Every summer, when the school term was through, my older brothers Pete and Dado and I packed our bags and went off to Plaza Lawton to catch a Saulog bus to the town of Rosario in Cavite. It was a day we had long awaited. The anticipation of spending summer vacation in my grandmother’s house in Wawa was one of the pleasures that made the last week of school seem to drag. Mother used to give us just enough money for transportation fare. The jeepney fare to Plaza Lawton was ten centavos. The longest part of the journey was from there to the town of Rosario. It took more than an hour and the fare was thirty centavos.

 The bus ride itself was a treat. Once you get past the city of Pasay the countryside begins to unfold. One of the memorable scenes was that of the “salambao”, a big widely spread net attached to long bamboo poles fitted to a bamboo raft. The big net was dipped into the water in the river delta and lifted once enough fish were held in. A good view of this may be had upon crossing the Las Pinas Bridge. Also within the town of Las Pinas you will pass through the historic church were the world famous Las Pinas Bamboo Organ is housed. About halfway to Rosario, the grand mansion of General Emilio Aguinaldo, the revolutionary hero and first president of the republic, rears its imposing presence as you cross the Kawit Bridge. The prominent feature of the mansion was the balcony that rested on a statue of a half bodied carabao somewhat looking like Atlas bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. On the balcony were two brass cannons that did not look menacing enough to inspire confidence in thwarting would be invaders. The cannons were flanked by two old revolutionary standards one in red with the “KKK” lettering and the other, faded and tired looking but more contemporary. A bit farther you can see a series of long wash lines with white clothes and khaki pants lining up the highway from Kawit to Noveleta. They looked like roadside spectators waving their hands to the motorists along the highway. The area was named “labanderos” because the dirty clothes from the US Navy in Sangley Point were being washed there. 

 We didn’t worry about not getting enough spending money from mother. There were lots of opportunities to earn once we got to our grandmother’s place. She had a big property and fruit trees abound in it. Summer was the time when most of the fruits were in season and we earned a few pesos delivering the orchard’s produce to the stores. Either an aunt or a cousin owned the barrio stores and because we were the children of city relatives we always got preferential prices, as it were. In our barrio almost everyone could trace some familial connections with each other.   From the “bayan” or the town of Salinas we had to take another ride to get us to barrio Wawa. The last leg of the journey was in a rickety “karetela”; a horse drawn carriage that had a box-like open frame that could sit six people. It took about fifteen to twenty minutes to get to my Lola’s place depending on the disposition of the nag pulling it. The fare was five centavos per person and if we were lucky enough to hail one that was owned by one of our grandfather’s grandsons the ride was for free. Grandfather was once the town mayor and as was the custom he was often asked to be the godfather to the newborn of his ward leaders and there have been quite a few.

It was only when I was seated in the “karetela” that I began to feel that summer vacation had finally come. Once out of the steamy hot bus ride and into the breezy “karetela” ride, I began to soak up the rural ambience. The rhythmic clopping of hooves on the asphalt agreed well with the sight of carabaos, nipa huts and stacks of harvested palay stalks. It was like a cross-media artwork or a much expanded installation art rendered in defined and brilliant acrylic with hoof falls as leitmotif. The aroma of freshly cut rice stalks and the mingled smell of local delicacies as they simmered in pots and pans in the open kitchens on the roadside wafted in the air.  

“Eyo, do you think the “bukayo” would be ready by now?” Eyo, who preferred to be called Roger was the adopted son of our neighbor Kaka Unti, the maker of “bukayo” and peanut brittle. One of my favorite sweets is the local confection of young coconut meat in hardened white caramel molded as lumps patted on round newspaper cutouts. What distinguished it from the usual “bukayo” were the whiteness of the gelled caramel and the softness of the coconut meat. “Bukayos” are usually dark brown in color and had a tough chewy texture. “It has been at least two hours since my Nana started to boil the caramel. She should be forming them now on the newspaper cutouts. Let’s go and see.” We would race across a worn trail through the trees that led to their house. When we got there the “taliase”, the big vat used in boiling the caramel was already cooled down with water and the dogs were lapping at the hardened caramel leftovers at the rim of the vat. Freshly cooked white “bukayo” had no rival in delicacy and exquisiteness in taste. 

