A WADE TO REMEMBER

WHEN it rains and the wind is never weary, life, to borrow a line from Longfellow, is cold, and dark and dreary. But to most Metro Manila residents, life is made colder, darker and drearier by the perennial floods.

Last month, when typhoon Karen sideswiped the metropolis when it entered Northern Luzon in a whiplash, I cuddled safely at home in Marilao, Bulacan. And despite the dull and gloom, I had reasons to celebrate, one for getting a reprieve from my midterm exam that day, and two, for being spared from braving the floods in the sinewy streets of the metropolis all because of class and work suspension.

Fortunately, the subdivision where my family lives lies comfortably on an elevated part of a wide span of rolling hills and plateaus in southern part of the town, so we were not at all bothered by floods, unlike people in some areas in the province or in that seemingly cursed coastal or riversided cities in the Metro.

But my personal celebration was dampened by the news that my relatives in Narvacan, my hometown in Ilocos Sur, were severely affected by the typhoon. Vast tracts of ricelands were submerged in the flood, and even residential areas in the poblacion and along the highway that traversed our barangay were not spared. 

Only decades ago, floods were rare occurrences in barangay Nanguneg, even during heavy or prolonged squalls. I mean real big floods when the water level hit the waistline of an adult, or when valuable things had to be hauled off hurriedly to the second floor of our house.

Floods in the barrio are different from those in the city.

Though the degree of peril is higher in our place because our barangay is very near the storm-surge-prone coast of South China Sea, and bounded by two rivers on opposite sides, and that the lost of income due to damaged crops is so real before every farmer’s eyes and he would just look at the damage with the resilience and hopefulness of the Ilocanos.

But unlike the reeking Waterworld of Metro Manila, there are no floating garbage, no abusive tricycle or pedicab drivers or ubiquitous wooden plank-bridge made by street toughies or tambay for a fee, and no cursing at city officials and MMDA personnel for clogged esteros and open manholes.

Against a backdrop of a dull, dark gray of the sky, a flood in the barrio is a vista of unhurried life gone wet and awry—timeless, surreal, a poem, a nostalgia, a sigh. You have to experience it to say it can be anything but dreary!

There’s one memorable flood, some rare episode of nature’s wrath in our barangay then, and it happened on my 17th birthday! I remember that early morning in September when the waters started to rise up to knee level and before eight it rose until it submerged half of the first floor of our house. So immediately we emptied cabinets and moved their contents to the second floor, and so with the pots, plates and silverwares, and the dalikan (earthen stove) and that included the remaining firewood that we can salvage from the dirty kitchen.

Around us were boundless pool and whirlpools of mud and detritus, of drowned chickens, bloated piglets, banana stalks and pairless slippers. The second floor was turned into a jumble of soggy clothes, and school bags and shoes, stools and a bookshelf, and sooted pots and pans, and the dalikan, and stacks of plates and plastic cups, and bottles of bagoong, patis, and salt. A hen and its freezing brood joined us in the fray for space.

The lull before the next barrage of the storm came about during lunchtime. The waters had not subsided even an inch, and sporadic spits of rain in that time span shut us out from any outdoor activities.

We had our lunch on the wooden floor. My mother served a platter of hot rice, a bowl of sardinas which she sauteed with onion and tomato, and a plate of tuyo (dried dilis). And no one ever spoke about a celebration for my special day.

After a hurried meal, Father and Manong Ben played chess on a small bench by the window. Manong Romel and I cozied up in one of the two rooms upstairs and opened up each other’s unfinished pocketbooks. (Manong Milton, our eldest, was in Zamboanga that year.) My three younger sisters scrounged for a space in their noisy play and arguments over their toys and imaginations. Mother wouldn’t like to think our situation in a damp bed; she rather occupied herself with the dalikan, boiling the corn and the kapeng bigas, readying them to warm our stomach throughout the day.

Outside the house, I heard moos and bleats of farm animals wet and sullen under the trees along the elevated shoulder of the highway. Joining the fray were calls from fish vendors and intermittent roars of passing vehicles.

Around four in the afternoon, I saw from the window a chicken keeping itself afloat in the swirling waters in the farm near the house. It must have fallen from its perch in a guyabano tree near our house. It was alive, weak and ready to die any time soon. I jumped into the chilly flood waters, and waded hurriedly to catch the chicken. I brought it upstairs and Mother butchered it for the next meal. And before dusk, we dined together, or rather we feasted, on a steaming sapsapuriket (or dinuguang manok).

While the squall continued to rage outside, the whole family was safe and sound in our damp and muddled place, shrugging the flood off as another chapter of our life in the barrio or as an unusual background for my birthday celebration. And I went to sleep with a hearty burp.