A sweet ’n sour invasion

The table was set and I impatiently waited for our host to say grace before I lifted my fork to dig into the delicious food. One particular dish stood out in the sumptuous dinner spread and it was a large platter of “sweet and sour fish” that elicited a salivary deluge. 

The restaurant - the Grand Emerald Seafood Garden, is a Cantonese joint that has been serving yummy food since my younger years - many decades back, and the sweet and sour grouper was my all-time favorite. We were invited by some cousins on our short visit home from Bangkok and when Cindy mentioned that the Grand Emerald was the place, I was most certain that this dish won’t be missed. In no time we were smacking our lips and gobbling down the delicious food. The dinner ended and I was overly satiated and satisfied with my mind fondly savoring the tasty grouper.

On our drive home I overheard my wife and her mom talking about their plans for a Christmas dinner before we returned to Bangkok, and sure enough they had the yummy sweet and sour from Emerald in their list. When the day came, I was tasked to drive to the resto to get the food that they had ordered by phone and that was when my appetite for the sweet and sour was dashed to pieces. I was told by the lady at the counter that the tasty fish in our order was "Dory," not Lapu-lapu (vernacular for grouper). She said that they actually tell the customer ordering the dish that the fish is Dory.

I have been around fish ponds in Thailand and the Mekong river that mass-produce this fish - Pangasius hypophthalamus, and I am well aware about the issues that hound the raising, processing and shipping of this fish, which have made me decide many years back to stay away from store-bought, processed Dory. Catching it myself in a pond that is clearly free from contaminants and pollutants is a totally different story.

Driving home with the packed sweet and sour dish on the seat beside me, my mind slowly took hold of the sad truth that the grouper fish has become too scarce and expensive for regular dinner dishes in the local restaurants that the Dory has conveniently taken over it's place. I couldn't think of a Dory-producing region in the Philippines so I came to the realization that the tasty fish that I just recently devoured apparently was a product of the polluted ponds of Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand that I abhorred and detested, and that this low-priced, controversial fish has finally invaded the dining tables of my homeland islands.

the sweet and sour dish from the Grand

Emerald's website

that's the Pangasius hypohpthalamus or Dory. A species

of catfish without scales and is certainly not kosher.

at a processing plant

 

filleted and ready for packing

the grouper caught in a recent fishing trip

Dancing Aliwagwag and sleepy Cateel

Two contrasting moods at one location in the island of Mindanao have managed to avoid this blogger's interest through all his years as a resident of the same island. Notwithstanding his adventurous spirit, this writer failed to travel to the east coast due to a lack of knowledge about the beauty and grandeur that lies therein. That is now a thing of the past, and "mesmerized" and "in love" describe his sentiments for this place.

Cateel has the best advantage for a town to develop considering a big river and the limitless ocean resources at its feet. The perceived disadvantage lies in the rugged mountain range that keeps it isolated and beyond comfortable reach. A weather-beaten streamer on one side of the road welcomes visitors to Cateel's 114th founding anniversary, which shows that in spite of the length of time that it has been organized, Cateel's growth is much less than the development of another town - Bagangga, that lies a little distance towards the south. Politics and competition may have been some factors aside from the topography, and yet all in all, the present condition of Cateel unwittingly stands out as a gem for the adventurous spirit.

Even if the engineers had no other option, but to build a highway right across the heart of the Aliwagwag, there is wisdom in the location of the bridge. Persons with disabilities can now view its grandeur and appreciate the ease by which it can be reached. 

One thing that struck this writer even as he waited at the Lyrah bus station in Davao City, was the friendly and honest spirit of the Cateeleños who were aboard the same bus. Not only did they advise him on what to do and where to go - one unassuming guy even invited him to his house for a sumptuous meal of crabs and fresh fish - an invitation that could have been accepted if it were not for the stingy time constraints. Another exhibit of the natural and unadulterated spirit of Cateel was in a small road-side eatery where this writer enjoyed not only the simple, yet delicious food, but also the lively banter between the owner, and her unsolicited discount when he asked for his check. To top it all, another diner who overheard this writer's need for wifi connection invited him to his hardware store across the street for free use of the much needed internet service.

Wow, just wow! Cateel, you have captured my heart, and to borrow the words of the uniformed dude who strutted the beach in Leyte, let me declare, "I shall return!"

The Inyam tree

At the start of the second half of the 20th century, an American missionary was sent to Mindanao to scout for a place to build a school based on a 16-point list, which included isolation in the country far from the city, the presence of sufficient arable land and abundant water supply among others. With several colleagues he motored to the heart of the island of Mindanao, and with some locals guiding them, the group found themselves on top of a hill. They checked the area and realized that it satisfied the guidelines in the list. With the realization that they had found the exact spot for the school, the group knelt on that grassy, windswept plateau, under a lone inyam tree and poured out their thanks to God. Never in their wildest dreams would they realize that many years later, in the same spot where they prayed, some unusual events would transpire.

The wild inyam tree that was witness to the first prayer on this hilltop, in about two decades, succumbed to the elements, wilted and died, and so another one was planted in its place. This one was more robust and it boasted a thick foliage even if the configuration of the branches didn't mimic the first one. This was when stories about this inyam tree were spun to the point that it became one compelling reason for some SDA folk from faraway places to come to MVC. These stories were also used in the proselytizing activities of some unscrupulous workers of this sect to prove the authenticity of the connection of their church to divine providence. A method that was deemed effective and fruitful with at least one retired teacher testifying that a dream about a cave sealed her decision to be baptized even when she made a vow not to abandon her Catholic faith before setting foot in the campus.

