Friends,

I want to tell you about my city’s public market. It is a porous, wondrous, seemingly chaotic place that feeds upon thousands in order to feed thousands. It is a place of daily give and take, labor, trade and mutual aid, and all the struggles and triumphs of entrepreneurship.

It is a place where my being a citizen among fellow citizens is most palpable to me. When I make eye contact with market vendors I’ve known for years and strangers I walk past in the public market, I feel a charge of recognition: we are all doing what we can to get by, you and I.

Imagine the noise: market vendors calling out their wares, promising good prices and the sweetest mangoes, announcing that the meat on display was freshly slaughtered this morning, drawing your attention to edible flowers or a very special fish that appears only at this time of year. The shout of a komboy clearing the way as he barrels through the crowd with his cart loaded with kilos of potatoes and cabbage. Igorot country music blasting from speakers somewhere. A shriek of laughter. A zumba class. A radio announcer from yet another set of speakers. Everywhere the hum of human activity drowning out the drone of vehicular traffic.

Imagine the mingling of scents and odors. Diesel fumes. Rancid oil. The comfort of rosal in a dark alley. Meat and fish and blood and water in the wet section. Pandan and freshly grated coconuts. Pesticide-infused flowers on that side. Fragrant rice down this way. Roasted coffee beans up that way. There is a public toilet somewhere in all this.

Imagine the colors and textures: bright red ripe tomatoes, orange camote, yellow mangoes, rows and rows of leafy greens, blue plastic bags, indigo blankets, violet-red onions, brown rice, black rice, red rice, white rice, silvery fish, pinkish meats.

Imagine the flavors: the fruit you’re invited to sample because once you’ve tasted this rambutan or that strawberry there’s no walking away without buying at least half a kilo, artisanal salt baked in the heat of the lowlands, delicious crackle of sin that is bagnet chicharon, sweetness of fresh green pinipig, heat of amkis, umami of kiniing, singularity of pinikpikan.

Imagine the hands, the hard working hands of everyone who labors in the market.

Imagine market stalls of every conceivable shape and size lining the paths of an open air maze of affordable fruits, vegetables, meat, fish, sausages, coffee, rice, dried beans, aromatics, spices, rice cakes and other local sweets and snacks, baked goods, carinderias, groceries, handwoven blankets, baskets, secondhand clothing, flowers, eggs, tofu, lottery tickets, newspapers, souvenirs, tobacco, herbal remedies, protection spells, areca nuts and betel leaves.

Now imagine this, demolished. Imagine this, years later, replaced by concrete buildings with an elevator, brash white lights, uniform and evenly distributed stalls, marked entrances and exits. Beside it, an eight-story building for paid parking. Behind it, a brand new commercial building operated by a corporation that owns chain malls across the country.

Perhaps, as our mayor has promised, all the people, noises, smells, colors, textures, and tastes will return once construction is done. But it won’t be the same. It will no longer be the market place that began 117 years ago, a year before Baguio became a chartered city.

A market that has grown through the efforts and support of local communities and migrants from the lowlands, the Visayas, and Mindanao. It will be something new and entirely different. They say it will be better. The very nature and design of the planned redevelopment is antithetical to fluidity, porousness, and spontaneity. It is a narrowing down of profusion, a thinning of options that lead to thriving, a stifling of vibrancy.

They call it future-proof, modern, and world class. But our needs are simple. Instead of concrete, steel, and glass, we want a marketplace that is organized, accessible, and clean. A Baguio Public Market for and by the people.

21? at dusk,

Padma

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