By Rex Catubig

 

MY barrio Calmay was self-contained–a tiny world unto itself.

But when one had to venture to Baley–for work and other mundane reasons, the baloto was the mode of transport to rely on. Fashioned out of a single piece of carved wood, and secured with bamboo outrigger or kasig on either side, it was sturdy and safe. For seats, it had wooden planks across the body, suspended on the ono por dos piece of lumber bolted horizontally on the sides. It was a feature of flexibility, as the planks could be slid forward or backward to adjust to the number of passengers. A baloto could accommodate up to eight persons.

The boats were docked in Babaliwan, on the riverbank one walked through via a narrow pathway in between the store of Mama Maeng Carrera and the house of the Jesus Damasos from the main road. In a corner at the end of this short passageway reigned Nana Leona, a wrinkled ancient mother earth figure who sat there all day on her small low bangkito –selling inlambong ya ponti and inlambong ya mani, nourishing tummy filler for outbound and inbound boat passengers, that she handed out in pouches made of old komiks or newspaper shaped into a cone or fashioned into handy paper bags–antedating the concept of recycling.

The one-way transport fare was tinggal or five centavos. As one hopped aboard the baloto, one casually dropped the coin on the floor of the boat or handed in the small orange five centavo-paper bill as one disembarked. This customary practice was a testimony and affirmation of the honor system of the barrio folk. The bangkero never checked payment of fare but nobody ever skipped paying his due.

Strong of biceps and experienced in maneuvering the frail boat amid the waves and unpredictable cross-currents of the river, the bangkero was the lord and captain of this humble craft. And come rain or typhoon, he could be relied on to be the master mariner that could brave and tame the mighty river, armed only with his begsay–a skeletal contraption made out of a small wooden oblong blade attached to a pole.

With that simple equipment and instinctive derring-do, the brave  bangkero  gallantly ferried his passengers across the untamed ancient Calmay river, which by some estimates was several bamboos length at its deepest.

Not that it was something to fear or worry about. Throughout my boyhood, I never really heard of a boat that capsized, only random stories of sirenas that were said to rule the river and of pugot that inhabited the massive remnants of the demolished Colegio. Folk myths that fended the boys from venturing farther out into the riverbank to swim and scared them enough not to play amotan in the nooks of the brick columns that jutted out of the muddy bank.

Recalling these in the years hence, the baloto despite its frail build, became the strong rugged vessel that carried across time the long halcyon years, the heartful load of magical memories of a different world in a bygone era–of a simple life wondrously lived, lovingly remembered and dreamed of time and again and again–as one sailed on from the turbulence of daily life towards the calm waters of being.

In 1972, another big flood devastated the city. The rampaging waters of the river swept away a huge chunk of the barrio. Most of the old-time residents lost their homes and had to evacuate and replant their roots elsewhere. Calmay lost not only many of its residents, a sizable portion of its landmass, but a humongous part of its soul.

Who knows, decades from now, Calmay would just be a fleeting memory.

But in our heart, it would always remain alive. It would always be loved.

“Say Calmay et lawas Calmay” Calmay will always be Calmay”.

It is the barrio that carved me out of remnants of dreams.

(Photo by Willie Lomibao)

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