Our childhood trips to Ilocos

by Imelda Pagador-Viloria

Watching the pictures of Magsingal in our website, brings me back to our childhood memories of summers and Decembers spent there.  Having been born and growing up in Baguio City, summer trips to Ilocos was always a treat for us, the five children of Lucia L. Urban of Magsingal and the late Maximino U. Pagador of Buguey, Cagayan.

My family

Seeing the pictures of the meadows, I could almost feel the cool breeze on my face.  Cool air then was a relief to our overheated, pink cheeks, which was due to having more blood, as is normal for people who live in elevated altitudes, as Baguio City.  How good it was to sit by the huge windows of our ancestral home, just feeling the breeze and smelling the scents it carried, and listening to the creaking of the tall bamboo trees swaying in the wind, and the loud croaking of field frogs after a rain.  To children growing in the city, such sights and sounds were indeed captivating.  There is a deep sense of serenity there, that I could not define then, but do remember now.

My great adventure then was to go to "diay abagatan," alone, visit the fruit trees planted by our late Lelong Julio Urban, sit on the great mango tree and be lost in the wonder of nature and solitude.  Most of the time, I had a book to read.  The huge mango tree was always generous with its fruits.  And even after a strong typhoon, when it was bent almost to the ground, it remains to be fruitful to this day, to the delight of four generations in the family.  Now, if we can only be like that mango tree . . . bent, but not broken, . . . hurt, but always giving. . . .

My brothers, Emmanuel "Manny,"  Romeo "Omeng," and Diosdado "Dong,"  used to climb the chico and guava trees and had their adventures  with their "palsiit," with little success.  The fruits of our guava tree were small and full of seeds but the elder folks would say that they are sweet and plentiful.  It was their way of passing on the Ilocano attitude of being happy with what is at hand while aiming for something better in the future.

Even at an early age, we were initiated to harvesting rice stalks, individually, between the fingers with the use of the "rakem."  My brothers once asked why the "gapas" (sickle) was not used instead, to make harvesting faster and less tiring.  The old folks' reply was that harvesting the rice stalks individually prevents rice grains from falling off and being lost.  This way, the Ilocano legacy of diligence and hard work was imparted to us, values that we have come to appreciate and to live by as we were growing up and moving on.

Only among Magsingal folks, our parents included, were we ever affectionately addressed as "Barok ko!" or "Balasang ko!"  "Nakkong," in a special way that we felt that we belonged.  And we, in turn respectfully address all else as either "Lelong,"  "Lelang," "Nanang" or "Tatang.  I especially remember our grandparents and aunt made sure that there was extra water in the cooking rice.  They believed that the "segget," would make us "napipigsa ken nasisirib."

I remember the "lipit" in the "daya ti balay."  It is amazing how people in Magsingal refer to places by the four directions.  Back then, it was easy for people to relate themselves  to the simpler and broader scheme of things.  Unlike now, when we are easily lost in the myriad details.

There was a long bamboo bridge by the side of the "lipit."  I remember trying to grip the broad bamboo poles with my tiny feet, being careful not to slip in between the poles, and most of all, not to fall into the sticky, coffee-colored mud.  We experienced how it was to ride on a bamboo sled  pulled by my Lelong Julio's carabao through that "lipit."  I understand that it has now become a concrete walkway.

What I  miss most?  Hmmm, the smell of wood fire, and cooking with our Lelang Carpia, the late Policarpia Luczon-Urban.  Late in the afternoon, we, the children were asked to go gather "tarong," "parya," "marunggay" in preparation for supper.  Bringing in the pieces of wood into the kitchen was one of our chores, and I would end up with wood splinters on my fingers.  We were taught how to build a fire, blow through a piece of bamboo to keep the fire going, until our eyes would have tears from the smoke.  But the reward was charcoal-roasted fish, or "pinakbet" that was never, never more delicious elsewhere, especially when you ate with your fingers.

