journeying, the journ way

The entire pack sized us up for a minute through inscrutable dark brown eyes before sinking back into the secure confines of their bright-colored homes.

We then headed toward the reception area of the Laguna Pit Bull Rehabilitation Center in Tiaong, Quezon Province and were greeted by two bubbly volunteers, Jeff Diaz and Jay Jao. The center, shared Jeff, is a project of the Compassion and Responsibility for Animals (CARA) Welfare Philippines in cooperation with the Island Rescue Organization (IRO). Through the work of these two animal welfare organizations, an estimated 300 pit bulls were rescued in dogfighting facilities operated by Korean nationals and their Filipino cohorts in San Pablo and Calauan, Laguna in March 2012.

As Jeff continued to speak, I subtly looked back at the dogs, which now looked calm and collected with their tongues sticking out, and tried to absorb what I just learned. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the thought that these dogs were traumatized and found in very poor health and condition—and yet, here they are, getting back to their normal lives, albeit little by little. It was heart-warming and heart-breaking at the same time.

After lunchtime, we gave the Laguna pit bulls some treats. At first I was pretty hesitant, as the child in me had this misconception that pit bulls, among other dog breeds, are aggressive and violent fighting dogs.  But the animal lover in me believed otherwise. And so, not one minute later, I found myself laughing and smiling while I reached over the cages to offer the dogs their food and pet them. It was funny and cute, how all at once they were frantically barking at me just to get my attention, as if yelling, “Where’s my food?!”

And then it was time for walking the dogs. Krixia and I chose to walk Cynthia, as the white and chocolate colored pooch immediately grabbed our attention the very instant we saw her. She was very quiet in her cage—she was perhaps the only one that didn’t bark at all, and just sat down obediently while waiting for her treat.

It turns out, though, that indoor Cynthia was the very opposite of her outdoor counterpart. As soon as she got out from her cage, she started snorting, loudly and uncontrollably.

And it just got worse as minutes passed. “OK,” Krixia said, “now I’m freaked out.”

I, however, started to get the sense that maybe Cynthia was only trying to tell us things. Maybe she had a message—or at least a plan. Why else would she announce herself with startling nostril-blasts? Was she remembering the abuse and neglect she experienced in the past? Was she hurt? Sick? Hungry? Upset?

“Are you sure that’s a pitbull—and not a pig?” Yvette teasingly asked. “That’s exactly my question, too.” I just said, laughing.

On the surface, Binondo looks oppressive, what with its merciless humidity and extra high density living. Chaos mixes with routine, and the only thing constant is dust. The traffic chokes and flows—full of bicycles and motorcycles swerving around cars, FX vans and jeepneys waiting for a full load before going their way, crossing pedestrians and the occasional rickshaw and calesas (horse carriages) clip-clopping along the narrow arteries of downtown Manila. It seems that there are no road rules in the area—or perhaps just none that are followed. And then, amidst all the commotion: masses of lives are cramped in the streets, living on pennies and paper cups, doing whatever they can to get through the day.

But despite all these little nuances, the Chinatown district remains a popular tourist destination. The reason is quite clear: there is an abundance of not only authentic Chinese cuisine, but also age-old landmarks, stores, relics and rituals of both historic and cultural significance.

The place is an active dragon in itself—a long street branching into more side streets, exhibiting color and movement at every turn. Little stalls line the footpaths, selling a variety of delicacies, from hopia (mooncakes) and tikoy (Chinese glutinous rice cakes), to mangoes and oranges organized in small pyramids, and mounds of cabbages, carrots and beans in large cardboard boxes. From temples, to shrines, jewellery shops, and commercial and residential buildings, the place feels, as it has for centuries, like a living testimony of the country’s rich history and legacy.

There is the frenzied race between the new and the old, which seems to make up a massive chunk of Binondo’s personality. Everywhere in this Chinatown district you can find indications of how tradition and modernity marry, on both micro and macro scales. Stiff, spiny buildings and neon-colored billboards, festooned with signs in three languages, are situated just meters behind a Buddhist temple’s decorated awnings. Smartphones bleep in alleyways where the smell of sampaguita billows overhead from long, wiry poles extending from windows and balconies. Chinese businessmen and tourists promenade in the streets with their Converse shoes and Gucci bags, while street vendors sit next to their fruit and vegetable stalls, decked in thin-soled slippers and old hats.

When we reached an alley on one of the edges of Binondo, it doesn’t take much imagination to feel as if we have arrived not at the edge but at the heart of something—an almost literal heart, a gold-plated altar with flowers draping over it and the light of incense and red-colored candles illuminating the scene.

I stand there for a moment, taking it all in: the altar about two meters in front of me, two middle-aged Chinese guys in short-sleeved shirts and khaki pants, a woman whose bags of groceries were arranged neatly on the side—the three of them holding a pair of wooden half disks over their incense sticks, uttering prayers I couldn’t understand.

Behind me, a Filipino street vendor selling candles was slumped over her stall, exhausted and sleepy. I approached her and asked about the religion and the ritual. She looked up at me and said, “It’s Chinese Catholicism—extraordinary, isn’t it?”

“Very,” I replied. “But what are those half disks for?”

“They use those wooden half disks to have their fortunes told. They ask a question answerable by ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and then they throw the disks to the floor. Identical faces mean ‘no’ while opposing figures mean ‘yes.’”

“Wow, that’s amazing! And the smoke?”

“The Chinese believe smoke is a way to connect the world of the living with the realm of the dead.”

Right then, I breathe in the small clouds of incense smoke—and strangely, it felt as if I’ve inhaled a spirit, something breathing and alive.

But none of this is the most interesting part of the trip. The most interesting part—the reason I endured the hour-long train ride and all the congested, polluted roads just to get there—occurred when I was about to leave the town.

On the bridge below the arch that says “Welcome to Manila Chinatown,” there was an old man with his almost bald head bowed over a paper takeaway plate. As I walked through the bridge, I watched as half of his rice meal slopped over his shirt when he tried to raise the plate to his lips. The last thing I saw was the skin, wrinkled but smooth, where his eyes were supposed to be.

It was a strange moment full of contrasts and irony—an eyeless, homeless local staying right under the arch of Chinatown; a lonely slowpoke who barely fits in with the crowd and commotion of everything. 

The restaurant is the third establishment of Henry Nguyen, a half Filipino, half Vietnamese businessman. In February 2010 he opened the notably successful Ba Noi’s hole-in-the-wall branch in Legaspi Village, Makati, and was almost immediately followed by another branch in Kapitolyo, Pasig. Nguyen will add one more link to the current Vietnamese cuisine craze, but there are no specific details yet other than it will be built in the prime business district of Bonifacio Global City (BGC) in Makati.

After much indecisiveness over whether to eat at a Greek or Vietnamese restaurant, my friends and I finally decided to eat at the latter. There were very few people when we walked into Ba Noi’s, probably because it was a damp, breezy Tuesday afternoon—an odd time to chow down on some hearty Vietnamese lunch. But for an empty, grumbling stomach, there was no such thing as an odd time at all.

As soon as we entered the dining area, we were quickly led to a table and offered glasses of water and lemongrass iced tea. At first I hesitated to drink the tea, but when my friends told me it was good, I took a generous sip too. It was shockingly delightful, had a lemony aroma and a hint of menthol, and a subtle, sweet aftertaste that lingers in your mouth for quite a long time.

We were handed two menus: the regular one and the student special. Then, we surrendered our school IDs to Catherine, our waitress, for verification. The regular menu has five sections: noodles, appetizer and salad, main entrée, desserts, and beverages. Dish prices range from P190 to P350, and beverages range from P90 to P120. The student special offers five discounted meals to choose from, all for less than P200. We had to use our fingers to point our orders one by one to Catherine, because even though Vietnamese dishes had terrific names, we couldn’t properly pronounce them. 

I don’t believe I’ve ever had a server at lunch more welcoming and attentive than Catherine, who, I later learned, is also the branch supervisor of the restaurant. She wore a red polo shirt neatly tucked in black pants and a smile on her face, and said “good afternoon” so enthusiastically I had to look up to check if she was some acquaintance of mine. She was eager to answer all of our questions, too—be it a simple, “What are your bestsellers?” (answer: almost everything, but mostly their pho) or a totally strange, “How long have you been working for Ba Noi’s?” (answer: since its opening).

Our meals arrived about 15 minutes later, and our table looked like a feast of carbs and proteins right away. Different smells, different colors made the abyss that is my stomach growl all the more. My friends and I ordered four student specials and four different kinds of dessert, one for each of us, and then one serving of soup and one plate of simmered pork and egg for sharing.

I ate the pho bo ko (pronounced fuh-bu-ko) first, a classical Vietnamese soup of rice noodles in a beef broth. Influenced by the Chinese, who imported noodles and spices, and the French, who introduced meat, the word pho is often said to be derived from pot-au-feu (literally, pot on fire), a traditional French way of cooking meat and vegetables gradually in water. It is Vietnam’s history in a bowl—a perfect example of colonialism leaving its mark without compromising the country’s identity.

