then he would tell us that due to his culinary genius and
creativity, he had transformed the sinimsiman into a delicious sabaw
that had just provided us nourishing refreshment a few minutes ago.
So what would you do? Kill him?
Unlike Budick, Vincent, and Lope who were very assiduous in their
studies, many of us were not. Like me. But Neding Gelera, who now
calls himself “Gerry” in Reno, Nevada, was a wonder. Until now, we
keep on marveling how he was able to finish his degree from National
University. Indeed, God works in mysterious ways.
So when I would drop out from the U.P. I would end up in Villa
bothering Mikolo “Kalig”Miguel Presnilla. He was already a teacher
at that time. And of course, he was a very popular and sought after
teacher. Very romantic, great with his fingers, especially when he
was strumming the guitar and using those slender fingers for all
activities. God, created him that way. So I would go with him to
Bangon, to Plaridel. There I would help in the Pintakasi, repairing
a school building among others. I would go with the Ugdok (eel)
catchers. One time, Batá Pepe Morabor who motored to Bangon to sell
some fish, labas, wanted to take me back to Villa, worried that the
tagnok would eat me out. Then from Plaridel, we would walk the
mountain trails to San Andres and visit Aracelli Abainza, Gloria
Latoja, and the other lady teachers in San Andres. From San Andres,
we would hike to San Roque. We even went to Bino-ongan and Santa
Rosa and gobbled up Libook. We had no money to buy cigarettes. So we
roasted tobacco, crumpled the tobacco leaves and rolled them in
paper to make a tigol.
When I would notice a frown on Mikolo's face, a signal that he was
not happy with me anymore tugging with him to the barrios, I would
go with the late Jun Latorre and Pacit Varela to San Andres and San
Roque. We would hike the hills unhurriedly exchanging ideas on
whatever would occupy our fancy.
I would go back to Manila after a stint of serenading the Villahanon
teachers in the barrios and picking up, sagol, choice fishes for
kinilaw from the tables of Mana Payang and scribbling all those
innumerable “Good Fors” some of which are still probably
outstanding. And with the inspiration and prodding of Lydia who had
come back from America, I had to finish my studies, especially when
Mara and Alexander were already around. But our house in Project 2
in Quezon City and Sampaloc were still veritable half-way houses for
Villahanons who had no place to stay in Manila. To finish my
studies, there were times when I would not go home once I knew that
there was drinking going on in the house. After all Lope and Nanding
Hilbano, Nanding who was the best curacha dancer I have ever seen in
Manila, were still the drinking buddies of most Villahanons,
including the new members of the Lepanto Boys, Mano Ramon Hilvano,
the late Padé Prudy Geli who entrusted to me her daughter Ada, and
the late Tiboy Latorre, who was so hard to control when he was
drunk. Sometimes we would hold him by his hands, and his feet and
dump him on a taxi and bring him home.
The later part of the 60’s and early 70’s was characterized by
massive, political, social, and economic turbulence in Philippine
society. With the support of America, the Philippine Military
Academy, the UP Vanguards and technocrats, a dictatorship was
imposed on the Philippines. I felt that the models of Singapore and
Malaysia were going to be the pattern of governance of the
dictatorship. Books, pamphlets, a whole library of written materials
were crafted to justify the dictatorship.
For me, the justifications were almost credible. Especially during
the first two years of the dictatorship when there were no
bacchanalian birthday celebrations. The public pronouncements of
reforming a sick society became more believable when I had the
distinction of chairing the Skeletal Force that organized the U.P.
in Tacloban in 1972. The U.P. unit was intended to assist in the
process of regional development of one of the most depressed regions
of the Philippines, the Eastern Visayas region. Whatever I feel
about the No. 1 U.P. alumnus who is No. 2 in Transparency
International, and the lady from Tacloban, I balance it with the
fact that if not for them, there would be no U.P. in Tacloban and
perhaps no Villahanons who would finish there. But the most
memorable episode of my Tacloban interlude was when Pacit Varela,
Vincent Figueroa, and Victor Ocaña waylaid me and forcibly joined me
in my hotel room. They were so noisy, so boisterous and drunk that I
threatened to call the Tacloban police and drive them away to Mt.
Amandiwing. The things you do for your beloved friends.
I went back to Diliman after some years in Tacloban. In Diliman, I
joined the faculty of the Philippine Center for Advanced Studies (PCAS),
supposedly the “think tank” group for the New Society. That was the
time when I had become close to the doyen of Islamic political
thinkers in Asia, one of the most respected political commentators
of the University of the Philippines, Yale Ph.D. Cesar Adib Majul.
