By: Telly Gonzaga-Ocampo
Ang Landahan: The Fire We Have Lost
Young people today may not know the landahan.
It was the copra dryer, a humble shed where coconut halves were laid in long rows over a slow, steady fire. The fire was fed by baliongan, the dried husks of the lubi. Smoke rose softly through the trees, as if the land itself were breathing. The heat did its quiet work, and when the copra was ready, it was clean, fragrant, and firm. Maayo ang kopra gikan sa landahan, limpio man, far better than copra dried under the sun on the roadside.
In Baclayon of my youth, the landahan was more than a dryer. It was a landmark of childhood, of school days, of hunger and kindness, and of a town that lived by the coconut. Now it stands only in memory, and memory, like smoke, is already thinning in the air.
MOMES, the Miguel Oppus Memorial School, was once upon a time an extension of Baclayon Central Elementary School, where Grade 5 and 6 students studied. Classrooms at the central school were not enough, so children walked. Those were the times when security was not a problem. We walked to and from school with our teachers, as if the road itself would keep us safe.
I remember Mr. Vicente Real, our Geography and History teacher, walking every day, morning and afternoon, to his home in Montaña. That was quite a walk, with his students passing through the cemetery, at the time nga kabayabsan pa ang maagi-an, when the path was still a forest of bayabas trees. Boys and girls walked with him, many coming from the other side of town. Most schools were still primary schools. We did not feel the heat, since roads were lined with trees, and the shade fell over us like a blessing we did not know how to name.
Along the way, from school, as we walked, we passed through the landahan. Kon maglanda ang tag-iya, mamunit mi ug kopras sa landahan. When the drying was done, we would pick up pieces of copra. The aroma was so inviting. It made the mouth water, and for a moment, hunger felt like joy.
And because many of us children would pick the pieces of copra, the owner would shoo us away. Sabligan mi niya ug bas. He would splash us with sand. We were like birds and little sparrows who would fly as fast as we could, bringing with us our pieces of copra that we picked from the landahan, laughing even as the sand stung our skin. We did not know then that we were gathering not only copra, but days that would never return.
We did not have cheese curls, chippy, French fries and what not. We had monggos, maruya, tira-tira, ug pritong kolo. A warm piece of copra from the landahan was already a treat: simple, shared, and unforgettable. Now the sweetness of those days aches a little, because we know they are gone.
During our time, the coconut had so many uses. Nothing was wasted. It gave everything of itself. Ang baliongan isugnod, the husk was fuel for the fire. Ang bagol gamiton para plantcha, the shell was used for the flat iron. And the bunot? You know what it was for, sa wala pa ang tissue paper. Indeed the tree asked for so little and gave so much, and we, in our innocence, thought it would give forever.
Copra held a permanent place in the mercado, where these were weighed and bought by copra dealers. Most copra dealers came from nearby towns. Prices were posted on the front walls of stores near the market. Those were the days when coconut trees were still abundant and tall, standing like quiet guardians over the town.
Copra held a permanent place near the timbangan, the great weighing scale. Ang nagkopras suroyon sa mga panimalay sa ibabaw nga dapit sa lungsod, ug ang motabo, adto ra pud mosakay sa dikarga. When the sale was done, they would again take the cargo truck on their way home. This was a common and beautiful sight. There was the dikarga of Pabling Sanay and Nong Gunga. There was a regular trip schedule for the dikarga. Kadtong dili ka huwat sa tabo sa Miyerkoles, ibaligya na lang ang ilang copra sa tindahan sa mga copra buyer. Those who could not wait for the market day on Wednesday would sell their copra to the tiendas of the copra buyers.
Those were the days when gasoline was still paid in centavos. Those were beautiful days when inflation was unknown. Those were the days when the maleta was never part of any conversation, except when somebody was going to take a vacation out of town. Life was small, then, but it was enough. It was more than enough.
And now, in the sunset of my years, as I go around in my bao-bao to the interior barrios of Baclayon, I observe the path of the present generation. One time, I came across a landahan. It looked desolate. It was deserted. There were no more coconut fruits piled up to be laid on the dryer. Everything of the landahan seemed lifeless as if the fire it used to glow had grown tired and gone away.
And we understand that the copra importers have shifted the market to Malaysia and Indonesia after the rationalization of the industry, together with sugar, energy, telecommunications, transportation, and many more. It was the darkest point in our history.
But the landahan lives on in memory: in the smell of smoke, in the walk past the cemetery, in the laughter of children picking copra, in the weight of a sack on the timbangan, and in the schooling it paid for.
Let the young know it. Let them remember that once, in Baclayon, a small fire under a shed of coconut fed families, schooled children, and held a whole town together. Let them remember, before the last smoke fades, before the last landahan falls silent, and before we forget how much we once loved, and how much we have lost.