Journeying back in time to Pagsanjan
SOUTHERN EXPOSURE (CONCLUSION)
IF you take the national highway, you are welcomed twice into Pagsanjan via two arches. As I savored the ride of our uber-comfortable Toyota Alphard, gassed up with the Platinum fuel of Caltex with Techron (now with Clean & Glide technology), I keenly noted it when I passed the second arch – with its aging, crumbling bones. Known as the Puerto Real or Arco Real, its three Roman arches were built from 1878 to 1880. The landmark fashioned of adobe stones, lime, and carabao milk honors the patroness of the municipality, Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Legend has it that a beautiful lady in white, brandishing a sword, turned back a group of bandits who planned on plundering Pagsanjan. The lady had proclaimed that the town was under her protection. Spooked, the would-be marauders turned around.
Today, the aforementioned arch might give uninitiated motorists pause as they are confronted with two choices. Should they pass the middle archway or the right one (you can actually choose to pass either – carefully, of course)? The smaller arches can prove a little daunting, especially if you’re foolish enough to approach it with a good amount of speed.
Pagsanjan is technically eight kilometers shy of a hundred from Manila, but it surely doesn’t feel that way for anyone who has his roots there. I was a young kid when I first started taking the bus there with my lolo. Later, we’d take the family car. Lastly, when I finally secured my license, I deigned to venture out for out-of-town excursions. Pagsanjan has always been there – not too close and not too far. I never thought of it as quaint, different or even rural. I don’t blame people for thinking about “shooting the rapids,” or of the brave boatmen who try to hail you from the road, or even the local, freshly made delicacies like the espasol, late-lamented bulkan (from the defunct Victoria Bakery which we terribly miss), pilipit, and a myriad of other Laguna delights. It was simply a second home where people talked with a little singsong. It was and is our Pagsanjan.
Originally a barrio of Lumban, the story goes Pagsanjan was founded in 1668 by eight Japanese and Chinese traders “highly impressed by the strategic location of the barrio at the juncture of Balanac and Bumbungan.” Pagsanjan. com. ph continues that a trading settlement was soon established, and inhabitants and engaged in the production of betelnut.
Famous author, historian, and politician Gregorio Zaide was also a proud Pagsanjeño who described Pagsanjan as “famous in song and story… It is world-renowned not only because of the Pagsanjan Falls, whose enchanting beauty fascinates tourists from all corners of the globe, but also because of its panoramic vistas, its fine homes and lovely women, and its talented citizens, whose achievements in war and peace reflect glory to the Filipino nation, and its cosmopolite culture which is a harmonious amalgam of Asian, Hispanic, Mexican, and American heritage.”
The mint-colored ancestral home of our branch of the Macedas on Barrio San Sebastian has also always stood like a reassuring, familiar friend. I was lucky to have been born when my great-grandparents were still alive, although I do not have memories of my lolo – who passed on when I was but two. Still, I have enough memories of the place that my maternal ancestors built to feel at home when I’m there.
Peering into the collection of framed family photos stacked on the wall just by the dining room, Janeena Chan, Mara Tanchanco, Samantha Ty and Annie Villamiel ask me where I am among the faces that look back at us. Nobody can guess, so I point to my image in a few of the black-and-white, sometimes faded, photos.
Earlier, we had visited Step-Rite, a certified landmark establishment in Pagsangan that began selling footwear 52 years ago. We talked to its co-owner, Leo Collantes, an 89- year- old retired schoolteacher, and met Florante Pili, who has been making shoes for the better part of two decades. My young wards’ eyes brightened at the display of inexpensive, quality footwear. Janeena expressed additional amazement at the branding of Step-Rite. “I never thought they had something like this here,” she said. “It’s like Marikina!”
The four girls chided me for not getting a matching pair of slippers as they did. Really. “They don’t have it in my size,” I sneered.
Back at the Maceda house, I show them the framed college diplomas of my grandparents – the three daughters and two sons of Zosimo and Maria Maceda. We agree that it’s poignant for diplomas to still hang in their hallowed places by the pasilio leading to the large second-floor picture window. They’re lingering reminders of the pride of my greatgrandparents must have felt to know that all of their children completed their college education.
Only one of Zosimo and Miring’s children is alive today, but their descendants continue to take pains to preserve the home – which now serves as a modest vacation place. Much of the original wooden planks survive, even if significant renovation work has been performed.
To this day, you can still find three holes that line up from one side of the house to the other. It marks the path of a bullet fired in the throes of a gunfight during World War II. Everytime I see the particularly nasty scar on one of the inner doors, I wonder of the terror that must have gripped the neighborhood that day.
We take selfies by the large picture window overlooking the busy street in front. Vehicles rumble by on the asphalt. Sitting on an antique tumba-tumba (rocking chair), I narrate to the girls how simple life was back then – in much the same way my late lolo Virgilio used to do. Back then, everyone knew everyone. Bereft of mobile gadgets, people had time to be, well, neighborly. They’d talk to many who would pass in front of the house.
“You’re lucky to still have this house,” Annie later comments.
“I know,” I say, almost absently. Admittedy, I feel sad at remembering those who had left, because memories of my lolos and lolas remain as tangible as the wooden posts of the house at Pagsanjan. I sometimes expect a loud voice to call me to lunch or merienda, or ask me to join in mopping the floor or step on a bunot.
Those are days long gone, of course, but never the memories. And I hope never the house, too.