Elegy
Elegy
Updated 01:48am (Mla time) Nov 17, 2004
By Conrado de Quiros
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A14 of the November 17, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
THE PICTURES of the train that flew off the tracks in Quezon province reminded me of my childhood. I spent it in Naga City, leaving for Manila only in my college years. At the time, the main mode of transportation going to and from Manila was the train, fondly called the Bicol Express. That is where the name of that concoction of coconut milk and chili comes from. The suggestion being that that insane dish (for those who do not like hot food) could only have come straight from hell or the Bicol region. A little of both, I guess.
Some travelers also took the South Road, but they were largely the intrepid ones. The bus fare was cheaper, but the journey took longer and was prey to all sorts of perils. Not least robbers, many a bus having been held up in the night, or sometimes in broad daylight. Every time I saw a Western, with a stagecoach being chased by bandits who wore black handkerchiefs over their mouths, I thought-with the aid of a wild childhood imagination-of what it must be like to take the bus down the South Road. The very name "South Road" sounded like "south of the border, down Mexico way," as the song went.
The train was the thing to take, the stations from Legazpi City to Manila teeming with crowds. Which, of course, like the pier, gave refuge to hustlers and scoundrels, some of whom usurped the seats in Economy and sold them to the desperate, who were those with infants or carried cartloads of baggage. The Bicol Express of course was nothing like the Orient Express -- it is certainly not so now -- it had nothing of its grandeur or comfort. The "Economy," which was all I could afford, resembled every inch the trains in India, where bedraggled humanity poured into every pore of space, making going to the john -- such as the cubicle in the corner of every other coach could be called that -- an exercise in gymnastics. "Economy" was a commentary on the movement you could make.
But though safer compared to the road trip, the train had its perils, too. The Visayan nightmare is a ship sinking at sea, the Bicolano nightmare is a train skidding and falling into a ravine. That was so particularly during bad weather and when the engineer happened to be a speed freak. I heard all sorts of stories about it when I was a kid. Of course it never happened frequently, but myth has a way of magnifying things. In any case, the overcrowded coaches, like the overcrowded cabins in boats, guaranteed that when it happened it would be a humongous tragedy, scores of dead being strewn all over the rocks among the coconut groves.
Even then, there was talk about unsavory characters ripping off portions of the tracks -- literally -- to sell as scrap metal. But it wasn't as bad as today. The train being the lifeblood of the region, or the railroad track being its main artery, it was patrolled dutifully by the police and train authorities. The culprits did not just risk the ire of the law, they risked the wrath of the community. Easy to be frowned upon by the law, it carried with it a romantic air, not so easy to be scorned by the community, it carried with it only a sentence to obscurity.
These thoughts rushed back to me when I saw the pictures on our front page of the train that looked like a snake that had twisted and coiled itself in spasms of death. The survivors said it was the gruesome handiwork of the engineer who had sped away while negotiating a curve, going at 70 kilometers per hour where he should be going at 20. It was a sharp curve that led down to a gully, made more dangerous by the absence of portions of the tracks, courtesy of not so very petty thieves. The survivors said the sensation before the train tore itself off the tracks and sent the coaches rolling on their sides again and again was that of a horse galloping wildly. The result was not unlike the fate that visited Christopher Reeve.
The disaster brought home all the horror stories I heard when I was a kid. It brought home as well some fairly recent memories, which I got from my last few visits to Naga City. That was the absolutely decrepit state of the Bicol Express. I saw a train lumber by one time. It was almost dusk, the sun blazing red before gasping its last, when the train chugged mournfully by, the sound it produced bereft of any sharp and metallic quality. I swear it issued a moan. It was the sound of creeping death.
Someone would tell me later only the impoverished and desperate took the train now. Everybody else took the bus, which now offered a variety of services and boasted a host of competing lines. I took one once and almost froze to death from the air-conditioning, a typical feature by the way of most buses in this country. This is a country that has a deep and dark longing for snow. But that is another story. There is nothing express about the Bicol Express now. A trip to Manila from Bicol could take anywhere from 15 to God knows how many hours, depending on the weather, the condition of track and train, and the extent of hangover of the pilot.
Frankly, I cannot understand how we have left the Bicol Express to rot in this way. I still think the officials who ripped off the Philippine National Railways should be made to ride trains running at 70 kph in sharp curves where portions of the tracks have been ripped off by miscreants as their punishment. But they are not just the ones to blame here. Elsewhere in the world, trains remain the main mode of land transport, for good reason. They are the fastest and most efficient way of transporting people and cows from one place to another.
Maybe this tragedy, for all the grief and bereavement it has cost many families in my favorite region, will drive home the point. There is something else that died there, or at least is gasping its last. I don't know, maybe we can still do something about it.
