The Philippines! Palawan, PART 7: About Me

While walking along the shoreline of a beach tucked in the western part of Palawan (but is actually quite near its commercial hub), I saw fishermen hauling nets full of something other than fish. I walked over to take a closer look. Lobsters. Lots of lobsters. The fishermen made a line and off they went to work on the tasty-looking, squirming, creatures.  A lady would deftly grab one and dip it in ice cold water to “put it to sleep”, then pass it to on to a guy who quickly and neatly wrapped it in newspaper , then pass it to another fellow who would arrange them in neat rows in a cooler.. I asked a guy who was still dripping seawater, “How did you catch so many lobsters?” He said they went about it all night diving after them. I recalled that in one trip to Catanduanes off southeastern Luzon, I witnessed fishermen armed with spear guns who would dive deep into the ocean biting hoses connected to noisy compressors for air (they say the air they breathed out of it tasted like diesel). So I asked “Did you use compressors?”, He quickly looked at me and defensively said “No that’s against the law here”. I dropped the subject and asked him if he had caught any fish along with lobsters. He replied “oh, no, sir, around here, we ignore the fish. Lobsters sell better.”

I noticed that they would separate lobsters missing a limb or had an antenna broken. I asked what they were going to do with them. One of them said “they’re for the police”. I said “ah”. (I think I get the picture).  I thought maybe I could have a nice lobster for lunch later if I could drive the price down to perhaps at least 300 pesos.  I asked them how much they would charge me for one.  The fisherman who did the most talking earlier looked thoughtful, and after a while said, “ah.. sir.. I’ll maybe sell it to you for 50 pesos”.

“SOLD!!!”

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So off I went with my lobster and a big smile on my face.

I shared stories with the caretakers for the rest of the morning and they offered to cook my lobster for me as they set off with their daily activities.

Well what do you know. A nice big lobster for lunch

The place was beautiful, and as the morning wore on, foreign tourists slowly trickled in; all their faces smiling in wonder and delighted awe of the peaceful charm of the place.

Some of them were solo acts. Even a couple of women.

I picked a spot with a nice sweeping view of the area and dozed off.

Perhaps because I am as graceful as a song in solitude’s beautiful wide open spaces, I may at times waltz like a bewildered bear in the company of people I’m not that familiar with. There have only been a few people who have tried peering beyond my unintentional veil to see what’s inside, and for them I’m deeply grateful. I have long since made a promise to myself that my friendship with these people shall ever abide. I am certain they are all heaven-sent, and perhaps by virtue of this, some of them are my biggest influences.

Needless to say, I count my family as my best friends. I genuinely feel that I have the best family anyone could ever have and they are a constant source of love and light in my life.

Though I’m no longer in contact with my first romance, what and how I am now is in large part because of her. She gave me my first taste of confidence, and it had opened up everything else for me long after the last time we ever held hands.. and the last words we ever uttered to each other.  I will remain a friend to her echoing constantly from years past, though she may not hear.

I have found much inspiration from my conversations with a friend from college from the time we met until now.  Though I had been much influenced by a lot of the things she would say, some of my most powerful and profound moments in her company were ones where she didn’t even say anything. She is the wisest person I know. Every after single talk we have, no matter how long, no matter the subject, I always come out of it a better person.

I have a friend who although her professional services would normally cost an arm and a leg, would gladly accept a live chicken or a hamburger for it. At times she would accept nothing at all. She keeps me from the oppressive temptation to embark on a wild goose chase for fulfillment by way of riches, glamour and vanity. She is one of the most accomplished people I know. Not only is she a healer of people, she is soothing balm to this ailing world.

A fellow from my childhood unknowingly taught me the blissful freedom simplicity and honesty can afford you. His unusual disregard for trappings and glitter is a constant reminder for me to keep things simple, and thereby focus on the truly important things.

Passion for life is the hallmark of another friend from way back. She is a pulsing, gleaming celebration of life. “Carpe Diem” might as well be something she originally coined.

I must have laughed two lifetimes worth of laughter with a fellow with whom I may have also downed enough alcohol to set a whole village on fire. So much mirth that if I never ever laughed again, it would probably be okay. I’ve been blessed with much more than my share already.

