Eureka, Espeleta! Searching for Estrella Alfon's Immortalized Street

THE strange things are always the true things. The story we shall tell you, all Espeleta will vouch for its truth. You remember Espeleta. The street where we lived, about which we tell such lies and such truths. When this happened, we were all considerably younger. But even now we speak of it, and speak of it with wonder.
It was a seemingly impossible task. Besides my unfamiliarity with this great Cebuana writer Estrella D. Alfon, I thought that searching for Espeleta Street was like searching for the lost city of Atlantis. Sure, Espeleta Street had been immortalized in her short stories such as “Espeleta” and “The Woman in the Steeple,” but I had no speck of idea whether the street exists or not. Out of my responsibility as a student journalist, I, together with my very good and equally adventurous friend Cara, “embarked” on a journey of a lifetime.
In the jeepney, thanks to the kindness of the kandilira on the Basilica del Sto. Niño who instructed us to take the Basak jeepney going to San Nicolas Church, only the book served as the road map in search of Espeleta. Ah, Espeleta Street. Estrella D. Alfon’s description of it came alive. Seems like only yesterday when the sound of many people’s voices talking at once roused us, like the murmur of the vast sea – their shrill laughter in the murmuring with voices rising above the rest, whirling into waves of sound that would ebb, then surge, then ebb again.
But almost fifty years had passed; these murmurs have already turned into noises of transportations busying the calles of Sugbu. I looked out on the street and I no longer see a black sea of people standing about, but a black cloud of smoke belching from the cars and jeepneys .
Sadness and worry inundated me. I closed the book and heaved a deep sigh. What has become of Espeleta Street now, if ever it exists?

Espeleta: the paradise of the past
Sometimes, to hear me talk, you would think that Espeleta is a long street, a broad street, a rich and strongly-traditioned street. But it isn’t. Espeleta is just a little street, really. It is not even asphalted. It begins at the foot of Forbes Bridge. Where the street of Tres de Abril follows the curve of the Pahina River, that is where Espeleta Street.
You could walk its whole length, to where it ends by stopping humbly at the very gate of the San Nicolas churchyard; you could walk that while unwinding length, as I say, and experience no shortness of breath, no dampness of perspiration. Is it a busy street or a quiet street? You couldn’t say. Where the bridge swoops into it, the traffic rolls in, automobile and tartanilla and truck alike, raking up the dust in clouds, leaving on the facades of the houses living the street the evidence of all this busyness.
Yet, just about halfway down its length, Espeleta is crossed by another street, Garfield; and into this the traffic stems, leaving that half of the street from Garfield crossing to the churchyard gate a quiet place shaded by an occasional acacia tree, cool and bright with the flowers of the gumamela that line that way.

Stranger in a strange land
Again, I opened the book, realizing that I am a stranger in strange land. Here I was, battling with the thought whether Espeleta Street still exists or not. Maybe it’s not the same as it was before. The book, an anthology of short stories, became the only eye that aided us to find that elusive street. And through the book, my search began.
The sun was at its peak when Cara and I mounted the Basak jeepney. Groping for the exact location of Espeleta, we only had San Nicolas Church as our focal point in finding the street.
“The street, the immortalized Espeleta St., is unpaved, and there are few trees left, none of which are evident of at least fifty years’ existence. The other end of the road is the San Nicolas Church, adjacent to C. Padilla St.” Ignoring the passengers’ curious glances at us, I turned my eyes on both sides of the street while perusing the book for direction.
Twenty minutes later, the jeepney crossed a concrete bridge, with red and white railing tainted with graffiti. Excitement surged through my veins when I saw that, right under the bridge a shallow river runs languidly– its perimeter, extending to several more streets and is fenced with chicken wire to prevent those who live in its periphery from throwing their garbage there. But on second thought, I told myself, this could not be the Pahina River. The rundown shacks built closely to each other, the flotsam wafting on the sullied water, and the congested road beyond the bridge were an eyesore. There must be bridges and creeks other than this. Not this awful sight. Then, the jeepney followed the curve of the river and turned again until it finally reached the place that we were looking for – the San Nicolas Church.

