by icarus
Tatang, my grandfather whom I grow up with is not only an outstanding farmer but is also a fine fisherman. When he goes to the farm to tend to his ricefields, he always had with him, strapped on his waist, his “alat” a woven bamboo basket with a narrow neck plugged with a cleverly devised cone of flattened bamboo sticks that allows things to slide in but not out. The things he put in his “alat” includes “dalag”, “paltat”, ar-aro, “dakumo”, bisokol”, “leddeg”, “tukak” not necessarily at the same time or in any particular order. He does not intently spend his time looking for these but in the bygone days, these species were plentiful in the Masicampo and the Pagumpias, two large tracts of open rice land in Asingan that borders Dupac, respectively on the east and on the west. These rice lands are also rich fishing grounds. A puddle in the paddies always had some stranded dalag or paltat. An old footprint in the rice field teems with leddeg and bisukol. An opening in the tambak would indicate a burrowed dakumo or two. Underneath heaps of mown rice stalks are frogs seeking shelter. My Tatang, wise on the ways of farm survival, has an uncanny instinct for this things and they invariably end up inside his alat.
Sometimes on a rainy afternoon, he would send me to town to buy ‘kalburo” (Calcium Carbide). Astride that big old fashion bicycle, I sit on the bike’s frame rather than the saddle which is too high for a young boy. I would pedal my way to Lua’s Variety Store, my butt obscenely swaying from side to side, my torso rhythmically forming and reversing in S-shape, as I strain to reach the pedals. Wet and muddy from racing with chasing dogs, I would insert myself inside the crowd of buyers lining the counters. Not wanting to get in contact with my armor of mud, they would unwittingly part to allow me to buy ahead - half a kilo of those gray lumps from the old Chinese grocer. On the way home, the same dogs would be waiting in ambush, raring to get their revenge from being outraced earlier - but that’s for another story. Mixed with water, kalburo gives off acetylene, a combustible gas that fires my tatang’s olden bronze “lampa” giving off a bright yellow light that reflects brightly on its shiny parabolic reflector. Lampa is the local term for a carbide lamp consisting of two cylindrical bronze chambers and a flame nozzle centered on a reflecting dish. The lower chamber holds the carburo; the upper chamber holds water and had knobs to regulate the flame. That’s what the old folks use before there were any flashlights.
When the rain intensifies in the evening, Tatang would load his lampa, put on his “bistukol” and “annanga”, strap on his alat, grab his “tallakeb”and walk right into the dark rainy night. He would be preceded by an ellipse of illuminated ground courtesy of the kalburo-fired lampa. All over the wide expanse of the masicampo and the pagumpias one could see solitary spots of lights moving about, piercing the black darkness of the pouring monsoon. They are from the lampas of hardy fish seekers and frog hunters called “mannilaw” just like my tatang.
Fish and frogs and other fresh-water denizens are particularly friendly on rainy days, especially during heavy downpours. Their eyes shine like embers from the reflection of light. Caught in the focused brightness, they froze on their tracks like stones waiting to be picked up. Like clockwork, Tatang always comes back after an hour or so, his alat filled to the brim with tukak, pellat, dalag or whatever is in season. The catches are kept in separate “burnays”. What we cannot consume, my Inang would sell in the market the following market day.
But one night, my Tatang could not return within the expected time and my Inang was worried and concerned. His share of the evening snack – two ears of boiled corn – lay cold waiting for him. We can usually spot him approaching from 5o meters even in the heaviest monsoon. But passed an hour, two hours, three hours going four - still no sign of an approaching lampa. After supper that night he listened to the chorus of frogs croaking all around and determined that they’re more plentiful in the Pagumpias, so off he went to that direction. My Inang is about to go out and seek for help when Brownie our old dog barked. He barked incessantly, facing the direction of the Pagumpias yet I could see no Lampa coming. He kept barking until his bark turned into an excited whine and then I was relieved to see my Tatang emerge from the hedges of “saluyot” just after the bamboo thicket. “Tatang, tatang…”, I ran out to met him in the drizzle. He fondly shielded my head with his wide palm. Gone is his lampa and he has no alat. No tallakeb or bistokol, only the remnants of his tattered annanga. “What happened to you, you kept us all worried?” my Inang anxiously asked. “Oh, you wont believe me if I told you, Baket. Please hand me those dry clothes first. I’m freezing.” He dries up and changed clothes. “So, what actually happened?”, Inang persevered. “And where is your catch?” “I don’t know, my alat might have dropped somewhere, Im not sure…I got lost in the dark…“ , stammered my usually self-assured tatang. I can see from his face a trace of distress like he was stunned or had just come off a bad dream. And very tired.
“The catch is plentiful tonight”, he started. “I was just across the “kalungkong” about a hundred meters from here and already, my alat is half full. I was thinking to get back early when my lampa went off because of the strong wind. Not wanting to go home with half a basket, I tried to reignite the lampa with the few matchsticks that I brought. But each time the stick lighted it quickly gets snuffed out by the driving wind - until I ran out of matchsticks. I looked around. There were many lights from fellow mannilaw but they were too far off. But there, about a hundred meters to the southwest, I saw the light of another “mannilaw”.
Quickly, I grabbed my tallakeb and proceeded towards his direction. But I could not just walk in the middle of the newly planted rice paddies, I have to follow the “tambak”. By the time I got to where he stood just a few minutes back, he has gone somewhere else. I was not closing the gap at all so I groped and walked even faster in the dark, chasing after the fellow mannilaw. Sometimes it gets bright and sometimes it disappears from view. But there it is in the general direction of southwest. I half run and half stumbled. The hundred meters become eighty and then sixty, then forty…! At last I could light up my lampa and continue with the catch… Thirty meters, twenty, fifteen…”Can I have a light, my friend?”, I called his attention in between my pantings. Only ten meters now. It was so dark but I was coming so close! And then the light stopped moving as if waiting to light up my lampa. Ah, the fellow heard me, at last.
I hurriedly groped my way to the stationary light, and touch the flame with my lampa’s nozzle. It lighted with a zap. “Thank you my friend”, I mumbled. I was so grateful as my eyes adjust to the brightness only to realize that no one was holding the candle… Candle?!! I turned my lampa to my right and saw an arched window. I beamed my lampa around. More arched windows… and brick walls… and cornice and old stained glass panels. And then I realized! I was alone inside the Ermita, that old abandoned chapel in the middle of the “kamposanto” – the graveyard!”
My Tatang tried to scream but no sound came out. He just run and run and run! He’s been had by the “mangiyaw-awan”. He never tried to recover his missing lampa. And he never bought a new one either. It was a good excuse not to go night-fishing again. Ever!
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