The concept of traveling light is alien to my Tita T. I used to kid that she packed for a six-hour boat trip to Cebu as if she were crossing the Pacific — with two maids in tow, her entire medicine chest (including the indispensable White Flower for nausea/seasickness, Efficascent for muscle ache, and aceite de manzanilla for bloat), and enough food to put the ship’s canteen (with its usual fare of boiled egg and SkyFlakes) to shame.
Tita T. is a pescatarian. A creature of habit, she has to have fish soup (tinowa) with each meal. Inviting her to parties is a tricky proposition. Convincing her to step out of the house is trickier. Getting her onto a boat or plane? A minor miracle. Now imagine her eating alongside the other passengers with their eggs, crackers, instant noodles, and junk food. In the unlikely event that we’re on the same boat, that would be me with my homemade tuna sandwich. Tita would approve.
Not that it is any easier to convince me to travel. My best friend has been trying to get me on a plane to just about anywhere since forever. Just last week he was talking about New York. “Just say when,” I said. He gave me this tired look. “Really? You don’t even have a passport!”
It’s true. I used to have one but I never bothered to renew. A plan was a step in that direction and I didn’t have any. It seems the older I get, the more I am inclined to just stay put. When I think of travelling, I do not imagine the sights; all I see are timetables and luggage. I used to be an eleventh-hour kind of guy and I have missed a lot of boats (and a plane) for my casual attitude to schedules. These days if I’m not at the terminal an hour before the boat leaves — anxiety attack. Two hours to check-in before a flight is still a bit much for me, but I have a feeling that I’m getting there. Did I mention I now pack a full day early? With a checklist, natch. And still I manage to forget a few basic items. Like my medication — and I don’t mean cigarettes, though there’s that too.
When my friends talk about vacations, I have a simple solution. “Come over,” I offer. I like vacations as long as they’re in my backyard. Never mind if I pull a muscle cooking for a whole barangay, or spend a couple of sleepless nights trying to think of new places to take them to. It’s a fair trade, if you ask me.
It’s not that I’m not curious about the world — just the one at large. A week ago, someone brought me these cuttings from a wild plant called dalilí. The leaves resembled that of taro (gabi) and are similarly edible (as are the flowers/buds), I was told. A more informed source¹ has it that this plant belongs to the water hyacinth family and is considered a weed.
But that bit of scientific info came later. In the meantime, I looked up ‘dalilí’ online and got… nothing. No lowlander I asked knew anything about it, either. Or that there was even such a plant in the first place. Curiosity piqued, I decided to see for myself. Besides, my guide said it grew just off the side of the road (dan) in their mountain village.
Damn these barrio folk; they are so terrible at distances. It was off the roadside, all right — and up a steep, muddy slope that took us into the forest!² We encountered our first specimen a quarter of a kilometer in (or up). By the edge of the dirt trail. (Stupid me; I didn’t consider that dan could variously mean street, road, path, or trail.)
It was good enough for me — but not our guide. He insisted on showing me dalilí with buds (flowers?) still attached to their calyces.³ Who was I to begrudge him? Thirty minutes later we found what we were looking for under a stand of trees. It was getting dark and my poor knees were wobbly from exertion so you’ll have to excuse the photos.
Locals eat only the young (unopened) leaves and the buds (along with the stem/pedicle). The mature leaves are used to feed livestock. Dalilí is cooked like gabi: with a minimum of stirring, ostensibly to avoid the “itch” factor. Each cutting is tied into an overhand knot (I forgot to ask what this was supposed to achieve or prevent) and stewed in coconut cream, preferably with freshwater shellfish from nearby creeks.
I used shrimps, with lots of garlic and turmeric. Predictably, the dalilí tasted like gabi, if a lot less fibrous than, say, takway (taro tendrils). Delicious, but if you didn’t know what it was you would be forgiven for thinking it was no great shakes. In fact, a more sensible person would question the practicality of venturing into the forest (and its attendant dangers) when you could just purchase a nearly identical vegetable at the market for a few measly pesos, and he would be right. See, I tell my friends as much. Why should I go out when I’ve got everything right here at home? Why submit myself to the vagaries of the weather (not to mention Cebu Pacific), to Italian hustlers, pompous French waiters, or errant baggage handlers and crazy cab drivers of any nationality? My aunt would doubtless agree.
“But you’re missing the point!” they’d chorus.
Oh, I’m not being obtuse. Travel is supposed to open the mind, expand one’s horizons. The few times that I am prevailed upon to join my pals on a trip, I do so willingly enough. I even manage to have a good time. But I don’t see myself climbing Machu Picchu or Mount Everest anytime soon. There’s the National Geographic Channel for that. Thank heavens for cable or I would be stuck with Kris and Darla.
Hello, I am working on a recipe book of traditional Obo Monuvu recipes. This vegetable is known as Opusow in Mt Apo, and from internet searching we think it is more likely to be Schismagoglottis calyptrata.
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