tête-à-tête

Whenever I think of my childhood, I am transported back to the lush forests, meandering clear river, mysterious lake, muddy rice paddies, rolling mountains and hills, and foggy mornings in my village. My friends and I would climb every mango, santol, wild cherry, guava, and tamarind tree with small pouches of salt in our pockets because we would munch the fruits right atop the trees where we picked them. After eating to our hearts' content we would playfully swing from one branch to another like Tarzan minus the howling. Sometimes we would race our way down so I would go home with cuts and splinters all over my legs which meant a two-minute sermon and a mild slap or two on the butt from my mom. At that time there wasn't a single park in our village and I think our parents somehow understood that we had no choice but just enjoy the available "playground" that nature gave us. So, my brother and I would spend summer by scouring forests and mountains for spiders. Towing my wooden toycar that my dad made me, we would slowly walk through thick and tall blades of grass trying to spot webs until we get to the the most exotic and ferocious spider which my brother would keep in compartmentalized matchboxes. Yeah we weren't yet aware of animal rights then. The trick was not to feed the arthropods so they would be ready to devour their challengers during matches two days later. I have to say our spiders often won because they were probably the kings and queens of the spidey world and our playmates' were just the house-spider subjects. I can't remember receiving any cash prize but winning such spider games carried social prestige and in our simple Mario Brothers-free life, nothing compared to being tagged as "the keeper of the strongest spider."

Summer was also harvest time. My father wouldn't require us to help but I remember enjoying picking up the left-over rice stalks that the harvesters failed to take to the shredder. I would patiently gather and stack them then ask my dad to pay me. But every so often, I would get another bottle of coke and sandwich instead and I would be extremely happy. Believe me, it was like receiving a five-hundred-peso bill today. A day later, it's time to dry the rice - on the road because thanks to our leaders, we didn't have any decent dryer. I never told my dad but I would always worry whenever he had to do that because there were some folks who had been hit by passing cars while tossing and stirring their produce. On the other hand, I loved it when we had to scoop the rice back into the sacks partly because I wanted to show my friends that we had a lot of it. I mean, it's all we had so might as well be proud of it. But one of my proudest moments as a kid was when I came back one day from the lake where I used to fish.

My neighbor who was an old folk would go fishing and talk to my mom how much she caught. She sometimes shared with us some mouth-watering dishes she made from her catch and I just admired her for it. So, I asked her to teach me how to make my own fishing rod and take me with her to the lake where she fished. At 11, I was like the very young Harry Potter under the tutelage of Dumbledore with a fishing rod for a wand. Since then, every weekend, I would run to her Hogwarts-inspired house and ask if she was going to go fishing. If yes, we would schlep on levees and join other old folks from other villages in taking advantage of the riches of the lake nestled in the middle of hundreds of hectares of muddy and leech-infested rice paddies. The experience of being surrounded by a lot older people while growing up - hearing their stories, ideas, wit, and antics - must have been the reason I was precocious. My mom would sometimes shush me because I always had something to say about the things she and my dad or whoever came to the house were talking about. One Sunday afternoon, we went fishing again and somehow I had a hunch that something big was going to happen. True enough, after around an hour and some fishes to my name, I realized my buoy was starting to disappear towards the middle of the lake - fast! Usually it was hard to notice the subtle movements because of the wild ripples created by the breeze but at that time I knew something huge was on my hook because even the rod in front of me was starting to move! I immediately grabbed and pulled the stick but I could hardly haul it. Something was pulling it at the other end sloshing the water. I was frantically shouting for help while trying to hold my fishing rod. One of my "fishingmates" immediately came to my rescue and helped me yank an eighteen-inch African catfish into "safety". My hands were shaking and I was still shouting while I was putting the unyielding fish into my bag. Everybody was laughing at me because of the way I desperately hollered for help. On our way home, my mentor complimented me because she said that for years of fishing in that lake, she had never caught anything that size. Upon reaching our village, I was mobbed like a homecoming hero while parading the street. My mom and dad were very proud and I was so thrilled I felt sort of very special because I did something great and my prize was the best, biggest slice at dinner!


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