Close to home
April 1, 2007 | 12:00am
Today I woke up and found myself in a four-poster bed with gauzy white drapes on each side, in an unfamiliar but pretty room with a high ceiling. Where am I? I thought quietly, sleepily. Just six days earlier I had asked myself the same question, this time in a fully carpeted hotel room, sparkling in its sophistication and cleanliness.
Next week I know I will still be asking myself the same question  exactly where, I will only know then. There have been way too many moments lately where I seriously forget which part of the Philippines I am in.
Oddly enough, although I have never been so far away from home I have also never felt closer to it. The past month has been a story of one city after another, a slice of one province to the next  a blur of pretty places, warm, happy people, fresh fruit and even fresher air.
Inever really thought I would en-joy the campaign trail as much as I actually find myself doing now. Yes, it is physically taxing, and sleep has never been so simultaneously desirable and unattainable. But I really cannot/should not complain. Knowing and accepting, in my heart, that where I am at any given moment is exactly where I am supposed to be makes even the most exhausting of days so much easier to get through. Plus there is the beauty of our country. My, what a beautiful Philippines we have.
The big cities are impressive, very progressive in many surprising ways. But the provinces are downright charming, like quirky vintage finds in a nondescript shop tucked in some almost forgotten village, a place somewhere back in time.
The landscape of life in the countryside, it has not changed much from how I knew it at maybe six or seven years old: the makeshift sari sari stores, the potted santan flowers that line doorsteps and window sills, the bougainvilleas that spill out of huge rubber pots and crawl across walls in lush, graceful abandon, the middle-aged women who are beyond caring about what people may see (or think) as they brush their freshly washed hair while looking out their front windows into the busy street, with only a towel covering their soft, cushy bodies from the chest down to mid-thigh. It looks almost skimpy on them, but somehow they get away with it. And the dusters some of them wear, they come in all colors and prints! They reminded me so much of my Lola and her tight circle of mahjong friends; Tita Liclic, too. I wish I could say I was too busy to miss them in my heart but that was not so. I remembered them many, many times in that particular road trip alone.
The coastal towns ripple out in raw innocence, where little boys and girls can and will play naked under the rain and on the sidewalk, laughing and singing as all the children of many summers must rightfully do. I saw little tykes in oversized shirts, sucking homemade ice candy while holding the pinkest cotton candy in the other hand, dust on their rubber-slippered feet, laughter and the sun in their eyes. I could not get over how the old folks merged seamlessly into the panorama of everyday life, steeping it with a nostalgic patina exclusively theirs to give. They must be retired, or so I would like to think, lovingly taken care of by the younger ones now, and content and happy to just watch people and life go by as they sit on bamboo benches, wooden chairs, or plastic stools. There were women in groups of three or four, laughing and talking loudly, washing clothes in aluminum batyas out in the heat of the sun, their brown skin glistening with sweat.
Anywhere we went, the holy hour of bakeshops was at 3 p.m. That is when the pan-init (this can literally mean warm bread but is also loosely used to mean "warm the tummy") is ready for the eating; where the binangkal (a compact bread crusty on the outside and speckled with sesame seeds), the pan de coco, the margarine-smothered ensaymadas, the pan de leche and the Spanish breads, among maybe at least a dozen other varieties, come freshly rolling out of the bakeshop oven in delicious heaps. They then sit proudly like crown jewels in their glass showcase, waiting for hungry mouths and eager hands to pounce on them. Once at 9 a.m. my husband even came across the most delicious two-peso bibingka, peddled on the sidewalk, as round and chubby as a little pandesal, cupped by a banana leaf. It was chewy and sweet, toasty on the surface, laced with coconut milk. The old lady served it steaming hot, fresh off her improvised steamer (a clay pot that sat on top of hot coconut husks). It was nothing short of perfect and I do so wish someone could bring that old woman and her magic clay pot to every other little town we cruised by, if only so we could all taste something like that again. It was unpretentious, so wonderful in its simplicity.
The marketplace is the same everywhere, round and robust and bursting with energy. It smells of shampoo and fresh meat, is as colorful as a child’s drawing, and is always soggy in a happy kind of way. Life, in all its forms and nuances, moves dynamically in its many layers. The wet market is always a surprise waiting to happen  the kind of fish, seashells and seaweed seems to vary with the place; not all will have sailfish, mahi-mahi, some thorny shellfish, lato or guso.
I cannot say it enough: the countryside is calming. And I guess therein lies its charm. For all the comfort and amenities of the big city, I only have to flow with and melt into provincial life for one day, or a few hours even, to appreciate it enough to want it again and again. Simple needs make for a simple life, and vice versa. Long after the campaign trail is over and done with I will always remember fondly what I have thus far experienced.
I will always remember the many warm spaces in these places, where the grass seems to be literally greener and the air is fresher; a place where ducks still play alongside children and smiles have never been more heartwarming, hugs have never been more welcoming. There the brown-skinned little boys and girls either hold your hand forever and ever or run alongside the car offering everything from a toothless grin, a happy song, a good wish, a piece of fruit (usually a banana), a beautiful, freshly-picked if thorny rose.
