So, now, let me tell you a little bit about an 85-year old man I will simply call “Mang Gorio.” I met him in a Philtranco air-conditioned bus I took on my way to Tacloban, Leyte recently.
Although we were assigned specific seat numbers I soon realized as I boarded the bus that my assigned seat had already been taken by a big burly-looking man who was seated beside and talking to this diminutive old man in old, dirty ragged clothes. Not one to make a fuss over seating arrangements (actually, I was secretly glad I was not going to have to sit beside either of them – besides, I was in no mood to confront the big fellow), I tried to look for an empty seat further down the aisle. To be very honest, my adventuresome spirit had also been secretly entertaining little thoughts of sitting beside some cute young thing. It was after all going to be a long, long trip, and hope springs eternal. No such luck. The bus had apparently been fully booked days in advance. As I was turning back to try to retrieve my assigned seat, I noticed the old man waving and motioning to me.
“Sir, what’s your seat number?” he said (in English). I told him.
“Then, you sit right here. This is your place,” he instructed, as if I was looking lost and didn’t know what I was doing. Actually, I was beginning to curse my rotten luck at the prospect of an eleven-hour trip seated beside this old man. Besides, I thought, how dare this old man to try to teach this world-class traveler how to find his designated seat in a bus. I have taken plane rides before, for goodness’ sake, and I know how to find my own assigned seat without assistance from anyone.
Indeed, days before the trip I had been consulting with Google no less and I figured that the trip by land to Tacloban, Leyte from Manila would have to be divided into at least two parts. I would have to rest and stay overnight upon arriving either in Naga, Legaspi or Sorsogon; and then from there proceed the next day to Matnog, take the ferry to Allen, Samar and then on to Tacloban. I calculated I would be crossing the famous San Juanico bridge for the first time by noon of that day. So, I had myself ticketed for Legaspi City, the first leg of my journey.
“Hindi po ba kaya kayo giginawin sa suot niyo, naka shorts at T-shirt lang kayo?” I asked the old man almost patronizingly as I sat down beside him. “Ookeey lang, may jacket po ako,” he said pointing to two plastic bags he had crammed in front of him. Right away, my old sensitive nose (I’m chronically asthmatic and rather sensitive/allergic to strong scents) could sense some peculiar if familiar smell.
“Meron yata kayong nabiling tinapa na pangpasalubong,” I remarked rather innocently.
“Ikaw, saan ka sa Bicol?” he asked me, just as innocently.
This is going to be one long, long trip, I thought.
Well, I told myself, remember that when life hands you a lemon, you turn it into lemonade? At the risk of getting ahead of my story, let me tell you right now what a sweet and refreshing lemonade that turned out to be. Mang Gorio speaks decent English, more at home in the language than in Tagalog. A regular drinking man, he is also into Karaoke singing and does a mean version of “MONA LISA.” A man after my own heart, we struck it well.
Mang Gorio, it turns out, was 85 years old, a retired farmer living in Sorsogon City with his 55-year old daughter and grandchildren. She was separated from her husband who ran off to live with a young girl with whom he just had a child. The daughter runs a tinapa stall in the Sorsogon City Market; which I suppose explains that peculiar lingering and permeating smoked-fish smell, or was it just my imagination. His own wife for some reason lives somewhere in Mindanao, separated, I guess. He had seven or eight children, I’m not sure.
For most of his life, Mang Gorio worked as a lowly grasscutter in Fort Bonifacio. One can just imagine this humble little man doing and running all sorts of errands and odd jobs for the generals and other officers and doing their every bidding. In return, Mang Gorio managed to get two of his sons into the military service and even get some kind of an informal housing site within the camp where it seems one of his jobless sons still lives up to now. Mang Gorio now lives off and depends on a monthly stipend he gets as the beneficiary of his son who got killed in action in Mindanao; P1,000 from AFPSLAI and P1,000 from PVAO.
During the past six months, however, Mang Gorio had not been receiving any remittance on his PVAO benefits. After much persuasion, Mang Gorio managed to borrow some transportation money from his daughter only to check and follow up on his PVAO account in Manila. After a little over a week, and with the assistance of a fixer, he finally managed to get his P6,000. He paid the fixer P1,000. That left him with P5,000 at least, I thought.
“Mas marami pa pala kayong dalang pera kaysa sa akin,” I kidded him.
Mang Gorio showed me his thin, worn out wallet. It had about five different IDs and a fifty peso bill. “Ibinigay ko sa anak kong jobless yung P4,500. Yung natira sa akin kulang pang pamasahe. Naghintay muna padalhan ako ng P500 ng anak ko sa Sorsogon. Ito na lang ang natira, P50.00.” I was sufficiently impressed and moved.
