| Clark, Angeles City |
Second of the four parts.
Roughly two hours after departing from the landmass, we finally reached our destination. The port, packed with a row of boats, was iridescent as the sun tried to show off its power. The waves hitting the shore served as the accompaniment to the upbeat music produced by a band that displayed its expertise in playing with batons. My friends and I joined the crowd assembling in the middle of the queue of multicolored flags with shell-filled festoons, which became more vibrant as they blended with the smiles of the locals.
The birds freely roamed above, with their ensembles of chirps and whirrs intermingling with the tumult of the excited people below. That scene alone was enough to ease minds so stressed by the hustle and bustle of the big city. With our bags getting heavier and our bodies wearier, we excused ourselves from attending the opening ceremony and headed to the hotel on foot, along the street that exhibits the town’s gymnasium curtained off by the posters of politicians, the churchyard tenanted by stores showcasing the town’s products, several kiosks offering chicken skins and other street food, and decade-old houses specifically designed to resist typhoons.
The Hardin Hotel was not fancy. It was a two-storey building with a minimal design; its decors only consisted of the bush and a palm tree in front and big vases obtainable in flea markets sprouting during the town’s fiesta. Its first floor was huge, occupied by a reception area, a dining area with five big intricately-carved wooden tables surrounded by six chairs, a kitchen, and a pair of restrooms. On the side, between the reception area and dining area, was a stair going to the second floor that had five rooms.
Its green room, just before the terrace, was no fuss. It was rather pragmatic. It had a queen-sized bed fully clad in what seemed to be an embroidered wedding gown, escorted by a single bed in white. An aisle between the beds led to an antique table and a polished mirror at the edge. Directly opposite the table, suddenly filled with my friends’ beauty regimen and sunblocks with all the levels of SPF, was the entrance of the restroom lurking on the other end of the room.
After dropping their life-size baggage on the beds of their choice, my friends mechanically put on some sunscreen and set off to conquer the island. I chose to stay to catch some sleep. The four-hour land travel and two-hour crossing of the not-so-pacific ocean left my body in a vegetative state and my mind in utter uselessness. At that time, nothing could give me immense pleasure other than some drops of White Flower and sound sleep. I proceeded to the world where I was the diamond of the first water.
Only to get interfered with by the sounds akin to shrieks of school girls upon catching a glimpse of their dream guys. My friends had already arrived. As soon as they noticed the tiny calculated moves I made to catch patience slowly slipping away from my system, they began describing what they had found with so much gusto, after a couple of hours of skirting around the island through their rented trike. I butted in with a suggestion of going downstairs as things like these better get discussed over some cups of coffee and some snacks.
The hotel had no menu. Guests would need to tell what they would want to gorge on or nibble, and the staff would personally pick up the ingredients directly from the fishermen or butchers and cook the requested dishes. The locals have retained this setup to guarantee that customers would only consume fresh food, something that would give these small-time inns the competitive edge over, and a clear differentiating factor from the other more imposing hotels in the metro.
But our bellies at that time were seething like the waves of the Pacific. We proceeded to the nearest restaurant past the street that, a while ago, witnessed an unplanned procession initiated by a group of youngsters orderly lining up behind one of my friends, paying veneration like true-blue devotees. They might have thought of my friend as the Black Nazarene or the Holy Child in the flesh, especially with her curly hair and her outercoat resembling a woven gown. They followed her and tried to touch her as a worshipper does before the statues of saints.
The restaurant was atypical. It was more ornamented than the rest of the business establishments in the area, trying to capture the vibe of the forest through the plastic bamboo and vines sprawling throughout the place. I ordered my go-to food, a cheeseburger, which I partnered with halo-halo. Polillo might have been so happy to have us because I got served with a plate-sized patty sandwiched by the biggest buns I had ever seen and a pitcher of mixed sweetened ingredients with crushed ice and coconut milk at less than PHP 100. My friends had a casserole of palabok each, a rice noodle dish with a rich pork and shrimp sauce, partnered with vehemently fizzing sub-zero sodas that sounded in tune with their collective burping. The sun was still blinding behind the opaque window. The weather was perfect for the dragon boat race.
The dragon boat race – our primary objective of going to the place, which we almost forgot because we were so engrossed in exploring the beauty of the place and the enormousness of the food it offers. Instantaneously, we freshened up the fastest we could, slathered on a gallon of sunscreen, made our way to the port, and mingled with the multitude already raucous as the steerspersons shouted simultaneously “Ready, ready!” before throwing the respective buoyant. The first race for the dragon boat competition kicked off. Four boats, sculpted with angry faces of dragons in front, striped the sea, metamorphosing into Michael Phelps with many pairs of arms that, at a bird’s eye view, formed a serried of multi-tentacled robots oddly appearing in a tamed, rustic seascape. Exhausting all the energy that came rushing through the paddlers, these groups were not just competing against each other. They were racing against time to qualify for the next round. They were in a contest against themselves, testing not only their power but also their efficiency through teamwork and effectiveness through their designed strategies.