Updated 01:48am (Mla time) Nov 17, 2004
By Conrado de Quiros
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A14 of the November 17, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
THE PICTURES of the train that flew off the tracks in Quezon province reminded me of my childhood. I spent it in Naga City, leaving for Manila only in my college years. At the time, the main mode of transportation going to and from Manila was the train, fondly called the Bicol Express. That is where the name of that concoction of coconut milk and chili comes from. The suggestion being that that insane dish (for those who do not like hot food) could only have come straight from hell or the Bicol region. A little of both, I guess.
Some travelers also took the South Road, but they were largely the intrepid ones. The bus fare was cheaper, but the journey took longer and was prey to all sorts of perils. Not least robbers, many a bus having been held up in the night, or sometimes in broad daylight. Every time I saw a Western, with a stagecoach being chased by bandits who wore black handkerchiefs over their mouths, I thought-with the aid of a wild childhood imagination-of what it must be like to take the bus down the South Road. The very name "South Road" sounded like "south of the border, down Mexico way," as the song went.
The train was the thing to take, the stations from Legazpi City to Manila teeming with crowds. Which, of course, like the pier, gave refuge to hustlers and scoundrels, some of whom usurped the seats in Economy and sold them to the desperate, who were those with infants or carried cartloads of baggage. The Bicol Express of course was nothing like the Orient Express -- it is certainly not so now -- it had nothing of its grandeur or comfort. The "Economy," which was all I could afford, resembled every inch the trains in India, where bedraggled humanity poured into every pore of space, making going to the john -- such as the cubicle in the corner of every other coach could be called that -- an exercise in gymnastics. "Economy" was a commentary on the movement you could make.
But though safer compared to the road trip, the train had its perils, too. The Visayan nightmare is a ship sinking at sea, the Bicolano nightmare is a train skidding and falling into a ravine. That was so particularly during bad weather and when the engineer happened to be a speed freak. I heard all sorts of stories about it when I was a kid. Of course it never happened frequently, but myth has a way of magnifying things. In any case, the overcrowded coaches, like the overcrowded cabins in boats, guaranteed that when it happened it would be a humongous tragedy, scores of dead being strewn all over the rocks among the coconut groves.
Even then, there was talk about unsavory characters ripping off portions of the tracks -- literally -- to sell as scrap metal. But it wasn't as bad as today. The train being the lifeblood of the region, or the railroad track being its main artery, it was patrolled dutifully by the police and train authorities. The culprits did not just risk the ire of the law, they risked the wrath of the community. Easy to be frowned upon by the law, it carried with it a romantic air, not so easy to be scorned by the community, it carried with it only a sentence to obscurity.
These thoughts rushed back to me when I saw the pictures on our front page of the train that looked like a snake that had twisted and coiled itself in spasms of death. The survivors said it was the gruesome handiwork of the engineer who had sped away while negotiating a curve, going at 70 kilometers per hour where he should be going at 20. It was a sharp curve that led down to a gully, made more dangerous by the absence of portions of the tracks, courtesy of not so very petty thieves. The survivors said the sensation before the train tore itself off the tracks and sent the coaches rolling on their sides again and again was that of a horse galloping wildly. The result was not unlike the fate that visited Christopher Reeve.
The disaster brought home all the horror stories I heard when I was a kid. It brought home as well some fairly recent memories, which I got from my last few visits to Naga City. That was the absolutely decrepit state of the Bicol Express. I saw a train lumber by one time. It was almost dusk, the sun blazing red before gasping its last, when the train chugged mournfully by, the sound it produced bereft of any sharp and metallic quality. I swear it issued a moan. It was the sound of creeping death.
Someone would tell me later only the impoverished and desperate took the train now. Everybody else took the bus, which now offered a variety of services and boasted a host of competing lines. I took one once and almost froze to death from the air-conditioning, a typical feature by the way of most buses in this country. This is a country that has a deep and dark longing for snow. But that is another story. There is nothing express about the Bicol Express now. A trip to Manila from Bicol could take anywhere from 15 to God knows how many hours, depending on the weather, the condition of track and train, and the extent of hangover of the pilot.
Frankly, I cannot understand how we have left the Bicol Express to rot in this way. I still think the officials who ripped off the Philippine National Railways should be made to ride trains running at 70 kph in sharp curves where portions of the tracks have been ripped off by miscreants as their punishment. But they are not just the ones to blame here. Elsewhere in the world, trains remain the main mode of land transport, for good reason. They are the fastest and most efficient way of transporting people and cows from one place to another.
Maybe this tragedy, for all the grief and bereavement it has cost many families in my favorite region, will drive home the point. There is something else that died there, or at least is gasping its last. I don't know, maybe we can still do something about it.
posted by Dante at 3:54 PM
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