The Plantation

The pony's hooves sank into half an inch of mud. The short rain earlier in the day had turned the narrow trails into sludge, making the climb even more difficult. Teniente Triviño had to get down from the driver's seat to pull the beleaguered animal several times during the journey.

When we reached the abacá plantation, the lieutenant was a mess and more tired than the horse. I pitied him, but he had insisted on this, perhaps bored with having nothing to do in town.

My daughter nudged me multiple times to help, but I was just an old man, and I quite enjoyed seeing city folk struggle, both in this life and the previous one.

It was immediately obvious to anyone with an eye that he was a nerd as soon as he got out of the boat. He was as stiff as a rifle, his speech too formal, his hair well-combed, his face well-shaved, his uniform well-pressed, and his boots so well-polished you could see your reflection in them.

My daughter was the fairest in all of Marinduque, yet he did not even seem to show a single hint of interest. And much of the time he spent in my house, he spent absorbed in his books.

Of course, I did not forget his Nobel Peace Prize-winning answer the other night.

Seeing him all muddied and disheveled was a pleasure.

"Teniente, are you all right?" My daughter rushed to the young officer, carrying a bumbong, a bamboo tube crafted into a water container.

Isidro Triviño snatched the bumbong, greedily gulped down the water, then poured some over himself. He murmured a thank you as he stumbled toward the nearest hut.

I remained in my seat for a few seconds more to take in the view of the plantation.

The uninitiated could easily mistake abacá for banana trees. Both had broad leaves and a soft stalk for a trunk. But unlike banana trees, which produced bananas, abacá produced high-quality hemp that sold like gold. Each quarterly shipment typically came back with 5,000 pesos in net profit. To put that into perspective, a steamer ship could be bought for 40,000 pesos.

I was one of the richest men in the province. My yearly income could finance a small army. And I held my position because Martin had contributed the most cash to the local revolutionary effort.

"Don Lardizábal, I am glad that you could visit."

Leonardo Perez, the man in charge of daily operations in my stead, assisted me as I got down from the small carriage. He was about my age, with dark skin from regular exposure to the sun and arms twice the size of mine due to hard work.

He was a simple man, barely able to read and write, but sharp at counting. I always had a fondness for simple folk because, with them, you could be simple in kind.

"How's the harvest going?" I asked as I proceeded to the hut where the lieutenant had collapsed onto the rattan sofa. My daughter was making a fuss, worriedly waving her fan at him.

"Well, as it always is at the end of the year. The consistent sunlight makes for high-quality hemp," he replied with a grin that exposed his tobacco-stained teeth. "I think we'll have 1,000 piculs to sell in January."

In front of the huts were drying racks for the fibers, which gleamed golden in the sunlight. It was the strongest natural fiber of the time and was highly sought after for ship rigging and anchor lines due to its resistance to saltwater.

"Well done, Leonardo," I replied. "Now, you don't need to join in the work. That's not what you're paid to do."

Leonardo chuckled. "I like working, Don Martín. My body yearns for it."

"Well, if you insist. Just don't overdo it."

I climbed into the hut, thinking about doubling the man's salary. The previous owner of this body hadn't exactly been greedy, but neither had he been generous, and he had not rewarded Leonardo for his several years of honest work. While I was at it, I could also offer his grandkids free tuition at the escuela municipal.

I sighed as I stared at the young man, the exact opposite of my capataz. The lieutenant, likely a spawn of a rich family in Manila, was a sophisticated gentleman but wilted like paper against fire when it came to physical labor.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk… Isabela, cut it out with the fanning. This here is a soldier. Look at him, almost dying from a little bit of hard work. There are several maidens on this island who would be more durable than him," I scolded, though not entirely serious. I had anticipated he would end up like this, but I was impressed he had persevered until we arrived at the plantation.

"But, Papa…"

"It is all right, Señorita… I just need a few more minutes to collect myself," he said, trying to sit properly in his zombie-like state. He was pale, and I imagined he could barely feel his arms and legs after all that pulling.

I looked around and saw the wives of my workers and their children sorting through the already dried fiber in a nearby shed. Their job was to separate the fibers, grading which ones would be good enough for export and which would end up for local use.

"Juan," I called out to one of the lads who had come along to help their mothers. The boy immediately stood up at the sound of my voice and hastily made his way toward the entrance of the hut.

"Sí, Don Martín." He stood at attention, smiling widely at the promise of a potential quick buck.

"Would you be so kind as to get green coconuts for the three of us?" I asked.

The kid immediately obliged, snatching a bolo blade from the shed and nimbly climbing a coconut tree, dropping green coconuts one after another. Just as quickly, he climbed down and pried them open for access to the refreshing juice.

After giving the boy a couple of centavos for the chore, the three of us drank the liquid inside the coconut shell, which tasted like a gentler version of Sprite.

Soon enough, the color returned to the teniente's face.