A Friendship That Opened Doors to Journalism

Volume 1, Issue No. 7

OPINION/COMMENTARY

/ News That Fears None, Views That Favor Nobody /

. . . . . A community service of The Filipino Web Channel (TheFilipinoWebChannel@gmail. com) and the Philippine Village Voice (PhilVoiceNews@gmail.com) for the information and understanding of Filipinos and the diverse communities in North America . . . . . .

Our latest as of Wednesday, August 28, 2019 

~  The dutiful son that I'm supposed to be almost neglected to remember his father's 100th year. At the end of the month, he would have been 101 years old, having been born on August 31, 1918, in Cavite province, Philippines. When he passed away in California in 2014 at age 96, I could not come to his funeral. To this day, I am haunted by that thought. When I woke up this rainy Tuesday morning (Aug. 27), I knew something was amiss. Memories of him continued to flood my mind. Then I realize his birthday was coming up. 

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REMEMBERING MY FATHER WHO WOULD'VE BEEN 101 YEARS OLD

A Cochero and a Fisherman Who Made Good

By ROMEO P. MARQUEZ 

Editor, The Filipino Web Channel

“The strength of a man is in his character. A strong man is great man of wisdom who understands, his top priority is to his family.” ― Ellen J. Barrier

TORONTO - He earned a living working two jobs - as a cochero by day and a fisherman by night. 

That man was my father, Rufino Márquez, a hardy five-footer whose day job was to convey people through his kalesa to the length and breadth of Bancaan, a fishing village on the southwest shores of Manila Bay in the town of Naic, Cavite which happens to be my birthplace.

At dusk, he would rest for a few hours, and later joined a group of fishermen, usually six of them, for a night of pamamalakaya (trawling for fish) in the open sea bordering Batangas and Bataan. Fishing would bring in a large sum especially if the catch was good.

This early exposure had enabled me to identify the different varieties of fish and other sea products and determined what's good for paksiw, pesa, sinigang, inihaw, pinangat, sinaing, etc. But the family preference had always been tuna, the bluefin and yellowfin varieties, and shrimp, mackerel, squid, and grouper. 

Bancaan was about three kilometres from the township but travel had been difficult before the authorities carved a dirt road out of an expansive rice field. Still, the easy, smooth, and meandering route was by banca, a rowboat essentially, through a maze of crystal-clear creeks practically hidden from view by palm and nipa trees along their banks.

Visiting my paternal grandparents at a young age was a cherished experience if only for the banca ride to and from the ancestral home, which was situated on the shores of Manila Bay. In recent years, the shoreline has actually expanded by several meters, creating a wide strip of land, now settled by squatters, and pushing my paternal grandparents' property inland.

Not until I had the pleasure of going to Venice in 2011 did I realize that the old-fashioned journey of yesteryears was exactly what Venice has become famous for, except that instead of a fanciful gondola, we had a banca for transport, and an oarsman who drove it instead of a gondolier who sings on the side. (Videos at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSvJunIZ2yU and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0_3U5XFA64).

I learned to swim there as a child. I had wanted to join my father's fishermen friends to venture out onto historic Corregidor, about 25 kilometres across the bay from Bancaan. Though the island, also called "Gibraltar of the East," is closer to Bataan, it is in fact part of Cavite province. (Background: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corregidor).

As fishing, my father's night job, was totally dependent on the weather, it lacked the stability to support his family. After months of looking, he found employment with The Manila Chronicle in Intramuros, Manila, first as a helper, then as a pressman, or operator of huge printing machines churning out the broadsheet.

By then the family had moved to Pasay City near where Buendia Avenue and Roxas Boulevard intersect. My siblings and I were growing up. Whenever we visited Bancaan, the entire neighborhood, which is to say the Marquez clan, would turn out to welcome us. 

"Aba, naglalakihan na ang mga batang ire," the people would say in their characteristic Caviteno accent, to mean "Gosh, these kids are all growing fast".

