By Rex Catubig

 

Note: I am reprising this piece that I wrote four years ago, in the early years of my retirement. Since then, the seasonal activity that was my subject has not really changed much—as if frozen in time, caught in the time capsule of the holiday season. And years hence, it has not ceased to fascinate me–its mundane yet romantic nature has not diminished over time.

The fiesta frolic is not complete without a visit to the certified blockbuster feature–the holiday bazaar on Galvan Street. Generically referred to as baratilyo, this street bonanza showcases a surreal array of motley clothing, walls of shoes and slippers, prismatic sunglasses adorning wire trees, cornucopia of food, fruits, vegetables, and every conceivable retail temptation—in a claustrophobic alley illumined by a combo of harsh LED and garish blacklight, creating a discombobulated feeling.

The baratilyo is a throbbing microcosm, a lively world in a capsule: a mish-mash convention of man and mammon, commerce and culture.

Cramped along the narrow street along the side of the CSI Square, one wriggles through the throng of sweaty bargain hunters, like rapacious rats on the prowl, sniffing out savory sales.

Midway, blaring in the dense air is the voice of a disembodied barker rapping over and over a hypnotic mantra seducing your being into buying the merchandise: One easily succumbs to the sales pitch and is sucked into the cacophony of the moment.

As one ventures on and slithers towards the open end of the retail culvert, one is greeted by the refreshing lush green, winsome yellow, and vibrant orange of fruits and vegetables–attractively arranged and piled in pyramid rows, while the mixed vegetables are instagramable in wicker trays.

One is smitten by the artistic pakbet groupings—where all the veggies for the recipe are presented in a painterly canvas of colors, forms, and textures. An eye-catcher is the stylish set of long-stemmed kalabasa buds and flowers, paired with some leafy vegetables, that looks like a stunning floral arrangement. This innate artistry of the vegetable vendors in their organic creations is truly amazing. You get to appreciate these once plain, ordinary, unappealing veggies in a new light, as they appear beauteously appetizing.

Winding up my baratilyo excursion, I stumble on this huge white mound wrapped in plastic that rests on a buksot–a bamboo basket. It is buron Gele-Gele: salted fish of that variant, stuffed and encrusted with fermented rice—to be sauteed in oil with onions and tomatoes. It’s the epitome of Pangasinan gourmet cuisine, an indigenous delicacy that would have titillated Anthony Bourdain’s palate and would have won the nod of curious chefs.

Tired and overwhelmed, one elbows his way out of this dizzying mise-en-scene, sweating and gasping for air, nonetheless feeling jubilant–having braved the steamy heat, mayhem, and the madding crowd. Grateful and delighted in having ventured through the innards of this archetypal matrix, and discovering pleasures and treasures not found in some sanitized air-conditioned cavernous mall.

Yes, at the baratilyo, one becomes a merry morsel of this steamy, zesty pot of human stew–harking back to the primordial soup that was the precursor of man. At some point, one evolves into a chameleon and merges inexorably with the habitat; one becomes one with the setting. It’s a return to time and clime.

Then it hits you—it’s like how it all started—from the primal navel of chaos, the Big Bang. Yes, the baratilyo leads the way back to the primeval tumult and into the present psychedelic dream.

Baratilyo, you are my home.