After the intermission number from the town mayor and councilors, who rowed through the waters to the delight of the crowd, we finally saw our friend towering above the battle-ready paddlers. We could see the adrenaline popping out on their faces. We shared their tension as they split the sea. We shouted in synch with the drumbeat orchestrated by my friend and gasped in unison with each stroke her teammates made, showing the locals our prowess in cheering until their boat crossed the finish line. They came in second, behind the young team from Polillo, who looked like gladiators in steroids built to kick some ass.
As the heat raged on, meting out punishment to the paddlers maneuvering against the brewing tide and spectators reeking out the smell of dried fish, I learned from one of the locals that these young gladiators underwent years of rigorous dragon boat training through a program designed by the town council. This program has been in place to keep the youth solely focused on improving their overall fitness, behavior, and mental health, staying them away early on from having a crack at the intriguing sinister vices. The town has boasted zero drug addiction cases, and the leaders, parents, and elders have attributed the success to the program. They have been hell-bent on maintaining the statistics, come what may.
Our friend reappeared with a paddle and game face, sticking out like an apparition against the blazing backdrop. Her group always ended up as the bridesmaid of the dominating local team. We saw them regrouping under their assigned tent, seemingly unsatisfied with their finishes. My other friends and I, whose credentials involved watching an actual race twice and not having touched a single paddle even once, wasted no time sharing some unsolicited expert feedback, observations, and recommendations. When we learned that UPC qualified for the next round as they clocked second-best overall in the events they participated in, we silently celebrated by exploring the streets for snacks.
As we munched a dozen of milk bread in front of a kiosk beside the forest-themed restaurant to replenish our spirits drained by cheering, our competing friend informed us that we were among the invitees for dinner with the mayor and event organizers. We went back to the hotel to remove the smell that took a vacation on our bodies and scrub the sunburnt skins flaking off like dandruff on our faces. We did not join the entourage of UPC but instead opted to onboard the trike going to the venue.
It did not take us long to pass through the thick metal door towards the mayor’s residence. Several locals immediately ushered us to the garden, where another group was draping the tables and chairs in an obsessive-compulsive manner, ironing out the creases misshaping the hemline before putting the dirt-free banana leaves on top. Some feet away from the garden, dorms for the dragon boat race participants stood in full view of the ocean. The shore just beyond the garden provided the early birds with the perfect background for the obligatory selfies on Instagram and Facebook.
My friends and I decided to stay at the dock. We watched as the sun bid farewell, surrounded by clouds that seemed to pay respect. From afar, we saw the UPC Team in sepia, floating in the middle of the ocean that looked like in tranquilizer at that time. They came just in time, a few minutes before the dinner.
The boodle fight started with a thank you speech from the mayor, followed by the run-through of events for the following day. The crowd thanked her in return, for hosting the competition and for keeping her speech short and simple. A round of rumbling had been impregnating the thin air, and there was only one thing that could break it off.
Seafood rained on our laps. Shrimps, crabs, and different species of fish paraded before us. But in Polillo, where seafood in various forms and fashion dominate the kitchen, Sinantolan is the queen of viands. Sinantolan, a spicy Filipino dish made from minced cotton fruit simmered in creamy coconut milk with salted baby shrimps and aromatics, has been my favorite since childhood in Baler. I had high expectations that Polillo-made would satisfy my long-time craving. It did not rain on my parade.
While everyone was busy peeling the shrimps and pounding the crabs, I was devouring the mountain of Sinantolan in the middle of the table. It lured me to keep eating, which I did until my stomach could not take any amount any longer. I saw my friend unstringing her shorts, looking dead serious like a predator unstoppable in pulverizing her perceived enemy. After finishing half of the table, she was not yet done. She might have mistaken seafood for bubblegum because she carried on with chewing, only stopping upon noticing that the rest of the participants already surrendered.
The still silent water started to glint as the stars emerged en masse. My friends and I decided to stroll around the town center to relax our intestines from strenuously grinding a large amount of seafood we gobbled down. We dropped by the forest-themed restaurant for a quick dessert, pitchers of halo-halo paired with anti-histamines. With a plastic bag of chicken skins in our hands, we proceeded to the port, nodding to each kid who politely bowed after greeting us with “Magandang gabi po!” on the way.
Roughly fourteen hours after our arrival, the port was empty, except for a few fishermen setting up their boats. The multicolored flags with shell-filled festoons continued to swing to the tune of the waves hitting the shore. My friends and I tried to locate the Port of Real, but all we could see was a string of faint lights flickering against the dark horizon. Around, there was no pub, restaurants with exaggerated signages, or opulent coffee shops along the shoreline, only the stretch of sand being kissed by glistening waves. Polillo, at night, remains pure and pristine.