Metamorphosis 2: My Life at the Barrio: Where the Lake Meets the Hills

I spent a good half of my pre-married adult life in Binangonan, Rizal. I was in my teens when we moved from Cubao, Quezon City to Rizal.

Binangonan used to be part of the larger administrative area known as the Distrito Politico-Militar de Morong during the Spanish colonial period. Binangonan has a unique geography, being both lakeside and partly mountainous. The Binangonan hills are part of the Sierra Madre mountain range. Its early inhabitants were fishermen and inland dwellers who focused more on agriculture and raising farm animals.

Construction of our future home in Barangay Tayuman began in the early 80s. We didn’t own a car, so the jeepney ride from Cubao to Tayuman took about 45 minutes. It was a breezy drive along a seemingly endless highways, lined with tall shrubs and, now and then, piles of gravel, sand, and hollow blocks marking future subdivisions along Cainta and Taytay. The cool breeze against your face was a welcome relief from the humid city air.

The Manila East Road overlooks Laguna de Bay, and I loved watching the lake as the jeepney passed by into Tayuman. In the early '80s, jeepneys and mini buses were the only public utility vehicles making trips from Cubao, Pasig, and Mandaluyong. Tricycles could take you to nearby Angono, where the closest public market, church, and schools were located. By the early '90s, RRCG buses started operating, and by the late '90s, P2P vans began servicing routes to SM Megamall, and Makati CBD via what would later become Bonifacio Global City. I saw the pre-BGC area of Taguig being dredged to make way for skyscrapers and commercial establishments.

We moved to Rizal in summer of 1987. The contrast between rural life and the city didn’t unsettle me, though it was far from our urban life in Cubao.

I recall that in the early 80s, the road called Barrio Road, which led to our home at the C.O.D. Compound, was dusty and rocky during dry seasons, and muddy—and nearly impassable—during rainy months. Electricity was just starting to reach a few households, and chlorinated water and telephone lines were unheard of. By the late '80s, a deep well station was installed within the compound, which was fortunately for us, 20 meters away from our house. PLDT reached Tayuman in the early '90s, as population growth made installing phone lines viable. Internet and cable TV arrived in the early 2000s.

The nearest store was at least 100 meters from our house. We had only a few neighbors, and most were hidden by tall cogon shrubs. Our house was built along the perimeter of the compound, with a vast stretch of uninhabited land and a small duck farm behind it. A cluster of nipa huts sat in the middle of the land, looking more like a farm than a neighborhood. Life in the countryside was slow, simple, and far removed from the luxuries of the city—but it was home, and a place my parents could finally call their own. A mango tree grew in our backyard in the early 90s and this tree continue to give gifts until this very day.

During the pre-internet summers, children played siato, flew giant paper kites, joined bingo games (winning ₱1 for a blackout!), played taguan under the full moon, and enjoyed volleyball matches. I tried joining these games, but I was never good at any of them! Summer also meant community basketball tournaments for teenage boys and fathers.

Before sunset, my brother and I took turns fetching and storing water from the community well, watering plants, and preparing dinner. Life was simple—sometimes boring, even uneventful.

Every New Year’s Eve, the community would gather at the plaza for a potluck party. There were games and programs. I was in college when I started helping organize these events. Looking back, the once-shy girl in me finally broke out of her shell, learned to take charge, and found her voice.

As I got busier with college, then graduated and started working in Makati, my involvement in the community waned. After I got married, I continued to visit my parents and witnessed how our sleepy neighborhood gradually transformed. Subdivisions and townhouses lined Barrio Road, and convenience stores and two-story commercial buildings stood where idle fields used to be.

With both my sisters now living oversees, I’m the only one who saw these transformations firsthand.

I still visit Ma and Dada as often as I can. They’re now in the twilight of their lives but living comfortably and debt-free in the house they can proudly call their own. These days, when I’m home in Rizal, I wistfully look at the porch—once just an open patch of soil and gravel—where I used to sit under the stars, patiently writing my literary pieces during summer nights.

When I look out, I still see remnant memories of our old community—the people I grew up with, the quiet, uneventful but deeply satisfying life we once had, the luxury of open space and time on your hands.

And just like the old times, the inspiration to write has returned. And so, here we are.