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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.

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Sunday, January 19, 2025

entry arrow9:00 AM | The Infinite Poetry of One Big Tuyok

A few nights ago, tired from the anxiety plaguing us the past week, Renz and I decided to go make an impromptu O.B.T. around town. We even reached as far as Valencia, enjoying the straight-on-and-no-turning-left-or-right pleasures of the Jose Romero Highway that connects Dumaguete to the western town in the foothillds of Cuernos de Negros, then going around the municipal plaza, and then going back to Dumaguete via the Bacong-Valencia Highway, passing through Balayagmanok.

While Renz drove and I navigated, we listened to Adele, to Madonna, to Lady Gaga, to Robyn, and the various recommendations via Spotify. It made me think: living in the present is sometimes as simple as doing an O.B.T. at night with your significant other, while listening to our music on Spotify. There's no greater, simpler pleasure, and what one gets is understated, frills-free happiness. Just you, the road, good music, and someone you love beside you.



There’s something going around Dumaguete’s streets at night that invites reflection—perhaps the way the streetlights throw their measured glow on concrete roads, perhaps the hum of engines and the gentle crunch of tires on throughways, perhaps also the intimacy of conversations shared between people in transit. In Dumaguete, this practice has a name—O.B.T., or “One Big Tuyok.”

The term itself is part of the city’s vernacular, as intrinsic to Dumaguete’s identity as its beloved silvanas or the waves that lap against the seawall of the Rizal Boulevard. It began, as so many traditions do, with a simple need: something to do when the night stretched long and uneventful. “There was really nothing to do in Dumaguete before,” Jacqueline Veloso-Antonio once recounted to me. “So we would just be hanging out at our homes, on rotation each week, for tapok. Then when we ran out of things to do, our friend Raffy would say, ‘O.B.T. ‘ta!’”

And so, Raffy Teves and his friends in 1982 breathed life into this quintessential Dumaguete pastime, a “one big tuyok” around the city—just you, your ride, your music, and, most importantly, your companions.

From its humble beginnings as a whimsical escape for bored Dumaguete youth, the O.B.T. has transformed over the decades into a cherished ritual, its essence remaining gloriously unchanged even as Dumaguete’s roads became more congested and its charm grew into a magnet for tourists.

But to describe O.B.T. purely in terms of movement—of cars and motorcycles circling the city—would do it a disservice. It is not merely a drive; it is a celebration of simplicity, of understated joys that anchor us to the present moment. O.B.T. is the rhythmic cadence of life in Dumaguete distilled into a single experience, a reminder that the best pleasures are often those that demand nothing of us except to be present.

It is at night, under a canopy of stars and the glow of flickering streetlamps, that the city takes on its most poetic form. The air grows cooler, softer; the buzz of the day fades into hushed harmony. The once-busy streets, now quieter, seem to stretch more invitingly, as if encouraging you to explore their every curve and corner. On O.B.T., the city becomes both backdrop and participant—its landmarks, like Silliman Hall or the centuries-old campanario, slipping by like chapters in a well-loved book.

One can imagine those early days, when Raffy and his circle of friends, fueled by youthful restlessness, decided to embark on their nocturnal tours of Dumaguete. They would traverse the city’s narrow streets, their route an improvised map that included cemeteries, quiet barangays, and perhaps an obligatory stop by the Boulevard. It was not the destination that mattered but the journey—the act of being together, sharing laughter and stories as the world outside their rides blurred into motion.

The O.B.T. is rooted in connection. It thrives on companionship, whether it is with a circle of friends or a romantic partner. There’s something achingly tender about sharing a tuyok with someone you love, the way silences between songs on a Spotify playlist become as meaningful as the music itself. Words may flow freely or not at all; it doesn’t matter. What matters is the presence—two people moving through the night, their breaths syncing with the steady rhythm of the ride.

For those who’ve grown up in Dumaguete, the O.B.T. is a rite of passage. It is a memory shared by generations, a tradition passed down like a treasured recipe for life. Young lovers, for example, may find themselves on these drives, the road a silent witness to budding romances. For another, friends solidify their bonds over shared playlists and shared vistas over these rides. Families, too, partake in this tradition, their laughter filling the hallowed spaces of their vehicles as they pass familiar sights that suddenly seem new in the Dumaguete darkness.

In a way, the O.B.T. is Dumaguete’s love letter to its people, an invitation to slow down and rediscover the beauty in what is familiar. The act of going around in circles—in this case, quite literally—is paradoxically grounding. It reminds us that life need not always be about moving forward, that there is value in revisiting what we know, in finding novelty in the seemingly mundane.

This is not to say that O.B.T. has remained immune to the changes sweeping through Dumaguete. The city is no longer the quiet town of tartanillas and the empty streets that it once had. Traffic now is a common headache, and cars and motorcycles jostle for space on the roads, their headlights creating a chaotic mosaic against the night. And yet, amid the urban hum, the O.B.T. endures, adapting to the changng times without losing its essence. It is as though the spirit of the tradition—that longing for connection, for simplicity—refuses to be silenced by modernity.

Today, an O.B.T. can still include stops at the cemeteries and what-not, though it is just as likely to feature detours for midnight snacks at Dumaguete’s ubiquitous tempurahan or a quick coffee at one of its new cafes. The Spotify playlists may have replaced cassette tapes, but the heart of the experience remains: the road, the music, and the company.

And perhaps that is why he O.B.T. resonates so deeply for Dumagueteños. It is a microcosm of what it means to live well, to find joy in what is simple and true. In a world increasingly driven by haste and distraction, it offers an antidote: an invitation to slow down, to look out the window, to breathe. It is not about where you’re going, but about who you’re with and how you choose to get there.

As the night stretches on and the city slips into slumber, the final lap of an O.B.T. carries with it a certain wistfulness. The tuyok ends where it began, the cycle complete. But the beauty of O.B.T. lies in its infinite possibility. There will always be another night, another drive, another chance to see the city—and yourself—in a new light. 

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