FeaturesFour snippets of Dumaguete

Four snippets of Dumaguete

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At the Painitan

Dumaguete mornings begin with various rhythms coming together to create a special urban song—the roar of tricycles weaving around other vehicles trying to get to their destinations, the sighs of street vendors preparing their stalls for the long hot day ahead, the crackle of fresh produce seasoning the morning breeze. But for many Dumagueteños, mornings begin at the painitan.

The painitan, I’ve since learned, comes from the Bisaya meaning “to heat.” Dumaguete’s painitan is really a row of eateries lined up along a narrow road named Katada Street [the second one so-named in the city] beside the bustling public market. The special delicacy to be had by everyone is the puto maya—essentially sticky rice steamed in coconut milk; or budbod—which is special glutinous rice wrapped in banana leaves; both are best consumed with sikwate, or the hot chocolate drink made from native cacao. The painitan promises no fancy menus or extravagant dishes—just a place to sit, have good food, and enjoy great company.

Our morning drive going there was semi-quiet, as my siblings and I sang along to the country songs my brother had hooked up in the car to his Spotify. My brother, the designated driver, dropped my sister and I near the market, since parking was impossible near the painitan. I watched as he drove off to find a viable parking spot somewhere else before we made our way into the mouth of the market. As we stepped into the bustle of the place, I hesitated, unsure of where the exact location of the painitan was. I debated on asking around where I might find it; but the market was a complete zoo. It was a maze of color, scents, and movements—everything so far away from my usual routine. The smell of freshly chopped pork and fish lingered in the air. I watched as my sister scrunched up her nose, determined to hold her breath until we passed the fish stands. Despite my own discomfort, I felt a quiet sense of pride rushing through me: I was far beyond my comfort zone but I decided to embrace it all.

I stepped into one of the eateries at the painitan, and enjoyed the morning life ringing around me. It was great to see and hear the scrapping of banana leaves off of the budbod, the silver spoons clinking against the ceramic cups, and the friendly chatter of customers sharing various stories of their lives with each other. There was an elderly woman in the middle of it all who caught my attention. She spoke to me: “Maayong buntag! Unsa’y imong ganahan?” What would you like to eat? I remembered my friends telling me to try to the puto maya and sikwate, so I ordered these for myself. I sat on the nearest bench and watched carefully as the woman prepared my order, poured out thick and dark sikwate into the cups. As she prepared the rest of my breakfast, I overheard the conversation of a couple of men behind me.

“Remember when we were still college students in the 1980s?” said one. “This seems like a lifetime ago.”

Sakto, dong,” replied the other. “Oy, we were so poor back then. Remember Ate Bing? She was so kind. Even when we didn’t have enough money, she took care of us.”

As I sipped my sikwate, I heard the faint crackle of radio in the background—the murmur of a morning talk show mingling with the white noises of the rest of the painitan morning. I wondered if this was considered normal. I was used to loud noises, yes, but for the most part only the loud beeping of unruly people in traffic making their way through rush hour. I turned to face the narrow road, which was barely enough room for two vehicles to drive through—but there was space enough for motorcycles to zoom by. A quick glance at Katada Street transported me back to Colon Street in Cebu City, my hometown—which was one of the few places back home which I did my best to try to avoid, because I’d hear stories about stabbings and pickpocketing going on there. I wondered: was this painitan considered a safe place to hang out?

The place suddenly swelled with people. I see a bunch of barkadas dressed in red for the Lunar New Years, gathering for breakfast at the painitan. I see more motorcycles weaving through the packed street, their engine revving. I soon wondered aloud: “How are people awake right now?” But my voice felt small against the merry chaos around me. Oddly enough, I was struck by an odd sense of feeling insignificant. The people were speaking in deep Bisaya, which was too fast for me and I could barely follow what everyone was saying. I felt out of place.

There was a group of high schoolers sitting right in front of me, with everyone’s hair still looking deeply disarrayed, perhaps from a night out. I could see the specter of sleepiness hanging over them as they squabbled over whose turn it was to pay.

