My Summer Home Itinerary
Catching up with the summer energy (and because I miss the carefree childhood summers), I share here memories of my summer vacations.
My family and I traveled a lot when I was growing up, but probably in a different way than what most people think. These days, traveling connotes plane rides, detailed itineraries, visiting new places, trying new food, and meeting new people. Whether local or international, traveling suggests an exploration of the unexplored. Indeed, I was accustomed to packing my dolls, sketchpads, and novels in my pink Barbie trolley bag, but it wasn’t because we traveled all over the Philippines or toured different countries. When my family traveled, it was always to the same two places: Bohol and Siquijor.
My parents are from different parts of Region VII—Dad is from Bohol and Mom is from Siquijor. Summer vacations for me meant traveling to either of the two, often adding a stop in Cebu or Dumaguete, where we also had relatives. We traveled mostly by sea, and indeed, we were bound to be on a ship a few days or even a few hours after school was out. My dad worked for William Lines, a shipping company that gave birth to the Superferry line (Sharon Cuneta’s “Sakay Na!” commercial lurks rent-free in my memory). The company eventually became WG&A, later on Aboitiz-Jebsens, and now known as 2GO Travel.
Traveling by ship is an adventure all on its own. Each trip would take two or three days, and I always found something to do onboard. I have memories of the ship’s little playground, with plastic slides and see-saws on colorful rubber mats. When our ship departed on a Sunday, my mom and I, hoping to be absolved of missing Sunday mass, would head to the chapel and pray the rosary. When my brother and I were older, he would play video games in the ship’s computer shop while I read books by the front desk. Other times, I just walked around the deck, imagining the hallways as a maze to get out of.
Before we knew it, the three days were up, and we were on land again. As soon as we arrived, whether in Bohol or Siquijor, the conversations shifted from Tagalog to Bisaya, as if announcing the beginning of our stay:
“Kamusta man inyong biyahe? (How was your trip?)” my aunties ask as I bow down to mano.
“Ate Mae, magdula na ta! (Ate Mae, let’s go play!)” my little cousin shouts from the street, beckoning me to play.
“Mangaon na ta! (Let’s eat!)” calls my grandmother from the kitchen.
This steady conversation would go on for the entirety of our stay. We are one talkative family, and I had no shortage of exposure to conversations in Bisaya. So, despite being born and raised in Manila, I, thankfully, remain fluent in the language.
I remember these vacations fondly. Each visit felt like a grand homecoming. In Bohol, we would stay in my Dad’s ancestral home, a two-story building with four rooms, a staircase, and a large sala. The place felt humungous to a then-little girl like me. I imagined everything bigger than they were. We ate at the big dining table, with wooden chairs too heavy for me to lift. There was also a massive collection of books, VHS tapes, and movies on video CDs. I remember watching Troy for the first time in my aunt’s bedroom. Outside, there was a spacious porch overlooking the front yard. One summer, after watching a Little Lulu episode about selling lemonades during summer break, I, being an impressionable child, decided to venture into the lemonade business, too. On that porch, I set up a table, designed a poster, and sold lemonade for Php 1.00 each. I can’t recall if anyone bought anything, or if I earned any real cash at all. I do however remember feeling grown-up and important selling a big pitcher of lemonade (which, in actuality, was calamansi juice).
The house was full of people so often that I almost believed our whole clan lived there. Aunts, uncles, and cousins came for food, drinks, and mahjong. There always seemed to be a reason to celebrate and have a gathering, or tapok-tapok as we call it. That’s not even counting the family reunions we have every three years. True to its name, these grand reunions were always over-the-top—a three-day event complete with a sports fest, a Thanksgiving mass, a themed gala night, and a day at the beach. There would be reunion T-shirts, basketball tournaments, and family dance presentations. With relatives from all over the country (and sometimes from all over the world!), it was always the grandest tapok-tapok of all. When Dad died, visiting his grave became another reason to visit Bohol. Every All Souls’ Day was spent in the cemetery, with flowers, candles, and novena prayer books. We also brought Dad’s favorite food, which included, but was not limited to, diet Coke, hopia, and crunchy chicharon. We would gather around his grave, pray together, eat together, and reminisce on the life he lived.
When we weren’t in Bohol, we were in my mom’s hometown in Maria, Siquijor. In Siquijor, summer vacations coincided with the annual Flores de Mayo and town fiesta. For Flores de Mayo, we kids would gather at the church every weekday to pray the rosary, sing praise songs (to the tune of “God loves you and me!”), and eat sopas at the convent. Then, at the end of the month, there would be a town procession for the Virgin Mary. In the late afternoons after the prayers and sopas, we would play games and run around in the park, with Mama Mary’s enormous statue watching over us. Then, on the much-awaited day of the fiesta, we went from one house to the next, all doors and homes wide open with food to share.
