IN A narrow shop on A. Del Rosario St. in Mandaue City, Cebu, a man in his 60s hunched over a disassembled lens, his fingers steady, his eyes focused.
Francisco “Jun” Pono Jr. didn’t need neon lights or flashy branding. His reputation walked in before the customer did.
He was known simply as Sir Jun — the Camera Doctor.
But he hadn’t always been a master of optics. There was a time, four decades ago, when he was just a fresh electronics graduate stepping into his first job at JH Trading House. He fixed organs and RAMSA sound systems and, on the side, repaired old radios and appliances. The pay was small, the hours long, but Jun was never afraid to start small.
In 1991, he became a technician for United Appliance, handling TVs and video cameras. It was there that his hands began to memorize the insides of circuit boards, how a shutter ticks, and why a lens might fog. People began to call him not just a technician, but “the guy who really knows.” But Jun was restless. He wanted something of his own. So in 1996, with a few tools and quiet determination, he opened a modest repair shop in Baybay, Leyte. He stayed for three years, fixing everything from ceiling fans to projectors. By 1999, he was back in Cebu, taking on home service calls, traveling by foot or jeepney with a bag of tools slung over his shoulder.
Then came 2007. With barely enough to rent a space, he finally opened Pono Electronics. At first, it was just him and his nephew Kristian — just a workbench and a dream. They fixed video cameras, then digicams. People were skeptical at first. Who was this soft-spoken man offering repairs when big companies charged thousands? But something set Jun apart: he was honest. He’d look a customer in the eye and say, “Pwede pa ni. Pero kinahanglan og pasensya.” Or sometimes, “Sayang, dili na madala. Dili ko gusto magpa-asa.” And people remembered that.
Word spread like wildfire in quiet conversations at camera shops and photo shoots:
“Go to Jun Pono in Guizo. He fixed my lens in two days.”
“Di ka mabinuangan didto. Mao ra gyud iyang presyo.”
Soon, wedding photographers, photojournalists and hobbyists began showing up at his doorstep. He expanded his services to DSLRs in 2012. His small shop became the final stop before people gave up on their gear.
Jun was never alone on this journey. Kristian Pono stood beside him from the beginning and, in 2012, a young assistant named Klefford Labuga joined. Together, they worked in quiet rhythm — unscrewing, cleaning, reassembling. Cameras came in lifeless and left ready to capture stories again.
Jun never bragged, but he knew what his work meant. Through cracked LCDs, jammed shutters, and water-damaged lenses, he was helping people keep memories alive.
And perhaps the greatest memory he ever built was for his own family. Through every lens he fixed, every peso he earned, he put three children through school.
“Tungod sa electronics,” he once told a customer, eyes gleaming, “nahuman gyud tanan.”
Now in his 60s, Jun still comes to the shop every morning. The same steady pace, his hands more careful. But when he opens a broken lens, something in him still lights up.
Because inside that camera, he doesn’t just see circuits or glass.
He sees his past. His persistence.
His story framed in light.
And like every good doctor, he does what he does best: He gives it life again. (Juan Carlo de Vela)