Gone are the itinerant fish vendors—pantings—who once walked from the town poblacion to the farthest barrios, carrying with them not only baskets of fish but also the pulse of community life.
With rhythmic steps and semi-hoarse voices, they called out, “Isda! Isda da!” from early morning until mid-afternoon, rain or shine. The cry rose and fell like a chant, echoing through coconut groves and dusty footpaths.
Fish baskets hung in front and at the back, secured by abaca ropes tied to a sturdy bamboo pole. The load shifted from one shoulder to the other, swaying with their almost comical gait, yet there was strength and dignity in every step.
Their arrival was eagerly awaited by housewives who had no easy access to the public market. In those days, transportation was scarce and refrigeration almost nonexistent in rural homes.
The ‘panting’ was more than a vendor; he was a moving marketplace, a bearer of news, and sometimes even a confidant.
Transactions were personal. Sukis exchanged pleasantries, inquired about each other’s families, and occasionally bought on credit. Trust was the invisible currency that sustained the relationship.
Today, their place has largely been taken by tricycles driven by modern fish sellers. Instead of a human voice modulated by effort and emotion, amplified recorded calls now echo repeatedly through barangay roads.
Fish are stored in styrofoam boxes chilled with crushed or tube ice—efficient, sanitary, and capable of preserving freshness longer than before. Progress has undeniably made distribution faster and safer.
Yet something intimate has faded. The human warmth, the spontaneous conversation, and the unique cadence of each vendor’s shout have given way to mechanical repetition, which apparently paved the way for a riddle: “Naga singgit nga wala gina-anha, naga dalagan nga wala ginalagsa.” This line vividly captures the image of the vendor—calling out even when no one summons them, and moving quickly though no one is chasing them.
Behind this daily retail routine lies another story—the nocturnal journey of seafood ‘compradors’.
Before midnight, they travel to coastal villages to meet fishermen returning from sea. Under the dim glow of kerosene lamps or bright Petromax light, freshest catch is negotiated and bought.
By 4:30 in the morning, these treasures of the sea reach wet market retailers and pantings.
The selection used to be abundant and colorful: crabs, hipon, pasayan, liwit, pagi, lapad, pisogo (lagaw), lukos, kasag, lilang, sapsap, abo, bangrus, tahong, lapu-lapu, galunggong, maya-maya, danggit, talaba, punaw, bantalaan, guno, gurayan, salmonete, karaho, lison-lison, tabagak, seaweeds, and occasionally even preserved delicacies like uga, tinabal, and binuro.
Buyers examined each fish carefully. Clear eyes, bright red gills, and firm flesh were signs of freshness. This ritual of inspection was both practical and cultural—a Filipino instinct sharpened by generations of market wisdom. The marketplace was a theater of negotiation, laughter, and shared experience.
Living 5 kms. from town, we relied on the ‘panting’ as part of our daily rhythm. Without refrigeration, preservation demanded ingenuity.
My mother would prepare lamayo, lightly salting fish before laying them out under the sun for drying. The tropical heat became an ally, transforming surplus into sustenance. There were days when the suki arrived late and only spoiled fish remained. Disappointment was real, yet so was resilience.
Some memories remain vivid. I can still recall the rich aroma of “lub-ok nga abo,” sautéed in oil with garlic, onion, ginger, hot pepper, and vinegar. The scent drifted through the house, signaling a humble yet satisfying meal.
For P2, one could buy a generous tumpok of fish—enough to feed a family. Today, prices have soared to P350 per kilo or more, often surpassing pork or beef.
Runaway inflation, a peso-dollar exchange rate hovering around 57.74 to one, rising fuel costs, and declining fish catch have reshaped the seafood landscape.
Extreme weather aberration, overfishing, and habitat degradation further strain supply.
Faced with these realities, how should we respond to changing fish availability? Nostalgia alone will not suffice. We must become wiser and more adaptive.
First, we should buy seasonal species when they are abundant. Doing so eases pressure on overfished stocks and helps stabilize prices.
Second, we must support local fishermen and sustainable practices. Patronizing responsibly caught seafood strengthens coastal communities and encourages stewardship of marine ecosystems.
Third, we should relearn preservation methods—drying, fermenting, salting, smoking, or freezing—when supply is high and prices are low. These traditional techniques, combined with modern storage, can reduce waste and extend food security.
Fourth, we must diversify our choices. Instead of demanding only premium species like lapu-lapu or maya-maya, we can appreciate more affordable varieties such as galunggong or sapsap. Culinary creativity can elevate even the humblest catch.
Above all, we must reduce waste. Every fish represents hours of labor at sea and the fragile generosity of nature. Respecting that effort means consuming mindfully, storing properly, and cooking thoughtfully.
The evolution from bamboo poles balanced on calloused shoulders to motorized tricycles with insulated boxes reflects undeniable progress. It speaks of modernization, efficiency, and improved food safety. Yet it also signals shifting economic and ecological realities.
The ‘panting’s’ fading footsteps remind us that progress carries both gain and loss.
As seafood consumers, we are called to balance nostalgia with responsibility. By adapting wisely, valuing sustainability, and supporting local communities, we honor the memory of the ‘panting’ while safeguarding the bounty of our seas.
If we do so, perhaps future generations will still hear—whether through a human voice or a recorded call—the familiar cry of “Isda! Isda da!” echoing across our neighborhoods, not as a relic of the past, but as a living tradition sustained by care and conscience. | NWI
