CHAPTER FOUR INDYO
The truck rumbled into the province of Pangasinan, their destination after a long journey from their small farm. They headed straight for Urdaneta, a bustling town where vendors from modest plantations like theirs were permitted to sell their goods.
The town was under tight government control, with checkpoints scattered across the area to ensure safety. Yet, many places, especially the dense forests, were off-limits, forbidden to visitors due to rebels hiding in the shadows.
In the heart of Urdaneta, Erik's companions busied themselves selling vegetables to local shops. Despite his lingering injuries—bandages still wrapped around his head and arms—Erik insisted on hawking their produce in the city to earn some money.
Kardo, their leader, reluctantly agreed but reduced Erik's load to avoid straining the young man's recovering body.
"Wait, Kardo, this is too little!" Erik protested, eyeing the small basket of vegetables. "I won't earn anything with this."
Kardo's voice was firm but caring. "If you don't want to end up in trouble again, just listen and do as I say."
Grumbling, Erik hoisted the basket onto his back and hurried out of the garage where they'd parked the truck. His spirits were high, driven by a determination to make up for the money lost the previous night.
Erik couldn't resist the city's allure. Unlike the quiet mountains of his home, Urdaneta buzzed with life—televisions flickering in shop windows, sleek cars gliding through the streets, and people brimming with energy. For a boy from the provinces, the city was a dazzling world of progress and possibility.
As he peddled his vegetables to various stalls, Erik's curiosity drew him to linger outside shops, peeking at displays or watching passersby. More than once, shopkeepers shooed him away, annoyed by his loitering.
His wanderings led him to a gadget store, its shelves lined with cellphones and devices he barely understood. Mesmerized, he stood like a child, marveling at the unfamiliar technology. Inside, people played with handheld gaming devices and laptops, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Erik's eyes sparkled with wonder, tinged with a quiet envy for the city folk who seemed to live so effortlessly.
He moved on to a game arcade, lingering outside its glass walls to watch the action within. His bulky basket of vegetables kept him from entering, but he pressed close to the window, captivated by the flashing lights and the skill of the teenagers playing inside. Their carefree laughter stirred a pang of longing in him.
"Lucky city kids," he muttered, forcing a smile.
Lost in the spectacle, Erik didn't notice how much time had slipped by. Suddenly, he remembered the vegetables he still needed to sell to recover his losses. Though he loved the distractions of the city, his responsibility as a vendor weighed heavily on him.
As he paused to glance at a television display in another shop, Erik's attention was drawn to a group of Spanish police officers patrolling the street. Their crisp uniforms and commanding presence were a rare sight for him. Unlike the locals, who averted their eyes and hurried past, Erik couldn't help but stare, intrigued by their polished appearance.
His gaze caught the attention of two officers, who saw an opportunity in the young vendor. In their minds, someone like Erik—naive and unassuming—was an easy target for intimidation and extortion.
They approached him with swagger, their voices sharp. "Hey, indio! Where's your ID? Do you even have a permit to sell here?"
The officers demanded a National ID, a document used to verify a citizen's identity and origin. Checking IDs was part of their routine to monitor movement in the city and root out rebels. But Erik, like many small-scale vendors, had no ID. The process was costly and time-consuming, and Kardo only registered their names at checkpoints for permits.
Erik froze, his throat tight. He had no permit to show, no explanation to offer. Kardo had never mentioned needing one in town. In truth, authorities rarely bothered vegetable vendors like them, as their goods were essential to the city's daily life. But these officers saw a chance to exploit Erik's ignorance.
"Speak up, indio! No ID, no permit?" one officer barked, raising his voice to unnerve him.
Erik stammered, unable to respond. The second officer pulled out a pair of handcuffs, waving them threateningly. Panic surged through Erik as he pleaded with them, his voice trembling. The officers exchanged smirks, sensing their plan to extort him was working.
Lowering the handcuffs, one officer slung an arm around Erik's shoulder, steering him away from the crowd. In a low, menacing tone, he whispered fabricated rules and penalties, claiming that vendors without permits had to pay a fine. "Since you've got no permit, you owe us 300 pesos to sell here," he said smugly.
Erik's heart sank. Three hundred pesos was a fortune, and he'd barely sold anything that day, his earnings reduced to a handful of coins from his earlier sales. He pulled out the meager amount, begging the officers to let him continue selling.
The officers' faces darkened. "You think we want your carrots, indio?" one snapped. "We need money, not your filthy vegetables!"
They could see the fear in Erik's eyes and knew he was telling the truth about his earnings. But with no money to extort and no real case to bring him to the station, their frustration boiled over. One officer, his temper flaring, spat, "Useless indio!" and kicked Erik hard in the side.
Erik crumpled to the ground, his basket spilling carrots across the street. The officer's boot struck again, heedless of the bandages on Erik's head and arms. Passersby froze, witnessing the abuse, but none dared intervene. The midday sun beat down, and though the street was busy, people hurried past, averting their eyes to avoid trouble.
"Worthless indios like you are good for nothing!" the officer shouted, kicking Erik's arm as he lay defenseless. Erik could only shield himself, too scared to fight back. The officer's rage continued, laced with insults. "We protect you from rebels, and you can't even be useful to us!"
