My hometown, Tappo, was the exact definition of a far-flung place. When we moved in the year 2000, getting there felt like an adventure we did not choose but had to survive. We crossed mountains and a river, with our horse Winnie carrying what little we owned. I was young then, but that journey etched itself deeply into my memory.

My mother was assigned to teach at Tappo Primary School, so moving was not optional for our family. Back then, the town was small, with fewer than a thousand people.

The road at that time was nothing more than dirt, stretching endlessly under the sun. For years, I watched people walk those roads daily, braving heat and rain alike.

When the rain came, the path turned into thick mud that swallowed slippers and slowed every step. Still, people walked on because that was simply how life worked in a humble place.

Houses were scattered across wide spaces, sometimes so far apart that neighbors felt distant despite the strong sense of connection. Most families depended on farming. I saw fields being cultivated twice a year, and whatever was harvested became the family’s supply until the next season.

Fish came from backyard ponds or the nearby river, and vegetables were picked straight from home gardens. There one or two stores to run to when something ran out. What we had was what we worked for, and somehow, it was always enough.

Transportation was difficult, and sickness was frightening. I clearly remember times when someone in the community fell ill. All the men would gather at the person’s house, and together they would carry the sick individual on a makeshift stretcher- a blanket cradled between bamboo poles. I watched them walk for hours to reach the town. No one complained. No one questioned why. In moments like those, I learned what real community looked like.

During planting and harvest seasons, “bayanihan” was not just a word but a way of life. I saw neighbors show up without being asked, helping plant rice under the scorching sun or harvesting crops until their hands were sore. There was no payment, no expectation of return. Everyone simply knew that help given today would come back someday.

School, for me, was a place of pure innocence. It was located far from our home, and students walked long distances every day, crossing open fields and a river. Thankfully, there was a bridge, though the journey still felt endless to a child. Kids never went to school thinking about allowance money or snacks. Recess meant freedom.

Everyone played sipa where kids bundle leaves from my mother’s yellow bush or pulling weeds to make a shuttlecock. We also played Chinese garter, laughing as we jumped higher with each level, our slippers tossed aside. Patintero or we call it “en-enter” back then was my favorite- a game that demanded speed, teamwork, and strategy, played on dusty ground marked by lines drawn with sticks. Older students played volleyball nearby, their cheers echoing across the schoolyard.

The school grounds were always alive. I remember running freely, laughter filling the air, and the simple joy of being a child with nothing to worry about except getting home after school.

Today, I know many of those values have changed. But I still carry the memory of a time when everything was done together, when no one was left behind.

The last time I visited Tappo, part of the road from the Amata junction had already been cemented, though much of it remained dirt. I saw cars and motorbikes passing through- clear signs that transportation has become easier.

Still, as I sit in our apartment here in Washington, DC, half a world away from my hometown, my mind often drifts back to Tappo. I do not remember the roads or how difficult they once were. Instead, I remember the people, the way kindness came naturally, the way help was never questioned, and the quiet lessons learned through shared hardship and simple living.