I owe my constant attempts to nurture a spiritual side to my mother. During my teenage years, when she had discovered that I had strayed from going to church, she emphatically gave me these unforgettable words of wisdom: “Magsimba ka! Unggoy!!” (Go to church, you fool!). This initiated me in a serious search for God and meaning in the world early in life. Though nowadays I no longer care much about which is which when it comes to religion and doctrine, I believe that this life was meant to be spent in kindness, truth and Love and not to be squandered chasing illusions or meekly succumbing to conformity.

These are but a few people among others that I ought to mention here, though they are the ones that stood out in my mind as I wrote. Writing about others seems to be a strange way of talking about myself, but right now it’s the only way I know how.

The first ever post I made was an offshoot of a conversation with a well-traveled poet- friend who had been all over the world as well as locally and had decided that if she were to keep travelling, she would probably forget about the rest of the world and keep exploring the Philippines instead. The subject of writing came up and a couple of weeks later, I clicked that enter key and sent a bunch of nonsense hurtling into cyberspace and have found it quite fulfilling.

My trips to places unspoiled and un-pressured by hype and my encounters with local folk are my most memorable, and consequently are the ones that have found their way in posts. My vacations in resorts and popular tourist spots are usually spent with friends and one of these days I hope to post something about these as well. I am scared of the day I grow tired travelling. I don’t know what I hope to get out of it. I’m not sure why I keep doing it. There is always that feeling that I’m off searching for something or someone whenever I haul my pack and make that first step out my door, though I’m not all that eager to find it or them, whatever it is or whoever they are. It’s the trip and the uncertainty that I find rewarding.

With my gracious hosts, Mr and Mrs Tobias. I hate goodbyes

The lobster, by the way, was delicious!

Tawi Tawi

In what may be the southernmost market you can find in the Philippines, I met a friend who invited me to his house by the beach. We had some beer much later in the afternoon and that’s when he confided that he had been sizing me up all day wondering whether I was a covert agent sent by the government. I wanted to say that I had been doing the same thing, wondering whether he was somehow connected with the Abu Sayaff.

I didn’t.

Instead, I said, “This ocean is strange. It’s so clear and still, it’s difficult to tell where it ended and where the sky began.”

Then we drank some more beer.

(More on this after my seventh and last Palawan installment, and as soon as I recover the rest of what a friend likes to call my “buwis-buhay photos”)

The Philippines! Palawan, PART 6: In Search of Crocodiles

I managed to keep only 3 photos from this trip, and only because I was able to upload them in my Facebook account years ago

It’s my second time to spend holy week in Palawan. The first time around, I had been riding all day in the general direction of the south and by afternoon had decided to call it a day and spend the rest of it in an inn by the main road.  I usually went for accommodations by or near a beach or ones that had some kind of peculiar charm, but considering the time of the day plus my general physical state, I couldn’t afford to be choosy.

And so I ended up reaching as far south as I had ever been in Palawan only to spend the rest of the day and evening in an unremarkable inn by the road with nothing to do. I went outside to see whether there were any small stores with a bench where I could loiter and perhaps chance upon anyone to talk to and indulge my fondness for local stories and anecdotes. But I could only see the long stretch of road and a sporadic line of middle-class houses lining it in either direction.

My room was in the attic and was the cheapest available. After unsuccessful attempts to get any sleep, I went down to the canteen and sat by a corner. One of the lady attendants was sobbing over a particularly violent scene in The Passion, which was playing on television.

I got into talking with the place’s visibly bored security guard who I asked for some information regarding this neck of Palawan. He said that before becoming a security guard, he used to work at Tumarbong River catching stuff in the night (I have forgotten what exactly). But then his sudden brush with death made him leave the river for good. “One evening”, he recounted animatedly, “I was hunting near Tumarbong Falls, when I noticed a creature just several feet away”.

I asked, “What did you see?”

“A big crocodile!”

That really caught my attention, “Really? How big?”

He held one hand at eye level like a salute and the other hand palm-up at knee level.

I said, “Oh, that long. A young crocodile”

“No, sir! This was how thick it was!”

I succeeded in suppressing a spontaneous laugh. I wasn’t sure whether he was joking. I said, with unintended skepticism “Really?”

 His reply was immediate and emphatic, “Of course, Sir! Why else would I be a security guard now??”