It was because of him, in addition to being a researcher of a
doctoral candidate who was writing on the Philippine Claim to Sabah,
that I had first hand experience hobnobbing with our Muslim brothers
and sisters in Southern Philippines, as far as Simunul and Tubig
Indangan in Tawi Tawi. I would renew my relationship with Dr. Majul
in the San Francisco Bay Area. In fact, it was due to his support
that we initiated the Mindanao Symposium in July 2000 in San
Francisco, the first of its kind all over the world. This symposium
may have changed the direction of Philippine political history.
In the Villareal community in Metro Manila, we would still see each
other especially during the celebration of the Feast of the Santa
Rosa de Lima. Compared to other Samarnon groups in Metro Manila who
would celebrate their fiestas in elegant surroundings such as the
Manila Hotel, where only the elite and those with money could savor
the grace and ambiance of a Catholic and Christian tradition devoted
to God and His Saints, in contrast, the Villahanons, at least when I
was still there, would reach out to everyone. Nobody would be turned
away, even those who were definitely gatecrashers and freeloaders.
Precisely, as a response to our Catholicism and graciousness,
celebrating the Feast of the Santa Rosa in Metro Manila was
characterized by popular and grassroots responsibility. From a
single hermano or hermana during its early years, now there are so
many of them and they all come from all over the world especially
from Norway, whose trailblazer was Rosalia Gerardo. I think she was
the first Filipina and Villahanon in Norway and Europe.
In the meantime, the Armed Struggle of the National Democratic Front
had intensified again. The military clashes had become more
numerous. For Villahanons, the deadly confrontations were brought
closer to us with the abduction of Fr. Rudy Romano. His abduction
was a cause celebrè around the world. The European Union suspended
development assistance to the Philippines. The US Senate passed a
resolution demanding that Fr. Rudy be shown to the public. In
Ireland, there was an overnight vigil and concert. The Redemptorist
Fathers prayed and prayed. Up to this time, however, his whereabouts
are still unknown. Of course, we are painfully aware that many of
our people, protagonists representing both sides, have perished in
the night — unremembered and unmourned.
Mara, Alexander, and I could have left for America in 1983 as
Lydia’s dependents. But there is this unarticulated sentiment that a
UP political science professor does not leave his country when it
was about to explode. And our homeland was a social volcano during
this period. We are supposed to be patriots and nationalists because
our studies and training were paid for by our people. We owe
everything to them, to be one with them, suffer with them, till the
end. I don’t know how many have taken this to heart. However,
perhaps the Omnipotent had other plans for us. So after saying “No”
to the beckoning of America in 1983, with a heavy heart, uncertain
what the future would bring, we decided to try our luck in this land
of milk and honey, the former colonial master of our people, the
most powerful and richest country in the world.
With $10 that I borrowed from Fe in my pocket I boarded the
Northwest Jumbo Jet to San Francisco in November 1985. Except for
ex-DAP Executive Vice President, Dr. Segundo Romero, Jr. I did not
tell anyone in the UP that I was leaving. When I told my staff in
Ayala that I was leaving in the afternoon on that very day, there
was lamentation. Mara and Alexander followed, arriving in the
University Town of Berkeley on December 24, 1985.
It was a very humbling and frustrating experience in San Francisco
during the early months of our arrival. Only Lydia was working.
Despite my qualifications, I could not find a job. We were helped by
very kind Calbiganons, Ester Ocenada-Benigno and her cousins, and a
Basaynon whose name we have forgotten but whose kindness is forever
engraved in our hearts. Mara became a salesgirl. Alexander who
practically did not do any household work in the UP, became an
expert in making pizza. He would throw the garbage and mop the floor
of the pizza parlor where he was working. He had to get permit to
work because he was underage, only 16. Frustrated and angry at our
miserable situation, I was one of those marching in front of the
Philippine Consulate Building during those perilous days of February
1986. If we were not embarrassed that we might have become the
objects of ridicule and labeled as incapable of being able to cope
with the challenges in America as new immigrants, we would have come
back in February 1986. There were times when I would lie through my
teeth that I was working when asked by inquisitive Filipinos. But we
persevered. And we were able to survive with dignity in this alien
land.
Finally, when we had the time and the resources, we gravitated to
our kind. First to the Calbiganons, because Lydia is half-Calbiganon.