The soup was complex and generous, gratifyingly fragrant, and was rich with the flavors of pepper, chopped scallion and cilantro. The soft, slippery feel of the rice noodles worked surprisingly well with the coarse texture of the other ingredients. The soup disappointed me though, but thankfully, not terribly. It was too bland for my taste. I later learned the reason behind it: Ba Noi’s do not use monosodium glutamate in their meals. “That’s something we’re really proud of,” Catherine bragged.

Succinctly, the pho was reminiscent of Vietnam’s battle-scarred history: warfighters who had no choice but to eat pho over and over, as it can be whipped up in a hurry and ready to eat in a matter of minutes; and locals who relied heavily on food they can easily get their hands on. 

I ate the student special meal next. It’s called ga nuong, a bowl of grilled, lemongrass-marinated chicken served with rice and vegetables. The chicken was lightly smoked, tender and unusually sweet, and I enjoyed it immediately after the first bite.  The lettuce was cool and crisp as it should be, while the radish and carrots were pickled, crunchy and tasted a little sour. The consistency of the ingredients was perfect, and they paired well together.

The yin and yang principle, which is applied in Vietnamese meals, worked evidently well in my ga nuong—as the tender complemented the crisp, and the sour balanced the sweet.

Then came the dessert—banh dan lon, a warm pandan-flavored rice cake filled with mung bean, drizzled with chilled coconut milk and sesame seeds. Again, the yin and yang principle was applied. It looked like a kutsinta with the consistency of a sapin-sapin, and the coconut milk and sesame seeds were nice touches that added depth to the flavor.

Apparently, pressed rice cakes such as this became popular during the war with America, as a durable and lightweight ration. It was possibly the best kakanin I’ve tasted, and my favourite of all the meals we ordered. Save the best for last, indeed.

When our meal was over, after roughly two hours of eating, my friends and I asked Catherine what sets Ba Noi’s apart from other Vietnamese restaurants. Straight away, she said, “We value the authenticity of our food. But more than that, we know how important good service is.”

“We’re almost here,” my friend said. I just nodded at her and stretched my arms over my head.

Last night, at about 6 o’clock, we were at the waiting lounge of the Naga City station. It was purely out of an impulse that we decided to take the train instead of a bus or plane.

Restored in 2011, the Bicol Express train is a long-distance commuter rail service operated by the Philippine National Railways (PNR). It is offered on a daily basis between Manila and Naga, running mostly during night time.

The Naga station was not crowded when we were there. There were not much passengers – only three men with dead-pan faces, a family of five, a mother with a child across her shoulder, and clusters of locals and tourists dressed in shirts and trousers. Perhaps, it’s because it was mid-May and most people were travelling to the provinces.

The sleeper coach tickets that my friend and I got were discounted at just P700, but its original price is P950. The train also offers executive sleepers (single-berth compartments) for P1,425, reclining seats with individual armrests for P550, and economy seats for P415.

For overnight journeys, both the sleepers and seats are pretty comfy to sleep in. And all the while, the stark difference between the metropolis and the countryside – the haunting portraits of homelessness and poverty, the barns and telling facts of rural living, and the majestic view of Mayon’s perfect cone – unfolds right in front of the windows at exaggerated speed. The only trouble is that every now and then, the train wobbles due to the poor condition of some rails.

Nevertheless, travelling by train is the perfect escapade for adventurous backpackers and curious vacationers alike – as it is cheaper and more rewarding, and it’s the best way to get a glimpse of the different cultures of the different parts of the country.

I had seen it many times, passed by it many times, but it was first time to actually go there and bask in its wonders. I walked along the streets for some time, and at last I reached the river. On one of rocks along the river’s edge, a lone figure sat huddled – glimmering eyes, a tuft of thick, silver hair, a tobacco pipe hanging from her mouth. Before I could even say “hello,” the figure turned to look at me. She was an old lady, a beautiful one – she looked like an owlet in the riverside moonlight air.

She pointed at the rock beside her and said, in a soft tone, “Come, sit with me.”

Without hesitation, I sat down on the edge of a rock, took off my shoes, and dipped my toes into the water. The cold, strong surge of it felt good to my feet. There was such stillness there, amongst the light of the moon, amongst the foliage, amongst all the quiet shades of green and grey.

She kept her eyes on me, hushed and calm. To break the silence, I asked, “What are you doing here at this time of the night, nanay?”

“I live there,” she said, and then pointed at a yellow-lit bungalow along a long street dotted with old, musky houses. 

Nanay’s name is Doriana. She’s 78. Almost every night, she told me, she sits along the river. When I asked her why, she simply smiled and said, “Being one with nature is such a beautiful thing to be. If you closed your eyes hard enough, you could make out the sound of a flute.”

Sometimes, you bump into total strangers and they touch you in ways you wouldn’t expect and say all the things you didn’t realize you needed to hear.