of
Idle Days
(1981-1983)
This chapter recounts one of the hardest periods of my childhood, when poverty forced me to leave school and become an out-of-school youth. As my family struggled financially, we survived by pawning belongings, gathering seafood, collecting recyclables, hunting birds, and growing vegetables. Despite these hardships, I developed resilience, learned practical skills, found joy in basketball and friendships, and drew inspiration from a family friend’s encouraging words about my potential.
The challenges deepened when my younger sister was nearly abducted by a drug-influenced man but was rescued by my father. Fearing for our safety, we left our home in Pardo and started over elsewhere. Though the transition was difficult, I continued supporting my family. Looking back, those years of struggle and perseverance shaped my character, teaching me gratitude, strength, and determination.
The next school year arrived, but I was no longer enrolled. Instead, I stayed home, drifting through one day after another without direction or purpose. At an age when most children were attending classes and planning for the future, I found myself uncertain about what lay ahead.
Still, I found comfort in the company of neighborhood friends. What else could I do? Our family had fallen into severe financial hardship. We were bankrupt, living from one day to the next, struggling simply to survive. Every morning brought a new challenge, and every night ended with the same question: how would we get through tomorrow?
I watched my father pawn nearly everything of value to keep food on our table. The typewriter he had proudly brought home from Manila was among the first to go. Then came the watches he had given my older siblings, Glenn and May. Even my mother's jewelry was not spared.
One memory remains especially vivid. It was a hot and oppressive afternoon. Thick gray clouds hung overhead, casting a gloomy shadow across the town. I rode beside Papa in a tartanilla (a horse-drawn carriage) as we carried our sewing machine to a pawnshop in Taboan Market. I remember the weight of that machine and the silence between us. Neither of us needed to say anything. We both understood what it meant. Later, even our cassette player and recorder ended up in the hands of my uncle, Tiyo Eddie, as another item pawned for survival.
To help provide for the family, Papa turned to the sea. During low tide, he would wade through the shallow waters with a sudsud, a net pushed along the seabed to catch small fish, shrimp, and crabs. Sometimes he used a saphig, a bamboo pole fitted with a flat paddle that stirred the mud and flushed hidden sea creatures from their hiding places. Another improvised bamboo tool, called a pokpok, was used to locate and gather clams buried beneath the sand.
I often joined him. Sometimes my brothers or neighborhood friends came along, but more often I ventured out alone. Over time, I learned the rhythm of the tides, the behavior of the sea, and the subtle signs that led to a better catch. My skill became known among the boys in our neighborhood, who eventually gave me the moniker Uly Saphig.
Much of my time was spent with other out-of-school youth. We wandered through nearby communities carrying sacks over our shoulders, collecting discarded bottles and cans to sell to junk shops for a few pesos. It was hardly glamorous work, but every coin mattered.
I was often with a boy nicknamed Badul. He was carefree, talented, and surprisingly charismatic. He could sing, dance, and make people laugh effortlessly. In difficult times, his friendship brought lightness to days that otherwise felt heavy.
At other times, I roamed the countryside with Boy, the son of Terri and Aida and the younger brother of Claver. Together, we hunted maya, or sparrows, in the rice fields. Before we could set our traps, however, we had to trek nearly ten kilometers into the mountains of Pardo to collect pulot, a sticky resin from the kamansi tree. This natural adhesive served as our bird-trap glue.
We also gathered old nipa palm branches from nearby kanipaan (nipa plantations) and transformed them into handmade bird cages.
Our trapping method was simple yet ingenious. We coated small twigs with pulot, attached a dead sparrow as a decoy, and concealed a cage containing live birds beneath rice straw. The chirping of the captive birds attracted curious sparrows, which would land on the sticky branches and become trapped. Looking back, it was both a craft and a form of survival. For us, hunting was not merely a pastime, it was an art learned from necessity.
One afternoon, while I was carefully weaving a cage in our yard, one of Mama's friends happened to visit. As she watched me work, she paused and studied the movements of my hands. After a few moments, she smiled and turned to my mother.
"This boy has very skillful hands," she said. "Mark my words, he's going to be successful someday."
I never forgot those words.
At the time, success felt impossibly distant. I was just a boy helping his family survive. Yet her prediction stayed with me. Deep inside, I hoped she was right that one day these hands would build more than bird cages. Perhaps they would help build a better future.
Despite everything, sports remained one of my greatest sources of joy, especially basketball. I spent countless afternoons playing on neighborhood courts with friends such as Jing Canono, Badul Abadiano, Nat Cabaluna, Raymund Bacalso, Boy, and many others. At one point, we formed a mini-midget team representing our place Kabulihan and entered a tournament in Paradise Village. Although we were noticeably smaller than most of the competing teams, we surprised everyone by going undefeated throughout the tournament.
I served as the team captain, and the championship game against Rainbow Village became one of the most memorable moments of my youth. With the score tied and only seconds remaining on the clock, I took a shot from the perimeter. The ball sailed through the air and dropped cleanly through the basket. The final buzzer sounded, and we were crowned champions. For that brief but unforgettable moment, I felt like a hometown hero.
