By Rex Catubig

 

AN SOS from atanor Lilia Tuason  sent this nocturnal senior scurrying through the maze of Galvan street market in search of burong dalag in the heat of midmorning. Not that she is conceiving the immaculate way but it was a favor for a friend.

I’m loath to go out at this time of the day as the heat is like kryptonite that enervates me. But no one ever says no to our class queen.

It was easy enough to locate where the prize stuff was being sold –in the shadow of the old city hall that has been demolished. Buron sira come in batches in a row of basins with mountainous mounds of what look like white dough that’s covered by  plastic sheets. Actually, buro is no more than scoops of fermented rice sandwiched between pried open fermented fish. Piled high, they appear like risen dough. With a pungent scent and taste, liking it is a matter of “acquired taste”.

They come in several fish variants, but this morning of all other mornings, no dalag was in sight. I had to use my geriatric persuasion to get the seller minding the table, a young winsome girl, to call for replenishment.  But it would take at least 30 minutes of wait.

So I got sidetracked into doing some grocery to while away the wait.

When I went back to the buro stall, the order had not arrived yet. So I limped through to Malimgas to look for a news stand I was directed to. That sent me through the nook and cranny of the market where finally my search ended up in an obscure corner where pages and pages of newsprint lay hidden in plain sight. The small wooden sign above the stall read ‘Ruisan’s’. It is reputed to be the only existing newspaper outlet—a vintage news and magazine shrine dating back to the heyday of tabloids, newspapers, comics, and magazines. I was thrilled to discover this temple of printed page and got my Sunday PUNCH– and it was worth the labyrinthine route.

But what really made my day after the protracted wait for the burong dalag, was the sight  along the market alley of the legendary golden fruit with a crown–Casuy or Maloco it is called. The sight conjured memories of its juicy, pungently sweet pulp that one sucked the goodness of. And who could forget the unmistakable scent of its nut as it was roasted over charcoal? The rural legend had it that the wafting scent was deadly if inhaled by free range chickens. I never really saw it happened but the belief stuck.

On days like this, when body and soul get weary with age, enervated by the morning humidity, what better way to seek shade and cool off than under the canopy of cool reminiscences of halcyon days. The market is a memory lane shrouded by boughs of summer memories.

Suddenly, I was a young boy, tugging at the outstretched hand of my mother, urging her to buy me a glass of ruby red gulaman. It was such a refreshing drink. A perfect libation for a boy’s thirst. And even when tired feet bogged you down, it made the spirit soar.

Days of youth do not last long, but they leave memories that rise and meander like squiggly heat waves in midmorning heat.#

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