Batangas pony tales
In remembrance of my father and his horses
AT seven, with neither intention nor inclination, and sans knowing the word, I became an equestrian – not in its elegance, but in its plain definition as “one who rides horses.” I trained because I had to. Not with a racehorse but with a pony; not in a polo club but in Batangas highlands – where Mount Naguiling, the province’s tallest peak, is found, where a horse and not a dog is a man’s best friend.
Called Batangas ponies for their size as those in Taal Volcano, four of these friends my father had. Taba was reliable for rides. Castaña gave birth; never gave rides. Naughty Tala dipped on rivers, wetting the riders. Despite his mischief, Tala being a sprinter was my mother’s favorite. He brought her to town in half the time.
Toddlers were transported in baskets called bang • kíl, hanging on the saddle. My bangkil rides were eventful. My mother placed soft cushions all around for my comfort. Notwithstanding the cradling softness, sleep was scarce on those bumpy rides.
Once, my father rode Taba with me in the bangkil when Taba stepped on quicksand. As Taba was extricating himself, my father and the basket were thrown off into the river. On
Tala’s back, my mother shouted in panic, Ineng! Ineng! My parents hardly addressed me by my name, but Ineng, our provincial term of endearment for a little girl.
Amidst the pandemonium, I thought of God who keeps little children like Moses safe in baskets floating in rivers. Little did I know my father held the basket up to keep me afloat as he swam to the banks. What I remember most from this story was my father saving me, and God sparing our family from harm.
When I turned seven, I said goodbye to basket rides, and learned to ride on Buhangin. An obedient pony with imbay (smooth run), he loved to jog-walk in the sand. As his feet in graceful rhythm touched the ground, sand particles billowed up, the reason behind his name.
Moving to Batangas City in high school, I went up the mountains aboard our Volkswagen and failed to ride Buhangin again. Learning of his demise, I mourned the passing of a friend.
Whenever the roads were impassable by cars, we reverted to our all-season vehicle. Notably slow and past his sprinting mode, Tala gave me a ride. Soon after, he passed away. When he was probably ailing, Tala still honored me with that farewell ride.
Not all fathers are given the chance to save their children from danger; no animals serve their masters in sacrificial ways as horses do. In the military, soldiers and K9 dogs are honored upon demise. Neither my father nor his ponies were in the military. As gun salute is not at my disposal, sharing these stories is the closest homage I can render to the memory of my father and his fourlegged friends.