Reconnecting with the earth

The Good Life with Eli F.J. Tajanlangit

By the time we got out of Bacolod, the skies had turned dark.

Up ahead, the mountains were a landscape in various hues of gray – deep gray, blue gray, green-gray – and as we entered Murcia, the rains fell. It was rolling into one huge tent and visibility was just a few feet.

Going up to Murcia has always been a pleasant ride on roads that rolled and twisted and rose and dropped, while around you are carpets of greens – sugarfields, wild grass, trees. It had always been so to go to Mambukal for some excursion, perhaps to dip one’s body and spirit in the revitalizing temperatures of nature’s hot springs.

Today’s trip, however, is to see some exotic animals in a private farm, on Good Friend C’s wish. And so, instead of going all the way to the usual, we took a left turn, and rolled down a low slope that brought us to a patch of land thick with trees, with cottages here and there, the property enclosed by bamboo fence.

There were cages for rare birds and monkeys, dogs in chains and dogs freely roaming around, playing with native chickens. There were enclosures for swine and crocs, an artificial pond where decorative and pet koi thrived alongside tilapia that’s growing for some dinner.

It wasn’t long before one is stumped by the realization that one had returned to one’s boyhood -- of fruit trees and plants, vegetables and farm animals. The thought came at the sight of a guava tree too loaded with green fruits the size of ping-pongs that the branches bent here and there. Good Friend J pointed to several fruits that were about to ripen, ones that looked like they will crunch at first bite and release the tart juices that only the native variety could give. For a while there, I wanted to pick them without permission, but for C who called me away.

There was a marang tree that had fruits bursting at practically every bough, and I stared at them for some time, rediscovering the fruit that many of us now consider “exotic,” one which, in our time, was deemed too ordinary you had piles of them in the market during the rainy season. The fruits on its crown are no longer there, said our host, the fruit bats visit at night and everything up there. That’s why we also have to cover the nangka fruits, he also volunteered, sounding like a science teacher now.

Given my penchant for dramatics, I stood there as our hosts pointed out the other plants and trees in the farm and took a long deep breath, my mind racing at the thought of being part of nature and her processes and cycles.

That was probably why, when we were served pineapples that were just a little bigger than my fists, I thought it was one of the sweetest I have tasted. It’s the variety from a multinational fruit company, our host said, but we did not fertilize it so it did not grow big. But you see, if it grows big, it doesn’t taste this sweet he said. Ah, I thought as I took a bite, it really couldn’t be any better than this, fruit that was allowed to ripen in its own time.

It helped that the rains had fallen hard. Not only did it cool the air, it coaxed that unmistakable scent of the earth that comes only after the rains wet the parched soil – I think the explanation for that is when the rains cool the ground down, it releases the heat into the atmosphere. And that was what we smelled, something that I smelled such a long time ago, it had seemed strange at first.*

For feedback, go to www.lifestylesbacolod.com, check Bacolod Lifestyles on Facebook and follow @bacolodtweets on Twitter

back to top