Waiting Sh(r)ed

January 7, 2009

It was 3 o’clock.

 

 t was too early for me to go back to our office. But, I had to cut my rounds among our members. Clouds were slowly concentrating at the east, along the sloping mountains of Pugo, La Union. Somewhere along the Kennon Road going up to Baguio City was being pounded by the heavy rain. I was at the triad boundaries of Pangasinan, La Union and Benguet. Just few meters up from the Kennon toll gate, just 10 meters away from the bridge slicing the tri-boundaries of the three provinces.

 

I was working with a cooperative which area of operations includes the whole of Region I. We were into microfinancing, organizing community centers advocating people empowerment through savings mobilizations and augmentation of working capital. I was then at my late twenty’s and had been working as Supervisor of the Microfinance Division of our cooperative for almost ten years.

 

The work was very challenging, indeed. We had to instill credit discipline among members, coherently implement the cohesiveness of the self-help groups, strictly monitor the implementation of any agreed projects, sustain the progress gained by the community, if there was any. We had to implement also interventions to assess impacts of the program.

 

We talked at the centers issues regarding families like family planning, domestic violence, community politics, ownership of lands, children’s educations, healths, businesses, and other issues that may arise during the meeting.

 

I was here to assess the impact of the program.

 

The downpours came too early today. The monsoon rains were being augmented by the low pressure area at the west coast, China Sea, as forecasted by the PAG-ASA. I was a little disappointed because I still have to see 10 more members as stated in my list. Though, I could not ask for more and could not expect one whole sunny day. It was rainy season.

 

The drizzle was starting to go heavy and I had to seek shelter. I stop my motorcycle just in time to seek refuge to a dilapidated waiting shed. The waiting shed was too old and very odd. There were lots of markings everywhere on the used to be clean paintings of the benches. Growths grew so thick around the shed. Poor maintenance could immediately be concluded by anyone who may happened or accidentally sought refuge in it. I could not pinpoint which municipality is liable and accountable for the maintenance of this little poor building because I could not ascertained to which town it belonged.

 As I was about to settle down after so much thoughts if I will be going home early but wet or I will stay and wait until the drizzle died down and go home dry, a grown up man, more than 70 years old perhaps, I was not so sure of the age, but I was certain that the approaching man had past the working age. As he came nearer, I knew, I already seen the man few times for the more than ten times I visited this place. I realized now that once, I already talked to this man; when I asked for a direction to locate a certain member somewhere down the river. I was sure that he resides at Dungon, Sison but I did not know the exact place of his house.

 

Approaching with so much pride and ease, he bowed down a little bit as he unfolded his big wide umbrella. He took the other side of the shed, looking back at once to where he came from and frowned with annoyance. I could not fathomed if I was the one who caused his annoyance or something or somebody. But, certainly the old was annoyed. About the weather, maybe, that caught him unguarded.

 

“Good afternoon, Sir.” I said just to break the deafening silence, and uneasiness in me, he brought with him and stayed with us.. The rain was pounding heavily up above, at the tattered roof of the shed. Water started to drift inside through holes on the old GI sheets. I heard my greeting grumbled amidst the sounds of heavy rain. I wondered if he heard it. Thunders started to crawl on the sides of the mountains and echoed as far as the twin peaks located at the upper Camp 1. Lightnings lit the cooling skies.

 

Aghast, he looked at me and said, “What good in the afternoon, anyway, young man? But, nevertheless, thank you.”

 

I was taken aback by the response but still I managed to smile and I said, “It is unfortunate that this drizzle come so early today. We will be wasting time here, sir, to wait for it to calm down. We could be doing something productive for the rest of the hours with light if this did not caught us here.”

 

I spoke confidently because I used to make good use with dull and odd moments like this.

“Even if you sit here the whole day young man, you could still be earning a lot. Your company is paying you. Your company is still earning interest from all the money you have loaned out among poor villagers.” He said without flinching an inch. He seemed fixated to the pitter patter of the continuous pour. A blatant response and lacking subtleness and ironies. Literally and figuratively, straight to the point response, that is.

 

He knew me. I was puzzled on how the hell he knew about me.