Theirs was the first fiesta we attended in America. Then the
Catbaloganons, after all I was born in Silanga. Then the Villahanons
whose leaders and concentration were in Los Angeles. But several
years would pass before we could go to Los Angeles. As a symbol of
our solidarity and unity with all Villahanons all over the world, we
never succumbed to the siren song of forming our own Villahanon
association in San Francisco, especially if the only purpose was
just to celebrate the fiesta. We thought we should organize a
pilgrimage to Lima, Peru and devote whatever resources we could
spare to helping our hometown, instead of focusing so much on our
fiesta celebration here in America.
For us, therefore, there was only one community of Villahanons all
over the world. We referred to ourselves as “The Villahanons
International” which include Esdras, Inday, and Ponso Romano in
Northern California, Ruben Gerardo and other Villahanons in Norway,
Quirino Ragub and his beloved Tunding who has a penchant for burning
pants of his beloved cousin, Nora Colles-Chawla, Ada Quijano-Reyes,
Soledad Agote in Canada, Nora and other Royandoyans, the Hilvanos
(the late Godfather of the Villahanons, Mano Sotero Hilvano, sons
Victor and wife, Doctor Mansueta and Angelito), Gery Hilvano in Las
Vegas, and their cousins, who spell their names differently, the
Hilbanos, in Southern California and Las Vegas, (Mano Joe, Belen),
Mana Bangbang and Ate Grace Arcallana, the Ricaldes (Mana Oswalda
and the late Fr. Nick), the admirable couple, Dina Seludo and Frank
Bunuan, Clarito and Mana Mila Seludo, Mana Juling Gabompa who has a
lovely house on top of a hill in Northern California, the
Seludos-Tabungars, Caridad Paco, Mana Cordying Daluraya, Suki,
Tening, and Zenaida Ygat in California, the Varelas in the Midwest,
Lotlot Fallorina, Mana Nina Latorre-Ras and lovely daughter,
Bingbing, Dave Yu, the finance whizz who waited 8 hours to be picked
up at the San Francisco Airport, Aida Geli, Rufino and Jimmy Obregon,
Ralph Brillante who has severed his relationship with Villahanons in
California, Mana Lily Fabilane and brother, Isidro, and Mana Ruthie
Dougherty whom we visited regular and now we do not see anymore,
Gina Cabueños and Dennis Blanco, Joanna Aboga and her gracious
American husband, Bob Foster, our ever reliable, classmate Minda
Geli, Godofredo “Baby” Gelera, one of the pioneer Villahanons in
California, Padre Pepe Garcia in Canada, and the family of Judith
Presnilla in Sacramento, and many others more. There are now so many
of us, Villahanons in Diaspora, we need a huge database. For those I
cannot remember, please forgive me. The next Villahanon historians
will rectify our lapses.
In America, we tried to combine our religious piety with civic works
for our hometown, little things for our church, the schools (books
and scholars for the Holy Name Academy), innovative arrangements
such as “The Paolo Lean Torres Pimentel Partners in Learning”, a
collaboration with the Cambaguio and the Central Elementary
Schools), the community, such as the Stairway to Heaven of The Clan
led by Vincent Figueroa, supporting the publication of the
pioneering “Budyong Han Villa”, which was staffed by Villahanon
writers and poets and printed by using a mimeograph machine, and
organizing the Omawas Foundation which unhappily resulted in the
unnecessary and tragic death of two beloved community leaders, Mano
Joe and Mana Nitnit Dalwatan and Elma Figueroa’s suffering. But for
the courage and bravery of Mila Figueroa, one of the most respected
leaders of our community who chose to stay in Villa to serve our
people, instead of staying in America as a highly paid Florence
Nigtingale, many more would have lost their lives. All for nothing.
We need to honor Mano Joe and Mana Nitnit, mga Baraan nga Susgaran
han Bongto.
We remember with fondness the late Epifanio Nuñez. Together with his
wife, Flor Marasigan, they mobilized the Villahanons in California
on helping our church. We have that aborted Kamorayaw Cemetery
Project of the Villahanons International, of course. The souls of
the dead Villahanons are wailing in the nether world because of a
promise that remains unfulfilled. But the dream is there. Kun diri
kita, iton sunod nga henerasyon. Kun diri yana, iton sunod nga
panahon.
There were profound changes among Villahanons too. For once a
Villahanon Parish Priest, Fr. Jun Cinco, could hobnob with his flock
in America, not just in Villa and Metro Manila. Through the very
illustrious and eminent Archbishop Jose Palma, Villahanon priests
could visit us in San Francisco and other parts of America.
