By ARMY
ALCAYAGA-GRANADA
Photos by ARMY ALCAYAGA-GRANADA, ARLENE ALCAYAGA, ERWIN DOLFO
Published in the Manila Bulletin
July 14, 2012, 5:20pm
To tackle Pagudpud by land from
Manila would seem like a pilgrimage with its attendant hardships for the very
long ride it entails. Why would it be worth the while of an ordinary mortal
like me, who is just as happy engaged in a novel inside the confines of her
room, to take on this gruelling 12 hour challenge?
It has often been said by
many a wise traveller that the journey is more important than the destination.
Whether you journey by bus or by private car, make sure you plan your itinerary
to include stopovers that would make this journey a joy ride, or better yet, an
affair to remember.
It was five in the morning when
the three black Isuzu Crosswinds convoyed at the NLEX that was still clear of
heavy traffic.
I checked my bag for the food,
band aid strips, meds, and wet ones. Somebody brought Chico and Delamar’s book,
another had pick up line jokes committed to his memory. Now these are the
people you should associate with, the ones armed to the teeth.
I never bring jeans on
short trips except the ones I’m wearing because jeans are heavy. For a
three-day weekend, I brought one black leotard and my trusty pashmina shawl. I
never go without it. I use it to wrap around my waist over the leotard, over my
head when I’m under the sun, over my shoulder on cold nights, or spread it on
the sand to sit on.
As greeneries whizzed by, there
was time to mull things over in a different light. The body eases on the seat,
all the cares in the universe dissolve and you see everything as never-ending
possibilities.
On the way to Ilocos Norte, we
made a stopover in Vigan, Ilocos Sur, a protected World Heritage site that
transported us into the time of calesa, camisa de chino and unhurried
lifestyle.
Ilocanos are legendary for their
industry and thrift. We can see this by how they painstakingly handcrafted
burnay (clay) water jars, abel iloco cloth and how they preserved their culture
in the midst of all the hullaballoo.
As we walked on the cobbled
stones built hundreds of years ago, we can simultaneously hear the clip clops
of the karetelas. Arched entrances and wooden windows were like theatres,
strangely inviting us to enter.
I began having memories
that were not even mine. The sliding capiz window of an ancient Hispanic house
opens and a young adeng peeks at her suitor who serenades her under the
moonlight, an aunt painstakingly sewing by hand her precious handkerchief, a
manong polishing the wooden floor until it gleams by the flickering gasera.
We had merienda at Leona’s cafe
and whiled away an hour or so gossiping about the lives of celebrities, who’s
with whom now, who just had botox. As we chattered, I noticed the pink blush on
each of the traveller’s face even after hours of driving. There was a glow and
animation that could only come from exhilaration.
I realized this is why we
travel. We travel for the wind on our faces, for the sun dancing on the
mountains, for the thought of moving, like what E.E. Cummings said, somewhere
we have never travelled.
We reached Ilocos Norte after 10
hours of driving. Our hosts prepared a spread fit for kings as we had prawns,
lobsters, diningding with bagnet and fresh salads. After a luscious
feast, we slept and woke up to find another feast and a karaoke waiting for us.
We woke up early morning the
next day and visited the Marcos Shrine in Batac. This legacy of the Marcos
regime showcases hundreds of photos and memorabilia.
Needless to say, the Marcos era
was one of the most dramatic times in our history. My mother is a fan of Mrs.
Marcos. She always has a tale about the ex-first lady. She told me how Madam
Imelda was able to ward off a would-be assassin who attacked her with a bolo
and how she sustained several deep wounds on her arms. I was hoping to take a
glimpse of the famous 3,000 pairs of shoes but someone whispered they’re in a Marikina
shoe museum.
The Paoay Church, the pride of
Ilocos Norte and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is an architectural marvel with
its buttresses that look like they can withstand the test of eternity. It is
after all, more than 300 hundred years old. Not like the shout out loud beauty
of other churches, it has its own charm and quiet magnificence.
I love comparing places I visit
to mythical places in literature. In Emily Bronte’s novel, “Wuthering Heights”,
the backdrop is a moorland, a place of uncommon beauty filled with tragic
obsessions. Pagudpud is our own “Wuthering Heights”. In life as in love, when
we can’t achieve romance, we tend to compensate by allowing ourselves a bit of
fantasy.
Upon entering the town of
Pagudpud, I realized my own castle in the highlands that inspired a thousand
cliches at the word processor. The Bangui windmills of course reminded me of
Sancho Panza and his Senor Don Quixote, out for a lonely quest of the
impossible dream.
The wild waves in Saud beach
created a tempest in my heart that it burst with sudden recollections of things
past. The white sand was deep and yielding, one’s feet literally submerged with
every step.
When you run into the
water, the waves run toward you in a sure collision. Salt and sand mingle in
your mouth and your eyes sting.
Being a wuss, I retreated at the
next onslaught of a baby tsunami. Thankfully there was a grassy elevation that
served as a picnic ground and an observation post. From there, I watched as
swimmers braved the frenzied waters, while the Bangui windmills stood lost in
the distance.
As if we have not had enough of
beaches, we drove another few minutes to arrive at the popular Maira-ira“Blue
Lagoon”.
The “Blue Lagoon” was quite a
different story. Boulders and rock formations landscaped the shores like
Stonehenges serving as windbreakers. Unlike in Saud beach, the water there was
a lot tamer, making it ideal for us to soak in the crystal water without sand
flinging into our eyes and hair. I dipped my feet into the water filled with
small beige pebbles polished to smoothness by time and ripple. Tiny fish swam
around my ankles, while my pashmina kept on sliding from my shoulders.
What if a curly haired boy and a Brooke Shields look alike suddenly
materialize from out of nowhere?
A lighthouse watches over
Cape Boreador. Having a penchant for lighthouses, I surveyed the cape and tried
to imagine what loves and lores the lighthouse must have inspired. Near the
lighthouse was a waterfall where we refreshed ourselves in the cool, clear
water. It is such a gift to discover these pockets of nature where one can
luxuriate. To hear the soothing cascade of the falls was enough to revive one’s
bushed consciousness.
We went to a popular bakery
called Pasuquin bakery and bought the famous Pasuquin biscocho (toasted bread),
toasted mamon and other pastries. What looked so commonplace was a real treat!
The biscocho was so addicting I was able to consume a pack in one sitting. We
went to the public market and bought a lot of pasalubong like cornic (roasted
corn), piyaya (flattened pastry), tupig (grilled suman) and a lot more! A
coconut vendor sold the best coconut water I have ever tasted. We had fun
eating dirty ice cream while waiting for our friends. It was time to unwind and
we had the chance to look around small old churches and ruins that were
obviously forgotten by time.
On our last day we went to
Currimao and took a dip in the infinity pool of Playa Tropical Resort, a
Balinese inspired haven that spoke of elegance but didn’t burn a hole in our
pockets. We had a day tour of the place and a swim for only 200Php per person.
We relaxed in the steep roofed huts and quaffed pale pilsen between nibbles of
kilawing dilis (vinegared raw anchovies).
The open cabana was cool and
comfy, white lace drapes swished in the breeze, and the clouds drifted slowly
by.
Although the sun was in my eyes,
I couldn’t care less. I was just there for the moment. As I chugged my beer, I
held the bitter taste in my mouth and tried to memorize all the details that
were sweet, very sweet indeed.