One story that they say was based on a dream by Mr. Mariano Abesta (a member of the original pioneer group), was about a huge cave that is located under this mountainous area that could hold an unlimited number of SDA church members. This cave they said is supplied with food stuff and water and all the amenities of a temporary refuge to keep this sect safe and fed until after the "time of tribulation," which they claim is the persecution of the SDA church by the Knights of Columbus of the Roman Catholic Church and other Protestant sects. 

As a sun-burnt and hyperactive kid growing up here, I was really fascinated by this story. Much of my unoccupied moments were spent with some friends in search for the opening to this mysterious cave. We had each gully, cliff, crevasse and rocky outcrop mapped out and inspected. We practically knew every nook and cranny of this 1,200-hectare hilly land in the search for the cave. On one occasion we even met Mr. Abesta on his horse in one remote section who warned us about the dangers of encountering snakes among the boulders nearby. His cautionary advice only added kindling to our imagination that indeed his dream was true.

So where does the Inyam tree come in? Well, while the second inyam tree was being planted, some guys decided to add some granite boulders beside it to give it a rugged frontier look. So a couple of large rocks were taken from a different location to complete the landscaping of the inyam pioneer memorial. 

One night in the early 2,000s, during one of those meetings when thousands of SDA church members converge in MVC, I received word that some delegates where planning to meet at the site of the inyam tree. As overall accommodations coordinator for this huge affair I was curious about the plans of this small group so I decided to join them incognito. At about 3:00, in the predawn darkness, people started arriving at the site, all clad in thick clothing since it was cold. When a good-sized crowd had gathered, a man started speaking and he rumbled through the 'history' of the inyam tree and the cave and declared that they were actually standing at the entrance of the cave. He claimed that the rocks were permanent structures here and that previous attempts to move them failed, because each time the blade of the bulldozer touched the rocks the engine would shut off. At that point I could not hold my indignation any longer and so I interrupted his speech and introduced myself while stating that my parents were pioneers and that I grew up here. He tried to argue, but stopped short when I said that originally there were no rocks here, but that they were just hauled from a different location to beautify the place. I then ordered them back to their tents so as not to rouse the other campers who wanted to sleep in peace, to which they grudgingly obliged.

Sixteen years from that encounter the second inyam tree started showing signs of disease and slowly followed the plight of the original tree. To keep the icon of the pioneering spirit alive on that site, three inyam saplings were planted amid elaborate religious fanfare with the participants dressed in their best formal clothes. There is no doubt that prayers for the lasting health of the three trees were said and that the small park would forever retain its significance as an icon of the pioneering spirit, and yet I am tempted to wonder; does the mystery cave and persecution mentality have anything to do with the religious activity that was attached to the planting of this three inyam trees? Why don your finest barong and kneel around in prayer just to plant a tree? Why are so many Filipino SDAs from far-flung places building their retirement homes in the surrounding communities?

The original inyam tree. It is very clear here that there are
no rocks in the vicinity. (photo courtesy of coach Kenji)

The second inyam tree. the rocks are now present (photo by Michael C.)

Bible reading and prayer while planting the third tree.

Note the big rock and the dried up trunk of the second tree.
(photo by coach Kenji)

Three inyam saplings! now this story is taking a new twist.
Why three? ensured survival... representation of the Trinity...
third planting... etc??

Old school memories: MedSch fraternity

A few weeks into our life as freshman in medical school, the class was taken over momentarily by some guys in the higher years who introduced themselves as a fraternity and they extolled the benefits that we could have if we joined them. After they left someone in the class stood up and asked the class what they thought about the invitation. Some nodded their heads and said that it was a good idea, but there were others who wanted to know how it fared with the classmates of these frat guys who didn't join them. It was like we wanted to check on their identities and background. In a few days the idea came out that it would be better for us to organize another fraternity/sorority with some guys in the batch ahead of us, and the rest is history.

My medical school class - 1983, was the third batch of students in the newly founded medical school of Ateneo de Davao University. Our school's name was and still is Davao Medical School Foundation, and in the first years of its existence classes were held in the rooms of an old wooden building behind the San Pedro Hospital while the buildings of a new school in a campus at Bacaca was being constructed. Our teachers were a motley bunch of doctors from all the hospitals in Davao city and we discovered later that they were the cream of the medical practitioners in Davao city then.

With the goal to organize another fraternity beckoning, we had to devote some precious time for brainstorming and planning. There were some fratmen in our midst and a lot of wisecracks, which guaranteed that our plans would come to fruitage, and in a few weeks we had the name and a rudimentary constitution.

Hazing was an unforgettable experience for all of us. We divided ourselves into two groups and then devoted one day for each group hazing the other. This was held in the vacant house on the hills by the diversion road near the present crocodile park in Maa. A carabao wallowing hole was conveniently situated in the same lot and it was the scene of some gruesome activity.

This fraternity would eventually lead in scholastic and extra-curricular activities while multiplying with additional batches every new school year. However, with the incidents of hazing deaths in the universities nationwide and the subsequent order of the government to ban fraternity activities, this fraternity wrapped up on itself and stopped growing.

The most cherished and endearing moments in medical school were made with these friends and there is no doubt that life in those difficult years was made easier with the support of the fraternity. 

The original and pioneer batch of Socci Omnium Medicorum confraternity

during one of the hazing sorties in a coconut plantation by the Times Beach. 

