I did four years of theology study in Vigan—at the Immaculate Conception School of Theology, more popularly known to Vigan-folk as the “major seminary.” (They have a minor seminary, and at one time, both major and minor seminaries were housed in one Spanish-era building at the heart of town.) At that time, I did not think much of Vigan. Of course, its famed houses were already there, as were its cobbled streets. But really, most of it was nondescript, and there was not much more to Plaza Salcedo than a small ice-cream parlor on its far-right side that we, seminarians, patronized whenever we had the money to spare. (I thought the world—and still do—of our professors at the seminary, though, for they were in fact the very best at that time.)
But once during my Vigan sojourn, my grandparents undertook what was then an arduous trip to visit me, and I thought it a good idea to take my grandma especially to Santo Domingo where she was born, and where she spent her childhood days. And I will never forget what happened that day. As soon as we alighted from the jeepney, her face lit up. It was like she had never left the place. She headed straightaway to the corner of the street that led to the house where she lived, and surprised her nieces and nephews, by this time themselves aging, by showing up unannounced. They were equally very excited to see her. Then she pointed out a rather huge house with a balcony than ran throughout the length of the second floor of the house and rounded it too. Here, she said, she saw a kapre — and while I know this as one of the elements of Filipino lower mythology, she swore by all that was holy that she indeed saw one or, better: That one was staring at her and she—she swore once more—in obvious bemusement: Following her every move with saucer-sized glowing eyes and puffing on a monstrous cigar. Then she took us to a really huge—and what I can only imagine was a majestic house at the time—where she said she spent most of her days with three spinster aunts. Then I partly understood her strict upbringing. She also warned us that the second floor, even from the outside an obviously cavernous space, hosted its own resident ghost!
She was 11 when her parents, Don Sotero Purugganan, one of the village notables and a professor of Spanish at the seminary, aside from being notario publico, at that time, a big deal, and Antonia Sumabat, made the fateful decision to migrate, with some relatives, to Cagayan. There had been earlier exploratory trips, and the prospects of business and trade seemed to be good. And so, riding a biray they made their way for Cagayan and settled in Alcala, where most migrants from the Ilocos settled. It was there that my mother was born.
I have always looked forward to trips to Vigan, and just a week ago, the officials of the Cagayan State University cloistered themselves in a Vigan hotel to work on a strategic plan that is to orientate our activities till 2022. And I felt deep satisfaction, not the excitement of being out of my usual, confined space, but the profound feeling of returning home. I knew I had found my way back to where some of my roots are (the paternal side of my heritage goes back to Mangaldan and to Camiling).
Then it occurred to me how blest I have been, and it filled my heart with even more appreciation for the intrepid spirits and the hardy souls of my great-grandparents and my grandma who, aboard a flimsy biray set off, very much like Abraham, on a journey of faith: Knowing very little about the land they were moving to, so far away from all that had given them security and lent them a sense of belonging, determined that the future should be better for their children and for the generations after—including me. It is still a long trip to Vigan from Tugeugarao—eight hours, through rather very well-paved roads. What must it have been like in those days when there were only thick forests, choppy waters and stony trails?
This is my real heritage. The Ilocano is bold and proud—and, of course, like all generalizations, this characterization must be taken with circumspection. But I know that it resonates with truth. I feel it’s truth in me and in my siblings. The Ilocano may not be wealthy. That will not prevent him from holding his head high, nor temper the confidence he has in himself. That is what you find in the sturdy and old, but proud stone houses of Vigan. That is what you find in the Ilocanos who have flourished in Cagayan and in other provinces—as far as Davao in the southern end of the Archipelago. This is the heritage that you find in Vigan that has ingeniously reinvented itself from a crumbling remnant of Spanish presence into a city, not of dreams, but of noble memories!