A year ago, Sebastian traveled for the first time to the Philippines. He rode on boats and a goat and swam in clear waters.
It is fiesta time in Surigao City!
Every year, at this time, the city awakens. The week-long festival to honor its patron saint, San Nicolas de Tolentino, reflects the colorful fabric of this area—my most favorite place in the world. It is a city of sunshine smiles, vivid characters and ebullient spirits. It is where my parents grew up, where many of my relatives—including both grandmothers—still live and where I dream of escaping every year. High above Surigao City, the sky is a steady canvas of cornflower blue that flows seamlessly down into the indigo depths of the seas. On the boulevard outside of the local landmark, the Tavern, the sun plays with finger paints—as strata of colors change with its ascent—while morning joggers pace themselves and waiting catamarans bob.
A patchwork quilt of odors settles around the city and is weighted down by the humidity. What does Surigao smell like? I close my eyes and I can feel the smoke from stalls of chicken being grilled. My mouth waters at thought of devouring the juicy meat that had been marinated in soy sauce, 7-Up, calamansi, or Philippine lime, and garlic, with rice that had been steamed inside banana leaves, shaped into little pyramids. I can smell the gag-inducing stench of rotting seafood—entrails and heads of fish—on the floors of the old fishmarket. I can smell the chemical residues from insecticides that had been sprayed around canals and behind bushes. And I can smell the heady fragrance from the dama de noche tree when its flowers open at night.
For a small city, Surigao is a constant thunderbeat of sounds. Every day, I hear the cacophony of children shrieking on their way to school, of engines revving as cars remain stalled behind the mishmash of colorful tin tricycles, and of peddlers hawking food or wares. Swish swish goes the walis ting ting, the sturdy brooms that clear leaves and dust from front steps. Clang clang clang goes the tin siding being hammered onto roofs. Maaa maaa goes the goat, tied to a fence post in a neighboring lot where a rooster crows in the morning and dogs growl at night.
I love Surigao. I miss Surigao.
Those from area and who have had to live far away from it understand me well. My parents, for example, brought us to the United States to offer us a better life and bigger opportunities, but everyday they spoke in Surigaonon, the local dialect, to each other. They regaled my brothers and me with stories from their youths. We could see the longing for home written legibly across their face and in between the lines of the tales they wove about Surigao.
They would talk of a time and a place when men made harana, or serenade, their beloved under their windows at night. We would chuckle at the shenanigans of the Amat Street Boys, the group of young men who were notorious for their hijinks, often under the influence of Tanduay rum or coconut wine. My Uncle Leo—my mother’s first cousin—was often a protagonist of those tales. I would listen and imagine the adventures of the different barkadas, groups of friends whose bonds were forged early in youth and endured for decades. In Surigao, you are often defined by your barkada, by the friends you keep. And your group’s name reflected what it was about, like Mischief or Queens or Bowties (names have been changed to protect actual groups).
Of all the stories they told, however, Mom and Dad loved to describe the ones from fiesta time. When they lived in the United States, their homesickness grew every September. My mom would sigh—wishing she was back in Surigao with her barkada, but it meant missing out on the start of a new school year for us kids. So instead our vacations to the Philippines were planned in either June or July.
“But you must experience fiesta, Liza,” Dad would say at the end of every trip home.
Mom would nod, “Yes, one day you have to come in September. There is nothing like Surigao during fiesta. The city is alive.”
Last year, I decided that I would experience fiesta finally. It had been six years since I had been home to Surigao. It was time to visit. Though the thought of an 18-hour journey with a 17 month old was frightening, I very much wanted to introduce my son Sebastian, to my relatives—especially to his great-grandmothers. Together with my brother Paolo and his wife, Sebastian and I would travel first to the Philippines and then afterwards to Japan, where our youngest brother Niccolo lives. Unfortunately my husband, Skerdi, who had not been back in ten years, had to decline coming with us due to work.
The Travel East
The first thing my husband and I did when we brought our son home from the hospital after he was born was to apply for a passport. We were raising a child not just of three cultures—Albanian, Filipino, and American—but one of the world—an explorer, a traveler and a xenophile.
The first time Sebastian rode an airplane was when he was eight weeks old. He and his dad came with me to San Juan, Puerto Rico, where I had to attend a conference. Since then, he has been on several flights, but never one as long as the trip East to the Philippines.
