Asian Journal- The Filipino-American Community Newspaper

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."

— Robert Frost

(Continued from last week …)

Every place I have ever been to is made significant by the images and thoughts I have of people, places and experiences that still live on in my memory. For Mindoro, it’s memories of my father, this place called Naujan and sizzling hot summer days.

Time can dull memories and I wasn’t ready to let go of the past. Not until I’ve come full circle. I was determined to see this place one more time to rekindle the memories of glorious summers spent as a pint-sized tot gamboling about like a frisky, wet puppy, with my sisters and first cousins in the beaches of Kanipisan and Aplaya — happy, carefree, innocent, idyllic days of sun, sand, sea and simple pleasures of drinking clear coconut juice straight out of its shell and with a teaspoon in one hand, scraping off the sides of the young nut, called malauhog by locals, for its young coconut flesh, resembling the consistency of early stage, transparent phlegm. Alright. Ewwwww. But not when you’re young, still unpretentious and really hungry.

We visited my father’s only surviving sister, Tia Luz and only surviving brother, Tio Oscar, who now lives in Calapan with his family. Tio Oscar was an entrepreneur cum inventor who tried his hand at many things but mostly I remember him for his pure sense of fun. He had an old, rickety open-topped, World War II vintage weapons carrier, heavy-duty truck which he would use to haul blocks of ice coated with ipa or rice husks to prevent it from melting for the hot, dusty trip between Calapan and the only restaurant in Naujan, which he and his wife Tia Celia, owned and operated at the time. Electricity was miserly meted out from 6 in the evening till 6 in the morning, that is, when the generators were working. The ice would chill Tio Oscar’s stash of soft drinks in a cooler during the day and he would use the rest for the crushed ice of the best halo-halo in town, so scrumptiously delicious, it would entice barefoot hordes of Mangyans to come down from the mountains and give themselves the cool treat. His chores done, he would then haul all of us, a ragtag band of scrawny, eager-beaver kids, off to the beach. If we weren’t swimming, mowing down grilled fish, tulingan, halabos na hipon and steaming rice mixed with raw eggs complimented by chopped-up pajo, red eggs and tomatoes, or molding black sand sculptures which killjoy waves promptly crushed and swept back out to sea, we would be kibitzing and swarming about like pesky flies at the abundant haul of fishermen pulling in their nets bursting with their catch of the day from the sea. Life was good.