By Armand B. Frasco

Place of Birth: ___________________

It’s one of those weird moments when you get stuck with such familiarity that you’re stumped. Sometimes, in the rush of spaces to fill in life, that occasional lapse is bound to happen and this was one of those. For a second, I stared blankly at the form. Quickly regaining my wits, I scribbled “Dapitan City” in the space provided for. I let out a shallow sigh of relief. The name is still there and so are the memories.

My first brush with the real Dapitan was when, as a geek of 14, some science club cohorts and I were posting announcements in that city’s street corners. Knocking on a door for permission, I was greeted by an octogenarian’s toothless grin. “Nasayod ra si Maning ni-ini?” inquiring of course, if we had the mayor’s blessings. Thus was my welcome to the Shrine City—the place of Jose Rizal’s exile, demure maidens, old-world charm, and, at that time, the omnipresence of a mayor (or his legendary absence, according to some pundits).

To an outsider like me, whose claim to a Dapitan connection is slightly more than it being my birthplace and the trademark lilt in my late lola’s speech, the place is still shrouded in mystery. Or so I’d like it to be. With exotic names like Maria Uray, Bagting, Owaon, and Aligway, who needs Tomb Raider or Survivor?

Take a late-afternoon stroll at the Parke and you’re instantly transported to another realm. Whether it’s the high-pitched gangis, the smell of wet moss among the rustling bamboo groves, or the hanging-bridge squeaking underfoot, a trek to this heretofore outpost of solitude for our national hero always left me with either a sense of eeriness, foreboding, or, depending on the company and color of the sunset du jour, romance.

Legend has it that in the olden days, Dapitan had a population of spinsters large enough to fill a Gothong steamship. This may explain a dear cousin’s misadventure, which through the years has been elevated to a family joke. After spending endless hours commuting and consorting with a local girl, he finally got to meet her relatives. Everything went well until, after a thorough behind-the-curtains genealogical investigation, the clan matriarch came forth with the following verdict: “Aguy inay! Udoy! Manag-agaw ra man kamo!” (Oh mother! You’re cousins, boy!) Thus ended the poor smitten young man’s quest, for any semblance of familial relations is sure to be a death knell to any liaison thereabouts.

Dapitan is a city of contrasts. Languid beaches and spirited politics. Not unlike the bitter babe-weaning panyawan vine and the achingly sweet-shy smile of a dusky town beauty. I’m certain that its seafront Boulevard now has more traffic than the occasional kaskas (crab) observed scurrying across this barren roadway years back. I just hope that with the inevitable march of progress, these poor crustaceans, like the city’s gentle way of life, are not crushed.

Let us contemplate the humble tinagaktak, Dapitan’s sweet, crumbly delicacy, and realize that progress and preservation can go hand in hand. That, like the tinagaktak, progress is meant to be taken in a studied munch, for taking all of it in one greedy gulp can turn out to be more than mildly unpleasant.

For me, Dapitan is more like a state of mind as it is a real place. The sort of memory you tuck in the back of your mind’s eye to be savored at a later date. To paraphrase the Hoagy Carmichael classic:

Other arms reach out for me,
Other eyes smile tenderly,
Still in peaceful dreams I see,
Roads lead back to you . . .
Dapitan on my mind

PinoyCentric greets Dapitanons all over the world on the Feast of Señor Santiago, July 25. This article was originally written for Ambibo.com.

Related story: “Señor Santiago still rides from Dapitan to Illinois“