Have you ever heard of La Flor de la Isabela? Probably not but that factory was quite the popular cigar manufacturer back in the days of the revolution. The cigars that came out of there were either mild, sweet, or even slightly spicy in taste when you make that first draw as the earthly aromas of northern Luzon swirl from your mouth to your lungs.
When you puff out that first draw, you blow a gentle smoke that showcases the genius artistry and expertise of its makers. Those cigars were among the best in Asia to the point that it was even compared to the Cubans, truly a testament to the quality of Philippine ingenuity and production.
They don't make cigars like that anymore, but the descendants of those old artisan cigars were more or less enough to cut through the stench of the Zapote River. For more than a hundred years, me and this tree have called this riverside home – a riverside that formed a boundary between Las Piñas and Bacoor, Filipino revolutionaries and Spanish colonizers, and Filipino soldiers and American betrayers – crossable only by a single stone arch bridge.
I take my first draw to drive out the river's stench and I honestly can't decide whether I prefer the smell of waste or of blood and gunpowder. Both cling stubbornly to this place, like ghosts that refuse to be exorcised. Both have their own set of unpleasantries to the nose, especially one such as mine. Frankly, the river remembers too much, my tree remembers too much – and I am no different.
I exhale my first puff – releasing a thin gray smoke that dances along with the wind, emulating death's dance with a rifle's smoke. Smoke that once choked the air around this river and its bridge as it mingled with the smell of sparked gunpowder. The smoke's movements were slow and deliberate, as if taunting me to remember my days as a revolutionary fighting for a flag that changed numerous times within the span of a few decades.
I take my next draw – unconsciously emulating the act of holding my breath before firing my Remington Rolling Block from the top of my tree. My glowing red eyes being the only warning sign that many Spaniards never see. The river turned red that day as the blood of rebels and occupiers, alike, saturated the waters.
I let out another puff as a group of children run past my tree, their shouts and laughs creating a minor echo that permeates from my tree to, presumably, the river's bridge. This time, the smoke danced in a circular loop completely in sync with the echoes – eerily similar to the battlecries that once deafened all other sounds after a few volleys of rifle fire.
From the bushes and tall grass, Filipino revolutionaries surged forward, bolos raised and hearts hardened by courage and nationalism. They charged into brutal hand-to-hand combat, their voices united in a single deafening echo: "Mabuhay ang Katipunan!" – a cry I've heard in numerous different variations from this very tree over the decades.
I take a deep draw. The cigar's temperature rises and burns more of the tobacco in a shorter time. A sharp tongue bite flares within my mouth – each scorched cell in my tongue feeling like a casualty, another statistic in war, mixing with the battlecries growing louder as the fighting descended into utter brutality.
I remember hearing the snap of a human neck as I opened my Remington's breech, exposing its chamber. The spent ammunition flew out of the chamber and I inserted a fresh cartridge as soldiers from both sides dragged their dead and wounded away from the battle – to be replaced by fresh reserves. With the new bullet secured, I closed the breech, held my breath, and took aim. My shot rings out, perfectly synchronized with a volley from the revolutionaries – all done in less than 10 seconds.
Our ambush was a huge success as the foreigners began a full retreat. To think a force of 10,000 barely armed rebels managed to push back an entire Spanish division – a feat I was honestly amazed to have both witnessed and participated in.
The intense coughing I experienced after blowing out a harsher plume of smoke jolted me back to reality. I knew that deep draw would hurt me, and yet I did it anyway – like a prospective revolutionary brimming with nationalistic fervor. I wonder now: does the willingness to be hurt stem from overwhelming confidence in my abilities, the peaceful comfort of martyrdom, or simply sheer unconscious arrogance?
I attempt another draw and notice the cigar is almost spent, one or two puffs at most. I examine it for a moment as the smoke swirls within my mouth. No matter the quality of the cigar, its worth ends when it can't burn itself any further and once its achieved this purpose, the cigar is violently grinded against a surface, stepped on, and discarded without a single thought.
Perhaps the same was true for us. Revolutionaries, soldiers – valued only for how much and how long we could burn ourselves for the cause and once the smoke clears, we are left behind – forgotten like a discarded spent cigar.
The revolution was a success. We slowly took back our country from the Spanish and with the support of the Americans, we thought independence was only a matter of time – we were wrong. With our usefulness spent, the nation from beyond the Pacific loomed over us like a dark cloud of smog – ready to snuff out our revolutionary flame and discard the spent cigar. And yet that proverbial cigar still burns, almost defiantly – as if telling me that it can still be of service.
I exhale the same thin smoke that emulated death's dance a while ago. Once again, Zapote bore witness to another savage battle – same cigar, same river, same bridge, same tree, but a different enemy.
