Christmas Alpahor

Call us silly, but when we were much younger--and there were no televisions and no FM stations to distract us big time--we made up songs and stories. Mostly, we spoofed songs.

Christmas carols were by far the most popular. We would taunt the legit carolers with our small-town versions of songs such as:

1. Joy to the World (Joy, belekoy, hinat-hinat, tolo singko sa plaza...)
2. Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer (Rodolfo Boy Garcia, pirmi amo an bida. Lalo na sa bakbakan, pirmi amo an tumba. Then one pagi kinunot, kalunggay an bangot...)
3. Whispering Hope (Sopas, tahada, galleta. Palaman mantikilya...)

Of the made-up lyrics, Christmas Alpahor (to the tune of, of course, Christmas Alphabet), stood out. The Sorsoganon version (or what I remember thus far):

C is for the Capitol in front of Yama's store
H is for the Hospital beside the capitol
R is for the Rural Bank in front of Victor Lee
I is for the ice cream, tinda sa Jomil's Store
S is for Soreco, brownout na naman
T is for Tamulmol, asawa ni Tobol
M is for the Maya Theater beside the Rural Bank
A is for the apple, tinda sa JB Line
S is for Soreta, where the radio is repaired
Be good and we'll bring you everything in your Christmas alpahor.

Don't look now, but except for Soreco and the Capitol, the places mentioned in the song are already parts of the distant past.

Yama's store, the provincial hospital, Rural Bank, Jomil's, Maya Theater, JB Line, the Shopping Center. They have all gone the way of progress and now but figments of Sorsogon's "once upon a time."

My Sorsogon

It was my age of innocence, when Lapu-Lapu was legal tender and Loida Theater smelled of freshly soaped leatherette. I never did have any reason to venture out of Molave Street. My friends were there, the komiks-for-rent was just a walk away and the street doubled as a field for our brand of football. On moonlit nights, we would scare each other with stories of ghosts and manananggals, and on sticky summer days—after the visiting cousins’ welcome had worn off—we would fly kites and pick fights with the kids from the other street. Weekends we would spend in Bacon or Pepita Park or Palhi or San Benon.

Then it was time to leave. School was waiting, and there were other more important things to do and learn. The trips back home became farther and father apart. Ties were forgotten: I became too wrapped up in the business of making my own adventures—of walking the earth—to keep in touch. There were mountains to climb, islands to discover, seas to explore. Never mind the fact that I couldn’t quite put a finger to what I really wanted. I was on the move, and that was what mattered.

Two years ago, I saw the old hometown for the very first time. I was assigned to write about the place I grew up in, and I realized that I was practically a stranger. And so, for three days, I went back to my roots. Riding on the waves on our way to Buenavista. Watching the sunset from the Rompeolas. Driving down to Gubat amid the surreal glow of the aurora. It was then that I marvelled at the history-rich walls of the Barcelona Church, trekked Bulusan and discovered the enchantment of Palogtoc. I have been to other places since, but none so moved me as the thrill of coming home.

And so, 17 years after I first left for the city, I am home. Much of Sorsogon is what I remember it to be—the sheltering sky, magical moonlight, the town bedding down at 7 p.m. Of course, people still gossip, as they are bound to do elsewhere, but I am happy in my own space. The wandering spirit has been tamed. Who was it who said “A man travels the world over in search of what he needs, and returns home to find it.”?

Note: This was written 7 years ago. Just thought I'd "resurrect" this from my files...

Sorsogon The Book

The Sorsogon Provincial Tourism Council recently launched Sorsogon Province: A Coffeetable Book. It is actually a glossy rendition of what Sorsogon is all about and what it offers in the area of tourism.

As part of the team that worked on the project, I can't help but be proud of my hometown. Working on the book was like taking a journey of discovery. It was the closest thing to riding the waves to Juag. Or scaling Bulusan. Or spelunking in Prieto-Diaz. Or diving in Donsol.

It was a journey of rediscovery too. As we pored over pictures of old families, I was transported to the Sorsogon of my mother's stories. To the Sorsogon I grew up in and am now collecting stories of for my daughter.

Sto. Nino

I had high hopes on my first visit to Sto. Nino. I had seen it in pictures before, and it was just beautiful, especially since I knew that it opened into a majestic view of Mayon Volcano.

I was not disappointed on the boat ride going there. The sea was calm, and it was just blue, blue and blue all throughout. Twenty or so minutes from the Banao Port, I was greeted by a breathtaking view of Mayon: its blueness rising from the already blue waters.



Inland, Sto. Nino had the feel of a small island abandoned by time. The ascent from the shore to the interior is an effort, but the path is shaded by trees. There is a makeshift schoolhouse that holds first-year classes: made entirely of wood, it is a crude rendering of the classic one-room schoolhouse.





Sto. Nino holds promise as a rustic, rugged retreat: a place you that is not dictated by alarm clocks and bundy cards.

Typhoon Dante

The relentless rain of April 30 eventually developed into Typhoon Dante on May 1, ripping us off of our holiday--and weekend--plans. Of course, typhoons are but natural in this part of the universe. Lying as it does on the country's typhoon belt, Sorsogon is visited by at least four strong typhoons annually.

Although I wasn't around when Sisang hit Sorsogon, I knew that the damages were almost insurmountable. Milenyo, which hit Sorsogon in 2006, was just as disastrous, minus the body count. For almost a month, we were left without power, making us race for a bleak Christmas.

Dante wasn't that strong, but it did leave Sorsogon virtually unaccesible for two days: a portion of the highway was cut off, making it impossible for buses and other vehicles to pass through.

The cut-off portion may have been quite short, but it certainly did much damage.

The damage Dante left behind:

Semana Santa

In Sorsogon, nothing quite fills the streets as the Good Friday procession. As early as 4 p.m., the main streets start to swell with people and a variety of life-size santos and Holy Week tableau. By the time the procession starts at six, the entire stretch becomes a veritable sea of bodies.

The procession is a colorful retelling of the passion of Christ. As far back as I can remember the first carroza is that of the Last Supper, followed by that of St. Peter and a white rooster. Then the carrozas progress on to the fall of Jesus, Mary Magdalene and her shroud, the Crucifixion. Hundreds of shoeless penitents and 30 or so carrozas later, the Santo Entierro takes center stage, sometimes ushered in by cumbancheros.



The Santo Entierro is always the highlight of the procession. When I was small, the mysterious carroza really scared me. Eventually, it became some sort of Holy Week reminder the way it seemed to cast a cloud of gloom over Sorsogon.



A semblance of fanaticism takes over when the Holy Week procession reaches the home stretch. It is then when the men and women make a mad rush to strip the carrozas of their decor. The flowers are taken as tokens of luck: for fishermen, they are supposed to bring in bountiful catch; for those who raise fighting cocks, they are supposed to guarantee prize-winning breed.

Every year, the procession follows the same route. And when the procession winds up at the Cathedral, discomforts are forgotten and there is the sense of accomplishment at having braved yet another Semana Santa.

Paguriran

Ten years ago, I took the banca to Paguriran Island. I was on a swing in Sorsogon, and although I was born and raised here, I realized I never really knew the place. My first stop was this little speck of white along the Bacon coastline. Memories of that first stop lingered long after the actual trip.

Last Wednesday, I revisited an old favorite, this time via roads fringed with greens. The beach is as I remember it to be: pristine, almost secluded, just perfect.