“Ang bawat punongkahoy ay may kapre.
Tulad ng tao, may tahimik,
may maamo, may mahiyain,
may agresibo, may masugid na mangingibig,
at may kaakbay sa suwerte.”

This was the reply I got from Tony Perez when I asked if there is a Kapre in my old elementary school. It may seem a simple answer to my simple question, but the story says more than that.

I grew up in a small farming village where the nearest civilized city can be seen at night, on top of a mountain in the North East.

Growing up in a small barrio guarantee that you’ll grow up with folk stories. It’s the best mode of entertainment you can get from your neighbors, lolos and lolas, parents, and your aunts and uncle. I grew up listening to different folk stories. Often these folk stories contain lessons with a mix of weird elements and supernatural. Most of the time, it’s their own experience or from multiple sources through different generations. And the stories of Aswang and supernatural beings are plenty. Especially if you grew up in a small farming village like me. Being surrounded by nature where most of these mythical creatures might live makes me feel at ease. When you get out of your door and into the farm outside, it feels like you can do anything. All your senses are being involved playfully. The smell of bugs and earth, even the strong grassy smell of carabao dung, has a charm to it. The trees are often taller that I haven’t met a tree that I wouldn’t want to climb. I bathe on rivers that sustain all the farms in the town.

I lay on the grass while I watch the cloud slowly passed by. Ask permission from an old tree for safe passage as it might hold another world where elemental faceless beings called Encanto. While carefully navigating around an anthill that might contain a kingdom of dwarves. A sunshower means a Tikbalang, a horse-demon is getting married. There’s a pot of gold hidden at the end of a rainbow that I often raced with other kids to reach the end of it. Living and hearing stories about them fascinate me—how different worlds can live within the same breathing space that we do. I feel one and the same as the creatures that surround me.

When I was nine, my family decided to move to the city. My mom found an apartment in Cubao, Quezon City, where it's a 2-minute walk to a commercial area. It has shopping malls, groceries, indoor carnival, movie theaters, and a concert venue. In Cubao, everything feels so fast and progressive. The sound of crickets and swaying bamboo is replaced with honking vehicles. The smell of earth and grass were replaced with rotten garbage and talcum powder. My mom enrolled my sister and me in Cubao Elementary School. Even though other schools are nearer, my mom selected it because a relative was teaching there. It was at least a kilometer away, but my sister and I always walk to school to save money.

The two-story school is made of concrete and wood. The floor loudly creaks when you stroll and it smells of floor wax and dust. There are a few trees, but the ground is paved with concrete. In the center is an empty space for assembly with a stage in front and a huge mango tree on its side. Although I speak Ilocano in the province, I know how to speak Tagalog, the language of the city. But the kids in school speak in slang, adding some complexity. I would just nod—too embarrassed to admit to say that I didnt get it. Sometimes, I was treated like an ignorant, because they think I grew up in the mountain cut from civilization. Of course, it rings some truth in it since I only know the ways of the city by watching local television. I thought that was enough for me to get around and be treated as equal among kids my own age. I find it hard to fit in, not just with the kids, but with the new environment. Headlights coming in and out of our new home at night makes it difficult to fall asleep. Folk stories are replaced with real danger in the street. Stories of pickpockets, murderers, and rapists replaced scary stories of mythical creatures. Most days, I’d rather be left alone that play with other kids at school.

