I was finally home, and I was blissfully lost. Like most palengkes, the market of Agoo was a crush of bodies moving to a song I had never learned. Unfortunately, deciphering foot traffic in a Philippine market was proving as foreign to me as the hanging signs corded to the rafters. Twelve years abroad, and I was flailing like a native-born tourist fresh off the plane.
Lured by the promise of a hamburger vending machine, I allowed my sisters to tow me along on their banana selling endeavor. Like the islands, Agoo Market was a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors: fuchsias, emeralds, cerulean, and tangerine. There were stands sporting mango, coconut, and papaya, fresh saltwater fish, and hand-sewn garments.
In no time at all, I was lost amidst aisles too narrow for their inhabitants. Stumbling down a side passage, I was struck by the masterpiece obscuring the ceiling; carpets woven into intricate designs hung low enough to graze passerby with their delicate threads. A museum of woven art, both hidden and elevated in the most unlikely of places.
The artist, an elderly Filipina with graying hair and skin that spoke of the Pacific isles, was exchanging a few coins for a packet of cigarettes. A smirking boy—no older than ten—took the hand of his elder and touched it to his forehead in a sign of respect, before scampering away to blend seamlessly with the flow of bodies.
Jostled from behind, I forged on through the aisles of organized chaos. The air was thick and crowded with the tribal tongues indigenous to the islands. Whole pigs, strung up and dangling by their ankles, created a wall on either side as I carved my way with graceless precision through a throng of market-goers.
I was lost, beautifully and marvelously lost. Everywhere I turned, a new story was unraveling: in the corner, a young man fed pieces of his lunch to the monkey perched calmly upon his shoulder. To my left, a cluster of school-aged children giggled to a joke I would never understand while a man in a stained white top bartered with animated gestures over the crimson bodies of scaleless fish.
It wasn't long before the billow of grilled meat drew me like a woman starved. From their booths, sellers shouted, "Isda! Isda!" While others enticed with spears of cooked meat. Arms laden with an assortment of food, I continued my journey through the palengke of Agoo, the nerve-center of La Union City, all the while thinking to myself: there's nothing better than getting lost.
