A Planned Brief Documentary on a Teenage Boy in a Badjao Village by M. J. Cagumbay Tumamac

also after Jade Mark Capiñanes from his essay “Abal”

We will start with the fact you are not impressed
by the depth of the Celebes Sea. Since birth,
you are tethered to the moon and sun exhorting you
to surface and sink. We will bring up the statistic
of fifty fathoms for a free-diving Sama such as yourself.
You will be shown to be within visual proximity
of the setting sun. (Your first entry: there is no exploring
the abyssal hiding place of moon and sun under the sea
and the difference between depth and breadth cannot be fathomed.)

The boat your father does not own will sound off and his voice
will cut through the din, “We are up against huge fishing vessels.”
Then he will come home with his catch—four pieces of tuna.
He will come upon you and your mother beset with the shriek
of nine children bawling for their chance to be breastfed.
We dramatize a memory: it is Christmas in the city
and you beg for alms with your mother and youngest sibling.
(Second entry: there is sorrow in the gaze of a child
that your mother always has to be pregnant.)

We pretend you are groping blindly for the coins pitched
by our companion who pretends to be captivated
by the charm of an old restaurant that once patronized you;
the view will conjure a sea of memories
that mollifies you, the man with gills, the fear
that you will not someday rise again. Like a fish
in an aquarium, you are a source of distress and distraction.
We will anticipate your breathing at the surface
applaud as you emerge holding the coin.

You will dive again to gather blessings
in the form of mamukuk, tayum, and others destined
to remind you of the bitterness of thirst.
We listen to a scholar: the city is also the sea
for your tribe—collecting only what is offered
underneath the capsized rock, after a knock on a car window.
(Your third entry: anguish corresponds to scarcity and saltiness—
cars speeding away and a slippery eel escaping from grasp.)
You surface with no food for today and tomorrow.

We review the documentary of a foreigner
breaching all the layers and corners of earth and sea
to measure the lungs’ ultimate breathing limit.
This is what he discovered in the depths of the sea:
through the dense crystal-clear blue waters, there is light
for the deep-swimming Santarawi whose hands were clasped.
(Fourth entry: no proof is needed
to reveal the full extent of sunburn on your body
and the bleaching of your hair into golden strands.)

You go around your town for proof
of the fact that houses are no longer built over the sea.
(Your last entry: you cannot say some of the names
of marine lifeforms in your forgotten language.)
You end up once again at the edge of land and sea,
not in awe of the vastness of your disappearing world.
We finish with how your diving disrupts
the flow of the waves. While you are underwater, we watch closely,
listen for your breath bubbling, breaking the water surface.

also after Jade Mark Capiñanes from his essay “Abal”

We will start with the fact you are not impressed
by the depth of the Celebes Sea. Since birth,
you are tethered to the moon and sun exhorting you
to surface and sink. We will bring up the statistic
of fifty fathoms for a free-diving Sama such as yourself.
You will be shown to be within visual proximity
of the setting sun. (Your first entry: there is no exploring
the abyssal hiding place of moon and sun under the sea
and the difference between depth and breadth cannot be fathomed.)

The boat your father does not own will sound off and his voice
will cut through the din, “We are up against huge fishing vessels.”
Then he will come home with his catch—four pieces of tuna.
He will come upon you and your mother beset with the shriek
of nine children bawling for their chance to be breastfed.
We dramatize a memory: it is Christmas in the city
and you beg for alms with your mother and youngest sibling.
(Second entry: there is sorrow in the gaze of a child
that your mother always has to be pregnant.)

We pretend you are groping blindly for the coins pitched
by our companion who pretends to be captivated
by the charm of an old restaurant that once patronized you;
the view will conjure a sea of memories
that mollifies you, the man with gills, the fear
that you will not someday rise again. Like a fish
in an aquarium, you are a source of distress and distraction.
We will anticipate your breathing at the surface
applaud as you emerge holding the coin.

You will dive again to gather blessings
in the form of mamukuk, tayum, and others destined
to remind you of the bitterness of thirst.
We listen to a scholar: the city is also the sea
for your tribe—collecting only what is offered
underneath the capsized rock, after a knock on a car window.
(Your third entry: anguish corresponds to scarcity and saltiness—
cars speeding away and a slippery eel escaping from grasp.)
You surface with no food for today and tomorrow.

We review the documentary of a foreigner
breaching all the layers and corners of earth and sea
to measure the lungs’ ultimate breathing limit.
This is what he discovered in the depths of the sea:
through the dense crystal-clear blue waters, there is light
for the deep-swimming Santarawi whose hands were clasped.
(Fourth entry: no proof is needed
to reveal the full extent of sunburn on your body
and the bleaching of your hair into golden strands.)