One day, I decided to get up close to a mango tree in the middle of the school grounds. I examine its trunk and branches underneath, checking if I can manage to climb its tall trunk. It’s been a while since I’ve climbed a tree. But climbing the mango tree requires effort, its main stem is too big to wrap my arms and too short to reach the nearest branch. No structure around the mango tree to let kids hang-out to seat and study. I heard frantic shouting. The kids were telling me to get away from the tree. They looked frightened. As it turns out, everyone is afraid to go near the mango tree because a kapre lives in it. They said that a boy was playing under the mango tree was snatched above. Everyone can hear the boy crying and screaming, but no one can see where he is. A Janitor decided to climb and later found the boy crying and visibly hurt. Some said that other students who get close to the tree get bruises on their arms or legs. No one wants to cut down the tree for fear that the Kapre might get angry, so they just let it. But I wasn’t afraid, I look up, trying to see if I could get a glimpse of a tall, dark, and ugly cigar-smoking giant. That’s when I noticed that the mango tree has no birds on it or even flowers. They said that the mango tree stopped bearing fruit years ago. I was more curious and interested if the story is real. It feels like I’m back home in the barrio hearing stories of mystical creatures.

The idea of a mythical creature living in the city felt bizarre. You don’t usually hear stories of Asawang or Kapre in the city. But hearing that a Kapre might be living inside the school made me feel calm and at home. Most days, I would sit under the mango tree. Sometime, I would walk around the tree and stare at its wide branches trying to have a glimpse of the Kapre. Some kids would find me brave enough to play around it, some would find me weird. I would often tell them that there was no Kapre, it was just some tale that teachers spread. Little do they know, I asked permission from the Kapre before I approach the tree. I made sure to whisper my thanks every time I leave. When I’m underneath the tree, everything feels so quiet—no rustling from the wind, no sound from kids playing. After a year, I gained friends and forgot about the Kapre in the mango tree.

When I reached high school, I was more attuned to city life. I could easily dodge pickpockets and confidently cross the streets. On the way home, I always drop by a bookstore to flick-through unsealed books. The selection of books in our library is paltry, so I read books I can’t afford in the bookstore. There, I encountered Tony Perez’s series of stories that are set in Cubao. It piqued my interest, so I saved enough to be able to afford one book. I picked the one called, “Cubao Pagkagat ng Dilim, Mga Kwento ng Kababalaghan,” or Cubao After Dark, A collection of mystery stories. The book recount different personalities that you might find in Cubao. All of them are compared to mythological creatures or entities. Real people that you can relate to, real people that you encounter on your daily walk in Cubao that are hiding dark secrets. It felt like all the mysteries of the town I learned to love are slowly being opened up to me. The thought that those stories may be real or based on true stories makes it more scary and exciting.

Tony Perez, the author of the book, is a writer, playwright, lyricist, a visual artist, a clinical therapist, and a professor at Ateneo de Manila University. He also founded Spirit Questor in 1995 with a handful of his students in Shamanism. As Spirit Questor, they assist troubled spirits in letting go and crossover to the light. As most people who died a violent death often stay in our plane of existence, manifesting as a ghost or apparition. Some wanted closure, some want to look after their loved ones, and surprisingly, some are not aware that they are dead. These spirits are mostly harmless and confused. The Spirit Questor is often invited as guests in television programs regarding the supernatural. I remember watching the group on a local TV show where they helped a spirit of a roaming headless priest reunite with his head. Unfortunately, in 2009, Tony Perez decided to disband the group to focus on his art, but some members are still active today. I was lucky enough to meet one of their members in 2004 for a tarot reading.

Going back to the book Cubao, Pagkagat ng Dilim. I found a similar story of a Kapre who lives in Cubao Elementary School. The mango tree’s location is different but the story of a boy that was attacked by a Kapre is the same. Either there is a real Kapre on a mango tree that lived in Cubao Elementary School, or it’s a tale that Tony Perez took for inspiration for the book.

A few years have passed, the book was stored back in our house in the barrio. I read it whenever I visit. Last year I decided to take it home with me. Re-reading the book reminded me of how I love our own stories of mythical creatures. I see it as a proof that they lived amongst us regardless if we live in the mountains or a small barrio or in a city of concrete. Leaving the barrio doesn’t mean they’re no longer around us. Tony Perez widens my horizon that stories of mythical creatures will not die as long as we have stories to tell. I wrote a lengthy email to Tony Perez recounting my fascination with his book. One of my intent was to confirm the existence of the Kapre in my old school. He answered back and replied that I have read earlier at the start of this episode. I will reread it and transcribed it to English for our non-Filipino listeners this time:

“Ang bawat punongkahoy ay may kapre.
There’s a Kapre in every tree.