And back home here in Manila I am thinking that maybe, just maybe, the warmth of the people and the easy ebb and flow of days and ways is what makes these strange places somehow feel like some faintly remembered home.
Next week I know I will still be asking myself the same question  exactly where, I will only know then. There have been way too many moments lately where I seriously forget which part of the Philippines I am in.
Oddly enough, although I have never been so far away from home I have also never felt closer to it. The past month has been a story of one city after another, a slice of one province to the next  a blur of pretty places, warm, happy people, fresh fruit and even fresher air.
Inever really thought I would en-joy the campaign trail as much as I actually find myself doing now. Yes, it is physically taxing, and sleep has never been so simultaneously desirable and unattainable. But I really cannot/should not complain. Knowing and accepting, in my heart, that where I am at any given moment is exactly where I am supposed to be makes even the most exhausting of days so much easier to get through. Plus there is the beauty of our country. My, what a beautiful Philippines we have.
The big cities are impressive, very progressive in many surprising ways. But the provinces are downright charming, like quirky vintage finds in a nondescript shop tucked in some almost forgotten village, a place somewhere back in time.
The landscape of life in the countryside, it has not changed much from how I knew it at maybe six or seven years old: the makeshift sari sari stores, the potted santan flowers that line doorsteps and window sills, the bougainvilleas that spill out of huge rubber pots and crawl across walls in lush, graceful abandon, the middle-aged women who are beyond caring about what people may see (or think) as they brush their freshly washed hair while looking out their front windows into the busy street, with only a towel covering their soft, cushy bodies from the chest down to mid-thigh. It looks almost skimpy on them, but somehow they get away with it. And the dusters some of them wear, they come in all colors and prints! They reminded me so much of my Lola and her tight circle of mahjong friends; Tita Liclic, too. I wish I could say I was too busy to miss them in my heart but that was not so. I remembered them many, many times in that particular road trip alone.
The coastal towns ripple out in raw innocence, where little boys and girls can and will play naked under the rain and on the sidewalk, laughing and singing as all the children of many summers must rightfully do. I saw little tykes in oversized shirts, sucking homemade ice candy while holding the pinkest cotton candy in the other hand, dust on their rubber-slippered feet, laughter and the sun in their eyes. I could not get over how the old folks merged seamlessly into the panorama of everyday life, steeping it with a nostalgic patina exclusively theirs to give. They must be retired, or so I would like to think, lovingly taken care of by the younger ones now, and content and happy to just watch people and life go by as they sit on bamboo benches, wooden chairs, or plastic stools. There were women in groups of three or four, laughing and talking loudly, washing clothes in aluminum batyas out in the heat of the sun, their brown skin glistening with sweat.
Anywhere we went, the holy hour of bakeshops was at 3 p.m. That is when the pan-init (this can literally mean warm bread but is also loosely used to mean "warm the tummy") is ready for the eating; where the binangkal (a compact bread crusty on the outside and speckled with sesame seeds), the pan de coco, the margarine-smothered ensaymadas, the pan de leche and the Spanish breads, among maybe at least a dozen other varieties, come freshly rolling out of the bakeshop oven in delicious heaps. They then sit proudly like crown jewels in their glass showcase, waiting for hungry mouths and eager hands to pounce on them. Once at 9 a.m. my husband even came across the most delicious two-peso bibingka, peddled on the sidewalk, as round and chubby as a little pandesal, cupped by a banana leaf. It was chewy and sweet, toasty on the surface, laced with coconut milk. The old lady served it steaming hot, fresh off her improvised steamer (a clay pot that sat on top of hot coconut husks). It was nothing short of perfect and I do so wish someone could bring that old woman and her magic clay pot to every other little town we cruised by, if only so we could all taste something like that again. It was unpretentious, so wonderful in its simplicity.
The marketplace is the same everywhere, round and robust and bursting with energy. It smells of shampoo and fresh meat, is as colorful as a child’s drawing, and is always soggy in a happy kind of way. Life, in all its forms and nuances, moves dynamically in its many layers. The wet market is always a surprise waiting to happen  the kind of fish, seashells and seaweed seems to vary with the place; not all will have sailfish, mahi-mahi, some thorny shellfish, lato or guso.
I cannot say it enough: the countryside is calming. And I guess therein lies its charm. For all the comfort and amenities of the big city, I only have to flow with and melt into provincial life for one day, or a few hours even, to appreciate it enough to want it again and again. Simple needs make for a simple life, and vice versa. Long after the campaign trail is over and done with I will always remember fondly what I have thus far experienced.
I will always remember the many warm spaces in these places, where the grass seems to be literally greener and the air is fresher; a place where ducks still play alongside children and smiles have never been more heartwarming, hugs have never been more welcoming. There the brown-skinned little boys and girls either hold your hand forever and ever or run alongside the car offering everything from a toothless grin, a happy song, a good wish, a piece of fruit (usually a banana), a beautiful, freshly-picked if thorny rose.
And back home here in Manila I am thinking that maybe, just maybe, the warmth of the people and the easy ebb and flow of days and ways is what makes these strange places somehow feel like some faintly remembered home.
BrandSpace Articles
<
>