My apologies to the composer John Adams …
Barangay San Antonio los Baños Laguna. Early in a monsoon season that has lacked rain.
If Philippine farmers get one crop of rice a year, they are happy. Two would be a miracle. But how can they plant when the monsoons will wash the crop away? It could come at any time. Still, some farmers take their chances.
Rice is harvested by hand. Here, it is dried and milled by hand, weeks stretching into months for each process. Each grain left behind is a loss of income, just as each grain left on a plate can never be recovered, our guide explains.
“That’s why we never leave it behind. You can never get it back, in this life or the next.”
The Philippines population has grown so quickly—by nine million people from 2016 to 2022, that in the past several years the country has gone from being a major rice exporter to a major importer. Enter the IRRI—the International Rice Research Institute—based in the PI since 1960. Today, it continues research and development on matters of sustainability, nutrition, and food security. It works to create healthier types of rice, engage people in the process to reduce poverty and strengthen nutrition. They are headquartered here in Los Baños, and we are about to take a two kilometer rail ride from the road skirting Laguna de Bay to just short of the gate. This is not like Amtrak or the Great Western. It’s a symbol of Philippine industriousness and a can-do, make-do approach to life. As riders, we will contribute financially to the community in a much smaller but no less important way.
The hot springs area we travel through is not all tourism. There are farmers, like my great-great grandfather Isidro, planting paddies and harvesting rice. Store fronts—some modern, some little more than shacks—bear the names of women, mostly: Clarice’s Sari Sari (everything), Ester Food House, Rose’s Fruit Stand, JenJoyce Sari Sari, Daniela Buko (young coconut) Pie. Janet, Josephia, Lanie, Nancy … they all have sari sari crowded along the roadways. But the men have some, too. Jonathan Auto Supply. Jhari’s Food House. Benji Poultry Supply. Alston’s Store.
Our guide tells us that under the Americans and Japanese, roads and stores had numbered names. 11th Street. Store 32. That sort of thing. But after the war, shop owners named their stores after women. Sometimes the women (or men) were known proprietors, but just as often, a woman’s name was used because it evoked gossip and conversation— an invitation to chat, to hear the news and local happenings.
Today, we jog and jockey among the bike taxis and jeepneys as usual. A single beep beep warns a scooter to one side, or chases a dog from the road. Or wants a pedestrian not to wander to far into the road, for at times there is little shoulder and no sidewalk. The road is the only place to travel whether by engine or on foot. We stop at a place where the railroad crosses, turn alongside the track, and park in a basketball half-court, depriving the children their place to shoot hoops—but only for a little while.
First we receive a breakfast of warm tofu and fruit with syrup, served in a plastic Dixie cup the likes of which we might find in our bathroom cabinet. It is sweet, silky smooth, and warms our insides as it goes. While we are breakfasting, the men prepare our cars. Jobert and Dante are two of them. They are mechanics and maintenance crew who have affixed the bearings of long dead cars onto wooden platforms, and on to each platform they have added a wooden bench. Each car can hold up to seven people. In our group, we only ride two per car. This means we will pay for more cars, but we also tend toward the plus sizes.
Then the two men per cart change metaphorical hats, from builders to conductors and engineers—and engines. Jobert and Dante push my niece and I the two kilometers, past the shacks and sari saris of the people who live along the track, past dogs and cats. We nearly hit a trio of pigeons. Some people eye us suspiciously. Others wave. The children watch by the rail side, just careful enough to avoid the cart as it rumbles past.
There are other men stationed along the way, their carts on the track, awaiting anyone who needs a quick ride up to the highway or down to the IRRI neighborhood. as we approach, they remove their carts, replacing them after we pass. A couple road crossings present challenges: scooters and bicycles dart across the rail. A truck passes in front of us. Once it was the reverse; everyone stopped for the train. There’s a trestle crossing a ravine. Someone’s lola (grandmother) waits to cross, plastic grocery bag in each hand, face expressionless, until we have passed.
We stop at the fence beside IRRI property, a place where the elbow in the road goes one way to town and the other along the adjoining rice paddies. We disembark, and the men turn our carts around. Our guide asks the men if they like the work.
“I am happy,” Jobert says. “I get to provide for my family.” After we return, we know he will check the cart, oil it to keep the bearings working, and wait for another person to transport. At ten pesos per trip, they need to make at least ten trips a day. By taking us, they have made the day’s wages in one go.
“Next time, you come,” our guide says, “they may not be there anymore.” The rails are being reclaimed and rebuilt, and the state is relocating families who live in land slated for renewal into public housing with electricity and water. It’s an improvement, but for men who have built their livelihood, it is also a challenge, trying to determine where the next job might be. For now though, we have learned a little more about the people and their ingenuity.
Our van has moved to a recently emptied parking spot. Three boys shoot hoops; one sports a worn #23 LeBron James Lakers jersey. His friends tease him when his shot goes under the net.
Nicanor Abbott 
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