 

I fixed my eyes on his face and I remembered the stories some of our members told about him. This old man owned mostly the clearings located at twin peaks, a settlement just a kilometer away up from where we were. Husbands of our poor women members served as his farms hands. Some were leasing his lot. Some were tenants. They will pay him after harvest. The women spoke about him as inconsiderate. He didn’t want to be at the losing end even the harvest was so poor. Unfortunately, he demanded the husbands to pay more than there harvests. The families used to work long hours in his farms just to pay him back.

 

This man is usurer, I concluded. Unforgiving landlord, the more. A wicked man.

 

“You must be waiting for someone to fetch you and ride you home, sir?” I said ignoring the animosity he just imparted on me. I glanced at my motorcycle, wet in the rain, rugged looking for 3 years of toing and froing of organizing women.

 

“No. I am just waiting for the rain to slow down a little bit and I could walk home. I have no ride as you may be expecting.” He said dryly.

 

Nonchalantly, I said, “I learned that mostly of the husbands of our members worked or still working as your farm hands, sir. You are a good man, indeed, for you give them some place to work and they could earn extra income to feed their families.” I swallowed my saliva as bitter as vile of snake soaked in a bottle of Ginebra. How could I praise this man?

 

“They never learned.” He glanced at me for awhile and then looked away. He sighed.

 

Astonished. “They never learned, what?”, I said. And I scooped my hand behind my left ear to make sure I heard the right words.

 

“Everyday in their life they met lessons but they never inferred something from it.” He mumbled the words and almost passed my ears.

 

“I know there were so many lessons met in everyone’s life but what, what lessons they could learn at your farm, sir?” I asked him but the question was, I thought, directed to myself. “Yes, they will learn that life, indeed, is hard, huh?”

 

“You, young people, are so naïve. How much do you earn from your company?”

 

“Just enough to buy one breath.” I said disgustedly remembering my low salary.

 

“They earned also just enough for one breath.” He said. Annoyed. Maybe with my answer.

 

“I learned that you charged them high interest on the money you lent and collected more than what they could harvest.”

 

“They’ve told you that? It’s nonsense!” Angered by my reply.

 

“No. I inferred from their stories.”

 

The rain continuously pounding the tattered roof of the shed. It reduced the reach of my sight, just beyond my parked motorcycle. Wind started to blow hard. Water was everywhere. The wind was swirling, blowing harder. The sky looked too low and trees arched as water pounded their tops, bowed to the restlessness of the wind. Some danced to untuned lullabies hummed by the mountains. The drips begun to wet my clothes. I moved towards the center of the shed. The old man moved towards me, backwards. We almost stood shoulder to shoulder. Shy, I moved back and kept my distance a little bit.

 

I looked westward and I begun counting how many kilometers away I was from Agoo. 1..2…27 kilometers or more, perhaps.

 

He kept looking also eastward, towards the Caraballos, though could not reach that far, uneasy that the rain took more time than what he expected.

 

“How much do you give as an interest?” He asked breaking the beautiful sounds of raging waters and winds.

 

“40 % the most.”

 

“You’re higher than me.”

 

“You know”, he continued, “my donation made this shed possible. They asked me to sponsor one of the candidates during the village fiesta and I gave half of my earnings. They asked me to shoulder the foods and accommodations of visitors led by the Honorable Mayor and Councilors.”

 

“You must because you are not paying your true taxes. I know, you will not declare what you truly earns. You earned so much from your deeds. People must receive their dividends.”

 

“You know what? They are honorables now but during elections they used to be humbles. They said: ‘I am humbled by your warm support to us and I am asking you, my dearest village mates, to please remember your lowly son and your brother. You could help me a lot and I promise to pay you back with sincere services.’ Do you understand that?” Ignoring my comments.

 

“Aye, we were use to that. And, we are used to paying homage to lords. Kneeling astutely in front of Apo. Praying their petitions or walking on their knees to praise apo, the lords, like you. They even offer you the best harvest they have. People called you apo and as if your blessings are spirits that will lift their souls and bodies from the dirt. As if you are the anito that commands the trees to grow and the farms to become verdant.”

 

“Now, you are talking with sense, son.”

 

“You must cower with my comments, sir. You did wronged your people by collecting more than their dues. I feared you are now reaping what you had sown.”

