I trudged along the ledges bordering each plot of land, squishing my way through rainy-season mud and more than once nearly stumbling into pink algae-coated water. For twenty minutes I zig-zagged toward the hills, one path taking me far to the left, the other farther to the right. Finally, the field ended, and I found myself facing a narrow stream, passable by two planks of bamboo laid across the small chasm. On the other side was a small field of newly plowed land. I crossed the stream and pushed my way through a tangle of trees, to find an old man headed my way. My immediate reaction was fear, not for my own safety, but fear that I would be in trouble for trespassing. Yet two words out of his mouth and I remembered that I was still in the Philippines, where the sight of a white American girl strolling deep into rice fields is much more likely to lead to a state of shock rather than to criminal charges.
He cried out when he saw me, asked what I was doing there with a laugh, clearly surprised at my appearance.
I explained that I lived so close to the hills but I had never seen them because I had never walked through the rice field before. He chuckled when I responded to his question in Tagalog, and asked how did I know the language? Was I a Peace Corps Volunteer? My surprise! How did he know? Had we met before? I didn’t remem… No I was sure we had not, although I had seen him around perhaps… Seeing my surprise, he told me that he had known another Volunteer in Negros during the Marcos regime (sometime between 1965 and 1986). I dawned on me this man must be quite old and here he was, still tending to the fields, barefoot and grinning.
His face then took on a semi-serious impression. “What are you doing here!” he exclaimed again. “There are cobras here! You must not walk here alone. Do you know self defense? Come, you must go to my house,” he insisted. I weighed the options and, deciding that death by cobra did not sound like fun, I followed with a laugh to brush off his concerning questions. He chatted the whole walk, leading me along a much easier path than that I had chosen alone. He and his wife had lived in Boso Boso for many years, they had two sons, and yes one of the sons was still single. “When typhoon Ondoy came last year, the water was up to here,” he gestured above his head. This was his plot of land. That one too. That carabao also, and those 4 cows. There were 6 cows total. His wife was “my kaibigan”, my friend, he insisted. She saw me always riding the jeepney, and “one time the jeepney driver didn’t understand when I said I was going to Gate 2, even though I spoke Tagalog, and even though I was loud, and she said just how silly that man was for not understanding me even though I spoke Tagalog.”
We arrived at his house, where he shouted for his wife, “my friend,” to come say hello. His cheerful nature reminded me of Tatay from Daang Bago, my training site, and I felt a pang of homesickness for those kind people. An old woman appeared, walis broom in hand having been sweeping the dirt surroundings of their modest abode. The house was a dirt floor nipa, about the size of my own, lush and shady with fruit trees and a broad dirt lawn. I vaguely recognized the woman, as the man had promised, though I pretended to recognize her instantly, and gushed that she was so masipag, so hard working.
They couple sat me down on a plastic stool and began chatting, asking questions a mile a minute and repeating that yes they had a son who was still single. I did not annoy me as it would have when most said it; they were too sweet. 70 years old each, but they worked like 30 year old taking care of their land, house, animals, and family. I sat on my stool listening in awe as they talked about their lives and the land they owned (yes, that plot too). The woman disappeared inside for a moment, and then returned with a small guayabano or soursop fruit, forcing it into my hands despite my protests. Then sun was starting to set, so the two insisted I get back home. I must visit them again, they said, when their new house was completed just near to my workplace. Certainly, most certainly, I would.
The woman led me through the rice fields, her tiny feet barefoot and her body the size of a child’ yet walking twice that of my normal pace. She was strong from working for a lifetime and she moved with the ease of someone who knew the land well, while I tried my best to balance on the slippery rice field ledges. I admired her in a peaceful silence as I followed her path to the main road. I would visit again, I promised. And I would make it to those hills too.
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