DANGEROUS ENCOUNTERS: Surviving the Unexpected
This is more or less a chronicle of unpleasant events that I’ve experienced in my life that really scared the living daylights out of me.
Sweet Talk
Way back in the early eighties, I was only a little girl. I grew up in a remote city in the western part of Mindanao in the Philippines. Our form of transportation was basically the simplest one. All we had then were tricycles and bicycles and of course, our flip-flops. We would be flip-flopping with our slippers across the town to get from point A to point B. Besides, everything is well within walking distance.
One late afternoon around five o’clock I was sent to do an errand because one of my family members was sick and I was more or less the only one who was older and more reliable of all the siblings. I was sent to buy medicine about half a kilometer away from our house. Even if it was getting dark, I did what I was told to do and slowly paced my way to the pharmacy and after getting the medicine, I took the same route back home. The route involved passing by an elementary school that was for sure already empty and ghostly at that time of day.
I was just casually walking home and darkness had started to set in, and as soon as I reached a shady part on the sidewalk under a star apple tree in front of the elementary school, somebody stopped me. He was a big guy, probably in his late 20s and he somehow asked me in a kind and seemingly harmless way if I knew where a certain person he was looking for lived. I didn’t know if he was really honest about his inquiry or if he was merely namedropping somebody so he can ask me a question. Without any thought of a looming danger, I politely answered the guy that I didn’t know the person he was asking me about. He nodded his head, somehow resigned to the fact that I really didn’t have the answer to his question. Then he said, “Do you want candy?”
As soon as I heard those words, my antenna went up, fear engulfed me and without wasting a moment I zoomed my way as fast as I could away from the guy and headed my way towards the nearby houses, so that if anything tragic happened, I could scream for help.
Without realizing it, I got home in about five minutes red and pale at the same time. I was red from the blood rushing to my head from the intense running and my body was pale as a ghost from the fear that overcame my being.
You know something else? I got blisters on my feet from running so hard because the straps of my flip-flops broke as I struggled to run as fast as I can.
I don’t know if you agree with me, but as soon as I heard those words, my sixth sense immediately presupposed that the guy had some horrible agenda on his head. It could mean molestation, rape or death for an innocent girl like me at that time. I also gauged the fact that he was a big guy and any chance of him grabbing even just an inch of me would definitely be the end of me.
I was just so grateful, that on that fateful evening, the only thing that was broken were my flip-flops.
An Idle Mind Is the Devil’s Workshop
Back in the place where I grew up, it was a common sight to see clusters of shanties. The picture of a poor neighborhood in an era where computers were unheard of was actually reassuring because we were close knit as neighbors and we have all the time in the world to greet and talk to each other because we have nothing else to do. It was more of a peaceful and laid back lifestyle as opposed to the commercialism and competition that has consumed different neighborhoods in the countryside these days.
Anyway, this story is about a guy who was so quiet, you hardly see him opening his mouth. You’d see him often sitting under the shade of a tree on a lazy afternoon as if he’s quietly contemplating on something. At other times, you’d see him so lonesome and disturbing as he firmly nails his look on the horizon while he sits on the sea wall during sunsets.
This guy hardly smiles, and it’s a little boggling because he’s got a family—a wife, and three children all of whom were already teenagers at that time.
Then one tragic night, he started slashing and attacking his family with a sharp bolo (more like a machete). His wife was pinned under the bed with a slashed throat and a ripped stomach, gut and all coming out in a very disturbing sight. She met her tragic end before the night is over. His son was able to jump off the window with a minor cut on his finger, while his two other daughters were head-shaved as the sharp bolo scraped the top portion of the skull, cutting the hair in zigzagged fashion everytime the bolo landed on the top of the head. They were able to jump out of the house too. One of the girls had her nose slit in half as the sharp bolo painfully bore a deep wound across her face.
At that time, I was peacefully dreaming in my sleep in a little house that was only two houses away from where all the evil took place. My father could hear the moaning and the cries of the children asking for help while they crawled their way inside a roadside excavation, inching their bleeding bodies away from danger and death. My older sister was still awake and was able to witness the horror that was taking place outside. She was traumatized for a long while.
After the guy couldn’t find anybody else, he went to our house and pushed the door as hard as he could, with the blood-soaked bolo still in his hand. Luckily, our wooden door didn’t cave in. If it did, I don’t know if I would be here today to tell this story. But try to imagine a house made of plywood, bamboo, nipa (palm leaves) and just plain light materials. It doesn’t offer a reassuring abode from intrusion unless you have a gun in your possession.
