It rained that morning and the roads were sticky with mud that can only be
found in valleys near a river. Butuan is bisected by the Agusan River and the
periodic floods are the constant source of 'danlak', that fertile silt that is
carried down with the rainwater from the mountains, to the rivers and to the
towns along the riverbanks. Butuan is no exception, much like the cities along
the Nile.
A blessing and a curse.
'Danlak' is rich and this is one reason plants grow green and luxuriantly in
Butuan, except in those places that are concrete and places that are so
polluted that not even bacteria or the Anopheles albopectus, that mosquito
specie that carries hemorrhagic fever, can survive.
'Danlak' is dark brown in color, almost grey. With the summer sun and when the
water has drained or evaporated, it becomes dust and it floats over Butuan
like a dark brown canopy. From the plane, one can actually see this malignant
blanket of dirt hovering over our city, as the noon flight from Manila circles
the sky below the clouds before landing. This visible haze of dust mixed with
the exhaust fumes coming from the pernicious tricycles is probably the cause of
the perpetual upper respiratory infection among the children and the high
incidence of lung cancer among the local residents. No, not just probably. I am
sure of it.
I was tiptoeing, trying to find dry spots along the sidewalks of Montilla
Boulevard. I did not want my white walking shoes soiled as they had just been
cleaned by Reesa, my new, eager-to-please maid. Ageless Elmo, in his usual
color coordinated attire was with me, unmindful of the people milling around
us, eyes roving up and down the boulevard, looking for a suitable candidate. He
wore an English sporting cap and suspenders which were holding up his maroon
short pants. Of course, his cap and socks were maroon. He also had on a
collared T-shirt that was a pulsating yellow. In spite of his unconventional
attire, people take to him easily. It must be his gentle smile. I need to learn
from him.
"There's one!", as he pointed to a woman trying to cross the boulevard towards
our side of the street. She was wearing a faded sarong that draped down to her
ankles, green and blue floral design, a slightly crumpled long sleeved, light
blue top and a bandana that had seen better days and she was carrying a baby,
balanced on her hip, wrapped in a cocoon of cotton that used to be white. Only
the face of the baby showed. I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl. A
little girl, about six years old, was clinging on to her skirt, as they waited
for the tricycle to sputter through before they could cross the street from the
island in the middle of the boulevard.
I had been searching for days for a Badjao to interview. I had this ambitious
plan to write about them, one of a dozen stories that I would start and then
abandon after the first few chapters.
Elmo and I walked faster to try to intercept her at the street corner. She saw
us going towards her and her eyes widened in fear. She cringed and she froze
and she clutched at her baby with her right arm as she pulled the older girl
towards her with her left. I had on my dark tinted sunglasses. She must have
thought I was a policeman or something. There had been rumors. Indeed, there
was even a newspaper article that announced that all the Badjaos would be
rounded up and sent to their places of origin. But then, that was before the
elections.
Luckily, Elmo got to her before she could flee from us. He smiled without
showing his dentures as he tried to explain to her about my desire for an
interview. He explained that, in return, we would buy lunch for her and the
girl. And yes, we would pay her, too. She could hardly understand us or she
pretended not to understand us. The little girl interpreted for us. The girl
shook her head and said no.
I asked her, "Why not?"
"She says we have to beg so she can give the money to the Badjao." I understood
that everything goes to a common pot and is shared by everyone in their
mini-society. They congregated behind the Langihan Bus and Jeepney Terminal,
where they would gather together before sunset, for a communal supper, which I
have witnessed, by the way. Supper consisted of rice mixed with
'balanghoy'(cassava flour) to give the rice added volume, and 'tamban'
(sardines) cooked in vinegar. The rice took on a pinkish hue, perhaps from the
balanghoy or perhaps it was because of the reflection of the setting sun on an
orange sky. There were about thirty of them and tons of preschool kids swarming
all over the place.
I wondered where they did their necessities, like sleeping and going to the
bathroom. And I wondered where they could find enough privacy to make babies. I
presume that conception among these people occurs in the same manner as among
the rest of us. And it seemed to me that every Badjao woman beggar carries a
baby with her, like an accessory of the profession, you know, like a doctor
carrying his stethoscope around his neck.
