Tripping

When Ma brings out the fancy dinnerware, I know to expect guests in, oh, about a week or so. She is not the type to put things off until the last minute — that, she would volunteer to anyone who cares to listen, would be me, unofficially the world’s greatest laggard. It just so happens that this laggard is in charge of the kitchen, and since Ma will not have her parties catered, her checklist also includes Valium.

So that’s not exactly a vote of confidence. What can I say? I would serve an all-pork menu if family pride were not at stake. Know what they gossip about at parties? Politics, health problems — and other people’s parties. “Oh, I was planning to serve Chilean sea bass on a bed of wild mushrooms, but there were none at the market today.” Not that you can get Chilean sea bass around here, but you get the drift. Thank God lechon is never out of season.

Seasonal cooking isn’t nearly as romantic as it sounds. A fish market without fish simply sucks. “What are you going to feed your guests?” Ma had asked when some of my friends came over for the Holy Week. “Good question,” I said; I had been in a quiet panic trying to answer that myself. “Maybe we will just cast a net overboard on the way to the island and see what gets dragged along.”

Ridiculous? Not so fast. On the trip from Bohol to Leyte, our banca made a stop at one of the smaller islands to load up on pigs. And not just any swine, either: they were lechon-grade! If you could get pigs from a pile of rocks in the middle of Canigao Strait, why not seafood? Well, the seafood had gone out on an earlier trip, ostensibly to the nearest market — ours. Yet a quick call home confirmed there was no fish to be found there. Anyare?

The full moon happened, that’s what. Basking in its glow poolside in Panglao days earlier, I had deliberately avoided thinking of its more practical implications. Fish is expensive around the full moon — and that’s if you can find any. We dropped by the market early the next morning before going on yet another island adventure and managed to snag a fair-sized saminán/talakitok (not my first choice when it comes to fish, but who was I to complain at this point?). Plus crabs, which were actually better off from the full moon (they were extra-meaty). No shrimp on offer that day, but that was probably because someone met the shrimpers as they came ashore earlier that day and bought their entire haul. So, yeah, we had oodles of shrimp.

The island was Ma’s idea, probably to get us out of her hair as long as she could. As it turned out, the closest any one on board had come to our destination was in a picture posted by a friend on Facebook. We had to make for the mainland twice: first to ask for directions (at least the skipper was not too macho for that), and then later because we were running low on fuel. It took almost four hours to get there, which was more than enough time to boil rice, bananas, kamote, and crabs (there was a stove on board), devein and brine (and kilaw some of) the shrimp, whip up a big batch of kalamansi-garlic butter, and — just for kicks — conclusively prove the Riemann hypothesis (it really was a long trip).

If you don’t know what Riemann’s hypothesis is, don’t worry. If you ask me, knowing what to do with an excess of shrimp is a far better use of brainpower. Not that I’m claiming credit for this recipe, which I found on MarketManila (I forget the exact post — sorry). It’s for the kinilaw. Everyone agreed it was the highlight of that day’s menu (but more on that later).

Dice peeled shrimps. Douse with lots of lime juice and salt to taste. Marinate for at least 15 minutes to let shrimps “cook.” Mix coconut cream with chopped chilies (finger and bird’s-eye), diced cucumber, diced red onion, and diced tomato. Add shrimps, mix well, add more salt if needed, and let stand for 10 minutes to allow flavors to come together. (I substituted kalamansi for lime, and garlic ranch dressing thinned with vinegar for coconut cream.)

That photo is not of the dish as we had it that day. Are you kidding? Everyone was too busy having fun (or cooking) to take decent shots of the food, and by the time lunch was called, we were famished. Roast pig, crab, grilled fish, shrimp two ways (kinilaw and sauteéd in butter), plus assorted carbs: you get the picture. It could have benefited from a more “composed” set-up — we had to borrow the cover of the hatch to the boat’s lower deck to serve as our buffet station — not to mention some actual chairs to rest our butts on, but that would have entailed a commitment to preparedness above my competency level. At least we ate well.

There was one other item on the menu, which, to my Bisaya palate, was the best of all. It came courtesy of the boat crew: a small jar of dark, pungent, briny ginamós (fermented fish), which I had sauteéd with loads of tomatoes, garlic, and onions — and never let leave my side. Here it is, as it were:

Yes, I have a picture of that. Several, in fact, although photos hardly do ginamós justice. That’s the finest baby fry in all their rotten glory right there, my friend — the ultimate Visayan beach food, preferably with boiled sweet potato, cassava, or banana. I seldom eat ginamós not made by my mother, which is how I know the good kind from the so-so, and this one was primo.

Anyway, I expect you want to know about the island.

It’s called Digyo, the smallest of four off the coast of Inopacan town, 45 minutes away by boat. The place is largely uninhabited (there is a caretaker), so transportation is strictly by arrangement with the local bangkeros. We opted to take a banca from my place four towns away because it was more convenient for our largish party, and even if we ended up paying a bit more, our total travel expense was roughly the equivalent of one night’s stay at a mid-range Panglao resort (deluxe room, excluding food). There was an entrance fee of ₱20 per person — not unreasonable for a place sans running water or electricity (we paid more to see the tarsiers in Bohol).

We dropped anchor at the northeastern corner (by my reckoning; I’m terrible at directions) or near the curved sandbar. Some members of the party promptly went off to circle the place and returned some 15 minutes later to confirm that it really was more islet than island, and that all the cabanas — the handful there were — were occupied. We pitched tent in a grassy area between some trees, which provided a measure of relief from the brutal sun. “Well?” I asked the Manileños. “Would you rather be at the mall instead?” Chorus: “Oh please.”

I contented myself with a post-meal dip in the crystal-clear turquoise waters before hurriedly retreating to the shade and the company of ice-cold Tanduay — my idea of an island getaway. Heat stroke or no, everyone else wanted a photo-op at the sandbar, which I must admit looked spectacular — without them. Later, as we boarded the boat for home, we took up places on the outer decks. I curled up under a towel approximately where the pigs had been the previous day (we hired the same boat we took from Bohol) and was asleep before we cleared the shore. I could not have been more relaxed had I popped a Valium.