And I entered the seminary.
After seven hours ride (a bumpy, a sweaty and a tiring ride) of an ordinary-- a categorized ordinary bus as if air-conditioned buses were extraordinary and I never knew, then, that there were air-conditioned buses --PANTRANCO bus and after so much pride of seeing many towns as we passed by, and in between, appreciating the green fields and oneing with the hardships of those peoples toiling in the mud, arching their backs to heaven to plant their future in the middle of June-- the future of having enough rice on their tables or hoping to harvest at least, yes, they hoped, 100 sacks of palay -- but not a hundred full palay sacks because I knew that almost always farmers brought home the sacks sans the palay but the receipts of paid loans, for farmers mortgaged their harvests before the planting season started-- as promised by the good agriculture technicians who studied under the auspices and funding of good fertilizer companies-- I arrived, culture-shocked to the eminence of the great-towering buildings of what we idolized Manila. In fact, it was Quezon City.
I was a kaibulos, a neophyte to the city or we called, at that time, as tangaw-tangaw idiay Pozorrubio-- an aphorism we got when our school's baseball team (they were called then as little leaguers) participated in IRAA and they lost all their games because they did not know what they were doing and that our teacher-coach was drunk of Ginebra San Miguel Gin during games and they always ate spoiled meals in Pozorrubio, Pangasinan, (he he he, at least, we were just kids then)--awe-struck for the second time I stepped in Manila.
The first time I visited what we called Manila, to which I learned then as a province during my Araling Panlipunan days, was when I attended the seminary get-together--a two day celebration of good life showcasing the future good days of seminary lives—one breezy, merry December before my initiation to the seminary life.
Baggage in tow, a not so big knapsack with just enough pairs of clothes, old clothes and remnants of my peasant life and a briefcase of advices from my parents, I boarded a jitney bound for Marikina.
Riding a jitney in Manila, I thought, was like attending a baile-- a box-social dance to where they sold a juicy fruit gum in the sum of two thousand pesos—because of the loud, heavy metal music playing from the amplified jitney stereo. NU 107 FM was then a fad radio station. I was amazed by the penchant of the Manila drivers with music. Err, noises? I did not even know how to pull the line, a rope, to stop the jeep. I shouted ‘PARA’, after glancing my sketches at hand, to the consternation of my fellow commuters.
The jitney stopped five meters passed the marked place.
Heaven, here I am. (I supposed I said that.) Disgusting.
I afforded myself a tricycle, a white colored tricycle with a red logo of heart with letters ‘I love Marikina’ but not a cozy, beautiful and comfortable ride after all. A rugged and not so paved road, full of potholes—uhmm…potholes will not be enough adjective to describe the road, craters, yes, full of volcano craters—laid ahead of me. I dumped all my things inside and hoping and wishing for the bests to come.
But, before I hopped inside the sidecar, I looked around, looking for the sun, to ascertain my directions. You know, oftentimes, for neophytes like me, the sense of directions is lost in Manila. The sun was nowhere to be found. And I glanced at my watch. Huh, astonished, it was 7:30 pm. But, the surrounding was so bright.
Yes, it was so bright but, not for long and not for eternity, of course.
“Where?”
“The Hill. Number 17.” I drum-beated an imaginary drum on my lap just to calm myself. If I could only whistle, then I did it. I remember it now how stupid I was, and why I did not do it then? Hay…
And, I was shook by the first pothole. Then, slowly, darkness crept like robbers. Nervousness bathed me and my eyes became sharp, watching every corner, every tree, every gate hoping to catch the comforting 17 and the green gate. My eyes were busy looking on every side like eyes of cornered criminal. Jitter of a first timer got me in. I felt like vomiting. (Remember, there was no cell phone, then but even there was any, I could not afford one, either.)
There was a deafening silence. It seemed I did not hear anything. But, of course, there was the motorcycle revving and the noises of the area as we passed by. In shock and in nervousness, one could only hear nothing. And that had happened to me.
The road to redemption was full of ironies --- like the ironies of promised paradise after those purges – because along the way, shanties were everywhere in between patches of lands with tall grasses and there I was trekking my own salvation from poverty-land. So, that was I thought.
Alas, the gate - - the green, yes of course, green gate - - was standing infront of me. Err, I was standing before the green and grinning gate of The Hill.
Here I am, O, lord(s) of The Hill. I mumbled.
Caution: The Tales of The Hill has just begun.
Here are some possible titles for my next tales:
1. Green Gate of The Hill
2. Mystery Bites
3. Trapped Rubbers
4. Plumber Priest
5. First Lesson
6. Nescafe Shake
7. Kiss Me Father for I Have Sinned
8. Brotherly Hug
9. Cantatae Domini
10. Free Show
Stay tuned.
Bawal maglipat ng channel (grin…!).
Worth Viewing:
Deliver Us from Evil
A devastating investigation into the pedophilia scandals tearing apart the Catholic Church, Deliver Us From Evil begins by looking into one priest, Father Oliver O'Grady, who agreed to be interviewed by journalist/filmmaker Amy Berg. O'Grady's genial calm is at first ingratiating, until he begins to describe his crimes with an unsettling sociopathic detachment. But O'Grady's blithe interview is only half of the story, as the documentary also unveils how church superiors covered up O'Grady's crimes and shuffled him from diocese to diocese in northern California, finally placing him in an unsupervised position of authority in a small town, where he sexually assaulted dozens of children; the video deposition of Los Angeles Cardinal Roger Mahoney is a grotesque portrait in brittle denial. What makes Deliver Us From Evil crucial viewing, however, are the remarkable interviews with a few of the victims (now adults) and their parents, whose stories are wrenching and riveting. With the support of a priest seeking to reform the church, two of the victims actually go to the Pope, seeking some form of help in addressing O'Grady's crimes. This stunningly potent documentary combines raw feeling with lucid and persuasive discussions of the reasons for--and disturbing breadth of--this crisis within the Church. --Bret Fetzer (Amazon.com Review)
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