TRAILS UP NORTH

Harvest in Chakchakan
GLORIA A. TUAZON

BONTOC, Mountain Province -- While the rest of the fields are beckoning harvest in Bontoc, just waiting a few days or weeks when the grains are at their fullest and ripe for gathering, some farmers at Sitio Chak-sho, Chakchakan in Bontoc Ili are on their way to their payews (rice fields.)

Most fields in these parts are located along the banks of the Chico River. The waters that flow here come from Sabangan where it roots and follows the highway to Bontoc. All along the river banks, the fields are like patches of green after the fields of pale gray stones.

Carabaos litter the edge, usually beating the heat by immersing themselves in the water, their humps like elongated, black rocks protruding halfway from the river bottom. Children wade and swim alongside them. So these farmers left their homes early and walked the distance to their fields, bringing with them some three chicken or pork along with the etag (local ham) they call the kawin and cook the bounty right in the fields.

They call this the mangawin rite, to start the harvest season. The sun is out early and the heat soared up. The farmers were clad in long-sleeved shirts, to protect their skin from burning too much. The wide-brimmed straw hats are a must, like wearing a portable tent. Trooping to the fields, chatting like children, their faded work clothes flapping in the humid wind.

The air here is thin, the water molecules from last night's condensation evaporating fast from rocks lining the shore, like a spa. They settle to butcher the chicken or prepare the meat, cook the meal amidst the swaying grains, the stalks glad to be rested and done another season. Talks persevere among the group and they start harvest right after meal doing it manually the traditional way using a simple harvest tool.

The semicircular blade held inside the palm, the handle in between the middle and pointer fingers, cutting individual stalks while gripping it with the thumb, then bundling the grain stalks when it’s about the size of their grips. to be later dried out in the sun. The sun boils on to midday, roasting the dust along the main road above the fields. A truck rolls by turning up the highway into a dust storm.

Everybody turns their back from the road, mouths and noses covered, looking into the direction of the river. Only then do they see the activities in the fields along the banks. People are oblivious to the turning of the seasons, unmindful that like everything, the rice cycle is ending again.

A few birds hopped about then flew in unison with the approach of an elderly woman. The sound of flapping wings disturbing the uncanny heat of the day. We scurried to the road and headed back to the center of town. Relief waited in the form of a dark, acidic liquid perspiring in one sexy bottle. Then again, what is in line next?