'My Way' to 'Matud Nila'

The Writers Village Redux — that could have been another title. But so soon? Why not? More than a day away from DumasGoethe is more than it usually takes to regret ever leaving.

Particularly poignant was this summer’s edition of leavetaking. No sooner had we stepped into the pre-departure area than we heard the unmistakable chords of My Way as rendered in folk style — two guitars and an occasional harmonica, with a backbeat thumped on a box that served as a seat for the fourth blind musician. 

No one sang, at least not this tune — on the musicians’ side, that is. But as Jimmy Abad, Joel Toledo and I traipsed in, laptops and budbog kabog as hand-carried items, we couldn’t help but burst out into the famous lyrics. And found ourselves either joining or being joined by others already in their seats, surely as aware as we were that the only guns in the area were hip-slung among the airport security detail. They wouldn’t shoot us all for our disparate versions of Anka’s anthem by way of Sinatra, would they?

Whatta way to go, after a week of romancing with words at the Writers Village on the foothills of Cuernos de Negros. Why, how’d the quartet know it would be the best way to serenade us off, while that song was fresh in our minds’ ears — from the noonbreak videoke sessions at the main cottage, with the most heartfelt version sung by panelist Cesar Ruiz Aquino a.k.a. Dr. Sawi, even as he imagined himself to be Troy’s Paris to Sandra Dee’s Helen in A Samarkand Place.

We found our seats before spotting some of the workshop fellows in the front pews, right before the row of musicians by the glass window, beyond which CebuPac and PAL jets had taxied in for our respective sets of checked-in luggage.

I repeat: it is always a bittersweet affair to say goodbye to the City of Gentle People, per Dr. J.R. Now with this kind of musical busking seeing us off, it certainly added another dimension, even to the final photo ops with the kids.

Maybe they were even more teary-eyed deep inside. After all, they had spent three weeks of their budding writers’ lives in a comfort zone they would remember forever, and try again and again to regain as undying refrain. 

They’ll be back next summer, for sure — that’s what they all say. Only a couple or so from each batch of 12 to 15 writing fellows ever do so the very next year. Some allow more time to pass before they return, to the very same airport, the very same tricycles to town, the same leafy rows of acacias in Silliman U.’s quadrangle, to the boulevard by the sea, the eateries and cafes and reggae bars — only to find another fresh series of oases in Dumaguete. And they say the more our second home changes, the more it stays the same. 

But this batch, of May 2010, will come away with memories even more special, as they were the pioneer group that broke in the newly built cottages at the Silliman University’s Rose Lamb-Sobrepeña Writers Village, with its equally brand-new Edilberto & Edith Tiempo Writing Center.

Both were formally inaugurated on the last day of the workshop, with scores of guests, read vision stewards, driving up from the city, negotiating the half-hour of part-concrete, part-dirt road that spirals up from Valencia town of the elegant gardens and blooming flame trees.

At Camp Lookout, established by the American missionaries well over half a century ago, majestic pine trees welcomed the crowd. National Artist for Literature Dr. Edith L. Tiempo, or “Mom Edith” to generations of writers who had passed this way before, was hand-carried up the famous grassy knoll on a chair.

After the speeches, musical numbers, and a Jejemon dance presentation by the writing fellows, Mom Edith handed out the certificates to the “graduating” batch, the 49th. Assisting her was daughter Rowena, this year’s workshop resident director, whom the fellows fondly called “Mom Weena.” A torch was passed, other than the multi-colored ginger ones collected from the habitat as decor for the historic rites.  

Congratulations and farewells were said, countless photo ops conducted, before everyone made their way down again to Dumaguete by sunset. The 15 writing fellows were the last to be ferried down, because they had yet to pack, and maybe because the Pinoy farewell would be particularly extended when it came to Nom-nom their foundling dog.

They would have their final poetry reading at Jutsze’s Cafe run by the painter — another excellent Dumaguete artist — Jutsze Pamate. They wouldn’t quite paint the town a frenzied, desperado red as they had wished for their last night together, as a curfew of 11 p.m. was imposed so they could spend that final night “safely” at the Writers Village.

If you ask me, a veteran of these wrenching goodbyes, “let the kids do as they please on their last night” would have been the proper way to see them off. They’re in their 20s, for Pete’s sake, and Dumaguete’s not the Bronx. Concerns over inordinate drinking and possible oversleeping at the risk of missing early flights go hang. These kids can handle themselves; they’re poets and writers.   

That notion was openly shared by some in the homogenous, extra-nice batch. They had received texts from former fellows who kept wondering why they were holed up at Camp Lookout for the better part of three weeks. Having been briefed by predecessors, they felt they had not had enough of the walks by the seawall, or of interacting with the city’s own set of young writers and artists.

Sure, they had enjoyed outings in each of those three weeks, and done the Wednesday reggae-night bit at Hayahay. And SU’s culture honcho Moses Atega had guided them to Siquijor and back on a weekend. But it wasn’t enough. They hadn’t tried out artist Babu Wenceslao’s “Nacho Chino” and “Maldito,” his bar El Amigo’s version of a mojito, let alone the rest of his hospitality by way of intelligent banter. They wanted for a session at the Body & Sole therapeutic center. They may never have tasted Jo’s Inato or grilled chicken, or the roasted tuyok on downtown sidewalks. They never had a foray in the market for budbod kabog.   

Ironically, while they loved every minute of their idyll up in the Writers Village, they felt they had not come down from the hill enough to have a full-fledged Dumaguete experience. We could only tell them, “Duly noted,” and that any post-mortem sent in would join our own list of recommendations for next year, when the National Writers Workshop turns golden.  

First on our own to-do’s would be the need to apply a level of democratization in the selection process, to preempt any further charges of “elitism,” since the past several years have seen mostly students from UP, Ateneo, La Salle and UST gaining fellowships. Surely two to three slots can be reserved for regional writers, rather than relying on absolute-value, blind-reading evaluation of manuscripts. And yes, maybe half of those three weeks or at least one week can be reserved for lodging right in Dumaguete.    

These aren’t complaints, but pragmatic suggestions, especially since a large number of balik-fellows and balik-panelists are to be expected for the 50th year of a living, thriving tradition.

One side of the ledger; the other face of the coin of appreciation. On the other are all the much-appreciated, superb memories and images: Again, Dr. Sawi intoning spontaneous echolalic verse, his “Erotic Balanghoy” sung to the tune of the Star-Spangled Banner before segue-ing to My Way; local divo Manolito Saldivar singing Matud Nila and Usahay to Mom Edith after dinner at Montemar; Lord Jim assisting the ladies through the whipping surf on the craggy rocks at Antulang; or even that trek through slippery jungle to Casaroro Falls.

Yes, after a surfeit of blessings for three weeks, now the teary goodbyes. At the airport on our last hour, we request the men in dark glasses to do Matud Nila. This time one of the two vocalists sings it, in soulful Bisaya, just as the Cebuano guerrilla fighter Ben Zubiri must have first sung his composition.

So they say. Even in goodbyes, we did it our way.