 

“You are judging the book by its own cover, son. You are barking the wrong tree. Why not look back to your self and your company which pays you a lot from the interests and other charges you collected from the villagers, my people, as you just said. Your company has nothing at stake in this village except your money you loaned out to the people. You fooled yourself with your mission of people empowerment through additional capital. Credit access is not anymore the problem. Credit pollution is the problem, son. You are polluting the people. You want them to become entrepreneurs, capitalists, owners of capital, landlords, bosses, mayors.”

 

The rain still pounding the roof and the winds grew stronger.

 

“You help them send their children to school to become nurses, engineers, doctors and sooner you send them to abroad. You are just producing exports, people for exports. Farmers will sell their lots to have businesses…” He sighed.

 

“Bringing in capital will produce establishments that will sell appliances, cellphones, tvs, dvds, computers and eventually will alienate themselves to the lives they used to be, to the land they used to till, the land they used to owned. Then, they want more. They will ask for more. They will need more money. They will ask more loans. You will give them more loans. You will earn more interests. You will be paid bigger. Your company will become bigger.” He paused.

 

The rain weakened into drizzle. And the sun slowly showing.

 

“But, are these make life easy? The fortunate will become landlords. The unfortunate will become underlings. Is there a change? You are just flipping the coin. The face is up today. Tomorrow, the cross.”

 

“Yes, indeed. But at least I am working to make a difference.” I interrupted with annoyance.

 

“And excuse me, sir. The rain is weakening but I just wanted to ask one more question, if you may?” His declarations peeled me off.

 

“Go ahead.” He nodded.

 

“In your life, what did you do to make a difference?”

 

“I used to be like you. I dreamed big, so high but it was unfortunate that my family had no enough money to send me past secondary. What we have was the land we called ancestral land. Forested land that the monied never dared to grab. My ancestors as my late father said used to own these vast parcel of land. They called their homeland. My great-grand father’s fellows dreamed also so big, so high and they sold their land to the monied capitalists. My great-grand father embraced this land, fought for his land, died on his land. My grandfather also did the same. My father too. And I ought to do the same.”

 

He looked around as if to ensure if still I was interested. He continued.

 

“You know, these villagers, you called members. They are descendants of the fellows my great grandfather had. They have no land to till, they have no ancestral land to claim, they have no land to call their own. I asked them to be my farm hands, leased some of the clearings in order for them to feel the land, to bring back their love to the land they may call their own.”

 

He paused again and glanced at the dying afternoon. The sun begun to peep behind the clouds, constantly covered by the dark thin clouds, remnants of the recently concluded rain. The horizon started to become red, red as as if blood is dripping from the face of the world.

 

“I collected more than what they harvest sometimes and urged them to pay me back more than their dues so that I will have money when they need to, I will have, have rice when they are hungry. If I will not do these, they will not work hard. They will not return what they owed. Then, we start to have poor harvest. Then, we will start to have no rice. Then, we will start to have no money. Their children will go away. The village will soon be empty. The tribe then will be gone.”

 

“That’s what we are doing here, sir.” I interrupted again.

 

“Nonsense! You are missing the point.” He continued.

 

“I have no family. I was the only child. My mother died when I was just ten years old. My wife also died in sorrow when my only son, who was taking Agricultural Engineering, was killed when he insisted that my land will not be under agrarian reform because it is an ancestral land.” He stop as if groping the memories.

 

“Sooner, when I will be gone, the clearing will be their own, the place they will call home. But, the land will remain in my name so that they could not partition it. They could not sell it. The land will remain an ancestral land. The tribe will go on.”

 

“With regards to this waiting shed, I did my part. I made it possible to for it to stand. You, young people, will do your part so that when rain like this will come unexpectedly, people could still seek refuge into it. So long…”

 

He unfolded his umbrella and started to walk eastward toward the twin peaks. He never bothered to look back. He walked away with pride and ease. And aged man, no doubt.

 

The twin peaks glowed as the cooling sun dried the remains of rain from the tree tops. Birds flew eastwards to caves carved on the mountainsides, to caves which they may call home, their own, until prowlers disturbed their inner sanctum. Birds chirped as they passed by. Bigger birds begun to howl their calls, as if calling is homing. And yes, indeed, calling is homing.

 

I started my motorcycle. I stared at the waiting shed and smiled. It was half past 4 o’clock. The sun was still up. I glanced at the waiting shed once more and revved towards home. Today will die and give all it have to the birthing of tomorrows.

 

Today was fruitful, indeed.

 

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