Memories of Bicol, Tuba and Banca

LEFT, A PNR Train.

Photo uploaded from Internet by Tramway John Oct. 1, 2006.








The other day, I was reading a blog by a Filipino writer and photos of the province of Albay had been posted there.

Seeing the beautiful photographs posted in that blog sort of jogged my memory into the very first and only trip I ever made to this beauteous province/region of Bicol which is at the southern tip of Luzon.

It was at a time when we just graduated from university and were into our first paying jobs, several years after Martial Law had been declared, on the last years of the 70’s. Four of us, friends, talked about going to Bicol in the morning of Friday, and in the mid-afternoon, were boarded up on an old PNR train at the Paco Station, which blazed the evening darkness at a supposedly sleepy 50 km/hr. I remember going home from work at mid-day and casually telling my mother, “Oh, by the way, I’m leaving for Bicol today.”

It was also a time of lost young loves for some of us, drinking cough syrup for another, but mostly, of ordinary stuff which were by- products of the era’s militancy.

Mostly on strict budgets, and getting to the station just as the train was leaving the yard, we had to content ourselves sitting at the only available seats – at the very last car, where most of the kitchen was. So, we had jiggling plates, clunking glasses, wiggly forks and spoons as musical band for the night and the catering crew as “pusoy” comrades during the 15-hour train ride to Bicol.

But it was my first time to take the train, and was I excited. When the train stopped to pick up passengers along the way, we bought all sorts of kakanins peddled by vendors through the train windows, and we even imagined how Nora Aunor sold drinking water or “baso ng tubig” at those Bicol train stations.

When we got to Legazpi, we transferred to a bus to reach the town (I believe it was in Camarines Norte) where our friend lived. We stayed there for three days, soaking up the Bicol sun, staying at the beach from morning till dusk, and riding the huge waves of the seas. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were on the house – it was Filipino hospitality at its highest peak. We even trekked to a cemetery to curiously check the gravesite of some famous militants who were killed in action.

On the fourth day, we proceeded to the island of Catanduanes. We were young, some of us didn’t even know how to swim, although swimming was a required subject in Diliman – and adventurous enough to board a no-frills, motorized banca for the several hours of sea travel to Catanduanes.

But was it worth it! Even now, I can still recall the magnificence of the seas - its blueness, its clearness, and its richness. We actually saw beneath the waters those rich, colorful corrals, shells, fish and ocean plants which were only seen previously in travelogues. I guess we were traveling on the back- road, so to speak, away from the middle part of the ocean, where the big rigs and yachts were sailing. So that way, we were closer to the small stones and islands that dotted the sea. The scenery and the sea breeze were enough to inspire me to write some corny poems, which I promptly lost once back in Manila.

We stopped at an island-station to drop some passengers and to wait for more. It was a scene straight out of an Ishmael Bernal film – white sand beach, old nipa hut, shirtless little Pinoy boys, and beautiful women – the Bicolanas.

As the banca moored at least several feet away from the shore, we had to wade through water. One girl in our group did not want to wet her denims, and asked to be carried on the shoulder of the bangkero. It’s as though, we were watching Elizabeth Oropesa on screen.

We finally reached Catanduanes and just walked to our final destination –all wet and wild for another adventure. Eating and drinking marked our stay in Catanduanes. Although this took place some twenty plus years ago, I can still remember that we ingested two special treats: the tuba (coconut wine) and a special coconut jam, which we spread on our pan de sal. We were served tuba in most of the houses we went. And we got to drink with young and old people, alike - big women, old toothless men, young men and some pretty Bicol lass.

When it was time to leave, we took the yacht to Albay. In Legazpi, I believe, we rented a jeepney to see the tourist points – including, of course, the famous Mayon Volcano, and a geothermal plant.

Leaving for Manila, we missed the last train. As our Bicolana friend stayed behind in Catanduanes and as we were almost penniless, finding a place to sleep in, became a problem. We struck a conversation with a tricycle boy, and upon hearing our plight, he offered for us to stay the night in his house.

His wife welcomed us, served us dinner of rice and paksiw na isda, gave us pillows and blankets. In the morning, the husband drove us back to the train station. We offered him money but he did not take it. What a lovely couple. They were ordinary, hard working Bicolano folks – the epitome of Filipino “pakikisama” and warmth.

Yes, these memories are still very vivid, even after some twenty-five plus years, all because of the extraordinarily beautiful Bicol and its equally beauteous people.