Ilocos Chronicles (Part 2)

The Road to Vigan

The Spanish colonial town of Vigan, established in the 16th century, remains the most well-preserved historical town in the entire Philippines. It is the image of Vigan that has lured many local and foreign tourists to brave the scorching Ilocos sun, for a chance to walk its cobbled streets and take shelter among its many secret passages and old, musky walls.

The third day of our Ilocos rendezvous saw us on the long winding road to Vigan. The two-hour trip allowed us a glimpse of the culture-rich Ilocos countryside. With the wind in my face, I savored the sight of expansive rice fields proudly showing the colors of a bountiful harvest, the majestic Cordilleras keeping watch in the background, big pink-colored houses lording over open fields, unmindful of the contrasting picture they present. When on a road trip, I always derive a different kind of high from spying on the open windows and doors of houses we pass by. On this particular journey, I was fascinated by the fact that this is probably the only place in the Philippines where one can still see faded calendars with the photo of a young Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos faithfully plastered on the walls, alongside old KBL election posters. I wondered at the number of funeral corteges we passed along the way and learned that burials are always held on Saturdays. As a testament to the Ilocanos’ faithfulness to tradition, they still follow old burial customs, including wearing black and red headbands as signs of mourning. Needless to say, no burial can ever be too humble for the omnipresent banda.

We stopped by the “Bahay ni Luna” in Badoc town. It is a simple brick structure containing the basics of a Filipino household, and where imposing replicas of Antonio Luna’s famous “Spolarium” and “El Pacto de Sangre” take dominance on the living room walls. The house was ordered rebuilt by Imelda Marcos when a fire destroyed most of the original structure in 1861. The townsfolk relay that this magnanimous act came about when Mrs. Marcos found out that she and the esteemed Antonio Luna belong to the same family tree.

Further along our journey was garlic country. Clumps of garlic were hung on every road side stall. A sign with the words “garlic ice cream” brought a startled screech from my mouth, the driver instinctively slammed on his brakes from fright. Wonderful Ilocandia does offer so many surprises at every bend in the road.

Jostling for attention with the garlic is the famous sugarcane wine called Basi. The Ilocanos love their wine so much it spurred a well known revolt in 1807. During this time, the Spanish regime banned the private manufacture of basi and Ilocanos were forced to buy from government stores. Their angst was so great, they took up arms to protest this unjust law, thus history came to know of the Basi or Ambaristo Revolt.

All this time, the only person I could think of was my dad. Marcos and Basi. Total bliss.

When we crossed the Mestizo River and entered the gates of Vigan with its Spanish lamp posts lined along the streets, I sent a silent prayer to heaven, thanking God for bringing me here at last. I must have beamed like a cherub because my husband looked like he wanted to cover me in a bear hug and our driver’s chest puffed with pride with the thought that he is now part of my personal history. Yes Aro, I will never forget you.

Vigan derived its name form the word “ka-bigaan” which refers to the abundance of the biga plant that grew along the banks of the Biga and Mestizo rivers. Being on the UNESCO’s World Heritage List must have inspired the people of Vigan to work conscientiously together towards the preservation of their town. Entering Plaza Burgos was like being transported to a different era. All the buildings were standing courageously in all their faded, old world glory. Most prominent of these is the Archbishop’s Palace. Built in 1783, it is the only surviving 18th century Arzobizpado in the entire Philippines. Modern shops, restaurants, cell phone stores are housed in old structures with elaborate edifices, braving rot and decay. Calesas and tricycles ply its four main streets --- Calle Crisologo, Calle Plaridel, Calle V. delos Reyes and Calle Salcedo.

In my ardent desire to experience sleeping under the roof of an 18th century mansion, I made special arrangements to be booked at the Aniceto Mansion, along Plaza Burgos. Located in the heart of the main square, it is a street away from the Vigan Cathedral and across the lane from a school that used to be an old cemetery. It has wide hardwood floors that creaked at every step, a wide staircase with photos of its previous owners lined against the walls and a big dresser mirror that faced the canopied bed. Our room was located next to the ballroom where I expected to hear the pianoforte or the gramophone play a waltz in the middle of the night. Mike’s expression was priceless!