Much later, After gulping down a cup of instant noodles and a Gatorade at exactly midnight (I had been staring at both since 11pm), I went to sleep with my mind filled with giant sunbathing crocodiles. I did not have any access to the internet where I could check on the guard’s story, though I vaguely recalled news stories of crocodile attacks in a river somewhere in Palawan.  I was also aware that the rare and endangered Philippine Crocodile could be found in the wild in this province.

At sunrise, I went on the road holding a crudely drawn map courtesy of the security guard and missed the entry point to the river at least 3 times. It was thanks to the left-right-right-left directions of a boy I met near a small wooden house where I left my motorcycle that I eventually found myself lost in the forest for a couple of hours;  as clueless to the direction to the falls as I was to the way back where I came.

I decided at that point that I would have better luck at finding the river than the road, so I wandered some more, keeping my ears on the alert for the sound of flowing water.  Instead, what my ears picked up were the sound of leaves rustling and the agitated barking of a fast- approaching dog. I ran around in circles in frantic search for a stick to defend myself with, and ended up picking up a long, pathetic branch no thicker than my pinky with some leaves still hanging from it. Great. Maybe I could tickle or fan the dog to keep it from attacking me. The dog’s crazed barking was interrupted by a man’s authoritative shout from afar and they emerged up a slope seconds from each other. The white-brownish dog barked at me again fiercely, with raging animosity in its eyes. His master scolded him and its face instantly transformed into what bordered on angelic, with tongue hanging limply and wearing what seemed like a big smile. It was as if a switch had been flicked that made him pop out of demonic possession. He actually looked quite adorable. What a relief.

The old man had thinning hair that he wore long past his shoulders. He was very gaunt and was wearing jogging pants cut off at the knees. He was dripping wet. If I remember right he told me later on that he was in his mid-fifties though he looked much older than that.

“Good morning, I’m looking for Tumarbong Falls, can you tell me where it is?”, I asked.

“Tumarbong Falls is way over there”, he said, moving his hands behind him in a shooing motion to emphasize the distance.

“Can you show me?”

“Come, I’ll accompany you”, he said, as he bade me to walk down the river.

When we reached the water, I saw a half-naked, old woman, with 2 teenage girls bathing.  “We were all bathing together when our dog ran away to meet you”, He said.

We proceeded to walk away from the group. “Did you see my wife?”, He asked.

I said, “Yes, I saw her”. I tried not to look behind me to avoid having to see the old woman’s breasts glistening in the sun again.

He added, “She’s the young girl to the right”

That made me turn to look behind suddenly, and a few yards from the old woman, I saw his young wife looking back at me.  She must have been 15 years old. She was quite pretty.

Pride was written all over the old man’s face when I turned to him again. I looked at his wife again. Then I looked ahead at nothing in particular while I tried to switch to a different topic in my head.

The Scream

“A lot of land around here is for sale”, he said. “If you want to buy any, I can talk to the katutubo (indigenous people) who own it and arrange the sale.”

I said, “Yes, it would be nice to own a place by the river”

He said, “The main reason people buy property here is not to build a house. They buy property here because of the gold.”

“Gold?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”, He asked

I said, “No.  I want to go to Tumarbong Falls and maybe see a giant crocodile”

“Who told you there were crocodiles there?”

I said, “A guy I met yesterday”

“That’s a myth.”

“Oh?”

He said, “That was just a myth spread by Bruno to keep the locals away from Tumarbong Falls where a huge cache of gold was hidden.”

Oh. The plot thickens.

“Who’s Bruno?”

“He’s a Spaniard who had a map of the gold treasure left at the falls during Spanish times.”

I said, “The guy from the inn said he saw a giant crocodile here with his own eyes. I was thinking maybe I’d see some wild ones or ‘the’ crocodile itself.”

He said, “Maybe he was referring to a dummy they put there to keep the locals away”

I wanted so badly to vigorously scratch my head. But decided against it.

I said, “And the treasure is still there?”

“No, they’ve already taken it. They brought a boat here all the way from the mouth of the river and hauled it away”.

The dog had been stalking us running by the riverside above and sometimes at our level, disappearing and reappearing out of rocks and the woods to catch up. Sometimes he was compelled to wade into the water so he wouldn’t lose us. He kept a wide berth between us and himself like a Secret Service agent.

