By Leyn “Nyle” Ferrer
Petals on a stem bloom in valor when tended to by gentle hands and loving hearts.
The cold weather in Baguio City is old news that never tarnishes; this is its norm. That, and molds, if one leaves any objects unattended for more than three days in a place that gets little to no sunlight. Rain — that, too, showers the citizens, and we splash our shoes in its unheralded arrival with curses of inconvenience from our tongues. There’s no escape from the water, nor the humidity.
Those are a few parts of Baguio for you.
Being a tourist and actually living in Baguio are two different realities I have lived, and I am still living in. I have loved and now hated the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful of the city’s aspects that I have uncovered, or showed themselves to me. Perfection is present in nothing, as such, this city is home to imperfections — the likes of which I have observed as a resident from the lowlands.
Don’t look here for a piece that highlights only the good this city has to offer. I am afraid I am far too cynical for that kind of material. Honesty is a coat I wear on the regular — whether in cold weather where I am sheltered, or in the hot weather where I will swelter.
One thing is for sure: Baguio is a city for and cultivated by artists.
Along the roundabout connecting Kisad Road, Governor Pack Road, and Ben Palispis Highway, is a giant painted mural acknowledging the efforts and sacrifices of frontliners, as made even more known so through the COVID-19 pandemic. To attune with the heartfelt message in high spirits, color accompanies the first responders in the form of flowers in a blooming harmonious background that pleases the aesthetics of the souls who feast their eyes upon it.
High in the sky is the moon, and looming upon the mountains of pines when night is nigh, the lights take turns waltzing to inaudible music of code. Butterflies have transmogrified into oversized versions of themselves in their metamorphosis brought on by photons and electricity. It is during this hour long after the dawn of twilight that the blossomed flowers take on different undertones from the illuminating rainbows of these creatures imitating a phase in a short life cycle. Flowers themselves have redefined their own size, highlighting the greens and reds with utmost brightness.
Walking the paths of the infamous Session Road on a Sunday is an eventful delight; the day of reckoning for everybody’s creative nature to come forth and show fellow artists and passersby what they have cooked up in the shell of their carefully crafted effigy. Here, again, is a place and time where anyone can participate in the exhibition of a part of themselves they can feel free to express.
The freedom to create art is the inalienable essence of humanity, many would argue. The technique, skill, and creativity, however, to bring one’s art to life must be nurtured to further flourish, and transcend previous abilities of our own.
Gardens, whether public or private, like the Botanical Garden and landmarked parks, or the culmination of plants unique to a humble abode, all collectively sprinkle life to the city. Flowers, through the proper kind of seed, and when tended to with gentle hands and a loving heart, dare to bloom with all the trust in their foundation.
However, those without care, nourishment, nor space to develop, are flowers that will never be kissed by the glory of the sunlight.
Baguio has a problem: its ever-growing population. The consequences? Too many for every single one to be named, but near-inaccessible transportation in Baguio, to the lack of space to house individuals and their families, to the scheduled yet inconsistent water and electrical supply, to the steady ecological degradation from all the waste, emissions, and pollution are only some of the effects that Baguio is afflicted with.
Perfection is present in nothing. If anything, those are the things tourists will never relive as an everyday reality, for they are merely served the good things Baguio offers on a platter overhyped with plated gold.
I learned the hard way that Baguio is not the dream I imagined. I was a tourist; blind-sided and naive, my hindsight none the wiser. My patience has worn thin, as if butter scraped over too much bread of the breakfasts I no longer had time to consume after tens of jeepneys, filled to the opening, have passed me by as gravity eventually pulls down on my twisted, S-shaped back. Exasperation lolls my head to the sky, rolls my eyes back, and slackens my jaw as a sigh forces itself out of my airways.
One thing is for sure that I can say: I prefer it here over the lowlands where I was raised, despite everything, for my uniqueness is rarely judged but further encouraged.
Baguio has a limelight: its ever-growing population of artists. From universities and institutions that specialize in teaching and preserving arts of all kinds and techniques, to the vibrant and varied festivals that walk in waves upon specifically closed roads, to paintings dressing the walls of the city that would otherwise be stray concrete with a layer of dried paint — it is a place for artists.
When tended to by gentle hands and loving hearts, periods of flourishing await. Even though it will never be perfect, the journey is still worth the effort in harmony. I know I made the right decision to come here and be among those with creative hearts and minds like I, because here is a place for that innateness of expression — in spite of all the modern troubles and challenges it battles to resolve each day.**
