The meteorological agency of the Philippines has recently declared the ‘habagat’ to be over. Known as the Southwest monsoon, ‘habagat’ is one of the two kinds of winds or seasons in the country. The agency has announced the arrival of the ‘amihan,’ the Northeast monsoon.
A wind pattern, monsoon is best understood when seen from its derivation ‘mawsim’ the Arabic term adapted by Portuguese sailors. The concept penetrated into the English vocabulary in the form of the Dutch monssoen.
In the Philippines, the monsoon is characterized by other elements such as strong rain and even storms and typhoons. The habagat occurs with high humidity and brings in pressure from April to October. The transition is not that marked and, for those who have experienced the change in seasons-as in from summer to autumn-the shift does come after a night. Or when one wakes up and there is a bit of chill by the open window.
I grew up with a grandmother-Emilia and a host of grandmothers and grand-aunts-who possessed the confidence of a maga. More or less. She was particularly adept at the directions of the wind, and was careful to note the hues of the early morning clouds or the haze of the early evenings.
This became even more complicated with the tales she remembered, the origin myths she has endless collections of. Putting them all together was like beholding an almanac of beliefs that guided her and the community.
Amihan, the harbinger of cool and cold wind, when the days have suns that shine bright, pleasantly dull and pale, was also about the good, slow life. In our old rambling house, I recall this grandmother who would look out during the month of October-usually mid-month and almost near the days of the All-Souls’ and All-Saints’ Day-when a particular rhizomatous grass begins to wave its silver blooms.
‘It’s seeking the wind to blow them away,’ the grandmother almost in a prophecy would declare the meaning of the profusion. Indeed, by December, the wind became visible by the tiny specks produced by the tall, hardy grasses. This would go on for a few more days.
The change between monsoons or seasons can be abrupt, or it could happen overnight. There were years when the season took weeks to settle.
The old people in the household were the ones concerned about these changes; the young were not.
My grandmother, for example, would look at the part of the kitchen or the porch and note how the shadow had already shifted-the chair that once held the cooler space would now be under the glare of the morning sun. Or, she would call our attention to a particularly raucous bird on top of the fence.
‘It must be after the ripening papaya,’ my grandmother would nearly admonish us. But the bird always had the monopoly of that ripening fruit. That was hers when the right season came for them.
Growing up in a small town, the flight of domestic ducks or geese never escaped observation. When the wind was of particular import and direction, the women and men were always looking at how high these fowls were flying above the roofs. One particular afternoon, there was a shrill cry from the other end of the neighborhood. A younger aunt was hysterical upon seeing the fattest goose of the priest soaring high above the steeple of the convento. The goose must have felt in its ancient feathers the arrival of the strongest typhoon. We must all brace for the danger!
Far from the crowd, the poor aunt did not see the origin of the fowl’s fear – the ferocious dog running after the goose that flew so high it alerted falsely the arrival of a calamity.
In the same household also lived a great grandmother-the mother of my grandfather, Elpidio. She was a healer who kept a bottle of leeches. It was said she generally consulted the little creatures and marveled at their behavior. When these tiny crawlers crept up the side of the bottle my great-grandmother kept in her room, she knew rain would come or a great flood was about to occur.
At times, without my meaning to, whenever, I see a row of ants parading slowly up my wall, I know the rainy days are here. When this happens, I thank my grandmother and grand-aunts for all the magic they have taught me. Quietly.