Rural Journey

It’s Sunday in Sipalay.  The ocean teases us with calm waves while the clouded sky heavy with rain taunt from above.  The day’s boating will again be canceled – no viewing of the ocean through a glass bottom boat, no jumping into the sea to snorkel and find exotic fish, no island hopping today.  Today it is going to rain and by rain I mean pour buckets of drenching water.  Even after the rain, the air remains heavy with moisture and the saturated soil gives up puddle after puddle of gooey mud.  As the rain lessens, people emerge draped in plastic, under colorful umbrellas.  Workers emerge in the rice field.  Children dribble balls and chase each other across the beach.  Cows lazily lift their chained heads on the side of the road slowly munching away at the layers of grass. 

Rural landscapes invited a slowing down in every culture.  The same is true here.   Sheltered in the only locally owned resort in the little beach town, we are surrounded by bamboo huts and small concrete houses.  Fishermen wait at their boats for the rain to relent and give up the sea so they can make their meager living.  Barefoot children skirt the resort, riding bikes, doing flips, playing on boogie boards and searching the beach for treasures.

It’s a four-hour drive through small villages, rice fields, and orchards of coconut trees from Bacolod City to Sipalay.  Although we have seen Europeans and Americans in Bacolod, we don’t see other Caucasians on this leg of our journey and significantly draw attention to ourselves when we stop at the small Jollibees (their version of MacDonalds) to snack on a mango peach pie and pineapple juice.  I can’t resist the child selling round, flat candies covered in peanuts outside the door.  I use both hands to break a piece of the 4inch circle of sugar and smile at the familiar taste of peanut brittle.  The island is the sugar island of the Philippines where row after row of sugar cane wave at the tropical sky and the people here demonstrate well that they know exactly what to do with sugar!  Amazing pastry and cake shops line the cities and my waistline.  A little farther down the road, we stop for a coconut cake that we cut into hot and watch the gooey cream seep from its pastry confinement.  Somehow we find a way to eat this with only one fork, a spoon and box lid between us.  I chase the sweet gooey pie with a half cup of strong black coffee and relax back into my Sunday afternoon drive.

The drive soothes me like a nursery rhyme as we speed past slightly terraced rice fields guarded by bamboo huts built on gentle hills.  The winding road crests at times revealing an unexpected view of the beach on the left and rounded mountains draped with heavy clouds to the right.  Then we dip onto a straightaway and a small community emerges, lining the street with small storefront Sari-Sari stores and a caravan of tricycles pedaling relentlessly through the rain down narrow roads.  Teens dribble basketballs and make jump shots as we weave in and out of small tribes of people, tricycles, and stray dogs.

As quickly as it arose, the small town disappears into the foliage and drops of rain continue to pound the already soaked land.  Short strips of construction interrupt our fearless pace through the countryside.  Our host remarks, "It is an election year.  The politicians are widening the roads."

Farmers emerge knee deep in rice fields, draped in plastic armor against the dampening rain.  A thin man in long shorts and a red t-shirt lifts feet heavy with mud as he sloshes across a muddy rice field carrying obviously heavy pails in each hand.

It’s Sunday and this was my Sunday drive.