She met us under the arch of Casa Lubao, holding a paper parasol and a smile as polished as the cobblestones beneath our feet. “Welcome to Las Casas Filipinas de Acuzar, where history walks and sometimes wears lipstick.” That was Harlene—guide, storyteller, comedian, and part-time time traveler.
In the gleaming midday sun of Bagac, Bataan, the heritage village shimmered with old-world grandeur: capiz windows, red-tiled roofs, columns carved with forgotten pride. But it was Harlene who made it breathe.
She wore a modern twist on the baro’t saya, with sneakers peeking beneath the skirt’s hem and a microphone clipped near her collarbone. Her voice carried through the plaza, cutting through the seaside breeze and the slow creak of kalesas. But it wasn’t just volume—it was rhythm. She had the cadence of someone who loved these houses not just for their age, but for the drama inside their walls.
“Here we have Casa Biñan,” she said, tapping her pointer against the stone. “Once a symbol of wealth, now a symbol of second chances—rebuilt brick by brick after being left behind. Just like many of us, no?”
We laughed. She grinned.
History, in Harlene’s voice, was never stiff. It danced. She told us of mestizo merchants and fiery illustrados, of bahay na bato built by sugar and sweat. She spoke of Spanish friars, American engineers, Japanese officers, and Filipino revolutionaries, but always managed to return the story to people—their gossip, their heartbreak, their survival.
“This door?” she said, pointing to a narrow arched frame. “Designed small not for style, but for control. You’d bow your head entering, whether you liked it or not.”
Her knowledge was vast, but never showy. When a child in the group asked, “Did someone really live in that house?”, Harlene knelt beside her and answered with a gentle yes, painting a picture of a girl not unlike her, who used to sit by the window folding papel de Hapon into flowers.
She walked backward as she spoke, never missing a beat, guiding us across bridges and time periods with the ease of someone born in two centuries at once.
We asked how long she’d been doing this.
“Long enough to remember every ghost,” she winked. “Short enough to still believe they like me.”
As the tour ended by the seaside chapel, the sun beginning its slow descent, she thanked us—not with a rehearsed script, but with something that felt like farewell and blessing.
“Remember, history is not just the past—it’s the way you choose to carry it forward. Walk proud. Walk curious. And if you forget the details, at least remember that someone like me cared enough to tell you.”
And we did.
Even after the cobblestones cooled, and the houses stood quiet again, we remembered Harlene—the guide who didn’t just lead us through Las Casas, but walked us straight into the heart of it.