Tulad ng tao, may tahimik,
A Kapre, like humans, have quiet ones,

may maamo, may mahiyain,
some are nice, and some are shy,

may agresibo, may masugid na mangingibig,
there are also aggressive ones or ones that are looking for love,

at may kaakbay sa suwerte.”
and there are ones that bring you good luck.

I decided to visit my old school. So much has changed but the laughter and shouting from the kids brought some familiarity to the school. The building are now concrete, standing upward four floors. The courtyard is now covered with steel roof. The mango tree is still there, standing tall. Now, there are benches in front of it and a statue of the Virgin Mary below it. I’m not sure if it was intentional, some people like to add religious artifacts to places they think are inhabited by creatures or malevolent spirits. I look at it in awe and disbelief that I was standing in front of the mango tree after so many years. Its branches are still flourishing and towering over the school building. I felt a quiet peace while my eyes linger, trying to see if I could get a short glimpse of the Kapre. I decided to close my eyes and said a little prayer. I utter my thanks for the comfort and peace it has given me when I needed it. I said my goodbye and bid it to take good care of the school, always.

If you want to learn more about Kapre, please visit our website StoriesfromtheBarrio.com. You can find the link on our show notes. Please subscribe to our podcast to get the latest episode. Message us on twitter, @barriostories, or send us your comments, suggestions, and stories through our website.

This is Stories from the Barrio. Thank you for listening.

There was once a young lawyer who visited the home of a prominent Chinese family in Vigan in the early 1920s. There was a large gathering that night, and our young lawyer decided to join in with a rigaudon, a french folk dance for couples alongside the family’s daughter. At some point, the lights went out while they were dancing. When the lights were finally restored, they were found in each other’s arms. This kind of scene is proven to be scandalous at the time. No one is supposed to touch a woman out of wedlock, and our young lawyer was forced to marry the family’s young daughter. Our young lawyer in the story was Elpido Quirino, who would become the 6th president of the Republic of the Philippines. The family’s young daughter, none other than Alicia Syquía, she was only seventeen at the time. This shows how complicated dating and courtship was at the time.

Dating in the Philippines has always been conservative from way back the Spanish era even during the American regime. It is still widely influenced by European and the moral guidelines of the friars who technically rule the Philippines. Here’s a few guideline for a successful courtship during the early 20th century Philippines. Formal courtship is a must in getting to know the girl you adore. You wouldn’t approach just any girl on the street and until you make your intentions heard to be taken seriously. Anyone who does is frown upon and considered troublesome. Often times, you need an in-betweener, a person that can bridge a connection with the woman you like that can hand over your love letters. But the best way to show your intent is by visiting the girl’s home at night when her parents are in attendance. Expect that the father of the girl you like will have his bolo in full view, a single-edge sixteen-inch blade used for farming, and warding off irritating suitors. Make sure that you don’t come empty handed too. Bringing gifts to her parents and siblings is a must with flowers and sweets. It also helps with your case in getting attention if you perform harana in front of her home. Harana is serenading in front of the girl’s house in full view of their window. Make sure you have a few of your best wingman that can help you play a musical instrument while you sing your heart out. Songs should be flattering and speak as well as your declaration of love and devotion. Just don’t promise the moon and the stars and you’ll be fine.

