It was a Sunday, a day that started particularly quite earlier than usual for me. I was to brainstorm with friends regarding an upcoming project. None of the other meeting participants were at the specified assembly place when I got there. And I was even a few minutes late.
The assembly time was rather awkward—12:00 noon. We were to go somewhere else together. So I thought the other guys might still be having lunch or were still on their way after lunch at their homes. I waited.
And why didn’t I even think of having lunch myself? Now it occurred to me that probably the reason why we had to gather at this fast-food joint was so that one could just order a quick meal in case lunch came to mind while waiting for the others. I ordered “chicken nuggets with rice.”
Then my friend, the one who set the meeting, came, his pregnant wife in tow. We shared a table and chitchatted over lunch. A lovely couple to be with. Then, just as we were finishing our food, my friend’s phone sounded. The others weren’t sure of joining us, he said to me. “We’ll wait for Rene and then go ahead.”
Rene came shortly after. He was coming straight from the pier, after escorting the relic of Saint Therese of Lisieux to Leyte. We hopped into his car. Rene’s wife smiled at us, and we were on our way to somewhere.
I never asked where we were going. Rene, who was driving, announced we were going to his farm up in the city’s highlands, 30—45 minutes away, in barangay Agsungot. I didn’t bother to ask how high up it was. I simply imagined trees and crop fields, and stray chickens and other farm animals freely going around.
This Rene was Rene Mercado. Yes, the Rene Mercado who’s probably the only legitimate talent handler in this part of the country in the present. I’d known Rene from way back. But it was my first time to meet his wife, Lucille.
Lucille was all the while holding her hardbound copy of Stephenie Meyer’s New Moon, which she’d clap close now and then to join in the group’s wandering conversation. I didn’t talk much, though. The passing surroundings fascinated me.
The physical world was transforming every second, every inch along the way, right before my eyes. It was becoming greener and greener. Perhaps, that we started the trip from the mainly concrete IT Park in Lahug was providential, to provide a stark contrast to the place we were going to.
True, just 45 minutes and we were there. As soon as we arrived, Lucille quickly disappeared. She showed up again a few minutes later, with steaming hot sikwate (native chocolate drink) and bibingka (rice cake), and other local delicacies. I chose to concentrate on the freshly cooked kulo (breadfruit). It was irresistible with latik, creamy caramelized syrup made from coconut milk and sugar.
Food didn’t stop coming. Soon there were fried camote (native sweet potato) chips, and then boiled ripe bananas, and then the delectable kiseyo (carabao cheese), and so on. Topping it all was an exquisitely refreshing cold drink made from kalamundi (native lemon), mixed with herbs and just the right amount of sugar. The taste was, like, divine.
The drink was Rene and Lucille’s own concoction. The herbal ingredients would depend on whatever are available in the farm at a given time. They didn’t have a name for it. Let’s call it Lure, short for Lucille and Rene. (Corny me.)
We had our initial fill – quite a fill, indeed. And it was only merienda. Lucille was always busy in the kitchen, supervising the farm hands in the cooking. The kitchen didn’t turn cold for a minute. After merienda, dinner was in the works right next.
Upon hearing everybody burp, Rene beckoned us outside, apparently for a breather. And what breathtaking sight we saw! We were at the very top of the city, from where you could see the entire wide plains below, green areas that slowly dissipated into grey towards the sea.
On a lucky day, Rene told us, you could see a hummingbird – just a little bigger than a bee – hopping around from tree to tree, giving its sweet song. On any day the serenade of the crickets is heard. Always, there’s also the lulling sound of the wind that blows through the palm leaves of the buri trees that abound in the area.
As the whiff of dinner was beginning to spread, a young masseuse came to give us some physical tune-up. The young lady said it would take about an hour to complete the whole massage work. My friend went first. I didn’t think I was ready for that.
Rene took me on a walk around. There were garden plots ready for planting with anything. Up on a small hill a stylish chalet-type house stood. The cute structure was on its finishing phase of construction. It would have good amenities when done: a bath tub, a loft that gives a very good view of the whole place, excellent air-conditioning all day long from the fresh wind that blows abundantly into the rooms.
The chalet also overlooked a horses’ stable. There were seven boarders there. But up until then, Rene had seventeen. This is the very feature that gave the place its name – Kaabayoan, meaning a place with horses.
Darkness soon fell, and we were again summoned to the shack-like structure at the middle of the whole place. It was dinner time, something that made us easily forget about time itself. After going through the sumptuous fare, we drank clear tuba (native wine) without the usual tungog (bark of the mangrove tree) coloring it.
As soon as our ears warmed, Rene turned to the widescreen and played a video disc of a Rod Stewart concert. Stewart never sounded as good before, although I always liked him. His husky, trenchant voice seemed angelic to my ears.
When one of us finally remembered to check the time, it was 2:00 a.m. of Monday. Hesitantly, we each headed back to the car. Some of us had work in the morning.
The way back to the city was not as interesting anymore. There was only darkness to see.
It’s been months since. Yet the experience remains fresh in my mind. I could have taken pictures of Kabayoan for this article. Why didn’t I, by the way?
No, pictures would not sufficiently capture the essence of the place. Besides, it felt impudent to me at that time to take snapshots of a place that seemed almost paradise.
(E-MAIL: modequillo@gmail.com)