We were lucky that night. But one of our neighbors was not so lucky. Her house was just a few steps away from that guy’s house, and so after the guy could not force his way into our house he went in that direction, pushed the door that was made of a slab of wood that was carelessly erected (without hinges or locks) in the front entrance as a make-do kind of opening in the little shanty. He made his way in, and the mother who was still rocking her youngest child to sleep must have been so shocked to see him waging a bolo in her direction. She fought as hard as she can, all bloody but focused because she couldn’t afford the guy to win over her, else her seven children who were all sleeping will be dead meat on that horrible night.
She suffered severe wounds on her arms and face but she survived and none of her children were hurt. Somehow she also managed to bring back sense into the guy’s head because after attacking her, the culprit proceeded to his brother-in-law’s house, a few houses away to surrender.
Luckily, after all the horror, there was only one fatality. His children survived but they were badly wounded physically, emotionally, mentally and psychologically.
According to one of the daughter’s account, the eerie slaughter plan started early that day when the father was busy sharpening his bolo. At night time, according to the daughter, her father told her to eat their dinner quickly because he said he wanted to kill a big snake that was hiding in the bedroom.
There was no snake. It was the wife who was in the room. He was basically fed up with rumors circling around the neighborhood that his wife was having an affair with another man. The mere fact, that he was constantly quiet and detached from other people fuelled his mental anguish and in turn drove him to insanity and violence.
He went to jail. But not for long. Now he’s free and he lives in the same neighborhood still two houses away from our house where my parents live. You still see him doing the same thing that he used to do—sitting in quiet solitude as if he is deeply contemplating about his life.
It’s scary. To me it’s just a matter of time before he starts losing it again. This time it will not be triggered by gossip but probably by the extreme poverty that besiege him and his children.
It might happen again because an idle mind is constantly brewing some deeply disturbing thoughts. But I hope that when that happens, he’ll be too old and frail to lift a bolo.
When All Else Fails… Run!
One night I went to fetch water in a deep well that was a few houses away. Coincidentally, that well was right in front of the house where the horrible manslaughter took place a few years back. As I was filling the pail with water, I heard this loud thumping sound on the ground almost like the sound of raging bulls. Immediately my instinct told me to seek cover because it could be somebody running amok again and chasing people with a sharp bolo.
I ran quickly, still with a pail-full of water on one hand, limping my way to our house. I could hear the footsteps behind me as if I was being pursued by whoever is causing the commotion. In my head, I pictured a deranged guy chasing people with a sharp bolo and just hacking everyone in the way.
What did I know? My information was limited at that time. I can only rely on my instinct. And my guts told me that I was in harm’s way.
I was by the door of the kitchen in time, but I couldn’t open it. It was locked and there was nobody there to help me. So I thought I would be dead in no time if I stayed there one second longer.
So I ran again, this time in the direction of my cousin’s house. As I was climbing the stairs I was too exhausted and was gasping for breath. I was literally dragging half of my body up the stairs because for some reason my feet and lower half of my physical being just caved in from the horror.
Luckily, I was able to get inside the house and that’s when I felt safe.
And true enough, after all the dust cleared, I was right. A bunch of guys was chasing this one guy who just passed me by the well while I was fetching water. And one of the guys in the bunch had this long sharp bolo (that they use to slaughter pigs), and he was going to kill the guy he was chasing if he caught him in time.
So what if he caught him, right at that well where I was standing? I’d be dead meat too, or if not, probably seriously injured, because it is always so easy for innocent bystanders to get caught in the crossfire in a violent situation.
In my head, I also have this preconceived notion that in a highly charged situation, especially one that involves violence, the attacker loses himself and loses the ability to judge the people around him, so everybody that he can see within his sight is considered an enemy. Thus, all the time, my instinct tells me to run as far away as possible from any kind of fight, violence or attacks.
And in the neighborhood where I grew up, where it is commonplace for poor people to attack other people with bolos and knives, the thought of somebody trying to suck the life out of you with that sharp bolo is just so scary and disturbing. I think it’s less painful and less traumatizing if somebody just shoots you with a gun, rather than slowly dissecting and serrating every bit of your flesh with the sharp edges of a bolo or a knife.
