The 60’s ushered in a number
of propitious events that electrified the world’s collective
attention. But for a wide-eyed probinsiano like me, the ensuing
decade marked only unwanted changes that on the surface would be quite alien to
the idyllic existence lived in a sleepy town.
I was abruptly moved to Manila
from Cagayan de Oro to live with my father’s family on the latter months of
1959. Just out of high school and having
earned a year of college, I was set to continue my interrupted studies in fabled
Manila.
For the trip, I was tasked
not only to take care of myself but also of a younger sister who needed medical
attention in Manila.
Since it was my first trip to
Manila, there was obvious unease and discomfiture during the trip. The 3-day boat trip did provide sufficient
idle time to mull over the coming new existence. On arrival, only a few moments of
apprehension were expended since my older brother did arrive on time to fetch
us. After a confusing jeepney drive through unfamiliar
streets, I found myself at my father’s rented flat nestled in old Malate, a
quiet bedroom-community, which formed part of old Manila.
That would be home for me for
the next 3 years in which time I would earn my first bachelor’s degree. This labored recollection then is about this inauspicious
place of existence which grudgingly does have lasting impressions on me, not so
much for its grandiosity and grand experiences, but as testament to how
humanity can live, or survive, which is the more apt term, with so little of
the usual amenities many families take for granted.
For a start, here are three coarse
sketches to enable one to zero in on where exactly is this place. Looking at any map of old Manila, one easily
finds the district of Malate, being only several kilometers from downtown
Manila going south. Its street names
were mostly those of US states, and this we learned that that was because
during the American occupation, mercenary troops from different states encamped
in the same areas. Many of the street
names have been changed in the interim.
My father’s rented flat was
inside a fenced compound, which was bounded on two sides by two streets. One side faced or opened into noted Remedios
St. which to this day I hear continues to be a popular avenue to visit. Based
on today’s standards, its rows of about ten two-storey timber houses would be
considered as decrepit and low class.
Aged in looks and short on maintenance.
Our flat was on the ground
floor of the elevated building, which stood on exposed timber posts atop
concrete piers.
It was partitioned in a typical
fashion, 3 bedrooms with one closet that could double up as ironing room, or
even sleeping room. And only one toilet
and bath and whatever leftover space as living/dining room.
I recall to add needed space,
my father had spent a little sum to add an outside open terrace on the side,
where chairs could be located. And we
could hang out during warm nights
The entire place as described
would be at any given time home to at least 12 people, and at times as many as
18 people. While the number may surprise
people, those who lived on it knew exactly how we all fitted in doing
everything needed, like a place to sleep, to eat, to converse, to watch tv, and
yes, even to attend to bathroom needs including taking a bath or shower.
Whether because there was
just too many of us, or maybe because the place was just too old and in neglectful
disrepair, we had always experienced clogs in the sole toilet and bath that
needed assistance coming from the compound’s office. No doubt, we had become friends with the
people sent to our place, given the number of times we had had to deal with them. This prompted one of our intermittent
residents to name the flat, the MV Barado.
And we all had a hearty chuckle when we heard this.
The room assigned to us was
Room 3, and we were all boys in there.
Two double-decks were flushed to the sides, and a foldable cot would still
have enough space in the middle. For a
study desk, another older brother had assembled together parts of an old wooden
“baol” nailed to the window jamb. So a
total of 5 occupants to our room, all of us still schooling. How we managed to study under such trying
conditions is still a wonder. We all did
accomplish what we had willed to, that older brother even finishing difficult medical
school some time later in the future.
Seven other children called
that home, too. And they were all crammed in another room, Room 2, a bit bigger
but not much bigger, or big enough. And most if not all of them went to school,
too.
Under this mish-mash of
conditions, this microscopic place was always a frenzied beehive of activity,
noise, and interaction. Not a moment of
serene quiet or inactivity. Somehow,
like a colony of ants, rarely were the incidents of conflicts, crashes, and
even incidents of sorrow and/or despair.
We just all dropped our heads, did what was needed to be done, and
plodded on to the next day. Until years
had been accumulated and crossed out.
By the way, all this put
together and made possible by the financial inputs of one man, my father, who
was the only member of the extended household who had a permanent job. He was an attorney for the biggest government
commercial bank in the country. One
attorney in a Legal Department that had a slew of lawyers working there. Since I had on one occasion peeped at his
paycheck, I could testify to the miraculous way that he had been able to keep
us all together. The amount involved
even in my youthful estimation barely sufficient to cover rent and food.
After those 3 eventful years,
my father decided to uproot lock, stock, and barrel, and move back to Cagayan
de Oro. And this we all did, riding in
one slow boat back to the old hometown.
Everything ended, but for the
stubborn memories of those trying years eking out an existence in some strange
land.
