RR [Memories of Nueva Ecija]

RR* - Memories of Nueva Ecija
September 2, 2002
*Recalling Robertisms

We've been calling Daraga, Albay home but we are not from there. The Magnos and the Balajadias actually come from Nueva Ecija (although there are also the Magnos of Pangasinan), one of the provinces of Luzon and part of the so-called rice granary of the Philippines. From Manila, you can travel to the clan's hometown via Bulacan or via Pampanga.

In the summers of my youth, we usually boarded the PNR trains either in Daraga or in Legazpi and sometimes in Camalig, to reach PNR's Tutuban station in Divisoria. The train station was not the mall it has become today. It was like the Grand Central station in New York, albeit with less grandeur. But it had the same Gothic look. And certainly, the same busy-ness and hectic pace. Papay would pick us up from the station in his jeep. Before finally getting on our way to Nueva Ecija, to Sto. Cristo, San Isidro, however, Papay sometimes would treat us to a hot bowl of hototay soup at Panciteria Moderna near Sta. Cruz church. Or else, we would all make a side trip to Gagalangin, Tondo to pay a courtesy call on Mamang Poroso (full name: Sinforoso), one of Papay's elder brothers. Mamang Poroso and his family lived by the railroad tracks. The house was like any other along the riles, but what was remarkable about the house was that it was almost always spic and span. Gleaming sahig, both in the ground floor and upstairs. Nary a cobweb at corners. Virtually no used or clean clothes hanging out of place. Walang mga nakasampay.

Mamang Poroso's tall and big-boned wife tended a small sari-sari store at the house's ground floor. This was where I first tasted santan, a bread spread made from coconut milk that has turned golden brown on a slow fire. Santan went best with hot pandesal which the store had an abundant supply of. This was where I also saw, for the first time, thin slices of cheddar cheese and narrow bars of Dari Creme, were sold tingi, the better to go with the hot pandesal that were also being sold retail. These certainly weren't breakfast fare in Daraga.

Mamang Poroso's family was what I would describe as solicitous. At lunch, his wife would cajole all of us into taking our seats at the dining table. Then she would serve us her handa herself, urging us to partake of what she would invariably describe as delicious food. "Masarap 'yan," she would say, and proceed to heap a portion on your plate. Shy kids that we were and quite intimidated by our giant-like hostess, we would simply smile and then devour the food.

Mamang Poroso and his wife died many years ago. The house along the riles, which had been a refuge or shelter of some sort for us at one time or another when we were in Manila, have been taken over by our cousins and their own children. Sadly, we've never set foot in the area again since the couple died and now never know the state it is in.

The trip to Sto. Cristo would usually start at the North Luzon Expressway, from its tollgates in Balintawak. There were also years however when we would take the national road, which meant we had to take the McArthur highway. But the expressway route was what I remembered more. In those years, everything we passed by seemed to be fields of palay. Since those were the summer months, the fields were still being readied for planting. The only remnants of a successful harvest were the mounds of hay piled around a tall bamboo pole. The breeze would also be filled with scents of freshly cut grass or with burnt stalks or chaffs of palay. Just add a young maiden in a baro't saya surrounded by equally young swains strumming a guitar and it would be as if one of Amorsolo's pastoral paintings had come to life.

It was but a two-hour drive by jeep to Sto. Cristo and there won't be stops along the way for us, except maybe to take a leak by the roadside for the boys. Buses and some private cars however would take stops at stores selling pasalubong of pastillas, fresh boiled ears of corn, boiled itlog pugo or balut and samalamig. Sitsarong baboy was also popular. The cheap ones were pure hot air while the more expensive variety had meat. Bulacan also had its version of the pandesal they were proud of. In later years, pasalubong fare included butong pakwan and fruit juice in tetrapak. Watermelon and mangoes would also be sold by the roadside.

When we still did not have our own house in Sto. Cristo, the brood would almost always be housed at Kakang Abe's (full name: Isabel). She was one of Papay's elder sisters. Kakang Abe was married to Kakang Luis, a local hilot who was reportedly friendly with dwende from whom he got his healing powers. It was said then that Kakang Luis could become rich overnight if only he would scratch the ground three times. Doing so would unearth a golden statue of a bull. Kakang Luis would never do it however for he feared he may have to exchange his life for the wealth.

Kakang Abe's and Mamang Luis' house was along the national highway. It was the traditional/typical sort, made of bamboo and sawali. The silong that did not have walls was a place to dry tobacco leaves, which Mamang Luis processed himself when he was in need of a smoke or a cigarette. The windows were made of pawid that you simply push with a tukod to let the air in. I once absent-mindedly leaned against such a window while it was closed and while seated at the window's pasamano. I promptly fell to about two meters to the ground and broke a part of my scalp. Kakang Luis chewed on a leaf and stuffed it over my head wound. I still have the scar to remind me about it.

