Nostalgic too. Naga train station in the 1960s.
MANILA-bound train Peñafrancia Express passes by our town of Lupi at nine in the evening, at the time when the moon was gently waxing over the silhouettes of hills and coconut groves. Against darkness, one could only imagine the intense color of the fire tree blossoming or the downy kapok fibers falling from the dried fruits still attached to the branches. By that time, the old train station was quiet and almost empty except for frequent bystanders, or sometimes, passengers from nearby villages who slept on the cold concrete benches waiting for the early morning train to Naga or Legaspi. The florescent lamps of the station were the only remaining illuminations reflected in the night skies and all the rest was a small pastoral town deep in slumber.
This was the old train station some twenty years ago when the railway industry was still flourishing, when there were four passenger trains traveling daily from Bicol to Manila and back, while long freight hauls traveled on a weekly basis. Those were the years when the station reeked of the sweet smell of copra, the main product of our town, or of the aroma coming from casks of the freshest lambanog from Katagalugan being unloaded from a freight train. Those were the years when the station was filled with the temporary sounds of crated fowls, swines, and other livestock waiting their turn to be shipped to the big city.
The station was once ranked among the finest railway structures in the country with its exterior of well-done timbers from the Bicol National Park and its roof of red terracotta. Built at the foot of Halochoc hill overlooking the Sulóng river, the location of the station was marvelously scenic.
The story of the station was itself something worth keeping. It was built around the time when the country was under the American rule. The Philippine National Railways then was still called the Manila Railroad Company, running trains Bicol to Manila up to San Fernando, La Union—the now defunct northern line which sad story is another thing. Like many train stations of the PNR line, the main structure of Lupi station is made up of boulders as big as adult human heads which gave it a sturdy look. The station is elevated from the railroad tracks so that when trains arrived, the floors of the coaches were leveled with the platform. The platform’s roofs were supported by a row of concrete columns which were also paneled with wood consistent with the station’s walls.
Before dawn, the silence of the station allowed everyone to listen to signs of the coming Mayon Limited which passes by our town at around four in the morning. The station was so quiet that one can even hear the faintest grunt and horn of the locomotive even if it was still a town away.
At day, the station was our playground for taraguán (taguan), darakúpan (habulan), turubigán (patintero), and lastikohán (rubber band game). The row of wood-paneled posts that hid us during taraguán made it really hard to be an ‘it’ in the game. Sometimes, during his idle times, the station master would even allow us to hide under his desk inside the station.
The station was also a store for many products. One of the most prominent vendors in the old station was Tiyang Nel who sold hotcakes, badúya (marúya), banana cue, palitaw and other kakanin which became our everyday merienda at home. Because the station was then the gateway to the town, peddlers of various merchandises—from amulets to fighting cocks to rare animals—were frequently seen selling their fares there. Once, I even saw a man selling sawá (python) which Tiyong Bundio, the cockfight gallery owner, eventually bought. After sometime, I heard my father telling everyone to be extra careful because the sawá broke out of its cage the night before, eating several of Tiyong Bundio’s fighting cocks. During dry seasons, when dirt roads from the Bicol National Park are accessible, forest products are brought to the station to be sold. In fact, the railway station in Lupi attracted more people than the market did.
When my father was the station master in Sipocot, the town next to Lupi, I would use the station telephone to talk to him for pasalubong. The station telephone then was different from the phone we use today. It was a telegraph phone which uses a lever instead of numbered buttons to ring a specific station. Sipocot’s code was three short rings. Whenever I would call father, I felt privileged since other children were forbidden to touch the telephone. Sometimes, when the telephone signal was weak, it was funny to hear the station master yelling just to be understood by the person on the other end of the line. When communist rebels attempted to raid the town hall in the late 80s, the rebels got hold of the station. Among the things they seized was the station’s telephone.
Late in the afternoon, when the train Mayon Limited was about to pass by, the station becomes crowded with boarding passengers as well as well-wishers. Their baggage ranged from backpacks to chicken cages. Train vendors would be around by this time, their fares ranged from balut to pili, kakanins to packed meals, and malamig na tubig to ice candies. We, the children around, delighted in these fares, especially the kakanins which at that time would sell at only one peso or two.
When the train arrives, we would settle at the rear side of the station to avoid the commotion of boarding passengers. I recall how amusing it was to watch the passengers rush to their assigned coaches while some of them, especially the men, settled on the roofs. And when the last coach disappears at the track bend a few hundred meters away from the station, the well-wishers one by one start leaving the station. I realized that the station was the only point of leaving and coming of many individuals in Lupi before. Many of these people came back well in life, but many did not even returned. I remember some of those who left, the Loquiases who settled in Florida, the Alsistos who are now in Fresno, the Panelos who, even the old Panelo woman is still in Lupi, her children are all abroad. Then there were also those who came in through the station, the Dimaculangans from Batangas, the Elevados and the Titulars of Nabua in Camarines Sur, and the political Matamorosas who were from Daragá, Albay. My mother’s family came to Lupi when my grandfather was assigned to be the station master there. Her family’s exodus was actually a complex one. My grandmother was from Pamplona, Camarines Sur, while my grandfather was from Bato, but when they were married, they settled in Sipocot since grandpa was the station master of Sipocot, so that mother and her siblings were all born there. Then, my father came to Lupi, when he was assigned there as the assistant station master.
My childhood was spent around the old railway station. I played my first childhood game there, I learned riding the bicycle on its platform where I also got the first bruise on my knees falling out of balance during a game of darakúpan. Playtime was between coming home from school in the afternoon and six in the evening when our mothers would call us home just before the church bells ring for the oración.
Our old house was just at the back of the station, but the journey home was not an easy one. At six, the skies of Lupi was almost completely dark, and between the station and our house was a huge langka tree. My mother would always scare me that a very tall man committed suicide by hanging himself on that tree. Because of this, I would always run home as fast as I could avoiding the sight of the langka tree.
Since the station was built shortly before the Americans came to Lupi, its age has already produced a collection of stories, majority of which are gothic in nature. One was the story of the couple who died after being dragged by a rushing train many years ago. They were said to be haunting the station very late at night by appearing headless and still in their wedding attire. Then there was the story of a monster who was said to show itself at the south of the platform in the form of a giant wild boar. Whenever I remember this story, what enters my mind was the Opón, the giant boar in the epic of Ibalóng who destroyed Bantong’s taro crops. A lot more stories were about ghosts which actually were not surprising since the station, and our own house too, were garrisons during the Japanese occupation.
A couple of months ago, when I visited Lupi, I saw a station slowly being eaten by decay. Its roof of bright red clay and its walls of timber panels were gone. The marvel that the small station created many decades ago is now nearing decomposition because of neglect and defilement. I have heard that trains no longer stop to pick up passengers, albeit there were only two trains going to and coming from the Bicol region. It was a sad sight to see such place left to deterioration after serving and even establishing a whole town. I can only remember what had been in the past.