"How much do you get from begging?"
"Sometimes twenty pesos a day when we're lucky.", the little girl bragged as
she interpreted.
The baby was asleep. I took a peep. It must have been five or six months old.
It's face seemed bloated, from malnutrition, beriberi? Or from sunburn. Or
both.
"Is that a brother or a sister?"
"Cousin. And he's a boy."
I had visions of the woman, throwing the newborn into the ocean, as soon as
the umbilical cord was cut, and the father, diving immediately into the water,
to save the baby, a ritual, hundreds, if not thousands of years old, no one
knew. An initiation into a world of hard, harsh struggle for survival.
I looked at the Badjao woman directly and asked her slowly, pronouncing every
syllable as clearly as I could, "Unsa --- ngalan --- mo?" What's your name?
She nodded in comprehension and said, "Badjari."
"Bad---ya---ri ?" I asked.
"Bad---ja---ri.", mimicking me, and looking at me as if I were retarded. That
was when I started really scrutinizing her. She still had her head cover on, a
few strands of intensely black, shiny hair, protruding from under the bandana
on each side of her face. Two inch thin golden earrings dangled from her
earlobes. Her eyes were far apart and her cheekbones were high. They were very
dark brown and there were some wrinkles on her forehead. Fine smile lines to
the side of her eyelids, a thin nose and lips that revealed that laughter was
an indulgence that was not a stranger to her.
She was pretty in her own way and under Aunt Vicky's tutelage, she could be a
candidate for Mrs. Mutya Ng Butuan or something like that. Except that she was
missing one front incisor and her breasts were sagging, obvious because she was
not wearing a bra.
A sea gypsy.
While I was studying her, she was also looking at me. I hate to imagine what
was going through her mind at that moment. Something uncomplimentary, I
suppose.
I focused on the little girl again. "Is that her first name or her last name?"
Without waiting for her niece to translate my question, she answered me with
what I thought was a defiant tone, "Salome is my name. Badjari was my husband."
She straightened up as she said this. Later, I found out her husband was killed
by the Abu Sayaf about four months before. Thus, their exodus from Basilan.
"All right, here's the deal," Elmo butted in. "He will buy coca cola, French
fries, and hamburger for you and your niece. And after the interview, he will
give you five hundred pesos." He pointed to Jollibee which was only a few steps
away.
"No. Give the five hundred pesos to Badjao." She spoke softly in perfect
Visayan, in a voice that seemed to come from a musical instrument that I heard
during my own early childhood. I heard the sound of an ocean breeze.
The Badjao are a water people. They used to live on boats on the ocean or, at
the very least, very near it. Until they were displaced by bandits, rebels,
terrorists, politics or misdirected religious fervor. A good number of them
have been reduced to begging, all along the Philippine archipelago. Including
Butuan.
"Okay, all right." I said to her.
Elmo led the way. I was right behind him. The security guard opened the clear
thick plastic door to let Elmo and me in. I could feel the wonderful cool air
rush out from inside. The saloon was half full. The Badjao woman with her baby
and her little niece followed me.
"Hoy, you can't go in there!" the guard yelled at Salome and the girl. She
stopped, looking at me helplessly, mouth drooped in passive resignation, as
the massive guard stood menacingly in front of her, blocking her entry. This
must have happened to her before.
"What's the problem?"
"Sir, they are not allowed inside."
"Why not?" My eyebrows arched. Four seconds passed and the guard could not
answer me. He could not look at me. Guilt written all over his face.
"Why not?!!! I yelled as I turned to face the beautiful store manager who was
now hurriedly coming towards me. "They are my guests. Don't treat them like
mud!"
The other customers were now looking at us, surprised, disapproving of this
sudden outburst. I did not care. My fangs have come out and smoke was blowing
out of my nostrils.
I was upset.
"Leche !!! How dare you? How dare you? Don't ever do that. Not in Butuan. Not
in my hometown."
The End
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