Curachas and Ghosts

The city had been calling me for as long as I can remember. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe something deeper. One click, no plan. I booked the flight like I was answering a knock in the dark. A birthday impulse. No checklist, no companion. Just me and a gut feeling. 

For my twenty-seventh year on this rock hurtling through space, I chose Zamboanga City. First time traveling solo on my birthday. I’m a little superstitious, so the fact that I made it home in one piece? That counts for something. Maybe everything. I flew in on the day itself, aboard the flag carrier. There’s a kind of quiet magic in that, a sense that something’s aligning just right. Then a nervous idea as I asked the flight attendant. Everyone had already deplaned. The cabin was still and humming. Then I was in the cockpit. Not a replica. Not a museum piece. A real one. Lit up, alive. I stood there like a kid who’d stepped through a secret door. 

I hadn’t built expectations. All I had were snippets from filtered vlogs, curated posts that made the city look like a dream filtered twice over. But the real thing? Messier. Louder. Better. At the airport, families clung to each other. Drivers called out rides. Travelers wandered like they were still shaking off the sky. I checked into my hotel and settled in. Didn’t stay long. I was hungry, and it was my birthday. 

My first meal in Zamboanga was at Alavar. They’re known for the curacha crab—curacha literally means cockroach, but it doesn’t taste like one. Not that I’d know. The sauce was thick and orange, rich with coconut milk, ginger—maybe turmeric, maybe some other secret they’ll never tell. The dish stayed with me long after the plate was empty. There I was: alone in a city I’d never been to, eating a dish I couldn’t believe, halfway between a language I barely understood and a culture I was still figuring out. That dinner set the tone. Not just a meal. A line drawn in time. 

The next day, I walked through downtown. Explored Plaza Pershing. And yeah, I brought a birthday cake to the beach. Because why not? Pink sand. Blue sky. The cold waters of the Sulu Sea licking at my ankles. I was in my element. A water sign with no past to chase and no future to dread. Just the moment. Just me. Coke in one hand, chicken in the other, cake beside me. No thoughts of deadlines. No echo of the life I’d paused. 

Feliz cumple a mí. 

See the line where the sky meets the sea? It calls me.

After leaving the island, I went straight to Fort Pilar. There was a hush in the air, like the fort was holding its breath; history heavy in the stones, like they’d soaked up too much blood and wouldn’t forget. As I stepped through the archway, I felt that same eerie yet familiar presence I’ve only felt back home in Intramuros. It wasn’t fear, not quite. More like recognition. Like the walls knew stories they’d never tell out loud, and if you stood still long enough, they might whisper them to you.

Fort Pilar was once a fortress built by colonial Spaniards, designed to hold off Moro raiders. Now, it’s a museum. But it doesn’t feel like one. It feels alive. The exhibits trace the region’s maritime history, its textile traditions, and of course, the thriving of the Mindanaoan people. I took my time, moving slowly, as if rushing would disrespect the stories etched into the stone and fabric and faded photographs.

“Saling, This is one of the beautiful streets of Zamboanga where my house and the Montojo (?) building are. - Rosa”

But what caught my attention most were the students. They weren’t on their phones. They were looking. Eyes wide, like they could hear the same whispers I did. Ghosts don’t always rattle chains. Sometimes they show up in the silence between words, when you stand in a place that remembers more than you do. 

Rizal Park

I kept walking, letting the city guide me. Until my feet, and maybe something else, led me to the boardwalk. That’s where I decided to stop and have dinner. I found a stall selling mi goreng. Real street stuff so good I forgot to talk. Zamboanga isn’t just a feast for the eyes. It hits your taste buds and memory, too. Sadly, I missed out on the famed Knickerbocker. But maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. You leave something behind, so you have a reason to return. While I ate, I watched the crowd. Different faiths, faces, ages all gathered by the sea. Just living. Just being. It felt…right. Like something that doesn’t need explaining. After that, I grabbed an iced coffee from a roadside cart and called it a night. A long day, but a good one. 

Reality was starting to creep back in. But before it could pull me under, I made one last stop: the Canelar Barter Trade Center. The place buzzed with merchants calling out, goods stacked high, everything pulling you in. I stocked up on mi goreng packets, Oldtown Coffee, and whatever else I could stuff into my luggage. 

Then it was time to go. 

This trip wasn’t just a birthday getaway. It was something else. A reminder. A quiet whisper that I’m capable of more than I think. That there’s still magic out there. That sometimes, to find yourself, you just need to go where no one knows your name. 

And maybe leave a little of yourself behind.