4 MIN READ

By RUDY D. LIPORADA
www.nordis.net

I was a year old when my parents shuttled me to Baguio City, not for vacation but there to root. I may now have wandered far but my soul remains nestled in her mountain bosoms. The pine scent may be gone but the fragrance remains forever etched in my memory banks of remembrance. 

Now, 111 years since she was christened from Kafagway to Baguio City, she has grown from a Simla for colonizing troops for their R&R and ideal residence for American families to a bustling city of commerce, academe, and tourism – noted for her cool climate by virtue of her elevation and pine trees dotting all available mountains and hills.

She may have burst into a city with a population unplanned for by her early visionaries; edifices and shanties may have supplanted millions of pine trees; horse trails may long ago evolved to crisscrossing roads burdened with chugging vehicle congestions; the fragrance of the pines may have been supplanted by emissions inimical to one’s health; fogs may no longer kiss her grounds for they could not settle on warm air; there may no longer be mountain skyline to behold…

…yet it is still Baguio.

Nonetheless, it is no longer the Baguio that I knew.

She was in her early five decades old as Baguio when my youth savored what she had to offer me. It was a time when Strike and Spare Lanes at Mabini Street where I grew up had a garden frontage. It was the only building in front of the Calinao’s Baguio Hardware which was between the Olympian Lanes and Aurora Theater and Lanes. It was in between two hills with a thick foliage of sunflower shrubs and stretches of grass teemed with grasshoppers. Lily, Baby, and the Bundalian sisters come to mind when we would build ‘bahay-bahayan’ where ‘marapait’ (sunflower sticks) tied with ‘lanot’ (morning glory vines) became frames of our playhouses which we covered with  ‘marapait’ stalks with leaves and grasses.

Those stretches of grass is where we playacted our battles as knights of the round table, three hundred Spartans, cowboys and Indians, or whoever are the protagonists at the recently shown movies at the theaters across the street and along Session Road and Malcolm Square. For the younger ones, we tolerated and sometimes joined them in their ‘London Bridge’ thingy. We used ‘stone, paper, and scissor’ to select who would be our squad mates in our ‘pin-naldogan’ war games. ‘Ready’ is what we shout to start a game after we have hiding among the ‘marapaits’ and start hunting for our enemies. When we hear a ‘bang natay kan’ (bang you are dead), that is a give away where an opponent’s, who could have shot one of your men, position is so you cautiously approach and have your revenge. Henry Sia has managed to just whisper ‘bang, adda silencer na daytoy’ (bang, my gun has a silencer).

Henry Sia, the son of the owner of a store at the side of Aurora Theater, is one of my idols among my playmates. He was my mentor in making bird traps and hunting for spiders which are made to become gladiators across bamboo reeds. Henry is also quick. Once we had a fist fight and I never hit him once. I was just punching on air while he hit with a barrage of, must have been ala-Pacman punches. I must say that Sia’s store also sold the best ‘turon’ (banana fritter) for five centavos as far as I am concerned.

When dust was about to hover, we played tumbang preso, hide-in-seek. When already dark, we lit bonfires where we singed grasshoppers which we caught early on and skewered in ‘walis tingting’ (reeds) and ate them. They were crunchy and proteinuous. Sometimes, from money we earned from selling newspapers, we would also buy sweet potatoes and toss them into the fire. With blackened skins, we ate those camotes with gusto.

Eugenio Bambico, who we endearingly called ‘Paling’ was another playmate I will never forget. Everyday, after school, we would wait for each other by their place at the ‘Ang Tibay’ building. We will play ‘kin-natog’ with marbles, where you have opposing marbles with one on the ground and you strike your marble on a wall. If your marble comes to measure stretched thumb and pinky close to your opponent’s marble, you win, and your opponent pays you a marble. We also have other marble games, rubber-band, and card games – all prevalent in the whole of Baguio during those times. I love ‘Paling’ because win or lose, we maintained our friendship. He became a high-ranking officer of the US Navy.

Another notable playmate is George Borja. We use to race up the 104 steps stairs from Session Road up to the Baguio Cathedral grounds long before it was covered. We also raced down from the top of Session Road from Patria de Baguio to Malcolm Square at the bottom of the Road without bumping into any pedestrian at any given day. He also taught me how to ride a bike to become one of the top cruisers at Burnham Skating Rink, again, long before it was covered. George became a top karate champion of Baguio City.

Henry, Paling, George and the others – Calinaos, Bundalians, Salvans, Sias, Borja’s and more were also with me, running across Session Road to reach Burnham part where we enjoyed the skating rink, the children’s playground, sailing boats or just to roll on once upon a time grassy grounds.

There are more vignettes of my younger days in Baguio which I shared with my brother, Cesar, in our book, Baguio Vignettes of our Lives, which was published with Amazon.com.

Here is our blurb for the book.

Baguio Vignettes is a trip into the 1950’s to 2000’s of the City of Pines
….we toyed with grasshoppers, tadpoles, spiders and more…
sunrays glistened to make dews sparkle on blades of grass
on glorious misty mornings…till they started to vanish
along with dwindling pine trees and sunflowers…as
facades and shanties ate up the mountains…as foul
air choked the cool breeze of our paradise…yet
our memories of the once cloud kissed haven
forever remain, etched deep in our hearts –
and we share with our future generations
that they may, at least, have a glimpse
of the Baguio City that we love…forever…

Happy 111 years anniversary on your christening, Baguio City. # nordis.net