Our team was made up of talented and determined players, including Tata Bermudez, “Kimpang” Bermudez, whose agility and quickness were remarkable despite the challenges he faced from polio, Nat Cabaluna, Christopher Abellana, who would later play in the PBL and have a brief stint in the PBA, Melvin Tabura, and several others. Basketball was more than just a game in our community; it was a way of life. Every barangay had its own league, and I was always part of the excitement, whether competing on the court or passionately cheering for our team from the sidelines.
Memorable Songs
Certain songs will always remind me of those days:
Rey Valera’s “Sinasamba Kita,”
Sharon Cuneta’s “Dear Heart,”
and Freddie Aguilar’s “Anak”
These songs floated in the air waves. But one song was special, it echoed across the sea as I foraged for clams with my pokpok. It was Florante’s “Kahit Konti”
This is a song about sharing space, understanding, and small kindnesses. I used to sing it quietly, alone in the sea with the waves and the wind and sometimes, with occasional rains, while striking my pokpok bamboo pole on top of exposed seabed to detect clams.
In the final months of 1982, a frightening incident changed the course of our lives.
It was early evening, and our house was dimly lit. Perhaps the electricity had been disconnected again, or maybe we simply could not afford to pay the bill. Suddenly, a commotion erupted outside. A neighbor, one of my sister’s friends, came running and screaming that my younger sister, who was only about ten or eleven years old, had been taken by a man under the influence of drugs.
The entire neighborhood sprang into action. My father rushed out of the house, and I followed closely behind. We soon found the man, a familiar face in the community. My father pulled my sister from his grasp and brought her safely home.
A criminal case was filed, but the man never appeared in court. He was one of those feared individuals who seemed to operate above the law. Uneducated, violent, and unpredictable, he was known throughout the area. His brother had an equally notorious reputation, a chronic drunkard who was feared for carrying a firearm whenever he was intoxicated by alcohol or drugs.
Years later, that same brother was shot and killed. But long before that happened, fear had already taken hold of our household. My mother often suffered from nervous breakdowns and spent many sleepless nights worrying about our safety. My father even tried to redeem a gun he had previously pawned to a relative, hoping to protect the family, but he did not have the money to reclaim it.
Feeling vulnerable and with few options left, we made a difficult decision: we would leave.
In the first quarter of 1983, we packed our belongings under the fading light of early evening. My father hired a relative’s jeepney to transport everything we owned. By seven o’clock that night, we were on our way, leaving Pardo behind and passing through Cebu City proper toward an uncertain future.
I sat quietly in the back of the jeepney, watching the streetlights blur past, wondering what kind of life awaited us in our new home.
We eventually arrived at the house of my grandmother’s sister. The place was quiet, remarkably different from the busy neighborhood we had left behind. The silence felt unfamiliar. With only a few nearby houses, most of them occupied by relatives, the area seemed almost isolated compared to the lively community where I had grown up.
At first, I struggled to adjust. I often found myself lying down with little motivation to do anything. The change was overwhelming. Yet, as time passed, I slowly adapted to our new surroundings.
Life, however, remained difficult. I missed my friends, and I missed the sea that had helped put food on our table. My body, once lean and strong from constant physical activity, gradually weakened as my lifestyle became more sedentary.
Even so, there were small blessings that sustained us. Lola Intay, my grandmother’s sister, regularly brought home leftover rice from their restaurant. My mother would carefully re-cook it, helping us stretch our limited resources and save money on food.
Wanting to contribute in whatever way I could, I spent much of my time cultivating an empty lot beside the house. I tilled the soil, planted vegetables, and tended the small garden with care. It was not much, but every harvest helped supplement our daily meals.
I vividly remember one afternoon when a high school classmate saw me working under the midday sun. He admired my diligence and remarked on how hardworking I was. The truth, however, was much simpler. I was not trying to impress anyone, I simply had little else to do.
He came from a very different background. An only child, he had grown up without a father but was deeply cherished by his mother. At one point, I envied the comfort and attention he received. As the years passed, however, I came to understand that every life carries its own burdens.
Many years later, we met again at the funeral of one of our former classmates. By then, his life had taken a difficult turn. He had fathered three children with three different women and struggled to support them. To make ends meet, he drove his own taxi. His mother, now elderly and weary, could no longer provide the support and attention she once had.
That reunion reminded me of an important truth: we never fully know the challenges others will face in life. Circumstances can change in ways none of us can predict.
When we are in the midst of hardship, it often feels like punishment. Yet with time and reflection, we begin to see its deeper purpose. Hardship teaches resilience. Struggle builds character. Pain broadens our perspective and reveals strengths we never knew we possessed.
Every setback forces us to adapt. Every closed door challenges us to find another door.
Although my past was filled with uncertainty, fear, and sacrifice, I carry those memories with a quiet sense of pride. They shaped who I became. They taught me perseverance, gratitude, and endurance.
And through it all, I learned to keep moving forward, even when the road was dark, trusting that somewhere ahead, however faint the light may seem, a new beginning awaits.
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