So it is always good to run for your life and seek cover, especially if you have no idea about what’s going on in that very instant.
To Be Continued . . .
Sweet Talk
Way back in the early eighties, I was only a little girl. I grew up in a remote city in the western part of Mindanao in the Philippines. Our form of transportation was basically the simplest one. All we had then were tricycles and bicycles and of course, our flip-flops. We would be flip-flopping with our slippers across the town to get from point A to point B. Besides, everything is well within walking distance.
One late afternoon around five o’clock I was sent to do an errand because one of my family members was sick and I was more or less the only one who was older and more reliable of all the siblings. I was sent to buy medicine about half a kilometer away from our house. Even if it was getting dark, I did what I was told to do and slowly paced my way to the pharmacy and after getting the medicine, I took the same route back home. The route involved passing by an elementary school that was for sure already empty and ghostly at that time of day.
I was just casually walking home and darkness had started to set in, and as soon as I reached a shady part on the sidewalk under a star apple tree in front of the elementary school, somebody stopped me. He was a big guy, probably in his late 20s and he somehow asked me in a kind and seemingly harmless way if I knew where a certain person he was looking for lived. I didn’t know if he was really honest about his inquiry or if he was merely namedropping somebody so he can ask me a question. Without any thought of a looming danger, I politely answered the guy that I didn’t know the person he was asking me about. He nodded his head, somehow resigned to the fact that I really didn’t have the answer to his question. Then he said, “Do you want candy?”
As soon as I heard those words, my antenna went up, fear engulfed me and without wasting a moment I zoomed my way as fast as I could away from the guy and headed my way towards the nearby houses, so that if anything tragic happened, I could scream for help.
Without realizing it, I got home in about five minutes red and pale at the same time. I was red from the blood rushing to my head from the intense running and my body was pale as a ghost from the fear that overcame my being.
You know something else? I got blisters on my feet from running so hard because the straps of my flip-flops broke as I struggled to run as fast as I can.
I don’t know if you agree with me, but as soon as I heard those words, my sixth sense immediately presupposed that the guy had some horrible agenda on his head. It could mean molestation, rape or death for an innocent girl like me at that time. I also gauged the fact that he was a big guy and any chance of him grabbing even just an inch of me would definitely be the end of me.
I was just so grateful, that on that fateful evening, the only thing that was broken were my flip-flops.
An Idle Mind Is the Devil’s Workshop
Back in the place where I grew up, it was a common sight to see clusters of shanties. The picture of a poor neighborhood in an era where computers were unheard of was actually reassuring because we were close knit as neighbors and we have all the time in the world to greet and talk to each other because we have nothing else to do. It was more of a peaceful and laid back lifestyle as opposed to the commercialism and competition that has consumed different neighborhoods in the countryside these days.
Anyway, this story is about a guy who was so quiet, you hardly see him opening his mouth. You’d see him often sitting under the shade of a tree on a lazy afternoon as if he’s quietly contemplating on something. At other times, you’d see him so lonesome and disturbing as he firmly nails his look on the horizon while he sits on the sea wall during sunsets.
This guy hardly smiles, and it’s a little boggling because he’s got a family—a wife, and three children all of whom were already teenagers at that time.
Then one tragic night, he started slashing and attacking his family with a sharp bolo (more like a machete). His wife was pinned under the bed with a slashed throat and a ripped stomach, gut and all coming out in a very disturbing sight. She met her tragic end before the night is over. His son was able to jump off the window with a minor cut on his finger, while his two other daughters were head-shaved as the sharp bolo scraped the top portion of the skull, cutting the hair in zigzagged fashion everytime the bolo landed on the top of the head. They were able to jump out of the house too. One of the girls had her nose slit in half as the sharp bolo painfully bore a deep wound across her face.
At that time, I was peacefully dreaming in my sleep in a little house that was only two houses away from where all the evil took place. My father could hear the moaning and the cries of the children asking for help while they crawled their way inside a roadside excavation, inching their bleeding bodies away from danger and death. My older sister was still awake and was able to witness the horror that was taking place outside. She was traumatized for a long while.
After the guy couldn’t find anybody else, he went to our house and pushed the door as hard as he could, with the blood-soaked bolo still in his hand. Luckily, our wooden door didn’t cave in. If it did, I don’t know if I would be here today to tell this story. But try to imagine a house made of plywood, bamboo, nipa (palm leaves) and just plain light materials. It doesn’t offer a reassuring abode from intrusion unless you have a gun in your possession.