It was fascinating to watch the potters expertly work with their hands and feet at the Pagburnayan. A burnay is actually a big earthen jar used for storing water or preserving fish. The potters’ creations are placed inside a big, long earthen oven closely resembling a cave, then dried in different stages that took months to complete. Aside from the burnay, Vigan is also known for producing those well loved Vigan tiles, prominent in most Philippine-inspired homes.

The dynamics of loom-weaving were equally interesting to watch. All the work that goes into drying the threads, spinning and finally weaving them to produce those soft abel blankets is worthy of hero worship. After watching an 80-year old Lilang skillfully weave a complex pattern for a table runner, I could never have the heart to ask for a tawad when I bought blankets for pasalubong.

While we were beating the heat with some iced tea at the Hidden Garden in Bulala, I was lusting over some beautifully carved wooden figures of a little rural boy in different states of repose: atop a log, on a banana leaf. So relaxed, so worry-free, so Juan. Actually, it won’t be surprising to see someone sleeping in such a manner amidst the lush, peaceful environs of the hidden garden.

Chavit Singson’s Baluarte in Salindeg is several hectares of animal haven. Ostriches, sheep, goats, cows roam freely around the area guarded by giant dinosaur replicas. For a dose of fun, one can ride those little chariots of fire they call the tiburin. These are actually small carriages drawn by miniature horses. It was fun to eat ice cream while rubbing shoulders with the parrots, cockatoos, turtles, alpacas, tigers and deer or being chased by an ostrich or playing with the butterflies or posing beside that yellow submarine. Best of all, entrance is free. God Bless Chavit.

Finally, the old houses. The Burgos House in Plaza Burgos is the home of one of the Gomburza martyrs, Padre Jose Burgos. Looking out of his bedroom window, one can have an uninterrupted view of Plaza Burgos, with the Vigan Cathedral in the distance. Sitting on his butaka, it was this constant sight and the regular sound of the tolling bells that was said to have inspired Fr. Burgos to enter the priesthood.

Built in 1870 by Gobernadorcillo Agapito Florendo y Bonifacio, Villa Angela was made famous by the wide, airy bedroom where Tom Cruise slept while filming the movie, Born on the Fourth of July. I was honestly having second thoughts about the bed. I think it takes courage to sleep on it. One wrong move and you might find yourself crashing through the floor. Good thing he stayed there long before he got the inspiration to do what he did on Oprah’s couch. On a different note, I am a bit puzzled why they continue to harp about Mr. Cruise’ sleepover as a selling point, when the house clearly must have earned some history to its credit.

The house of Floro and Carmeling Crisologo along Calle Delos Reyes, housed not only family memorabilia but also a load of bad memories. I was struck at the photos from the assassination of Floro Crisologo at the Vigan Cathedral in October 1970. Displayed below the photos were his cracked eyeglasses and bloodstained clothes. It was surreal to watch. Old albums, books, documents, moth eaten ternos and a bullet riddled car chronicle the family’s tragic history. Floro Crisologo’s sister is the mother of Chavit Singson. His assassination brought on the onset of a dreadful and long suffering family battle that, as history would tell us, made them the victims of their own anger and vendetta.

I used to think that Casa Manila in Intramuros, with its intricate lattice carvings along its large ballroom is the grandest of all old Philippine houses. That is until I learned that, although it is made from parts of real houses and furnished with real heirlooms donated by prominent families, it is just a replica built by the National Historical Institute to showcase how the bourgeoisie lived during the Spanish era. That is also, until I’ve set foot inside the home of the parents of Alicia Syquia, wife to former Philippine President Elpidio Quirino. The Syquia Mansion. The father of Alicia Syquia is an enterprising Chinese merchant who set to make his fortune in Vigan after loathing the idea of building a life within the walls of the Chinese Pariah in Binondo. The house, built in 1830, is a repository of rich treasures culled from what must have been an exciting sea-faring life. A golden vase with the Emperor’s stamp at the bottom, a eucalyptus chest that continues to emit its strong vapors after several centuries, Victorian figurines and paintings that speak of good taste even to this day, a rich collection of ivory santos in the impressive family chapel, beds carved by the famous Ah-Tay. I was oohhing and ahhing while given the tour by Rusty Ponce, the family’s caretaker who comes from a long line of Syquia family cooks. I loved the idea of a secret door to the children’s bedroom, the ventanillas, the passageways along the bedrooms where househelps may pass through without being seen by visitors, the inner courtyard with the fountain and the spy hole in the master’s suite to check on visitors who may either be allowed to enter the hallowed hall of the grand ballroom or keep their unworthy selves within the boundaries of the entresuelo. Mike and I were of the shared opinion that when we build our own house, it will follow the lines of the beloved bahay na bato.

