Orchid House (31 page)

“After the war,” Amang Tenio continued, “destruction was everywhere, and many of us had nowhere and nothing left to go back to. Don Miguel and your newly married grandparents willed this land to the surviving guerillas and helped them start over. In doing so, the whole village became as family to the Guevarra clan. And your grandfather and grandmother became the automatic
ninong
and
ninang
, godparents, to every child born in this village.”

“I will admit that I'm surprised at how beautiful your village is, when it carries such a fearsome reputation. I was expecting something quite different,” Julia said.

“I am sure Raul and perhaps Markus also were hesitant for you to come. For many reasons, they wish to protect you. Not many outsiders are allowed upon the lands of Barangay Mahinahon. We are at heart guerilla fighters with a serious approach to training, much like the training for our cockfights.

“I'm sorry, Iha
,
that what you saw upset you. The sight of death has a powerful effect in many people, even if only birds do the dying. But to let you leave without seeing something that strongly defines this town would be a crime, perhaps. I felt your tour would not be complete without knowing about the
sabong
—the cock-fighting.”

Julia nodded, unable to say whether she regretted it or not. Everything about this village, and even this man, confused her. Her first glimpses of Amang Tenio has been like some mythical illusion. And now she sat beside him, unsure if he was more like an ancient wise man or a mafia boss, and sipped tea before this grand view.

The cousins were silent, sitting in chairs close to Amang Tenio and herself. Not even the stern Raul was immune to the cousins' teasing, but to Amang Tenio they showed a deep respect, listening quietly as he continued his discourse on the sabong.

“Many find the sport barbaric, and a movement to ban the pastime rises from time to time. But it has been in our country's culture for far too long to be so easily eliminated. Besides, I find it curious that this strong reaction is found mostly in people who do not themselves kill their own food. They buy it already cut and neatly packaged at groceries.

“In many ways the cockfighting illustrates the old guerillas' predicament,” Amang Tenio said. “Each champion rooster descended from a long bloodline of fighting cocks. If cockfighting were banned as a sport in this country, the thousands of gamecocks bred for fighting would have nowhere else to go; they cannot be released back to the flock. The only recourse would be to kill off the entire breed.”

Julia understood all that he said, but still it was hard to accept.

“You have heard, of course, how soldiers of war experience post-traumatic stress syndrome, as it is now called. The soldier finds himself so trained and bred into killing or traumatized by what he experienced that he struggles to return to normal societal living.”

“Yes, I know of this,” Julia said.

Amang Tenio looked from one of his guests to another. “It is hard for you young people to understand how war changes the people who endure it. Hand-to-hand fighting, surviving torture or administering it upon the enemy, holding dying comrades in one's own arms as their life blood seeps through one's hands—such experiences did something to the guerilla fighters and soldiers. After the war, the whole country was broken and ravaged. Every survivor lost family and homes and had nowhere to go.”

Stroking the rooster he still held in his arm, Amang Tenio continued. “Like these fighting cocks, we couldn't return to our former way of life. The constant killings, stress, and paranoia of the war years had marked us separate from the general population. Although every citizen suffered, the guerrillas had loosed a savage instinct within themselves to help save the country. They could no longer mix well with the people—especially our renowned Mabagsik guerilla group. We had pushed ourselves more than any other.

“This village became a respite for the old guerilla campaigners, a place to rest after the fighting. We called this village Barangay Mahinahon, the Village of Calmness. Even men who still had family and land to return to often opted to transplant themselves here and live amongst their former comrades—sometimes with their families, sometimes without. For giving us this land, and with the strong bonds of camaraderie forged during the war, your family earned the undying loyalty of the Barangay Mahinahon—not only the remaining fighters, but their descendants as well.”

The silence that followed the telling of this tale was only broken when a servant returned with a tray, which she set down on the low table between their chairs. “Have you eaten
halo-halo
?” she asked.

“I haven't tried it,” Julia acknowledged, “although I've heard about it.”

The cousins expressed mock horror that Julia had not yet eaten the Filipino version of ice cream, consisting of assorted fruits, beans, and jams topped with shaved ice, cream, and evaporated milk.

Othaniel showed Julia how to mix the ice and the fruits together with a spoon before eating. Julia was unsure about eating a dessert that included small beans and something that appeared to be made of gelatin—and amused by how seriously the others seemed to take the stirringup ritual. But with the first bite she was sold on the combination of tastes and textures—not unlike Barangay Mahinahon itself.

She smiled inwardly. Her desire to see the “gorilla village” had brought her an experience far beyond her wildest imaginings.

NINETEEN

L
ight showed in a line beneath the kitchen door. Julia pushed it open, and the Tres Lolas and Aling Rosa looked up at her in surprise.

“Iha, so you could not sleep with the
bagyo
?” Lola Gloria asked. The open door brought the scent of baking and spices, a comfort in stark contrast to the tempest outside.

“The storm?” she asked, and nodded her reply.

The bagyo had arrived not on tiptoe but with furious foot-steps across the night sky. The wind came in loud whips and howls, the palms clattered loudly, and rain pounded the roof, causing an abrupt cacophony of fury. The lights had gone out, and Julia was glad she'd been told how to light an oil lamp in case of such an event.

“We were enjoying our cleaning up, and the storm got too ferocious to get ourselves home.”

“So you are having a little party?”

Lola Gloria chuckled. “We rested a little in the parlor; then Raul came to make sure we were all right, and that woke us into a cooking mood. He now sleeps in the office, and Mang Berto will soon be heard snoring from the parlor. We are baking—come join us.”