We were lucky that night. But one of our neighbors was not so lucky. Her house was just a few steps away from that guy’s house, and so after the guy could not force his way into our house he went in that direction, pushed the door that was made of a slab of wood that was carelessly erected (without hinges or locks) in the front entrance as a make-do kind of opening in the little shanty. He made his way in, and the mother who was still rocking her youngest child to sleep must have been so shocked to see him waging a bolo in her direction. She fought as hard as she can, all bloody but focused because she couldn’t afford the guy to win over her, else her seven children who were all sleeping will be dead meat on that horrible night.
She suffered severe wounds on her arms and face but she survived and none of her children were hurt. Somehow she also managed to bring back sense into the guy’s head because after attacking her, the culprit proceeded to his brother-in-law’s house, a few houses away to surrender.
Luckily, after all the horror, there was only one fatality. His children survived but they were badly wounded physically, emotionally, mentally and psychologically.
According to one of the daughter’s account, the eerie slaughter plan started early that day when the father was busy sharpening his bolo. At night time, according to the daughter, her father told her to eat their dinner quickly because he said he wanted to kill a big snake that was hiding in the bedroom.
There was no snake. It was the wife who was in the room. He was basically fed up with rumors circling around the neighborhood that his wife was having an affair with another man. The mere fact, that he was constantly quiet and detached from other people fuelled his mental anguish and in turn drove him to insanity and violence.
He went to jail. But not for long. Now he’s free and he lives in the same neighborhood still two houses away from our house where my parents live. You still see him doing the same thing that he used to do—sitting in quiet solitude as if he is deeply contemplating about his life.
It’s scary. To me it’s just a matter of time before he starts losing it again. This time it will not be triggered by gossip but probably by the extreme poverty that besiege him and his children.
It might happen again because an idle mind is constantly brewing some deeply disturbing thoughts. But I hope that when that happens, he’ll be too old and frail to lift a bolo.
When All Else Fails… Run!
One night I went to fetch water in a deep well that was a few houses away. Coincidentally, that well was right in front of the house where the horrible manslaughter took place a few years back. As I was filling the pail with water, I heard this loud thumping sound on the ground almost like the sound of raging bulls. Immediately my instinct told me to seek cover because it could be somebody running amok again and chasing people with a sharp bolo.
I ran quickly, still with a pail-full of water on one hand, limping my way to our house. I could hear the footsteps behind me as if I was being pursued by whoever is causing the commotion. In my head, I pictured a deranged guy chasing people with a sharp bolo and just hacking everyone in the way.
What did I know? My information was limited at that time. I can only rely on my instinct. And my guts told me that I was in harm’s way.
I was by the door of the kitchen in time, but I couldn’t open it. It was locked and there was nobody there to help me. So I thought I would be dead in no time if I stayed there one second longer.
So I ran again, this time in the direction of my cousin’s house. As I was climbing the stairs I was too exhausted and was gasping for breath. I was literally dragging half of my body up the stairs because for some reason my feet and lower half of my physical being just caved in from the horror.
Luckily, I was able to get inside the house and that’s when I felt safe.
And true enough, after all the dust cleared, I was right. A bunch of guys was chasing this one guy who just passed me by the well while I was fetching water. And one of the guys in the bunch had this long sharp bolo (that they use to slaughter pigs), and he was going to kill the guy he was chasing if he caught him in time.
So what if he caught him, right at that well where I was standing? I’d be dead meat too, or if not, probably seriously injured, because it is always so easy for innocent bystanders to get caught in the crossfire in a violent situation.
In my head, I also have this preconceived notion that in a highly charged situation, especially one that involves violence, the attacker loses himself and loses the ability to judge the people around him, so everybody that he can see within his sight is considered an enemy. Thus, all the time, my instinct tells me to run as far away as possible from any kind of fight, violence or attacks.
And in the neighborhood where I grew up, where it is commonplace for poor people to attack other people with bolos and knives, the thought of somebody trying to suck the life out of you with that sharp bolo is just so scary and disturbing. I think it’s less painful and less traumatizing if somebody just shoots you with a gun, rather than slowly dissecting and serrating every bit of your flesh with the sharp edges of a bolo or a knife.
So it is always good to run for your life and seek cover, especially if you have no idea about what’s going on in that very instant.
To Be Continued . . .
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