FUBARgenre: The Genre of Fubar

Tourists visit Moalboal for its excellent diving haunts.

Today, the streets of this rustic town are teeming with foreigners. Kids pause and stare at the white strangers, mesmerized by the daring display of skin. Women shove baskets of fish to the visitors. Eager for a dollar, a woman offers her son as a gofer, promising a seafood meal and a banca ride to a passing stranger.

I watch this scene and try to place my dad in the commotion. The scrawny boy from the tattered pictures would have been leading the youngsters who are now parading in the heat. He would have sauntered to the beach to coast on a banca to the islands, to the shimmering fathoms and infinite exploits.

I join my family in my ancestral home. Refurnished some 5 years ago, it has lost the wooden walls and the cobwebbed crevices where we used to play. Only the spirit of family survived, stronger as the years pass.

It is here that my dad and his siblings meet yearly in tribute to their childhood. We drive two hours from Cebu to visit. Nine other families fly from other parts of the world.

I kiss the hands of my grandparents. Kadako na sa taga-ciyudad, they say. How our city girl has grown. I smile.

I board the van and sit back for the drive to Panagsama Beach. My sisters and cousins banter. My dad magnifies the din with his singing. My Mom asks us to pipe down. My aunts and uncles follow in their cars.The promise of beach has infused us with frenzy.

As we arrive, kids eager to rent out a cottage greet us. They haggle for prices. We decline.

Armed with tents, we trek across the fine white sand to settle near the water’s edge.

Tourists chirp in 10 languages from 5 feet away, lugging their gear and waiting for a banca. A thousand pesos would get you to the nearby Pescador Island, a sensational diving hub.

My younger cousins flip their plastic fins in the radiant sea. The older kids lounge in the sun. One strums a guitar. Another reads a book. The moms gossip over the grill and sizzle. The dads drink beer and discuss politics.

I settle in the water. Even at 3 feet deep, tiny rainbow fishes are performing an exquisite dance. I peer at the vibrant marine life, so reminiscent of the vivacity of this town.

My mom calls us for lunch. We attack a feast of sumptuous seafood, shoving rice and fish into our mouths.

In 3 hours, the sun would set. I would write a poem as the world bathes in cascading rays.

Divers are returning from countless quests. The swimmers are exhausted. The sun is drowsy. The people watch the tide ebb.

Tourists visit quaint Moalboal for its excellent diving haunts. This from a brochure.

I come here for the waves of nostalgia.

Note: I found this in my archives. I think I wrote this in 2000, shortly after I graduated from college and a couple of years before my Lolo passed away, back when Moalboal was an annual ritual. Gone are those days, but we still have the memories.

Also published in IndieBloggers.

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