That was last year. Just remembering it made me impatient with the labored pace of the old horse pulling the “karetela”.    We would pass through the school building that was deserted except for a bent old woman who was sweeping fallen leaves at the base of the flagpole. The barrio children would all be on vacation just like us and there weren’t too many of them playing in the street. I imagined that they would be in the “pulo”, a sandbar formed by siltation at the river mouth. In the early afternoon the islet’s surface goes above water and the children living along the shore or “aplaya” would swim through a short crossing and play there until the rising waters reclaim the sandy playground by late afternoon. It was in that short crossing that I learned to swim the summer before.  

My cousin Jimmy and the other children were already on the “pulo” and they were all shouting for me to cross and join them. Kids can be cruel with their taunts. They called me names that would, in the local jargon, mean a cowardly uncircumcised boy from the city. Stung by the jeers I jumped into the water and started flailing my arms almost in panic towards the direction of the islet. It was just a mere five-meter swim but it seemed like the Pasig River. Reaching the other side was a relief, a grand feat, and an immediate acceptance by the boys in the barrio. Going back to the shore was easy. I was still flailing my arms but then no longer in panic.   

Halfway to grandmother’s house we would pass by a road bend. There was a store by the wayside, a typical rural store that sold soft drinks, candies, a variety of packaged merchandise as well as fruits and vegetables. There was an old woman who would be seated or sometimes be lying down on a bamboo platform that served as a table to put the vegetables and fruits for sale on display. The wonder of it was that she would be there every time we passed the bend. Mother never failed to shout a greeting every time she passed by. We thought that this was the thing to do in these parts. We did the same and after seemingly recognizing us she shouted back an acknowledgement. “Lola Talia….how are you!” and she would, look intently towards our direction and with a bit of time lag, shout back “hoy!”.Perhaps she really recognized us but, then again, perhaps not. In this barrio everyone, even an eighty-year-old, dutifully observed the obligatory response to a greeting.  After the bend the karetela we would pass by Tia Luming “Dilat’s” store. Tia Luming Dilat was one of my favorite aunts in the barrio. It was her store where we brought the “kaings” of fruits that we picked from Lola’s trees for sale. Last year we did well with the “duhat” deal.  

“Jimmy, stop moving so much. You’re rousing the “hantik” nest”. “Hantik” are red ants with a fiery sting. One red ant had already crept up my pants and I was having a hard time rubbing it off and keeping a hold on a thick branch of the old “duhat” tree. They were beginning to stream out of a conical nest made up of pasted and patched leaves and were moving towards where we were perched. Earlier we got ashes from our Lola’s open stove or “pugon” and placed them in paper bags. We both had two bags each that we placed in the side pockets of our shirt pants. The ashes were used to repel a “hantik” swarm. Ashes were dabbed on the branch to make the ants lose their foothold on the branch as they pass through the loose ashes on the surface of the branch. Despite the ashes we did not escape unscathed. The ants did a suicidal wave-by-wave attack through the ash-field reminiscent of the charge of the light brigade and we did not have enough ashes to stop their determined march. We could only hold them off for a while. I could remember about half a dozen stings and the most painful one was from the one who got under my pants. We were tossing down bunches of ripe “duhat” on a net that we had propped up above ground to keep the fruit from being squashed by the fall. When we had a “kaing” filled we brought this to Tia Luming Dilat’s store. The “duhat” that we brought down was of the large variety and was very sweet. We were delighted to get three pesos and fifty centavos for the “kaing”. I got two pesos and Jimmy got a peso and fifty, after all I was a visiting relative. The money was good enough to get me through six weeks vacation in Wawa.    