“But!”, He added , “If you can give me P50,000 to ‘rent’ a piece of land I know, I can pretend to work that land while actually looking for gold I know is stashed there. I’ll give you half once I find it.”

“What makes you sure there’s any gold there?”, I asked.

He replied, “It’s a secret my father told me. We have a map.”

I was beginning to think he had been watching way too many Hollywood movies on pirated DVDs (quite abundant and ubiquitous in the Philippines).

We rested for a while by the riverbank. The dog watched us from the other side, half-submerged in the clear water.

The Bodyguard

I asked, “Have any outsiders taken interest in the gold here?”

He said, “Oh, yes, Robin Padilla (a popular actor) himself had visited this place on account of the gold.”

The old man liked to talk. He said that he was originally from Pampangga, a province in Central Luzon, and that he and his father had moved here years ago and settled with the indigenous people in the area. We hiked the rest of the way and his stories revolved around land, gold and Spaniards. He was quite entertaining.

I eventually found myself standing in a very small clearing beside the river where Tumarbong Falls could be seen. It was not an especially remarkable waterfall. Looking around the area, the place we were standing on seemed to be the only spot on that side of the river where you can view it. The area was lush; And you’d have to swim across to get to the other side. The river seemed deep and inviting, but not having checked the place in the internet before coming, I chose the security guard’s story over the old man’s. I wanted to see a crocodile. I didn’t want to be inside one.

Nope, I didn’t see any crocodiles nor gold that day.  Just the oldest pair of naked breasts I’ve seen in all my life.

(To be continued)

The Philippines! Palawan, PART 5: The Iwahig River; The Attempt to Eat a Snake

Mine…

For some reason, I would always feel as if I owned the place I am currently at, especially when there was no one else around. What does it matter who owned the title or rights to the property. I’m there. They’re not. So for the few hours that I spend in any magnificent place, it’s absolutely mine for as long as I’m there, even more so than the legal owners who aren’t even around at the moment to enjoy it.

The past two days, I have so far owned a couple of hectares of beach property and a piece of forest with a waterfall. And looking further back I have been the owner of several mountains, countless coves, caves, forests, islands, coral gardens, lakes, rivers and a few houses. If you think of it, no possession is permanent anyway. You will most certainly have to part even with your legal possessions one way or another. By virtue of what others would probably consider a delusion, I’m therefore one of the wealthiest people I know. Mere pieces of paper are no match against the deep-seated sense of ownership I would feel over a place. My feelings are my proof of ownership.

I don’t know how long I had been staring at what looked like a Begonia which had grown from a rock moistened by perpetual spray when I was dislodged from my reverie by a bird announcing itself with a wild call that sounded more like the howling of a monkey in heat.

It’s just as well. It was time to move on.

Back to the road.

Mine…

I have grown used to the curious looks I get from other riders, which I’m sure are on account of the conspicuous armor over my legs, arms and hands, which look inordinately paranoid in provincial outskirts where a lot of riders don’t even bother to wear helmets, and where you would often see a family of four in a motorcycle (sometimes with one of them clutching a dog or a couple of chickens). I owe all of it to  my rather memorable introduction to the motorcycle years ago…

“These are the brakes. This is how you change gears, try it..”, The tricycle driver demonstrated. He owed me driving lessons. After all, this was all his idea. He hurriedly drove to this motorcycle rental before I could say anything; And I never said I knew how to drive a motorcycle.

“Ok, try driving a few blocks”, said the tricycle driver. My motorcycle lurched like a startled horse and I drove in circles in front of them in quick hiccups of uncertainty as I kept squeezing on the breaks to make sure they’re working and to keep my speed down. The tricycle driver and the attendant watched me with expressionless faces.

“Will you be able to manage to drive all the way to Sabang, Sir?”, asked the tricycle driver.

“Sure”,  I replied, with all the confidence I could manage to feign.

