More Than Words

After moving to the Philippines as a kid, I had to learn a brand-new language. The hardest part? Remembering how to properly insult my brothers.

“Agai!”

That’s what my Filipino mum would shout whenever she accidentally hurt herself – stubbing her toe, for instance. Depending on the severity of the pain, she’d utter additional words, in this order of magnitude: “Agai, lichibai, bilangguan!” There is a fourth word she occasionally said, a mildly vulgar appendage, but I’ll keep that a secret to protect the guilty.

Of course, as an English-speaking child in 1980s Britain, I had no idea what she was saying. “Agai” meant “ouch”, that much was clear. But the rest?

I resolved to find out, shortly after moving to the Philippines in ’89. I think we were in the living room of my Lola and Lolo’s (grandparents) house in Pulupandan, Negros Occidental. A tiny home with green walls and a vintage television as centerpiece; I can’t remember if it was on or off at the time. If on, it would have been channel RPN 8 playing an American rerun crammed with a thousand advertisements.

“What does ‘agai, lichibai, bilangguan, [bad word]’ mean?”

I think they giggled. Their pale-as-rice English-speaking apo was asking about throwaway words, interjections that don’t really have any meaning. It would be like asking what “son of a gun” meant. Sure, you can literally explain it. But what’s the point?

At the time, those were the only words I knew. They were of little help to me in the province. If I was to get around properly, communicate with people, and buy Coca-Cola from the nearby sari-sari store, I had to learn more than “agai, lichibai, bilangguan”.  

Thankfully, my Filipino cousins were on-hand to help.

I bought a notebook and drew a line down the middle of each page. In the left-hand column I wrote essential English words and phrases: Please. Thank you. How are you? Where are you going? In the right-hand column, I jotted their translations: Palihog. Salamat. Kamusta ka? Diin ka makadto?

The list grew and I got valuable lessons in language, emphasis, suffixes and the like.

For example:

Salamat = thank you

Salamat gid = thank you very much

When I had mastered these, one of my cousins told me there was a third way to express fervent thanks, but for this I had to learn a brand-new sound: “ng”. It’s a critical Filipino sound, like clicking is an integral part of South African speech.

Madamo gid nga salamat = a lot of thanks (it’s like saying, “you have my profound thanks”)

The ng sound was pesky at first. My cousins would point at their throats and the back of their mouths, signally where the sound was to come from. It looked like they were choking. It would have been better if they had instructed me to take the word “angle” and ditch the “a” and “le” parts.

That’s it. “Ng”.

Of course, having learned the ng sound, I felt I had reached a significant milestone. I was ready to graduate from useful sounds and phrases to far more important vocabulary: swear words.

See, when you’re a gangly pre-teen with energetic younger siblings, all of you trying to one-up each other in this strange new world with a strange new language, swear words are essential if you’re to maintain the pecking order.

I wanted to start with basic stuff. I honestly wasn’t thinking of hardcore cussing. I had no use for it. Besides, it would have been too out of place. I wasn’t Scarface. I was just looking to learn a few mild insults to deploy like James Bond would use a handy gadget to get out of a bind. Words like “stupid” and “idiot”, that kind of stuff. Like I said, I had siblings, so these would come in handy.

My notebook took an edgy turn. “Gago” (stupid), “mang-o” (really stupid), “bulay-og” (incredibly stupid). My cousins taught me “bad” words in hushed tones, like dark priests revealing hallowed secrets to their hungry protégé. I scribbled hard. It wouldn’t be long before another squabble with my brothers. I’d be ready with some satisfactory choice words.

Why I thought it would be effective to insult people with words they wouldn’t understand, I have no idea. Maybe it was the rush of knowing something they didn’t? Anyway, the tone and way I’d use the words would have sufficient bite. They’d know they were insulted, and they’d be frustrated because they’d have no idea what I was saying.

Genius plan.

The thing about speaking a new language is first you think in your native tongue and then wait a few seconds while your brain scans for the translation. It’s like using a thesaurus in Windows/386. The lag time between my siblings doing something to annoy me and my brain identifying the appropriate local insult was too long.

Often, by the time I was able to retort, my brothers were out of sight, my newfound foul words stumbling from my tongue and drying up on the baking hot ground.

I rarely swear these days. I used to say “agai” whenever I hurt myself, like my mother, but find that “ow” is just as effective. That said, when the pain passes a certain threshold, or if my kids do something to annoy me, or if I catch the family dog gnawing on my homemade bookshelf, an ancient word will resurface.

And one day, my kids will ask me what it means.

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Note: “Agai” is the pronunciation. It’s spelled “agay” but we all know how non-speakers might read that.