Driving around the historic town, it is inspiring to see just how much of history is preserved in Vigan. The new blending in with the old, contemporary citizens and old ghosts cohabiting peacefully in a town that courageously lives in the shadow of its glorious past. History basks in the devoted embrace it gets from the people of Vigan.

The afternoon has become cooler. Perfect for a leisurely stroll, stopping for a cup of coffee and loosening the purse strings. Where else would our guide drop us off but at that beautiful place that spurred my Vigan dream --- my beloved Calle Crisologo.

The moment I stepped off the van and became a living part of a scene that I have only seen in photographs, I felt like a child let loose at Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. Didn’t they tell you that ”…when your happy and you know it, clap your hands!”? Well, I was happy and I knew it and I did clap my hands! Hooray!

I left my husband standing baffled on the curb and explored that wonderful plethora of shops, inns, cafes, bakeries and funeral parlors with incomparable delight. Stuffy shops held treasures of old santos, mismatched silverware, centuries old photographs, gilded mirrors, antique chests, rusting instruments. Angels in different moods and poses. Dollhouse furniture carved from hardwood. Baskets of bagnet sitting on top of soft abel blankets. I must have looked like my daughter at the toy store because Mike was giving me the same indulgent smile. But I knew that at the back of his mind he was having these thoughts: “Honestly? What does one do with a bunch of old spoons with the previous owner’s initials engraved at the back?... What is she going to do with that angel?... She can’t be serious about lugging that chest to CDO!” But he knew better than to voice them out loud. We were, after all, staying at an old mansion with a mirror facing the bed. He can’t risk a change in the sleeping arrangements. So just like what good husbands do, he willingly offered his brawn and his wallet. And in the spirit of boosting the local economy, he asked me to stop the haggling. I love my man!

Satisfied with my finds, we couldn’t resist sampling the tricycle ride, where you actually squat, not sit. We ate dinner al fresco at Café Leona’s, named after the famous Ilocano poet Leona Florentino, whose tomb can be found inside the Vigan Cathedral. Sipping our drinks with the cool breeze in our faces, folk music blaring from a stereo nearby and a steady stream of tourists pounding the cobbled street of Calle Crisologo, I was happy as a bee in summer. It was a wonderful day!

I woke up on our final day in Vigan to the rhythmic sound of horses’ hooves clanking on the street outside and the church bells tolling softly a block away. How blissful the lives of Maria Clara and Maruja must have been. After breakfast of Vigan longganisa and steaming tsokolate, we bravely attended Sunday mass said in Iloko at the St. Paul’s Cathedral. While I was trying my best to follow the homily, I feasted my eyes on the beautiful frescoes, the graceful arches and the interesting people speaking in a dialect I could not understand. It was beautiful, nonetheless. After the mass, we marched out to Plaza Salcedo, which is also the site of Gabriela Silang’s public hanging in 1763.

The Vigan experience will not be complete without the calesa ride, so Mike and I hopped on our chariot and asked Mamang Kutchero to take the reins and show us his town, as far as his horse’s hooves can take us. We went around Vigan once more, past the 18th century cemetery that remains intact to this day, the busy markets, the quaint streets, the Singson Funeral Parlor. We climbed the eighty-five steps to the Sta. Maria Church. The church, dedicated to the Nuestra Senora dela Assuncion and used as a fortress during the Philippine revolution of 1896, is also named a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

While licking a cone of dirty ice cream, we traipsed to nearby Tongson’s for a taste of their well loved royal bibingka. Standing inside the bakery brought me back to childhood moments when we nibbled on galletas and peeked at counters groaning with huge garapons full of chicharon, dalunggan, patatas and bakos-bakos (these are the names we call them in Visayan). The store looked like something out of a Sampaguita Pictures black and white movie.

It was nearing twelve noon when we slowly trudged back to the Aniceto Mansion, where Aro was already waiting for us. Cinderella’s ball is over.

