Mountains of Houses

 

By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo        

AT 2:00 a.m. on the eleventh of October, I could only see the darkness from my window. It was to be a seven-hour trip to Baguio City, to catch the church service for the departed mother of Lily, a dear friend. As the bus reached Pugo, I could see the mist slowly rising from the fields and the top of trees. I could feel the energy tingling on my feet. The bus danced on the winding road. I danced. I danced in the erotic silence of primal elements, with the angels ascending and the elves staggering, reluctantly receding into their mystical abodes, after a brief frolic in the mist.

The bus snaked through the sleeping road as the mist slowly uncovered the mountains, mountains of houses, occupying every inch of space, like a head overtaken with lice, where there used to be pine trees. I could remember a time when, the smell of pine trees wafted through the windows, when we would open them to smell the air, back when the air was cool and pure. Back when, you could stop by a lake, or a stream and drink from it, without fear.

As we approached the city, I opened my bag for the woolen shawl, anticipating a very cold weather. Not finding it, I called Abet, to borrow one. What I was able to find in my luggage was the spare shawl made from light gossamer fabric which cannot protect me from the cold. Luckily, the air was warm, and the sky was clear, there was no threat of rain. There was no need for a thicker shawl.

The taxi driver who brought me to Good Taste Café and Restaurant commented that Baguio is no longer the Baguio he knew, the Baguio where at the start of October, he had to wear thick clothes, socks, knitted bonnets and gloves to protect him from cold. Now, what he wears every day, according to him, is a mask, and an attitude of patience as the city’s traffic situation becomes a source of irritation.

Abet and I made it to the chapel, in the middle of the eulogies. I did not see the clear, blue sky opening itself in a cloud of vibrant colors as someone’s camera luckily captured earlier. We sat at the back, missing communion. Lily spotted us as they posed for a family photo and called us to join them, with the photographers asking the tall ones to position themselves in the back.

The convoy of cars inched their way through the traffic, which, according to the driver can be worse, if President Duterte did not declare it a national holiday, the second day of a holiday on account of the strike of jeepney drivers and operators. In the past, jeepney strikes did not merit a holiday, except in very few instances, and only in Metro Manila.

White balloons and white roses were distributed in the cemetery located along the national road, where we cramped together in every available space. I offered my white rose to someone who did not have one, but noticed that two women were holding three roses each, and did not offer theirs to the persons beside them who had none. Those roses were meant to be thrown to the casket as they lower it down to six feet below the ground. As the casket was lowered, the two women remained standing on the steep, narrow steps, far from the casket, and the roses, became prisoners in their hands.

Since I was taking photos, someone suggested I should climb the top portion of a mausoleum, which I declined, fearing retribution from the dead. I was able to catch the release of the balloons, moving through a backdrop of a mountain of houses, some got stuck on a lone pine tree, with one or two balloons flying solo in different directions, and a cluster of nine moving towards a wing-shaped cloud and a blue sky.

I did not have the pleasure of smelling the refreshing essence of the pine trees as they have departed in waves, long ago, with the clouds and the mist, their existence sacrificed for business interests, human habitation and government projects. No flowers on the tree stumps. No balloons. No ceremonies. Just a quiet passing made solemn by the mystical elements, the warmth of the sun and the gentle kiss of the rain.

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