My mother hailed from another barrio, Balsahan, located at the edge of the river, which must have taken its name from balsa or wooden raft, that was the chief means of transportation at that time.

Every time we would come, it surely would necessitate paying a call on her mother, Ceferina Sevillano, my grandmother, the beautiful but feisty Spanish mestiza, and an entire community of maternal cousins. 

Blinded by cataract on both eyes, I was her handpicked organ of sight, a personal support worker (PSW) in current lingo. From her, I learned how to swear in Spanish as she was given to outbursts of sinverguenza, the Spanish for shameless, and hijo de perra or son of a bitch, whenever she threw a tantrum at not finding her chewing tobacco at the very moment she wanted it.

My father was always a proud host to friends from childhood and neighbours. He knew he would be teased for landing a stable job as a machinist in the printing department of The Manila Chronicle in Aduana, Intramuros, Manila - the reason we left for the city. 

So before the ribbing could start, he would give his younger brother money to buy the beer and coconut spirits his friends were so fond of. Pulutan (hors d'oeuvre or appetizer) came in abundance, mostly the day's catch of yellowfin tuna, lobster, mussels and oysters. The boisterous reunion usually ended before a rooster's crow announcing a new day.

The degree to which he spent during those occasional visits was the exception to his personal principle to live within one's means, after all, these people were his boyhood chums who had remained rooted to the only method of livelihood they knew - fishing and farming.

My mother who took care of us in the homefront after retiring as a dressmaker, never objected though sometimes she would get annoyed by the noise and the endless macho talk.

As a pressman, my father got to be friends with some editors at the Chronicle. It was during a meal one evening at a karinderia that Jorge Afable, the metro news editor, taunted him about one of his sons - that's me - who was studying journalism. 

"Subukan natin yung anak mo Márquez," he baited, to which my father promptly replied: "Oo sige, papuntahin ko sa 'yo at ng ma-examine mo".

Two days later I had an appointment. My father happily told me at home that an editor wanted to see if I could qualify as a reporter for his section. 

On the day it was set, I went up to the editorial department looking for Mr. Afable. He was closing his page. I interrupted him and introduced myself, then he handed me a slip of paper on which was written the facts of what would be my story. 

It was my first time to be in a newsroom. Unlike other offices, the Chronicle's was like a beehive. People were talking over their shoulders while typing out their stories. The teleprinters were disgorging wire stories. The TV was on. Everyone was rushing back and forth to beat the deadline.

Mr. Afable gave me half an hour to write a decent article out of the factsheet he had handed to me. I was quite nervous that I might not be able to deliver on time. But after reading the factsheet, I knew it was an easy story to write. No analysis, just the bare facts to be weaved into a coherent, clear story.

To my own surprise, I finished writing in 15 minutes, half the generous time he had given. I handed the two-page typewritten manuscript to him and he simply nodded. "Mabilis ka ah," he uttered, checked the story for mistakes and called out the copy boy to send it to production for typesetting.

I passed the exam, he said, and secretly, I was ecstatic hearing that. Whereupon, he assigned me to cover three areas in metro Manila, namely, Pasay City, Paranaque and Las Pinas. Anything that happened there would be my responsibility, he said. And that included the police, the local governments and their components.

The weeks that followed were devoted to introducing myself to the authorities as the reporter for the Chronicle. 

In Pasay, it was Mayor Pablo Cuneta who I met with his secretary, the mother of singer-actress Sharon Cuneta; in Paranaque, Mayor Florencio Bernabe; and in Las Pinas, Mayor Filemon Aguilar whose daughter is the recently-reelected Senator Cynthia Villar. The police chief of Pasay was Col. Tumaliuan whose first name I cannot recall now.

I had my professional break in journalism through my father whose friendship had opened doors for me.

Rufino Márquez would have been 101 years old on Saturday, August 31. He passed away in 2014 at age 96. Ten years prior, my mother Virginia succumbed at age 87. They are buried side by side in San Diego, California. (Copyright 2019. All Rights Reserved).