THE DAY I FELT LIKE A BALIKBAYAN... balikbaryo actually

I just got back from a trip to the village where I was born. The going and coming home was tough but it was worth it.

A very good friend of mine organized a mini-conference for the women in the village and she asked me to provide technical support (i.e. making powerpoint presentations and setting up the LCD projector). I was not very excited about the idea of boarding a dumptruck, squatting on its floor with more or less 40 people (the capacity of the vehicle is 100............... bags of cement :) ..

oh well, ok 15-20 people is all it should carry… well, actually, it should be three: the driver and two passengers).

At first, 10 people were comfortably sitting on the truck then somebody stopped us and boarded without a word, basta they needed a ride too daw, then off we go again, and again may pumara na naman, until I have no more choice but to give up my little space for women with children to sit on.

I am not complaining; just that I forgot how it was to be going ‘home.’ I forgot that it is silly to be the first and secure a space for yourself thinking that you will be occupying that space comfortably until you reach the village. Why? Because the road was so …. ‘corrugated’ (rough can’t even come near)… that all you can think of is to keep yourself from being thrown off the truck and rolling down the rocky mountainside.

Fortunately, someone had the presence of mind to bring a rope so we had something to bind ourselves with, although the nylon can't keep itself from cutting your skin or giving you blisters.

We reached the village and memories of my childhood (of running across rice paddies, skinnydipping at a river nearby, childhood brawls-- yes, I used to be among the troublemakers in the village. I have tasted all kinds of bruises from my dad's belts: a bruise from a leather belt, from a garrison belt, a rattan belt, plastic belt, etc. :)

That picture there is a scene from this little sleepy village called Nansiakan, one of the eastern villages belonging to a rather lethargic town (back in the 80s anyway) called Kayapa. (Ironically, in Filipino, “kaya pa” means “I still can,” as if trying to convey the message that it still can manage to rise up from its uneventful history (and it did, with the change of leadership. I meant uneventful in the development arena.)

I remember back in the old days, during school breaks, we would watch the rice fields from rice-eating sparrows (but would always escape and go swimming with my friends in the river nearby when my father is busy guarding the other end of the ricefield.) We would go to this beautiful river called "Beley ni Iyoh" (Home of the Aged Eel) and do unbelievable stunts; jumping from a 20-30 ft -high hanging bridge into the water below. Grabeee! Life was fun then!

I would run across rice paddies (and more often than not, fall to the mudfilled ponds) to free a trapped sparrow from a sticky tree-paste. (Gerry, my older brother, would roast the trapped birds and we’d tie little knots all over it and try to pull in all directions to see who would get the most bird meat. I usually tie my knot on the bird’s stringy neck to make sure that I would at least get something because if in the end, your knot comes off with nothing, all of the other participants will give you a flick on both earlobes (believe me, it’s really painful). Anyway, I enjoyed those days of freedom… freedom from all the cares in the world!

Yet Nansiakan did not change a lot. It was 20 years and 8 months ago since I left with short visits in between. The most noticeable change are the electric posts standing in the most awkward places. The village finally got their electricity in December last year and I was glad for the villagers but this progress came with a considerable disadvantage. Villagers are now succumbing to ‘unneighbourly’ attitudes. One of the things I appreciate about my village and my tribe in general is how people find it easy to talk to the neighbors and offer help whenever it’s needed. Unfortunately, now that DVD players, televisions, videoke are available to them, they are now ‘forgetting their manners,’ and so quick at that! Eyes are glued to the TV and visitors are not given enough attention (not that I was not given enough attention. Actually, they treated me like a celebrity. Almost every family wanted me to dine if not to spend at least a night in their homes. I felt like a balikbayan!)

So I was happy to go back but I also found myself melancholic because of the things that I saw. Again, I have proven with my own eyes that it is not only the language that is being diluted but also the culture. I’d like people to be open to changes especially progress but I wish these people would keep their old hearts. Old hearts beat better than the new spare parts that high technology offers.

When I left the village, I breathed out a sigh of prayer: May the iNansiakans let their heads use modern technology but keep their old hearts.