BY BORDI JAEN
(Writer’s Note: It would have been the 71st birthday of my dear old dad on the 2nd of January. This two-part special is a recollection of some of my most memorable childhood memories. I do not usually write narrations such as this because I’m used to writing essays, but it is good to come out of one’s comfort zone. Also, why not? Happy birthday, Tatay!)
THE DAY went on as usual. It was a day living the probinsyano life with my dad at the fishponds.
My dad thought it best to improve my sickly deportment since I had nothing else to do during my summer break, I happily complied.
So beautiful and vast was the place. The fishponds were right along the mouth of a river that opened into the ocean. Its shores were lined either with mangroves or by beaches of sand. I never forgot those strips of sand. While they had a charming pale-yellow tint about them, the currents littered them with plenty of mismatched slippers and shoes (thankfully with no foot attached).
It was like an ukay-ukay for mismatched slippers. Remembering them, I wondered if they were from unfortunate beachgoers who had their footwear carelessly lost as they swam. I like to think of it that way, at least.
Aside from fishpond beds as far as the eyes could see, flora of every kind were aplenty but mostly native trees whose names I can’t recall. The road to the place, not concreted, was rather treacherous. It was especially muddy during the rainy seasons. To curb the danger of any incoming vehicle slipping down to the fishpond beds, palm trees were planted along the paths to provide protection; they also served to safeguard against soil erosion.
There were migratory birds of different colors that flocked nearby. I remember peering at them with my binoculars as they rested upon treetops or hunted by the waters. The ones that struck me were the cranes – or at least I thought they were cranes because of their slender figures, with elongated necks and feet with bodies plumed by magnificent whitish feathers.
Going there to take a break which lasted a few days at a time, we stayed at a bungalow I fondly called “command center”. The bungalow was small but well-kept. It had green-painted concrete walls and shiny, white tiles. Its sala and kitchen were undivided but the room where we slept was divided. The room was like a cheap hotel room with a small bathroom, white walls, a bed with cheap linen, and a window which offered a view of the outside covered by the large branches of the mangroves.
The sala had an old box TV with a rattan sofa facing it. An oddity there was the basketball tournament trophy perched proudly on top of the box TV. Young me wondered, “Why is that thing there”. It was later explained that the workers had played in an inter-company basketball tournament which they handedly won.
Across the sala, between it and the kitchen area was a dark wooden table from which we ate the bounties that the waters offered. To this day, I still maintain Brackish water fish has the best taste.
There was a stream that went along with the path which eventually led into the ocean, akin to the river which was to its perpendicular.
Command center was an apt name for the bungalow which was enveloped by the river and the stream’s estuary. It gave a great view of the river’s mouth and with careful eyes, of the island across.
Command center was where the entire operation of the place was directed, from the rearing of the fry and fingerlings to the maintenance of the fishpond beds and the harvesting of the fat catch of bangus, shrimp, crab, and what not. The rugged road ended there as well.
Such were the surroundings where I spent many happy days with dad. I was truly let loose. Many days were spent wandering endlessly or just staying put and taking in the fresh, salty air. Some days were spent going to the beach area or traversing along the stream like David Livingstone searching for the source of the Nile. (To be continued)/PN
