Memories of a lost world
December 4, 2005 | 12:00am
I was barely in my teens when the Pacific War broke out on Dec. 8, 1941. It signaled the end of my childhood world.
The years prior were happy ones. I remember my mother used to give me two centavos in the afternoon for my merienda. With those two pennies, I went directly to the nearby Chinese store. There I could buy a newspaper cone of freshly boiled peanuts, filling both my pants pockets. Sometimes I bought a newly cooked bukayo (shredded coconut cooked in brown sugar), or a warm bicho-bicho (elongated flour rolls powdered with sugar). I could also buy a small pack of taba’t payat (fat and thin) that carried a picture of comedians Laurel and Hardy. The pack contained a sweetish dikyam (preserved fruit) and a dried sour date. (I could not tell which corresponded to whom). All of these, and many more local delicacies, cost only one centavo each. So with two centavos, I could have a good merienda, or afternoon snack.
Beside our house was an alley that ran all the way to Rizal Avenue (the main street). At the corner stood a small Chinese panciteria (noodle shop). Once, after having saved some money, I decided to eat there. I was served the best pancit palabok (noodles with garnishes) I ever tasted, for the princely sum of two pesos. There was also a grocery store at the end of the block which offered popcorn, prunes and candies, aside from the usual canned goods.
We had no car then, but it was no problem. Only a few cars could be seen on the roads, and traffic was generally light. The common means of transport was the horse-drawn rig or calesa, which could accommodate four average-sized persons sitting one on top of the other. The fare was 10 centavos up to the Escolta (then Manila’s premier business district) or 20 centavos until the Luneta, where the sunsets were awesomely beautiful. Cheaper than this was the tranvia, or streetcar, which charged three to five centavos depending on distance. Also cheap was the carretela bus, a bus version of the calesa, pulled by two horses.
Our neighborhood sari-sari store was manned by two Chinese men – probably co-owners. Their names were invented by their customers. One was called Enga (perhaps a take-off from Ponga, as Filipinos then called the Chinese). The other was a burly man with fat lips, who was descriptively baptized Labi (or lips).
When the war started, Enga came to our house and begged my father for permission to store his merchandise in our basement, for fear of looting. My father gave his permission, and admonished us not to tamper with the goods. We never saw the two men again.
The days that followed were excruciating ones for Manila and its environs, which were frequently bombed. Sounds of the air-raid siren permeated the city, and hardly anyone braved going out. Manila was then declared an "Open City."
After a few days, the bombings stopped. Japanese planes flew low over the city, surveying the situation. Later, word came around that Japanese troops were entering Manila. I went to Rizal Avenue where many civilians had gathered. After a while, we saw the light brown trucks filled with armed Japanese soldiers rolling by. The Filipino watchers looked on silently and sullenly.
The days and months that followed were increasingly difficult as the peso disappeared. In its stead were Japanese war notes that had no value. Where before everything was cheap, now everything was beyond reach. It was not unusual to see people lugging big bayongs (woven bags) of war notes to the market to buy small portions of food. The staple food, rice, had virtually disappeared as the Japanese had commandeered all the rice stocks to feed their soldiers. People were forced to eat yams, tubers, corn and grated coconut. Not only food was scarce, but also clothes, which could only be had second-hand. It was the extreme opposite of the situation before the war.
However, the situation was not entirely hopeless. Some good news filtered in through short-wave radios (one of which I operated).
They reported victories by the allied forces in the Pacific. These news reports culminated in the American landings on Leyte and Mindoro. To highlight this stark reality, Manilans were treated to dogfights over their city between Zero fighters and P-38 Lightnings. The more rabid city dwellers even clambered to the top of their house roofs to watch the show. Curiosity may kill cats, but no rooftop casualties were reported.
Then came two wild rumors. One was that the Americans would "carpet bomb" Manila, the other was that the Japanese would put the city to the torch. Taking no chances, many residents started leaving the city. My family evacuated to a nearby province north of Manila.
The news escalated faster as American landings were made in Lingayen Gulf, and paratroops were airdropped on Tagaytay ridge. These looked like the ingredients of a final battle. After a few days, the talk around town was that American troops were approaching. Townspeople began lining up along the main road from the north. I joined the waiting throng. After some anxious moments, the Americans did appear to the wild cheers and applause of the crowd. First came the tanks, with GIs riding behind and beside them, cradling their "grease guns." Then came the jeeps, some with mounted machine guns. The infantrymen walked single file on both sides of the road, some of them throwing their C-ration candies at the children who scrambled over them. It was a very happy and heartwarming event. Everyone wore smiles when they hesitatingly left the scene.
On the way back to where we stayed, I passed a house with its kitchen window open. I sensed the smell of rice cooking. Then I thought, "That is not the smell of rice; it is the smell of freedom."
As I continued my journey, I wondered whether I had lost my world as I knew it before the war. Then the thought struck me. I was no longer a child; the war had made me a young man. Nevertheless, I vowed to myself that I had not lost that world as long as I still had memories of it.
