Kumalarang Years

Moving from Sicpao, then to Mahayag, then back to Sicpao again, and now in Gatub was quite a transformation for me. I felt like a real mature man but I was only ten years old going to eleven. I guess the reason why I felt so was because at this time I was the biggest boy and I assumed I was the oldest among the four siblings that were moving away from my birthplace of Sicpao. There was Titing, my younger brother, Merlyn, whom we called Inday, who was next to Titing, and, Rosalie, whom we called Baby. I was ten, Titing was seven, Merlyn was five, and Rosalie was three. For the first time in my life I got to travel far distance, along lots of bumpy roads, from Molave, to Aurora, to Pagadian, to Dumalinao, then to Gatub. It was only me and my mother and the children that traveled, my father was already in Gatub, preparing for our arrival and our move. It was a trip of a lifetime for me and Titing, because now we can watch first hand the conductor when he would blow his whistle when someone would get off the bus, and the driver when he would blow his real big horn, which sounded like a huge thunder. The many stops that the bus did was such an experience. Vendors flocked around the bus to invite us to buy oranges and boiled chicken eggs, along with bibingka, which is a rice cake, and among others. My mouth only watered. I did not have any penny on me. And my mother only have very small amount of money. Whenever a woman pushes her container for me to see the rice cake and the orange juice in a bottle, I would just stare at the food and at her. Wordlessly, I'd stare at her as she lowered down her ware.

For so many hours we negotiated the long and winding road, air and water splashing over my face, and I could see hills and valleys in the distance, while small houses and trees were being whisked away as the bus speeded through the early morning hours. I felt totally absorbed by the world and I was lost into my imaginings. Finally we arrived in Gatub, and my father was there all smiles waiting for us for a very long period of time.

I would be Grade 5 this school year and so I must go to Kumalarang, the next big town to go to school there. Kumalarang was an hour away from Gatub by bus. Thankfully, being Christians now, Pastor Donato Vios, the pastor of an Assembly of God church in Kumalarang, received me in his house to stay with them while I would be in school. My mother brought a hen along to give to Pastor Vios and his wife as a gift. For me, this would be my first time to live with someone other than my mom and dad. "You must do this, this is for your future," my mother weeping while hugging me. And I wept too. My tears choked me, so I couldn't talk at all.

Kumalarang was a Muslim town. People with Muslim attire was a sight to see in the streets, especially on Friday afternoons where droves walked past where I stayed. I could hear the bell rang from the mosque and a loud speaker with a voice mumbling words which were indistinguishable for me. And when I started school, over half of my class of about fifty students were Muslims. My class was a mixture of Muslim, Ilocanos, and me.

On the weekends I would go home to Gatub. So, on Friday nights, along with other children who also had to go home that way to Gatub, I would walk about a kilometer away to go to where the logging trucks would be passing through to hitch for a ride. Sometimes the drivers were kind enough to stop for us, but, at times, the trucks would simply slow down allowing us to race for a ride. We were mostly boys and it was fun to be on top of the big logs appearing we were some kind of colored animals when seen from a distance. When in Gatub, the truck would stop to drop us off.

My father was a very hard working man. He was short, about 5'4", but very strong. My dad did not have a semblance of Filipino Malay race. He descended from the Spanish lineage, with Salvador as the family name. I do not know if he was the one that changed our last name into Ayudtud. Ayudtud most probably came from Ayudador, a spanish for being helpful. And my dad was all that, helpful. And in Gatub my father acquired a big parcel of land, around 9 hectares, from a woman named Cita, who was a big land owner in the area. Cita was Japanese in race but born locally. She was married to Basilio Dulugin. My dad gave earnest money to acquire the land.
My dad was an entrepreneur, he had a tobacco business, though, at this time he no longer smoke. Him and my mother were heavy smokers of cigars. They quit when they became Christians. But my father was also a big farmer. During weekends he sold his tobacco, and on ordinary days he'd work his farm. That's the time when I also became a farmhand. I sold cigarrettes during cockfight days and I would also toil the land with my dad on some days. School was my priority, however. My dad, being a Grade 4 only and my mother was never in school, she did not know how to read and write, I was their special project.

I spent my years in Kumalarang up to my first year high school, in which in the latter part of my stay, my mother and father decided to move again to another place, and this time, it was no longer in Zamboanga del Sur but back to the place where my father and mother originally were raised as children. This was in Misamis Oriental, in a little town called Lugait. My brother Virgilio came to Gatub from Iligan City, where he worked for a while as a gasoline boy, and at this time he was our guardian. Virgilio was a little naughty and worldly wise son of a gun. When he got mad at somebody, he would make sure he could get even. When one of our neighbors whom I called Manoy Bosyo insulted Virgilio, whose nickname was Eng-eng, on the account of Manoy Bosyo's wife staring at Eng-eng and which caused a jealous rage with Manoy Bosyo, Eng-eng saw to it that he could do some damage. He invited me one night to come along and we stole the hen of Manoy Bosyo, leaving the small chicks behind squeaking and scampering. The hen gave out a loud yell, sending Manoy Bosyo awake and shouting, "Who's there?" It happened around ten o'clock in the evening, which at that time in the province everyone would already be asleep. In the provincial setting, people go to bed at seven. Eng-eng and I took off as fast as our feet could do and we headed to Manoy Ramon's house, who just recently moved into Gatub. We knocked on the door while my knees could not be steadied, they shook like crazy. Manang Ester opened for us and let us in. Thankfully, the hen quieted down.

Manoy Bosyo knocked on the door when the hen's meat was boiling. We did not want to open it. Manang Ester came to the door and peeked. I could see a silvery machete in the blackness of the night in the hand of Manoy Bosyo. He was ragingly mad. He looked at Eng-eng and then took a glimpse on me. We acted like we had just been there in the house for a long time doing a casual talk while cooking, we had him believed that it was a great surprise to see him. "My chicken got snatched, and I think it's Eng-eng who did it!" Manoy Bosyo's voice was thunderous, sending other houses to spring up. Yet, we were sleek, because we disposed of the feathers very rapidly, there was no trace of Manoy Bosyo's hen. Manoy Ramon, who already became a pastor at this time, suspected us. But he did not say anything. "Gaw," an endearment call for a cousin, "let's talk about this in the morning," Manoy Ramon spoke to Manoy Bosyo. In a little while, but it felt like an entire eternity for me, Manoy Bosyo stepped down from a bamboo stair to walk away into the night. And we sighed with relief. When the chicken was cooked, Eng-eng gobbled it up like crazy, but I could't muster the courage to eat.