That's for another story

 

This island is covered with coconut jungle. Hectare upon hectare of coconut trees, filled with copra, the gold of the region, and every single coconut tree, even in the highest mountains, is owned by someone.

My wife’s father, San Vicente, was a coconut farmer. He owned a track of land in the mountains. When my wife was young she and her siblings would go with San Vincente deep into the misty jungle to harvest coconuts. At night they would sleep in makeshift shelters, miles from nowhere, in pitch black, snake filled, darkness.

To this day my wife refuses to go camping.

San Vicente was found dead in the forest one day. No one knew how he died and no one asked. He just died. There are no autopsies in the mountains. The jungle quietly holds its secrets.

They buried him in the family plot and that was that.

San Vicente left nine children and he had no will. These are mountain people and settling the inheritance ultimately came down to gun vs machete. But that’s for another story, altogether.

Calbayog City, 2025