Indang Inga's Sock Coffee Sa Bukid

I remember looking out from the window of the house onto the lush greenery of fields of rice paddy laid out in grid formation. Most times, it didn’t take me very long to go from looking out of the window to running out onto those fields. The paths that connected the fields were narrow and slippery, but that didn’t stop me from running across them. The water in the fields was shallow and muddy, and I remember seeing snakes in those muddy fields. But that didn’t stop me either, even though I was more fearful of the snakes than getting mud on my feet.  I remember how incredibly exhilarating it was to run through those fields toward the bahay kubo (Nipa hut – made of bamboo and palm leaves), the only house you could see for miles. This – the paddy fields, the bahay kubo - the bukid (farm) in Salapungan (a baranggay or village in the municipality of Candaba within the province of Pampanga) is where Tatang (my grandfather) farmed.

This particular bahay kubo belonged to “Indang Inga” and her husband, “Bapang Piling.” Bapang Piling is Tatang’s brother. He and Indang Inga were the parents of Meding - the woman who helped raise me from when I was born until 4 years of age so that Ma could go back to work. I called her “Dada.” I have fragmented recollections of this period, but I do remember the bahay kubo where we stayed when Dada brought me to visit her family - the roof I looked up at night made of dried grass, which I now know must have been Cogon grass, the bamboo floors that were so cool to the feet. If I looked hard enough and peeked through the crevices, I could see the silong (the ground underneath the house) when I slept on those floors. I remember touching the walls that felt so soft to the touch and wondered why they felt and looked like the banig (bamboo mats) we slept on. But my favorite place in the bahay kubo was the big window that faced those fields – I loved how a big bamboo stick would pry open the window and then you could just look out and see everything and everyone. I could wave to the people coming and going, every day. I saw the magsasaka (farmers) and the kalabaw (carabao) hard at work tilling the land. I saw the transplanted rice paddy mature into tall stalks of green that swayed in the wind. But this was the same window that I was told to stay away from at night, after the sun set, because of fears that the flying manananggal (half-bodied vampires that come after young children) would come after me. That’s why there were cloves of garlic hanging by the window – to ward them off. 

 To be honest, in those dark nights, lit up only by kerosene lamps, I was not so scared of the manananggal but of going to the outhouse at night. The outhouse was a few meters away from the house.  It was propped up on long stilts and to use it, you needed to climb up what were then (for me) steep steps made of bamboo. You reached the top of the steps, entered a space with a hole in the middle. Then you squatted and positioned yourself above the hole, hoping that the ordeal would be over soon.  I dared not look down. Or if ever I did, I have forgotten – or blotted out – what I had seen. When I was old enough to walk up the steps (maybe once I was 4 years old?), I remember someone – often Dada, or one of her family members - walking me up the steps to make sure I did not fall through, and then waiting for me until I finished. While up there, my biggest fear was that I would fall into and be swallowed up by the hole.

Dada’s family treated me like their own.  I remember a lot of laughter. They seemed very particular about making sure I didn’t get bitten by mosquitoes or get hurt playing outside.  I remember seeing photos of myself around their house. One photo that caught my eye was of me wearing super big sunglasses, No smile. Was that really me? It seems that most of my photos at that age were pictures of me with a deeply serious face… or a face that is about to cry. I was a crier, I was told. Still am.

Me and the big sunglasses

Indang Inga had a similar serious face. She hardly smiled. So, when you saw her, you made sure you followed what she told you. She was a formidable figure. One of the things I remember is that I hardly saw her hair. She always had her head and hair wrapped with a cloth. I probably would not even recognize her without this head covering. She stayed in an area near the house where the fish, meat, and vegetables were prepped, where we did the laundry, where we bathed, and where she made her “special drink.”  I remember seeing her stand over a steaming pot that had a very distinctive and unfamiliar scent. She would pour herself a cup of the liquid from this pot and sip it with purpose and enjoyment. I used to marvel at how all the adults seemed to drink this drink all day – once in the morning, then during merienda (snack), and then sometimes another cup at night.  She and all the adults seemed to love this drink so much. I saw people come to the house and be offered this drink. I, too, wanted to have a taste of it, but was told I was too young to drink it.  I was later told it was kape (coffee). It did not have sugar or milk so I was warned that it would taste bitter. Nevertheless, I still wanted to take a sip. Then someone finally asked me if I knew the story behind Indang Inga’s coffee. Her coffee was apparently the best in the bukid. People would intentionally come to the house to have Indang Inga’s coffee. Why? The secret is in her preparation, I was told. People claimed that she would pour the coffee through a piece of worn sock, thereby giving it a unique taste. Yes, she used socks to filter the coffee! This was the secret ingredient. “Can’t you smell it,” they asked me.  Stunned, I just shook my head. My imagination went wild. Whose socks were they? Did she use Dada’s socks? Or Bapang Piling’s socks? Or Uncle Eddie’s? (Dada’s boyfriend then and later, husband). Whether it was true or not, it was enough for a four-year-old to stop asking for a taste of this “special drink.”

Indang Inga became a giant in my imagination.  I started to wonder whether she had other secret ingredients in her cooking.  She was a phenomenal cook. Whenever we visited Tatang during fiestas, Indang Inga seemed to be one of the main cooks in Tatang’s house in Candaba. When there was a town fiesta, the whole town celebrated by opening their homes to everybody and feeding them with all their specialties. Every house tried to outcompete the other. Who cooked the better leche flan? Who had the crispier lechon? Did you taste that morcon? Did you see her fruit salad had queso de bola? Or who had the best buro (fermented catfish)?  It was only during birthdays and fiestas that I saw my grandfather’s house use the formal dining table where the food was laid out. It was the only time that Auntie Paz (my dad’s sister) would proudly make her special jello which she put in a silver fish mold. In my mind, I was eating fish jello and found that so exciting. I loved how it sat on the table, jiggling a bit – almost like a real coy fish swimming in a pond. Indang Inga’s leche flan was also famous. I wondered – did the flan also have a secret ingredient?  What made it so creamy, malinamnam (tasty), and silky?  Was it something about the brown color cigarettes she was rolling so neatly and then smoking while waiting for llanera (a type of pan) after llanera of leche flan to steam in a giant palayok? The cigarettes they smoked looked like sitaw (long bean) that had turned brown. Its smoke had a sweet smell, but my cousins told me that they would turn your teeth brown. Is that why Indang Inga hardly smiled?

 Indang Inga’s presence allowed my mind to wander, imagine, but also believe in the unbelievable.  After my father passed away in 1995, Ma, my siblings, and I went back to the Philippines. We visited the bukid. But nothing was how I remembered it. There was cement everywhere – in the structures and the ground we walked on. The big open window in Indang Inga’s house was now a window with framed metal grills. Additional cemented rooms were built around the bahay kubo.   There is now a toilet inside the house. The place where Indang Inga used to make her sock coffee now has a cement foundation.  But Indang Inga looked the same and had barely aged. She still had her head wrapped with a cloth. She still stared with those piercing eyes. We still did not say much to each other but when she saw us, she smiled.  I didn’t ask about the sock coffee or the leche flan. Now that I am writing this, I am realizing that maybe the secret ingredient was something I knew all along. Maybe the secret ingredient was Indang Inga, the bukid, and the possibility of stories that filled our minds.

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Dada, Dada's daughter and son, Indang Inga, Salapungan, 1995

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The bahay kubo surrounded with new construction, Salapungan, 1995

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Bapang Piling and Auntie Paz, Salapungan, 1995

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The area where Indang Inga made her sock coffee, Salapungan, 1995.

Photos taken in 1995 in Salapungan, Candaba, Pampanga

In memory of Remedios (Meding) Guevarra Laxamana who passed away on August 31, 2015 in Salapungan, Pampanga.

Tatang's Sack of Watermelons

Tatang made a point not to miss our birthdays, especially when his son, my father, was working overseas in the Middle East.   He would make the long journey from Candaba, Pampanga to our home to deliver his greetings to his grandchildren.  I know that journey had to take hours and multiple forms of public transportation – tricyles, a jeepney, a bus – alongside a lot of walking.  He never mentioned his arduous journey. He was a very quiet man, just like my dad.  

“Sack of Watermelons” by Cash, September 24, 2024

During my brother’s elementary school graduation; From L to R (in the back: My dad and Tatang; and in the front: me and my siblings). My brother is holding his certificate and my sister is holding her skirt.

I remember one particular visit where he suddenly appeared by the gate of our house like an apparition, carrying a very heavy sack.   We lived in a place called Mikesell Subdivision in Las Piñas, Metro Manila and many of the years spent there were during the times my father was working overseas, in Libya.  Two women -  Ate [1] Biña and Ate Lydia helped Ma take care of the three of us kids while she worked full time at the Indonesian Embassy. I don’t know how we ended up in Mikesell.   It was a creepy neighborhood – with very few houses and lots of empty lots. Rumor had it that there were several “nuno sa punso”(“old man of the mound” or mystical spirits) who lived on what looked like ant hills on those empty lots  so we were never allowed to wander around on the streets for fear of having a spell cast upon us if we mistakenly stepped on these spirits. Our house attracted many creatures – from wasps that would build their nests inside our mailbox, and sting us when we reached inside (my brother got stung), to snakes, whose skin we would occasionally find while playing near the driveway. During the summertime, my siblings and I tried to entertain ourselves by pretending we were running a store front. I would sell pretend food, and they would buy it.  One day we had the brilliant idea of selling real food - ice candy. So, we made some Tang juice, put it in ice candy packets, froze these packets, hung up a sign by the side of our gate, and sold these frozen treats for a few centavos.  Kids from the neighborhood actually came and bought them. We were so happy. But we hardly sold any; we ended up just eating the ice candy ourselves because it was so hot outside. One day, my brother snuck into the freezer to eat what he thought was one of our frozen ice candies.  When he started sucking on it, his face turned sour.  It turned out that Ate Biña used an ice candy wrapper to pack chicken gizzards. My brother was horrified when Ate Biña told him. We all laughed for days. Other than that, most of our free time was spent indoors watching TV, dancing, and taking mandatory naps after lunch, which we found to be absolutely dreadful.  My brother always had trouble and usually failed Ate Lydia’s eye inspection – where she would come to inspect whether we were really asleep by watching our eyes move. My brother could not control his eye movement. I excelled at it. My sister always fell asleep just fine or even if she didn’t, she was Ate Lydia’s favorite, so she got away with not taking a nap.  I forget what the punishment was for faking a nap.  All I remember was the longing I had for it to be over so I could partake in the merienda (snack) that was promised at the end of a nap: a glass of ice cold Tang and a small bag of chips, biscuits, or on special occasions,  turon (slice of bananas with brown sugar wrapped in spring roll wrapper and deep fried).

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Was Sonny really asleep?

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Corinne the Dancing Queen

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Sonny and his "Hagibis" moves

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Corinne at the driveway where we had a fake store to sell pretend food

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Corinne posing by the gate and that is the wasp mailbox

Tatang’s visit interrupted our mundane everyday routine. When he suddenly appeared by that gate, we all ran to greet him- awkwardly doing the “mano po” – taking the back of his hand and pressing it against our foreheads as a sign of respect. We didn’t know what to say to him so having a conversation was out of the question.  I was 9 and was still very shy or just did not have the skills to talk to an unfamiliar adult, even if he was my grandfather.  Ma was at work. We just sat around quietly. I think he talked to Ate Biña and Ate Lydia to ask how things were, how we were, and checked out where we lived. He didn’t come inside the house and instead sat on the patio – probably to get some fresh air and rest. He must have been tired from the journey. Ate Biña offered him a drink – I think it was coffee, and he sat there sipping it, quietly. He then opened the sack – a rice sack he reused for the occasion– which revealed several watermelons. They looked so big, all deep green in color, and heavy. He said they were from the bukid (farm) and that they would be very sweet.  He was so proud of his watermelons.  How did he carry all of them, all the way from Candaba? He asked us to save the seeds, which could be later dried and roasted out in the heat to become butong pakwan (roasted watermelon seeds).  Dad loved watermelons. He could eat a whole watermelon  or a bag of butong pakwan in one sitting.  So, I guess when Tatang brought us these watermelons, he was also bearing gifts for his son. Tatang only stayed for a couple of hours and then before he left, he summoned us and gave each of us a few pesos. We were happy to get some extra “allowance” to buy a toy or a treat during snack time.  I cannot remember whose birthday it was on that visit. But that did not matter. He celebrated all of us. 

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Tatang and me at the airport circa 1960s saying goodbye to family leaving for the US

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With Ma and siblings on the patio. Photo to send to dad who was working overseas.

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Photo of Tatang with Sonny at his house in Candaba

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Wearing the dresses dad sent from Libya for my piano recital. I was unhappy about the lace and the hair that was accidentally cut too short.

We used to take trips to Candaba to see Tatang during fiestas, but when my dad left for overseas work, that stopped.  Instead, he came to visit us. I can imagine he must have been worried not only about his youngest son working far away, in Libya, but also about the family he left behind. We were fine but we also felt our dad’s absence and were confused at times about why he had to work so far away. When Tatang visited, he never stayed long or overnight because he needed to get back to his farm. But when he visited, it was like having a piece of our dad there.  He would remind my brother to play basketball and me to study hard so I could become a doctor.

Last year, I found a letter he wrote in 1989 to my parents. It was only our fourth year in the US as immigrants and those years were especially hard, financially, for my parents. Based on his letter, I think my parents shielded him from knowing that we were struggling.  Tatang’s letter was filled with affirmations and hopes for our new life. He told my parents not to worry about sending money or a balikbayan box [2]because he assumed we had a lot of expenses to worry about. He talked about his farm and the melons they were harvesting, my aunts, my cousins, my late grandmother and her faith that he claimed allowed their children to succeed in school.  He talked about his deteriorating eyesight, yet he filled that page with such beautiful sentiments and elegant penmanship.  He loved all his children and grandchildren unconditionally and would let you know in so many different ways – whether through the arduous journey to bring watermelons from his farm, or to write us letters filled with hope, gratitude, and belief that we will make it through. Tatang died a year after he sent this letter - on February 6, 1990. I didn’t get a chance to see or thank him before he passed away, but I am grateful that he left me with this memory… and a story that I can share with my siblings and his great grandchildren.

As a tribute to Tatang – I pass on this sack of watermelons with wishes of a happy birthday – maligayang kaarawan  to Corinne yesterday, Cash and Maricris in August, Kayla in June, Adree in November, and Brody, Sonny, and Zayne in December, Ma in February. Here’s hoping that they will share and keep this story and the knowledge about their elders and ancestors alive for the next generation that follows them.

Envelope of the letter Tatang wrote the year before his death.

Love, Tatang, March 14, 1989

[1] “Ate” is an honorific signifier for an older female kin, friend, or acquaintance

[2] A “balikbayan” box contains various types of goods (food, clothing, supplies, etc) that Filipinos in the diaspora send back to their families and friends in the Philippines.   

Tuck pointing lessons...and the beginning of my sabbatical after 12 years

Last week, I went on a little bit of adventure - around our 100 year old building and learned something new about the world of tuck pointing, including new vocabulary like “lintels” on windows and “efflorescence” on bricks as we have to assess the health of our aging building. In the process of bargaining and asking for an “educator discount,” the mason laughed and asked where I teach. He thought he heard me say “U of C” (University of Chicago) and said “Oh, you make a lot of money then!” I said no, it’s “UIC” (University of Illinois Chicago) - the state university. Then he asked, “Why do you stay at a university that does not pay you for your work and what you deserve? Why don’t you work at U of C then?” I laughed. He said “why don’t you acquire some new skills and little by little you can eventually squeeze your way to a better place like U of C?” I laughed again. I said maybe I should just take up plumbing. We both laughed. Then he ultimately gave me what he said was a discounted price on tuckpointing work.

I begin my sabbatical this fall where I hope to learn new skills, complete unfinished projects, and engage in new projects after doing program building work and stewardship of my academic department for twelve years. It was a labor of love and struggle that I cannot ever fully recount to anyone. But for now, I hope to work on projects that can help me squeeze into those creative spaces so I can start writing, stitching, shaping, reading music, and experimenting once again.

A view of one of the exterior walls of our building

The Marinduque Odyssey - October 23 2016

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Click here for the Bicol Express Blog 〰️

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"Holy Friday" on the island of Marinduque began with a 5 hour wait in a very orderly, winding, circular line with some of the calmest people (despite the ridiculous lack of information and erratic schedule of buses), a 10 hour bus ride from Cubao/Kamuning to Lucena, another 4 hours on the Dalahican pier in Lucena waiting for tickets in 100 degree Fahrenheit heat with hundreds of exhausted and vociferous people demanding that ferry tickets be released, a 2.5 hour ferry ride to Marinduque's Balanacan Pier, and a 45 minute ride on a sardine-packed jeepney (sitting next to the driver). 

We arrived in the early evening – around 7:30 pm- to Tahanan sa Isok (House in Isok) – a house located on a quiet street. The entrance was filled with beautiful plants – many of which were flowering. We were welcomed by a friendly gentleman who quietly led us up to our room with minimal information about how things worked in this hotel. We bombarded him with questions like  “When is breakfast? Where is a good place to have dinner right now? Where is a good place to watch the Moriones festival? We quickly learned the pace of this hotel – which really does not have the rigid, strict, and sometimes, unfriendly professionalism that comes with a typical hotel operation. They take the effort to make you comfortable and serve you but without the high-brow veneer of superficial hospitality one finds in some establishments. The promise of hot showers was not always fulfilled when they had a full house. So one either has to bathe really early in the morning (5 am) to beat the rush, or request a staff member to literally bring a kettle of hot water to pour into our bucket of cold water in order to take a (tepid) bath. They offered basic accommodations but with the fullness of the Marinduque spirit.

The owner is a former employee of the United Nations, who lived for several decades in Austria with his wife (they are now in their 80s). Inspired by the family-run inns in Austria, they decided to renovate their ancestral home and try to provide a similar family-run “home away from home.” They claim not to have had any experience in hotel management but forged ahead with a vision to create a “homey” setting that made guests feel as if they are staying in someone’s house. They come to the island frequently and when they do, they stay on the 3rd floor of the house – which is their residence. The staff they hire are either family members (like “Jinky” who is their niece and serves as the main manager) or tenants of some of their island properties. They are evidently good employers and their staff seem quite loyal to them and the place. Unlike other workers (of the competing Boac Hotel for instance), who seem to work 12 hours non-stop, the staff here are asleep by 9:30 pm and they seem able to participate in the Moriones festival, come to work after they have attended mass, and take a day off. “Miss Perla” served our breakfast every morning – “Dasilog” – daing (local fish marinated in garlic, pepper, and vinegar and then deep fried), one fried sunny-side-up egg, two slices of tomato, and “brewed coffee.” She is also the one who did our laundry and made sure the clothes were ironed (the latter was apparently an unusual, special request). She is also a mother of two kids who can be found running around the house looking for her and occasionally asking for snacks and junk food from the “guest” refrigerator. Some of the staff here are also key participants of the Moriones festival such as Edison (FB name is “Chanel”). He was one of the Morion soldiers and in May, he told us proudly, he will be Cleopatra for the Flores de Mayo Festival. He is quite fond of India – and says he could easily spot Indians because of their “beautiful eyes.” He was quite fond of Gayatri! Then there is “Ms. Marilyn” who booked our room and also made sure we tasted the (in)famous “Bibingka lalaki” (male/masculine bibingka) which, according to locals, acquired its name from the fact that it has “itlog” or eggs, i.e., balls, we were always told with a wink and a chuckle. She claimed that we needed to taste this “special” version, which we could not buy in the palengke (marketplace)… so she kindly added us to her order.

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Photos by Anna Guevarra and Gayatri Reddy

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“Jesus Christ would like to thank his hair and make-up artist:” The 2016 Moriones Festival

 On the morning of Friday – March 25, Edison/Chanel told us that we should go to the Boac Arena so we could see the Morion soldiers get ready and prepare themselves for the Senakulo (a Lenten play depicting the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ). What we witnessed was street theater and queer pageantry at its best, to re-enact the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, including the two-day long search for Longinus, a blind soldier who speared Jesus and later became a self- proclaimed disciple after he regained his eye sight when Jesus’ blood dropped in his eyes… and was beheaded for it! The Morion soldiers (including Longinus and Jesus Christ) volunteer for this part and we are told that they often make a wish for good health as part of this process. To play the part of a soldier demands major dedication, resolve, and a long-term commitment to this role. We met a Morion (Roman) soldier who has been playing this role for 20 years. Others told us that it cost 5000 pesos to participate as a Morion, money that could well be spent elsewhere. But people of all ages - young and old-, male and female, seem to take immense pride in participating in this town festival; they gather and chase after the processions, snapping photos, taking selfies, as if this was their first time, and the whole town appears to take enormous pride in this spectacular annual performance. As part of the “performance,” Jesus Christ and the two “thieves” walk the streets of Boac bearing crosses while being flagellated by elaborately clothed Roman soldiers (in velvet and fur capes, with individually crafted masks, often in the image of the latest “Roman” movie such as Troy, or their rendition of Darth Vader or a zombie), before being publicly “crucified” (they are merely tied to the cross and not actually crucified, thank Jesus!), for the viewing pleasure of the whole town. All of this, of course, taking place in the middle of a 100 degree blazing hot day, with the Moriones wearing their thick capes and their heavy wooden masks all day, everyday, for the entire holy week. But in case their resolve/enthusiasm flagged, they could replenish their energy with some hard-boiled quail eggs and finish it off with a cold-ish Yakult (probiotic) drink from the local street-vendors plying their wares along the Jesus path! 

The final “act” of the festival took place on Saturday, March 26 with the infamous “pugutan” (beheading) of Longinus – so intrinsic to this town that even the Boac street signs points to this as a destination site, along with the cathedral and municipio or administrative office. Not quite sure what to expect, we headed to the arena to join the entire town! It seemed like every single member of the town was there with their friends, families, grandparents, infants, guests, all ready to witness a spectacular display of great imagination, creativity, and grandeur. The special effects (strobe lights to mimic lightning), the props (moveable rocks from where Jesus emerged upon his resurrection), the Parthenon-inspired center stage, and the “arena” reminiscent of a coliseum were simply magnificent. We squeezed ourselves in between a father and his 4-year old son who kept asking “may pugutan na?” (is the beheading taking place now?), and two young girls eagerly slurping a chocolate shake and munching on fried garlic peanuts, while we all waited, interminably it seemed, while Jesus and the cast finished getting ready and posing for the many, many, photo-ops before the start of the production.  

The play started two hours later than scheduled but with the cool breeze and the festive surroundings, the entire township patiently waited and enjoyed each other’s company. Eventually, a voice beamed through the giant speakers to welcome the audience and introduce every cast member of this year’s festival. Jesus Christ was clearly the superstar and merited his own acknowledgements. “Jesus Christ would like to thank his hair and make-up artist” we were collectively told, before the introductions proceeded.

 The dialogues were well narrated and the actors brilliantly dramatized their lines through their gestures and movements. From a distance, we could not see their lips move, but their body gestures were in brilliant sync with the narration. The play lasted for a couple of hours – moving seamlessly from one scene to the next – from the spearing of Jesus on the cross, the tension between Pontius Pilate and Claudia, his wife, the well choreographed Belly dancing (don’t ask!), the resurrection of Jesus Christ, Pontius Pilate’s tortured dream sequence, and eventually, Longinus’ “conversion” and his beheading. We were among the few who stayed until the very end with most people leaving right after Jesus’ resurrection.  Although it occurred with clockwork regularity every Easter, it looked and felt like the entire town came out for this event, marking and celebrating it with pride.

Easter at the Pebbled Ihatub Beach

We originally wanted to get to Santa Cruz, which has an amazing sand bar, once you take a bangka (small boat) out, beyond the town. However, after hearing about the travel time and the uncertainty of getting a jeepney or any transportation back, given the Easter weekend, it did not make sense to venture too far. Ms. Jinky recommended we check out St. Claire Monastery – a few miles away from the heart of Boac, on the border with Mogpog, the next town, and a nice tricycle ride up a hill. From there, we tried to catch a tricycle to Ihatub beach. As we were haggling/negotiating with the tricycle driver (who asked for 100 pesos), a woman who overheard our conversation came out of her house to give us some cost-saving tips – almost seeming apologetic for what the other driver was going to charge us. Her husband – who is also a tricycle driver – drove up at this point, and she herself asked him how much he would charge for a trip there. 100 pesos too! They offered to take us to the main town for 20 pesos, and from there we could find another tricycle who could take us to Ihatub beach. When we got into town, they very kindly looked for a tricycle driver who would take us there. “Ang bayad ay 15 pesos lang” (the fare should only be 15 pesos), he whispered to us. We got in a tricycle that already had a female passenger who had just come from the market – evidenced by the bags of meat, fish, and produce she had in front of her. She very kindly let us sit inside the cab while she sat behind the driver. We weren’t quite sure where we were headed but when we reached the beach area and were about to hand them the fare, they refused to take our money and said that they weren’t on their regular travel. They were giving us a ride on their way home. We tried to offer them a fare and they kept refusing it. As they dropped us off at the entrance to this public beach, we could hear someone yelling at them to ask who we are – to which they chuckled and said “bisita naming sila” (they are our guests”).  We certainly felt like their guests – entertained with kindness and hospitality that we did not expect; this is perhaps one of the unique and most admirable features of this island and its people – a generosity of spirit and the kind of honesty that is so different from the hardened Manila folk we were used to dealing with (including ourselves in this category - as cynical, mistrusting “foreign” tourists who were convinced the “locals” were out to gyp us!).

Photos by Anna Guevarra

 This pebbled beach was filled with mostly locals celebrating Easter by enjoying the water with their families and friends. We walked around a few parked bangka (boats) but eventually settled underneath a tree for some much needed shade. It was nice to just sit and enjoy the cool breeze, sunshine, and the sounds of playful laughter as children played on the “beach” at the edge of the water, under the watchful gaze of their parents and grandparents.

Photo by Anna Guevarra

The day ended with us attending the “Children’s Mass” at the Boac Cathedral. Though the mass was dedicated to children and involved children reading the liturgies, it was well attended by adults as well, with the cathedral filled by Marinduqueños who gathered to celebrate the end of Easter. A beautiful church on top of the hill that was first established in the 16th century by Augustinians, then occupied by Fransiscans and eventually, Jesuits, exuded an air of solidity and calmness. Clearly, even as it had been renovated and “modernized,” some parts of the church, including the ramparts, dated back to its initial foundation in the 16th century. We were late for mass, and slunk in to the back of the church, alongside a few local, clearly devout families. Mass lasted an hour, with a sermon on the importance of this event of Christ’s resurrection, and multiple liturgies read out by select choir boys and young adults who had clearly taken a great deal of time and effort to practice the enunciation of the texts/passages they were reading aloud to the congregation. It ended with collective hymns sung by the choir, with the congregation joining in during the chorus, followed by the pastor and his assistants walking down the center aisle, throwing holy water on the congregation.

Photo by Anna Guevarra

Marinduqueño culinary delights: Uraro Cookies and Bibingka lalaki (male bibingka)

Our journey is not complete without the search of local food and crafts as pasalubong (gifts/souvenirs from one’s travel). Everyone seems to talk about the uraro (arrowroot) cookies made by “Rejanos” – which has been producing these cookies for over 60 years. Known as the “home of the original arrowroot cookies,” Rejanos is owned by Mrs. Carmelita Rejano-Reyes, who inherited the bakeshop from her parents who started making these cookies in 1946. The original bakeshop is in the neighboring city of Santa Cruz, which we just did not have the time to visit, so we ventured to the only other place that sold these cookies – in the ever-busy Boac Hotel. It turns out that Mrs. Rejano-Reyes also owned this hotel and the restaurant next to it, which is always busy at all times of the day.  We were lucky to come at a time when she was in this store. Seeing us browse her shelves of cookies, she very softly asked if we needed help. It did not take long for us to realize she is indeed the magic behind these cookies because of the ways her face beamed with pride talking about her cookies. “These cookies are made from pure arrowroot and not mixed with wheat. That is what makes my cookies different.” She has experimented with other flavors, like adding pinipig (puffed rice) for an added crunch, using coconut sugar which is beneficial for diabetics, enriching it with malunggay (moringga) powder, which is known to have additional health benefits, or removing sugar completely.  She works with local farmers (mostly in the neighboring town of Gasan) who produce the 15 tons of arrowroot that she needs to meet the nationwide demand for her products. She has obviously made a name for herself judging from the steady stream of customers picking up cans after cans of her cookies – keeping her cashier busy and a bit frazzled. But Mrs. Rejano-Reyes does well to circulate among the customers, making sure we have tasted all the varieties and that we know the story behind her melt-in-your mouth cookies. She has also tried to diversify some of her offerings so on her shelves are pure salabat (ginger) tea produced by one of the farmers she works with, Rejano coco jam (one of my favorites), garlic peanuts (probably one of the best we’ve had!), and all sorts of malunggay-infused products like polvoron and noodles. 

Photo by Anna Guevarra

 But one Marinduque culinary “delight” that everyone also talks about is the infamous “bibingka lalaki” (which literally translates to male bibingka).  We first learned about this from Ms. Marilyn who encouraged us to go to the market to look for this delicacy. So off we went to the market and found a section that seemed to be bustling with people. We saw piles of this bibingka proudly sold by these two women. We asked why it acquired this name. They both reply with a giggle while covering their mouths - “kasi may itlog” (because it has eggs). So there you have it.

Photo by Anna Guevarra

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 “In Marinduque, every visitor is royalty”: The Putong (to crown) Ritual

On our last day, all of us who stayed in this house were gifted by a beautiful ritual called “putong.” We are told this is a tradition of welcoming and honoring visitors to the island. A group of women wearing yellow saya entered the house singing, accompanied by a guitarist. The owner of the house sang a few lines as the women came in the house swaying rhythmically to a joyful melody. They carried palm leaves, flowers, and these crowns made of rattan. They danced with them and invited all of us to join them - even Gayatri was pulled in. As we danced, they each gave us these crowns - with a loving message that “in Marinduque, every visitor is royalty.”