“It’s your turn, kuya! Remember, I paid last time.”

“Bitaw, plus you’re the eldest.”

Then they all chanted in unison: “Kuya… kuya…”

“Argh. Fine,” the designated ‘kuya’ responded. “Ako na lang gud.”

They all laughed.

In the midst of all the chaos, I found there was something comforting about the whole place. The painitan smacked of tradition, of unspoken culinary rituals—things that bind the community with the fact of the simplicity of life.

My morning began with my restless spirit, as if I were a honey badger waking up from a nap; and now I feel a kind of peace, and all my feelings of worry slipping away. I allowed the warmth to settle in me, realizing that sometimes stepping into the unknown can lead to the most authentic experience.

We soon bid our leave to the painitan. I took one last glance at the market as we waited for my brother to pick us up near Holy Child Hospital. I took in the food, the chatter, the moment, the routine of the people around me—I was experiencing all these for the first  time in Dumaguete, but what I saw was life. Life as an opportunity to bond through simple activities such as a breakfast of puto maya and sikwate.

 

At Scooby’s Portal West

Scooby’s wasn’t crowded, which was nice. When I came in, there was just a handful of Scooby’s staff in white uniform and hairnets and gray aprons with the Scooby’s logo printed on their chests. I looked around. The walls of the place carry a mix of textures: exposed brick adorned with framed portraits of musicians and vinyl records. A small sign reads: “Music Connects People.” Above that, a wooden loft-style railing led to an upper seating area. Then I saw other bold signs painted in bright colors which read: “Live Out Loud” and “Follow Your Bliss.”

I ordered and paid ₱200—and got ₱45 in change, which meant my banana shake cost ₱110, and the leche flan was ₱45. Not bad. The cashier handed me a small rectangular buzzer with “No. 15” emblazed on it. I found a seat near the counter. A pair of people behind me spoke in Bisaya. To my left, someone sat alone. It felt like one of those moments where everything was just… still.

Then “Domino” by Jessie J started playing.

Oh, f—yeah. A grin crept onto my face. That’s what I’m talking about.

The beat filled the space, cutting through the café’s quiet energy. I tapped my fingers against the table as Jessie J belted out Ooh ooh oohs. And then I saw a quiet girl sitting nearby perking up as a friend approached.

“Hi, Gabe,” her friend greeted.

Gabe watched her friend slide into the seat across from her. “Class at ten?”

“Yeah,” her friend nodded.

They settled in, falling into easy conversation.

Gabe poked at her plate. “Pancake’s pretty good.”

“The pancake or the bag?” her friend teased.

Gabe shrugged. “Both?”

I find that conversations like theis always had a natural rhythm, the kind that made time pass a little easier. Then my buzzer vibrated against the table. My order was here.

The banana shake was smooth, cold, perfect. The leche flan had that melt-in-your-mouth texture—exactly what I needed. I tuned back in to Gabe’s conversation with her friend, their voices threading through the background music.

“You been buying more stuff in Manila?” her friend asked.

Gabe nodded. “Yeah. School supplies, mostly. Pikachu store had something for ₱99.”

Her friend tilted her head. “You still collecting stuff?”

Gabe smirked. “Of course.”

Her friend leaned in, taking in her look. “I like your makeup.”

“Thank you.” Gabe flashed a small smile.

Then “Bang Bang” came on.

Gabe gasped. “F—g nice!”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” I murmured under my breath.

They switched topics again, this time to perfume.

Gabe held up her wrist. “I swear, this is my favorite scent ever.”

Her friend took a sniff. “Wanna find a guy to buy it for you?” she teased.

Gabe snorted. “I’d rather just buy it myself.”

“What scent is it?”

“The orange one,” Gabe said, frowning. “Still, would you say it smells similar to this?”

“Mm, different. But same kind of vibe.”

Then the mood shifted.

“What happened with Pisay?” Gabe asked. “Gone for good?”

Her friend sighed, tapping her fingers against the table. “Yeah.”

Gabe raised a brow. “Big fight?”

