-----------------------------------------------------------------
I have a thing for cold, melancholic nights, when the temperature drops to 15 degrees Celsius and my feet won’t stop shaking. My first nights in Baguio were torture; I wanted to cry every single day. The wind told me that my ten-month stay will be very long.
At first glance, the summer capital seemed to be a very normal place giving you the unnecessary hassle of walking up and down the steep roads, not to mention the vehicles that would blow too much smoke on you every once in a while. The water was ice cold, and you won’t really need a refrigerator that much. I didn’t like SM City Baguio, and all the buildings standing there trying to transform the city into a very industrialized place. A lot of people also warned me to watch out for thieves in crowded places like the public market and Session Road. But despite of that, the locals of Baguio were very nice. Unlike the typical busy Manileños, they would really stop and listen to you for any queries, as if you’ve been friends with them before.
I stood in front of McDonalds one rainy night, wondering what I was doing in the north, miles away from my family. I found myself hailing for a taxi, as numerous snob drivers ignored me. There was always traffic lurking in Session Road, and I had no choice but to walk home. On most mornings, as I walked to school, I could literally see the air I breathe out. It must have been the low temperature.
I visited the pond near the Oblation statue frequently. There was peace and quiet in that place, away from the noisy students of UP Baguio. I met ate Len there, a campus minister from the church where I came from. She introduced me to people who became my friends; they made my succeeding months in Baguio seem too short. We ate together at fast food restaurants or carinderias every lunch and dinner. And did I mention that the locals cook very delicious food We often went down Session Road to buy the famous homemade frozen yogurt sold by a bar called “Rumours” where, people said, UP teachers hang out a lot.
I heard my classmates talk about partying ‘til they drop at Nevada. I’ve never been there, anyway. When our block had bonding sessions, I came with them to places such as Teacher’s Camp, The Mansion, Diplomat Hotel, and other baranggays, and discovered how big Baguio actually is. There was even a valley in Benguet called La Trinidad, which has quite a different temperature than Baguio on mornings, but way colder on evenings.
At days when boredom struck, I usually take the jeep to Loakan, and visit the Philippine Military Academy. They kept a historical account of the Armed Forces of the Philippines there. Soldiers were not my thing, but at least history is. I roamed around the museum and sometimes wished I could be one of the female marines. In late February, you would find no space at all. They closed main roads as people watched the famous Panagbenga Festival. I decided not to join, and had a photo shoot with my friends at Camp John Hay instead. The place was perfect for contrast in photos, because the historical place still had its original texture.
The cold, melancholic nights seemed to disappear as time passes by. Maybe I was getting used to it. If not, my resolution would be long walks late at night, with no idea of the direction where I was headed. After I got tired of walking, I just traced back my steps and went home. Recently though, my friends had kept me accompanied in coffee shops or competed with me on eating contests during buffet dinners at Ate Len’s house. Riding the jeep was the best part of getting to her house; I got to see all the shining lights at the bottom of the mountain from Marcos Highway on the way to Balacbac.
Before I went back to Makati, I went to Minesview Park first. That’s where you could find the cheapest strawberry jams and ethnic costumes, and that was when I was reminded that Baguio was not as normal as it seemed. The scenery was breathtaking, plus the feeling of being on top of the world. There was no place like Baguio. I guess it only got lonely when I was still a stranger in that cold land, but the people were nice, food was always great, and Baguio still had the knack of keeping me silent by way of nature.
The last time I went there, a private van drove me home, it was three in the morning, and there was no visible industrial light down Kennon Road. It felt good that at least some cities in the country still had traces of primitivism. People still walked as far as a jeep would take them. Igorots still paraded their costume -- their sense of culture. Flowers still bloomed amidst vehicle smoke. People still went to Burnham to jog on cold mornings despite the stink. They still spoke Ilocano even if Koreans or the Tagalogs were dominating the place. They still sold sundot kulangot, which was almost nonexistent in Manila these days. They still took pride in the beauty of the mountains, which was slowly diminishing.
I lasted for ten months in Baguio without even missing the mall, the internet, or the commercialized things I once got used to in the lowlands. I bet I’m more surprised right now than you are. So I stuck my head out one last time to see the way of life in Baguio and be reminded to go back to basics. I am definitely going back to that place again.
