Down South
War stories
Mayflower or Verbena.
Were he to pick a bed for the night, which would the friendly cabbie choose? Surprise me, I said.
Sensing an adventurous soul, the driver chatted me up non-stop as we peeled off the Cebu airport terminal. He said he had the pleasure of ferrying North Cotabato Governor Manny Piñol to the Crown Regency a while ago. We hadn’t exchanged three sentences in Tagalog and Cebuano before he switched to Ilongo and stayed with it. I followed suit.
Manong Bert left Mlang for Cebu in 1987. He does not miss Mlang overmuch, even though Piñol assured him that the roads are not dusty anymore.
“I just remember wanting to get away from the fighting. I grew up with war. It was crazy. I never got used to watching people die, holding them till they expired. Or getting splattered with their brains. So I went to Cebu,” he said.
“I take it you were in the Army?” I smelled a combat narrative and couldn’t resist.
“Two years. 1984 to ’86. I marched on boots that fell apart. My socks had long turned to rags. You know you’re never going to get new ones because the generals pocketed the money for supplies. Crazy. You go to war on rationed bullets against an enemy who had better weapons. You wonder how come the enemy never ran out of bullets. Day in, day out, they fired cannons at us. You know how much that cost? You fight war a like that and the only thing that could happen to you is you die,” he said.
“Cebu is a lot kinder to you?”
“I was a long time rattling tin cans on the roadside, knocking on doors looking for work. It was hard, but it was a lot better than going back there to die. That’s why I’m still alive to drive you to Verbena,” he joked as he slid the cab to a smooth stop.
“Happy 111th Independence Day, Manong. Kabay pa nga indi na kita magpatik-patik lata sa kilid dalan. Andam sila sa imo.”
It’s been a while since I’ve seen beyond the glass windows of the Cebu terminal. Time to reacquaint myself with this historic city. I was meeting Saturday morning with some psychologists to talk about forensic psychology, but since I couldn’t get a redeye, I opted to fly in the night before.
That evening, I tromped in and around Fuente Osmeňa, staying within sight of the Crown Regency. I reasoned I’d never get lost if I had a homing device. At midnight though, the vendors were starting to give me dirty looks for cadging a light here and messing around with someone’s wares there. I tried not to get in their way, but I guess I did.
In Chow King earlier, my eye lit up on the Sunstar signage across the street. I remembered to text Bayani Garcia, waving away a cruiser bruiser white boy’s attempt at conversation. This was important business. Bayani and I were reminding each other to watch our weight. Scalewise, white boy could give Bayani a run for his money, but I’d bet Bayani must be heavier now than the 230-lb teddy bear who sat in my class last year.
Three hours later, a cruiser bruiser from Arizona boldly asked to share my table at an outdoor café off The Strip. Two unoccupied tables and he wanted to share mine. Fine. But I’ll be walking away alone when am done.
Cruiser bruiser white boys don’t worry me none. I’d survived Subic when this kid was still in diapers. Heck, I’m from Mindanao.
People, like that lone white boy, kept telling me it would have been more fun for me with someone along. Beg to disagree. It’s not for nothing that Independence Day is my favorite holiday.
Despite my hubby’s overprotective streak, he does understand my need to celebrate independence now and then. He actually handed me cold cash in an envelope before sending me off on that plane. I know I sometimes worry him with my cash-basis policy and the fact that I can still take off to parts unknown with just the clothes on my back. After 17 years of looking out for each other, I don’t mind anymore getting enveloped in his love.
Cebu is still tourist safe. At least, the parts I’d explored that night were safe.
Morning found me checking out of my digs and heading for the main campus of the University of San Carlos.
Word of caution - never ask a security guard in Cebu how to get anywhere. He only has one answer for that: “Take a taxi.” In fact, he’s got one lined up for you.
“I don’t get it,” I grumbled. “How do students get to school here? They take a taxi?”
Ask a mango vendor instead. There’s one on every street corner in Cebu.
A lady heard me asking for the Law Building entrance and offered to walk me. She was heading next door to the Religious Education Department. That’s how I bumped into another migrant from Mindanao.
Aida Dela Cerna Jumao-as had taught six years at the Notre Dame in Cotabato before going to Cebu. I asked why she left.
“War,” she replied.
“This was in the ‘80s?”
“Ilaga, Barracuda. In the ‘70s,” she smiled. “I’ve been here 36 years. I retire at the end of the year. I’m 64.”
“You don’t look it. I thought maybe late 40’s,” I marveled.
“That’s because I’m small. But I’m 64 really.”
“So Cebu has been a lot kinder to you?”
Ma’m Aida gave a delighted laugh and pointed me to the Law entrance.
The guard knew enough to expect me. He told me that the psychoforensics meeting was canceled but they only got to know about it that morning.
Gee. With new laws requiring psychological assessment and information, psychologists should agree on systematic training. Not that I am interested to be an expert witness for the dissolution of marriages, among others. My fascination is for psychoautopsy, something that does not make many people very happy with me.
Two years ago, some people were distinctly unhappy when I disputed their explanation for how 9-year-old Grecil Buya died. Also, happy was not how I remember Medico-legal Officer Tomas Dimaandal when I quizzed him on his autopsy report on Rebelyn Pitao.
Anyway, back at USC, I’d narrowly missed seeing Miriam Cue who came down from Iligan for the meeting. Now, Miriam has some hair-raising stories to tell about her community debriefings in Kolambugan in July 2008.
It felt kind of suffocating coming to Cebu only to evoke memories of the gruesome war in my backyard. So I took a jeep to Lahug and found a habal-habal to take me 14 kilometers up the Top, a plaza perched on the mountain overlooking downtown.
Above it all… Maybe this is how to look and not see misery. It’s a lot easier to be merciful this way.
One thing about mountains in islands with a colonial history is that they’re likely to host the enclaves of the homegrown population. Many of the mountainous regions in the Philippines are home to our indigenous peoples. I don’t know if that’s true for Cebu.
Passing through Busay and Bantilan, the driver pointed to the properties owned by the Lhuillers, the Garcias and the Osmeñas. Some amazing cliff architecture there.
Another jeep took me past USC yet again. I puttered inside the Metropolitan Cathedral, trying to keep from blinking at the sight of all that gleaming gold on the extravagant altar. I interrupted workmen painting angels at the side chapel as I labored at translating the Spanish note on the Our Lady of Guadalupe portrait. Call me Underfoot. I don’t care. I only got today.
At the Sto. Niño Shrine, I ogled, eavesdropping shamelessly as yellow ladies prayed over supplicants. I wandered into the dome of Magellan’s Cross. Whoa there. Magellan would have needed ten men and a crane to plant this particular cross.
On closer look, this really wasn’t Magellan’s cross. The marker claims the real McCoy is encased in the sturdy tindalo cross now standing on exactly the same spot where Magellan supposedly planted it. Right there, if we take their word, is where the signal was given for the war of the gods that is in certain ways still very much with us today.
Four hundred and eighty-eight years is a long time. Maybe it does not matter anymore where Magellan’s relic is and where he had it planted. We just need to work out how to come down from our cross and – what? – set the world on fire?
Time to head for the airport and home.
(Gail Ilagan is a clinical psychologist on the faculty of the Ateneo de Davao University where she is the editor of both the Tambara University Journal and the Research Journal for the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences.)