River of No Return

Whistling while walking on his way to his farm in a small, craggy mountain village in the Cordilleras was a normal routine for the 74 year old Juan Og-an Bayogan. On a clear August morning in 2004, he embarked on this same routine to help his wife harvest rice from the little paddies he worked on for the last five months or so. But for some unknown reasons, he decided to take the less familiar, rugged but shorter route. Rather than the smoother, paved but longer path.

On this shorter route, he had to cross the old river that provided irrigation to his rice paddies and given him a refreshing bath every time he passed by. Little did he know that this little mundane break from the normal would cost him his life.

As he hopped from one stone to another to avoid getting wet, he slipped while stepping on a moss-covered rock, and fell down with his head hitting the rock. Knocked down unconscious due to the impact, he slid down to the water, unable to cry for help. And all alone in this seldom-trodden path, he bled and apparently drowned to his death. His body was recovered the day after.

Juan Og-an Bayogan was my father. His untimely death bought us grief in the family. We lost an honest and hardworking man who lived life simply but with wisdom and meaning. But the family went through the ordeal gracefully.

Our townfolks were a tremendous help. They retrieved his body and brought him to town manually. During the wake, they did most of the routine chores, giving the bereaved family the time to grieve.

My father had a keen sense of humor. Days before his death, my mother often heard him sing, "there's a river, called the river of no return..." And on that fateful day, he crossed his river of no return.