I take a quick draw, burning the bare minimum of tobacco. Despite its origins, my Remington Rolling Block was still a trusted firearm but I could not feed it enough to keep the Americans at bay. They were simply too strong and better equipped. My compatriots were forced to retreat beyond the river while a group of brave souls held the line – courageous yet futile. I, on the other hand, was left behind. Most of the humans could not see me and cared very little for my tree.
I take one last draw – deliberately slowing my inhale to keep the embers alive as long as possible. But I could only delay the inevitable as the cigar dies with a whisper of smoke. I examine it for a moment before grinding it against the bark of my tree. It leaves a dark mark, a final reminder of its existence, before I flicked the spent cigar into the river. I watch the current take the cigar down as it disappears beneath the bridge, swallowed by the same river that washed blood, bodies, and weapons alike.
History is cruel in its selectiveness. This river and bridge, that once divided colonizers from revolutionaries, have become a mere footnote in our history – a whisper in the wider chronicles of larger, bloodier battles. I lean back against my tree as I release the final puff from that discarded cigar. I watch the smoke as it simply disperses in the wind – no dance, no echo.
The stench of waste returns as the cigar smoke disperses. Gray water spills from pipes in the Bacoor side, mixing with the brown from Las Piñas. Statues stand in silent tribute to the sacrifices of my compatriots, yet people barely spare them a glance. No human walks on the stone bridge anymore for a sturdier concrete one was built parallel to it some decades ago. The tunnel beside it floods even under the lightest of rain – truly, a sight unworthy of a bridge with such history.
Humans and vehicles pass through this river every morning and evening, oblivious to the grand battles that once defined the fate of an entire revolution – an entire nation. Too preoccupied with their own stories, this generation has long since forgotten the very history that's etched in the bridge's stone foundations and the river's waters. Like the dark mark in my tree, only those who remember or even bother to look would be able to know how much significance this river and that stone bridge once held.
As if in symphony with my melancholy, the sky darkens and heavy drops turn into a relentless downpour. I watch the same group of kids run not away from the rain but into the middle of the road leading to the already flooded tunnel.
They waved their arms to every passing vehicle, warning them of the flood, but not a single vehicle believed them. And yet they persist, soaked down to their bones, defying the temptation to fall into nihilism and allow passing motorists to learn of the flooded tunnel the hard way. A futile gesture but an admirable one as there is courage in their persistence.
My gaze then turns to a young man and his mother huddled under one umbrella. While the mother held the umbrella, the boy scribbled notes using a fountain pen and took photos of the river, bridge, and even the statues – intriguing.
I overheard a conversation between mother and son – he was surprised but excited to learn about the rich history of an area he called home for more than a decade. Though small, I can see the fire of revolution burning brightly in all of them – the same desire to hope, witness, remember, and act. Though many have forgotten the specifics, there are still those who carry the spark within their souls – striving to do better, be better.
I couldn't help but crack a smile – to bear witness to such an innocent spark. In my peripheral vision, I notice the orange flowers in my tree starting to bloom beautifully despite the rain – its petals scattering, some into the damp earth while others into the river.
I hadn't realized it was summer already and to think my tree still chooses to bloom after more than a hundred years of war and slow decay – to eventually witness the dawn of peace. Left behind and forgotten, me and this tree seem to display the same stubbornness as those kids who refused to take shelter and continue to prevent random strangers from wasting time and effort to get through the flooded tunnel.
I look upstream as the current slightly shifts and a couple of white soapy iceberg-like objects flow down the river. My eyes, far better than any human, spot the dam holding back gallons upon gallons of water.
Now that I think about it, the Zapote river does increase in depth with strong rainfall but it never spills over to the humans who settled by the river. In fact, many enjoy spear fishing in this grayish-brown river – though it's probably not very healthy for the humans. A quiet pride swells within me as, even in small ways, the spirit of revolution still burns within many – though in a different form.
I reach for another cigar, this time an authentic Manila Cigar – one of the remaining handmade cigars from La Flor de la Isabela. I strike a match and draw deeply, savoring the earthly aroma of the past. 300 years I watched Zapote River from this perch, 300 more I will likely remain.
I exhale a plume of smoke – perfectly balanced in thickness. As expected of a symphony, the rain stops and sunlight breaks through the clouds shines – like a golden spotlight – on the smoke as it dances gracefully on both borders of the river – a quiet tribute to the memories that now lie dormant in this place.
I smile as a steady pulse of hope permeates throughout my 9-foot tall, somewhat hairy, body. The tree blooms, the river flows, the stone bridge endures, and throughout it all, they always remember. New generations will come. Hopefully, they will notice, remember, and strive to care for this river and stone bridge. I deeply draw once more, letting the subsequent plume of smoke be a tribute to the hope that the struggles I, a proud KKK revolutionary, endured and the suffering I helped unleash, carry some meaning afterall.