The hillbilly is the guy in shorts in the foreground.

Childhood dreams: Why a doctor?

The community where I grew up was served by an American who was a medical doctor and a pilot. Dr. William C. Richli was in and out of MVC during my pre-school and primary school years. He had a yellow piper cub airplane (if I remember it right) that could seat 2 people and I was told back then that he had frequent crashes, but still managed to salvage and rebuild the plane and of course his body as well.

He spoke with a deep drawl and sometimes I found it difficult to understand him. He dressed like he needed some ironing and tidying up with an occasional greasy spot on the elbow or chin and a mismatched button to buttonhole, and I was more attracted to him as a pilot than as a doctor. At that age I was dreaming of having my own wings and soaring across the sky. I wanted to be a pilot and frequently bugged my mom about my plans of being one. She was adamant about my following in the footsteps of her brother who was a pilot for Menzi corporation, but died in a crash, and she insisted that I would make a good doctor instead. I don’t know if she had anything to do with Dr. Richli trying to persuade me to be a doctor, but what I could remember is Dr. Richli passing by our house in a few instances and instructing me to get dressed so I could accompany him to the clinic.

When we got into the clinic he would place me on a high chair right in front of him and he would start his surgery on the many native patients who trekked to the campus when he was around. Goiter and breast surgeries were the ones that I could remember and seeing the sharp knife cut into the skin looked pretty cool for me at that age.

I don’t know what my parents and their colleagues were into in those days, but it turned out many years later that almost every family in that community produced at least one doctor. Was it a status symbol or prestige or maybe some sort of competition among their ranks? Or again was it Dr. Richli's influence in our lives?

With our parents’ guidance and our exposure to the medical profession at an early age, it is not a surprise that I and my sister eventually turned out to be medical doctors.

The story of my life: Fun - Definition

How does a boy who is growing up in the mountains of Bukidnon during the late 1050s to the 1970s define fun? Kids of today would find it difficult to understanding our definition of play and fun back then, because apparently the fun that kids are obsessed with nowadays is done within the confines of the four walls of a room. Outings to the beach or theme parks do offer some fun and yet you’ll see a gadget in the kid’s hands while outside. All they have to do is swipe and touch and they can have fun.

If you’re out among the hills with some friends day in and day out, how could that be fun? In a few days with this given scenario a kid could get bored. So what did we do back then? How does a child with ADHD cope with these conditions up in the mountains back in the frontier years? We created fun, and apparently that spirit is what developed my definition of fun: Create your own fun, make yourself happy, think up ways to stay happy and interested. Invent, improvise... be ingenious.

A fun place in our community was the ranch - cows, horses, sheep and goats plus funny cowboys who knew a lot of tricks and never lacked in humor. Milking cows early in the morning so the milk can be served for breakfast in the cafeteria was fun. Each cow was given a name, which corresponded to the beautiful lady students that the cowboys admired, but would not dare approach. I made sure that there was no cow named Ethel (my sis), but I helped milk Jennifer, May Ann, Nely and Lani.

The orchard was another place. We had sweet oranges, pomelo, bananas, jackfruit, calamsi, guavas, and marang. Helping ourselves to the fruit was allowed as long as we first asked the manager of the farm. Sugar-making was also an industry that we had. Tira-tira was something we made ourselves while the sugarcane sap was boiling in the large vats.

There were two rivers and one stream around our community. In those days we could drink directly from the river, because there were no villages yet upstream. The river in the forest up behind the campus had a beautiful waterfall. On some boring day we would surprise our parents with wild orchids that we gathered in the forest. I had a .22 caliber rifle and hunting and trapping wild ducks and pigeons was one of our favorite pastimes.

The tennis, basketball and badminton courts were our regular fun places. Soccer and Table tennis were also some sports that we enjoyed. All of us were into sports - because there was nothing to keep us busy inside the house.

Apparently the ability to create my own fun stayed with me even as a father and a grandfather. Going places in tours that we ourselves designed, cycling through beautiful highways and backroads of the USA, Thailand, Nepal and Cambodia; scuba diving in Bali, Borneo, Thailand, Coron, Malapascua and other awesome sites were done all in the name of fun. It is no wonder that my kids and grandkid also manifest the same adventurous and fun-loving spirit.

The story of my life: Introduction

Before accelerating into of the story of my life, it is only proper that I introduce myself. I am the second child of Eleazar Alburo Moreno and Priscilla Rapacon Jimenez - Moreno. Eleazar was born in Pinamungajan, Cebu and Priscilla in Pasay City, Metro Manila. My mother was a teacher who was sent to the hinterlands of Mindanao - in those days, where she met her lover - a graduating student, at Mindanao Mission Academy in Manticao. Apparently the romance between teacher and student was tolerated in those days or their affair could have been illicit in nature.

I have a sister - only sibling, Ethel, who was born a year ahead of me, but our sibling ranking changed when she got into medical school two years behind me. Ever since that fateful day people thought that I was the older one.

My official name is Philip Eleazer J. Moreno. My dad's "A" in the "zar" of his name was apparently misspelled when the clerk typed my birth certificate so my name has an "E" instead. I was born in the second half of the 50th decade of the 20th century at Miller Sanitarium and Hospital in Cebu City.

I am also known as: ė-boy, sunny boy, sunni, doggie, ñor, doki, sir moring, doc mo and noah. I'm not aware if someone at one time or another addressed me as "love" or "honey," but I would love to be called as such.

