I came to Cebu a couple of weeks removed from my 15th birthday. My uncle and I took the San Vicente from Cataingan to Hagnaya, then hopped on a bus to the city.
It was only the second time I had ridden a bus. The first time did not end well; the engine quit in Cataingan on our way home to Limbuhan from Masbate’s capital town, and my father and I walked 16 kilometers before we finally made it home.
Johnny Ben Liner was the only bus company that “served” our town. The trips were few and far between — twice on a good month. During the rainy season, the buses disappeared. The road to Limbuhan was impassable.
Thus, I stared in awe at the many buses parked in the terminal when we got down. I was a country hick who had descended from the mountains in search of my place in the sun.
And it showed in many ways.
On my first day in Bonifacio and Sikatuna, where my sister and I stayed during the first semester of my freshman year, I ran down the stairs as if my life depended on it when I first heard the horn blast from the nearby Parian fire station.
When a high school classmate brought me to the Liza theater to watch “The Seven Professionals” and “Born Free,” I fell down the stairs on the loge section because I was not aware that the damn place had stairs.
And on my first telephone call, I was frantic because I could not get through despite dialing the number several times. To this day, I am grateful to the kindly old lady who must have seen my discomfiture and gently told me to lift the receiver before dialling.
Believe it or not, I miss those days.
I miss the barbecue stands that lined Colon, their sweet smell wafting through the air, promising forbidden pleasure. I could not afford it.
Once, during my second year, a female classmate asked me to walk her to the old Manilabank building across from Oro Bonito where she would take a ride to Talisay. As we approached Eden theater, she mentioned that she was hungry, so I instantly “remembered” that I had a meeting with our ROTC corps commander.
She never invited me to take her to Manilabank again.
Those were good times, nevertheless. Flooding was unheard of, Sambar Subaru jeepney fare was 10 centavos, garbage was dutifully collected, and the politicians knew their limits and behaved accordingly.
In other words, there were no Robin Padillas.
I owe Robinhood though. He is the reason for these musings. He is the reason I started thinking about those days.
I miss the good old days when even politicians and actors stayed in their lane.