My Childhood Memories in the Barrio

I have blogged this in the Asingan Journal not too long ago. I am reprinting it here to give you a glimpse of my life as a barrio lad in Asingan, Pangasinan where I grew up. Life was really difficult then in the humble household of my Lolo and Lola. But difficult times doesn't mean miserable existence or unhappy times. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. Its one of the happiest times of my life...




Growing up in the Barrio
by Sonny S. Espejo

When I was a kid growing up, I just hate to take those afternoon naps and all I wanted to do is go out with my friends and playmates in my barrio neighborhood. "Stay put after lunch and sleep. You need that to grow fast, otherwise you would stay short like Mimay", my Inang would always exhort. Inang is my maternal grandmother with whom I lived. Nana Mimay is, of course, the then famous midget woman who sells peanuts and snacks at the town plaza. Everybody in my town of Asingan knows her.

(Of course, I was never worried about staying short like Nana Mimay. I simply knew it's not true. Fact is, I was growing very fast those days. Too fast that when my Inang buys me shoes for some special times like Recognition Day in school, she would always insists on something one size bigger than my actual size hoping that I could use it again for the next time. She would then stuff the toe-end with Bannawag pages so that it would fit me snugly – never mind that it would look like Goofy's shoes – only to find out that I would have outgrown it again by the next occasion. She would do that every year and never learn.)

"You better sleep, or we will leave you behind on Saturday when we go to the kiskisan", she would then threaten, sensing that I am not sold on her stunted-like-Mimay theory. Now, that would get my attention. On mention of the kiskisan (rice husking mill), I would feel the need to toe the line and pretend to sleep beside her in the papag, waiting for her to fall asleep so that I could tip-toe out later. Fact is, I would never miss the trip to the rice mill for anything. I just love to go to the Poblacion and loiter around the millhouse watching the old machine do its thing. For a young barrio boy who never had close encounters with anything more mechanically complicated than the gripo, the rice mill is rather fascinating and imposingly complex. Of course, buses, trucks and cars pass through our barrio and even helicopters land in the plaza for rescue work during the flood seasons, but I have never been allowed to observe them closely or given the chance to figure out how the different parts fit and work together like I am allowed to do in the ricemill. I also look forward to the treat that comes with the trip to the poblacion: hopia and Royal Tru-Orange – so refreshingly warm - straight from the display shelves as freezers are unheard of in small stores those days.

So on those appointed days, at about three in the afternoon, I would volunteer to unleash my grandfather's carabao from under the kaimito tree where it would be down on all fours, eyes half closed, ruminating and perhaps contemplating on his lovelife. Despite outweighing me, a frail boy of seven or eight, 40 to 1 and notwithstanding his menacingly sharp horns, I would tug effortlessly at his rope to rouse him to stand. I would then lead him by the nose beside the old coconut stump where I could climb on for an easy mount. I would be riding him to the banawang so I could give him a nice refreshing bath prior to taking him to town. Carabaos love nothing more than a cool dip in the middle of a hot day. Kalakian would be so enthusiastic about it that sometimes I am persuaded to join in for a swim in the clear irrigation stream. We would be joined in by a swarm of annoying mosquitoes and pesky flies. They would be hovering above our heads, confused and undecided as to who smells better between me and Kalakian.

By the time we would be back in our backyard, my Tatang (which is how I call my grandfather) would be impatient and fuming mad over what has taken us too long. He would have finished loading the sacks of unhusked rice into the kariton and everything had been readied except for the motive power. The kariton of my Tatang is one of his few precious possessions. It is a two-wheeled cart with a sturdy wooden box for a body and two long pieces of wooden beams on the two sides for a chassis. The beams extend far enough into the front so that they could flank Kalakian and they could be secured to his yoke in front. The wheels are marvelous feats of woodworking – iron ringed wooden rims at the ends of wooden spokes radiating from a wooden hub reinforced also with iron rings. To say it's a primitive contraption is the mother of all understatements. But despite the absence of independent wishbone suspension or a touch of aerodynamic styling, our kariton serves its purposes quite well. At the back, my Tatang attached reflectors discarded from some old jeepney to give it some high-tech character. And some wise guys scrawled the mean warning, " Distancia Amigo" and the meaner "Caution: Air Brake" ala Pantranco. I am mighty proud of our kariton. My Tatang is very selective as to who is allowed to borrow it – only his relatives and drinking buddies, which is to say - the entire barangay!

To this day, I could still hear the sound of the iron-rimmed wheels as it rolled ploddingly on the dusty gravel road. The grating sound of pebbles crushing on its heels is matched only by the equally annoying squeak of the un-lubricated bushings rotating grudgingly around their axles. My Tatang would sit in front of the kasko controlling the rein. He would look like Diego Silang with his bistokol ( a helmet-like hat fashioned from the shell of matured tabungaw, a member of the pumpkin family). I would be slumped on top of the sacks of palay, shielded from the afternoon sun by a brimmy pandan hat. I would have to duck every now and then as some low hanging branches and bamboo foliage along the way threaten to brush me off from the top of the heap. My Inang would walk behind us with her labba and biga-o precariously balanced on her head – no hands! She woul not ride with us and just walk intently behind probably to ensure that a wheel would not decide to detach itself from the rest of the kariton unnoticed. It's a slow ride without the excitement of racing, much less overtaking something else that moves. But it was fun and enjoyable nonetheless.

Invariably, we would arrive at the kiskisan situated across the street from the old Tabacalera. It is managed by a kindly old lady who is a close acquaintance of my Inang, judging from the way they would gossip. Tatang would stand inside the carriage of the kariton to shove over the sacks of irik to the shoulders of the kargadors who would effortlessly carry them off into the millhouse. And while tatang would find a suitable place to park his kariton under those giant acacias that used to ring the Tabacalera , I would go straight to the kamarin or millhouse. We go here often enough that the mill operator knows me by nickname and I have befriended him enough that he allows me to go up the wooden stairs to the second level where the sacks of irik are being poured into a big wooden funnel. From that vantage point, I could see the whole operation. The driving engine (possibly a one-cylinder diesel machine judging from the way it chug-chugs) is housed separately inside a small barn at the back. All I could see of it is an iron pipe that spews water into a cooling tank and the drive belt which goes out from a hole in the walls of the machine room and goes into an opening at the back of the main millhouse. The belt loops around the main cog of the mill which in turn drives a series of secondary belts and chains which drive an assortment of gears and cams and levers producing various up and down, to and fro actions and rotations. I would gape at the complicated assembly for a long time and stare from all possible angles trying to figure it out with boyish amusement. As a child I would be fascinated at how a clockwise motion could be turned into counterclockwise or how a slow rotation could be made faster or how a rotary motion is converted into a linear, back and forth action. And I would marvel at these things as I would always do with anything mechanical. Only the frantic exhortations of my grandmother could take me away from my musings. "Come and load the toyo and the pegpeg to the kariton. We have to move on. It’s getting dark now. Hurry!" she would urge.

Later in the night after dinner, I would draw the milling machine from memory. Under the dim light of the sooty lamparaan (kerosene lamp), I would be sketching and doodling and dreaming to make my own machine; and to build roads and bridges and huge buildings. I knew then that I would not be a farmer like my Tatang. I knew I would become an Engineer.