Kilometer 56

November afternoons in Malacampa were extremely pleasant. With the dry heat of summer long gone and a steady, fragrant breeze blowing, most of the small barrio’s residents spent these resting hours sipping rice coffee and chatting with neighbors in what could be called the equivalent of a foyer, in their silongs. It was especially nice at my grandmother’s house. An irrigation creek ran through her backyard, and there my grandfather set up a place for us kids to hang around in so we wouldn't annoy anyone. A small sala, complete with teak furniture, had in fact been set up. There we’d laze about, tell stories, try to catch fish, eat halu-halo, and well, generally be kids. Good times. Good times.