Ride

Rhona Canoy

SO… It has become our normal to complain about the traffic situation in Cagayan de Oro. Which is quite understandable considering the amount of standing-still time we spend on our roads at particular times of the day. My internal conflict stems from the expectation of how long it should take to get from point A to point B, which apparently is based on obsolete travel times from decades ago.

The number of vehicles traversing our roads and highways constantly amazes me for several reasons. One, that there is that much money on wheels in our city in the form of private vehicles. Two, that there are that many commuters as evidenced by the flood of jeepneys, motorelas, trisikads and taxis every single where. Three, that I can’t figure out where all these people are going to or coming from.

My age is catching up with me. I remember when our streets were randomly pounded on by horses pulling tartanillas, by small jeepneys and the occasional privileged private car. Walking to and from somewhere was more common and our roadways were clean and litter-free. I guess this tells you how long I have lived in our city. Now try connecting our traffic jams back to the days of the first-ever horseless carriage in Cagayan.

According to my dad (who has lived here longer than I have, and that’s for sure), the arrival of the first car in town was quite an event. It belonged to Don Faustino Neri, more commonly known as ‘Nyor Tinoy Inot. He reportedly would take the car for a daily afternoon drive around the small town that we were then, followed by an entourage of able-bodied men who ran at a leisurely trot behind his car. The reason for their physical activity would only become evident each time ‘Nyor Tinoy needed to turn, either left or right.

Since the streets of the town were quite narrower than they are today (although our streets certainly are narrow still), there was not enough room for the car to execute the turn. Hence the entourage. The men woulc then pick the car up off the ground and position it in the direction which the driver intended before the car could then proceed under its own steam, at which time the men would continue their leisurely jog. What a sight that must have been to behold because it certainly drew crowds.

By the time I was old enough to notice anything, tartanillas were quite popular, along with the limited number of small jeepneys which undertook the longer-distanced routes. If you needed to cross the Carmen Bridge, then you rode on a jeepney. Otherwise, shorter distances were travelled by horse-drawn carriage at a more leisurely clop-clop pace. Transport was a wonderful thing because it allowed me to go places for free. No fare was necessary for children ten years old and below. We were privileged to ride beside the tartanilla cochero or squished between the jeepney driver and the gear stick in the front seat. Most drivers knew who we were and would promptly deposit us at our front gate when it was time to go home.

DxCC, Radio Mindanao Network’s flagship station, had a mobile tartanilla unit which allowed it to broadcast breaking news such as fires or community dances on site. Pending, of course, how long it took Manong Tirso to get all the gear to the location.

My uncle had a jeepney which plied the commercial route for most of the week. But weekends were our time. All the little Canoys would pile into the jeepney for paseo, which usually ended up at the pantalan in Macabalan. On Sundays, we would be ferried to our great-grandmother’s house in Opol to spend the day there getting fried under the sun and splashing around in the sea, long before sunscreen became a necessity. Truly a simpler time.

Few families had cars. I remember the first time I rode a private car was when my grand-uncle, Tito Delfin Rabe, bought his first car. It was gray, smelled of leather and, wonder of wonders, had automatic electric windows. I cannot count the times we were admonished to keep our grubby hands off the window switches.

So we walked. To school. From school. To church. From church. To Divisoria. From Divisoria. Eating peanuts, sineguelas, or whatever was the food in season. Memories which children today are no longer privileged nor blessed to have. And now you see why my mind cannot compute how long it takes to get to or from anywhere these days.

Traffic is surely a sign of progress. Or is it? I still picture myself riding off into the proverbial sunset in a squeaking, clop-clopping tartanilla. It always was and always will be my ride of choice.