Mono, Rosalinda & other memories of San Isidro

I am happiest when I ride my bike. It clears my mind. The many hours I spend solo on the road is my me-time. My senses are most vigilant when I am on a saddle.

No destination is near or far to an intrepid spirit that has reconnected again with the pedal. Shooting the breeze is therapy, priceless and precious. The body, mind and soul are nourished, treated to an experience that defines freedom.

It is while biking that I am visited by many memories. Like when I biked to San Isidro last Sunday. The wind brought me there. Perhaps because I wanted to pay homage to the place where my late mother came from.

A small part of my childhood was spent in San Isidro, a barrio in Cabuyao 30 minutes away from my barrio of Gulod. San Isidro, sandwiched by sugarcane fields and ikmo (betel) plantations in the ‘70s, was the place where my mother was born and raised until my father brought her to Gulod when they got married.

When I was barely six years old, my mother left the asthmatic me to the care of Tita Itang, her eldest sister, in San Isidro because Nanay had to be with my youngest brother Rod, then only a year old, who had to stay for months in a ward at the Philippine General Hospital after a complicated abdominal operation.

My father had to divide his time between being a tenant farmer and delivering goods to the hospital. My two older brothers Ronnie and Gadie were in school. My younger brother Odick was in charge of our home.

Tita Itang, a Filipino teacher in a private high school, welcomed me with open arms. From time to time, her husband, Tito Iko, and their youngest son Novie, would bring me to the tramo, a vegetated portion of the railroad, to gather firewood early in the morning. We would bring home bundled-up dried sugarcane stalks, which were used to cook our daily meals. And if we were lucky, we would have some Mercado tomatoes from the nearby plantation of RAM Foods, a company then owned by the Mercado family. In those days, the morning sun was friendly even if it was after 9 a.m. We would be on our way home by then, with me embracing joyfully a bundle of firewood, my contribution to a day’s work in the field.

Afternoons were spent playing with the children in the neighborhood. Because I had asthma, I was relegated to a game of mantika-mantikaan where I was in charge of gathering gumamela flowers and turning their petals into an oily solution after I pounded each flower with a rock. But Agas, a boy my age, would always be on my tag team in a game of sprint.

Agas and I were running around the barrio one day when I was introduced to a village character: Mono. Agas told me to run as fast as I could because Mono might hurt us. I just believed him and ran home. Mono was a prominent figure in every child’s memory in San Isidro then.

Mono, a stocky man perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, was mentally challenged. He would roam around the barrio in his grimy khaki pants and camouflage top. His slippers were worn out. He had a fierce gaze when he knew there were people on his way. But in some unguarded moments, there was emptiness in his eyes. Only the plastic bags slung around his shoulders would know how he felt inside.

He would run berserk when the neighborhood teased him: “Manok! Manok! Manok!” When he was ready to defend himself, people would run for cover.

I would have an encounter with Mono almost every day, although from a distance. I would peep out the window to see him on the road. Many times, he would walk the stretch of San Isidro aimlessly. Sometimes, he would stagger on the road or would sleep in a corner when he was inebriated. Kids feared Mono because their elders taught them to fear him.

I was afraid of Mono. But I was also intrigued by his presence. From inside the house, I would see him perform his stints on the road. He would look up the sky, unmindful of the glare of the noon sun, his hand pointed to the horizon, making a sound: “Beng! Beng! Beng!” Right after that, he would put back his imaginary gun in his imaginary holster.

I did not ask my aunt about how Mono became mentally challenged or if he had a family taking care of him. I just found myself interested in hearing his name.

On my saddle last Sunday, I found myself imagining finding Mono on the road. I did not find him. He died a few years ago. I found memories. Mono was a villain then. But even a villain has a story.

***

Mono fell in love with a woman named Rosalinda, also a person with mental disability.

Rosalinda’s unkempt hair hid the beauty in her eyes and lips. She was short and thin. She was always in a long, flowing, drab skirt. She carried a plastic bag filled with her clothes. She had a winsome smile covered in soot.

Ate Meyette said Rosalinda, in her twenties, was not from San Isidro. She appeared in the barrio one day. Mono was smitten by Rosalinda. He took her home. Mono’s relatives let them be. Mono had a concept of responsibility now that he had Rosalinda by his side. He earned money when people in San Isidro asked him to chop wood.

People in the barrio would tease them when they were seen holding hands on the street. Mono would be ready to defend his woman. They lived in their own world, in their own paradise, in their own happiness — for two years.

One day, Ate Meyette recalled, some relatives of Rosalinda came to San Isidro in a car. They took Rosalinda with them. The car sped off and in its wake was a heartbroken Mono. He ran after the moving vehicle to save the love of his life. There were no goodbyes said between the two.

It was the first time the neighborhood saw Mono cry.

That’s the story of Mono that I revisited when I biked to San Isidro. A brief part of my childhood was made more colorful by his presence. In his own right, Mono, perceived by the children as the barrio villain, was actually a hero.