ESSENTIAL

A trip to my father’s hometown—Lucban, Quezon, a mere 30-minutes ride from my mother’s town (Sampaloc) where we used to live—had always been a treat, especially when I was in grade one.

I loved to splash and wade in its canals with their free-flowing clean water teeming with tadpoles which my brother Dan and I merrily scooped with our hands. Further uptown, women washed their laundry underneath the bulwak, giant water mains spewing fresh spring water from Mt. Banahaw.

Bedtimes were a struggle to snuggle under Lola Dudang’s starch-stiff kumot especially when the temperature turned more chilly as mornings descended with the pitter-patter of rain on the washbasin outside our window—flung wide open every morning by Lola for the ritual hilamos with icy-cold water.

Merienda times meant a quick dash to the palengke for some binanging saging na saba (broiled banana) or pansit habhab, tasty (read MSG-flavored) noodles heartily slurped from a piece of banana leaf.

The Lucban of my youth no longer exists. Its canals have dried up; the weather is not as cool; and its once quiet streets teem with smoke-belching tricycles and droves of young people noisily coming and going to the province’s biggest university.

Its delicacies however remain, perpetuated by entrepreneurs who have kept the town alive with their sense of community—catering to basic needs with downright simple yet endearing goodies to make your day complete: pansit habhab, Lucban longganisa, broas, tikoy, etc.

How could I forget Lucban’s espasol vendor? “Pasol, pasol, pasol,” he cried sing-song every time passengers boarded a bus bound for Lucena. My viajes were never complete without his glutinous rice goodies. And believe me, he was eternally there, his gentle soul always smiling at you every time you left Lucban! “He’s retired,” someone said the last time I inquired. He sent all his children to college through his pasol-pasol-pasol calls.

On our recent trip back home, my cousin Kuya Ador treated us to lunch at Palaisdaan, Lucban’s version of a floating restaurant on bamboo floors. We chanced upon Aling Norma peddling kesong puti and espasol. “My six children are able to go to school, thanks to this job,” she good-naturedly chirped in her puntong-Lucban tagalog. By just going from table to table, and with the restaurant staff kindly letting her sell to their customers, Norma must have made a lot of money that day.

I saw this selfless sense of community in Duval, our neighbor. He runs a thriving small enterprise—a karinderia and a boarding house for students. I happened to stray into his store on this recent visit, lamenting that the nearby panaderia didn’t have my favorite Lucban bread, marquina. (I never fail to bring it home to Manila.) Without hesitation, he mounted his motorcycle and hurried uptown to get the stuff for me.

Yes, things are no longer the same in Lucban. But its essence remains—a sense of what really matters and what works. And its growth is not driven by taipans or the super rich, but by folks who recognize that life is all about being there for each other and meeting day to day needs. No more, no less.

Nobody seems to be poor in Lucban.

“The sluggard craves and gets nothing, but the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied.” (Proverbs 13:4)
Lucban's Aling Norma peddles kesong puti, made of carabao milk.