It was a refreshing house. The floor of bamboo slats shone from years of being waxed and scrubbed and was so cool to lie down on, even with a banig on top of it. The batalan was the best part of the house because it was made of huge whole bamboo poles. This was where we would take a bath with water pumped from a bomba (also called pozo elsewhere). Imagine taking a bath on top of bamboos! The toilet was a scary structure though. It was an outhouse on top of a deep pit. You needed to bring your water in a tabo if you wanted to wash yourself after using it.

The couple had a sweet old maid of a daughter we fondly called Ate Lita. She was kind and ever so feminine. Most importantly, she seemed to like us tremendously. She found us eternally cute. "Naku, ito na ba si Obet? Ang laki-laki mo na! E nung umalis kayo dito nung isang taon e hanggang bewang lang kita a." Then she would pinch my cheeks.

It was actually a tired ritual for all of us whenever we would come visit our relatives. Everywhere we would go, our relatives would gush about how tall we have become since the last time they saw us. It was irritating then but it is so nostalgic to reminisce now.

Ate Lita died young. She succumbed to cancer. No medication then would make her well. She cut her hair short and wove the cut hair into a hairpiece as an offering to the image of the Virgin Mary at the Sto. Cristo chapel. I'm sure the image of the Virgin Mary liked it; it's still wearing Ate Lita's hair till now. But the cancer could not care less. Mamang Luis died soon after leaving Kakang Abe to her own old age.

Kakang Abe was a remarkable woman in that she survived many years even after being left alone. In her old age and with dimming eyesight, she would walk the few kilometers between her house and Papay's if only to pay Papay a visit. She died just a few years back as if to finally rest her tired soul.

Ate Lita was also fond of a pamangkin we called Adio. We thought he was Japanese because he had chinky eyes. He became our playmate since he was our age. He was our leader as we would go to neighbors' backyards and pick sinigwelas, mabolo and young unripe mangoes from the trees. Mabolo was a peculiar fruit. It was red like an apple, shaped like a pear and quite hairy. The hair was almost invisible but would nonetheless be prickly and itchy. Before we could eat it, we had to scrub the hair out of the fruit and peel the mabolo. Breaking the fruit apart would reveal big dark seeds and whitish flesh so like the durian's. It was an exotic fruit and remarkable only for its prickly and itchy peeling. I won't be surprised if it has gone the way of the dodo and the T-rex.

Adio also introduced us to balubad (also known as kasuy) freshly picked and broiled on a hastily formed fire in the ground. Cashews always reminded me of the native riddle: Prinsesa, prinsesa, prinsesang nakaupo sa tasa ng kape. He also showed us duhat trees and threw the first stone at the fruits so these would fall to the ground. Duhat is sweet when it's sweet and mapakla when it's unripe. It also turns your teeth to violet. Duhat always reminded me of baligang, a fruit that appears to be native to Albay and that looks like dark cherry. We would shake the sour fruits between two plates after mixing in salt and sugar.

Adio later moved to Manila to work at various restaurants. Last we heard, he has gotten married and now raising a family of his own.

The family of Ate Nicia (full name: Anicia) was also close to us. Her family lived at Hulo, a few kilometers away from the rest of the clan who were settled near or around the kapilya including in a street named Looban. Ate Nicia is Papay's niece; her mother was one of Papay's sisters. We have long been suspecting that she was a tomboy, most specially when she became so close and identified with a relative we know as Marilyn. But we never dared ask her to her face; we simply talked about it among ourselves. She wasn't as demure as Ate Lita for sure. But she sure was dependable and very hardy. She also what I would describe as a maverick. I think she was the one who took over their family's tumana (farm) by the river when her father became sickly and ulyanin.

It was Ate Nicia's family who introduced us to tahada, a unique version of Laguna's espasol. Where espasol was soft, tahada was quite firm. The freshly grated coconut pounded with galapong or with pinipig must be the secret to the tahada. I am being subjective here but once you've tasted tahada, you'll never crave for espasol again.

I think I imbibed my fondness for guache (butong pakwan or watermelon seeds for you), from Ate Nicia. I remember her serving us bagfuls of the seeds everytime we would visit her at Hulo. This was the time when these seeds were still made locally in the Philippines by soaking the seeds in lime and boiling and drying them later; before watermelon seeds from Taiwan took over the market. Ate Nicia would bring along quite a big plastic bag whenever she would join us for a trip to Manila and we would all feast on the seeds along the way to while away the travel time. There is nothing as indelibly marked in my tastebuds as chipping away at the butong pakwan to get to the small sweet flesh inside with the breeze from the fields caressing your cheeks.

In November, Sto. Cristo celebrates a fiesta ng mga puto. It may have been that there were processions, parades or celebrations before but in the summers of my youth, all I remember being done by the townspeople was cook tahada and kalamay and let neighbors partake of each other's kitchen masterpieces.

My memories of Nueva Ecija were more than these experiences combined and more than the relatives and neighbors I could remember to describe. Suffice it to say that life in Sto. Cristo then was a far cry from life in Daraga although there seems to be no major and discernable differences nowadays. But for a young one, it felt like it was the best of both worlds and my siblings and I are all the richer, at least in terms of experiences, for it.