By: Telly Gonzaga-Ocampo

TABO SA MERCADO: The Heartbeat of Baclayon

In the midst of the people of Baclayon, a Wednesday ritual holds the soul of the town — and now faces its greatest test.

When I was young, Miyerkoles was not marked on the calendar. It was felt in the air. It was Tabo sa Mercado — and that was the day to look forward to.

That was our market day. For us children, the mercado was not just a market. It was the place of children’s delight. Our school, Baclayon Central School, was just steps away. It is just beside the church. A typical setting of an old Spanish pueblo, completed in 1818 when Padre Cabanas was the parish priest of Baclayon.

Historians will tell you it was urban planning. But for us, it was wisdom. The plaza complex — church, school, municipio, mercado — was conceptualized as one breathing organism. A space for trading, yes, but also for social events, for suroy-suroy, for refuge for people who need shelter. It was a space provided by the Church itself, so that the poorest farmer from the hinterlands of Tunga and the fisherfolk from the coast could bring their produce and their crafts to the center and be seen, be heard, be part of the town.

You cannot relocate that. You cannot lift that soul and transfer it somewhere else.

The Market That Raised Us

I remember so well the people selling their produce, because they were not vendors. They were our titas, our lolas, our neighbors.

There was Nang Ubang selling bago nga tagdako pa gi tuhog in a chain of 5 for tagsingko sentabos. I can remember very well the kamatis lumboyon that my Lola would buy from her friend from Tunga, the woman with whom they were bakwet together during the war — hiding in the mountains, sharing hunger. The same woman who brought a bunch of fragrant halilika every Christmas time. And my grandmother giving them tinoboan in return. That tomato was never just a tomato. It was a covenant of survival.

There was Nang Pansang with her guinamos ug labajan, and she would always pakapinan ug una — that extra scoop that supermarkets will never understand.

 On the dry goods section, there was Nang Manting selling bakya with sculpted soles and kempit and ribbons for little girls’ hair. We would go to her after Christmas to buy those kempit and hairpins. 

Nang Tonang, Nang Yayeng, Nang Tanang in the bestida ug panapton section — women who knew your size by just looking at you.

On summers, those selling lomboy would line up near the copra section, their sweet scent mixing with the earthy smell of copra. And on fiesta time, there was kon and sug-ang galore filling up a particular corner. Fish were tinuhog pa. Bugas mais, humay ug tahop were ginantang pa. And there was always someone magkiko-kiko in the corner, frying that sweet, twisted delicacy.

This is what we stand to lose. Not just stalls. But memory.

Three Reasons the  Mercado Must Not Be Relocated

Today, there is a threat of dislocating the small entrepreneurs,maybe  giving way to a giant like Pure Gold and other big corporations. Mura man ug ang bolinaw gikaon sa butanding — like the tiny anchovy swallowed by the whale shark. It is the oldest story in development, and Baclayon should be wise enough not to repeat it.

First: You cannot relocate heritage. You can only destroy it.

The Baclayon Mercado is not a structure. It is a cultural heritage site by its very location and function. Since 1818, it has served as the economic component of a Spanish pueblo heritage complex — one of the best-preserved in Asia. To move it is to break that historical triangle of Church-Plaza-Market that UNESCO and our own National Cultural Heritage Act protects.

Their giant markets and malls can build anywhere. But heritage can only exist where history planted it. Once you move the mercado to the highway, to a private building, to make it “modern,” you have not modernized it — you have erased it. You have turned a 200-year-old living museum into a parking lot.

Second: You cannot relocate livelihood. You can only dispossess it.

Who are we dislocating? We are dislocating the Nang Ubangs and Nang Pansangs of today — mothers who earn P300 a day, seniors who have no SSS, farmers who walk for two hours to sell five kilos of kamatis. They cannot afford the rent in a corporate mall. They cannot afford the “world-class” stall fees.

Big chains operate on scale, on contractual farmers, on imported goods. The tabo operates on pakapin, on gantang, on utang, on suki. If you replace our mercado with a giant, you are not creating jobs; you are transferring wealth from the many Baclayanons to one multibillionaire family that already owns banks and chains across the country. 

That is not progress. That is dispossession.

Third: You cannot relocate community without killing democracy.

The mercado is where the town talks. It is where news travels faster than radio. It is where the farmer from Tunga knows the price of corn, where the fisherfolk knows if there is a funeral to attend. It is a democratic space — owned by the people, managed by the people.

An unsolicited proposal from a billion-peso corporation should never be taken more seriously than a solicited cry from hundreds of small vendors. We agree: there is a big room for improvement. Our market needs a better roof, better drainage, better toilets, better fire safety, better waste management. But let us improve it for the Baclayanons, not without them.

Let us renovate, not relocate. Let us restore, not replace.

An Appeal 

To the powers that be, we make this appeal with respect and with urgency:

  • Please, do not dislocate the Baclayanons and other locals to accommodate billion enterprises. Please, let the citizens participate in the vision.
  • Call for a public consultation. Make the unsolicited proposal public. Let the vendors, the farmers, the youth, the heritage workers, the church, and the academe be heard. Form a Mercado Development Council composed of vendors themselves. Use the Heritage Law, use the Local Government Code provision for preferential rights of small vendors and cooperatives.

The giant corporations survive without Baclayon. But Baclayon without its Tabo will lose its identity. Let Miyerkoles remain a day to look forward to for the next generation. Let the child who will walk from Baclayon Central School fifty years from now still smell the limboy near the copra section, still see tinuhog na isda, still hear the new Nang Pansang saying, “pakapinan ta ka, dong.”

That is the Baclayon we must protect.