You go around your town for proof
of the fact that houses are no longer built over the sea.
(Your last entry: you cannot say some of the names
of marine lifeforms in your forgotten language.)
You end up once again at the edge of land and sea,
not in awe of the vastness of your disappearing world.
We finish with how your diving disrupts
the flow of the waves. While you are underwater, we watch closely,
listen for your breath bubbling, breaking the water surface.

Balak na Maikling Dokumentaryo tungkol sa Isang Binatilyo sa Badjao Village

ayon na rin kay Jade Mark Capiñanes sa sanaysay na “Abal”

Sisimulan natin sa katotohanan na pangkaraniwan
sa iyo ang lalim ng Dagat Celebes. Mula nang isilang,
iyo nang karugtong ang buwan at araw na nagsasalítang
umaho’t sumisid. Babanggitin natin ang estadistikang
nasisid ng isang katulad mong Sama ang limampung dipa.
Ipapakita kang inaabot lamang ng dalawang mata
ang pababang araw. (Iyong unang talâ: hindi magalugad
ang tinataguan ng buwan at araw sa loob ng dagat
at di madalumat ang pagkakaiba ng lalim at lawak.)

Tutunog ang bangkang hindi sa ama mo at mangingibabaw
ang kaniyang tinig, “Malalaking barko ang aming kaagaw.”
At uuwi siyang dala ang nahuling apat na tulingan.
Daratnan ka niya at ang iyong inang nalunod sa iyak
ng siyam na batang ang dalawang suso ay nais malasap.
Isadula natin ang isang gunita: Pasko sa siyudad
at nanlilimos ka kasama ang ina at bunsong kapatid.
(Pangalawang talâ: may antig ang lamlam sa titig ng paslit
kaya kailangan na ang iyong ina ay laging magbuntis.)

Magpapanggap tayong hinahagilap mo ang baryang hinagis
ng kasama naming magpapanggap namang turistang naakit
sa aya ng lumang restoran na dáting ika’y tinangkilik;
ánitó, lalalang ang tanaw ng dagat ng mga gunita’t
ipapanatag mo, ang táong may hasang, ang pagkabalisang
baka hindi ka na muli pang lumutang. Katulad ng isda
sa isang akwaryum, pangamba at aliw ang iyong halaga.
Aabangan namin sa rabaw ng tubig ang iyong hininga’t
magpapalakpakan sa iyong pag-ahon na hawak ang barya.

Lulusong kang muli upang makakalap ng mga biyaya
gaya ng mamukuk, tayum, at iba pang ipinantadhanang
maipaalala ang danas ng pait sa natuyong dila.
Papakinggan natin ang isang eskolar: dagat din ang lungsod
para sa lahi mo—kinakalap lamang ang mga kaloob
na iniluluwa ng bato sa taob, ng kotse sa katok.
(Pangatlo mong talâ: saklap ang katumbas ng ilap at alat—
humaharurot lang ang mga sasakya’t madulas ang igat.)
Aahon ka ngayong may asim ang tiyan at pakla ang búkas.

Babalikan natin ang dokumentaryo ng isang banyagang
tinunton ang lahat ng suson at sulok ng dagat at lupa
sa layong masukat ang dulo ng hangi’t hininga sa bagà.
Ganito ang tagpong natunghayan niya sa pusod ng dagat:
sa linaw ng bughaw at bigat ng tubig, mayroong liwanag
para sa sumisid na si Santarawing nakadaop-palad.
(Pang-apat na talâ: hindi kailangan ng mga patunay
paano sinunog ang iyong katawan ng init ng araw
at ang iyong buhok ay pinusyaw nito at naging bulawan.)

Iikot ka ngayon sa pamayanan mo upang mapatibay
ang katotohanang wala na sa dagat ang lahat ng bahay.
(Panghulí mong talâ: hindi mo matukoy ang ilang pangalan
ng búhay sa dagat gamit ang wika mong nalimot ng dila.)
Hahantong kang muli sa ulo ng dagat at dulo ng lupa,
hindi malulula sa lumalabo mong mundong dambuhala.
Ating wawakasan na gagambalain ng iyong pagsisid
ang daloy ng dagat. Habang nasa ilalim, kami’y nakatitig,
maririnig lamang ang iyong hiningang bubula sa tubig.

This work was published in the zine Sbu, Maitum, Dadiangas and the online journal Dagmay.