Pati ba naman diri may toll fee?
Stop Station. They found the boat ride daunting.I felt like we were in Central Africa or some exotic marshland. Water stretched as far as our eyes could see. The pump boat we were riding had to navigate around grasses and steer clear of tree limbs and shallow water. While we were passing through one particularly placid pool, I reached on instinct for the water below—only to yank my hand back. Far from the clear, turquoise water of Central Africa or some exotic marshland, the water around us was murky and germ-infested.
There were 15 of us in four boats: six faculty members, three officers from the Muslim Students Organization, two municipal social workers, two military men, one local guide, and one village chief. Our destination: Pinguiaman, the farthest among the flooded barangays of Lambayong, Sultan Kudarat. Our mission: To deliver 390 bags of food and 390 bags of used clothing to 370 Muslim families.
I was seated beside Jawali Mambao, Pinguiaman’s barangay chairman. In a heavily accented Tagalog, he told me his village had been flooded since February.
“Kap” pointed at a cluster of empty huts. He said it was part of Tinumigis, a barangay where Ilocanos and Maguindanaons lived together. Most of it half-buried in the flood, the barangay had turned into a ghost village. We passed by in quiet. The only noise we could hear was coming from our boat’s engine.
After an hour of traveling through the wet wasteland, we reached our destination, where we had no choice but wade through the ankle-deep flood. We took our delayed lunch as the residents started trooping to the barangay hall. Aware that I was eating in full view of hungry people, I gobbled my fried chicken and didn’t bother to use my ketchup.
While our three Muslim students distributed the goods, I took some pictures, since it's part of my work as the school's publication staff. The confidence and efficiency of the students amazed me. Norhashim, who told me “pinguiaman” means “prayer room”, stood on a chair, shouted instructions in Maguindanaon, and started calling the names in a list. Norodin and Javier, with the help of some local officials, handed out the plastic bags.
I noticed a yellow cartolina pasted in the bare, unpainted wall of the office. From it, I learned that Pinguiaman had a population of 2,429, half of whom—620 male and 585 female—were illiterate. It struck me that long before the heavy rains came, the village had been stuck in a swamp.
Taking pictures made me sick. I felt like it was a cruel act. I knew that the people of Pinguiaman had survived because they still had dreams to hold on to. They believed this suffering was just fleeting, that one of these days everything would turn to normal, or would even be better than what they had before. I was afraid that when they saw me taking a permanent evidence of their plight, I pulled them back to reality—the grim reality that their suffering could last as long as the image captured by my camera, which meant forever.
I went outside the barangay hall. By this time, the styrofoam packs of our lunch had turned into a girl’s prized possession. She had tied three packs together and was carrying them proudly in her side. The other kids were seated on a small pile of rocks, licking their thumbs in silence. They were licking the ketchup I discarded earlier. I averted my gaze.
I talked to the social workers who accompanied us. Ma’am Crisanta and Ma’am Cora said that in February, the flood affected three barangays only. When June came, the raging water invaded 10 more barangays. About 1,400 families had to evacuate to the town’s poblacion. More than 5,000 hectares of rice fields were damaged. The figures astounded me. All this time, I was thinking that what happened to Lambayong, the rice granary of Sultan Kudarat, was just some minor flashflood.
Throughout the ordeal, the people of Pinguiaman never left their village. I don’t want to think what they had been eating. They were left to fend for themselves. Ma’am Cris and Cora said relief goods and donations didn’t reach the barangay, for the supply wasn’t even enough for the people at the evacuation center.
Nothing was enough. And we could only do so much. Each of the 390 bags we distributed contained merely three kilos of rice, two cans of sardines and two packs of instant noodles. For a family of six, roughly the average size in Pinguiaman, it would be good for a day only—four days at most, if stretched. I don’t want to think what they ate after that.
I used to think handing out donations to victims of a calamity would make you happy. I wasn’t happy. The depression was simply overwhelming. I thought the beneficiaries would be happy, too. The people of Pinguiaman were probably thankful, but with the situation they were in, it was difficult to be happy.
And it looked like the people of Pinguiaman and other villages of Lambayong wouldn’t find happiness anytime soon. Ma’am Zenaida, our guide, said the water wasn’t only a passing flood. It was the body of Allah River, which for the past 16 years flowed through Sultan Sa Barongis, Maguindanao. The heavy downpour recently caused it to swell and change course. Some old Muslim seers forecasted that the river would stay in Lambayong for seven years, said Ma’am Zen. It was folklore, but not really far from what geologists would also estimate.
When we were riding the boats back home, the water had gone high by a few inches. Large, dark clouds were forming in the sky. We could see rain miles away. I thought of the gaunt men and women who lined up for free sardines and noodles that would last only for a day. I thought of their children who scavenged for ketchup. I thought of what they would do when another rain came.
It was July 28, 2008. At Batasan Pambansa that time, Pres. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo was delivering her State of the Nation Address. They say she received so much applause from our congressmen.
7: 41 p.m. I’m standing beside the road going to the public market.
