NO LONGER A POSSIBLE DREAM

It was the first week of April of 1966 that I began living in Lugait, particularly in Salimbal, and in Matabang. I would live here until November of 1969. My father built a house very close to the boundary line of Iligan City and Lugait on the Lanao del Norte side beside the beach and a small creek. The wall of the house leaned on a huge tree that had large branches which produced a very wide share in the afternoon. Some coconut trees were on the right hand side ovelooking the blue ocean and anyone climbing these trees could see Iligan City from on top. There was on the side of the house the salt factory, a huge galvanized tin sheet formed rectangularly placed on top of a cemented makeshift, of which underneath it was a big hollow space. The firewood went into the hollow space, and when ignited, the fire heats up the sea water inside the tin sheet to a constant boil. It would take somewhat around ten filling of sea water to produce once small sack of salt. It would take three days to constantly boil the sea water before the salt appears- we get the sea water into a simmer, adjusting the fire into merely burning coals and the salt miraculously comes up to the surface ot the sea water, which at this time the water only occupies one third of the container's capacity, and when the salt thickened it sinks down to join the rest of the particles that are all resting on the floor of the tin sheet. Aside from the salt industry, my father made his own dynamites which he used to catch fish.

On the bus, on my first trip to go to Lugait, I speculated where I should stop. I was told I should not go beyond the Floro Cement plant, with a sign Floro Cement. I was also told that I should be able to see the sign, "Costa Brave Beach Resot." When I saw the sign I motioned to the conductor to stop the bus. I collected my now torn wooden suitcase and put it under-arm while my eyes surveyed the surrounding. "Ah, this must be Boy!" people in the stores spoke to one another loudly. "Oh, he is so big and tall," their voices chorused, as if I was a celebrity and they were all my fans and they were all there waitint for me just so they can get my autograph. All of a sudden I could hear someone calling, "Manang Lucena, Manang Lucena! Your son is here!" I saw my mother coming out from between shacks and ran toward me. She embraced me and kissed me. And then she cried. People from everywhere were lined on the side of the highway and watched me with mouth agape. My mother had advertized my coming to them. With tears in her eyes, she monologued, "This is Boy my son, this is Boy my son, this is Boy my son." I could hear many voices commented softly, "He's very good looking. He resembles his father in looks."

Floro Cement was still in construction, it was the largest cement manufacturing plant in Southern Philippines, and people from Manila, engineers, carpenters, and mere laborers moved to Salimbal to work on the plant. The huge property which is now being buldozed by innumerable buldozers and haulers was owned by the family of my father. When my father was in his teens, and Bonifacio, his older brother, was in the early twenties, they agreed to sell the land. Buses were a very lucrative business immediately after the war and they were mesmerized to own several yellow buses and named them their own invented name. They started with two buses with my father as the driver. Very young and very inexperienced, he wrecked the bus sending some people to the dispensary. To tell the story short, the brothers lost their business and lost their money. They also lost the land. Now, whenever we pass by the ongoing construction and seeing the behemoth equipments, my mother dreamily sighs: "Your father used to own these lands." I aksed, "You mean, Mama, that we could have been very rich now?" She declares: "Yes. More than rich."

I had no school at this time and having many relatives here on my mother side, and some of my father's side, I ventured around with Jose my cousin and also with Alit, my neighbor. We would go to Lugait proper to watch boxing. I then picked up a friend here and there and would get invited to take few sips of tanduay. Tanduay was a local whiskey. I also tried "tuba," a wine extracted from the coconut sticky juice. Jose was notoriously, and sly. He fought with everyone and got the scars in his face to prove his nefarious character. Young people who saw him walking around quieted. Their conversation abruptly changed into a murmur. Alit, on the other hand, was good-looking, curly haired, and tall with spanish eyes. Girls were attracted to him left and right.The only thing was, Alit drank very heavily. And then he would get into trouble when this happened. Alit was sixteen, Jose was twenty-two. I was thirteen, going fourteen. The let me drink some more. They allowed me to smoke more.

It was dark and time to go home and I became drunk. I vomited. I staggered. Jose, too, was drunk. We took a jeepney to go home. It was not a good idea to walk. In the jeepney I simply lost it. I became unconscious. The driver, knowing who I was, stopped to drop me off. But I would not budge. He fetched my father to get me out of the jeepney. My father carried me in his arms and was in disbelief. Putting me to bed, his tears fell. My father was not a type of a man who would cry. People died around him, including his very own children, but he would not cry. When he saw me in that situation, he wept hard. His dreams has quit on him. His desire to make me a professional was now an impossible dream.