Buhangin

Jamie Diamond

Near the Filipino town of Atimonan, some several hundred miles southeast from the hubbub and noise of the nation’s capital, Manila, my lola* lives in the community of Buhangin in a two-story house. It is no tremendous feat of architecture, but it is sturdy and strong and holds its own specific brand of aesthetic appeal, with its mint-green tile floors and paneless windows. The walls are thin (as is common style in the outer, less metropolitan regions of the Philippines), and the houses stand very close together. Where we have locks on our doors—or nearly any other door, for that matter—Lola’s front door is sealed off with only a thick, heavy piece of wood.

Sealed, in contrast, with iron fortifications like medieval portculli, is an adjoining one-room shop filled with assorted Filipino goods, where Lolaearns a decent income. Lining the walls is the bright, attention-grabbing packaging of Asian marketers resting on somber black shelves. The scent of various candies, rice, and shampoos permeate the shop in an unavoidable, intoxicating mix which leaves those who enter defenseless against their combined charms.

The shop-goers themselves are a sight to behold; made distinguishable not so much by their physical appearance, but by the unconquerable air of resilience they carried into the shop, no matter their circumstances. Here, they entered breezily, making their presence known with an unusually genuine, “kumusta na?”

When stopping to ring up their soon-to-be possessions at the single, arthritic cash register, customers are at ease. They do not worry about long lines or the glare of other customers, impatient to move onto their daily tasks. This is due partly because the shop is really over-populated, but if a line did persist, conversation shifted to accommodate the trailing customers as well.

On one such occasion, when the air was so thick that waves of heat rose visibly from the ground and the slow atmosphere of the store was matched by the constant whirring of the electronic fans spread throughout the house, a customer—this one kept comfortable in loose clothes, his sand-caked toes peeking out from robust, well-worn sandals—invited Lola to his house to watch the boxing match airing later that day (boxing had been graced with acute national interest after the arrival of their very own Filipino champion, Manny Pacquiao), along with anyone and everyone else who happened to be in the shop; there was no time or place for exclusivity.

This customer was slightly wealthier than most who lived in Buhangin, which was obvious as we neared his house. It was relatively secluded, having its own walkway and standing as its own building. Inside, there was a television screen large enough to be seen from nearly any angle in the room, and a number of soft old couches, which were being filled, despite already being full, with people. Walking further into the house was a pleasant bombardment of the senses: delicious aromas wafted in from the kitchen, where ever-growing amounts of Filipino foods were stored, and the sneaky hands of both young and old snatched a quick mirienda.* The smell of the freshly-arranged lumpia (crunchy like eggrolls, but smaller, and so much better), the colorful, sticky ube-based dishes (reputed to bring prosperity) and puto (cakes made from rice-flour), made everyone all the more hungry. And when finally permitted by the chefs, the taste of savory adobo, sweet and tangy chicken tocino, and salty fish wreaked welcome havoc on our tongues. The food (of which the variety and amount was so extensive only because the town had come together and everyone contributed), compelled from us affirmations of it scrumptiousness (“galing, galing,” “masarap”), coaxing friends and strangers alike to connect over it.

That is, until the final seconds of Pacquiao’s match, when the room was filled with tense, excited shouts from all around, everyone urging on their shared hero. Then, when he won, the room became even louder, and we roared proudly without restraint. Pacquiao may have won, but the victorious cheers I’d heard around me must have contended with those feelings of success in even Pacquiao himself. Even when the excitement was over, the friendly, communal buzz which had grown throughout the fight would not let up. Unbreakable connections had been made and strengthened in the humble environment, and, in congruity with Filipino values and expectations, everyone stayed behind to clean up.

It may be easy to be swept up into the materialistic culture of the Philippines (wealth is usually highly regarded one is expected to wear amounts of jewelry which accurately reflect their financial standing), but look past these superficial tendencies, and you see the bigger picture of the way Filipinos communicate and engage with each other is astoundingly good-natured.

Filipinos are hard workers with unbreakable ethic, yet they have enough time and respect to treat one another with sincere greetings and words—even the aging small woman who owns and overseas a meager little shop. And every night, Lola—with her shuffling steps, white hair, frail and skinny arms—lifts the wooden slab over the doors, placing with it the good confidence she has that her fellow Buhangin residents will not breach the rare and uniquely benevolent amity of their small, beachside community.

*Translations

· Lola: grandmother

· Kumusta na?: How are you?

· Mirienda: a light afternoon snack

· Galing: good; good job

· Masarap: delicious!