Naglulupasay! Kicking and screaming on waxed wooden San Juan floors in my brand new frock, I did not want to leave the comfort of Lolo’s home for the jungles of Borneo. I cried and I cried through the entire plane ride.

The Kadazans loved to invite Dad back to their remote huts, in between his regular visits to check and spray for malaria. They trusted the brown man who slept on jungle floor overnight and grilled snakes for sustenance. But to feast on goat curry and dance to gong music, we were expected to trudge through uneven footpaths. Once I had to follow Dad to the edge of a cliff, where we could not see bottom. If he had not slammed on the brakes, our Land Rover would have scuttled a loooong way down—the road just suddenly ended! And only after a wild ride on bamboo raft down a circuitous river did we get lunch. Seeing I could not find anything to hold on to, Dad calmly instructed me to keep my balance, so I held my breath and stilled my frightened little heart.

Why do we have to leave home so many times? I was so sad, every time we left Manila. I was so sad, every time we left Borneo.

British classmates teased me because I mispronounced scissors [slowly instead of fast], misspelled aeroplane, and forgot the words to God Save the Queen. Whenever we returned to Manila, I was teased again, because I spoke with a funny accent and ate mini sausages and gherkins on toothpicks for lunch!

It couldn’t be helped, Mom tried to explain: I, too, had to leave my island when I married your Dad. Manila was a big shock People spoke a different dialect.

We couldn’t separate family, dearest—watch the crumbs dear—