Love tales from a bahay sawali

I can’t recall any Valentine’s Day, but this last one I can and I will.

Sitting on the porch of a Samal house made of bakawan from Taluksangay Island and ordinary sawali, the light blue sea calms me as I hear the waves against the rocks while the breeze and the white (Moro mourning-like) curtains battle wildly. My thoughts go back to years of adventures in the 1980s on the Sulu and Celebes Seas tracing the routes of the Samal slave raiders. A book written by Mednick rests on my bamboo desk beside 24 red roses bought from the Zamboanga market. Peachie Prieto, Jun Simon, Jesse and Beng Jamulod arranged them at midnight of the 14th, sneaked them into the house, which a common abode (due to lack of finances) of Louie Baltazar’s and myself. Easy now, he’s my lawyer.

Being the house that it is, with no partitions, except for the bedrooms, a knock past midnight on my sawali door can be alarming. My yaya and I simultaneously asked, "Sino yan!" drowning Swan Lake on the CD player. The joke would have been on Peachie had the door remained shut. Good thing Jessie answered Yaya Carol. Through the door slightly opened now, a hand sneaked in a bouquet of crowded red roses with pako leaves that we could have eaten with vinegar and sliced tomatoes.

"To bring back the smile on your face," Peachie said in her gentle, genteel manner. Shock more than smile! Surprises are most endearing.

Valentine’s Day had just begun for Peachie, too, who was equally astonished at receiving her own lavish bouquet. The kindness one liberally accords another always returns to the giver. While she was shopping among the early morning vendors for my roses, Jessie and Jun were buying flowers for her in other stalls while Beng kept Peachie busy arranging my bouquet.

* * *

This Samal residence with its three pointed roofs has become a haggling zone for Peachie’s pearl traders who hunt her down upon hearing of her arrival. Bouganvillas, ferns, birds of paradise, palmeras, serve as walls for its occupants in front or behind cheap bamboo curtains bought from a Zamboanga del Sur vendor plying the boulevard. "Parang jungle ito," friends tease looking around. The plants are our buffers as they defy the torrents of rain during the monsoon season. The sun shines too harshly on hot days so we add more plants to shield us.

This house is open to all the elements and people. When it storms the furniture are carried by water into the center of the house and we walk over water splashing all over red tiled floors. Henry will sweep the water and debris anyway, while Peachie and I press our hair down pat on our scalps that’s standing upwards from the fierce wind making us look like we were electrocuted or better yet, shocked, like we saw a couple of ghosts.

The house never runs out of guests and food as long as the gate is open. My Muslim friends drop by, Mayor Sulay of Bongao on his way to the pantalan to count his catch for the day which he exports... and Sitti Loong and Anang of Jolo bring durian, mangustin, curacha, prawns, fish, seaweeds, kamuns, clams and laughter. The other day I was given turtle eggs. "Turtle eggs! Endangered species!" I said, alarming the guests from Turtle Island. (Easy lang, an uprising by environmentalists need not be). There are turtles whose eggs are meant to be delicacies and turtles whose eggs are treasured to propagate their kingdoms. That’s the mayor’s new regulation and conservation remedy.

* * *

I’m never an orphan in Zamboanga City among officers and gentlemen in uniform and Tita Caling who’s nearby, like a mother to Peachie and me. There on beige sofas that serve as beds at night is where Assemblyman Poching Abubakar and I plot our course for the island hops to Samarinda in Kalimantan. Anang Abdurajak entertains us, in a Lotus position with stories of Seers and Abu Sayyafs, while the Mayor of Tongkil, Lady Ann, can’t relax watching over her fish business next door while caressing her chubby grandson.

A funny anecdote goes like this: The former governor of Sulu, Tupay Loong, came to visit us accompanied by a Joloano violin player. Upon seeing the house from the road the violinist said, "Yan ba ang bahay ni Mam? Hindi na ako malulungkot. Pareho ang bahay ko sa kanya."

* * *

Everything comes easy and breezy in Zamboanga. Jessie does the marketing at 6 a.m. The owners of a fast craft to Basilan, the kind Sakalurans who also built a tremendously large mosque beside their home, lend me their family van and Mang Jay. Francis cooks tinola or sinigang. Riley, the security of Mayor Bassar Abdurajak of Old Panamao in Sulu, tries his hand as Francis’ assistant and consistently succeeds in over-cooking the prawns and black chicken with coconut milk, standard Tausug dishes. Once he put our imported pako from Basilan by mistake into our soup since it lay ready to be washed and made into a salad. "E akala ko..." What can you say to that?

Beng, secretary to Bapa Sakaluran, becomes our girl Friday for the duration of our stay. Airline check in – check out... please pick up the bamboo chair, the mirror, please buy my medicine and the bulbs, please...please...as my Marine godchild Capt. Benjamin Espinosa can’t be thanked enough for being another caretaker and caregiver even into the deep nights. Our rowdy neighbors who squat and "own" a carenderia have lowered the volume of their music in consideration for Mikee’s mom. They even wave goodbye – or could it be good riddance – when we leave for Manila so they can again play at full blast their music.

Zamboanga by the sea in the evening is soothing. On the cement benches at Kawa-Kawa, families gaze at the shadows of islands and ships. Peanut and balut vendors on a break exhausted as children are carried by their daddies. Perhaps the moms need that break. Many sit wearing sweaters while others stroll slowly along. Crossing paths with us as we greet each other "Buanas Noches." It is a time to be affectionate and a time to make peace under the heavens.

* * *

It was a time for continued love for Brenda and my cousin Ricky Manzano. February, the month for two should-be lovers, a young Tausug bride and groom both 19 years old promised to cherish each other and endure. The two of them – silent, dazed, distant and unmindful of one another and their guests – sat rigid, reminding me of a couple gone through a tampuhan or 20 years of married life.

As custom would have it, both need not know each other, but their parents, aunts and uncles would know each other’s families. That was what this wedding was all about: forging alliances.

This wedding rites over, the groom would have to wait a minimum of three days to consummate his role as bridegroom. That’s still lucky for him – other grooms have had to wait through weeks and months while his bride, true to custom, enjoyed the role of one difficult to acquire and therefore eventually more special. Brides in some cases must subdue their personal feelings if she loves somebody else. The same for the groom – to overcome his love for any other in favor of his bride. Love for me made me earn P1,500 inserted in between my fingers while I attempted to dance the pangalay when the clamor of the evening was the exhibition of my Comadre Abubakar Tulawie. I’m sure she must have earned more than I did, belonging to a huge Tausug clan, at the all-night morning festivities that would last a few days more.