Guarding the Fort

Every night, 5 fishermen go to our fish cage out in the middle of the ocean and sleep on the rocking guardhouse overnight to make sure fish are not stolen by passers by. Since this week is my last chance to pick a night and go with the guys as they do their ‘guard duty,’ I decided to go with them to sleep on the bamboo platform Monday evening. As is the daily routine for these guys, they went to buy 2 gallons of coconut wine and then went to a friend’s backyard and picked out the fattest chicken wandering around, and brought it with us, squawking on the boat as we made our way to the guardhouse. Don Don, the association president also brought a big cast iron pot for the cooking and a 5 gallon container of clean drinking water.

The 6 of us got to the guardhouse at about 6 p.m. and the guys all set to work, making camp for the night. Godofredo, a slender man, tattooed and quick-witted, set about lighting kerosene burners for the night to provide us with some light under the cloudy sky. Don Don, president of the organization started arranging cinderblocks and a little bundle of wood for the cooking fire. Jimmy, older brother of Don Don and local fish dealer, went to sleep on the bamboo floor, snoring loudly. Lakay, pedicab driver, and a good friend of mine, set about preparing the squealing chicken, first killing it with machete and then scalding feathers with hot water from the little fire and plucking them meticulously. Edgar, village politician and a jolly fellow, sat beside Lakay, critiquing his plucking technique, making sure not to get his hands dirty. I just took pictures.


After the chicken was plucked, Don Don put on a fresh pot of water, put onions, ginger, lemon grass and salt in, a began stirring our broth, a bigger pot of rice on the fire just next to the water. Lakay, using our boat paddle as cutting board, was busy chopping up the chicken that had been clucking around his back yard earlier, machete in hand. We ate supper with our hands, sharing plates and pot lids as saucers for the stock that we sopped up with rice. As we ate in a circle squatting on our haunches, the men all joked and said ‘Parehas Boy Scouts Kita,’ (We are just like boy scouts!) Boy Scouts are kind of the epitome of hard core for these guys and they often say something about ‘Boy Scouts’ when we’re eating with our hands, cooking over fire. I’ve known a lot of boy scouts, and these guys live a lot more hard core than boy scouts I’ve ever met. It’s funny to hear them say something about the tough boy scouts when I think most boy scouts would shriek if they saw how people live here. It think it’s funny.


After supper we all sat in the moonlight on the side of the guardhouse platform, the guys smoking cheap cigarettes and passing around a single shot glass of tuba, taking turns drinking the sour stuff.

We talked for a couple hours, sharing stories, talking about family and friends, neighbors, wives, eating, the fish, the upcoming harvest, everything. I was asked at one point to share a ‘traditional’ Virginia song, and after racking my brain, realizing that I couldn’t remember the words to ‘Carry me back to ol’ Virginny’, sang ‘Oh, Shenandoah’ for the guys, not really knowing any other traditional songs. Godofredo told us stories of his work and the people he had met in Manila when he used to work there. Everyone shared, and around 10:30, the coconut wine dried up, our heads full of conversation we’d had, we went to sleep, sprawled out over the platform, clouds moving in, crowding out the moonlight. Since I was a guest, I got to sleep in the big harvest box that blocks the cool night air. Everyone wrapped up in empty fish feed sacks for warmth, and slept soundly, except for me. Unaccustomed to the uncomfortable conditions, the stinky fish feed sacks, the uneven bamboo, I lay awake most of the night, listening to the snoring of the other men, enjoying the experience, knowing I’d regret the lack of sleep, but not the memory.

A low pressure front rolled in around 1 a.m. and it began to pour on the little guardhouse. As the ocean started to boil with tiny white waves, water began to slosh against the sides of the bamboo structure. We continued to try and sleep, but eventually, water was everywhere, even soaking through the grass shingles on the roof, and everyone was awake, watching sheets of rain run across the water.

Around 5 a.m., we all packed up our things, flash lights, matches, my book and camera, and hurriedly got into the association boat, covered up dry feed as best we could and headed back to the town to get warm and let the next shift of fishermen come and sit in the rain.