Sohaylah B. Manabilang
As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, the bukid awakened. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and fresh grass. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the tall corn stalks; their golden tassels swayed rhythmically. In the distance, the lowing of cows and the clucking of chickens punctuated the morning stillness.
The farmhouse stood modest yet welcoming, its wooden walls weathered by years of sun and rain. A small garden bloomed beside it, vibrant with the colors of ripened tomatoes and the deep green of leafy vegetables.
Visiting the bukid always gave warmth to my heart. The stillness of the farm enveloped me like a comforting blanket, a stark contrast to the city’s relentless hustle and the ceaseless hum of car engines. I remember going to my uncle’s farmhouse every weekend, the most awaited days of my life. There, my Bapa and his wife, Babu, had a farm that became a tapestry of daily routines. They had a lot of big cows, and they were so adorable. Chasing after the chickens, I laughed as they darted between the bamboo posts, their feathers rustled like whispers of old friends sharing secrets. Even watering their Eggplants, Sakorabs (White Scallions), Pariya (Bitter melon), and Loya a Pagirisen (Ginger) made me the happiest. I loved volunteering to do these things every time.
The wide cornfield was a playground, and when it’s almost time to harvest them, I was the most excited as I loved separating the corn from their cob, but sometimes, it could be tricky, some are hard as rock and cemented to their cob. After my Bapa and our neighbors harvested the corn, kids from the neighborhood gathered to organize the corn into different sacks of rice. I noticed that children in the province had possessed a natural inclination to help, as if kindness were woven into their hearts. Their friendly competition during tasks made work felt like playing, and the sense of community was palpable.
This is something I noticed from the kids who grew up in provinces; maka-oogopa, they were so helpful as if it was written in their hearts. Although often, it was a competition against one another, friendly competition, because then we wouldn’t realize that we were finished with our task. It was simply playtime for the kids in the bukid.
I remember when I was a 3rd grader, it was almost the weekend, and I kept telling my friends at school that we would be traveling somewhere far away. I loved describing my uncle’s farm to them. My classmates were always attentive in listening to the stories I had. Together, we smiled and imagined the beauty of the farmhouse and its people.
One Saturday morning, my Ome woke me up and my other siblings instructing us to get ready as we were going to visit my Bapa. The sun barely showed itself, and I could only hear a few chickens clucking from the back of our house. Quickly, I sat down and stretched my arms, still yawning, I asked my mother, “Ome, antonaa i pagawidan aken? What should I bring? I want to take my Hello Kitty backpack with me.”
She just nodded, and I took that as a signal from her. I hurried to get my bag and stuffed my paper dolls in it. I was thinking that I would show my friends in the bukid what I got from the city. After a few minutes, everybody was ready to go.
Along the way, I could hear my stomach making noises. I thought of my biscuit inside the bag, just as I was about to grab it, I remembered my friends and thought of sharing it with them, thinking that they would love to have some Butter Coconut for a snack.
As the days unfolded on the farm, I noticed the subtle rhythms that tended life in the bukid. The early morning fog that slowly lifted to reveal the sun’s golden rays, the chorus of birds greeting the dawn, and the predictable patterns of farm chores created a comforting routine. Each task, whether it was feeding the cows or tending to the garden, felt purposeful and connected to the land.
The travel to the bukid wasn’t that long, it’s only a 10–15-minute drive from home. When we were almost there, I could see the people from the farm preparing to start their day. Compared to the city, I was sure at this time of the day, everyone would still be snoring and feeling cozy under their blankets. Upon arrival, the muddy scent yet aromatic Nitib a Kapi, native coffee, greeted us, and my Bapa welcomed us with a hearty smile. Breakfast was a feast of foods prepared with love by Babu, and my already empty stomach started complaining.
“You are just right on time,” Bapa said, his voice brimmed with happiness. My mom hurried to the kitchen to help Babu prepare our breakfast. I could hardly contain my excitement as the rich aroma of freshly brewed Nitib a Kapi, filled the air. My eyes lit up when I saw the Piyaparan a Banggala— soft, warm cassava generously topped with sweet, creamy coconut, laid out on the table, looking absolutely mouthwatering. My heart leapt even more when my cousin Ainah arrived, carrying a basket of Apang a Maregas, pancake made of rice, their golden surfaces slightly crisp and glistening, and Pakbol, ripe bananas lovingly wrapped in grated cassava, fried to a golden brown. When everything was finally set, Bapa joined us at the table, and the laughter and the happy clinking of plates filled the room as we all shared the delicious feast.