I have one wife - Jo ann, and two kids: JP and Kukie. Ten years ago an adorable baby girl was added to my family - Kailee, my granddaughter. Nok - my son's wife, joined us too, just recently.

With the introduction said, please proceed to the next chapter at your own risk.

Thank you.

A doctor's life: Sex change

I had sex change. Actually, I had sex change surgery arranged for a Singaporean lass who wanted to become a man, which was part of the job that I landed after one year and 9 months of joblessness.

YIHospital, a 500some-bed hospital with about 1,500 staff workers on the western banks of the mighty Chao Phraya river in Bangkok City, Thailand was the hospital where my wife and two children found employment after I was cut off from MVC and the SDA church. This is a general hospital which has an international department that is staffed mostly by Filipinos who are hired primarily because their spoken english doesn't have a strong accent and can be easily understood by the international community. My son JP was one of the earlier hired nurses, my wife came next and then my daughter. The position that was offered to me was "International coordinator" and I was in a team of about 15 others who were the connection between the Thai doctors and the international, non-Thai, prospective clients. We each had a computer and there was a phone that we used for answering calls. In short, it was an online job in medical tourism.

Our task as a team was to respond to callers or emails for enquiries about the procedures that were available, which are plastic (cosmetic) surgery for any part of the body, sex reassignment surgery (sex change) for male-to-female and female-to-male, aesthetic gynecology, dental and orthodontics, lasik, varicose vein surgery, all the different types of skin treatments, hair transplant, traditional medicine, hyperbaric oxygen therapy, among a myriad of other treatments. We would profile the patient and check if the procedure that they want is appropriate for them before they can come for the actual treatment. Another function that I did was something like "damage control." Complaints from patients who have gone back to their country would be coursed through me and I was expected to move heaven and earth to satisfy the angry client whose surgery was botched up, didn't produce the desired results or got infected or rejected and they were demanding a refund, which the surgeons were not likely to give even if they were threatened with legal action. Sometimes I imagined myself like the traditional rice cake (bibingka) in the Philippines, which is cooked with fire above and fire below, but this job was interesting and it opened my mind to another world of medical practice.

One aspect that made working here interesting was the immersion into the culture of the Thai. Doctor to staff and management to rank-and-file relationship is totally different from that of the Philippines and also is the work-place ethics. Doctor's can easily wrangle themselves out of legal problems and it looks to me that they behave like they are above the regular masses. One top plastic surgeon - Dr. G, easily has about 2 major surgeries a day and maybe 5 or more minor ones and he doesn't care much about post-op care since he doesn't visit his patients in their rooms. The patients of this particular surgeon can only see him after surgery if they're wheeled or they walked to his office upon discharge.

Before I knew it seven years had gone by and I was turning 60 in a few months. This was when I was informed that I was being terminated upon reaching my 6th decade birthday, because the mandatory age for retirement was 60. This was something that I was expecting and I welcomed the news with an open mind. Joblessness would be my friend - again, and I was more familiar with her now.

One thing that struck me while writing this story was the realization that the obsession of seeing to it that I brought up my kids on a first-hand basis had its rewards down through the years. Holding them as newborn babes, helping them take their first steps, assisting them as they learned from books and teachers, watching them fall in and out of love, hugging them when they hurt, proudly seeing them get their diplomas on stage, working with them in the same hospital while they made their own waves as responsible citizens and other events in my life have transformed this life into one big awesome story, which of course is still a work in progress. Who knows, I might even have a chapter where I'll be forgetting what to write next, because of dementia.

At the moment we're still under one roof with Kukie and Kailee, while JP and Nok are just a few minutes down the road. Jo ann's retirement comes possibly next year and that could mean a major move or jobs somewhere else for both of us, which could yet be the most interesting chapter in the story of my life.

A doctor's life: Jobless

About six months before I was terminated from work at MVC I made multiple copies of my CV and applied personally for a job at companies and agencies including the Department of Health. The response was very promising, because there were a lot of vacancies. Fifteen doctors were needed at one agency, two doctors in a fruit export company, and some district hospitals had vacancies. What baffled me as the weeks dragged on into months, was that in spite of the need there was not a single reply to my letters and I was starting to wonder where in the world did I fall short in my credentials and application. As I stepped out of the campus of MVC for the last time, I was jobless, and the realization hit me on the face like a blast of icy wind, and yet this was the sweet air of freedom from bondage to a set of unbiblical doctrines of an 18th century prophetess.

My wife was jobless too. The taunts and stares in her office as the Human Relations Director were too stressful for her and she resigned about a year before I was terminated. We took stock of our situation and intensified my efforts in job-hunting. Then from out of nowhere an invitation to be a doctor to the mountain tribes came. It was a non-paying job offered by the Tribal Missions Foundation Inc. with headquarters in Mintal Tugbok. I jumped at the opportunity not realizing that this would be the first among the many trips that God would take me out to the wilderness to unlearn my old law-based beliefs and plant me firmly in His grace, and I saw afterwards that it was necessary just like Moses' sojourn in the land of Median. 

This trip would take me with a team to the shallow waters high up in the mountains of Bukidnon, where the grand Davao river is born, and hurl me down the white-water rapids on a flimsy bamboo raft with medicines and provisions to visit underserved villages along the banks that were the hotbed of revolt and dissension, which bred the New People's Army (NPA).