The following day, I returned the motorcycle badly broken and scratched; And although the damage were for the most part cosmetic, involving side mirrors  mudguards and paint, I still shelled out at least 1,000 pesos to compensate the owner. “Sir, ano nangyari sa inyo? Ok lang kayo?” I was glad that the attendant seemed genuinely more concerned with how I looked than how their motorcycle did. I had a severely bruised knee under my muddy jeans. My grotesquely skinned palm was hidden under a bloodied handkerchief tied around it, and I had abrasions and gashes over my arms. I had crashed in every possible way over the course of my trip. I crashed when my bike stalled uphill, causing my big bag to drag me sideways, making me hit the pavement with my right knee bearing most of the brunt of the fall. I picked myself up and performed a Jim Carrey-esque little dance on account of the pain before I walked the bike to the side of the road and give myself time to contemplate how utterly stupid I must have looked. In another instance I hit the front breaks while speeding over gravel, sending me and my bike sliding side by side over the road for a few meters on my arse and one hand, bloodying my right palm. Several kids who witnessed the whole thing, rushed to me and made an excited inventory of the damages incurred by my bike. “Hey, look, the side mirror is broken.” “Hey, look, the mudguard is broken”. “Hey, look, this footrest is bent”, and so on and so forth... “Ang galing!”, one of them exclaimed. In my mind, I was like,” Ano kaya magaling dun? Dagukan ko kayo isa isa dyan e.” 

I could more than hear their recounting of the spectacular accident while I picked minute rocks that have embedded themselves all over my bleeding palm.

These were just a couple of incidents among several, involving a couple of shallow ditches, and the need to remind myself in ensuring I’m already ON the motorcycle BEFORE starting and hitting the gas, if I don’t want to be dragged by the arms by a lurching bike without me on it and look like an absolute idiot in front of people (although they seemed to find it quite hilarious and entertaining). I decided against the initial impulse to take a bow before my delighted audience after picking my bike and myself off the ground at a food and souvenir area at Sabang.

And so I will endure a thousand stares and looks elicited by my outfit if it will keep my blood inside my body where it belongs, and save me a trip to the hospital or the morgue.

All mine

After riding over dirt roads gently winding through forests, I’m back on the main road. I noticed a tarpaulin sign offering ‘Firefly Watching’ and ‘Mangrove Tours’. I severely doubted if I would see a single firefly under the blazing sun, but I had always enjoyed riding on small boats , and I desperately needed distraction from my growing hunger.

I was told by the guide that they fought hard for the preservation of the mangrove forest that flanks this river

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My guide said this place is quite a hit with tourists in the evenings when the place is lit up by nothing but the stars and thousands of fireflies

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Mmmm, flowers. I wonder if they’re edible

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What the park lacked in fireflies during daytime, it made up for with quite a number of these bright-colored snakes lazing over branches of mangrove trees

According to my local guide, these snakes are called Binturan. They ate small bats and lizard eggs. My stomach groaned at his passing reference to diet and nutrition.

I said, “It sure looks tasty. Can I eat it?”

(To be continued)

A Word A Week Photo Challenge: Worker

2 Badjao girls paddle away tired and disappointed with their meager earnings from begging along a seafront park in Zamboanga City. One can only hope their future is not as bleak as this photograph.

The Philippines! Palawan, PART 4: Be Good To Me, Friday

The caretaker was having Pancit Bihon (thin rice noodles) and sliced bread when I found him in a small dining room-cum-kitchen. I heard my stomach whimper. How much do I owe you? The caretaker looked unprepared for my question and glanced at the ceiling. Sir, 180 will do, looking uncertain as he turned to look at me in reply. I had just finished packing my things after a walk around the beach savouring the fresh morning air. The owners were arriving soon, I was told, and it was time to leave.

I had to wake up early to make further exploration of the place possible which was as deserted as I had found it when I arrived the previous afternoon. I sat by a rivulet of unearthly clear water draining into the beach as I watched the blue-gray morning seep into the hemisphere to the sound of hushed lapping of waves and birds trying to outdo one another for the title of Palawan Idol.
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The road back was serene and practically devoid of any traffic, which made me wonder how the people here traveled to and from the city-hub. I would see the rare jeepney, and some tricycles, but they showed up quite far in between. I was grateful for my rented motorbike which I haggled down to P350 for 24 hours, without which my whimsical itinerary would in no way be possible.

