We climbed all seven-hundred steps to the peak of Mount Tapias and traced the scene of mountains and sea with hungry eyes. Greyscale clouds moved over the islands just beyond ours; how fast were they going, we asked ourselves. We did not know they would pass so quickly above us: together we ran beneath an over-flowing river, the torrent of rain through and through, the dark grey sky wrapped tightly around us. Descending the rocky cement hill, our soaked sandals splashed past the dogs with sad eyes taking shelter beneath painted metal roofs.
Through the gated wooden door, Tita Anabelle and Kuya Jhun were eating dinner by candle-light. Ka-in na! They waved to us and offered dinner. Since we arrived on the island, there were “brown outs” everyday. That’s that the locals called it. It’s what happens in the summers. The demand for electricity was too high. Kuya Jhun, my uncle, told us that he was good friends with the mayor, and asked her to spare their house from the brown outs. I don’t think we were ever spared.
Kyle and I shared a small room upstairs; it was their son, Buboy’s room. He moved to Manila to study pharmacology in the university. In it was a single, plastic chair, a small television set and an air-conditioner. There were pink curtains covering the single window. The room was still cold. We dried ourselves and lay together in the darkness.
The world outside sounded like millions of heavy, angry fingers rapping on the tin roof.
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