The last time I traveled with a toddler was when my brother Paolo was two years old. My family and I were leaving the Philippines for the first time to live in Princeton, New Jersey. I don’t remember much about the trip. My mother told me I was airsick, and thus, medicated for most of the ride on Pan Am airlines. When I woke up I recalled looking down at the flight pin on my lapel and my father chasing my brother down the aisle. I scrambled to the edge of the row to witness Paolo coming back down—actually rolling back down the aisle like a runaway barrel until he crashed into the service cart and a stern-faced flight attendant.
Last year, we armed ourselves with a bagful of toys, books and snacks. But Sebastian never needed any of those. He sat on my lap—mesmerized by the plane and the people around us. Maybe, he sensed that the moment—of traveling to the Philippines—was a bittersweet one for us.
The Farewell
On the eve of our departure, mom called. Her voice was gravelly—far from being excited that her grandson and children were soon arriving. Her cousin, Uncle Dennis, had passed away suddenly. He was Uncle Leo’s older brother—a brilliant man who lived for the board. When I was young, he taught me to play the game, but it was Paolo who acquired the gift of strategy. I remember when Uncle Dennis challenged my dad, and the two would play chess for hours in the lanai of our former home in Quezon City. The house was silent—as two heads bent over the black and white checkered board. Uncle Dennis would best my father often—and with ease. That was a difficult feat.
A few days before fiesta, the king surrendered. Uncle Dennis died in his sleep. He was in his early fifties. His death shook us all, and as we took off towards the Philippines, tears that started as a rivulet became a rushing river of sadness. I took comfort in the life, the spark, I held in my arms. Sebastian laid his round head on my chest and stayed there until my breathing became steady again.
We arrived in Manila at midnight. My parents met us with millions of kisses. They took us to their home, where we spent the next few days in combined sorrow and glee. Together with my parents, we traveled to Surigao. When we arrived at our home in Amat Street, I smiled as Sebastian and I entered the iron gates of our whitewashed house. I looked behind me to the house across the street where the Tandan family has lived for nearly as long as we’ve had our home. I remembered the evenings my good friend Aileen Tandan, my aunt Marisyl and I would share a bench under the lamp post on the corner. We would spend hours dreaming of our futures, of romance and of adventures. That was nearly twenty years ago.
I walked through the living room to look for my 87 year old grandmother, Mama Ching. The familiar scent of her chicken adobo welcomed us. She walked gingerly into the room. Four generations smiled at each other across the space. Clutching his sippy cup, Sebastian shuffled forward. Mama Ching did so as well, until the two stood in front of each other—the former tango dancer and her great-grandson.
“Hello, Sebastian,” her gentle voice greeted my boy.
“Hi!” He waved at her, as he craned his neck upwards, then looked back at me for approval. I nodded my head, and he shrieked in delight.
“Come, come….let’s eat.” She held Sebastian’s hand and led him to lunch.
Later that afternoon, we heard drumbeats rumble. The city was roaring to life hour by hour. The fiesta was coming.
But it was hard to find joy. That afternoon, we paid our respects to Uncle Dennis at the funeral parlor where his wake was being held. The concept of a wake is an age-old tradition. The body is laid for viewing for a week and then buried. Family and friends stay “awake” with the loved one all night long. At the funeral parlor, there were scores of guests. Some were praying, while others sat quietly in front of the casket. Outside, many played mahjongg or drank to celebrate my uncle’s life.
I walked to the front of the salon, where the chess master was sleeping. I laid my hand on his and then stroked his cheek—smooth and still and frozen in time. I mourned him as memories from my youth surfaced to my consciousness. I loved Uncle Dennis; I would miss him forever.
The next day, we interred him with his chess board in a lot overlooking the sea. As we threw the first few handfuls of dirt on top of the coffin, I imagined that he was in heaven playing endless matches of chess with all the saints and souls, whose goodness were akin to his. His mother, Mama Bebing, sat fragile, unable to yield her son, her first born, to the next life. In her grief, she was blind to the approach of a little boy she had never met. On his own, Sebastian neared her and placed his hand on her arm and caressed her gently. He had no words to soothe her; instead he stayed with her. Did he understand grief at such a young age?
“Who is this?” Mama Bebing cried aloud.
Aunt Marisyl, her youngest daughter, answered, “It’s Sebastian, Mama. Liza’s son.”
Mama Bebing looked down at the young life in front of her, at the boy who brought her comfort. And she smiled through the thunderstorms of emotion. It was the second time that day that Sebastian offered his comfort unintentionally. At the memorial service, when our family had stood with the casket for a final farewell, Sebastian had looked out at the masses grieving in the San Nicolas church. He had smiled at the sea of faces ,and then he had smiled once more—it was one of comfort as we bid farewell to one of our own.
