By Rex Catubig

 

IT was the mid ‘70s: the height of flower power, make love not war, and the iconic peace sign. It was my first trip to good ol’ USA, it was summer, and there was much more to see and experience than the must-visit recreation parks.

Luck stacked in my favor since my sister-in-law had an interior designer cousin who lived in that neck of the woods (that time), the far-flung (then) Mission Viejo in Orange County, California.

She and her architect husband (who designed a popular waterfront restaurant in Marina del Rey) hosted me for a week and took turns in showing me around– the long stretch of orange groves in the back roads, Mission San Juan Capistrano, Laguna Beach, the all-wood Westside Mall and other picturesque places. But the one that really captured my heart was a modest, rustic art fair nestled in a canyon.

It was called the Sawdust Festival in Laguna Canyon. The bucolic setting had a narrow winding pathway lined with Eucalyptus trees and bordered on either side by quaint booths. The ground was strewn with sawdust and shavings, which swished, swooshed, and swirled as you walked by. Folk crafts abound– necklaces and bangles, charms, and chimes, painting and pottery and glass blowing.

The pocket place breathed with creative spirit. It boggled my mind and could only liken it to an LSD trip that was the definitive high of the time. But its subsequent success has made it citified, with the walkways paved, losing the vibe of the rustle of wood shavings beneath one’s feet, and the emotion it stirred.  Meanwhile, the $25 cents entrance fee is but a memory of penny-in-your-pocket times and now tears a hole in the wallet with its $12 price tag.

Still, that singular sentimental experience–the rusticity and simplicity of life it evoked–remains priceless. A treasure of the heart.

It haunts me to this day as it brings to mind a neighboring enclave in Barrio Calmay where I grew up. And some time back, its memory is awakened by the City Mayor’s visit to a Thailand oyster farm.

Our yard fence on one side, served as a demarcation between Calmay Central and Calmay Norte. Across this parallel divide was the sitio simply referred to as Iloko, where the main occupation of the all-Ilokano enclave centered on oysters.

Bounded by the river tributary and by fishponds, the narrow pathways in Iloko were mud dikes, dumped and covered with layers of discarded oyster shells. As you walked, they would crack and crackle under the weight of every step you took.

I went back to the place one time, excited to recapture its picturesque past. Whose image is stuck like oysters on my mind? But there was no more trace of its trademark attribute.

But that left me with the desire to recreate that kind of a village–where the local Talaba culture could be put on touristy display: from the making of the contraption where oysters cling and grow, the diving for oysters by sea-bleached haired divers, and the skilled shucking of oysters by the womenfolk who set the jellylike flesh with its briny natural juice in thick drinking glasses or tincan–“gatang”, ready for sale.

Add to that the mise en scene “garita” stalls with bamboo-slatted tables and “bangko” benches, where fresh oysters could be had for a song for “pulutan” as one gulps down a bottle of beer.

The strong saline stench of the shells tickles my nostrils to this day. The natural rugged ambiance, a fountain of fancy.  But at the end of the day, the prismatic sunset would soften the earthy landscape of sea-kissed shells–and the nostalgic slimy spell of the briny surrounding would succumb to darkness.

Still, my obdurate oyster romance would survive the change of tides and cling to the tentacles of persistent memory.

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