We spent three days on the rafts, slept in villages at night and ate along the banks of the river. It was my first time to stay in a village with the NPA cadres and it was not easy to trust them like it was not easy for them to trust me right away, but in a while I was relaxed and busy administering to their medical needs. On another occasion I was invited to join a group of missionary interns for a weeklong trip to the Marilog mountains where we lived with the matigsalug and learned their ways. Another trip to the villages of the Maranao tribes in Matanog, Barira and Balabagan - all in the province of Lanao del Sur, where I got the chance to sleep in a mosque with the MILF rebels culminated my exposure to the "least of these brethren" that Jesus alluded to in his sermon in Matthew 25. These trips stripped off all my intellectual pride and taught me about humility and patience as God's servant to the poorest of the poor.

As if that was not enough, we moved to Thailand and God sent me to Ralf who heads an NGO that administers to the mountain tribes and the sea gypsies, where my exposure to a different people with a different language increased greatly my knowledge about God's kingdom. Before the move to Thailand I was employed to teach for one summer at Davao Doctors College the subject Microbiology for nurses. This was a very refreshing break from the wilderness exposure for me.

In God's own wisdom and timing, my joblessness came to an abrupt end with an offer at a position that got me back on my feet financially and opened my eyes to another aspect of the medical world that was the opposite of God's kingdom. I realized there and then that God not only made me jobless to learn about His kingdom, but also did it to give me a firm foundation to be able to weather the lures that this world would dangle before my eyes.

The world of cosmetic surgery, sex change and vanity will come next.

A doctor's life: Terminated

In the 14th year of my stint at Strahle Memorial Clinic and Hospital I had a mind-opening experience, which started with a missionary friend to Africa who was back on furlough telling another friend that I was "once saved, always saved." We laughed about the joke, but later that night I was determined to look for this doctrine in the bible just to see were I stood with regards to what the Bible said about salvation. The SDA church treats this particular doctrine as heresy, but I wasn't sure about it myself. So I got hold of my Bible and in that instance I found my salvation and got baptized by the Holy Spirit.

It took about three years of constant dialogue with the pastors of MVC coupled with threats and insults by some of the leaders and the rank and file, which was tantamount to religious persecution. In one occasion a lady administrator met me at the hallway of the administration building and without hesitation lambasted me about my beliefs and finished off by say, "get out of MVC if you do not believe in the church's doctrines anymore." This was done without toning down her voice and many students were witness to it. This incident only showed that there is no boundary between work and beliefs in MVC or in any SDA institution.

If I thought that my persecution or ridicule would be limited to the officials of MVC, I was wrong. On one occasion I happened to pass by a group of faculty kids in the primary grades who were playing on the lawn near the tennis courts. One kid saw me approach them and they stopped their play and looked at each other and then one girl turned to my direction and said, "you are Satan!" I tried to engage her in a conversation, but they all ran away. I didn't want to take her declaration as something connected to my stand in faith and the trouble that it was getting me into, but how would such an adorable girl and her friends who fondly called me uncle suddenly treat me that way?

On another night there were some students who came to my place to worship after dinner. We sang and read the bible, and about 9:00 PM I opened the door so they can go home to their dormitories when we were accosted by nine security guards who had surrounded the front yard and were pointing there long firearms (shotguns) at me. Their leader - Martin, went into a tirade about my being a heretic and an unbeliever. He was shouting all the while and he threatened me, telling me to leave the campus because I was unwanted here. He further warned the students that they will be blacklisted if they were seen in my place again. With this incident it dawned on me that religious freedom shockingly was non-existent in SDA campuses in the 21st century, and that if a group met for worship it had to be in the name of the SDA church. 

Two months after that fateful night the church board of MVC voted to disfellowship/excommunicate me and a month later I was handed my walking papers - a termination from work document that was approved by the Department of Labor stating my severance from work and the closure of the hospital due to long standing loses resulting in bankruptcy. The same guys who sought my help when they were sick were now driving me away because I didn't uphold their beliefs regarding salvation. (a little over a year later, when I was in another country they re-opened the hospital and hired another doctor). 

It was "goodbye" versus "good-riddance" when comparing my jobs in Landasan and MVC, and at best it was all "good" for my life's story. 

The church board and school board of trustees' actions were the final sentences to another fulfilling chapter in my life, and I was sure that when God closes a door he opens another. At this point though, I was not aware with what God had in store for me. 

That will come next.

[a detailed account of my excommunication can be read here: http://sunnimoreno.blogspot.com/2010/06/my-blessed-testimony.html]

Old school memories: High school

High school years found me in two schools: Southern Mindanao Academy (SMA) for first through third year and Mountain View College Academy (MVCA) for the final year. Both schools are SDA owned and they operate based on the same principles and doctrines of this church.

The students in SMA were either called "outsider, villager or commuter," because they stayed in a boarding house outside the campus or commuted daily from home, and "dormitorians" when staying in the school-owned dormitory inside the campus, because home was too far for commuting on a daily basis. Many of the those in the dormitories were children of SDA pastors who were stationed in Davao City - like my sister and I, and about 15 to 20 others during our time. This meant that on long weekends, right after the last class on Friday afternoon, we would all be lined up by the highway, just outside the school gate waiting for the bus. The bus companies that went by SMA were Minrapco, Villa Bus, CBC and Cotranco - which was our favorite ride, because it was fast and stopped only at stations - "stationary." After the weekend break this batch of kids would be in the station in Davao ready to board the 5:00 AM bus to SMA in time for the first period class. Our bags at this time would hold our supply of soap, shampoo, toothpaste,  etc, enough to last until the next break. Canned goods, pastries and other yummy stuff would also be neatly packed too. If our parents' had time they would drive us back to SMA or sometimes pay as an unannounced visit.

