After an excruciatingly long bus ride (no one informed me of the deluxe, quick, no stop-over ride!), I reached Baguio, had a bit of difficulty looking for Teacher's Camp, which was worrying me a bit, as I practically didn't know anyone in my work yet (it was my first time to meet them all). I managed to ride a cab which took me there, but the other problem was how to find the cottage they were in. Thankfully the cottage was easiest to spot, as it belongs to the DepEd Secretary himself.
Details about my work won't be included, but there is one occasion worthy to mention. It is something which is imprinted on my mind's eye; one late afternoon, I was having a rather animated conversation with someone about traveling, philosophy, art and our passions in life, when the fog suddenly descended upon us, partially hiding from us our view of the tall, stately trees and the majestic mountains which framed the area we were in. It was an eerily beautiful picture of nature shrouded in white, set against a darkening background. We were quite blue from the cold, but everyone rushed to get their cameras and tripods to try to capture the moment. It was only then that I began missing my own camera.
After work, I decided to stay a couple more days to enjoy the place. I have to admit that as early as arriving in Baguio, I was beginning to fall in love again with the place. I say "again" because as a child, I used to spend my summers there; the lone memory which lingers is that of me gathering twigs to help start the fireplace at night where we all huddled together, sharing ghost stories and s'mores which burnt to a crisp as we sat enthralled (more like frightened to the point of immobility), listening to our helper's stories.
My first stop after leaving them (they had to stay to finish more work; I was pretty much done with mine) was Mines View Park. The place has expanded to amazing proprtions, and the shops naturally lured me in. I bought a set of those black, wooden displays of Igorots dancing, pounding rice, etc; my favourite being that of a girl and boy traveler which, the enterprising lady said, would bring luck. Inwardly I crossed my fingers and wished for more travels like the one I was in.
I bought the usual pasalubongs such as Butter Oats, Lengua, and Peanut Brittle; I had a plasticful of keychains whose designs ranged from guitars to dreamcatchers, a couple of shirts, and others. Walking back up, I saw a stall selling knives and my heart skipped a beat; I was so excited I am sure I bought them for thrice their original price! They're very beautiful and have sheaths on them, so they're perfect.
Straddled with all those, I went back to my hotel for a quick change. I then went to SM Baguio--a quick trip to Booksale of course, and to other similar places of interest.
Next day I went to the market, and this was what really got me depressed about not having a camera with me. I felt like a cripple without a camera. There were beautiful sights all around me and I was cursing myself, at the rate of maybe 5x a minute, about not going to Hidalgo and having my camera fixed. My favourite spot was a semi-secluded narrow street with a long row of squatting ladies selling banana que and carioca, alternately fanning themselves and their sweets: bananas and the sticky round balls whose melted sugar dripped on the fire, making loud cracking and popping noises while giving off the strong smell of caramel.
Recently I read de Botton's book, "The Art of Travel," which made mention of the use (and abuse) of cameras. In a chapter on the city and the countryside, with Ruskin as the "guiding" philosopher, de Botton reminded us of how we often let the camera do all the looking.
"Rather than using photography as a supplement to active, conscious seeing, they used it as an alternative, paying less attention to the world than they had done previously from a faith that photography automatically assured them possession of it."
Indeed, most of us have the drive to take possession of something; in a material-driven world where everything is instant, we want even a beautiful memory to be preserved quickly, and what better tool to help us accomplish this than a camera? Yet with all the good that it does, it also helps us in forgetting to actually look, thinking that we are bottling up these sights, these memories, so that when we get back to the safety of our own homes, detached and far away from the sticky hot perspiration that trickles on our back, and the flies which we can't stop swatting, we can upload all the beautiful sights and look at them behind the careful, sanitized screens of our laptops, which will bring back the memories and allow us a story or two to tell an intrepid friend or neighbour.
I must admit that I have been guilty of this; sometimes I go around, selfishly (endlessly) snapping pictures of a place, as if I were in the act of bottling up small objects. I fail to actually "see" what it is right in front of me; forgetting to appreciate the intricate details of a Church's massive door or the careful preparation that goes into making broas, thinking that I will have the pleasure to do so, once I've uploaded my pictures to my laptop.
But what I have failed to realize is the difference between actually seeing something unfold right in front of you, in succession to your emotions, and seeing, or rather reviewing, something by watching a series of pictures in front of my computer screen.
When I was telling a good friend about my trip to Baguio and how I felt like a crippled traveler not having a camera, his quick and precise reply was, "but sometimes that helps you see even more clearly!"
Without a camera I saw how the city woke up; its inhabitants peddling all sorts of things. I saw a place rich in culture and history as I peeked inside casseroles upon casseroles of food inside a long stretch of food stalls; something akin to a mall's foodcourt. I was touched to hear a lady say "mangan" and smile to me, as I stood there mesmerized at the noise, the colours, the smells of all kinds of food. With my eyes, I tasted the food, I touched the huge flowers Baguio is so famous for and watched the petals bloom in my hands. I was game and played the role of a silly, gullible, first-time tourist, and loved every minute of it.
Perhaps getting reacquainted with Baguio called for open and innocent eyes, unhampered by anything.
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