Anyway, I’m not here to tell you about the whole courtship or dating practice in the old days in the Philippines. You can visit our website storiesfromthebarrio.com or the local library to find out more. Yes, we do have a website now dedicated to giving you more information on local Philippine culture and additional materials to read. For now, here’s a story about courtship. This one is about my uncle, a Filipino-Chinese man from the southern part of Luzon. Even with his jet-black hair and charming face, my Uncle Romy faced a difficult challenge. He stood out of the community because he was born into a family that carried the last name of the revolutionary hero, which meant higher expectations. But being a prominent figure doesn’t mean it’s easier to get girls. You see, there’s a girl that he likes that lives in one of the islands in Caramoan. Caramoan is a group of small islands in the Bicol region. Some are populated while some are too tiny to be inhabited. Getting to that particular island where the girl lives will take about the twenty-minute motorized boat ride. The trouble is, my Uncle doesn’t own a boat or know someone that might let him borrow it for the night. Fortunately, he had the right wingman for the job. Simon, my Uncle’s best friend, is literally a real wingman, he is a “Manananggal.” A “Manananggal” is a mythical creature that can severe it’s upper torso and sprout large bat-like wings on it’s back, and suck other people’s blood. Being friends since they were kids, he regards him as harmless as they knew each other’s families. You’d think Simon would look scary by day for being a Manananggal, but it was actually the opposite. He is quite lanky and tall and has a sunny personality. He loves to joke around people. People speculate that Manananggal is frightening at night, with red glowing eyes and large fangs that extend to their chin. But my Uncle, upon seeing it today, imagined it wrong. Simon still looks the same from the upper torso in spite of an enormous leathery wing on his back. He looks comically ordinary, and surprisingly, his entrails are intact. It’s like a magician cut off his torso and have magically added a leathery hide underneath his stomach. Usually, a Manananggal leaves his lower appendage somewhere safe and away from prying eyes. If discovered, anyone can place a fistful of salt on the lower attachment and prevents the Manananggal from connecting back to its body. If a Manananggal weren’t able to get back to its body by sun-up, he would be burned by the heat of the sun. But this time, Simon would need my Uncle to carry his lower appendage with them. No one in their right mind would want to open their window if they saw half a guitar player flying over their nipa hut. My Uncle strapped the guitar on his chest, with a large cloth sling on his shoulder with flowers and gifts, and carried Simon’s lower appendages with both his arms. Simon brought him with both his hands upward to the sky across the sea.

Crossing the island won’t be easy, and they can’t carry a lamp unless they want someone to spot them and create panic amongst the fisher-folks. But the moonlight is sufficient enough for them to travel by air.

Along the way, “Are you by any chance carrying calamansi with you?” Simon cried out to my Uncle.

Calamansi is a small lime cultivated widely in the Philippines. It is used in various cuisine to add acidity, or as a refreshment. It can also be used to drive away Manananggal along with salt, garlic, and holy water. It is also fatal if used in large quantity.

“Ohhh, I think I have calamansi along with the pancit I’m carrying.” Uncle Romy replied.

“You do know that calamansi is bad for me. Lose it, or we’re going to drown.” Simon hastily shouted to my Uncle.

“Silly me, I totally forgot it weakens you.”

As Uncle Romy tries to juggle up the items he is carrying trying to get the pancit out of the sling bag with his left hand, his other hand is losing grip on Simon’s lower appendages. He had no choice but to drop the whole sling cloth to the sea along with all of its content.

“Sigh, I guess we’ll leave it to my personality to charm them.” My Uncle said sarcastically.

“Yeah, leave them a good impression. The girl may let you sleep in for the night!” Simon jokingly chuckled.

- *Interlude background music of the wind and then crashing waves coincides with the first paragraph*

They crashed to the beach, and my Uncle fell flat on his face. The guitar still strapped to his chest. Simon tumbled while his lower torso bounced in the other direction. Simon was too exhausted from carrying my Uncle and from the strong gust of wind crossing the sea. Not to mention that they have to fly higher to prevent other fishermen from eyeing them. Simon flew to his lower appendage, fixing it upright and connected his upper body. His wings started to retract back on his body as if it doesn’t exist, leaving no mark at all. He went to check on my Uncle, who still clearly having a problem getting up. My Uncle sat on the sand and Simon alongside him. Both are trying to catch their breath from exhaustion.