Dormitory life in SMA for a skinny freshman like me was trying to get accepted by the bigger and older occupants. Bullying existed very much in those days and it was not uncommon to see a kid crying and wanting his mommy while the rest of the boys laughed at him. Joel was a rather funny kid who was the butt of the jokes of the older boys. Even if I  laughed at him sometimes, I also had to watch out for myself. It is in the dormitory where I learned how to box using towels as gloves.

Falling was something that always happened in SMA during my time. Shirley fell through the ceiling of the audie while we were practicing for the piano recitals, Ethel - my sister, fell down the stairs of the dorm resulting in blue-black and painful shins, Inday May fell from the kalachuchi tree and hurt her clavicle... and Jerry fell in love with Joy under the blossoming fire tree.

The fourth year of my high school was spent in MVC Academy in Bukidnon, because my parents were taken by the school as administrators. The class that I was a newbie to was composed of some intelligent and naughty kids and was actually a bunch of anarchists who made one teacher abruptly end the class out of anger and exasperation. On another day it was a senior college practice teacher crying, because we laughed at the way she pronounced some english words. In retrospect I can see that the unusual alignment of the planets had something to do with bringing this batch together. We had one mind and that mind was bent on mischief. A day of suspension from class so all of us could clean up some part of the campus as punishment fell short of making us regret and reform.

High school had it's ups and downs, but all in all, these years were memorable and fun.

This is how the buses looked like back then.

Growing up memories: Work

My father made himself! Short of having the means afforded by his parents' to finish his schooling he had to work through high school and college to earn a degree, that is why I consider him a self-made-man. Not contented in making himself, he made me. The principles by which he lived were based on work and he made sure that it was mine too. The "dignity of labor" that he espoused made sure that it left an indelible mark in my mind that getting my hands dirty at work was something noble and that I should not to be ashamed of.

As soon as I was old enough to understand that feeding the chickens made them lay eggs, I was already in charge of a poultry that produced about 50 eggs a day. My father made sure that my recording of egg production was accurate and that I enjoyed my share of the profits. Part of this operations was to walk to the cafeteria every night to get leftovers (lamaw) and soybean pulp from the food factory for the chickens and the other animals.

In our move to SMA, the work regimen was cut short and I was practically free from work for 5 years, unless cleaning the house and washing the dishes is considered work. By the time I was back living with my parents on a permanent basis in my fourth year of high school my hands were callous-free and my father made sure that I got them back. He got a good-sized garden/farm that I had to plow with a borrowed cow, and we had rice, corn, camote, potatoes and other veggies growing for our consumption. As soon as I was out of high school he challenged me with a scheme that would hold on until I got a degree. It was his matching every single peso that I earned by working during summers or breaks in school. One summer I worked at the sawmill as a truck-helper for drivers Leonil and Erning. Hauling logs and lumber and loading and unloading the kiln drier, were some of the tasks that I did and at the end of the two-month job my dad gave me his pledged money on top of what I earned. For another summer I made money as a road and building construction worker. Harvesting rice during school days for two hours every morning starting at 5:00 netted me some 14 sacks during one harvest season, and my dad happily handed over his share of the contract.

While teaching in Cebu and during my medical school years extra money came by driving a passenger jeepney, and in my fourth year I managed to raise some chicken for a nice profit. Somehow being idle is something that is not a part of me. 

My father's strategy worked well.

Growing up memories: On the go

The SDA educational system is a unique one where non-SDA trained educators are not allowed to teach in SDA schools. At the present there are enough graduates to fill teaching positions at SDA schools anywhere in the Philippines, which was not so in the 1950s to the 70s. With the apparent lack of higher level educators my parents were moved from one place to another to solve the shortage. At an early age I was already accustomed to packing and making a major move to some other city. The places where my parents were assigned were Iloilo City, Cebu City, Caloocan City, Valencia City, Managa near Digos and Davao City.

These moves required that I changed schools from time to time. It also meant adjusting to the local dialect and making a new batch of friends and teachers. In the elementary grades I had three schools: Philippine Union College, Mountain View College (MVC) and Southern Mindanao Academy (SMA). In high school it was SMA and MVC. As a growing kid I didn't like the frequent change in schools. It disrupted the bonds and plans that I had with my friends, however, there was also some excitement in the thought of reuniting with some friends who I left many years back.

My parents' assignment in our move to Davao City during my high school years was to supervise all elementary, high schools and colleges in Mindanao that were operated by the SDA church. This meant regular travel to different parts of the island with Davao City as the base. To make it easier for them to leave me and my sister, they had us stay in the dormitory at SMA and we would take weekends or bi-monthly breaks from school whenever they were at home in Davao. This was our set-up for three years and in retrospect I could see that it wasn't a good situation for a growing kid like me.

The relative freedom from the parents that this setup offered could have been much welcome by an adolescent, and yet I resented being managed by my parents by remote control. In those years communication was very rudimentary. The fastest way to get information across from one city to another in our island was by telegram. Telephone service was mostly affordable and available only for big companies and their executives.

At that early age I was already thinking that I would not want my kids to grow up in this situation, and true to my aspirations I was able to work things out that my kids never missed me by their side in their formative and growing years.

Old school memories: Work in MedSchool

As the days in medical school progressed into weeks and months we slowly realized the difference in the learning process between med school and college. The undergrad learning experience was mostly comparative - meaning that we studied other animals and then compared them to the human organs and systems. In medical school we had to study the exact Homo sapiens - nothing else. So when the lesson is about blood, we had to extract our own blood. If the lesson was about the heart, we had to take the parameters of the our own hearts, and that would apply to all the systems of the body.

Timid is the word that can be used to describe some if not most freshman in medical school. I'm saying that in the sense of acquiring specimen for our studies. However, it is not difficult to understand that most, if not all of us were untrained in collecting specimen, which means that if blood was needed no one would dare trust an untrained guy to extract his blood and therefore there were few or no volunteers. When it came to the study of the semen, boys were also shy to go to the toilet to jack off and come back sweating with the specimen in a beaker. EKG was the same thing, because the 'patient' had to take off his shirt and with all the classmates around it was quite unsettling.

I would admit that I was a bit impatient with this attitude. Group-mates were pleading with each other for a volunteer and a lot of time was wasted in the process. This was when I decided in my mind to stand up and allow myself to be the 'guinea pig' for all the procedures that were required. The hillbilly in me that was accustomed to getting cut and bruised on a regular basis considered pain as something that was part of growing up and so I announced to my group-mates that they could consider me as the 'official' donor for all specimen needed - including OGTT, which was the worst and NGT insertion which was a breeze. But there was a hitch, which would depend on what test or procedure was needed. It could be a free lunch or dinner, assistance in visual stimulation for the spermatozoa, helping me out in research, etc. and my group-mates were more than pleased to agree to my terms. I didn't regret my decision, because at the end of the year it was just like I had an executive checkup with all the results showing that I was healthy.

One area that medical students hate is the anatomy laboratory. No normal person would want to stand by the side of a stinking cadaver for a long time and cutting it up piece by piece to visualize and identify the different parts of the body. There were about 12 cadavers in the laboratory that we had to study for the whole year. Most often the designated laboratory period is insufficient that we needed to come back after classes to spend more time with the cadavers. Sometimes we had to bring our snacks to save time and in some occasions a bottle of whiskey or rum helped us cope with the odor.

School work in medical school was really demanding, and the road to becoming a doctor was not an easy one.

Old school memories: Boarding house

Anyone who is from the province and has gone to school in the city knows what "boarding house" means. It practically means adjusting to living conditions in the city, which could range from cramped to hot with less privacy and of course adjusting to the other occupants who are also from the province with the same predicament. It also means choosing to buy or rent a whole apartment unit for the well-off probinsyano or sharing a room with someone else like the hillbilly from Bukidnon.

For the first year, I stayed in two different boarding houses - Rolling Hills and Adams Center. I shared the small room with a handsome Indonesian who was a classmate in my pre-med years. In the second year I moved to a bigger room in Adams with 4 other medical students and this is where things got interesting. This was a motley bunch with two older guys and 3 same-batch-in-college guys, and at one time or another all five of us were together in MVC. Boarding house blues like keeping the room clean, checking for bed bugs - which netted more than a dozen, trying to sleep when others still needed the lights on, coming home to find a blond German in bed with one of the guys (he thought that he had secured the door), helping ourselves to a ripe durian high in a tree outside the building in spite of a noisy chicken watching over it, taking out empty beer bottles that have accumulated in one corner, straining the eyes in the darkness to see who the lady companion is when one guy comes home and silently enters the room in the wee hours of the morning after the lights are out, etc. were some of the things that made my stay in Adams memorable.

The third year found me getting bed-space at the dormitory behind Brokenshire Memorial Hospital so that I wouldn't have to commute for duty. Meals were at a small house turned resto at the sloping area behind the hospital.

For my fourth and final year, I moved to my ex-girlfriend's house in Ledesma village beside our school at Bacaca. She wouldn't let me stay anywhere else since we already signed our contract for marriage. This setup was ideal for me because I didn't have to worry anymore about meals, laundry or finding time to visit her. Prior to this move I would get on a bicycle to visit her 5 kilometers away at about 11:00 in the evening when my eyes were tired of reading. It was also around this time of the night when her dad would come home and we would use his car to drive to the city for a midnight snack. Sometimes it would be raining or I was too busy to pay her a visit, but I know that towards midnight I'll hear a car honk and my roommates would clap their hands in delight knowing that there is some pizza or ice cream brought by Jo ann for our snacks. 

These are some of the memories of my boarding house life in medical school that I will treasure.

Old school memories: Fun in MedSchool 2

Thank God, there was no smart phone or Facebook in our days at medical school. I can't imagine how life would be back then with these gadgets and apps - each to each own while holding a phone with one hand and swiping it with the other and staring at it continuously. That scenario is the total opposite of our time. During breaks in the lectures and when school was out we were in groups either in discussion or planning for some fun. Someone would suggest that we eat at Shakey's and all 15 or so would troop there, give our orders, eat and succumb to the dare to sneak a large pitcher on the way out. Station 55 was another place were we rowdy guys accidentally broke the door handle. Delumbar, D' Counter, One down, Uncle Toms Place, Aling Minat's, Merco and a dozen more places knew that these doctors-to-be are a unique bunch to deal with.

Movies? Yeah, we had enough time for that even with our busy schedules, and the best way to see a movie was to take an empty notebook page and a pen and sit next to Khalil. He would not ask what the items are for, because he knows that all he has to do is write: "Admit one + his signature." This "pass" is accepted without questions at the Lyric and Crest cinemas and we went in for free. During breaks in the "double showing" movies, we would hie to the bathroom and take some puffs on a joint and the movie would become funnier than it actually was.

