Donate here: Paypal or here. 🧡🌸
#MahalagaBooks #Children
Alona’s Quest for the Golden Tree
Chapter 2: Baroto
LATER THATÂ afternoon though, all thoughts of the Golden Tree flew out of my mind.
The streets were alive with colors from the streamers that hang from one pole to another. The air was filled with out-of-tune renditions of Sharon Cuneta’s Mr. DJ and Frank Sinatra’s My Way blasting from battery-operated radio transistors. It was pregnant with sumptuous odors wafting from the sawali houses. It smelled of sinigang na baboy, of adobo, of kare–kare. It smelled tantalizingly good.
Today was the Naro Festival, in honor of the great sea that bestowed the town its livelihood and prosperity. Those fishes and diverse sea creatures single-handedly put food in the tables of the villagers.
As I ran to the coastline: a small, curly raven-haired girl, there were skipping and giggling in my run that could only be a by-product of untamed innocence and overflowing excitement. I was clutching a brown bag that swung from side to side. Constant frolicking by this seashore made my bronze complexion dark.
But, I wasn’t the only one bitten by the excitement bug.
The coastline was especially busy with the arrival of several paddle-drawn boats. These boats looked like tiny triangular dots bobbing along the waves from a distance. Baroto, smaller than a regular boat, bore three to four passengers. The two wooden wingtips balanced the boat’s structure and kept it afloat. The venerable captains of those boats, skinny gentlemen of about nine to fourteen years of age, paddled with power and expertise.
Today, those eager faces were alight with happiness. Their trousers clinked happily with coins. Passengers, carrying plastic bags bulging with newly-bought groceries, were endless. It was a particularly busy day. It was great.
Middle-aged ladies, drying fishes by the coastline, were gossiping with much gusto. I passed them and caught some of their conversation.
“Have you seen Manang Gelai’s daughter?”
“Yeah, the girl from Manila? I heard she made it big over there.” The speaker waved her hand vaguely in the direction beyond the sea.
“Pfft. Big, my foot!” cackled one woman, with a rather malicious smile. “How could an uneducated girl with nothing to boast but her beauty made it big in Manila? Think! There’s only one way that’s possible, if you know what I mean.”
“I heard Kumareng Gelai slammed the door on her face,” said one knowingly.
As the women talked, their hands had a minds of their own, laying the fishes at the rows of fishing nets busily. One of them, Manang Bebang the fisherman’s wife, was laughing so hard that her round and plump body bobbed and jiggled.
I didn’t understand why they were laughing with so much ill-disguised excitement.
When I was halfway past them, Manang Bebang whistled.
“Pssst! Nene!”
In this place, every little girl was called Nene.
I clumsily halted, looking back.
The plump woman beckoned me back with a smile. She had a crooked smile, with several teeth missing from too much smoking.
I hesitated. Manang Bebang wasn’t the kindest woman. But she had always been kind towards me, at least.
“Po?” I inquired, coming back grudgingly.
“Is your Nanay home?”
“Yes po,” I answered. I couldn’t stop myself from hopping. I was too eager to get going but too polite to say so.
“Are you preparing anything for later?”
I nodded.
“Yes po. Though, there’s very little to prepare.”
“Is that so?” she said, chuckling sympathetically. “I guess your Papa has not sent anything yet. Bring these to your Nanay at least.”
Manang Bebang bent down and took a huge plastic bag from out of the pocket of her apron.
“Take this,” scooping some dried fishes, she stuffed it inside the plastic bag. “Enough to be your ulam for the next few days, I suppose.”
“Good girl,” she said, reaching out a hand to mess my hair. My hair now smelled suspiciously of stinking dried fish. “Now, run along.”
I did, running uncouthly.
I CAME to a halt in front of the bluish-grey ocean. The baroto I was looking for was nowhere to be found.
I contented myself to waiting.
Several boats were docked at the seashore, dancing against the winds. Their paddlers assembled nearby, immersed in the game of cara y cruz, as if their life depended on it. In a way, it was. The game was simple, participants had to correctly guess what part of the coin will show after it was tossed into the air and caught by the palm. Cara if the face of the coin that showed was Jose Rizal and cruz if it was the carabao.
The boys loved this game. I didn’t. I thought it was ridiculous, and such a huge waste of hard-earned money.
I scanned the ocean. It was so calm and so big. It was an endless land of blueness. It was hard to believe that a Golden Tree could be faring successfully underneath it.
A boat was coming. I smiled.
“Kuya!” I called, waving my arms high.
The boy that I was calling was oblivious to my call. He was busy docking his baroto. Careful not to upset the boat’s equilibrium, he jumped down catlike. The water came up to his waist. Positioning himself at the right wingtip and firmly using his feet as an anchor, he pushed with all his might. Under his straining effort, the boat moved efficiently.
I waited until the boat was successfully docked and all the passengers were gone before I approached the boy.
“Kuya Habagat!” I called, running to meet him.
“Oy,” said the little boy in acknowledgement.
We shared the same dark complexion, high cheekbones, and brown chocolate eyes.
“Your lunch,” I said, thrusting the bag at him.“And Kuya Maliksi. Where is he?”
Looking over his shoulder, I searched for our oldest brother. He was not there.
The little boy shrugged, indicating he had no idea where their oldest brother went.
I keenly looked at my brother.
“He’s probably playing cara y cruz or something, right?”
The little boy scrunched his nose.
“You don’t know that for sure.”
 “I’m sure,” I stubbornly insisted. “Yesterday, the two of you were playing cara y cruz. You left your boats and played cara y cruz.”
“Did you tell Nanay?” Kuya Habagat asked, alarmed in spite of himself.
I shook my head.
“No. Should I tell Nanay?”
The boy made a face.
“Don’t tell Nanay.”
“Don’t play cara y cruz.”
Kuya Habagat merely grunted.
He sat down at the side of his boat and unwrapped his lunch. It was filled with mounds of rice and two very fat tilapias. The slices of red and green were tomatoes and calamansi, set beside the plastic that bore a spoonful of vinegar and soy sauce.
“Nanay said you should go home immediately. No more wanderings at night. She was worried.”
The boy, a piece of tilapia in his mouth, protested. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Snakes walking by the street. Dogs howling at every house. Strange men fighting when they had a bit of beer and gin,” I mulishly ticked. As if to drive home the point even deeper, I added, “I think there are many reasons to be worried.”
“Tsk” was Kuya Habagat’s mere answer. He went back to eating his lunch.
“Oh,” he said after a while, seemingly remembering something. “I have something for you. Hang on.”
From out of the pocket of his shorts, he produced three-golden wrapped objects.
I beamed at him. I loved chocolates.
“Don’t be greedy,” he teased. “Give me some.”
I made a face.
“Fine. One for you,” I said, consenting. “Two for me.”
He broke into a laugh, spraying some rice. He looked so silly I ended up laughing myself.
Together, we enjoyed our meal. The air billowed softly, blowing serenely at the tranquil image of the two kids.
(c) 2016, Herbel Santiago