A couple of years ago, I took a tricycle from the airport and asked its driver for directions to the Underground River, Palawan’s main attraction. He told me that since I only had 2 days to spend, I would not be able to make it since I had already missed the last jeep for the day. There’s a solution though, Sir. You can rent a motorbike for P500, His face lighting up, as he turned on the gas and roared his tricycle along the main road, spewing expanding white smoke that rendered the traffic behind us virtually invisible.  We stopped at a garage under big Acacia trees where more than a dozen motorcycles were prominently displayed in neat rows. I bent and stepped off the tricycle. I sat on a red Honda XRM. It looked to be the cheapest among the other bikes on display compared with a few Motocross bikes gleaming and standing proudly out in front. How many hours will P500 get me?

24 hours, Sir, and the gas is on you, Replied the teenager attending to us. The driver seemed quite pleased with himself. You should go for it, Sir. It’s the only way you can get to the Underground River, trust me. I nodded my head slowly in agreement. (I would later find out that he earned a cut from this arrangement).

I’ll take it.

I paid the driver who was now back seated on his tricycle. I threw in a generous tip. Thank you, sir! So, problem solved and everything okay, right?, he said proudly.

Actually, no. I said matter-of-factly as I turned away lugging my big, black backpack towards my bike.

His voice sounded genuinely concerned. Why sir, what’s the problem?

He scratched his head and smiled at my reply.

I said, I don’t know how to drive a motorbike.

 

I’m riding the very same motorbike this Good Friday as I drove past a sign that said ‘Salakot Water Falls’. I had ridden a few blocks past it before I decided to make a u-turn and check it out.

 

This bridge doesn’t seem to see that many crossings

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This place would be a hit and a great picnic venue if it were more accessible

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Deserted but alive with weird birdsong

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The resort-accommodation is not exactly 5-star, but the ventilation is unbeatable

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(To be continued)

The Philippines! Palawan, PART 3: No People, No Hotels, No Food, Noooo Problem

The road changed from concrete, blinding white under the sun, to brown dirt, to gravel, to red earth flanked by dense forest. I needed to reach the western coast and still have enough daylight to enjoy the beach and watch the sun bid farewell to this side of the world.

After riding for hours and not seeing a soul except for the occasional rider or pedestrian giving me a curious look, it was delightful to finally see some houses and people. The road was paved again and I stopped by the first Sari sari store I’ve seen  for hours. Over its sparsely stocked wooden shelves were a few canned food and cheap liquor. A clear plastic bag of junk food and biscuits were hanging from the ceiling to tempt kids to part with their precious coins. There were a few sad-looking bananas wilting in the heat on the counter. Gasoline in big Coca cola bottles were prominently displayed on a rickety shelf propped by the side of the road in front.

There were two kids barely in their teens sitting on the bench sharing Tanduay Rhum from a glass. I asked, Where can I find a place to stay around here? They told me to ride further down the road till I hit the beach and I’ll find a resort there offering cottages.

I did find the place they were referring to, but the guy who I found there told me it did used to be open to guests but was now private property. Indeed, the sign by the side of the road had seen better days. The place seemed too remote for tourists to venture to over long stretches of dirt road. He said he was the caretaker of the property and the owners were not around.

May I spend the night here?

I’m sorry sir, we don’t accept guests anymore and the owners and the whole clan will be arriving tomorrow to spend Good Friday here.

My shoulders dropped. I could hear the churning waters and smell the briny sea from where we were and I was irresistibly drawn to it. What’s the nearest alternative that you can recommend? My body felt like it was still vibrating from riding over gravel and dirt. I had to get enough rest to prepare myself for fasting the next day. Sir I think there are places you can check at Apurawan, around 30 kilometers from here. I thought to myself, 30 kilometers of riding to a place he ‘thinks’ there is a place I can spend the night? I said, there’s no longer enough daylight to ride that far. Please let me spend the night here and I’ll leave before the owners arrive.

I’m sorry sir, I can’t do that.

I just need the security of your gates. I’ll sleep on the dirt.

Sir, we don’t have any food to offer you here.

Exellent. “I won’t need any”.

Let me show you to your room, Sir.

I let out the biggest smile I’ve worn in a while.

I quickly changed into fresh clothes while he cleared my room of stacked tables, chairs, and various knick knacks. He was sweeping the floor when I left to do my usual pre-dusk walk along the beach.

And so I walked.

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I see trees of green…  Do you?