Spiritual retreats were something that we looked forward to. This meant no boring lectures, a cool day in a hilly or coastal retreat house of the Jesuits, and free snacks and lunch. Meditation was one of the highlights of our retreats and when comfort room break time came it would sometimes take a little longer for some of us to get back to our seats. Some of our classmates would giggle when we would file back inside with our sheepish smiles and our hair and shirts smelling like a field of grass on fire, but this brought meditating to a higher level, no doubt. 

Out-of-town sorties on a convoy of cars was another activity during long weekends. A stop at a roadside store for eggs and ripe tomatoes gave us enough ammunition for throwing at each other while we sped to another province. Activities like these gave the much needed balance to the grind for survival in medical school. 

Old school memories: Fun in MedSchool 1

If I imagined prior to setting foot in medical school that postgraduate students were a serious and no-fun bunch, I was wrong. Again I was wrong if I thought that medical school would reduce my hyperactivity and mellow me down. One thing that added to my attitude was the presence a dozen other guys who were also hell-bent in having fun to balance the seriousness of our undertaking. So while the rest of the class dug deep into their books, we dug deep too, but spewed a lot of color on our daily routine - figuratively, and on the pages of our books - literally. I wished that I preserved our textbooks or even some photos of the pages, because we practically colored the paragraphs which we thought were important with all the colors that gay pride wasn't thinking of yet.

There were about 7 of us boys who occupied the last row of seats in the room and our attentiveness to the lectures depended on who was talking. If it was Dr. A. Panuncialman you could expect us to be all-ears and trying to be less conspicuous, because he had the habit of calling students to the stage to demonstrate certain principles or procedures. If it was Dr. M. Dayrit who lectured on Epidemiology, you could expect us to be betting on the last numbers of the pages of a textbook that we opened at random. If we were not gambling, we were throwing pieces of crumpled paper, which at one instance went the wrong direction and hit the fiancé of Dr. Dayrit (also a doctor) who was seated at the back at that time. The outcome of our foolishness was only apparent at the end of the course when Dr. Dayrit gave 3 of us (the exact culprits in the paper throwing incident) a failing grade. The curly Lebanese, a chubby Maguindanaoan and the scrawny hillbilly. We had to approach him to ask for a reconsideration of our grades and he gave us some make up work to do. It was to submit a paper about the incidence of sexually transmitted disease in Davao city - a topic that required us to prowl the kingdom of pimps and hookers, which was not at all alien to us.

You could imagine the uproar caused by the whole gang when they heard of our misfortune and everyone promised to pitch in so this could be accomplished in the least possible time. Hargoon pledged his typewriter and expertise in drafting the results of our research while Khalil, Nasser and the Hillbilly plus some other helpful guys got to the act of procuring the data. In less than a week we were done and our grades adjusted. 

You bet that a sober and well behaved bunch sat at the last row when the next semester opened. 

A doctor's life: Breech

Kids born in MVC have a unique experience in life. It's a cradle-to-the-grave thing for some with both facilities - delivery room and cemetery, present in the area. I was privileged to bring many kids into this world at Strahle hospital. I have watched these kids grow, circumcised the boys, treated them when they got sick and watched them succeed in school. The 17 years that we were there gave me this opportunity. One kid's second name was after my nickname and another baby was named by her mother after "measles" when it was noted upon delivery that she was physically normal even when her mom contacted German Measles (Rubella) during the first trimester and I was afraid that the baby would be affected. 

One particular lady who lived 3 towns away had her first son delivered by me, because she happened to be in the campus for a convention with her husband who was a pastor. Since she lived in a faraway town this was the only time that I saw her, which shows that there were no previous visits for prenatal checkup. The delivery was successful and after the convention she and her husband went home with an added family member. I never imagined that about 2 years later with another convention in the campus, that I would have the same woman with another pregnancy, and in active labor.

We laughed and joked about the timing of her delivery when she came in. She was placed on the examining table for the internal vaginal examination and I proceeded with determining how soon she may be ready to delivery, when I discovered that the head of the baby cannot be found. External examination confounded my fears that this baby was in the breech presentation. We were taught in medical school that babies who are not in the normal cephalic presentation should be delivered by caesarian section (CS). By this time she was having strong and regular uterine contractions that sending her through a bumpy road to the hospital with CS facilities was unthinkable. I warned her about the possible problems with delivering her baby and that she should cooperate as much as she could. I also rehearsed the nurse on how to hold the feet of the baby as soon as I have managed to bring both feet up, and to keep a positive traction while I felt for the baby's chin and mouth and delivered the head.

This would be my second vaginal delivery by breech presentation and the memory of the first one was still fresh in my mind. With the team and the patient now ready we got down to deliver the baby as careful and as fast as we could. A delay in bringing out the head after the body is out would mean a smaller birth canal and the exit of the larger head might be too difficult or too late for survival. I managed to deliver both feet and from this time onwards was crucial. The body came next and it was good that the chin and mouth were easy to secure and in one moment the head was out and the baby let out a big healthy yell. Like the previous delivery this woman was discharged and went home with her husband, son and a newborn girl after the convention. 

Three years later she was at the entrance of the clinic again, during yet another convention, but this time without a baby bump on her tummy. The two active and healthy kids that were with her came forward and hugged me and that was undoubtedly one of the many happy moments of my life.