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We Filipinos are mild drinkers. We drink for only three good reasons. We
drink when we are very happy. We drink when we are very sad. And we
drink for any other reason. When the Americans recaptured the
Philippines, they built an air base a few miles from our barrio. Yankee
soldiers became a very common sight. I met a lot of GIs and made many
friends. I could not pronounce their names. I could not tell them apart. All
Americans looked alike to me. They all looked white.
One afternoon I was plowing our rice field with our carabao named Datu.
I was barefooted and stripped to the waist. My pants, that were made
from abaca fibers and woven on homemade looms, were rolled up to my
knees. My bolo was at my side.
That was usually the first question American soldiers asked when they visited our barrio.
“Here, have a swig. You have been working too hard,” be. said, offering me his half-filled bottle.
“No, thank you, Joe,” I said. “We Filipinos are mild drinkers.”
“I have some you can have, but I do not think you will like it.”
“I’ll like it all right. Don’t worry about that. I have drunk everything—whiskey, rum, brandy, tequila, gin,
champagne, saki, vodka…” He mentioned many more that I can not spell.
“I not only drink a lot, but I drink anything. I drank Chanel Number 5 when I was in France. In New
Guinea I got soused on Williams’ Shaving Lotion. When I was laid up in the hospital I got pie-eyed with
medical alcohol. On my way here in a transport I got stoned on torpedo juice. You ain’t kidding
when you say I drink a lot. So let’s have some of that jungle juice, eh?”
“All right,” I said. “I will just take this carabao to the mudhole, then we can go home and drink.”
I unhitched Datu from the plow and led him to the mudhole. Joe was following me. Datu lay in the
mud and was going: “Whooooosh! Whooooosh!”
Flies and other insects flew from his back and hovered in the air. A strange warm odor rose out of the
muddle. A carabao does not have any sweat glands except on its nose. It has to wallow in the mud
or bathe in a river about every three hours. Otherwise it runs amok.
Datu shook his head and his widespread horns scooped the muddy water on his back. He rolled over
and was soon covered with slimy mud. An expression of perfect contentment came into his eyes. The
he swished his tail and Joe and I had to move back from the mudhole to keep from getting splashed.
I left Datu in the mudhole. Then, turning to Joe, I said: “Let us go.”
“What is it like?”
“Oh, it is tall and stately. It goes straight up to the sky like a skyscraper. It symbolizes America.”
“Well,” I said, “the coconut tree symbolizes the Philippines. It starts up to the sky, but then its leaves
sway down to earth, as if remembering the land that gave it birth. It does not forget the soil that
gave it life.”
In a short while, we arrived in my nipa house. I took a bamboo ladder and leaned it against a tree.
Then I climbed the ladder and picked some calamansi.
“Philippine lemon,” I answered. “We will need this for our drinks.” “Oh, chasers.”
I fill my pockets and then went down. I went to the garden well and washed the mud from my legs.
Then we went up a bamboo ladder to my hut.
It was getting dark, so I filled a coconut shell with coconut oil, dipped a wick in the oil and lighted the
wick. It produced a flickering light. I unstrapped my bolo and hung it on the wall.
Joe sat down on the floor. I sliced the calamansi in halves, took some rough salt and laid it on the
foot-high table. I went to the kitchen and took the bamboo tube where I kept my lambanog.
Lambanog is a drink extracted from the coconut tree with pulverized mangrove bark thrown in to
prevent spontaneous combustion. It has many uses. We use it as a remedy for snakebites, as
counteractive for malaria chills, as an insecticide and for tanning carabao hide.
I poured some lambanog on two polished coconut shells and gave one of the shells to Joe. I diluted
my drink with some of Joe’s whiskey. It became milky. We were both seated on the floor. I poured
some of my drink on the bamboo floor; it went through the slits to the ground below.
“Hey, what are you doing,” said Joe, “throwing good liquor away?”
“No, Joe,” I said. “It is the custom here always to give back to the earth a little of what we have
taken from the earth.”
CATCH- UP FRIDAYS MB Asistio Sr. High School- Unit 1
“Well!” he said, raising his shell. “Here’s to the end of the war!”
I gulped my drink down. I followed it with a slice of calamansi dipped in rough salt. Joe took his drink,
but reacted in a peculiar way. His eyes popped out like a frog’s and his hand clutched his throat. He
looked as if he had swallowed a centipede.
I gave him a slice of calamansi dipped in unrefined salt. He squirted it in his mouth. But it was too late.
Nothing could chase her. The calamansi did not help him. I don’t think even a coconut would have
helped him.
He was panting hard and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“Well, the first drink always acts like a mine sweeper,” I said, “but this second one will be smooth.”
I filled his shell for the second time. Again I diluted my drink with Joe’s whiskey. I gave Joe his shell. L-
noticed that he was beaded with perspiration. He had unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie.
Joe took his shell but did not seem very anxious. I lifted my shell and said: “Here is to America!”
As Joe exhaled, a moth flying around the flickering flame fell dead.
CATCH- UP FRIDAYS MB Asistio Sr. High School- Unit 1
He stared at the dead moth and said: “And they talk of DDT.”
“Well, how about another drink?” I asked. “It is what we came here for.”
I poured the juice in the shells and again diluted mine with whiskey I handed Joe his drink.
Joe took some of his drink. I could not see very clearly in the flickering light, but I could have sworn I
saw smoke out of his tears.
He threw the remains of his drink on the nipa wall and yielded: “Blaze, goddamn you, blaze!”
Just as I was getting in the mood to drink, Joe passed out. He lay on the floor flat as a starfish. He was
in a class all by himself.
I knew that the soldiers had to be back in their barracks at a certain time. So I decided to take Joe
back. I tried to lift him. It was like lifting a carabao. I had to call four of my neighbors to help me carry
Joe. We slung him on top of my carabao. I took my bolo from my house and strapped it on my waist.
Then I proceeded to take him back. The whole barrio was wondering what had happened to the big
Amerikano.
After two hours I arrived at the air field. I found out which barracks he belonged to and took him
there. His friends helped me take him to his cot. They were glad to see him back. Everybody thanked
me for taking him home. As I was leaving the barracks to go home, one of his buddies called me and
said: