looking back
On Dumaguete’s Shore: Homebound
By Christine A. Ongpin



I will be leaving Dumaguete soon. In a span of one year and a half, I have found a home in this city cradled by the sea. To write about my stay here, my life here, would be like the writing of a poem: a gathering of memories, carefully choosing the right words to move into some higher form of experience; an elevation of the soul. No word could ever be perfect, though. I remember, one evening at the sea wall, when I asked a friend how to describe the sound of the waves. When I asked that question, I knew there really was no answer. I shall forever be left groping for those elusive words, as memories of Dumaguete shall transform themselves into waves, lapping at the shore of my mind.

Going to Silliman’s graduate school was a lame excuse. I could have certainly gone to any of Manila’s universities. Yet I had chosen to come to this strange place all by myself because I wanted to be far from the din of the city, the dizzying lights at night, the restlessness of the people. And then again there was the sea. I already had an idea of how it was like in Dumaguete even before I had set my foot here. There were the innumerable stories of writers who have come and left with the same promise in their hearts: to return to this city again and again. And so in June of last year, I have found myself standing in the Sibulan airport with huge duffel bags and a lost look on my face. As I waited patiently for my sundo, I looked around me and saw students—who I surmised—have spent their vacation in Manila, with their families and friends welcoming them back. Dumaguete had a deep, strange way of welcoming me: I surely did not feel at home; the sights and scent were altogether unfamiliar to me. And the sound, the sound! I could hear everybody speaking in a language I never knew, never thought I would be uttering too.

It was raining hard when I left Manila and I was surprised at the sunny morning that greeted me here. It was as if Dumaguete was behind the change of seasons. True enough, I soon discovered how perfect it is here. The rains would fall only late at night until very early in the morning. It was strange to hear that in some parts of the country, typhoons were on a rampage while here, the people are all clad in their most comfortable clothes; one would be drenched with sweat not with rain. There was a time when it was drizzling and I brought with me my umbrella and my dorm mates laughed at me: “dili man mi mag-umbrella kung ga-taligsik”. We don’t use the umbrella when it’s drizzling. One chance of drizzle that they get, they make sure it would be worth the experience.

It saddens me now that I have to talk about Dumaguete like I am already far from it and all the scenes are just playing on my mind. Nevertheless, I have to admit that this is my way of thanking Dumaguete, my way of paying homage. Barely a month from now, I will be going home—but this is home to me now! I have made my own life here; have directed my once too puny boat into a coast of strangeness. Here, I have met sailors of my kind, and we have all sailed on together. There’s Ayvi who is also a Thomasian; funny that it is only here that we have met when we were in fact, both Literature majors only that she was two years my senior. I know I am going to miss her. We tell people that we are sisters except that her father is Japanese and mine is Chinese. I have already said goodbye to her because I know I will have to soon. My meeting with Ayvi would perhaps speak of the magic of this city. Strangers who come from the same place find each other standing along the same shore and often, they end up sitting on the sand sharing stories about where they have come from and where else they intend to go.

As for now, I do not want to miss even a single moment of running along the boulevard in the morning, with people who are strangers to each other. The sea and the sun peeping somewhere across the island comfort us and send us forth through the entire day. After my morning jog, I would go home and prepare myself for school where I have learned to redefine friendship, giving that word a completely new meaning because we do not share the same language. I may not have been able to have a lot of friends here like I do in Manila but those few faces are the ones whose names I would always carry within me. Friendships are not difficult to build here. I remember telling Kaye that Sillimanians share a beautiful tragedy: they come to Dumaguete from different areas of the country, meet friends, share lives together only to eventually part ways.

****

Friday is fly day. Going out on a Friday night is probably the highlight of the week, a simple pleasure that we all take part in. Our shotting sessions in El Amigo can never be forgotten. It is a place frequented by students who seem to have one thing in common: the zest for life, the individuality, the soul. It is a favorite bar-restaurant among students of Silliman. Murals of friends with arms entwined around each other’s backs are painted on its walls, depicting the place’s name. Reggae music is a trademark of El Am’s. I had my very first dinner there and I was stunned at the prices of the food and drinks. At that time, a barbeque plate cost only twenty-six pesos. With fifty pesos in your wallet, you would already satisfy your gustatory craving and would still have something left for beer.

Conversations over bottles of beer usually vary. At times, we would simply sit there, after having dinner at, say, Manang Siony’s and kid around, beer bottle in hand. There would also be nights when the mood is serious as if we crave for some cosmic realization to dawn on us. After our drinking session, we would usually go to the Boulevard to eat tempura—the Dumagueteños’ version of the quequiam. A promenade along the Boulevard follows. It’s amazing how people of all ages go out at night on weekends to simply sit on the sea wall; and by the looks on their faces, they are really having fun. The City of Gentle People is what Dumaguete is. One could roam the streets sans the worry of what one usually experiences in bigger cities. The quaintness of the place adds to the bohemian magic of the people’s lifestyle.

Being a university town and a favorite among tourists, it is quite amazing to see so many young people in the streets. Almost everybody knows everybody. It’s not surprising when I’d walk into a café and would find tables occupied by friends; or while waiting for a pedicab, a friend driving a motorbike would invite you for a ride. Some nights would find us heading to the beach, perhaps to drink or just talk. I recall the days when I was still staying in a dormitory inside the campus. There is a strict curfew at nine-thirty in the evening and just minutes before it, students will be seen scurrying off to beat the time. For us who still want to go on with whatever we were doing before the curfew—drinking perhaps— we would put bottles of iced cold beer and food in our backpacks. After the nightly bed-check, one room would “sponsor”, that is, being the “venue” for the night.

A few weeks ago, Ayvi, Karen, Eric, Mark, Rex and me went for a drive to the Escaño Beach—Dumaguete’s version of the CCP breakwaters. We bought, what else, beer and food and packs of cigarettes and parked beside the seawall. Mark had his car doors open and jazz music played softly from the radio station somewhere in Cebu. The moon was up that night, illuminating the silky surface of the sea. I could still hear Ayvi crying in awe as she pointed out to where the gentle light of the moon fell: they are here, the silver dolphins! Indeed, the waves looked like silver dolphins playing, bobbing up and down, in time with the waves. The tides were not yet up and Karen and I decided to wade. The water was cool and we shrieked in delight every time the waves came to the shore. We were like two little girls playing, unmindful of the gradual rising of the tide. Karen kept giggling, reminding me not to stray too far; the corals and rocks might hurt my feet, she said. Wanting to feel nothing but the softness of the sand in my toes, I waded farther into the deeper part of the sea. Had they not called me back, I would have swam, clothes and all. Yet inasmuch as I love the sea, my fear of it is overwhelming. In my head, it was the sea’s undertow that made me go back to the shore.

Sundays in this gentle city are far more different in Manila. All the shops downtown are closed, most of the food establishments included. The Dumagueteños’ notion of a family day is that they go to church in the morning probably, then have lunch together at home or at some restaurant that would be open for the day. The Silliman campus would be deserted too except for some students who would opt to go to the library or take walks in the acacia-lined campus. Ayvi and I have our own Sunday ritual. No matter how busy and occupied we had been throughout the entire week, our Sundays would be for the two of us. We begin our day with me picking her up at the Davao cottage, the faculty dormitory she is staying in, and would then walk to wherever we have chosen to have lunch. Afterwards, we would see if one of us has to go to Lee Plaza, Dumaguete’s bigger department store, to buy some provisions we need. If not, we would go for a walk along the Boulevard, sit down and talk over nilagang mais or dirty ice cream; at late, the conversation would be followed by silence, a comforting silence, and we would stare at the sea, and off to the island of Siquijor.

At nights, we would often hear our names being called by our little friends who sell boiled peanuts, green mangoes and balut in the streets of Dumaguete. The smile on their faces tell us that work is not really work to them but a game made more exciting when we stop and talk to them. It’s both funny and amusing how we try to speak each other’s language. Ayvi and I being Tagalog, we talk to them in Cebuano; but since they know we are not from Negros, they speak to us in Tagalog. And so, there we are, trying to merge two completely different worlds, shared with stories and laughter. One moment I would never forget is the night when Ayvi and I were at the Boulevard, passing time before we’d have dinner. I had just finished shooting for a documentary I was working on and I still had my camera with me. That was the first time little Franco came to us, a boy of seven, a plastic basket of peanuts, mangoes and chicharon in hand, a scarf tied around his head. I remember how he had caught my attention. A man was teaching him what to shout as he sells his goods, but he kept forgetting it. Little Franco would always yell, “manî, chicharon, manî!” But his older friend would correct him, “dili, ingon ana! Manî, chicharon, mangga! Naa man ka’y gibaligya’g mangga, ayaw kalimti!” Apparently, Franco kept forgetting that he was also selling his mangoes. Ayvi and I were amused but went on walking. Not long after, Franco approached us and asked if we wanted to buy from him. Instinctively, I turned on my camera and started talking to him. He seemed to have liked it, as he went on and on talking about himself, asking us questions, playing tricks and making faces as I take a footage of him. Soon, Franco’s friends joined us, cavorting for a chance to be on video. And then the most beautiful thing happened. Franco and his friends jumped down the sea wall, as the tides were very low, and made a bonfire along the shore. They shouted at Ayvi and me, dancing around the fire, laughing, pushing each other away so as not to be blocked away from my camera’s view. It was perfect. And before they let us go for the night, they made us promise to come back.

It’s time for me to go back to Manila. Days from now, I will start packing my things, returning them into the boxes they had come from when I first arrived here. As always when I travel, the most important of my belongings are kept in my backpack. Now I shall not only have the essentials—my wallet, my favorite book, photos, letters, the plane ticket—kept there; I shall have my backpack full of memories too. These memories shall be my compass—directing me always, always, to where home is… tintin!