As fate would have it, a Villahanon, Marivel Sacendoncillo, could
exercise some authority and influence to send local government
executives, such as Mayor Renato “Boy” Latorre, (and sister Calbiga
Mayor, Luzviminda “Bebot” Latorre) to train in Canada. Before this,
our mayors could only travel to San Andres, Lamingao, to
Catbaloganon, to Tacloban and to Manila on official business with
some relaxation in some night spots. After all, it was so tiring and
tedious following up official business in the bureaucratic bowels of
the Philippine Administrative System, especially if one has a
hangover.
The singular importance of our democratic social structure and its
concomitant egalitarianism — we do not distinguish ourselves from
each other whether tuminongnong or a timawa or whether Manila-born
or fresh from San Francisco, New York, Canada, or Norway or from
Inasudlan, San Andres or Himyangan — separates us from other groups.
There is also that oneness with everyone which somehow culminates in
the hermandad and celebration of the fiesta in Metro Manila where
one is deemed not to have fully complied with the unwritten
initiation of being a Villahanon if one has not yet become a sponsor
of the Santa Rosa fiesta. Finally, there is our characteristic as
thinkers, visionaries, and dreamers. Sometimes, like the eloquent
Fr. Rudy Romano or the Calubids, and others, we pay with our lives.
All these and other factors provide us with a dynamic community of
Villahahons linked to each other all over the world.
With the advent of the Internet, many Villahanons in Diaspora around
the world have become closer to each other. We communicate in the
World Wide Web with a flick of a “computer mouse”. Aside from long
distance calls, there is cell phone texting, Yahoo Messenger, Web
Cameras, and the most popular of all, electronic mail. Our brilliant
municipal consultant and local government planner, Armando “Boy”
Ridao transmits huge computer files from the municipio to me in
California, files which contain the comprehensive development plan
of the town under the leadership of Mayor Reynato “Boy” Latorre and
his fellow municipal officials. I chat on real time with Jim Gabree,
the Amerian husband of Marjorie Hilvano in Guintarcan, through a
computer which is connected to the Internet through “satellite
broadband” which does not need land-based telephone connections. I
used to chat with my godchild, Jeanette Presnilla, in Tacloban while
I was in San Francisco. Indeed, our familiarity with the Internet
makes us tower above many other groups all over the Philippines. As
of last count, for instance, we have three websites and electronic
discussion groups.
The foregoing, together with other factors, combined to develop a
synergy, a confluence of events and circumstances, making us a model
all over the Philippines and the Third World. When we took on this
mind-boggling collaborative project to repair and cement this 8-km
public road through Tiklos or Bayanihan, a project that has never
been done voluntarily in the history of the Philippines, a project
that involves massive use of the Internet, a project where even our
school children are helping, we showed the world that poor as we
are, we can hold our heads high with dignity. The corrupt and the
nincompoops do not dangle us by their dirty little fingers anymore.
Of course, we Villahanons are not angels. I once stumbled on Ruben
Gerardo’s “Villahanon Forum”, a discussion medium in the Internet. I
could not believe at the lack of principles, the cowardice, the
unkindness, and the quality of the exchanges. I could not discern
any graciousness and humility. People would just fling accusations
left and right without any evidence. They hide under aliases. It is
disheartening to realize that the kind and noble intentions of
Ruben’s Villahanon Forum has been hijacked and mutilated by
unprincipled individuals. It is practically reeking with
unimaginable evil.
We will self-destruct if we don’t wake up from our psychosis.
Hurling accusations while hiding under aliases and fictitious names
are symptomatic of a sick society, a society of political, cultural,
and civic misfits. We have to wrench ourselves from the old ways of
doing things. We cannot continue to be hating each other without
letup. We will explode with our unflinching hatred at our fellow
Villahanons.
There are very urgent, very critical, very, very dangerous
challenges confronting us. There is Global Warming, making the seas
rise. There are portents of killer storms, floodings and landslides
because of our denuded mountains, massive droughts, changes in the
world’s weather.
There is this “Clash of Civilizations” where Militant Islam vows to
annihilate Christianity and Western Civilization at all cost, never
mind if all of mankind will perish because it is the will of a
bloodthirsty God, of Allah. There are former Christians who have
converted to Islam. And they have started to blow up public
transport to kill the innocent and the defenseless.
There are unending insurgencies of the National Democratic Front,
the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, the Moro National Liberation
Front, the bandit and kidnapping group of the Abu Sayyaf which is
reputed to be supported by Jemaah Islamiyah and Al Qaeda. There are
killers running around, killing and abducting people with impunity.