Her friend exhaled. “Yeah. We were all just chilling, drinking, talking—and then someone brought up Paulo.”

“How low?”

“She said he was twenty-five,” her friend muttered. “And I was like, yeah.” And she added: “I thought he was twenty-one.’”

Gabe frowned. “Wait, Doria didn’t know Paulo’s not your age?”

“No. And I wasn’t even in my right mind when I found out.” Not that Paulo was older, but that Doria found out Paulo was older.

Silence.

Gabe clicked her tongue. “Damn.”

“It just spiraled from there. Doria got all sharp, like, how did you not tell me when I didn’t know?

“She doesn’t like being wrong,” Gabe muttered.

“Nope.”

There was a pause, then Gabe leaned forward. “So what now?”

Her friend shrugged. “They haven’t talked since.”

“That bad?”

“Yeah.”

Then “Payphone” by Maroon 5 began humming in the background.

“If I were in that position,” Gabe said, “I’d fix the friendship. But that’s just me. Situational.”

“I think they’re both too prideful,” her friend admitted.

“Yeah,” Gabe nodded. “I get that.”

Another silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the café and Adam Levine’s voice.

“Jesus,” Gabe muttered. “It’s like hanging out, but with tension.”

Her friend sighed. “Yeah, we can’t all hang out anymore.”

Gabe exhaled, then, softer: “I love you guys, though.”

Her friend smiled. “I know. I don’t wanna force Doria, though. If she’s ready to apologize, she’ll do it on her own.”

“She said that?”

“She said she wanted to apologize,” her friend clarified. “But then she said, I’m not apologizing.

“Oh my god,” Gabe groaned, rubbing her temples. “It used to be so simple between them.”

Her friend just shrugged. “Not really a fight, but something needed to be said. And no one’s saying it.”

Gabe shook her head. “Doria won’t reach out first?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

Then “Baby” by Justin Bieber started playing. Gabe snorted. “Of course.”

The conversation drifted back to school, to schedules, to gym plans. Normal things. Then her friend stood up, grabbing her stuff.

“Bye, love you,” she said.

“Love you too,” Gabe replied.

And just like that, the moment ended.

I leaned back, spooning another bite of leche flan into my mouth as “Teenage Dream” by Katy Perry played in the background. Peace.

 

At ‘Nature’ beside Heflin Hall, SU Campus

I would not sit at Nature if I could help it. The last time I lingered around the moss of my own volition, it was two years ago when I was draped in a matching green, posing for campaign photos for a legislative body election I would end up not winning.

But the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees and dappled what it could, still. Students sat, some seeking respite after their classes, some waiting for their next class to start. I was hard pressed to find a spare place to roost, and settled for the bench haloing the large tree. Cowboy boots, miniskirt, and all—I was a prospector ready to wring out a hypothetical gold mine for all it was worth.

And I didn’t have to wait too long. A switched out table later, and my worst nightmare: a gaggle of four lanky men, hunched over to twiddle their fingers about things that did not concern me, but that would infuriate me nonetheless. Black tees and ill-fitting jeans and all.

“But she likes games like Baldur’s Gate 3—”

“—Baldur’s Gate 3 is ass, dawg. Red flag. You’re cooked.”

Lie. Baldur’s Gate 3 was a storytelling masterpiece. It had more content than the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy combined. It was a masterclass in video game writing. A triple A game with heart. A love letter to Dungeons & Dragons.

It didn’t help that I was currently engrossed in it. An unfortunately timely topic.

“I don’t think so. It’s not a bad game.”

“It’s annoying as fuck. Nobody actually plays it to play a video game, they play it to simp over the mid characters. Body type A, body type B bullshit.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

If he was, why say it laughing?

They continued on like that for a while, talking about shows and games I did not care enough to know about, or was saved from by virtue of my better taste. The only particularly loud one led the group in conversation, with only one fully engaging in him whenever he did, the other two content to sit on their phones and scroll through whatever inane reels their Instagrams had to offer.

“You think I wanted her to break up with me?”

Ah.

