For us Baby Boomers who grew up in the sugarlands of Negros, the familiar sights and sounds of steam and diesel trains still stir a deep, almost sacred nostalgia. Childhood was measured not by clocks but by whistles.
We would pause mid-play at the faint tremor on the rails, then listen for the rhythmic “tsug! tsug! tsug!” growing louder by the second. When the long, echoing “chooo! chooo!” pierced the humid air, our hearts pounded with a mixture of thrill and fear. The train was coming.
To us, the locomotive was both wonder and warning. We were fascinated by its massive wheels, the billowing smoke, and the metallic groan of bagons heavy with freshly cut cane. Yet woven into our excitement were whispered tales that children who strayed too close might be kidnapped and taken away. The stories were vivid enough to make us hesitate—but never strong enough to keep us home.
The moment the train slowed near the crossing, discipline vanished. Barefoot and breathless, we sprinted toward the long chain of bagons. With nimble hands we tugged out stalks of La Carlota cane, prized above all others for its tender rind and rich, honeyed sweetness.
We felt like victorious hunters returning with prized spoils. The cane juice would drip down our chins as we chewed, laughter ringing across the fields.
But when a boda—a small hand-pumped rail car used by inspectors—came into view, panic erupted. We scattered like startled birds.
Elders had warned us that the crew might seize one of us as an “offering” before milling began. It was pure myth, of course. The men were simply checking the rails. Still, the fear worked.
In hindsight, we recognize it as our parents’ ingenious way of keeping us away from danger without dampening our adventurous spirits.
The teasing of elders added to the lore. “Plant La Carlota and you invite rats with long hair,” they would joke—meaning us.
In Hacienda Rosario–Nato, keeping bundles of cane for chewing was common practice. Our teeth, scrubbed daily by fibrous stalks, gleamed as proof of our indulgence.
Popular varieties like 711, 5333, Fiji, and Barbados did not escape our youthful “harvests.” Each had its own flavor and texture, and we became connoisseurs without knowing it.
Sometimes our escapades went beyond chewing. With improvised wooden presses fashioned from woods, we squeezed the juice from stolen stalks. The liquid gold collected in battered pails, then was boiled over open fires until it thickened into pulot—dark, fragrant syrup.
Spread over warm pan de sal or stirred into steaming coffee, it tasted like triumph itself. We were entrepreneurs in miniature, proud of our craft.
Four months after planting, the cane was ideal—soft enough to peel with teeth yet firm enough to satisfy. Of course, roving guards patrolled the fields. But childhood breeds creativity.
We walked backward across muddy soil to confuse footprints. We devised a game we called “pick,” assigning one child as lookout. At the slightest sign of danger, a birdlike chirp or whistle signaled retreat. We vanished before anyone arrived. Remarkably, we were never caught.
One afternoon, sensing that our adventures might reach adult ears, I gathered the younger children and urged them to keep silent.
They solemnly agreed, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. Yet the moment we reached home, my sister—now Dr. Zeny Patricio-Asiain—ran straight to our grandmother and announced with proud innocence, “Wala gid ya kami nagpang-os tubo!”
Her unsolicited declaration betrayed us instantly. The adults laughed; our secret was never truly hidden.
Time, relentless as ever, transformed the landscape. The trains that once defined our days gradually disappeared. Hardwood railroad planks were removed, crossings fell silent, and transloading stations replaced sidings.
Massive trucks—hauling up to 50 tons—now dominate the roads where locomotives once ruled. Efficiency improved, perhaps, but something intimate faded with the rails.
Yet not everything has vanished. For those who sigh, “Too bad La Carlota is gone,” the variety still lives on in the germplasm collection of SRA La Granja—a living archive of agricultural heritage.
It is comforting to know that what sweetened our childhood remains preserved for future generations.
And there, in Victorias City, a steam train relic stands quietly within the grounds of the old sugar central—a tribute to an era when industry and innocence intertwined. Its iron frame no longer moves, but it speaks volumes.
To us, it is not scrap metal but a monument to barefoot sprints, sticky hands, clever tricks, and shared laughter beneath the tropical sun.
Even now, if I close my eyes, I can hear it.
Tsug! Tsug! Tsug! Chooo! Chooo! | NWI