On our way back to Laoag, I feasted my eyes at the serene beauty of Ilocos, trying to imprint every scene in my Bonamine-logged brain. There are still so many places to see, delights to savor, adventures to experience. I am quite certain I will be passing this way again.

The people of Ilocandia are so blessed to be living in this raw, beautiful land, where the wind blows strong and the waves crash with fury. It has taught them to be resilient and brave in the face of a storm. They are fortunate to have known this arid soil, this scorching sun, for it shaped their character as a people. They are lucky to be guarded by the imposing Cordilleras, to have held the hand of Apo Marcos, to have carried so much of history on their proud backs. They are a blessed people, and they must know it.

Agpakadaakon Ilocos. Agyamanak!

Ilocos Chronicles (Part 1)

My love affair with Ilocos started when I first saw a picture of the famed Calle Crisologo. To someone who is enamored with the mysteries of history and smitten by the graceful era when Crisostomo Ibarra and Maria Clara had their suyuan sa azotea, it was a portrait that awakened an intense yearning to experience something of what went on behind the door of the mysterious bahay na bato.

After almost ten years of dreaming about someday walking the cobbled streets of Vigan, I finally got my chance. It was November 13, 2008 – a year after I purposefully tucked a huge picture of Calle Crisologo on my dresser mirror. My husband took the hint that there can never be peace until I visited that fabled place of my fantasies. I, on the other hand, was powerfully inspired by my belief that if you wish it well enough, the universe will conspire to give you what you want (thank you Rhonda Byrne!).

By that time, I already knew more about Ilocos than I probably did about any other place on earth. So joyfully immersed was I in studying its sights, smells and sounds that my obsession with the place has become a long running family joke. Except perhaps for the dialect, which I never learned, I was so in tune with the Ilocano lifestyle. Planning our trip was a mixed feeling of anticipation, anxiety and nostalgia –the kind you get when you prepare yourself for a homecoming. The only contradiction is that I’ve lived in Cagayan de Oro all my life, and there can never be any chance I could trace my roots to Ilocos. It was practically a journey from one end of the country to another. But then again, it was a calling of the soul. And when that happens, you must heed its voice.

Our plane touched down at the Laoag International Airport at past seven in the evening of November 13 (2008). My husband and I were the only passengers on the bus that brought us to the Fort Ilocandia Resort Hotel. Along the way, I was struck by the isolation of the place. The roads were devoid of vehicles, there weren’t even any taxis. We spied a handful of tricycles along the way, but that was just it. The houses even looked dark. It was like being transported to another dimension, my husband had to ask, “Is this really Laoag?”. He was looking at me with an expression that seemed to say, “What have you gotten ourselves into?”

Fort Ilocandia was like an oasis in that otherwise shadowy landscape. There was a welcome bustle of activity inside owing to a medical conference that was to begin the day following. Mike heaved a big sigh of relief. We were back in civilization –the promise of a hot bath and television. Men and their trivial whims! Well, at least they get to pay (smile).

The wing where our room was located seemed deserted. It felt like ours was the only suite occupied. The interiors resembled that of an old Philippine mansion, complete with Vigan tiles, romantic light sconces, old paintings and dark hardwood floors. Outside was a well landscaped garden with arched walkways and a striking fountain. Fort Ilocandia, it was said, was originally built by the Marcoses to house the guests to the Marcos-Araneta wedding. The front building which houses the grand lobby and the reception area was the first structure to be built. More wings were added when it was formally used as a hotel. It is a striking brick structure softened by beautiful bougainvilleas creeping along its walls. These bougainvilleas were said to be imported from Malaysia by the former First Lady Imelda Marcos.

Mike and I couldn’t resist sampling the succulent bagnet for our first dinner in Ilocos. Paired with steaming bulalo, it was a sinful feast that invited the chance of experiencing that dreadful bangungot in your sleep. But a bangungot simply didn’t have a chance to inhabit a subconscious that was busy dreaming happy dreams and thanking God for a wish fulfilled.

I woke up to my first Ilocos morning, refreshed, inspired and giddy to embark on the adventure I have pictured endlessly in my mind. Our tour guides, Aro and Yvette were quite surprised to see us. They were apparently expecting elderly retirees to be their wards for the day, because these are the usual people who take the Ilocandia tour. Mike was trying to stifle a laugh. Well, I am way beyond my years. I am an old soul. And quite proud to be one, thank you very much!