Erik's mind reeled. He couldn't understand why he was being attacked or what he'd done to deserve such cruelty. The onlookers' silence felt like a betrayal, their refusal to meet his pleading eyes cutting deeper than the blows.
"Enough, let's go," the second officer said, bored. "We're wasting time."
Sweating and out of breath, the first officer adjusted his uniform, restoring his polished appearance. "Let's grab a drink at that indio bar instead," he muttered.
They walked away, leaving Erik crumpled on the street, bruised and humiliated. The crowd moved on, offering no help, no words of comfort. Erik sat up slowly, pain radiating through his body. "It's my fault," he whispered to himself, trying to muster courage. "I didn't have the money for an ID. That's why this happened."
Ignoring the ache, he began gathering his scattered carrots, determined to keep going.
Suddenly, a young man approached, picking up a carrot from the ground. "Hey, kid, are you okay? You look pretty rough," he said, concern in his voice.
The man, Filipino like Erik, was in his early twenties, with short, jet-black hair and a fit build. Dressed in a red long-sleeve shirt and black pants, he had a kind, boyish face. He introduced himself as Alfredo, a shop vendor in Urdaneta who happened to be strolling by.
Erik stood, thanking him and reaching for the carrot. Alfredo offered to carry Erik's basket, but Erik declined, wary of accepting help from a stranger.
Smiling warmly, Alfredo insisted. "You're new here, aren't you? Staring at those Spanish cops like that wasn't smart. You don't know how things work in this town."
"I was just watching a TV in a shop," Erik mumbled, embarrassed.
"Look, kid, if you want to avoid trouble with those cops, don't stare. Act like they're not even there. They'll use any excuse to mess with people like us," Alfredo advised, his tone light but serious.
Erik didn't fully grasp Alfredo's words, but he nodded, grateful for the help. Together, they collected the scattered carrots and loaded them into the basket. Alfredo, despite it being his day off, offered to accompany Erik while he sold his vegetables, insisting it was no trouble.
"It's normal to help someone in need, right?" Alfredo said with a grin.
Erik hesitated, unsure if he could trust Alfredo's kindness. But with his body aching and the need to sell his goods pressing, he agreed. Alfredo hoisted the basket, grunting under its weight but refusing to set it down. Erik couldn't help but feel a mix of guilt and gratitude as they walked through the city, Alfredo struggling but determined to help.
As they sold carrots, Alfredo shared stories of city life—zoos with exotic animals, cakes from bakeries, and modern gadgets. Erik listened, enchanted by the idea of a world so different from his own. "City life sounds amazing," he said, smiling. "It's like a dream for someone like me, raised in the mountains."
Alfredo chuckled. "Why do you love the city so much?"
"It's just… different. Everything's alive here—lights, cars, people. Back home, we fetch water from streams and buy candles for light. Here, you've got everything."
Alfredo's expression softened, but a flicker of sadness crossed his face. "I get it," he said quietly. "But one day, you might see the city isn't all it seems."
Erik frowned, confused by Alfredo's sudden shift in tone. Before he could ask, Alfredo playfully tapped his head, causing Erik to wince from his injury. "Sorry!" Alfredo said quickly, his smile returning. "You'll understand what I mean someday."
Their conversation continued as they sold nearly all the carrots. Erik felt a rare connection with Alfredo, the first city dweller who'd taken the time to talk to him. But as they passed a supermarket, a group of five teenage boys in school uniforms emerged, laughing and carrying bags of snacks.
One of them spotted Alfredo and, without warning, tossed a half-empty juice bottle at him. The liquid splattered across Alfredo's chest, staining his shirt. The boys walked on, laughing as if nothing had happened.
Fury surged through Erik. "Hey! Why'd you do that?" he shouted, stepping forward.
The boys stopped, their laughter fading as they turned to face him. One, wearing a gold bracelet—a mark of wealth—sneered. "What's your problem, indio?"
Erik stood his ground. "You need to apologize to him for what you did!"
The boys burst into laughter, mocking his audacity. The one with the bracelet stepped closer, his tone menacing. "You serious, indio? You think I'd apologize to a servant like you?"
"I'm not a servant!" Erik shot back. "I'm a vegetable vendor!"
Their laughter grew louder. "Indio is indio. You're all the same," the boy scoffed.
Erik's anger flared, but before he could respond, Alfredo stepped in front of him, dropping to his knees before the boys. "Please, forgive him," Alfredo said, his voice low. "He's from the province. He doesn't know how things work here."
Erik's jaw dropped. Why was Alfredo apologizing when they were the ones wronged? The boys, satisfied, walked away, tossing more insults over their shoulders.
Humiliation burned in Erik's chest. "Why did you do that?" he demanded. "They were wrong!"
Alfredo picked up the discarded juice bottle, his face unreadable. "You'll get yourself in trouble if you don't learn how things work," he said quietly, walking toward a trash bin.
Erik followed, his frustration mounting. "Why didn't you stand up for yourself? Why did you apologize?"
Alfredo stopped, his shoulders tense. He turned to Erik, his eyes heavy with shame. "It's simple, Erik. We're indios. They're castilas."
The words hung in the air, sharp and bitter. Erik stared, confusion swirling in his mind. Indio? Why did that word carry such weight? Why did it define them in the eyes of others?
"Huh?" was all he could manage, his voice small against the weight of Alfredo's words.
End of Chapter