Not much of my childhood was spent in Libacao.
Both my parents worked in Manila and would only take me there for vacations once or twice a year.
I would always look forward to those. Spending the day running around the coconut trees, making new friends with our neighbors and ending the night with one of Lola Maria’s stories are memories I still hold dear today.
There was one person that I will always remember though.
Every evening like clockwork, there would be a man with a shovel and a lantern going around the barangay. It always looked like he was looking for something but all I could see was him taking a shovel to some mounds.
When I asked my lola about him she just said *“Kaumangon imaw.” And made me promise never to go near him.
I said I wouldn’t, but you know how kids are.
One night when I was about ten, I lost track of time and ended up out after my curfew (around 6pm). Afraid I might get sermoned I rushed back to my lola’s house. On the way I saw the man lighting his lantern.
I knew the adults would be mad and worried if they knew what I was doing. But I was too curious to think about that.
I approached him and asked, “Excuse me, what are you doing?”
He replied with a gruff tone, “Making sure they don’t come back.”
My eyes opened wide with interest and my mouth couldn’t keep up with my thoughts.
“What do you mean ‘they’?”
“Why do you carry a shovel around with you everywhere?”
“Can I see your lantern?”
“Everyone says you dig up anthills, is that true?”
“Are you searching for something? Is that why you have a shovel?”
“Why are you out every night? What does your family think?”
On that last question he stared me in the eye and I stepped back.
“Go back to your home, child. The nights are dangerous, especially here.”
“What do you mean? I know I’m not allowed to go out at night, but this town seems pretty safe to me. Not like where I’m from in Manila.”
“JUST GO!”
I knew I wore out my welcome and rushed back to my lola’s house.
After dinner and the sermon, I had to find out more about him. I was incessant and bombarded my parents and lola with question after question after question.
They knew when to give up.
My lola started the story:
“His name is Candido del Castillo. We used to make fun of him about his name, but he took it all in stride. He was actually a very handsome young man. In those days those lads would actually take the time to woo a girl and serenade her. Not like today, with your televisions and radio and the miniskirts that let the whole world see—”
“Lola, can you finish the story?”
“Alright, alright. Back then the most beautiful girl in the barrio was Risa. It was actually a surprise when they got married. It took years of trying for Candido to be able to even take her out. She was so cold and aloof that many of us thought she would be an old spinster. I remember when he finally got a ‘yes’ from her. He took his guitar and serenaded her in the moonlight. She looked out her window and smiled (Which was a shock to most of us, we had known her for years and barely even a grin showed on her lips). Their favorite thing to do was sitting by the river, telling stories about what their lives were and where they wanted to go. They got married at the church in Poblacion and it seemed like their life together was going to be happy.”
“That was before Risa got pregnant,” lola looked wistfully to the starlight.
“You may not understand, but a pregnancy is a difficult thing. There are many ways it could end badly. And that’s what happened with Risa. I won’t let you know all the details, you’re much too young to hear them. Ever since Candido lost her, he was never the same.”
“Lola, why does he carry the shovel around?”
“There are…. stories, handed down by people older than I. When Risa died there were… murmurs about how what happened to Risa wasn’t natural, that something else was responsible.”
“What was that something else?”
“Just an old story, nothing more. It was probably easier for Candido to have something to blame rather than accept the face that she was gone.”
“But what about—-”
“It’s past your bedtime. Go to sleep and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
We never did.
As the years went by, I visited Libacao less and less. I was too busy facing the horrors of medical school to even think about that old place.
I graduated and finished my residency in Manila, choosing Obstetrics & Gynecology as my specialty. The stress of working in Manila was taking its toll on me and I decided to take some time off and go back to the province.
Lola had passed by then, leaving the house cold and empty. I spent my free time giving medial advice to people in the area.
I asked about the man with the shovel and they told me that he passed away as well.
I hope that he found the peace he was looking for.
Most of the people that come to me are women (not surprising considering my specialty), and they all seem to have the same story. Miscarriages are very common in the area with some women saying that they had at least 3 miscarriages. Women are scared to get pregnant because so many die in childbirth.
I ask for help trying to find the cause of these issues. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the women physically, so it might be an environmental factor.
I can’t leave until I help these people, though I’m not sure how I can do that.
The only thing different that people have noticed is that there have been a lot more anthills popping up in the area.
But that can’t be connected.
Can it?
*This Aklanon phrase means ’Baliw siya’ in Tagalog, or ‘He/she is crazy’ in English
Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza
Story inspired by the Tanggae depictions from Aklan
Tanggae Illustration by Michael Sean B. Talavera
IG: @maykelshan
Deviantart: https://www.deviantart.com/isaneleach13
