The Legend of Mr. Joe

Amirasolo and Other Essays 

Part 1. Tondo on my Mind                                                                                                              Essay 8. THE LEGEND OF MR. JOE

All of us Holy Child Catholic School students called him Mr. Joe. He was our shop and art teacher, and scoutmaster. Mr. Joe told us that his full name is Joe R.R. Mortera. The first R stands for Rustico. I don't know what the second R (his middle initial) is. Rustico is actually his first name, most probably the name of a saint picked up from the calendar whose feast day fell on the the day Mr. Joe was born. Jose was just added to it to conform to the practice of many Catholics of affixing Jose and Maria to the names of children about to be baptized. 

I remember an old movie I watched on television in the 1960s. The title of the movie is "Troop 11". Starring are Manding Claro and Nenita Vidal. The name of the scoutmaster character in that movie is Mr. Joe. Just a guess, Mr. Joe must have adopted the name of the HCCS drum and bugle corps, Troop 11, and his moniker from that movie. Nothing wrong or misleading with his use of the Mr. Joe name because after all, one of his given names is Jose, which is Joseph or its diminutive Joe to the Americans.

But it could be the other way around too. The movie and its scoutmaster character must have  been inspired by the exploits of our scoutmaster. We HCCS scouts tend to believe that because Mr. Joe, even then, is already a legend to us.

We saw him as an expert in many things. Not only was Mr. Joe our shop and art teacher, he also organized, trained, and molded our school's drum and bugle corps, the ARAMAC Ship 11, into the consistent first-prize winning marching band it became. True, the PTA president, industrialist Manuel Camara, also played a great part in the success of the marching band by sponsoring it, but all the money in the world would be money down the drain if the bandleader was incompetent. ARAMAC (reverse of Camara) Ship 11 was the pride of HCCS in the early 1960s.

Mr. Joe was a stern master. He would never brook tardy, lousy, and crybaby scouts. If a scout arrived late, he would be ordered either to face the wall for several minutes without moving, or do push-ups. For heavier violations, the offender had to pass the line. Passing the line was when one has to crawl between the spread legs of fellow scouts strung out in a very long line, with each boy allowed the liberty to whack one's behind with their hands as hard as they like. But if a boy committed a very serious offense, Mr. Joe would give that boy a short stiff jab at his abdomen.

"Sisikmuraan sya ni Mr. Joe," was how  batchmate Rey Noble put it.

There was even a time during formation after the Sunday mass, when a strong rain fell. We thought that he'd order us to break ranks and seek a roofed refuge. We all thought wrong.  He didn't do it, and just let everyone of us scouts who were standing at attention, and himself, too, got drenched with rain. All that sternness may seem like overdone and suitable only for young men undergoing real military training. We were only boys after all. But the irony was we liked it, and were truly proud to have experienced it. We felt as if we were truly grown-up men being subjected to real military discipline.

I became a boy scout when I was in grade five, the same year when we boys had a shop and art class under Mr. Joe. Application forms were handed to those who wanted to become scouts which a parent should sign if he or she approve of their boy's joining. My mother asked me, "Gusto mo ba talagang sumali? (Do you really want to join?)" I nodded. 

Next step for me was to buy the collar-less khaki boy scout upper uniform and short pants, navy-blue neckerchief with the HCCS Sto. Niño seal, and the olive-green knee-high boy scout socks. To complete the look, we also bought khaki oversea cap, traffic whistle, white gloves, and the embroidered Lion Patrol and Troop 11 patches. 

Confident of being admired, I went out of our house the first day of our formation, a Sunday, attired in complete boy scout uniform and strutted along Leandro Ibarra Street on the way to school. But to my dismay, when I was about to reach the intersection at Wagas Street, boys standing by chanted, "Boy scout lamon, pambala sa kanyon, boy scout lamon, pambala sa kanyon...! (Boy scout glutton, fodder for cannon...!)" And all my enthusiasm was doused right then and there.

Well, not all. I was still excited with my joining the boy scouts, and looked forward to all the scout activities still to come, especially the camping trip to Mt. Makiling in Laguna. Campings were  scheduled every October, at the height of the typhoon season. I used to wonder why not in January and February, when days are cool and rainless. Why subject us little boys to spending early evenings huddled up in tents while a thunderstorm rages outside? 

I realized later on that it was part of the training. We were supposed to be boy soldiers, and all the synchronized marchings, standings at attention and parade rests while in formation, flurry of salutes, and the yes sirring all around were all preparations for the military training we will undergo later in life. We were being taught to be tough and resilient, and not be upset by adverse situations like mere downpours. And that's the reason why we were taught the proper way of pitching tents, especially the need to dig a canal around the perimeter of each tent to prevent flooding inside. That canal was for catching rainwater pouring down the sloping sides of tents.

I belong to Lion Patrol. With me were Hugolino Quintano and his brother. Ramon, Alex Manalang, the late Reynaldo Abuedo, Rodolfo Cinco, and Jose Busquit. Our patrol leader the first year was Sir Flores. Just Sir Flores because I don't remember us fellow patrol members knowing his first name even then.. Although I was appointed patrol leader the next year, when I was in grade six, an officer was still above me, our patrol adviser. He was Sir Jesse Tuazon, who was a graduating high school student.

