The Kayumanggi Trails

text | Carla Ocampo

photography | Wing Larase and Lester Valle

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“Daklis,” said a middle-aged fisherman, as he let a shy smile peer out from his eyes, when KT lensman Lester Valle asked “Anya dayta, Manong?” (“What is that, Sir?” Lester had asked in Iloko)

It was almost 9AM, the sun was already white hot and everybody on the balmy Lakay-Lakay Beach in Claveria, Cagayan had begun wiping his or her brow, picking out fish entangled from this neat network of cross-knotted nylon strings.

Daklis could then denote the two things that comprise this entire activity: ONE, the very, very long net that could span a whole square-mile of coast and waters, with a funnel-shaped “dead-end” at its very center; and TWO, the community chore itself, of hauling in unison this very long net ashore, where tens upon tens of residents from Claveria’s fishing villages would join in and eventually get their share of the catch, enough for the day’s three meals or —- if they are favored by Apo Lakay-Lakay —- enough to be sold by the kilo for added income, however humble the sums may be.

The sea harvest begins with a group of able hands pushing a long boat into the sea. The boat is visibly carrying one voluminous load on its rear: a painstakingly wound-up fishing net.

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The boat sets out, skimming across the morning calm of Apo Lakay-Lakay’s territorial waters. The net is slowly and carefully unwound and laid out parallel to the shore; it spans almost a kilometer of coast, end to end.

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A platoon of “pullers” gathers and positions one end of the net. They assume their starting point on one side of the beach. The other end of the net is taken by another platoon of pullers, almost a kilometer away.

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The two groups start pulling at the net, each in a single file. Rhythmically, they step back, then to the side. Back, then to the side. The idea is to close the net inward to the shore, with the two groups converging from either side of the beach.

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And yes, the pullers come in all shapes and sizes, across the age strata.

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The first nylon strands come in. An elder gently instructs his very young ward to pull in the net more carefully now, while raising it systematically from the ground. Both poignant and amusing, this is how the tradition of daklis has survived for generations.

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The first few pieces of fish that are caught by the outer net are considered free-for-all. A great sense of community comes into play here; somehow, nobody fights over who-takes-what, or who-takes-how-much.

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Fisherwives daintily pick out their precious food-for-the-day.

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The sea has been generous this morning. On days with lesser luck, usually right after typhoons, the pullers are left with a harvest that could barely feed their families for breakfast.

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The net has finally formed an obvious letter C. Out there by the depths, the boat is left with two key players: one whacks a big stick upon the waters to scare the fish into the funnel-shaped central net, and the other one pushes the net rope back into the shore.

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After hours of pulling and walking back and sideways for almost a kilometer, the two groups close in. By now, they would have neatly bundled up hundreds of meters worth of nylon net, carried by runners on either end.

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Not having the time to slide the fish into a nearby vat, this man (left photo) holds on to his catch by biting its tailfin, leaving his hands free to continue pulling at the net. (Right photo) The funnel net finally comes in, with an impressive harvest. Whoever owns the net would get the bulk of this last haul of fish.

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Part of that last haul is usually for sale. Here, negotiations have ensued for pricing.

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In a classic case of genuine gender equality, fisherwives lead the men in pushing their boat back into the beach.

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The remaining length of the net is wound up again for the next day’s cycle. Another morning has been blessed by Apo Lakay-Lakay.

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It can be said that all other neighboring towns along the northern Philippine shore also practice daklis —- but it could be a tradition well-known all over the archipelago, probably with different names. Team KT, in fact, has observed this fishing practice in as far south as Daet in the Bicol Region.

The most peculiar thing about daklis is that, more than being a survival chore, it is quite a delicate dance, literally and figuratively. The pairs of feet that walk sideways across the shore are all unconsciously synchronized, you’d think they’re actually doing the L.A. Walk. But this aside, it is truly a dance with the giving forces of Earth itself: neighbor with neighbor, wind with sky, sea with sand, and Man with Nature.

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