After cleaning and freeing up their clothes with sand, they decided to get going. The girl’s home is about a half kilometer inland from where they landed. The light from the moon guided them on their path as they trudge along. Houses are a hundred meters away from each other separated by coconut farms. Finally, they arrived at their destination.

- *Harana music until the last paragraph*

Slowly, a light came shining out of an opened window from a house made of Bamboo wood and thatched roof made of Nipa leaves. The house is elevated as the customary design of a Bahay Kubo at the time. Generally, the ground floor houses livestock such as chicken or other supplies. It also cools down the house as air can enter the flooring below. A woman about nineteen years of age came peering down the window holding a kerosene lamp. Another two girls appeared on each side. All three are beautiful, their skin seems to glow from the light of the moon, and their hair flowing up to their shoulders seems to sway as if they have a life of their own. Simon and my Uncle are both smitten by what they saw and forgot what they’re playing. The three girls laughed at their reaction and told them that they can stop playing and invited them up inside the house.

“We hit the jackpot!” Simon whispered. Trying to hide his grin from the three girls.

They later found out that the three girls are sisters and close to each other’s age. Their family mainly stay on the island except when they needed supplies on the main island, that’s how my Uncle was able to spot the eldest girl in the market asking for directions. Inside the house were a few kerosene lamps hanging on a bar on the roof. There are chairs and tables made of bamboo and stacks of cloth sacks that contain coconut husk covering an entire wall.

“Our parents are away for the night—hunting. I don’t think they’ll mind if you accompany us for the night seeing that you’re not from around here.” Said the eldest girl who Uncle Romy just serenaded.

“You must be famished from crossing the sea. We have plenty of food.” The second girl blurted.

“Please, let us serve you!” Said the youngest sister.

Uncle Romy and Simon were ecstatic. They immediately accepted the offer and apologized for losing their gifts along the way.

“The wave was too much for as to handle. It supposed to be calm tonight.” Uncle Romy added.

They were assured that their beautiful harana would make up for it. In exchange, my Uncle and Simon are to eat sumptuously of the three sisters cooking. They were served a freshly cooked meal. It was a local dish with coconut milk and meat. The meat was tender and moist, and the thick broth was flavored with coconut milk, taro leaf, and ginger. Their belly was plumped from eating, and they couldn’t resist the three girls asking them to eat some more.

Simon excused himself and went straight to a batalan. A batalan is an extension of the kitchen that houses water jar, baskets, and other kitchen items. The flooring is lined with bamboo strips making any water seep through on the ground below. There is a ladder that goes down the house where people can relieve themselves. On his way back to batalan, Simon noticed something odd about the pot in the kitchen. He was surprised at first, but it quickly changed to being horrified after realizing what it exactly means.

“Ladies, we’ll be on our way. Thank you for your hospitality”. Simon hurriedly said while dragging along my Uncle with him out of the house.

My Uncle trying to regain his composure as his arms felt like it’s going to get ripped off from Simon’s grip. Simon’s strength is undeniably formidable, and no way my Uncle can wrestle his arms off.

“So early!” Said the eldest girl.

“Please have some snack and tea first.” The second sister exclaimed.

“You can stay for the night.” The youngest insisted.

“Ummm…we’ll come back soon!” Uncle Romy shouted hesitantly.

As they rush out of the vicinity of the house, my Uncle kept asking Simon what was wrong—but he wouldn’t answer. He just kept yanking my Uncle away. When they reached the coast, Simon told him what he saw. My Uncle couldn’t believe what he just heard, it turned his stomach upside down. Emptying everything he ate that night on the side of the sandy beach. Simon can only sympathize with my Uncle’s reaction as he enjoyed their recent meal containing human flesh. That would explain his regained strength and vigor as the three sisters they visited can only be from a family of Aswang.

