Women who lunch take the oars on lake placid
On this rare day away from the city, surprised at how the urban sprawl appears to have afflicted once-rural Laguna, you drive past Calamba, Jose Rizal’s birthplace, past Liliw, past Nagcarlan and the mellifluously named Majayjay, and thence to San Pablo which boasts seven lakes.
Your destination is 20-hectare Pandin, on which, you were told, you can take a leisurely cruise that includes lunch on a raft—an entertaining prospect if only for the promise of lolling for hours on placid water, mind blank, eyes fixed on far-off green, lulled by silence and occasional birdsong.
Well past the lunch hour, the bells and whistles of excitement sputtering, you stagger to the point where you catch a downward glimpse of the lake through the trees and sigh: Here we are. Here finally, after parking the pickup and setting out on foot on a meandering trail through private property, respectful of resident spirits, skirting muddy patches created by overnight showers, ascending, descending, slipping and sliding on flip-flops, startled at how your friend at the lead, escorted by the guide Sion Arinda, was swiftly making distance as though saying there is not a moment to lose.
You move briskly, panicked that they occasionally disappear from view and that you and the others, trailing, are likely to make a wrong turn at a fork and emerge in some secret, sun-drenched glade, lovely but ultimately maddening, from where there is no earthly escape…
Bursts of color
Your knees are knocking together by the time you gingerly climb the knoll and then skitter down to the lakeshore. Here you are.
The rafts are lined at the water’s edge and your party of four appear to be the day’s only guests. Sion’s colleagues, earlier in postures of waiting, turn their attention to the city slickers’ every immediate need. Trip to the toilet (little thatched hut with tiled floor)? Check. Appropriate area in which the swimmer can change into her bathing gear? Check. Strong arm to help steady wobbly city legs? Check.
And off you go, attended by bursts of color. The water in various hues of emerald parts melodiously as the raft—bamboo poles lashed together; a table and benches at the center, shaded by a blue tarp; orange life vests hanging from a pole—detaches itself from its slot and heads to the outer edge rimmed by deep green vegetation. The sky is a sharp blue adorned by fat tufts of cloud.
‘Bangkera’
Women have taken charge of this five-year-old operation for the past three years. Seven of them of varying age and build are now seated in strategic positions and rowing the raft as their guests partake of the food set on the table. Nothing bumbling in their movements, these bangkera (boatwomen), nothing strained or awkward, clearly now masters of what was once the menfolk’s domain.
And, as a nod to what is deemed the natural order of things, still keepers of the hearth. A day earlier, one of the women phoned to inquire if the visit was a go; if yes, she said, she would head to market to purchase the stuff needed for the guests’ lunch.
It’s a simple repast, doubtless tested through the years for economy and taste—salad of pako, tomatoes, onions and red eggs; small shrimps in coconut milk; grilled tilapia; rice wrapped in banana leaf—cold now but a genuine gift for the hungry. In the stiff breeze and the raft’s slightly rolling progress, you are hard put to muster grace in managing flying banana leaves, near-empty water bottles and plastic straws (for the buko juice to be served later in the shell) in between consuming the food and admiring the passing scenery (a treat for one fleeing the trap of office routine). In time you surrender to the moment, hair awry, fingers sticky, a difficult fish bone lodged in your teeth.
Sentinels
Just when you are transfixed by the sight of tiny ayungin in the water, you notice a man in a banca parallel to the raft, and another on a mini raft on the other side, wordlessly keeping pace with the excursion as though they were sentinels.
And in fact they are, as the women explain—barangay tanod (guards) who are obligatory, albeit passive, members of the crew. Passive, yes, but active: Under surreptitious observation, Mang Ato appears to never take his eyes off the woman in your party whose middle name is exuberance and who, after heeding the request to don a life vest, gleefully slides into the water and swims away from the small assembly. He seems not so much struck by her charms as on the alert against any mishap that will ruin the day (and, in the course of it, their project).
Mysterious currents
The lake is 180-feet deep, the women say in response to a question. In this spot at the far end, under overhanging foliage, the water is dark green, almost black, suggesting mysterious currents and eddies and unheard-of life forms mutating in the depths.
Lakes are, after all, strange phenomena (think of Scotland’s Loch Ness and its fabulous imagined creature), landlocked but mostly fed and drained by underground streams and rivers, ancient but “temporary over geologic time scales.” (San Pablo’s lakes, for example, are said to be products of a volcanic eruption.)
The gothic possibilities are endless.
But what’s this? The women drop anchor, as it were, at the far end, in front of a mossy stone wall where a statue of Mary about a foot high is installed on a ledge. Jutting from the wall to the statue’s side is a pipe disgorging clear water, which the women proceed to collect in plastic containers.
The water comes from the mountain and is filtered by the roots of the trees, the women say. You are amazed by this precious resource constantly flowing under Mary’s benign gaze. They use it for drinking and cooking, the women say, and when you express wonderment, one calmly offers that UPLB (University of the Philippines Los Baños) has tested it and declared it safe.
And now, the swimmer having returned, the bend in the lake inspected, and the pictures snapped, it’s time to turn back. Lina Sallian, tall and motherly and apparently the main man in the operation, assumes top oar in the homeward journey and masterfully guides the raft into its slot.
You gather the wings of your thoughts for the trek back. Ever mindful of signs you seek the day’s meaning in the fading afternoon, and you pronounce it more pleasing than passionate, more interlude than turning point, more Vermeer than Van Gogh.
