Viva los bandidos

After the war, many families followed the cliché “the more, the merrier” or “cheaper by the dozen.”  Siring a nursery, bursting full with babies, was common to restock the family’s genealogy. Our family was no exception:  Four boys and four girls.   My mother ran the house like a tight ship.  She used stern looks and a firm voice to keep us all in check.  It worked so well that house rules were never broken and no one dared to cross the line.


This must be why my brothers became some of the more unruly students in school and were infamous for all kinds of pranks and skirmishes. 

The grand ‘Sabon’ event

It was March 1961.  The high school seniors had only a few more days before graduation, but everyone was still expected to come to class even if no lessons were formally conducted.  The class was in a ‘movin’and groovin’ state of mind.  With nothing much to do, they thought of making paper planes and fly them to simulate aerial combats versus the Axis squadron.  But some of the planes got caught in the ceiling fans. “Ma’am plane crash!” hollered the students.  Not content with that, my brother ignited some planes that flew close to the motor of the electric fans.

The teacher stood dumbfounded.  Her alarming cry broke the mayhem, “What’s happening to me?”  She was vomiting blood.  The seniors gasped, panic-stricken.  My brother instinctively rushed her to the infirmary where she was given immediate treatment.  Everyone in the class resembled Elvis Presley singing All Shook Up, compounded with terror.  But, thank goodness, the school doctor pronounced that she was fine and looked none the worse for wear.   

The following day, the public address system exploded with outrage:  “The following seniors will not graduate unless and until they bring their parents, pronto, to the principal’s office:  Jacinto, Zamora, Perez, and Simpao!  Your parents must show up, come hell or high water!”

The four bandidos exchanged nervous glances.

“Don’t you feel like sitting ducks or birds perched on a tight wire?” taunted a nerdy-looking classmate who didn’t participate in the dogfight.

“How do we break the news to our parents?” cried Simpao.

Zamora blurted, “Let’s get the cigarette vendor, the peanut and the ice cream vendors to pose as our parents!”

Perez cut in, “And how much will that cost?  If we had the money?”

“Mabubuking tayo, (they will give us away).  They only speak Ilongo and Waray,” Simpao grimaced. 

“Forget it.  None of us has the savings to pay them,” my brother surmised.   

Running out of options, they agreed to tell the truth and bear the rant.

Luckily, my mother didn’t put up a fuss.  When she saw my brother down on his knees, putting on his most wretched and pitiful countenance, she replied, “Let’s go.”

At the principal’s office, what followed was a reenactment of a rural scene painted by the old masters, along the riverbanks:  The washing and rinsing down with bakya’t palo-palo (wooden slippers and wooden club) and an extra spin from strong and limbered arm.

 â€œThese boys were born dying,” the principal grunted with approval. 

The bandidos were duly bleached until innocence-restored came to light.         

Lesson learned?  No dirty tricks that can’t be (figuratively) washed down with a lot of rinsing, squeezing and even the throat gagged to obedience. 

When my brother came home, I was so amused at his ah, dramatic change.  He was like that angelic choirboy wearing a lace doily bib who could not hurt a fly.

The C conspiracy

The teacher asked my brother, “Will you be available to give my date and I a lift in your muscle car and take us to Sea Front?” (Sea Front is a sports and dining complex operated by the American Naval Base in the 1960s.)

My brother replied, “Sir, we have a test tomorrow in your subject.”  “Besides,” he continued, “I cannot go without Momong, Bayawak, and Tito because we already made plans to go bowling, after your class.”

The poor teacher was in a fix.  He had no choice but to take the four bandidos who played chaperones and were treated to food, drinks, and a dip in the azure-colored pool.  

Wasn’t that pure coercion if not clear kalokohan? 

“Someday, we will look back at this and chortle,” laughed my brother.

Class ’61 went on to sire and raise fine, exceptional sons.  When they all met in California for a mini reunion, the topic veered towards their juniors who didn’t quite make the grade; they failed to outshine their fathers in the field of notoriety. 

Hats off to the four bandidos.  Still the undisputed class goofballs, the origs.