Moalboal. The first time I’ve been to this southwestern town was in 1973, accompanying my boss, then Vice Governor Salutario J. Fernandez in the campaign caravan for the ratification of the Marcos constitution.
It was an ironic twist of fate. I lost my job as a news reporter because Marcos shut down all media outlets when he declared martial law the year before, and there I was, helping him by my presence, even if obscure, secure the people’s approval of a document that would give a semblance of legitimacy to a despicable dictatorship.
Many of my friends had gone to the hills to continue the struggle for a just and egalitarian society, some of them paying for it with their lives, while I stayed in the lowland, toiling for P5 a day, five working days a week, as laborer/typist in the Capitol.
I had no choice, I try to reassure myself everytime I am seized with shame and guilt over my cowardice and betrayal. I had to become a lawyer to fulfill my promise to my father. And I did.
I was on my third year as a member of the bar when I came back to this town in 1978. As in 1973 on my first visit, the mayor was still Pedro Cabaron; I do not know if he or any member of his family has ever lost an election or if the town has had any mayor who was not a Cabaron. The current mayor, Titing, is Noy Pendong’s son.
The late Fr. Francisco Silva used to be the town’s parish priest but I am not sure if he was still the parish priest when I came back. Padre Paking was popular among student activists and I later came to know why. I heard him speak at a convocation of student leaders in the late sixties and became an instant admirer so that after passing the bar, I sought him out to officiate our thanksgiving mass. He did not know me but he traveled all the way to Boljoon to honor my invitation. That’s who he was.
Padre Paking still had a resthouse in Panagsama Beach in 1978 but it was closed most of the time. I stayed in the nearby cottage of Noy Kikong Aquino instead for more than three months, occasionally going home to the city on weekends.
Panagsama was immaculate and pristine. Many times, I slept on her sand under the moonlight. It was liberating.
It’s not the same anymore. The trail where I almost learned how to bike is gone. So is the white sand. And where there were less than ten houses in 1978, including Padre Paking’s and Noy Kikong’s cottages, hundreds of structures are lining up the beach and deeper inland, many of them owned by foreigners. The hum of business has displaced Panagsama’s serenity.
It’s foolish to long for the old Panagsama. To the fool who cannot resist the longing, writing a column about his sense of loss is thankfully therapeutic.