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Worm Art

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When shadows are longer than the casters are tall, It’s time for a walk

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Feels and smells better than it looks

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Gone swimming

To be continued

The Philippines! Palawan, PART 2: Nay

The Penal farm was a big place and I didn’t know where to start looking for him. All I had to go by was his full name. I asked no less than 10 people around the farm, including employees and other prisoners.  I chanced upon a gated structure where prisoners were actually behind bars. Several prisoners were let out to talk to me but they were more interested in selling me trinkets, charms, and belts made of snake bones. One particularly pushy inmate kept telling me that his belt can cure back pain. With glaring eyes, like he’d just had way too much coffee, he seemed quite upset that I wasn’t interested in his merchandise. I couldn’t wait to leave.

I asked around a bit more but  failed to find my friend. Maybe he’d been released already.  I took out the prints, 5 in all, and studied them for a while. They were nice shots. I was sure he’d have been quite happy to get these photos. If ever he puts up a Facebook account, I’ve got him covered in the profile pic department.

I rested for a while under a tree wondering where I would ride to next. I studied my map and thought of riding as far as the available daylight permitted. And so I rode.

And rode.

And rode.

I also thought a great deal.

Under the steady blast of sunshine and explosion of life around me, my thoughts venture to the dark corners of my mind, as if the glaring contrast between them can offer some kind of protection. With the intoxicating aroma of grass, forest, wild flowers and earth filling my lungs, my mind inexplicably go back to the sterile, dreary smell of hospitals, where my mother spent the last 2 months of her life.

I’m trying to understand why some people have to go through the unspeakable suffering of infirmity. I also try to come to terms with the experience of having been by both parents’ bedside and having seen them off when they left this world. I wonder whether parents, who by such time are usually already unconscious, have any need for such companionship.

Around the last week of my mother’s life, she wondered aloud whether she still had a chance of getting better.  She was only half her weight by that time, and was so weak, she could barely lift her hands. She trembled whenever she did. Looking away from me she said to herself, may pag-asa pa kaya ako?. The fear, despair and loneliness in her voice shattered my heart, the same way my heart broke every single day that I saw her health decline.

I remembered how she would merely stare at her favorite food and just manage a spoonful’s worth. I would take away her practically untouched meal  and sneak out of sight where I would stagger through waves of pain and sorrow before I return to her bedside and hope the swelling in my eyes have gone down enough to go unnoticed.

During the most recent times that I had seen her healthy, I was fond of asking her out to eat with my aunt and uncle who lived nearby. My brother and his wife would at times be around as well. I did not talk much at such meals, content at basking in her obvious joy and contentment at being surrounded by family over lunch or dinner. She would talk and laugh throughout, and I would feed off her happiness and would drive home with a smug smile on my face that I wore till I slept.

She was exceedingly proud of her children. I would often catch her over-zealously talking about our praises and achievements to customers in our small Sari sari store. One time, I overheard her telling a neighbor to let us know if ever they needed medical advice because her youngest son was a doctor. I reminded her afterwards that I was merely in ‘premed’ and was not a doctor yet. I was taking up Nursing then, and years later would eventually decide against continuing to Medicine. (‘Nay, Nursing pa lang pinag-aaralan ko, ‘wag nyo naman sabihin sa mga kapitbahay na doktor ako). She reacted by laughing with that hearty, infectious laugh that was distinctively hers.

Throughout the two months that she was sick, I wondered when I would hear that peculiar laugh again. It was frightening to allow in too much hope considering what she was up against. And I eventually paid the price for overindulging in optimism.

I had only a couple of hours of light left of riding and had to consider where I was going to spend the night. I check my map for the most likely place I’d find one. I check my watch, squeeze on the gas, and speed off west, where the sun was slowly heading.

At 70 kilometers per hour, tears run sideways.

(To be continued)

The Philippines! Palawan, PART 1: The Prisoner by the Road

Holy Thursday, 2011, on a motorbike. The road in front of me stretched into the horizon. The wind roared like steady thunder in my ears. The air was warm and thick. Like riding through soothing balm. I can’t get enough of the smell of the air. I keep breathing in lungfuls of the countryside potpourri, trying to make sense out of the pleasant commotion it stirred inside me. Strange and familiar at the same time, it reeked of the ancient and primeval. The mingling sense of recognition and novelty fought one another in a stalemate.  Like bumping into a long lost friend I’ve never met before. Like going back to memories that are not my own.

