Episode 5: Familiar

“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.