The drums beat in the distance. Its undulating rhythm pulls me towards it calling almost hypnotic. I hear its resonance and unbeknownst to me, I yearn for its progenitor. The sounds of poverty and discrimination are unending echoes in my consciousness.
With creaking makeshift bridges over mossy green seawater, I traverse the rickety footbridge of rotting planks (just two feet wide) in the sea village all its nooks and crannies filled with people talking in a different language, wearing vibrant hues and ornaments from the sea. All throughout the village, the beat of the drums can be heard. The whiff of smoke from the barges and ships, the pungent scent of drying fish, and the undefeatable odor of rotten garbage and human excrement strewn over the seashore, all of these took me at once. I trudge on. The swaying footbridge sans railings would have been the detriment of someonewhose balance is on the downside.
Houses line the foot bridge on some parts of the footbridge. They’re filled with people who are, eating, sleeping, talking or thinking. The houses look like they are going to fall into the water when a strong gust of wind would come over yet it seems it’s the least of theirconcerns. Amidst all the decay, schools of little fish can be seen near the water’s surface.There’s still life in this desolation. I move onward until I found where the beats come from: it is from the last house in the Badjao village with a majestic view of the might of the bay and the strong port industry.
A Badjao woman breast feeding her child is inside along with some visiting neighbors and friends my welcoming committee. Her husband is away working near the shipyards trying to sell praise-worthy decorative vases made of cowrie shells and iridescent strings andearrings of white and black pearls. She tells me that the Badjao men dive into the deep andperilous sea just to harvest wild pearls, risking their lives with sharks abound and the pressureon their lungs. I asked if this is their livelihood. She answered that it is. The usual buyers are Japanese and Korean Tourists. “What if there’s no ship?”, I asked. With a smile written on her lips yet with eyes full awash with melancholy, she answered: “We beg.”
I cannot answer or inquire immediately after that. My throat went dry. Silencebetween us persisted but the echo of the drums continually fill the air. A girl got behind me.Her faced looked oddly familiar. I realized thereafter that she was the one who begged fromme in days past in which I refused. I felt gutted. I continued our conversation. “How much do you earn from selling these pearls?” She said it was just enough for food and buying clothes. When it isn’t enough,” she says, “that’s the time we go to the streets.”
The house sways slowly along with the wind. I could smell the sea’s saltiness as it enters through the bamboo walls. Through the bamboo floor, clams cling to the large bambooposts that hold up the house as the same school swims below the floor while the emerald water reflects off towards our faces. As it highlights her face, she seems older tired than what her twenty five year old self should be. One of her hopes is that her house would justcontinue to stand erect and that her three children be without illness. Her children reallymeans so much to her. “I do worry most of the time,” she says, “especially when they get sick. I try my hardest to get them to the Regional Hospital and pay for the expenses.” “In what ways can you be helped?”
She thought about this for a moment and answered: In whatever ways you think that we can be helped… as long as it came from your
heart. I do not wish to coerce anyone to do something which they do not feel comfortable or love. We do have our livelihood through these pearls and vases but we cannot partake of their benefits readily. The lack of formal education also hinders us. I only finished fifth grade. She (pointing to the girl behind me) will be on her sixth grade this school year.”
I look behind me and told her that she should really try to finish her schooling. She gave an affirmative to this.Often times, honestly, I think about how these street urchins and beggars make the streets dirty and how they themselves are sloths and resorts to begging because they do not know anything. But now, I’m surrounded with people who are skilled, going to school, hopeful for a better and secure life, and laden with possibilities. The Badjao boys could be the futureof Philippine swimming. The Badjao name should be exalted same as with other ethnic tribesin the Philippines. Yet, even among so-called civilized city-dwellers and Bisayas, there is discrimination. They call them “Badjao!” not just as an identifier but as well as a derogatory remark to remind them of their place on society. But then the Badjao woman answers steadfastly:
“Yes. I am a Badjao and a Badjao I shall be until I die. But I believe we are allone and the same. We are Filipinos. It is only our tongues that divide us. ”
The pride and strength that this Badjao lady showed me made me respect her people and culture even more. Driven out of necessity, they beg in the streets or the Badjao girls would dance to the beats of the boys’ drums hoping that the one entertained would give them a few spare change in return. They are not laggards for they use their talents to feed their families. They are not reprobates because they work hard and do honest living through their crafts and sea-faring life. The Badjao and their name should be respected. If we are tocall ourselves civilized, then they too with their own culture and principles are civilized. Civilized men treat and respect each other as equals and we ought to treat the Badjao and all other ethnicities as such. Their poverty is the result of man’s peculiarity to be superior. It is abhorrent. But in being superior, there will be greater capacity to aid and let the inferiorstand amongst them and be therefore see each other as equals.
The drums continue to sound throughout the village. I cross the footbridge and situate myself along the garbage laden shore. Small crabs and other shelled creatures scuttle away when I walk along their path. In every step I take, the drum’s beat accompany it. It invites me to dance even if the sea village is now behind me. This must be the effect of someoneimmersed in such a beautiful culture as theirs. The sound takes on a new meaning. What now reverberate in my ears are the echoes of hope.
The Drums Beat in the Distance is written by one of our (Kuya Fish Campaign) members, Stephen RB Sapiera about an experience in the hinterlands of Puntod, Cagayan de Oro City
Help us make a difference. The goal is to provide these Badjao children from Puntod, Cagayan de Oro with adequate supplies and materials for the school year. Your upvotes and resteems would carry them through. Education is the way out, learning should be for everyone.
The breakdown of expenses and possible materials.
Hear the drums beat from a distance. Each pounding beat resonating their hearts, and yours, as they slowly come to rise.