Our itinerary for the day was a tour around Ilocos Norte. First stop was the Burgos Lighthouse in Cape Bojeador. I have researched this lighthouse on the internet countless of times, but seeing it with my own eyes made me a wee bit sentimental. Built in 1892, the Parola ng Cape Bojeador is one of the longest serving lighthouses in the country. I tried to brave the rickety stairs to the top but my trembling knees failed me. Nonetheless, it was the perfect place to behold the mesmerizing blue of the South China Sea. The ocean seemed different, looked different. Like something from a dream. This must be the “azure” that poets write so avidly about when they describe the grandeur of nature.

Traveling along the well paved highway going to Bangui and Pagudpud was a total breeze. How I wished all roads were like this. We hardly met any other vehicle along the way. Driving there was a total dream. So peaceful and quiet, with the mesmerizing sight of the ocean and its crashing waves keeping you company. When we reached the sight of the Windmills of Bangui, I was enthralled. It was like being in another place, in another time. The windmills were like giant fans, stretching as far as the eye can see; their whooshing sounds like giant breaths. They were placed in this specific stretch because it is here where the wind blows the strongest, thereby turning its turbines to their fullest power. These windmills supply almost 40% of Ilocos’ energy requirements.

What was also quite astounding about the coast was its carpet of smooth, flat stones. I thought stones like that can only be found along the river, not on the seashore where crashing waves were sure to break stones and corals to jagged pieces. If there is any place in Ilocos where I know my children would’ve had a blast, it had to be there in Bangui. We remembered our boy, Icko who, with his classmates formed a Rare Rock Club, collecting any wayward stone in their school grounds and selling them at twenty pesos a piece to their friends. Had we brought him with us, he would have lugged home a sack of these precious finds!

Completing its out-of-this world appeal was the bent old woman who gathers stones there every single day to sell to tourists. One can never question how long she has been doing that. She is as bent as a horseshoe, with her face practically to her knees. She was like a walking metaphor for sacrifice, toil and hardship.

We stopped for lunch at the Apo Idon Beach Hotel in Pagudpud. Dining al fresco, with the wind in your face, was enough to whet anybody’s appetite. Mike sampled the Ilocos Pinakbet, but no force on earth will ever be able to make me try it. As a child, I never ate vegetables. I would always develop a headache when I smell vegetables cooking for lunch. It was only when I got older that I began to allow a few bits of greens enter my digestive system. I am so proud to say that I can now eat the tips of the tortang talong – the part where you taste mostly the eggs (smile). On its own, I will not eat the talong. The okra and ampalaya are hands down, too complicated for me.

The Pinakbet was actually “invented” in Ilocos. Stories say that a farmer’s wife, not knowing what to cook for lunch, decided to just mix every vegetable in the kitchen, and seasoned it with fermented fish. A true testament to the thrift and ingenuity that the Ilocanos are known for. Surprisingly, the farmer loved the dish, thus the Pinakbet was born.

I truly love that part of Ilocos Norte. Looking back, I never quite expected to be so moved by the sight, especially the blue ocean and the breaking waves. I always thought my message was in Vigan, but remembering that ocean gave me goosebumps. It was my déjà vu moment, albeit in a place totally unexpected.

Going back to Laoag, we passed by the salt making plots in Pasuquin and the numerous garlic farms. I was struck by the dry, arid soil and how much hard work the farmers had to put in to irrigate their fields. Such a stark contrast to the dark, rich soil we are so used to seeing in the plantations of Bukidnon. Ilocano farmers had to alternate their crops to give the soil a chance to breathe and renew. That’s why when they harvest their crops, garlic for example, they had to cut it as “sagad” as they can get.

The afternoon saw us heading towards the San Miguel Church in Sarrat, made famous by the Marcos-Araneta wedding. Prior to the wedding, all the houses along the road to the church were said to be fitted with capiz window panes, the lawns lined with imported bougainvilleas, like a sort of red carpet welcome to the church. The church itself is a striking brick structure, partially damaged by a strong earthquake that struck it in the 80’s. The only word I can use to describe the interior is “cavernous”, with its exposed beams and buttresses adding drama to its over all appearance. That must be how the inside of Noah’s ark must’ve looked.