Julia set her oil lamp on the counter; the lamps flickered around the room as the wind bellowed hard against the house. Thankfully, it was quieter here than in her room. The lower section of the large stone oven crackled with slow-burning wood. She saw Raul's jacket hanging on a hook on the back door, still dripping water.

“This is quite a bagyo.” Julia leaned on a chair beside Lola Sita, who was rolling out dough on a wide cutting board.

“Yes, the storm is bad,” Lola Gloria said. “There will be damage. The huts by the fishponds and village do not fare very well. Always some tragedy comes. And so, the old women will cook, tell stories, and drink something to warm the old bones that want to quake in fear.”

“That certainly sounds better than hiding up in my room, terrified that the roof will fly off. The kids are not out there, are they?”

“No, Raul sent them to his staff house. That was another reason he came. He promised to keep guard of you in the house. It was the only way he could get Emman to go.”

Julia smiled. She worried about the children still; this storm sounded as if it could level a stone castle. How would roofs made of tin or nipa fare in such weather?

“The hacienda endures storm after storm,” Lola Gloria said, as though she could hear Julia's thoughts. “It takes a beating over the years, repairs are made, and still it stands strong.”

Julia caught the long gaze in the old woman dark eyes. “Yes, I see that it does,” she said. “And what are you cooking?”

“We drink chocolate and make
pandesal
for breakfast.”

There was a loud howl, and something crashed against the house. All five women jumped and looked at the ceiling.

Once they calmed back down, Julia said, “The four of you could be chefs.”

“Your great grandmother taught us, but it was mostly Aling Rosa and Lola Amor who paid attention. I was more interested in books, while my sisters liked cooking and sewing.”

“I wish I had more time to learn some of the recipes before I return home.”

Lola Gloria looked up at her. “That is right, you will be going back soon. Let us give you a crash course in Filipino cuisine, then. What else can we do with this wind howling so loud that only the men can sleep through it?”

She translated to the others, who smiled and chattered away as they eagerly accepted the assignment.

First, they reminded Julia of the staple she'd been eating since arriving—rice. It was more common than bread was in the States.

“Without rice at every meal, Mang Berto doesn't feel he has eaten,” Lola Gloria translated from Aling Rosa's comment. “It is this way for many of us.”

“It's interesting how you eat with a fork in one hand and a spoon in the other. The cousins tease me about how I eat singlehandedly.”

“Well, we like to scoop up and drizzle one of our sauces into one bite. We are most hearty in our eating and go about it with great enthusiasm.”

Julia laughed at that truth she'd witnessed during the many meals she'd shared with them. “Yes, and you are always trying to feed me too, every other hour it seems.”

“Well, it is quite surprising how little you eat and how dainty and proper your nibbles.” Lola Gloria translated what she'd said, and all the women joined in laughing.

“I've tried to figure out Filipino cuisine, as compared to Chinese, Indian, or Thai. It doesn't seem to be as distinct.”

“That's because we're quite a combination—the Spanish influence mixed with the Asian. Our native cuisine is often gentler; then we accentuate everything with strong flavored condiments.”

Lola Gloria named the basics ingredients and spices in Filipino cuisine: mango, tamarind, heart of palm, lemongrass, miso, palm nuts, jicama. Sticky rice. Noodles made from rice, wheat, and mung beans. The heart of the banana, used as a vegetable. The inner portion of the young banana flower, fresh, dried, or canned in brine or water.

Julia was given spices to smell and sometimes sample, and the lolas pointed to cans and jars of other ingredients. Coconut milk, cream, thick milk, thin milk, oil. Coconut gelatin made from fermented coconut juice dyed different colors and sold as strings or cubes.

“I tried cubes like this in the halo-halo at Amang Tenio's house.”

“Yes indeed,” Lola Gloria confirmed.

Partway through the lesson, the lights flickered on and the women froze in place, surprised by the brightness. When a moment passed, and the lights stayed on, they gave a cheer.

“At least for a bit, you can see better what I am showing you,” Lola Gloria said. “They may go out again soon.”

“I love all the little sauces,” Julia said as they all relaxed again.

“Oh yes. Our
sawsawan
.”

Lola Gloria explained the sauces Julia had been tasting for the past two weeks—fish sauce, dark soy sauce, native vinegar, dried shrimp paste. These were mixed into a variety of flavors like garlic, ginger, red chili peppers, peppercorns, onions, cilantro, and limes.

Lola Sita interjected in hesitant English. “She try
bagoong
?”

“I'm not sure,” Julia said, unsure what she'd eaten.

“Do we have a green mango?” Lola Gloria asked. She went to the refrigerator and rummaged. “Here we are.”

The green mango wasn't a different variety; instead it was unripe and the firm consistency of an apple. Lola Gloria put slices on a plate and poured a strange reddish sauce beside it.

“That is
bagoong
. Only try a tiny speck.”

Julia dipped a corner of the mango slice into the sauce. She tasted the tartness of the green mango mixed with a strong tangy flavor of salt and fish that surprised her senses all through her nose.

“What is it?” she asked, and her tart expression made the women laugh.

“It's fermented shrimp.”

“Fermented shrimp?” Julia looked closer at the sauce. It was a clearlike liquid with tiny red specks that together made the sauce the red color. She realized the specks were the tiny shrimp. She didn't want to know what the fermenting process was about.

She noticed the cookbooks on a shelf beside canisters and hooks of hanging garlic, peppers, and other dried vegetables. Both English and Tagalog books filled the narrow bookcase. She smiled when she spotted Julia Child and Richard Simmons among the titles.