For a few seconds there, I was positively convinced that we had somehow stumbled upon a "rip in the cloak of time." The Villa Escudero Estate was a panorama straight out of a ’50s movie, and my first thought was that movie queen Gloria Romero together with a simpatico partner like Luis Gonzales or Ric Rodrigo should be somewhere around nuzzling noses and touching cheeks for a romantic film.
I strained my neck to see where the shooting might be, but that proved difficult. Even though our transportation traveled at, literally, a carabao’s pace, I could still hardly keep up with all the possibilities that the surroundings presented. Would Ms. Romero appear as the young señorita in the mysterious Spanish villa that stood near the entrance of the estate? Would she play a provinciana who worked at the enormous ricefields that sprawled onto a towering mountain several kilometers off? Would she be a diwata who loved to play behind the flower-laden trees of the charmingly landscaped gardens?
Ah, the possibilities were endless! After a while, I gave up on the idea. There was a hand holding mine and I felt I had better focus my attention where I ought to. I glimpsed at my husband. He looked absolutely enthralled by the refreshing greeneries around us, but more than that, he was a child again as he listened with fascination to the medley of native love songs that two ladies and a gentleman sang for us through the ride.
Life is too good, I thought to myself. I rested my head on my husband’s shoulder and faintly captured the scent of grass being carried by the softly blowing wind. This was a taste of what Philippines was like when this nation was younger, its air purer, and its peoples’ lives simpler. It was a serene and unaffected life, a kind of life I liked a lot.
I wished the ride would never end, but the carabao had gotten our cart to the cottages’ area. Much too soon than I would have wanted, we had to get off the cart.
The kutsero accompanied us to the receptionists who were in charge of the cottages. The receptionists, who turned out to be your typical neighborhood’s ate and nanay, were charmingly clad in baro’t saya. On that bright October morning, they were weaving straws and coconut leaves intended for the coming Christmas season’s adornments. They chatted happily as they worked on their crafts. However, upon our small party’s arrival, they all stood up and gave their seats to us. Their smiles, though shy, were very warm. The way they entertained us, we wondered if we were not mistaken for some long-lost relatives.
Among the friendly and helpful receptionists, the motherly Aling Linda was tasked to take us to our rented hut. As we walked, she talked proudly of their cottages. When we got to our own bahay-kubo, I had to admit the pride was actually well-placed. (To date, when I dream of cloistering myself into a home away from home, my memory automatically drifts back to their Champaca riverside cottage.)
On the outside, our bahay-kubo was typical of most nipa huts. But it was big, and one could see a river streaming behind the block of cottages. Already, that had me delighted, but the house – everything about it and inside it, native – had more to offer.
First of all, there’s the blessed space. The door opened to an eight-seater dining set and a marvelous, marvelous porch that had a hammock, a folding bed, a living room and a coffee table set, but still, one did not feel cramped there at all. The house was truly sizeable and harnessed the tremendous benefits of having a huge side window and a capacious porch. Besides, the ceiling was high enough to accommodate a second-level attic where additional sleeping gadgets were stored.
From the attic, one looked down onto the bedroom. Devoid of radio, television, and other modes of modern entertainment, quiet rest was really the main draw of the room. Two canopied beds were prepared especially for this, but that was if the visitors could resist the attractions at the other side of the bedroom window.
On that other side was the porch. On the porch was our favorite place in the whole estate – what we call our prime spot – the cradling comfort of the hammock.
From that hammock, one had an open view of the river where fish lived in abundance. What a joy to watch them glide and splash in the waters! Across the river, the bank was bordered by huge trees. I don’t know if deeper into the foliage was actually a forest, but late at night, while my husband and I nestled on our much-coveted hammock, bats appeared from that direction. There was a whole collection of insect and animal sounds, too, including those of crickets and frogs. There was even a sound similar to an animal cry I used to hear in Tarzan movies. We never did get around to exploring that side of the estate, but in my unwarranted opinion, I would say it had the sound and enigma of a jungle.
I could not resist a sentimental discovery. From the hammock, one could view, listen to, smell, and feel the wondrous elements of nature. The senses come alive. More than that, however, a person’s mind, heart and spirit are freed. There, it was easier to visualize the intangible aspects of life, to connect with one’s soul, and touch the core of one’s being. It was easier to find more hope for the future and believe that this world has more beautiful secrets than it allows us to see. And needless to say, it was easier to bond. Without the pressures of everyday work and house chores screaming for attention, it was a joy to simply lie there and cuddle and be assured without the need for words that one is loved and cherished. Taking my sentimental journey further back, I reminisced part of the message I wrote for our wedding invitation: "There is a hand... when it touches my hand, I know I shall not walk alone or stand alone, be sad alone or happy alone...live alone...die alone...
"It is a strength, a comfort, a hope... A hand that cradles a heart, that embraces a soul..."
That hand held me tenderly as our hammock swayed to the dance of the wind. I could not have asked for more.
However, my stomach began to grumble.
We were told that lunch was served at "The Falls," so, after getting directions, off we went to that destination. There was a bit of a walk until we reached a flight of steps going down. The steps being wet and quite slippery, I kept my head down, but I could not have missed the lush layers of green swinging like perfectly woven curtains adorning the walls on both sides of the stairs. That sight and my fear of sliding down prevented my eyes from meandering, and as it turned out, from preempting the marvel that awaited us at the foot of the steps.
Initially, the sound of gushing water registered in my conscious mind. When I looked up, I was astounded to see a majestic drape of water seemingly suspended from a near horizon, falling in giant, sparkling cascades. The Falls, indeed! My husband and I exchanged excited glances before marching into the cold, foot-deep running river where a sumptuous banquet waited. Of the dishes served, our favorite was pork inihaw with vinegar sauce and ensaladang mangga with ginisang bagoong. These we feasted on while playfully wiggling our shivery toes underwater, and taking short breaks not so much to digest the food as to enjoy the falls facing our long table. And, were those small fishes gliding by not far from us? All said, I do believe this was the single most interesting meal I’ve ever had in my life.
In the afternoon, my husband and I tried the pools. There were two of them, one for grownups, quite deep and cold watered, and the other, for kids, below-chest level and moderately warm. We stayed in the deep one where my husband practiced his swimming skills and I my cheering prowess. The activities, though exhilarating, proved quite strenuous, we slumbered for hours when we got back to our cottage.
We woke up to the sound of music. Old, romantic love songs accompanied by a guitar were being rendered right at our doorstep! At first, we panicked. Did anyone send us a singing telegram here to pull a joke or something? When my husband opened the door, he was greeted by four young men in camisa chino who intimated that the estate did like to give its visitors a sample of the traditional harana. Being former members of a choir ourselves, my husband and I really had fun listening to and sometimes singing with the serenaders. If it were possible, we would have gladly jammed with them the whole night!
At daybreak, I went out for a little walk. I inspected the various exotic flowers that bloomed abundantly all over the place. I toured the venue where ecumenical weddings were held – a palatial dome with a grand staircase which, I was told, was a favorite photo background of brides and grooms. I was told, too, that when weddings are held there, they use coconut leaves and trunks as the main decorative materials. Further off, I discovered the lechonan areas. That brought to mind my childhood days in the province when fiestas came and it was time to roast the pigs my lola had tended for those special occasions. The thought made me hanker for food.
We had breakfast at the same venue where we had dinner the night before. In the evening, the mood was softly romantic with the chandeliers barely lighting the place, a sole candle lamp burning on the dining table and serenaders continuing to tickle our hearts with their old kundimans. That morning, attractive banigs were hung to minimize the sun’s rays permeating the dining area. And on an elevated platform nearby, native instruments were being set up while young men and women rehearsed their choreography for a cultural show to be mounted later.
After breakfast, my husband asked me to go rafting with him. The rafts looked convincingly stable and life jackets were provided. After the initial jitters, the adventure proved a lot of fun. We even set a conquest: to row near the pink lotus blooms, a huge one in particular, for a much-prized photograph. We accomplished the feat.
Since we had to check out at midday and there was so much in the estate we had yet to see, we opted to rent a bike. Under the bright morning sun, we took short visits to the gift shop, the outskirts of the huge coconut plantation and the village chapel. Along the way, we were greeted by the pleasant smiles of men and women doing their everyday work. Women in baro’t saya clearing the streets with their walis tingting, men riding their tractors presumably to collect the palays, and the older ones making further preparations for a forthcoming wedding, and decorative lanterns for Christmas. For our last stop, we went to the museum. The two-storey edifice was filled with diverse relics and artifacts ranging from religious accoutrements to ethnic discoveries, a hunter’s array of preys, rare species of insects, arts collections, memorabilia from the war, evolution of fashion and so much more. The history of the Filipino preserved.
As we rode the estate’s jeep service which took us to the bus drive, Mang Francisco, the driver was saying we should have stayed for another night and day. A grand wedding was to be held the following day and it would be quite a spectacle. The bride will ride a Spanish calisin (horse-drawn carriage), the reception site will be transformed into a floral garden, a rondalla will provide the music and afterwards, the guests will be treated to a cultural show.
We didn’t stay. To my mind, we had already gotten what we came for. A time to relax and enjoy, a time to be together and just be. But we had gotten a lot more. At the Villa Escudero Estate, we rediscovered the beauty of vintage Philippines and the much-renowned hospitality of Filipinos. It was something we’d like a taste of again, in time.