It was in the UP Lagoon 7 years ago when a boy of 15 took me to Mindanao. He approached Aris and me, as we played the guitar mindlessly taking our post-exam break. He asked for money, but being broke ourselves, we offered some of the merienda we were eating instead. Curiously, he stared at my guitar-playing; and curiously Aris asked what brought him to such condition.
He came from a tribe in Mindanao, and out of childish curiosity he took a ship ride with a young friend until they ended up in Manila. He apparently lost his friend along the way, to which he was hesitant to elaborate. He liked the privacy of the campus, so he took the refuge of the Lagoon. It was a bit hard to understand his language as a native tone usually plays along with his tongue.
We asked him if he already tried the Mindanao Muslim Studies center near the chapel for help. But he immediately rejected the idea by shaking his head and adding that the center was only helping people from a rival tribe. I wasn't sure if it was true so I decided to give the argument a rest.
As he finished eating the bread, he asked kindly if he can play my guitar so that he can give back a song as a form of gratitude. I oblige, and saw a smile on his dirty face. He gently placed the guitar on his lap the way a musician initiates a guitar love-making; and even though his fingers showed the literal speck of a hard life, he strummed the guitar with a joyful tone.
He played a native song he learned from his tribe. He only used his 2 strings on the guitar as his left index fingered the frets without hesitation. He hummed at first and seeing that we were enjoying the song, he sang along in a dialect we didn't know. His voice reminded me of my roommate's tapes of Gamelan music: It was surreal and captivating.
He sang with his eyes closed, taking us with him on his short trip home; he sang as if the park was his and the campus was an audience to be serenaded; he sang longing for the family he left behind; and he sang not wanting the song to end.
Suddenly, he stopped playing, opened his eyes and handed back the guitar. He simply said thank you and bade good bye as if he just had a short conversation with a stranger. We watched him walk away still under the trance of his music.
I never saw the boy again but I would often try to imitate his song from time to time taking a short and vivid trip to his home in Mindanao.
