Sugarcane

I will never forget the 1^st time I tasted this humble drink. It was sometime in the 80s in a little hole-in-the-wall FujiFilm shop in Ongpin St. in Chinatown, Manila.

My Dad and I were traversing our regular route. From Zacateros St., we would walk along Alonzo then Ongpin St., passing through numerous hardware shops, pipe and tube stores, pet shops and a fire station until we reach Sta. Cruz. The distance usually takes about 30 minutes on foot. While walking, I would be gawking at the very Chinese-looking people manning the stores, marveling at the cacophony of their rapid Fookien and wondering what they were saying. From time to time, to the tune of my Daddy saying “Jump!” my legs hefty with kiddie muscles would manage to make big leaps to avoid tripping on the logs being unloaded to the various hardware stores. I endured that section of the mercantile street on foot only because next to it came my favorite part: the traders who specialized in pipes and faucets! As we passed by the pipe shops, I would gleefully stretch out one of my bony arms to feel the strong and cold force of the water gushing from the shiny pipes and faucets. And then, after walking some more, I would beg my old man to carry me again. In the chaotic district that was 80s-era Chinatown, being cradled by my Dad’s arms made everything feel safe.

Aside from begging him to carry me, I would also usually complain of thirst. That day, my Dad didn’t immediately stop to get me a drink. He told me to wait. Whether I was actually thirsty then or just looking for an excuse to drink Coca Cola or ice water escapes me now, but that warm day, I think I bugged him twice or thrice more than the usual, not understanding why I was being made to endure the thirst.

Clearly, my Dad had something planned. Somewhere along the walk from Zacateros to Ongpin, he must have thought the time was just ripe to let his daughter have her first sip of sugarcane.

The store that sold sugarcane lay somewhere near the Ongpin arch, just a few blocks after the fire station, and a few meters away from where we would wait for jeepneys that would bring us to Quiapo, then home to Munoz. We usually bought stuff there before or after the walk to/from Zacateros - like a pack of Hi-C juice, a plastic pouch of Coke or some cigs for my father. Of the numerous times I accompanied my Dad to his office, the two of us mostly ignored those stacks of cut sugarcane pipes. From time to time, I would wonder to myself what those cut bamboo-like shoots were used for or how the yellow-greenish juice tasted like. Sometimes I’d even sneakily touch the dried sugarcane, but I never really got curious enough to bug my father to let me try it.

For all the ingenuity of being the only store to sell sugarcane juice and sugarcane in that busy and hectic street, the little FujiFilm shop lacked any aggressive signage promoting their unique product. Instead of screaming banners, they just put out a sign written on the back of an empty cigarette carton pack that said, “Sugarcane, S - P 2.50, M - 5.00, L - P 10.00.” From what I remember, their major trade was the selling and developing of film rolls, while specializing in a bevy of other rakets. And the well-used up space reflected these concerns. Walls lined with photos of That’s Entertainment stars, shelves filled with stacks of batteries and films of different brands, types and ISOs took up about two-thirds of the space. The remaining third crammed a mini sari-sari, where a pedestrian can buy candies, like Stork, Snowbear (?),White Rabbit (the kind imported from China), some cigarettes, as well as a variety of other refreshments. I’m sure banana cue and even fishballs had also been tenants of the store at one point, tempting pedestrians and camera enthusiasts alike.

“Natikman mo na ba yung sugarcane, Niel?”

“Hindi pa.”

“Gusto mo?”

“Ayaw.” (After all, it was green. It looked like a veggie, never mind the “sugar” part)

And then (my curiosity got the better of me), “Ano ba yun, Papa? Sarap? Sige.”

First sip and it was love. I looked at my Dad, my face conveying a mixture of glee and shock. How was it possible that something so ticklishly amazing could come out of a plain-looking green tubo? I was stunned not only by how sweet it was but also by how unimaginably refreshed my throat felt after one gulp. This was definitely better than Coca Cola and it sure was worth the lengthy walk and the long wait. From that day onwards, I made sure to have my Dad buy me a cup whenever we would pass by the Ongpin arch, to the point that I got tired of it and had him stop buying me one. But eventually, I’d come around and start craving for a cool cup again.

This, as well as other stories, confirms how everything my Dad did was just tinged with magic. Whenever I would try to grasp memories of the man, I would be reminded of him by the little things he left me with. No, they are not material gifts, a great inheritance nor a precious heirloom, but rather a way of looking at things; of experiencing them. That humid afternoon in Ongpin, I would be discovering a new favorite drink; one I’d be having a lifetime love affair with. And in a sense, I owe this great fondness for sugarcane to him. Maybe the fact that he made me endure the thirst and heat made that first sip an extraordinarily sweet one because, come to think of it, never had sugarcane tasted as good as it did that afternoon, almost two decades ago.