SHORT STORY POST (Part 1): A Special Blog

Hey Y'all,

I just took my granddaughter, who is turning two today, to Party City for her halloween/birthday costume. And, oh boy, imagine how she shrieked when she saw an animated mannequin that raises its bloody face every now and then, which was standing right by the door.

Yes, my friends, halloween is huge in the USofA that many people forget the economic crunch as they try their best to catch or stir the public attention by putting up the scariest or controversial decor outside their homes and business establishments. Besides jack-o-lantern and ornamental squash, one house in Beverly Hills put up two mannequins, who are dressed like Republican candidates, Sen. John McCain and Gov. Sarah Palin. Sad thing, Ms. Palin is hanging on a nooze. It was a smart move, though, that the one on a nooze isn't the Democrat candidate Barack Obama. It could have resulted a commotion and protest rally from the African-American communities.

Now, enough of the US culture. I also have experienced a scary cultural moments in my life. One of these was when I was working among the Ata Manobo of southern Philippines. I have decided to share the story to you if you haven't read it yet in my book, KOILAWAN: Letters and Poems of a Jungle Dad-Mom, which is still available in 21 countries through online book outlets. You also could get it from the publisher, Xulon Press.


(13) THE CURSE

Koilawan, Davao
January 1980


Dear Parasio,

Rain was pouring so hard since this morning. River Lib was bursting to its seams. The cornfield by the river was already flooded since this afternoon. Drift woods and
bamboo saplings were floating and making those banging and screechy noise as they hit the rocky riverbank. Those who owned the saplings were sad for losing them, and one father was sadder for also losing his baby boy. I went to see him this morning and I felt bad to hear him telling me that he should have listened to my instruction of making that salt and sugar boiled water solution. His baby should have been alive today. He cared less for losing the saplings, however, he was hurting, because of his stubbornness. Usually, along with the rapping of the raindrops on our old wood shingle roofing, chants and tribal lullabies reverberate up and down this small remote village. However, tonight, besides the banging, the screeching and the swooshing in river Lib, the village is generally quiet.

I was rocking myself on a rattan chair, while listening to the rain-induced percussion music and looking at the flickering light of our gas lamp. The raindrops and the flame were having fun lulling me to sleep, when a quiet night was interrupted by shrill cries from one of the stilt huts. I stood up, held the gas lamp, opened our bamboo window and shouted, “Wuhhhh! What’s going on?”

“The wife of Usi’ U. passed away!” Our next door neighbor shouted in reply.

I sank back to the chair forlorn. I lost the strength I regained awhile back from a real long day giving cholera shots and teaching reading and writing to the kids. Few hours ago, I spoon-fed water to that dehydrated feverish woman. Now, she’s dead!

“God”, as I prayed silently, “Please let this epidemic pass by. Let the people….” I was not able to finish my sentence when I heard a woman’s voice at our rain-soaked trimmed Bermuda grass yard. I opened the window again. The woman, whose right
hand was holding a long, slender banana leaf over her head to protect her from the rain; the other was swaying an ember, was the niece of the decease.

“Please come to our hut. Help me save my aunt’s four-month old baby boy.”

Without putting my old running shoes on, I picked up my flashlight and ran the filthy, muddy trail to the stilt hut where the wailing was deafening. The baby was also crying hysterically. After I greeted those on the ground, I began to balance myself up on that slippery, wobbly chipped log, which was just a little bigger than a 26 oz. can of spaghetti sauce. Before I was able to sit on a squeaking bark floor, my heart melted to see the curly-haired malnourished baby boy, looking at me with his arms opened wide. His wide eyes seemed to tell me that he did nothing wrong… that I have to do something to save him. I picked him up, placed him on my chest, and gently patted his back to silent him. The baby hugged me and his loud cry turned into off and on sob until he quieted down, asleep.

Since my stay in Koilawan, I heard several reports from other villages of babies killed by their grieving families. (To be continued)

NOTE: Part 2 will be posted on Friday. Part 3 will be posted on Saturday, as my regular weekend blog.