For almost 40 years, I was a city boy who partook in most of the city’s sins. I frequented Poblacion’s haunts, meandered around Legazpi Village in search of happy hour, and thrived in the crowds of live music scenes. It was all I knew to enjoy, and I was more than willing to let it consume me. Because of the lifestyle I chose, I found myself nursing some sort of hangover for the better part of my 20s and 30s – some from heartbreak, others from depressive disorders, but mainly from indulging in excesses.
Then, some time during the pandemic, life would take me to the City of Dasmariñas in Cavite – not to an out-of-town party, but to actually reside in. For those of you who still lived in the Philippines in the ‘80s and up to the early aughts, you might recall the notoriety that preceded any mention of the province. Home to tough guys and hitmen – a land cultivated by executed corpses. When I got there, though, things had changed.
In the part of town I stumbled upon, which bordered both Imus and General Trias, it got quiet once the clock struck 9 p.m. When friends from Sampaloc, Manila, visited for the obligatory “apartment-warming,” they were awe-struck by the silence of the streets. Development plans unbeknownst to me had long been laid but hadn’t quite gone full swing yet, which meant many villages were still surrounded by grasslands, meadows, and open areas we city boys aren’t used to. Removed from my old devices, I found cycling.
Recovery
I was recovering from the Delta strain of COVID-19, supposedly one of the strongest of its ilk. I stopped drinking for (what was probably a personal record) 10 days in an ego-driven effort to kick COVID as fast as I could. I woke up before 6 a.m., enjoyed the magical birdsongs outside my window, and did a morning yoga flow. This was my routine for two weeks – the amount of time science said it took to get the virus out of your system. When I felt my sinuses clearing, I started pedaling, to anywhere and nowhere.
Everything was new. Every corner was an exploration. Every dirt road, an invitation. At the time, there were five mountain bike trails within an eight-kilometer radius of my apartment. I could ride in any direction and find myself in the middle of nowhere within 15 minutes. There are no bike lanes, but it’s about as cycle-friendly a place as I can imagine. I can reach several towns in Batangas without stopping at a single traffic light. You know how those who love surfing move near the beach? This was essentially it for me.
Having the luxury of working from home, I could start the day with a quick ride, go out to decompress in the middle of a shift, or reward myself with a sunset session at the end of it. I could explore barangays, entire towns, and new routes as I pleased. And, as the kilometer readings on my Strava rose, so did my love for this new life.
Waking Moment
With the fog of hangovers lifted, my neurons were firing. I began to notice the little things the city boy from my previous life would have no time for. Like how a little bit of rain caused foliage to thicken seemingly overnight, how certain plants grew in certain months, and how nature’s hues changed throughout the year. Cycling had given me the stamina I hadn’t enjoyed since my youth passed. And with it, an appreciation for the simple moments, like the hilarious language of goats or the soothing quiet of the trails.
Absent the vices that I used as my vessel to escape, I found myself hyperfocused, strong, and at peace. And true to my nature, I became addicted to it. I woke up before the alarm. Said no to any invite that could endanger my well-being the next day. I set boundaries I never could, protecting my peace and my newfound zest for life at all cost.
Reinvention
In the four years since I moved to Cavite, the developments have accelerated. Everywhere I go, there appears to be a new bypass road, a major construction related to the Cavite-Laguna Expressway, or some other thing that typically signals “progress.” My selfish impulse was to dread losing the open spaces I had grown to love. But speaking to the people who actually grew up here, they’re excited, recalling the days when the nearest shopping mall was an hour and two towns away.
Cavite is in the middle of a reinvention. Major real-estate developers like Ayala Land, Megaworld, and, of course, the inescapable Villars, are turning middle-of-nowhere swaths of land into cities onto their own, with their own malls and top universities catering to the moneyed transplants that would eventually move into the expensive residential properties. To the cynical, this is just capitalism spreading like a stubborn virus. To others, this could be a chance to do things differently.
Metro Manila didn’t have a chance at proper urban planning following the Second World War. These parts of Cavite have a chance to redefine the quality of life for everyday Filipinos. Even in more affordable real estate developments, there are pedestrian-friendly streets, open spaces, and plans for point-to-point transportation. Maybe everything looks nice until everyone moves in and traffic begins to stand still, just like every other metropolis.
Or maybe, just maybe, we can get it right this time.
