Ilocandia is legendary for being inhabited by people of thrift and valor; of being a land on which the tropical sun shines down with merciless heat, making for a countryside sparse in its vegetation but richly endowed with the proper soil for particular crops, such as the tobacco and garlic that have sustained its provincial economies for centuries. It is said to be an unforgiving land, with unforgiving people, taciturn, dignified, fiercely loyal to clan, kinsmen, and freedom.
The dry earth yields a rich clay ideal for pottery for and the making of bricks, which have been used to construct churches every bit as magnificent as those in other areas better endowed by nature with the natural rock and the produce which went into the construction of churches elsewhere.
The provinces of the Ilocos have given the Philippines revolutionaries and presidents, politicians and rouges, martyrs to the cause of church reform and leaders of an independent Filipino Church that dared break away from Rome. It has given the nation freedom fighters such as Diego and Gabriela Silang; produced soldiers like Gen. Antonio Luna; artists that elicited the admiration of the grand salons of Europe, like his brother Juan; it was the cradle of martyrs to the cause of nationalism like Fr. Burgos; revolutionaries such as Gregorio Aglipay; veterans of Bataan such as Benito Soliven; important figures in the independence struggle such as Elpidio Quirino, second president of the Third Republic, grew up and began there careers here. It, too, produced Ferdinand E. Marcos.
And yet Ilocandia is all of these things — and none of them. It is not a barren, unforgiving place, as the conventional wisdom says it is. Everywhere you go, there are trees, and produce. Perhaps not as lush as in other places, but in abundance none the less. Indeed the air is dry, but it is also less conducive to that enervating feeling which saps one’s strength in more humid places. Ilocandia is, most of all, a land endowed with nature’s glories; a place of gorgeous beaches, rich with marine life.
And the people — how cruel and unfair the stereotypes are! For the Ilocanos are, first and last, a smiling and helpful people. Perhaps not as flashy as some may wish, or prone to grandiloquent gestures and garrulous talk as other may prefer. But they are a people who know how to keep their dignity and yet make the stranger feel at home. Their land, too, boasts architectural gems whose materials may consist of humble brick, or stones hewn from primordial coral, instead of the adobe from which the stones of ambitious churches elsewhere in the archipelago are hewn. Indeed, the churches erected throughout the provinces by Spanish missionaries, as they established parishes and sought to bring the Ilocanos “beneath the bells,” lack the soaring pretensions of their sister churches in other provinces; for this is, after all, also a land of earthquakes, which wreak their vengeance on the constructions of man that dare defy the caprices of the earth.
In Ilocandia, the churches are wide, and their walls are thick. No soaring spires here. Instead, massive buttresses, reinforced walls, all the attributes of the architectural style borne of necessity and called “Earthquake Baroque.” In Ilocos Norte and Ilocos Sur, the traveler cannot help but think that the true nature of the Ilocano — level-headed, sensible, conservative and capable — is credibly reflected in the way their monuments to God were built.
By virtue of the climate, the Ilocano is among the darkest of his countrymen; as dark as the dried tobacco leaves that have been a staple of the economy for centuries. Indeed tobacco, introduced from the New World and zealously regulated as a monopoly by the Spanish Crown, proved to be a cornucopia of wealth once the colonial government abolished the tobacco monopoly and allowed planters to market their goods the world over.
The proudest monument of this age is the town I headed for, saw, and delighted in visiting during one week in Summer, not so long ago: Vigan, Ilocos Sur.
Vigan is a small town, though it is, formally, a city, and the capitol of Ilocos Sur, not to mention the seat of one of the venerable Archdioces of Nueva Segovia, established at the same time as the grander Sees of Manila and Cebu. Vigan’s claim to fame is the historic quarter where wealthy Castilian planters built their homes which stand to this day. In no other part of the country can you find such an extensive, well-preserved collection of old homes. There are houses and churches here that have seen centuries come and go, outlasting the lives and dreams of colonizers and the colonized.
The center of Vigan, as in all older towns laid out by the Spaniards, is its main plaza, surrounded by Fire trees and little stalls where people gather at dusk to snack on empanada (thin, flour pancakes filled with vegetables or meat, or both, quickly fried, and eaten with vinegar; far simpler than their rococo cousins eaten in Pampanga but wholesomely satisfying nevertheless). The historic district of Vigan actually consists of a few blocks closed off to vehicular traffic save the ubiquitous scooters popular with the youth, and the caretelas that provide efficient, inexpensive, and atmosphere-friendly public transportation to city residents. Narrow, cobble stoned streets, which give the impression of great antiquity but which are, actually, a gift from President Ramos, are lined with large old homes in Peninsular style as adopted to local conditions. These are the “bahay na bato” that reflect man’s accommodation to the dictates of nature: Solid ground and even second floors of stone or brick, upper stories of lighter materials less prone to being toppled by earthquakes.
These are homes that once sheltered the wealthy, the pure of blood and the illustrious of lineage. Today they are the homes of humbler tradesmen and artisans, as well as their families. Where spacious rooms once rang with the garrolous laughter of Iberians, whether peninsular or insular, calling out to each other in Spanish, the sounds of Ilocano now reverberates. Where the wealthy once lived in splendor, the middle class now dwells in hopeful industry.
These streets and homes continue to be places where couples make a living, where children are brought up, and commerce and trades are conducted. It is a living, thriving community first, and an architectural monument second. It is a community that is thriving, alive, far different from other historic districts that have been reduced to well-preserved but sterile silence.
No mournful emptiness here. Instead: the sound of furniture makers crafting reproductions sought-after in Manila and elsewhere. The sound of bakers, even undertakers. The sound of antique store owners haggling with customers. The joyful banter of little children oblivious to the great age and innumerable stories of the buildings they call home.