Aswang is a mythical creature. They can change shape at night to a different form such as dogs or cats or even another human as they seem fit. They hunt at night and replace their victims with a doppelgänger such as a banana trunk. This replica will die of sickness as they return home. In a few days, their bodies will be revealed as a tree trunk. During that time, the body is long buried, and only the Aswang knew of their fate.

The trouble with accepting food from Aswang, well, besides the possibility of consuming human flesh, is that they might be tricking you to being part of their family, transforming you to be an Aswang by serving you a corrupted egg. This egg contains a black baby chick that inhabits the Aswang curse. Nobody knows where it came from or where it can manifest.

“Such a waste, those girls were gorgeous, though.” Simon calmly said.

“You can always go back tomorrow if you want. As for me, I think I’m going to stick to the ladies in town.” Uncle Romy exclaimed.

“Not in a million years would I want a family of Aswang. Let’s go home!”

This concludes the story of my Uncle and his wingman. If you have any personal stories of aswang and other mythical creatures, please don’t hesitate to share your stories thru our email at kamustasa@storiesfromthebarrio.com. You can also visit storiesfromthebarrio.com to read where Aswang came from and the implications of it on our society.

You can also support Stories from the Barrio through our Patreon account.

This is Stories from the Barrio. Thank you for listening.

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Dating in the olden days in the Philippines is more challenging than you think. Dating outside the house is frown upon. You can pass on love letters if you will, but if you wanted to be taken seriously, you have to visit the girl’s home for formal courtship. It may take months or years being grilled by her parents, getting pestered by her siblings, before you can even talk to the girl you like. Courtship also includes bringing gifts, not just for the girl that you adore but also to her entire family. You need a wingman that can play the guitar and sing-along with you as serenading in front of her house is a must. Getting her to open her window as you sing and getting invited only guarantees you an audience. If you’re lucky, you’re the only visitor of the night. Otherwise prepare to meet your rivals.

My uncle, on the other hand, faced a difficult challenge. He lived in a small seaside town in the south of Luzon. The girl that he liked lived in another nearby small island. Getting there was a twenty-minute motorized boat ride. Fortunately, he had the right wingman for the job. Literally a real wingman, his best friend is a “Manananggal.” A “Manananggal” is a mythical creature that can severe it’s upper torso and sprout large bat-like wings and sucks other people’s blood. Being friends since they were kids, he regards him as harmless as he only inherited his gift recently from his grandfather. Now, the only challenge left is having his best friend hold him while flying over the ocean, while carrying his friend’s lower torso, a guitar, and several other gifts.

The night is young, and their trouble is just getting started.

This is Stories from the Barrio. Folk stories and real stories passed on by friends and families.

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The legend of the Yamashita Treasure is one of the tales often recounted with eager eyes among Filipinos. During the war, the Japanese were said to have looted museums, commercial buildings, private homes, and places of worship around South East Asia, in search for valuables to help them fund their war. The collection they amassed is what people now call the Yamashita Treasure.

By the end of the war, most of the treasures left in the Philippines were hidden in caves, underground complexes, and buried in the countryside. Even Imelda Marcos, Ferdinand Marcos’ widow, claimed that most of their wealth came from the Yamashita Treasure. The legendary loot has eluded treasure hunters all over the world for over 50 years. There is no concrete evidence if it’s even real or not or if the American liberators conspired with the remaining Japanese war criminals to extract and hide some of the treasures. What’s left are stories and accounts from people passed on from generation to generation. This is one of those stories.

When I was small, my mom told us a story about her cousin’s husband witnessing how the Japanese buried two barrel-full of treasures. This story was passed on to her by her cousin—the wife of the man who spent his entire life finding this treasure.