Since it was harvesting season for corn, my Bapa jokingly winked at me and instructed me about my task, to separate the corn from their cobs. I automatically thought of my friends from the neighborhood whom I was expecting to come over, and true enough, one by one, they started to appear. We started doing our task, not minding the scorching sun that was hitting our skin. My Babu, with her warm smile and gentle hands, brought us Iniyaw a Kamais, its golden crust glistening under the sun, filling the air with the sweet scent of the roasted corn.
Each moment spent in the bukid was etched in my heart, a tapestry of laughter, warmth, and simple joys that continued to nourish my soul. It is a plant that continuously grows within me. I didn’t even noticed my hands getting swollen from working the entire day with my friends. Just like the other kids, what matters to me is the thought of contributing something good to people. It was almost the call of prayer for ‘Asr, the afternoon prayer, when we finished our task. A thought popped in my mind: the biscuit I kept in my bag, and the paper dolls I brought from home. Quickly, I took them out and told my friends I had presents for them. Everyone was so excited about what was inside my bag, just right after I showed them the Power Puff Girls, their foreheads frowned, as if telling me that these paper dolls were not their kind of thing. I happily told them that back home, these were my toys. We played for quite some time and decided to share the biscuit with everyone.
Before the sun set, my friends individually said goodbye to me, waving their hands happily. After everyone had gone home, my mom called me because we were going home. This time, we were not staying overnight in the bukid. On our way home, we passed by Somaya’s house, my friend, who was outside taking a bath from the ombak (water pump). I smiled to myself, seeing her from a distance.
Life in the bukid was a quiet symphony of simplicity, where each sunrise brought a new song of hope, and every sunset whispered tales of contentment. Every visit we make is heavily painted in my heart, and up until today, I remembered every detail of it.
Looking back, I realized that those weekends in the bukid instilled in me a sense of community and gratitude. The simplicity of farm life taught me to appreciate the small joys and the importance of shared labor.
Visiting in the bukid taught me invaluable lessons that the bustling city couldn’t offer. The simplicity of life there, where the day’s concerns revolved around the harvest or the weather, provided a sense of clarity. More importantly, the sense of community was apparent. Neighbors worked together, shared meals, and supported one another without hesitation. This collective spirit fostered a deep sense of belonging and taught me the true meaning of cooperation and kindness.
One evening, as I sat on our porch watching the stars emerge in the clear night sky, I reflected on the days spent in the bukid. The laughter of friends had woven itself into the fabric of my being. I realized that these experiences had shaped my values and perspectives, instilling in me a deep appreciation for the simple joys of life and the importance of community.
The memories of golden mornings, the laughter of friends, and the warmth of family gatherings were engraved in my heart. These moments, though simple, had shaped my understanding of community, kindness, and the beauty of shared labor.
Returning to the city was always bittersweet. The fast-paced life, the noise, and the constant rush felt overwhelming after the tranquility of the bukid. Yet, I carried with me the lessons learned, and the memories cherished. Whenever the city’s chaos became too much, I would close my eyes and recall the sights, sounds, and smells of the farm, finding solace in those memories.
Years have passed since those weekends in the bukid, but the lessons remained. Now, as I navigate the complexities of adulthood, I often find myself seeking the simplicity I experienced in the farm. Whether it’s tending to a small garden or helping a neighbor, I strive to live by the values planted in me during those formative years. The bukid, in its quiet way, continues to guide me. In the rush of daily life, I carry with me the lessons learned on the farm—the importance of slowing down, the joy of working together, and the profound connection to the land. These values have become my compass, guiding me through life.
Now, as I tend to my small garden, I find solace in the rhythm of planting and nurturing. Each seed sown is a tribute to the bukid, a reminder of the roots that continue to nourish my soul. The spirit of the farm lives on in me, a quiet presence that brings peace amidst the noise of the world.
Peaceful and simple.
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