The Weekly Sillimanian

Guardian of The Gate of Motorcycles

By Tatiana Onofre

Ramael Corgue stands at the CBA parking lot of Silliman University with the style of quiet authority that neither begs for attention nor needs it. Every day, under the bronze aura of the setting sun, he ensures that the motorcycles neatly lined up along the parking lot remain untouched, unmoved, and most importantly, safe and sound.

For ten years, Ramael has been the unsung sentinel of countless students’ vigors. He is the “Parking Boy with a Photographic Memory,” a title earned not simply by just  the obnoxiously sheer volume of motorcycles he remembers, but by the names, faces, and habits of the students who own them. 

A student walks in during an interview with him, barely through the gate, and Ramael is already pointing ahead, shouting with casual ease, “Naas unahan imo amigo.” [Yours is just up ahead, friend.]

It’s this almost seamless familiarity that hooks kuya Ramael to the students. It’s why they hand him their keys without a second thought, sometimes with a wallet or phone tossed into the mix.

His wife, who has worked alongside him since 2018, shares the same ethic. She explains that when students leave things there and trust them, of course, they don’t take advantage of that trust.

Kuya Ramael’s day is not confined to guarding motorcycles. He carries a toolbox, ready for any minor repair a student might need—a loose chain here, a stubborn handle there. Sometimes, they send him downtown to run errands, shouting as they speed off, “Ya, adto downtown ya kay naa koy ipapalit.” [Kuya, can you go downtown and buy this for me?] He obliges without complaint, a quiet nod his only acknowledgment.

There’s a warmth to his presence, a humor that feels like a nudge from an older brother. One student limps off their motorbike, and kuya Ramael quips, “Di pud na arthritis? Haha.” It’s the kind of joke that makes the student laugh, because of the familiarity he brings.

He and his wife wait every night until the lot is empty, making sure a student is not left behind, until the hum of all the motors fade into the distance. A promise, not a job.

When asked why students trust him so much, kuya Ramael shrugs. “Ug unsay mahatag nako, mao ra na. Say’ makita nilas akoa, na ako gina atiman ug palangga kay tawo rapud biya ko. [I just give what I can. What they see in me is what I give them, I take care of them because I’m human, too.]”

Years ago, a student snapped a photo of him that went viral. She had left her wallet, phone, and keys in her bike, and kuya Ramael had watched over it all without a second thought. The photo was an attestation to the trust he quietly built, one motor at a time.

Kuya Ramael’s story is not grand in the way most stories aspire to be. It is not filled with applause or adorned with accolades. It is, instead, the story of a man who chooses to show up every day, who respects and is respected in return may it be by students, teachers, or his family.

Ga respeto sila nako, mao rapuy ako isukli nila.” [They respect me, and that’s all I pay back.]

In a world of transient connections, kuya Ramael’s is the kind of immutable presence that reminds us what it means to trust and be trusted. A quiet and enduring orange light in a world of white noise.

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