 The added appellation “Dilat” was given to differentiate Tia Luming from another Tia Luming who also had a store similar to hers. In the barrio they would normally add to a name an apt description of the person. In most cases it was not so much to differentiate the person from another similarly named but more of a fun thing. Name-calling was never meant to be derogatory. It was accepted as innocent and good fun even by the named herself. This was typical Caviteno  harmless ribbing or “buscahan”.  In the case of Tia Luming Dilat it was her big round eyes that made her earn her name. In front of her store is the barrio barbershop owned by Banong Kuba, so named because of his hunched back. A few more yards and we would be at the entrance to my Lola’s place, which was in front of Lolo Onsoy “Bungot” a close kin so called because of his crabby temperament and Hitler-like moustache. We excitedly got off the karetela and paid our fare to the rig driver. We half expected for him to say that the ride was free after all he was godson of our Lolo. He accepted our fare and I guessed that times were not so good and he might have thought that he needed the fifteen centavos more than the sons of city folks did. Incidentally his name was Emong Kabayo or Emong the Horse. So, there... 

From the gate we shouted “Lola…Lola we are here” and she would peer and wave her hand from the “banggera” an antiquated architectural feature that protruded from the house with a sink and a counter made of wooden slats and stakes where washed dishes and glasses where placed to dry. The “banggera” is an adjunct to the kitchen but in my Lola’s house this was in an adjacent room that jutted out beside the azotea. I remember that there was another “banggera” which was curiously situated in the dining room area. The fancy plates, tureens, pitchers, stemmed glasses and other ornate serving dishes and bowls were in this “banggera” The other “banggera” that was nearer the kitchen was the working one, the other for show. As soon as we alighted from the “karetela” we would run towards the house and scamper up the azotea stairs into the kitchen where a sumptuous merienda was already laid out in the large molave table. She knew beforehand of our coming and had prepared our favorite rice cakes and native sweets. There would be bottles of “Bayani” a cheap local brand of fruity soft drinks and “kinaskas” or shaved ice in the drinking glasses to make the soft drink cold and refreshing, something that we needed to slake our thirst after the long hot journey. A cousin, Delfin, who grew up with Lola from the time he was a toddler was there and joined us in the table. He was the eldest son of my mother’s younger sister who lived in barrio Julugan, Tanza, the next town from Rosario. From my Lola’s house you could go to their barrio through the “bangkerohan”, the boat crossing near the river mouth that connects Wawa and Julugan.  Jimmy, the younger brother of Delfin suddenly appeared by the doorway. “I had to wait a long time for a boat ride…the banca sprung a leak and had to be replaced…when the new banca came we had to allow some of the old folks to ride first…did you just get in?” All these were said in one breath. He always sounded excited. It was as if everything that he had to say was a news scoop. 

All through summer last year we swam in the “pulo”. I became a good swimmer and on a dare by Jimmy we both swam across from the bank on the Julugan side to the Wawa side of the river. Although it was quite a fulfilling feat the swim was not at all pleasant. The mouth of the river was some sort of a collection point of the debris and all sorts of floating garbage of the towns that the river passed through. I itched all day after that swim. That was the last time I swam across the “bangkerohan”. Never again even if it meant saving boat ride fare.

 Delfin was of the same age group as my older brothers. In their teens, they would have other interests that would take them to the “bayan” some evenings while I stayed behind.  Jimmy was more my age. We shared the same interests, which ranged from looking for spiders to hunting birds with slingshots. His mother did not allow him to stay overnight in Wawa so everyday he had to make a round trip in the “bankerohan”.

That evening my brothers went off to the “bayan” with cousin Delfin.  Jaunts like this always excluded me. I wasn’t old enough. Jimmy had already left for Julugan. I was left with my Lola the whole evening. This meant having to say the rosary and respond to litanies with Lola doing the lead role. After the prayers she would prepare supper. We would partake of a simple meal of “pinangat”, a steamed fish dish garnished with steamed whole tomatoes, onions, parsley and unripe tamarind wrapped in banana leaves. Nothing tasted better than “pinangat” dipped in fish sauce, the “Cavite espeso” type, eaten by hand with gobs of hot steamed rice from a clay pot.  A meal practice that I found quaint was “pamutat” or eating fruit or sometimes sweets in the middle of the meal, unlike dessert, which is taken at the end of meals, but as some form of mid-meal appetizer. That night the “pamutat” of choice was mango. She had lots of mango for it was in season. There were several mango trees in the property and the trees that had the sweetest fruit were reserved for family use. The other trees’ crops were sold to fruit merchants in a system called “pakyaw” wherein whole trees are contracted even as early as at flowering stage.  She had the pick of the best dozen mangoes of each tree contracted. Last year Lola had three big mango trees on contract. The yield of each tree was estimated by a “tasador”, an expert in projecting the yield of fruit trees. Lola’s mango trees averaged five hundred pesos for each tree. In addition she had three santol trees contracted by the fruit merchant. Santol yield had an average of two hundred fifty pesos each. Usually out of courtesy they reserve a dozen of the finest yield of each contracted tree and gave these to the owner. It helped ensure that they would be allowed to make a bid in the next harvest.   

