Memories of Baguio summers
Picture six classmates riding in a van. A canvas bag rested on the car mat heaving with goodies enough to feed an infantry, plus a plastic bin stuffed with shrimp krupuk cooked the halal way, and an ice cooler crammed with diet sodas.
Where you going, ladies?
“Baguio!” came the collected roar.
We reached Baguio in four hours. It used to take forever to get there. We took the Marcos Highway instead of the usual Kennon Road, avoiding zigzag roads, woozy stomach, and motion-sickness blues.
I drew a long breath. “Where’s the pine scent?”
I grimaced. It was gone. So were the trees. Why?
Vignettes of yesteryear came rushing forth, of summers spent in the City of Pines. Our gleeful screams affirmed:
• Burnham Park. I learned to ride a bike here through grazed shins and cries of frustration. Dressed in my knee-length pedal pushers, I wiggled and waggled to keep my balance. When at last I mastered the technique, I whisked out of line and raced other kids around the circle, making good time of my hourly rent.
• Baguio Public Market. Mom stocked up on walis na tambo (brooms), longanisa (sausage), sweet strawberries, bucayo (sweetened young coconut), peanut brittle, caramel kulangots (booger candies) and cotton blankets woven by the indigenous tribes of Benguet, Ifugao, and the Mountain Province; they were nice and cool under covers.
Her suki also gave me leis of everlasting flowers, its petals retained their shape and color, looking fresh even when completely dried.
• Star Café. This Chinese restaurant along Session Road served camaron rebosado wrapped in cured ham, pancit canton, arroz caldo, and lumpiang shanghai, consistent in taste and quality. When the owners decided to close shop, it drew down the curtain on a distinctly Baguio experience.
• Mines View Park. One can view the abandoned gold and copper mines from this observation point. When the fog traveled down to kiss the dew, it became a calming, refreshing site. Shabby boys, however, would nudge and pester lowlanders by intoning, “Give me money even five centavos only.” The humble centavo could still buy something, then.
• Asin, and its hot springs. This place stayed doggedly in my mind because I almost drowned here. No word can describe the fear of drowning.
When our interest shifted, fueled by surging hormones and the discovery of boys, Baguio was the perfect setting for roses and romance. Meeting place? The soda fountain at Camp John Hay.
Baguio was the choice getaway for classmates who eloped. Think summer romances with Sinatra warbling, “The boat rides we would take, the moonlight on the lake.”
“Eloping was a show of defiance against house rules imposed by exacting parents or we simply succumbed to our youthful impulses,” explained a consummate escapist.
Baguio’s cool and invigorating vista of mountains and trees painted a shangri-la that was tranquil and peaceful. It was an idyllic mountain retreat isolated from the fierce city life below.
Thoughts of the old Baguio rekindled other childhood recollections, evoking a similar whoop of joy:
• Catching beetles, dragonflies, and fireflies. Aww, these gentle insects never gave a fight. The dragonfly had thin, glassy wings, thus, easy to catch, while the shiny beetles moved slow. I put beetles to sleep by capping them in both hands and pumping air inside. For fireflies, I’d swoosh them up in the air with a glass bottle. With their flickering bellies, I’d release them in my bedroom, transforming my ceiling to a burst of twinkling stars.
• Searching for the makahiya (bashful mimosa) and touching or blowing on its leaves. When they stirred to life, only to fold inward, we’d gasp with curiosity.
• Making paper boats and racing a flotilla down a clean, running canal just outside our fence. Winning the race meant I made the best boats. Swelling with pride, I’d exclaim, “Galing (Great job)!”
• Climbing isis trees. With leaves that were coarse and sand-papery, they were perfect for scrubbing and cleaning pots and pans. I loved to pick out the fragrant leaves but guarded against them rubbing on my skin.
“What’s isis in English?” I asked my FB friend, Mary Ann Quioc. Our conversation thread drew a response from Jayvee Manalansan, “It’s called pakiling (Ficus Odorata).”
There you are. In our carefree, sans souci days, isis meant a natural cleaning agent. So far-flung from the ISIS of today, the radical, vile, and gruesome terrorist group wrecking havoc in Syria and elsewhere.
• Playing in the torrential rain. When thunder rumbled and lightning crackled across a darkened sky, it was our cue to rush out and bathe in the downpour, prancing and shrieking in our bare glory. What was even more astonishing? No one caught a cold.
This was happiness, experienced through the eyes of the innocents. In their world, nothing could go wrong.
The memory withered not.
Even now.