Fiesta Time
The morning after the funeral, we embraced the renewal of life and the fiesta. We dedicated our celebration to him.
During fiesta, doors opened to those who want to mamista, usually to visiting family, friends and relatives from other neighboring regions, from distant cities or from other countries. Homes overflowed with goodwill and food. Kitchens worked endlessly to steam rice and leche flan. Baskets of fruits and sayungsong—a dessert made of glutinous rice, brown sugar and coconut milk—were passed around to guests that dropped in. Around the city, pigs were slaughtered and roasted in numbers, for lechon was expected at all the numerous parties celebrating the saint’s feast day.
Throughout the day, parades that featured organizations as well as ethnic dance rituals wove in and through narrow dusty streets–from in front of San Nicolas Cathedral to the Rotunda at City Hall. In the Provincial Stadium, we watched Bonok Bonok, a perfomance by the local indigenous tribe, the Mamanua. Dance troupes from various parts of the province of Surigao del Norte participated in a competition to showcase ethnic tradition or interpret local legends. Colorful, woven costumes mimicked the bounty of Surigao.
On the final day of the fiesta, my parents held a large party on our farm a few miles from the city. Our extended families, invited friends and residents of the surrounding village arrived in droves. From noon to midnight, we feasted. Even the winds joined in our fete as currents of cool air blew threw the pavilion. In his own revelry, Sebastian played with his cousins as he ran around unfettered, but closely watched, across the land. Mesmerized, he spied a family of white herons nesting in a grove of treelings and marveled at the round watermelons and pineapples that we harvested. His hands became sticky as he popped diced, sweet fruits into his mouth. Then, he shouted in complete abandonment when he saw my parents trot out a kid, a young goat. He tried to ride the animal as one would a horse. F
Sebastian and the pet goat.
“Sebastian,” I asked, “What does a goat say?”
“Maaaa, maaaaa,” he responded.
“Great!” I clapped. “Now tell everyone, what does a cow say?” He had just learned all his animal sounds before coming to the Philippines.
He looked around, grinned and said with confidence, “Maaaaa Maaaaa.”
“No! They say moo! Let’s try another animal. What does a duck say?” I knew he loved ducks. He would get this answer right.
He bent forward to hug his pet goat’s neck and once again said, “Maaaaa Maaaa.”
My two grandmothers held hands and watched my son and his unfailing energy. Sebastian ran to them as if he understood their silent plea. He widened his arms as far as it would go and hugged their knees and trembled as he squeezed them. Then, he ran off to dance to the lively music where our voices accompanied the song with gusto.
I ride boats; I ride goats: The Final Journey (Part 4)
(Click here for Part 1. Click here for Part 2. Click here for Part 3.)
We left Surigao the day after the fiesta. But the festivities did not end for our family. Together with several of my cousins, uncles and aunts, we flew to the island of Boracay, known worldwide for its expanse of white sands and numerous resorts. To get there, one had to fly to a nearby city. Then we all boarded a large catamaran, similar to the ones my husband Skerdi rode on his first visit to the Philippines. Sebastian’s eyes widened when he saw the boat. I was reminded of Skerdi’s dream of being Robinson Crusoe and his excitement at sailing to islands of white sands and crystal clear waters. When we arrived in Boracay, we dove immediately into the warm water. Behind Sebastian, multicolored sails waved in the winds. He sat on the beach and buried his feet within the fine granules of sand—just as his father had done on our last day on Naked Island.
I scooped the sea water and poured it over his head. He trilled with laughter. “Sebastian, let’s call daddy later, ok?”
“Ok, mommy, call daddy.” He continued to wriggle his toes in the sand.
“What will you tell him, sweets?”
He crawled onto my lap, and we let the waves wash over our legs. “I say Daddy, I ride boats. I ride goats. I ride planes. I jump in sand.”
“Now, that-that is a great story.”
It’s been a year since our visit to Surigao. It’s been a year since the death of Uncle Dennis. Another fiesta has ended. I now have the same longing in my eyes as my parents did when we were growing up, for I miss Surigao, my most favorite place in the world. It is the city that has embraced my Albanian husband and our son. Today, as I write, I wonder when we will ride boats and goats, jump in the sands of Surigao’s beaches, and experience the colorful city again. Let me go check ticket prices.
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