Lola’s house was a scary place at night. Outside you could hear all sorts of nocturnal sounds coming from insects, birds at roost and leaves rustling stirred by the night breeze. Just to make sure that I stayed by her side I would ask her to tell me stories while she finished up with the dishes and other preparations for the following day. Whenever we were around she would prepare rice-based cakes “puto”and “kuchinta”, “tamales” and other sweets that she knew would be a treat for us. The preparation of the rice cakes involved the grinding of glutinous rice into a slurry. Most of the time it was cousin Delfin who worked the stone grinder. Grinding was hard work. The stone grinder was heavy and it took a bit of effort to continuously turn the top-stone to crush the soaked rice grains. Just so I could be by her side I volunteered to do the grinding chores. I would do anything to avoid having to go to the bedroom by myself at that hour.  Her stories would be from Filipino classic literature such as Don Juan Tinoso, Ibong Adarna and from Florante at Laura. At times she would pick up stories from current radio serials like Prinsipe Amante and from movies like Siete Infantes de Lara. I have heard them before even as long two summers ago but I desperately needed to be by her side. I could not imagine having to go to the bedroom alone and lie down on the mat on the floor with the “perok-perok”, the vigil light, flickering in the altar casting all sorts of shadowy demons and other creatures of the dark-side chasing each other on the bedroom walls. The musty smell of dank soil emanating from the “silong”, the storage basement area that was enclosed by ancient stonewalls smelled like a freshly dug grave. The macabre smell seeped through the gaps of the wooden floor planks in a draft. When it conspired with the illusions in the room it could send one to near panic.  

When finally done with her chores she would fill a water basin and tell me to wash up. We would both proceed to the bedroom and I would lie down on the spread mat on the floor wrapping myself securely with the bed sheet and holding on tightly to large pillows for comfort and assurance. My Lola would kneel in front of the altar and do her final prayers for the day. Unlike the early evening prayers we were not obliged to join her in the final prayers for the day.   

By about twelve o’clock midnight, amidst the rousing barks of “Tigre” one of two dogs that Lola kept, I could hear cousin Delfin’s tapping on the window and his calling out for Lola to open the door. The house could not be locked from the outside. The doors were secured from the inside by wooden bars and bolts. There was no keyhole to open the doors from the outside. Then Lola would call out “sino ka?” or who goes there? As if on cue with the call you would hear the growl of Lola’s second dog. “Sino Ka” was the name of the other dog. The dog was so named so that he would be summoned when the shout of  ‘who goes there’ is made. “Tigre” was the barker while “Sino Ka” was the growler and biter, a formidable duo patrolling the house perimeter. There was third dog, an all black one and aptly named Negro. He almost always would be asleep and with his natural camouflage color he is hardly seen. I could hear the animated voices of my cousin and brothers at the door. Their voices fell to a hush when Lola slid the wooden bar that barricaded the kitchen door. It was a relief to know that they were finally home. I was kept awake all the while by wild imaginings…cold fingers creeping out of the wooden slats stroking my back, bats whirring above me and the feeling of a presence by my side tugging at the bed sheet. In an instant all the terrifying creatures crept back to where they came from…disappearing in the gaps on the wooden floor, the cracks in the walls and the back of the old “aparador”. I didn’t want them to know that I was still awake. In a few minutes the sleep that eluded me for hours crept in like a veil and gently brushed my eyes to a close.