Those camping trips were the biggest and most exciting event in our life as boy scouts. I remember us, all energetic boys, loading the two buses with our knapsacks, and camping paraphernalia and equipment. We loaded the bus with tents, ropes, bamboo poles, giant pots and pans, patrol flags, and totem poles. Totem poles were long wooden boards about 8 feet tall, a foot wide, and half-inch thick, on the topmost part of which the animals after which the patrols were named were painted. Filling up the totem poles' surfaces were pictures, usually of cartoon characters like Mickey Mouse, Superman, Batman, etc. Each patrol were required to have a  totem pole which should be planted on the ground of their fenced area. The names of the patrols I remember, aside from Lion, were Deer, Fox, Hawk, Tiger, Python, Horse, and Eagle. 

There were many outside the bus who were sending us off---like our mothers or fathers, teachers, and girl classmates (whose crushes may be among those going to camp, ha ha ha), all with concerned or worried looks on their faces. But we little boys, feeling like big men, showed no signs of worry whatsoever. We acted like true soldiers going off to war, or boot camp, or wherever soldiers go on their operations.

Our camping ground was up a foothill of Mt. Makiling on a grassy flat land at the edge of a bushy ravine. That place was the site of the 10th World Scout Jamboree in 1959 attended by more than 12 thousand boy scouts from around the world. It was dubbed the "Bamboo Jamboree" because of the prevalence of bamboo and nipa structures on the site. 

The first task of each patrol  upon arriving at the camping site was to choose and fence with bamboo poles and ropes the area where they will pitch their tents. There were two tents allowed each patrol. The tents should be pitched erect and stiff, without any sagging. Demerits shall be slapped a patrol if tents sagged and if the patrol area wasn't neat. 

I have joined only two camping trips, the first when I was in grade five, and the second when I was in grade seven. The first time I joined a camping trip it rained two consecutive nights. That's why the camp bonfire and demonstration which were scheduled on the second night were cancelled. But at the next year's camp, the weather was clear the second night, so all the driftwoods gathered and the branches cut from trees were all put to use. 

A demonstration was a performance competition, held not only during camp nights but also monthly at school after the Sunday mass, where patrols did their numbers like singing scouting songs, chanting patrol yells, and acting skits whose scripts they themselves wrote. The prizes were pennants or banners which the winning patrols proudly hanged on their poles below their patrol flags. There would be patrols who'd be selected as Best In Yell, Best in Song, and Most Outstanding Patrol. I don't know who garnered the first two prizes, or if ever such were selected, but I do know that Deer Patrol won the Most Outstanding Patrol prize that night. Two of my classmates in grade seven were part of that patrol---Efren Tila and his cousin Barcissus Santiago.

Taps were always sounded by a bugler at exactly 10 o'clock every night. We were all required to go to sleep after that, to observe silence and put all lights out, as there would be roving senior officers who'll see to it that regulations are followed. But boys being boys, we never really followed that rule. Stories of ghosts and other frightful entities, and sometimes humorous stories too, were told in whispers. The reveille or wake-up call by the bugler was at 6 o'clock. But not on Sunday morning, when we were roused from our sleep at 4 to troop to and hear mass at a small church on Mt. Makiling just several minutes walk downhill from our camp.

Before the demonstration and bonfire on Saturday night, all the scouts went trailing first just after lunch, where they followed their leaders down ravines with the aid of ropes, then across a brook dotted with giant boulders, and  clambered up again the opposite slope towards flat ground. There was also that game where a patrol would plant its flag along a slope with one patrol member defending the flag against the 'enemies' who would try to capture it. The enemies were all hidden behind trees and bushes and can't be seen by the defender. A try was made to capture the flag of one patrol by a courageous fellow who made a dash for the flag by sliding fast along the steep slope and pulling forcefully the flag pole planted deep in the soil. He succeeded in capturing the flag but his downward momentum broke the pole when he grabbed it, and the lower half remained embedded in the soil. Poor fellow. He was forced by the patrol who owned the flag to pay for the pole he broke.  

The culminating event of our camp was swimming. That's on Sunday morning. The resort is perhaps less than a half-kilometer walk from our camp. I don't know if that resort still exists today, but it was in pretty good condition in 1968, the second year of my joining a camp. It has two levels. The pool on the first level has a depth of from 2 to 4 feet. The second level, which can be accessed by going down a steep stair, is deeper. I don't know the maximum depth of the second pool but it must be 6 feet or more.  

Mr. Joe first gave us tips on swimming followed by a demo on how to rescue a drowning person, which was beyond me because I don't even know how to do the handstrokes properly. After the demo, Mr. Joe gave us permission to swim on whichever pool we choose. To my embarrassment, everyone except me and my close buddy Eric Antonio, rushed below to the second and deeper pool.  Eric and I remained on the pool which must be meant for kids and tried the floating tips and handstrokes just taught us by Mr. Joe in water three feet deep.

That Sunday was the day we broke camp. We began dismantling our tents and cleaned up our campsite after lunch. The buses came before 3 pm. There was a last minute flurry of buying pasalubongs or take-home goodies like chicos, espasols, and buco pies from vendors who gathered at our campsite before the buses rolled off. We arrived in Manila at around past 5 pm, and there waiting for us with happy relieved faces were our fathers or mothers. I can't remember if there were teachers and girl classmates also waiting for us because all I thought of and wanted to do then was to go home fast, and eat again steamed rice cooked just right---not "hilaw" or "malata" (undercooked or soggy)---which was our regular mealtime fare at the camp, and sleep again on my soft-mattressed bunk which I have all to myself.