The years prior were happy ones. I remember my mother used to give me two centavos in the afternoon for my merienda. With those two pennies, I went directly to the nearby Chinese store. There I could buy a newspaper cone of freshly boiled peanuts, filling both my pants pockets. Sometimes I bought a newly cooked bukayo (shredded coconut cooked in brown sugar), or a warm bicho-bicho (elongated flour rolls powdered with sugar). I could also buy a small pack of taba’t payat (fat and thin) that carried a picture of comedians Laurel and Hardy. The pack contained a sweetish dikyam (preserved fruit) and a dried sour date. (I could not tell which corresponded to whom). All of these, and many more local delicacies, cost only one centavo each. So with two centavos, I could have a good merienda, or afternoon snack.
Beside our house was an alley that ran all the way to Rizal Avenue (the main street). At the corner stood a small Chinese panciteria (noodle shop). Once, after having saved some money, I decided to eat there. I was served the best pancit palabok (noodles with garnishes) I ever tasted, for the princely sum of two pesos. There was also a grocery store at the end of the block which offered popcorn, prunes and candies, aside from the usual canned goods.
We had no car then, but it was no problem. Only a few cars could be seen on the roads, and traffic was generally light. The common means of transport was the horse-drawn rig or calesa, which could accommodate four average-sized persons sitting one on top of the other. The fare was 10 centavos up to the Escolta (then Manila’s premier business district) or 20 centavos until the Luneta, where the sunsets were awesomely beautiful. Cheaper than this was the tranvia, or streetcar, which charged three to five centavos depending on distance. Also cheap was the carretela bus, a bus version of the calesa, pulled by two horses.
Our neighborhood sari-sari store was manned by two Chinese men – probably co-owners. Their names were invented by their customers. One was called Enga (perhaps a take-off from Ponga, as Filipinos then called the Chinese). The other was a burly man with fat lips, who was descriptively baptized Labi (or lips).
When the war started, Enga came to our house and begged my father for permission to store his merchandise in our basement, for fear of looting. My father gave his permission, and admonished us not to tamper with the goods. We never saw the two men again.
The days that followed were excruciating ones for Manila and its environs, which were frequently bombed. Sounds of the air-raid siren permeated the city, and hardly anyone braved going out. Manila was then declared an "Open City."
After a few days, the bombings stopped. Japanese planes flew low over the city, surveying the situation. Later, word came around that Japanese troops were entering Manila. I went to Rizal Avenue where many civilians had gathered. After a while, we saw the light brown trucks filled with armed Japanese soldiers rolling by. The Filipino watchers looked on silently and sullenly.
The days and months that followed were increasingly difficult as the peso disappeared. In its stead were Japanese war notes that had no value. Where before everything was cheap, now everything was beyond reach. It was not unusual to see people lugging big bayongs (woven bags) of war notes to the market to buy small portions of food. The staple food, rice, had virtually disappeared as the Japanese had commandeered all the rice stocks to feed their soldiers. People were forced to eat yams, tubers, corn and grated coconut. Not only food was scarce, but also clothes, which could only be had second-hand. It was the extreme opposite of the situation before the war.
However, the situation was not entirely hopeless. Some good news filtered in through short-wave radios (one of which I operated).
They reported victories by the allied forces in the Pacific. These news reports culminated in the American landings on Leyte and Mindoro. To highlight this stark reality, Manilans were treated to dogfights over their city between Zero fighters and P-38 Lightnings. The more rabid city dwellers even clambered to the top of their house roofs to watch the show. Curiosity may kill cats, but no rooftop casualties were reported.
Then came two wild rumors. One was that the Americans would "carpet bomb" Manila, the other was that the Japanese would put the city to the torch. Taking no chances, many residents started leaving the city. My family evacuated to a nearby province north of Manila.
The news escalated faster as American landings were made in Lingayen Gulf, and paratroops were airdropped on Tagaytay ridge. These looked like the ingredients of a final battle. After a few days, the talk around town was that American troops were approaching. Townspeople began lining up along the main road from the north. I joined the waiting throng. After some anxious moments, the Americans did appear to the wild cheers and applause of the crowd. First came the tanks, with GIs riding behind and beside them, cradling their "grease guns." Then came the jeeps, some with mounted machine guns. The infantrymen walked single file on both sides of the road, some of them throwing their C-ration candies at the children who scrambled over them. It was a very happy and heartwarming event. Everyone wore smiles when they hesitatingly left the scene.
On the way back to where we stayed, I passed a house with its kitchen window open. I sensed the smell of rice cooking. Then I thought, "That is not the smell of rice; it is the smell of freedom."
As I continued my journey, I wondered whether I had lost my world as I knew it before the war. Then the thought struck me. I was no longer a child; the war had made me a young man. Nevertheless, I vowed to myself that I had not lost that world as long as I still had memories of it.
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