Back then, it was a family affair and tradition to cook "tinubong"  during the Christmas season, and shared, exchanged with everybody else.  We, the young ones, including our youngest, our sister, Amelyn "Tina," learned how to soak the "diket" overnight, pound it until it was fine flour, till all your muscles were aching.  Carrying the "bayo" which was longer than I was, I would end up hitting the "alsong" more often than the rice, in effort to keep up with the rhythm.  We would help  mix the batter in huge "bakka,"  then spoon the batter into the young bamboo tubes, mind you, to no more than two-thirds full, seal them with dried banana leaves and twist them over live charcoal in the field.  Nowadays, I understand it is cooked commercially all year round to accommodate the balikbayans.  I still miss "tinubong" every December, and surely, nothing beats "kaskaron," "suman" "bibingka" and other Magsingal-made delicacies.

I could still hear the church bells ring in my mind.  If I remember right, there was the "umuna nga patit ti kampana" fifteen minutes before the mass, enough time to walk to church, and the "maykadwa nga patit" at the beginning of the Sunday mass.  The folks who were at home were almost solemn, with less talk, less movements, slow walk, no noise (for which we, the children would get reprimanded), simply because, . . . "madama ti misa."  I wonder if folks still do that, become reverent during the hour of mass even if they were at home.

Our Lelong Julio initiated us to exotic foods. I had for supper once, "abal-abal" (a kind of bug, flying insect) that he roasted on a frying pan and we ate with "kamatis."  The skin and wings were crispy, but did not taste anything. I never had another chance to do that.  We remember him going to the "ili" every Sunday morning, "mapan umuraga."  He would hang out with other men, and buy fresh "karne ti baka" and some innards," which would be lunch.  Sometimes it was served "kilawen," other times as, "pinapaitan," or "singkutsar."  His "karison" for us city children was a source of pure delight.  Sitting beside him while riding home in his "karison," was an experience that was truly priceless.

 In Baguio, prior to our trip to the lowlands, we were asked to go gather fruits of our "sayote" plant,  to bring with us to Magsingal, along with carrots, cabbage, celery, "lubias."  It was our brothers' role to distribute them to our neighbors and relatives, who would ask when we were going back to Baguio.  And the day before our trip back, people would come and offer us "suka," "tyesa," star apples, "billa-ay" "rinuban" (yummy)  garlic, onions, "diket," coconuts, chicken, etc.  In truth, we not only received the bounty of their fields, orchards and backyards, but the bounty of their big and warm hearts as well.

Friends and relatives invite us to visit and stay, and to "umian," to sleep over. At night we used to listen to the older folks tell stories, tales about their past and the challenges of the present, way, way into the night.  How fascinating it was to watch the flickering light of the kerosene lamps, as there was no electricity then, yet.  How can we not help but marvel at the orchestra of the cicada, lulling us to sleep, and the occasional peculiar sound of the "tikka," which always portends the arrival of a visitor or a letter.

And in the mornings, how comforting it was to feel the sunlight on my face while still in bed.  Listening to crowing roosters, near and distant, seemingly, in a dialogue, I always wondered, if in their crowing, they were telling tales of their own, or making a report of some sort.  And where else can we hear the unique rhythmic, squeaking of the "bubon"  as the bamboo poles bend to lower the pail, followed by the splashing sound of water being scooped up and transferred to another container?  Only in Ilocos.  And the aroma of roasted rice-coffee for breakfast, is an aroma that is like nowhere else.

During our elementary years, folks planted tobacco.  Our late aunt, Basang, (short for "Balasang," for she was an old maid, the late Felicitas Luczon Urban),  taught us how to classify tobacco leaves, Class A for the best kind, Class B, C, D and Reject.  Back then, tobacco merchants go to houses and leave with their purchases on the "karison," bamboo carts with huge wheels, pulled by a cow or a carabao.  It was my responsibility to write down how many kilos of tobacco leaves we sold in a day.  That was my first experience in commerce.