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 14th 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.
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