Uncovering My Pulangi

Sometime last month, I learnt that a river could change its length. It can feel a whole lot longer, the riverside an endless road. Or it can be so much shorter, a few moments at the most. And for the Pulangi, our dear Pulangi, the bloodstream of Bukidnon that passes by an abandoned backyard in Valencia City, it is both the longest and the shortest riverside expedition I have ever embarked on. Sometime last month, I took a stroll back home.

Purok 13 is a small clump of mostly wooden houses in Valencia, one which casually sits next to the Pulangi. The purok stretches from the national highway down to the loamy riverbed, winding down like the river that has given both endless life and devastation. Up north is a Petron gas station next to some chapels that always seem haunted. Go a little lower and you’ll find a parlour next to a creek, then a basketball court with hoops placed on trees. From there, the road will be muddier. During every election and campaign period, silver-tongued candidates promise to turn the dirt path into a paved road. Of course, in exchange for a couple of blind eyes and curled tongues. Now, the road is littered with unflattering signs of mixed progress and ruin—numerous yet unreliable lampposts, fancy preschools atop the remains of razed fields and cockpit arenas, tall but paper-thin apartments, and fully-furnished waiting sheds that reek of piss.

Head further south and it will start to smell different. Breathe in the Pulangi’s distinct fragrance, sugar burning from an ampaw factory that belches thick smoke every morning—a scent so sweet and alluring to the senses, one may even forget to also breathe in the odour of sweat dripping down the temples of underpaid factory workers and young folks itching to make it out of a slum. Bask in this sorry scent and then walk a little longer, following the sound of the river’s stream. See how the buildings shrink smaller and smaller as you head further down, soon you’ll find a wooden house subdivided into three. Smile, you’ve finally made it home. Sometime last month, I made it home after three long years; after losing much of myself from a downward spiral of lies, burnouts, and disappointments. And for whatever reason, during the first morning after making it back to Purok 13, I decided to jog across the first place I called home.

At five in the morning, the riverside felt new to me. Well, most of the riverside felt new. They called a long portion of it the Pulangi Riverside Boulevard, and it was only a few kilometres ahead. The old and untouched riverbed lay at my feet, the Pulangi still asleep beside me. I grew up on this dirt road, running and swimming and running again with all my now-distant friends. We were happy then. Now, the fragments of my happiness are all that remain, buried in the loam, inside the vintage pieces of trash and driftwood floating by, underneath our forgotten Mother’s calm. 

For the first couple of minutes, I remained in just one exact spot along the old riverbed, not moving an inch; just taking it all in. From across the river was an unfamiliar sight, a backhoe parked near the water’s edge. Next to it was a small wooden shed, poorly lit only by what I assumed was a candle. A quarry, the first image that my eyes captured on my re-exploration of home was a quarry. Tragic. Back then, the other side was an endless sea of tall grass, waves of green perpetually pushed by the wind. And gently placed below that verdant sight were boulders and little rocky mounds that formed the shape of a curvy woman sleeping on her side. Well, that was how we saw the formation with our naive and curious eyes. Now, that woman is nowhere to be found. Maybe she woke up a few years after we all left home, and in her place now stood a shed. A lifeless shed and a backhoe. I wonder if she has any plans of returning.  And when she does, I wonder if her heart will ache like mine when she sees that almost everything has changed, when she learns that her onlookers are no longer innocent kids.

Exhausted yet haunted by the mundane image from across me, and feeling the wind start to grow a gentle bit warmer, I proceeded to pick up my pace. I strolled along the riverside, my trail following the glow of the faraway lampposts on the Boulevard. From where I was walking, the lampposts shone like passionate fireflies, perfect imitations of the ones that used to illuminate the treetops that once stood tall right here on these very banks.

My Pulangi is a lot longer now. And as my steps come quicker, turning the soles of my shoes browner with each passing minute, I am overcome with sensations I still cannot properly absorb and then distill into words. It is a funny feeling, running along somewhere you’ve run across a thousand times before. I tried my best to jog straight, avoiding any pit stops or little detours to save me some time and energy for the walk back home. But when each tree and twig and pebble, each riverside sight and site around you, is begging for you to rediscover them, you take your time in walking.

I saw a familiar tree, a mango tree we used to climb and stop by all those years ago. Seeing it, touching the jagged roughness of its bark felt like uncovering a relic left behind by a different life of mine. From my fingertips, the warmth of those times, when we could just lean into the tree’s kind trunks with stomachs aching from too many unripe mangoes, came surging stronger than even the Pulangi’s waters. Those were truly the good times. And I liked that feeling of uncovering, an act of our curious minds which I think we often set aside, afraid of what we may uncover, frightened of realising just how many things, even those precious to us before, we have buried in the deepest crevices of our mind. And this sensation of uncovering went on and on as I examined the mango tree and the familiar limestones that skipped so quickly across the river’s surface, looking at them and trying to imagine what they looked like before. And I could not resist the urge to make them skip and skid atop the stream’s surface. Each throw I made never reached the other side of the river; I guess some things never change. It took me what felt like a lifetime to trudge down the remainder of that riverside. And I fell in love with every second I wasted there. 

But the same river felt so much shorter at nearly six in the morning. I had already reached the new Pulangi Riverside Boulevard. The lampposts were now dim, outshone by the early sun. The river was also awake, flowing faster in all her exposed beauty. The steps of the boulevard were set in smooth concrete, so fancy and polished in comparison to the wet loam stuck beneath my shoes. On its sides were railings and fences, with some hardheaded folks leaning on the railings and jumping over the fences. There were many people there with me, walking slowly and admiring the view. But unlike them, I noticed that my steps were the exact opposite of what they used to be when I was strolling down the bare loam. I found myself wanting to walk faster. 

Perhaps I simply had no intention to interact with the strangers around me, or perhaps it was because of my unfamiliarity with this new structure that fuelled my fleeting steps. But deep down, I knew exactly why that was. It was because I found no reason to pause, wander, and find myself in the image and memory of each lamppost, bench, or iron railing. And so, I just kept on walking. I walked and walked, heading further along the concrete skin of the boulevard. My quick steps only came to a halt as I sat down to rest on one of the benches there, where I found myself on an island-of-a-bench surrounded by lovers who were admiring the view of both the river and whatever they had. 

I sat there, looking across the motherly river, while the early Bukidnon sun kissed our exposed faces. A kiss that felt all too familiar, though now also with a hint of something new. After strolling along the river, one that was both long and short, I reached a place where I’d never been before. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. I had been there before, when there were still hordes of fireflies and sleeping stone women. I was there when everything felt just right, when Purok 13 was the only home I knew. I was not home, and that was just fine. 

It is clearer to me now, having left Valencia and Purok 13 once more, that we lose all our homes as we navigate our lives. They change, contorting and transforming just as much as we do. And this constant loss of home was what led me to the most profound of uncoverings or rediscoveries atop that riverside bench—of a place both familiar and foreign, of who I have become.