He could hear the rustling of the grass. He was lying face down trying not to be seen by a group of armed Japanese military passing by. They had their rifles up against a group of Filipinos transporting two large barrels full of countless pieces of jewelry, diamonds as huge as fists, and gold bars. Among them was a crown of a Virgin Mary statue. He tried to control his breathing. Trying to calm his nerves. His back getting baked under the heat of the sun. Enduring the call of his empty stomach. Getting seen would mean imminent death—or worse, days and days of torture. By this time, the Japanese have grown weary and desperate; the war in the Pacific was nearing its end. The year was 1944, and no one was safe against the Japanese. Not even him, who was no longer a boy. He could already be considered a man capable of being part of a guerrilla group fighting the Japanese colonizers.

He couldn’t move. He just stayed still in his hiding place—watching. Watched as they ordered their captives to start digging a large hole. Watched as they shot their prisoners dead when the hole became deep enough to reach past their heads. After that, the Japanese poured cement into the hole, concealing the corpses and the barrels. Waited for it to harden and further hid it with dirt to cover their secrets.

It was getting dark before the Japanese army left. A mix of fear and excitement got into him. Not minding his hunger and thirst, he decided to mark it by re-planting a Nara tree.

A few years flew by, he got married to my Aunt. Starting his own family, he dreamed of a better life for them. That’s when he decided that it’s time to start digging. He cut down the Nara tree and started digging at night to avoid suspicion. The marked location is under his property but he wanted to be more cautious, not wanting to catch attention from his neighbors. It will take him until dawn shoveling but still no sight of the buried treasure. He would dig around the surrounding mark to no avail. It became his obsession. He knew the loot is there. Probably, moved in different directions throughout the years. Perhaps it's gotten much deeper from the weight of the stone that encased it. But nothing can prevent him from digging most nights desperately looking for it. It would take years before he would finally see the cemented part of the buried treasure. All the back-breaking work has paid off. He finds relief that ultimately, he got it. By daylight, he’ll cover it slightly with dirt to conceal it from prying eyes. When he gets back to it at night, the cemented treasure is gone.

It was maddening, knowing that it was there this morning. Was the soil too soft for it to be swallowed again? Is an unknown force moves it in a different part of his property? He couldn’t pass the chance anymore, he was so close to getting his hands on it. So he would keep digging again and again until it surfaces. He’d try breaking through the cement with a pick-ax, but it was too hard for him to even scrape it. He’d keep hammering all night trying to break even a considerable part of the cement. All his efforts are futile. Every time he finds the cemented treasure, he would get blisters on his feet. Gaping wounds and rashes would appear and his feet would smell of rotten flesh. It would get worst every time. His physical body suffered immensely from countless hours of digging and hammering trying to break through. Eventually, he is forced to enlist all his kids to help him out with the search. Digging and shoveling until they see it and by the next day, it will be gone. This cycle kept going as if the corpses buried with treasure were playing with them. As if, they are the rightful owner or guardian of the loot. Taunting them on each move. His health worsens over time. The hole keeps getting deeper and wider. After 30 long years, death took him and his dream of getting his hands on those treasures–gone. His kids who had been dragged to all this madness decided to give up on the search.

Few years after his death, my Aunt finally opened up to everyone in the family about the buried treasure, it peaked everyone’s interest. My mom’s older brothers and sisters would help with the dig. They’d fund pieces of equipment and manpower for the search. They’d obsessed over the stories and the thought of dozens of diamonds and gold bars as their future possessions. They poured all their savings for the chance of unearthing the buried treasures. They’d recoup a hundredfold if they succeed. Doesn’t matter if they sacrifice everything–their time and money for the promise of getting the entire family rich beyond their imagination. Unfortunately, they too were defeated by the elusive treasure. Up until now, the land where it’s buried lay dormant. No one has attempted to search for it again. The property where it was buried will never be sold. It will be passed on to generations of our family.

I wonder if the next generation would be keen enough to start the hunt again. I wonder if the stories are even true. No one alive knows if it’s real. My Aunt died a long time ago. Only the stories are left to keep it alive.

This is Stories from the Barrio. Hi, I am Nate. Thank you for listening.