Wednesday, March 22, 2017 // The Statement
7B
Personal Statement: Three Days in Carabao
A
s I sat in the small boat at about
8 in the morning, paddling the
dingy forward, my “guide,”
Carabao Island-native Willy
Mendoza, signaled to pull on
my swimming goggles. The skinny canoe was
not much longer than a ping-pong table and
thinner than a kayak but balanced with two
beams that extended out like wings.
About 40 meters offshore, Willy and I had
just cast a lengthy fishing net across the ocean
floor in a massive semicircular path. Our first
fishing attempt of the day — my first ever in this
manner — would be wildly successful.
One of Willy’s sons dove off the boat first, and
I watched him as he flapped his arms and legs,
smacking the water. Willy instructed that Park-
er (another American boy I was traveling with)
and I do the same. I pulled down my goggles
and slid down off the boat. After a deep breath,
I sank under, and understood the simple, yet
effective, fishing tactic that the Mendoza family
had mastered for years.
Beneath the surface, I watched through
the clear water as Willy and his oldest son,
Christian, frightened fish in every direction.
The sounds of kicking legs and arms splashing
scared fish, and by working together, the father
and son maneuvered a handful of fish toward
the net, which would eventually catch their
gills.
That was only the first attempt. For the
next 20 minutes, Parker and I joined in, kick-
ing, splashing, breathing and repeating. The
sea floor was lined with starfish, coral and sea
grass, and above it swam fish of all sizes and
colors. We caught them all until we had enough
stuck in the net to come back to the boat.
Back in the canoe, we pulled in the net,
untangling each fish and throwing it in a bucket.
“When net gets heavy, stop,” Willy told me.
Willy’s English was limited, but I under-
stood. Whenever the net began to feel heavy,
it was usually caught on the coral on the ocean
floor. This happened often, and when it did,
one of the Filipinos put on wooden flippers and
swam down to the floor to untangle it.
I watched from just below the surface as they
dove down, sometimes holding their breath for
45 seconds at a time, fiddling away at the thin
wires to release the net from the coral.
We continued pulling the net in until we
finally hauled up the rock attached to one end
that anchored it in place.
About 20 fish in total. In my whole life of rod-
and-bait fishing, I had never caught half that
number. Twice more we cast the net, scared
fish into it and pulled it in to find our method
was equally successful.
After getting back to shore, we brought in the
bucket full of fish, and for the remainder of the
day that comprised our lunch and dinner. Fish,
chicken and rice were the most common. Wil-
ly’s wife prepared a type of fresh sashimi, tak-
ing bits of the raw fish and sticking them in lime
juice to kill bacteria. We also ate octopus, pork,
clams and squid with black ink still on it.
Our catch, along with other chicken and pork
they raised near their home, would feed Willy,
his wife, and their seven kids for two days, and
then they would untangle the net and fish again.
Such is life on Carabao, a remote island far
away on its own in the Philippines. With a
population of just more than 10,000, “isolated”
is an understatement of its location. Parker and
I made up two of about seven tourists on the
island that week. During the summer it gets a
little busier, but there are few traces of Western
influence.
There is one hospital, but it has no doctors.
Electricity shuts off at 8:00 p.m. every night,
and for most of the island’s population, the sun-
set means the day is over.
We had met Willy the day before. After kaya-
king for about 30 minutes, Parker and I came
across a beach where kids were playing. As we
paddled to shore, the kids waved and we said
hello and we saw Willy laying out the net on
his front lawn. We introduced ourselves, and
he graciously offered us coconuts, which he
chopped open right before us, and invited us to
sit down.
“Are you going fishing?” we asked.
“8 a.m. tomorrow,” Willy replied.
He welcomed us to come along, and we
returned promptly the next morning. While
net-fishing far away in the Philippines felt like a
day activity for me, it was just part of the routine
for the Mendozas, and many others that live in
Carabao.
After lunch, we motorbiked over to the chick-
en fights for the afternoon. At least 100 people,
all men, were watching and betting. Along with
cliff jumping, snorkeling and exploring bat
caves, three days in Carabao were filled with
incredible memories. But what has stuck with
me the most was our last meal with Willy later
than night.
As we sat with Willy for dinner, just as the
electricity went out, we asked him about his
home.
He told us he had built it himself, 23 years
ago, when he was in his early 20s. In front of the
house, a lawn led to the water. Out back, a paddy
was filled with chickens, cats and a dog. To the
side, a canopy covered the dinner table.
The static of an old box television could be
heard from outside, and walking up the con-
crete steps to the door, we briefly looked inside
his four-room home. About the size of an aver-
age high-school classroom, the floors were
made of concrete and stone. I remember only
four bamboo beds — no mattresses, pillows,
sheets or anything. Just flat bamboo beds.
I’d met so many people that day. From Willy’s
family and friends to strangers in the town and
at the chicken fight, and they all had greeted me
so kindly. Willy’s family, all nine of them, fed me
and showed me a day in their lives.
My entire day was filled with a spontane-
ous agenda I couldn’t have anywhere else in
the world, but for Willy, it was a regular Thurs-
day, and he was so happy the whole time. From
morning to evening, he smiled, and we laughed
at dinner. And in his home, this small home, on
these four bamboo beds, lived nine people. The
oldest, Willy, was 46, and the youngest child, a
daughter, was not yet 2 years old.
It was so different. Four bamboo beds rested
on concrete floors, and the only light came from
a battery flashlight they used to show me and
Parker around. It was uncomfortable, and odd,
to be honest. Spending a whole day with some-
one, seeing them as so happy and joyful and
then learning the conditions they live in are so
drastically different.
So I just looked, because I didn’t know what
else to do.
I don’t think I’ll ever see Willy again,
and I don’t know if I’ll ever go to Philip-
pines again, but I’ll always be grateful to
the Mendoza family for the incredible,
and different, experience they gave to me.
The next morning, I woke up on my
bed — mattress, sheets and a pillow — and
Parker and I boated back to meet the rest
of our group that hadn’t followed us to
Carabao.
by Ted Janes, Daily Sports Writer
PHOTO COURTESY OF TED JANES