Is it a busy street or a quiet street?
Dismounting the jeepney, we crossed towards the San Nicolas de Tolentino Parish Church and sauntered directly to the churchyard.
“Espeleta, as far as it stretched, was uniformly filled. The street is not so long, and you can see from one end of it to the other. So, now, where we stood, we could see the churchyard that the street ends in. And in the churchyard too was thronged. All the people were looking upward at the steeple. And like a rehearsed gesture, hands pointed in that direction as we asked the people around us what the matter was.”
Trees cover the churchyard thus giving a cool ambiance to the premise. Although the parish was established in 1584, the church displays no sign of antiquity. Unlike any other Spanish-built churches, San Nicolas Church is a humble and charming place of worship constructed with a contemporary taste, its walls painted in ivory color with an imposing crucifix just above the entranceway. It was siesta time when we reached San Nicolas and few tambays were taking their nap on the church lawn, some were even lying down on the grass while others were chatting with one another as they sat on the balusters. we could have immediately found Espeleta Street if only we asked them where it is, but our adventurous souls insisted that we can find it on our own. And so, from San Nicolas Church, we continued walking until we found ourselves trudging back Forbes Bridge.

The “Unknown” Street
The heat was so oppressive that Cara and I felt at anytime, heatstroke could encumber our search. We were on the verge of frustration. The book had already provided us with information, direction, yet we still could not locate exactly where Espeleta Street is. Our only option was to ask people who are familiar with the place. Gathering my resolve, I told Cara that we should cross Forbes Bridge. Reaching the other side we soon approached this lady sitting in front of her shanty. “Manang, alam niyo po ba kung saan ang Espeleta Street?” I asked her hesitatingly. She thought for a while. “Espeleta?” Nodding, she then said, “Hindi. Hindi ko alam kung saan ang Espeleta.” All of a sudden, I was delivered back to reality, as if confirming that my hopes of finding that immortalized street is put to waste. I gazed at the end of the bridge while jeepneys and pedicabs traversed back and forth.
As we reached the slope of the bridge, everything became ordinary–the noise, the hardware stores, the fences along the bridge as we followed the curve of the street without knowing where to go. Like the shallow river of Pahina, I let myself be carried along by the timid current of uncertainty.
Not until we passed by a funeral service, that brought my hopes back to life. Tres de Abril Funeral Service, the sign read. And with that sign, I knew, I finally reached Home. Indeed, strange things are always the true things.

Home at last
Passing by the street, we observed nothing much of a change in Espeleta: the constant pounding of hammers by unknown carpenters who never seem to finish what they are doing, and the laughter of children playing on the street.
The sights and sounds of Espeleta Street often repeated as people become preoccupied with eking a living, are ironically tempered by the presence of the Bonsu Temple, a Chinese religious temple which is located midway the long street. It is a two- storey structure, painted in ubiquitous red and gold, resplendent of architectural prominence. It cannot escape anyone’s attention. It is the only structure with a painted fence and a big gate.
A fusion of tradition and modernity enfolds Espeleta. Old dilapidated houses are located, reminiscent of forgotten grandeur. There are also a number of unpainted and old wooden houses crumbling from being long unkempt and which are used for business by some enterprising Chinese. Some cargo truck and private vehicles are parked on both sides of the street, adjacent to the houses, making it difficult for cars to pass by. There are also little houses that stand almost along the gutter of the street, with dogs tied on the ropes at the entrance guarding the clothesline. These rundown houses built so close to each other are similar to Tondo’s squatter area.
As we reached the intersection, which is Garfield Street, we met this old woman, who has been living in Espeleta for several years. Life was never easy for her, for she relied much on her children for a living. Espeleta is still brimming with poverty. Day by day, people were struggling to live by. And in the shortness of the street, I learned how big those stories must seem – of those people who live on it, or who once lived on it.
At last, we have found Espeleta Street! Yes, it is hidden. It is unknown. It is just an ordinary street. But it will be remembered forever. Its grandeur, its paltriness remain alive in the pages of Estrella D. Alfon’s short stories. And we, having searched and eventually found the immortalized street, took part in those stories.
For me, searching for Espeleta Street so far surpassed any triumph that I could ever attain in life. The uncertainty of the journey, the risk that we might have encountered out on the unfamiliar streets of Cebu; but those were the challenges of being a student journalist. Beyond that, it is bringing back Estrella Alfon to her home. And that is our own tribute to that great Cebuana writer.