Brown-outs were common then, so we found creative ways to pass the time without electricity. On slower summer days, we lazed around on the lanai outside the house, telling stories and eating merienda. My aunt managed a small sari-sari store next door, where we bought iced candy and plastic balloons we tried to blow up. In the backyard, we played hide-and-seek and made flower necklaces from the Santan flowers. At night, while the lights were still out, our older cousins would tell us stories about ghosts and magical creatures that roamed the island.
But my favorite activity was always going to the beach, and Salagdoong Beach is by far my favorite. To this day, when I think of a beach, I think of Salagdoong and how easy it was to hop on an uncle’s jeep or motorcycle and spend the day there. I was a kid who loved the beach, with tan lines and sunburns to show for it. There was a time when I was worried about how dark my skin was getting after all that time under the sun, so my cousin, having learned about this skin-whitening concoction from an assortment of leaves and oils, helped me in gathering supplies and applying the solution all over my body. Of course, it didn’t work, but oh, what a joy it was to be a child and believe it would!
These childhood vacations were beautiful idylls, and it never bothered me that we didn’t go anywhere else. I didn’t even know then that Bohol and Siquijor were popular tourist spots. I’ve seen the wide-eyed Tarsier and the picturesque chocolate hills long before I considered them tourist attractions. Our family took the Loboc River Cruise, but I had no idea it was part of a tour package. I didn’t know that Siquijor is also called Isla del Fuego, or Island of Fire, because of the glow the island gave off from the fireflies at night. Or that its other name is the Mystic Island, owing to the stories of enchantments, shamans, and faith healers. These things I learned only from school books, pop culture, and online travel guides. I was surprised—almost appalled—that there was so much I didn’t know, even after years of spending my vacations there. It’s not because we don’t find these homes beautiful. On the contrary, I consider Bohol and Siqujor to be two of the most beautiful places in this country. I have high standards for beaches and resorts because I grew up visiting the majestic white-sand-clear-water beaches of Panglao and Salagdoong.
But when I think of either place, I don’t think of the scenic views, the tarsiers, the old churches, or the beaches. I can’t recall specific dates, events, places, or sometimes even people, but I do remember how idyllic it always felt, like a dream you get to live in. I cannot create an itinerary of my memories, but I remember the atmosphere it came with. Maybe that’s how memory works---we don't recall the names or dates and even the places, but we remember feelings, smells, tastes, and emotions. The warmth of a hug. The sound of mahjong tiles clacking and clashing together. The heat of a summer's day after playing in the sun. The taste of your aunt’s special spaghetti and fruit salad. The smell of the Santan flowers we braided together and the bouquets we offered to Mama Mary. Our memories are always atmospheric, and memory preserves feeling.
It’s an interesting irony. The places we consider home never feel like tourist attractions, and those we consider tourist attractions will never completely feel like home. Bohol and Siquijor are not just tourist attractions to me; they’re my summer homes, far from where I live and where I work, but home nonetheless.
Last year, after years of not visiting, I was finally able to go back to Bohol and Siquijor. It was a dual trip in more ways than one: a trip to two provinces, but also a journey to the past and the present. Much has changed, both in the place I know and in the person I grew up to become, but much has also stayed the same. This time, I did some touristy things: stay at a hotel for a few days, see the chocolate hills, take pictures of tarsiers, pose at the manmade forest, ride ziplines over the Loboc river, and of course, swim at the beach. Yet even after all this, my favorite parts remain to be the things I used to do on those glorious childhood summers---visiting Dad’s grave, sharing food and drink at home, playing mahjong, lazing in the backyard, taking Lolo for walks around the block, and just sharing stories with everyone, basking in a space where I knew I was loved and treasured. The atmosphere took me back to my childhood, of those dreamy summers that were the best vacations ever.
Don’t get me wrong—I like traveling, both in the Philippines and abroad. Before the pandemic, my family and I went to Palawan and Ilocos. During my gap year, I went to Singapore with my best friend. I was in South Korea a few months back for an international conference. A month later, I went to La Union with my friends. I have yet to visit Siargao, and it’s been more than ten years since I’ve been to Baguio. Someday, I hope to visit England. Or maybe study in New York. Or maybe reach for places I have yet to imagine. But no matter where my feet or my dreams take me, I hope I never lose sight of home; the kind of home that’s made of the warmth of people, the fondness of memories, and the peace of having friends and family around you. Few things in life can ever compete with that.
So, when in Bohol or Siquijor, please do not ask me about the best places to stay, because to me, the best place will always be in the homes I grew up in. In Bohol, that’s our ancestral home, with the creaky floorboards and the framed family photos dating back to Dad’s first communion. It’s the home where Dad took me up and down, up and down the stairs because I was obsessed with two-storey houses. In Siquijor, home is living through brownouts and water interruptions, when all we could do was play hide-and-seek in the backyard. Or a day on the beach with family and friends. Or visiting houses on the day of the fiesta. There is no itinerary, no new places to see, no new food to try, and no new people to meet. Truly, the best trip is the kind that takes you home.