It was past 10AM when we left Manila. We had to make rest stops every two or three hours. I managed to persuade Mang Gorio to join me for snacks and meals at every stop. While he did so rather reluctantly at first, I noticed he eventually started gulping down his food as if he had not eaten in days. All in all, I think we had to make no less than five (5) bus stops. So, I said to myself, did somebody up there just send me this old man (I have seen better looking beggars) to babysit and care for? This was no time for deep analytical rationalizing. Fate, or whatever you want to call it, had arranged for me to go on that trip on that day, take that particular schedule on that bus and be assigned that particular seat number. There, this old man would be waiting for me. Great. Truth to tell, even before I even got to the bus terminal, there was this hustler who accosted me and kept on pestering me to take another bus line so he could collect a commission. I obviously didn’t bite.
In all, Mang Gorio proved to be such an enjoyable character I decided later during the trip to ask the conductor to change my ticket and book me for Sorsogon instead, an extra two-hour ride.
“Saan kayo titira sa Sorsogon?” Mang Gorio asked.
“Bahala na,” I said, “baka kay Bishop Bastes, kaibigan ko yun.”
“Gabi na pag dating natin sa Sorsogon. Baka gusto niyo, sa bahay na lang kayo. Pasensya lang dahil maliit lang ang bahay namin.”
I couldn’t possibly refuse. We arrived in Sorsogon past 11PM. We took a tricycle to Mang Gorio’s place, actually, his daughter’s. That tricycle ride was an adventure in itself. I couldn’t possibly retrace and find my way back there even with GoogleEarth. Everyone was asleep. The whole place was reeking with the smell of smoked fish. Since he did not wish to bother anyone, Mang Gorio let me sleep in his little room. It was full of all kinds of creeping and crawling creatures. They must like the smell. It was all I could do to try to stay awake the whole night for fear that nothing would be left of me the following day. Early in the morning, I heard Mang Gorio talking to her daughter. She and I were thoroughly embarrassed by the whole arrangement. In the end though, the old Filipino hospitality shone through. I met some nice folks in Sorsogon.
Back on the road, I started to confront myself. What did I think I was trying to do staying overnight with total strangers in the middle of nowhere, Philippines. Here I was an old retired lawyer now trying seriously to propose to organize a committee to engage in providing grant writing services for parishes and dioceses to apply for millions of dollars in grant money from charitable/philanthropic institutions abroad for sustainable, long-term projects to improve the lives of people in general. What was I doing with this old beggar of a man?
Why does it bother you that an old man without any visible means thinks nothing of giving away almost all of his money to a lazy, jobless son, while you find it difficult to dig deep into your own pocket to help tide over a friend, neighbor or relative? Is God trying to tell you something so he arranged for you to meet this old man under such unlikely circumstances? Haven’t you been complaining lately that you find it difficult to feel the presence of God anywhere in your life? Is it possible that maybe you have been looking for God in all the wrong places, in all the high places, among the rich, the powerful, the beautiful and nice-smelling people? Is it possible that this old man could be “Jesus in disguise?” Could this be one of those Jesus had been referring to as “one of the least of these, my brethren?” No, it can’t be. I cannot be bothered about these things now. I have an important conference to attend to, an important committee I need to organize. I’m too busy to attend to micro stuff. I’m strictly a policy man.
Then I heard a voice somewhere along the rotten, dusty roads of Samar (a good ten hours of bumpy torturous ride) whisper to me over and over again: “I was hungry … and you formed a committee…” “I was hungry … and you formed a committee…" “I was hungry … and you formed a committee … “ - JAMES L. |
ednarivers wrote on Jun 27, '08
Touching and what a courage, Tito James.
I've similar experience during my college days (age:17-18). I've travelled alone with my camera. I did not stay in hotels but in strangers' homes. I've stayed in a squatter's house in Legaspi City, a mansion in Marinduque, a farmer's house in Cotabato. But your point is well taken. You found Him among these people. |
 |
Kuya, ikaw pala. Cnabi na nga ni Ate gamit mo yun kaniyang lap ... top. Ang galing pala ng adventure and experience mo noong kabataan. I'm sure you've picked up good life lessons and learned well from them. You are a pillar and source of inspiration for the XVDs. I know sa katayuan mo it's hard but try to keep your nose close to the ground (humus, in Latin). It's the root word of "humble." You make a good Christian model and leader. GBU
|
 |
Now it can be told.
"I was thirsty.. and you bartended..." I work the bottles at The Bikini Beach Bar (on the beach - where else, duh!) off Bally's casino. I consort with the worshipers of Bacchus, the women of the night and the denizens of the "gaming" tables. ABS, sa madali't sabi. Come join my apostolate! |
|
marunong at maswerte ka talaga, viagba, kaya idol pa rin kta. with a job like that, you got the best of both worlds. enjoy kana (pardon the pun), apostolate pa. you are stretching the limits of Bro. Jess' lessons to the max. I hope you burn ... on the beach...you lucky, naughty dawg!
|
No comments:
Post a Comment