A doctor's life: Huramentado

A guy running amok is what you wouldn't want to encounter ever in your lifetime. Rage, depression, frustration and hopelessness are what drive some men to go berserk. The regions surrounding Landasan is inhabited by cultural minority tribes that have been slow in taking advantage of the government's efforts to educate and uplift them from poverty, and make them more rational with a better understanding of the intrigues of life. This is where juramentado (Spanish word) is seen by some people as a means to release pent-up rage and frustration. It is rumored that prior to going on a deadly rampage, the amok binds his testicles tightly at the base so that he won't feel any pain.

The amok was standing in the center of the highway somewhere in the area of Pagalungan and menacingly waving his tabas machete at the people who were gathered at a safe distance away. Motorists had stopped and some were shouting to the other vehicles and warning them about the threat. We were going at a rather fast speed, because we were running late in our schedule. It was already past 12 noon when we left Davao City and that was a bit too risky, since it meant that we would get to Landasan after nightfall. The last trip for public buses from Davao to Cotabato in those days was 1:00 pm so that they can get to their final destination just as it gets dark - not anytime later. Travel in this region was sort of suicidal at night back then.

I had to think fast. Stopping to wait until the threat was neutralized risked traveling late at night. So I instructed Jo ann - my wife, to get down on the floor of the pickup and the kids at the back to do the same and brace themselves for the worst. I floored the accelerator and stayed at the center of the highway running directly at the man. He didn't budge from his position so at the last second I swerved past him while he swung his machete too late. All of us were a bit shaken, but relieved as we got further away from the amok.

Night fell while we drove past Libungan, which meant that the last and most dangerous part of our trip had to be traversed at night. At a hill in Pigcalagan, which is locally known as "ambush point," we were forced to stop because there was a truck that was blocking the highway with its lights glaring directly at us. We didn't notice the small crowd that was gathered around that section, but as soon as the truck drove off we started to move when suddenly a big thud was heard. We had struck something big and so Jo ann alighted to check what it was. It was a huge rock on the road that my bumper had crashed into, and Jo ann apparently forgetting where we were said in a loud and annoyed voice, "sino ang naglagay ng bato dito? (who placed this rock here?). Someone in the dark side of the shoulder of the road answered with a heavy Maranao accent, "ewan, hindi ko alam!" (I don't know). That accented voice made Jo ann realize that we were in unsafe territory and she rushed back inside and said, "Go, go, let's get out of here." I backed up a little and accelerated around the rock.

In about 30 minutes we were in the safety of the hospital, but our heartbeats and the creases on our foreheads took a little time to recover from the ordeal. When you have been in a place for so long, sometimes the dangers are taken for granted. We had to remind ourselves to be vigilant always in Moro land.