A sister vacationing, a Japanese brother in-law updating his textbook memories of Bikol from his geography classes, and another Japanese getting a chance to confront the colonial roots of a faith were my companions in driving through Canaman, Magarao, Bombon, Quipayo and Calabanga.
The said places are not really the kind of places one plans to visit. They are accessible and without the mystique we usually ascribe to towns that are isolated and far. Think of Caramoan and its moorings by the sea or Buhi, dead-ending at the embrace of a lake and the shadow of an ancient volcano.
Canaman is interesting because it seems to disappear in the boundaries it keeps with the city. And yet, as one travels through the arch welcoming us into the old town, we realize we do not see only an old town with a marvel of 400 years to its name, we also find a town that has defined the popular culture of the city decades and decades back. The estimable historian Danny Gerona (Dr. Gerona to those who formally know him) has written a brief but compelling history of his own. It is a loving tribute to one who hails from the place and has developed the skills and the mind to sum up its import.
Canaman to me, however, is also another matter. I know Canaman for DZGE and DZEB, two powerful radio stations when the power of mass communications was in these two stations located across ricefields. We listened to DZGE for their radio drama, foremost of which was "Reynante Dante." I do not anymore remember the plot but I do remember the voices of the character, each one different from the other.
The radio station DZEB pioneered playing rarely heard music with minimum commercials. Nearby was Acacia Club, which was frequented by the local elite. Every Sunday, the night club (the name reeked of sweet notoriety and wanton inebriation) would air live its musical presentation. For reasons only the club's maestro could perhaps explain, the variety show would be introduced by the love theme from a James Bond film, "From Russia With Love."
From Canaman, the next town, Magarao, is presented by a series of low bridges and a confluence of canals.
Magarao has many labels and reputation. They say in the town, people ask the obvious. A man carrying a bundle of firewood is asked, "Ano 'yan dara mo, sungo?"But the town is also now the capital of chiropractors and reflexologists and also faith healers. What is in this energy in the sky and wind of this town that its sons and daughters could read sprains and afflictions?
Magarao has one great poet who is also Bikol's great poet: Luis Cabalquinto. From his book "Moon Over Magarao: New & Selected Poems" comes this poem titled "Hometown." The poet says "After a supper of mountain rice/And wood-roasted river crab/I sit on a long bench outside/
The old house, looking at a river:"
This is the river one looks for and, maybe not see but feels as one travels through Magarao before the tower of the Bombon church appears from out of the wayward bamboo leaves and the iron roofs of sleeping houses. Some wags can tell you poker-faced that the tower will remind you of that located in Pisa, in Italy. Take that or leave that. The church has its rewards and charms. At 12 noon, it was the saddest patio in the world. The sun was up and shadows cross its façade. Hidden by an ugly covered structure with fit for basketball and other multipurpose a local official can think of, the church seems like a history hiding from brazen visitors. That afternoon we were there, we talked about how many men and boys and women were compelled to labor so that the church could achieve its majesty.
After hundreds of years, the design of the old church could still slay visitors.
Quipayo and its reconstructed church of red-bricks will not tell anymore how it was once a proud capital. In fact, Quipayo indicates how boundaries have moved and grown and disappeared in this area. Should we stop over this church seemingly not belonging to any history?
We did not. We were rushing to the power source of maga and healers (and some swear, even sorcerers): the Hinulid of Calabanga. In December, even the force of the Dead Christ takes a break. We missed the shrine because there were very few visitors or pilgrims. We soon sensed that and as we turned around, we saw the spot, much bigger than the one we saw years back. The keepers of the Dead Christ opened the glass enclosure for us. Bro. Tsunoda, the Jesuit Brother was given the privilege to touch the torso of the Image. I bought myself a pamphlet about dream interpretation.
On the way back, in our search for the rare "bibingka" of Magarao, we discovered what Cabalquinto always knew: "I have no wish but this place --/To remain here in a stopped time/
With stars moving on that water/And in the sky a brightness."