Adjacent to the church is the Curillo, where a display of old books, bibles, vestments, religious figures and pictures are set. But one door away from this tranquil setting is an area one could never imagine being built within a hair’s breath away from the house of God. A place where no bird dared to sing, where all one must’ve heard was the gnashing of teeth, the lash of the whip, the clanking of iron, the swish of an ax. How they could’ve sang their Ave Marias amid the moaning and the dank smell of blood and decay, I cannot fathom. How the priests could’ve preached of love and forgiveness a wall away from men chained to pillars, I do not understand. How they could sleep peacefully on their beds while hearing the clank of a man’s head thrown inside a well, I cannot imagine. It is a sight of many possessions, so they say. Mike’s left arm was covered in goosebumps, and he was suddenly feeling weak. The negative energies were so strong, it wasn’t hard to imagine the evil that continues to lurk within those walls until today.

A few meters away from the Sarrat Church is the Marcos ancestral house. Devoid of anything interesting, it was an empty shell displaying leftover memorabilia that never really said much about the famous president. It was just left standing, waxed floors and all, to scavenge a few pennies from little tourists. A little something for the old caretaker to live by --- and he did mention the cost of floor wax.

The grandiose Malacanang of the North lives up to its name. It was very hard not to imagine Madame Imelda gliding down from its sweeping staircase in her majestic terno. You can almost expect the Von Trapp children to appear from the lake in their little boat, singing about their favorite things. Situated with an expansive view of the legendary Paoay Lake, the mansion was definitely made for entertaining, intimate parties, secret meetings and yes, Imelda Marcos.

We stopped by the Museo Iloko which used to be a tabacalera. You can still see the blackened walls, huge kilns and feel the flurry of activity that must have dictated the daily life within those thick walls in the past. Now it showcases a history of the region, its people and its produce.

Every Marcos loyalist must wish to pay homage to the refrigerated, waxen figure of the former president at his mausoleum, located beside the Marcos home in Batac. I come from a family of old-time loyalists (hence my refusal to call him dictator), so this visit was kind of significant. It gave me something to brag about to the folks back home (smile). The chilly mausoleum, with its loud chorale music and artificial flowers was well, chilly. It was like witnessing a wake or a viewing that promises to go on forever, like Dracula in his casket—never aging, hard as stone. How many generations of families must have passed by that “body” in all the years that it has lain there. The grit of Imelda is indeed something else.

Stepping outside the suffocating shrine is food haven. We loaded on Cornick of all flavors and all sorts of kakanin, one of which was enclosed inside a small bamboo tube, that caused us a minor hold-up a few days later at the airport. Fortunately, one of the inspectors was an Ilocano, so we were allowed our little contraption, accompanied with an amused chuckle. I finally had my taste of the famous orange empanada I often saw in Lakbay TV. Helped in the cooking, too, mind you. Paired with a bottle of Coke, it was delicious, filling and well, significant.

Our last stop for the day was the famed Paoay Church. Made out of corals and lime during the time’s famous “earthquake baroque” architecture, it was spectacular in the late afternoon light. It’s grass covered buttresses lending an air of strength and pride…..a testament to the hard work and enduring sacrifice of the men who carried every single rock to build this lasting monument. I basked in the beauty of Paoay Church, taking in every detail, every crevice in the wall, every whiff of the wind. And I imagined myself being there in 1704 when the cornerstone was built and our hardworking forefathers toiled under the heat of the sun, bravely carrying the heavy weights on their backs and in their souls. The people of old are the ones who truly make me proud of being a Filipino.

Across the grounds from the church is the famed Herencia’s Café, home to the equally famous Pinakbet Pizza. Food Magazine once featured Ilocos in one of their issues. Understandably, I bought myself a copy. On its cover was a delectable spread of Ilocano merienda favorites, set outdoors at Herencia’s, with the Paoay Church in the background. I promised myself then that I am going to sit on that exact same spot someday. And sat I did on that memorable afternoon of November 14^th 2008! With a layer of delicious Pinakbet Pizza, a glass of iced tea, heavenly yema, great company and the sound of cascading water from the nearby fountain playing in the background, I took in the silent grandeur of Paoay Church and waited for the sunset.