“She belongs to the streets, brother.”

Ah. My cue to leave.

 

At the Tempurahan

It was a cold Wednesday evening, around 6 o’clock. I asked a friend to go with me to the Rizal Boulevard. We hailed a cab; the tricycle driver’s wife was seated behind him on the motorcycle.

The wife said: “Ato na unta ‘to bayaran daan sunod semana, aron ma impas na.”

The diver, her husband, replied: “Pila pa gali kulang ato?”

“4k na ‘lay kulang sa Smart TV.”

“Aww, Smart TV diay ‘to?”

Even before my friend and I dismounted from the tricycle, the roaring waves were audible to us from the distance. With them came a strong, cold wind that sprayed on the pavement of the Boulevard. As we came closer, I could smell the saltiness of the ocean water and see the waves splashing above the ledge. It was almost as if it were precipitating; everywhere, there was a fine mist.

The darkening evening was contrasted by the lights that illuminated the Pantawan as well as the lights of the motorcycles on the street. As we walked around, I was surprised to see there were still a lot of people despite the cold weather, which was threatening for yet another rainfall. [These past few days, it has been raining a lot, which was something I was not used to in Dumaguete.]

The people at the Pantawan mostly came in pairs, or in flocks with their pets or peers. There were also people in sports shorts, jogging around and sweating despite the numbing cold. I saw a lot of senior citizens. I saw many couples holding hands. Despite the throng, the Pantawan felt peaceful. The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the breakwater, mixed with the occasional chatter of passersby, created a scenic atmosphere.

I saw a young couple do a TikTok dance. My friend and I tried sitting nearby on one of the benches and attempted to eavesdrop on them, but they were talking like mice—we could barely hear anything. We tried moving to the other bench, but a lady sitting there gave us a weird stare, so we just decided to walk toward the tempurahan.

As we walked along, we couldn’t help but feel at ease. The hustle and bustle of the crowd somehow blended so well with the raging backdrop of ocean waves. On one spot, we saw a line of vendors selling souvenirs—but they catered only to a few customers, because most of the people were at the tempurahan.

We decided to eat at Manang Lorna’s stall. Two old gentlemen offered us their seats.

I bought tempura, cheese sticks, and kwek-kwek for my friend and I. We sat near the cook and her stove, mirrored by two girls sitting beside us; behind us was a group of younger people; far across us was an old man sitting by his lonesome. The two girls were talking.

One said: “Ugma ako paliton kay itlog, balig baynte ra. Ako ra i-divide ugma para maigo akong sud-an. Hapit na man magpadala si Papa gud, ako na lang gihulat.”

The other girl  nodded. “Pag-sure diha ha,” she said.

“Ganahan man gud ko mopalit ug pangkilay uy.” The speaker leaned closer to her friend, showing her eyebrows. “Tan-awa akoa kilay, sakto ra?”

“Okay ra man, maayo gali kay kabalo na ka mag-makeup ‘ron.”

“Ah, ganahan jud ko makat-on ug magkilay, chada gud tan-awon if nice ka’g kilay.”

“Bitaw, lahi gyud if kabalo ka mo-makeup sa imoa self, ba.”

“Mao gani, ganahan pud ko palit ug bag-ong makeup puhon, late na man gud ko nakat-on ug makeup.”

Her friend nodded. But their conversation was halted by a busker with a guitar suddenly serenading the tempurahan customers. My friend called over the busker and asked him to play a song to jam with. They both sang “Palagi” by TJ Monterde.

After the busker left, the two girls beside us also went.

My friend and I sat and ate our food in silence. She also bought balut, and tried it with the fishball sauce. Soon two older women came by and sat on the chairs the two young girls vacated, but I could barely hear what they were talking about. When I glanced at all the vendors lined up along the tempurahan, only then did I notice that they were all wearing red, seemingly in uniform. (Jennylyn Emperado, Samuel Lagulao Jr., Katinka Visitacion, and Meagan Villaruz)

____________________________________________________

All four writers are Creative Writing majors at Silliman University.

 

 

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