Channeling Noah

By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz, Executive Editor Sunday Inquirer Magazine IF you welcome the rains, you’re either a farmer in a parched field, a student reprieved from classes, or a resident of anywhere but the cursed coastal cities of Navotas and Malabon. Believe me, the tiniest gray cloud, a spit of rain or a low rumble in late afternoons immediately presage panic. Especially if you’re nowhere near home. You stare at your office computer thinking, did I remember to put my stash of magazines on top of the dresser? Have I put up my shoes? Are all the electric plugs safely stowed away? Many many years before, we’d drive into the sunset along Malabon’s main road which was then rimmed on both sides by fishponds. One of our favorite dating places was The Fish Fun, a motley cluster of adjoining huts jutting out into the waters where one can spy sprightly bangus swimming in blissful ignorance of their impending doom. A plate of grilled fish plucked straight from the waters and served with an assortment of dips and achara (pickles) cost less than P20 at that time. But that wasn’t the biggest bargain. What made people flock to this place was the sense of serenity that the stretch of waters on both sides suggested, and the feeling of contentment as one literally walked over a brimming food bin. Could life get any better, we’d think with a hearty burp after the satisfying meal. Nope; in fact, life could get worse and did. As the years brought more migrants from nearby provinces (I believe “informal settlers” is the politically correct word), the fishponds were filled up and reclaimed, with buildings and colonies of shanties spreading like algae on the once-pristine waters. Soon enough, the waterways were effectively blocked by the detritus of urban blight. Trapped by burgeoning construction, the rising tides sought alternate escape routes and found them on low-lying streets and homes. We had become, as Malabon native Nonoy Marcelo once described in his Bubwit komiks series, Mala-Venice. Were that we were as picturesque and prosperous! Living under the mercy of the tides meant developing survival skills worthy of Noah. Like most Filipinos, we initially tried to make light of it, shrugging it off as another chapter in a hoary hometown legend of how Malabon has been under some sort of curse from a siyukoy (merman), that someone had trapped during the olden times. “Pakawalan na ang siyukoy!” the hubby, another Malabon native, would yell out as soon as the murky floods started creeping into our driveway. Then we decided to make a meal of it, turning net bags from the grocery into handy fish traps and scooping out tilapia and bangus from nearby fishponds that had spilled their banks. This unexpected bounty had people rushing into the floodwaters for their share of the loot, and then turning around to sell the fish to more timid neighbors for as low as P10 a kilo. You can be sure we’d all have healthy protein for several days after. The floods also produced a fetish for wall calendars among us Malabon dwellers. Months before the New Year, we’d pass out word that we’re on the lookout for these humongous calendars where every single day is encased in a big square box replete with the time when low and high tides are expected, and a corresponding notation in meters of how high or low the waters would be. Long-time residents know better than leave their homes without first consulting the all-knowing calendar, much like the Trojans approached the Delphi oracle before they went to war. Good planning means knowing exactly when to leave the city before the tide rushes in, and coming home when it’s low tide. The perennial floods have dictated the look of our home and interiors as well. Over the years, we’ve gone from leather to mohair to narra furniture, our curtains have risen from floor length to just-below the sill, while our electrical outlets have migrated higher up the walls. We’ve also fashioned a uniquely dry and wet season look, with guests subtly advised to time their visits during the summer months. Otherwise, they’d have to scrounge around for comfortable seats: all the dining room chairs, the narra sofa, the side tables and cabinets are bound to be stacked ceiling-high with assorted stuff rescued from the rampaging floods; even the ref is suddenly up there, on a knee-high table fashioned out of spare lumber and old wood. All my dreams of turning my home into an approximation of a House & Garden model look sank into depths of dismay when I realized how the floods rule life and routine in these parts. And forget about getting a good night sleep when there’s a squall outside. You sit on your bed, ear to the latest storm update from Pag-asa and eyes on the floor for the tell-tale dampness that would herald another round of evacuation. If the floods reach a certain notch, you haul off another layer of stuff upstairs, knowing that in the jumble of clothes, books, shoes, picture frames and assorted things hurriedly packed off, you’re bound to forget where you put your keys, your eyeglasses, your arsenal of make-up—all the critical ammunition you need before you walk out into the world to commence another workday. Let’s see, lest you think I’m getting, err, carried away, I do have a few kind words about the floods: * What with sleepless nights and an enforced diet for fear of having to go to the bathroom too often when the drains aren’t working, you’re bound to be a few pounds lighter after the ordeal. Okey, irritable and grumpy as well, but those are the breaks. * Floodwaters spare nothing and inexorably find their way into the tiniest opening and the darkest recesses of home and hearth—where most lost things are. Suddenly, you rediscover that missing half of your favorite slippers, the Lego pieces you had written off as inadvertent fiber in your infant son’s diet, a Tupperware’s lost lid, the cellphone case you thought you had left in a cab. Of course being flushed out the way they were, these stuff are probably useless by now, but at least you’ve managed to solve a few puzzles in this lifetime. * There’s no shortcut to getting rid of the disgusting gamey smell that comes with floodwaters except a vigorous scrubbing with strong detergent and hard bristles. Since you have to go back to work as soon as the waters recede, the task falls on your househelp who probably hasn’t washed the floor in ages. This time, there’s no excuse. * With the entire household a mess, you now have enough reason to turn away unwelcome guests and potential hosting chores. Besides, who’d want to be stranded in this Waterworld? you’d tell them. Of course the kids used precisely this line to sleep over in a friend’s house, or so they told us. Okey, I don’t want to know. * Not being a particularly spiritual person, I know how the floods of Malabon can become an extremely religious experience. It’s true: there are no atheists in a foxhole, or rather, in a rising tide. As our 8-year old AUV negotiates the swirling waters, I’d suddenly find myself praying to God and all the saints, promising countless novenas and acts of charity and denial, but please God, don’t let the car conk out, just let us make it to higher ground, pleaassse! * And oh yes, we do get a lot of media mileage. On any given rainy day, Malabon is up there in the headlines, the city that churning waves built. Who knows, one of these days, I might even be on TV—giving an interview on life in the flooded lane. Glub, glub…