As if these are not enough to guarantee our societal destruction,
there is political and governmental incompetence, of unbridled
corruption in the administrative system, the rule of the gun,
corruption in the judicial system, violence, drug addiction. All
these and many more should awaken our people to the dangers that
face all of us, not just those who have been elected to public
office and those who were not chosen by the majority of our people.
It is critical that we transcend our myopic and tongao-like
perceptions of our roles in our municipality, in how we confront the
challenges facing Villa, the entire Philippine society, and the
world. Our almost deliberate inability to do this is what makes
unlovable.
Even then, we continue with our mantra: “We love Villa! We hate
Villa! We love Villa….” And if we are believers in the Peruvian
Saint, Santa Rosa de Lima, and all the other saints whose sainthoods
are being celebrated by all Villahanons in our 38 barangays and by
their associations in Metro Manila, there is no doubt that love will
triumph, that good will vanquish evil and hatred.
I end this labor of love with some lines from the
Ecclesiastes:
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under
the heaven:
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a
time to speak,
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of
peace.”
And from Desiderata:
“Do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are borne of fatigue and loneliness.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a
beautiful world.”
* * * * * * * *
[*Editor’s Note: When we requested Mano Cesar to contribute an
article, we were thinking that busy as he is, he would only come out
with a one-page or two-page piece that he can finish in one setting.
When he called me and asked how long his article might be, I told
him that it should be 5 to 6 pages. We were wondering what was
taking him so long. It turned out that he has decided to write about
the Villahanons covering a period of more than half a century. This
piece is far from being a definitive, authoritative, historical
piece. If ever, this simply attempts to preserve for the future
generations some memorable events among Villahanons in our hometown,
in Metro Manila, and in America where he is based now since 1985. It
shows the way. We should not construe this as his story. Rather,
this is the story of our town and how he lived there. He has decided
to do this, so that our past is not forgotten, so that our children
and their children’s children will know. He correctly thinks that if
he will not do this, nobody else will. And if he will not do this
now, this will never be done at all.
The author is a product of our public school system. An alumnus of
the Samar High School where he graduated with honors and was a
student leader, he is a recipient of the
Outstanding Centennial
Alumnus Award in 2004. He has three degrees from the U.P. one with
honors which automatically made him a lifetime member of the
International Social Science Honor Society of
Pi Gamma Mu. In the
U.P., he has the distinction of being the only undergraduate to be
appointed Assistant to the Vice President for Development and Public
Affairs of the U.P. System. He was an Assistant Professor of the
Department of Political Science while being Senior Consultant of the
think tank Development Academy of the Philippines. During the
Centennial Celebration of the U.P. National College of Public
Administration and Governance, he was nominated by now U.P. Vice
President for Planning and Finance, Dr. Maria Concepcion
Parrocco-Alfiler who was then Dean of the College, as Outstanding
Public Administration Alumnus. He has created the Internet group,
UP-Alumni-In-Cyberspace@yahoogroups.com. He is still working as a
senior analyst of the State of California where he was given the
Sustained Superior Performance Award in 1997, the only Filipino to
be given that award that year. He is active in the Filipino-American
community in Northern California – Founder of the Samar High-Samar
National School Alumni Association of America, Past President of the
San Francisco-based Samareños of California, Board Member, Acting
President and Vice-President of the Filipino American Council of San
Francisco, Chairman of the Pamana ng Lahing Pilipino Foundation,
Board Member of the UP Alumni Association of San Francisco. He is an
original convenor of the innovative International Discussion Group
Filam-Forum@yahoogroups.com who meet every now and then in San
Francisco. He is a columnist of the “Filipino Insider” which is also
published online. Together with Ruben Gerardo, he moderates the
Internet discussion group,
GugmaHanSamar@yahoogroups.com and is the
Chief Editor and contributor of the online publication of
Gugma Han
Samar Cyberspace Movement.
He is married to the beauteous Lydia Froilan Varela with whom he has
two children, Maria “Mara” Teresita Varela Torres-Pimentel and
Alexander “Doydoy” Varela Torres. Mara is married to the author and
former San Francisco Chronicle staff writer and ABS-CBN anchorman,
Benjamin Pimentel, with whom they have two boys, 8-year old Paolo
Lean Torres Pimentel and 2-year old Anton Diego Torres Pimentel.
Together with thousands of Filipino expatriates around the world,
especially in the Middle East, he is currently involved in helping
organize a worldwide, economic, social, and political movement that
will focus on a more effective participation in Philippine
development of the more than 8 million Filipinos in Diaspora. This
piece is dedicated to the future generations of Villahanons.]
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