But life isn't always so in this barrio situated 77 kilometers from Surigao City. On a few occasions, the calm and soothing atmosphere I had gotten used to for five years of my childhood is supplanted by a tense and terrifying mood, when ideologies clash and cold bullets fly like popcorn.

I was four when I first heard gunshots. I remember I was out on the street with my playmates one lazy afternoon when the sound of loud, thundering shots came. I didn't know what it was back then but as I stood there wide-eyed in front of our house, I could see people running in all directions. The women were hysterical; they were screaming, looking for their children. My yaya was running after my brother who was playing baril-barilan, carrying with him a wooden toygun. I couldn't understand what was happening; I was stunned. Someone had to grab me and take me inside our house.

Some twenty of us stuffed ourselves in a small room near the kitchen. At other times, I have seen how five people could barely lay there but on that afternoon, everyone in the household was there-from my lola, my tita, my brother, my yaya to the cook, drivers, helpers and even a handful of our neighbors. A few more barged in, with the wooden door nearly giving in. We laid down on the floor. I could see the frightened faces of adults, both men and women. It was only then that I myself felt scared.

The shots came in rapid succession. It ceased for a while, only to return a few minutes after. This went on for hours. I saw my brother fall asleep there beneath the bed. I was wide awake-there was no way I was sleeping. I remember staring blankly at the ceiling, into the roof made of nipa. I listened to the sound of bullets as they went past our window. How near they seemed to me. In between the crossfire, I listened to the chilling silence. In the silence, perhaps the only sound I could hear was that of my heart beating faster and louder. I had never felt that way.

The shooting ended as night came. Little by little the people in our room stood up and went outside. I was relieved, but the sight of holes on the walls turned me cold. Those holes were unmistakable. We were that close to being hit by bullets.

I was even more scared when I saw a neighbor with blood all over him. He was hit on the thigh but was lucky enough to live.

What terrified me most, however, was what another neighbor told us: a score of New People's Army rebels lay lifeless at the back of a truck several meters away. Dead people: they have always frightened me. There was something about cold inanimate people and what you don't expect them to do-to suddenly rise from their eternal sleep and take hold of you. I was scared so much I couldn't sleep that night. The thought of ghosts haunting me bothered me no end.

It took days before things returned to normal, at least for me. Only then would I learn the complete story, if I were to believe the tales of our neighbors that is. It was a story straight from an action movie: a group of military men and a group of NPA rebels had taken their meals at adjacent restaurants several meters away from our house. When a member of one of the groups went out to pee, he spotted the enemy and there started the clash.

That was my first encounter with "engkwentro," as the local folks would call it. But that was not the last.

I remember, when I was much younger, our breakfast was interrupted by a seemingly distressed helper. Next thing I knew, we were on board a pumpboat en route to an island. We returned in the afternoon, with the dishes unkept and the food still there on top of the long table. I would later learn that NPA rebels and military men were said to be on their way and we left in fear that a skirmish might take place.

At another time, I had barely taken a spoonful of champorado for merienda when the sound of gunshots came. I dropped to the ground and lost my appetite.

But encounters like these need not be terrifying. I remember the story of NPA rebels who were in pursuit of a lone ranger. The ranger had gone on board a pumpboat loaded with passengers while more than a dozen of rebels were shooting at them from the port. I was told to hide in my room but as I peeped through a hole, I saw my housemates watching through the window in delight as one by one the rebels fell-three of them dead. "Uy, patay!" a helper would say.

Instances like these never fail to capture the imagination of local folks. They would talk about it for days and, before you know it, the incident has become a fantasy movie for James Bond fanatics.

Not only that, a touch of local color is added. Like the ranger story for example. I would later overhear people talking about "anting-anting" as the reason for his safe escape.

I've heard many stories about other people's experiences also, including amusing ones apparently told to make people laugh in spite of the horrors of conflict. I was told the story of a "kusinerong nagtago sa kaldero, matandang nagrorosaryo sa loob ng CR," and the like. The fear remained though.

When my family and I finally moved to Cebu where I took my formal studies, the fear was still lurking inside. I heard a gunshot and I immediately dropped to the ground. False alarm: there was a firing range nearby.

It's been three years since my last visit to Hayanggabon. The last time I was there, the place was a bit different. There were many unfamiliar faces, more houses and the evenings had become anything but quite (thanks to the advent of videoke).

But even in some occasions up to now, I dream of Hayanggabon. I dream of the sounds of crickets and waves crashing to the shore. And, in the thick of the night, I hear gunshots.