My destination is the Iwahig Prison and Penal Farm in Palawan to make good on a promise.

The previous year while riding south on the roads of Palawan, soaking in the scenery and the local wildlife (The occasional monitor lizard or bayawak crossing  the road, a flattened snake roadkill  in the shape of an ‘S’, a couple of squirrels darting into hiding, big birds gliding high up in the air), I saw a guy standing by the road with a juvenile python hanging over his neck. I drive past him, but after a couple of blocks I made a u-turn to take a closer look at his pet. The sun was mercilessly beating down on me anyway and he was standing under the welcoming shade of a giant Acacia tree.

He seemed delighted to have someone to talk to and was quite eager to tell me about his pet. It was only half its size when he found it and he fed and grew it to its present size. Nope, it doesn’t bite. It sheds it’s skin after a while, etc.  He said that he was one of the many prisoners in the farm who were free to roam about and attend to farming and other kinds of agricultural work. He was in charge of taking care of itik (wild ducks). I didn’t have to say much to him. He carried the conversion all by himself and talked and talked like it was his first time to do so in ages, while the python over his shoulders watched us with its sleepy indifferent eyes. He said he ended up in prison for hacking a trespasser to death in Quezon Province. That it was deadly boring in the farm and that he longed to be free to go home someday.

I asked him if I could take a photo of his pet python and he was quite delighted to see the resulting image in my digicam’s display. He requested me to take a photo of him together with the python and I haven’t seen anybody as happy as he was upon seeing a few simple instant photographs. He wondered aloud if I could send him prints, and I said sure.  Perhaps in gratitude for breaking the dreadful monotony of his days, he offered to catch me a ‘sqealer’ when I came back. I asked, what’s a squealer? He replied that they were quick-footed, reddish mice with long puffy tails. (Oh. Squirrels.)

Before leaving , I gave him some cash for graciously photographing me with his python. He lit up and flashed an all-teeth, ear-to-ear smile. He said he was going to use it to buy the nicest pair of footwear there is: Islander brand flip-flops. 

A year later, I’m back on the same road carrying photo prints of my homicidal friend with his cold-blooded pal.

(To be continued)

 

The Philippines! Mt. Batulao part 3: the Squeeze

The original plan was that we would spend the afternoon at the peak and my companions would descend back before dark and leave me to camp alone overnight. But because of our little side-trip to the old lady’s house earlier, there was only half an hour’s worth of daylight left by the time we arrived.

After pitching my small tent, we stared at it for a long time. Though no one made any comments on the subject, we all knew there was no way on earth we were going to fit in there. By tacit agreement, we did not bother to find out and just went wandering around the vicinity, checking what stuff was available in the store nearby (liquor, soda, noodles, junk-food ..) and lounged around checking the surrounding scenery.

Our campsite was right beside a hill. I climbed it and sat on a rock at the summit transfixed at the western horizon where the sun was putting on a show. The sky was so red, it had made the whole landscape blush. Nothing was spared from its cosmic paintbrush.  Clouds, whole fields, whole mountainsides, tents, people, a dog, a cat, a goat and a couple of chickens– .. everything turned into a surreal purple-red in absolute chromatic unison. It was only around a 10 minute show. And as with all things of sublime beauty and wonder, it was terribly fleeting and you can’t take it home with you to keep. I stayed for a few more minutes and just stared at my shoes before finally descending down the hill while the trail was still visible.

We had dinner in the nearby store where there was some cover from the cold wind steadily coming in from the east. We were joined by other hikers and a cat. It kept getting colder and there was no longer ignoring the inevitable. How were we going to fit in our tent without oozing into each other and merge at the molecular level?

After several experiments in different positions in my tiny blue tent, we finally give up and just hope for the fatigue to do its job and knock us out in whatever position we were in. We chat and chuckle ourselves to sleep, and in that steady descent into the carefree, indifference of slumber, I thank God for tweaking our itinerary and foiling our plans for this trip. In travel, as in life in general, I’d hands down prefer His plans over mine any day.

I just hope nobody farts.

How to get there: http://www.pinoymountaineer.com/2007/08/mt-batulao-811.html

Morning has broken

The smell of the air here makes you close your eyes

Near the old man’s house

Just one of the many peaks

The Batangas Sky

Oh, give me a home…

Evening falls