Sampaloc, Manila on a rainy October
evening
A stray cat darted towards the tacky pink and blue Christmas tree beside
me on the second hour of my wait for a bus that would bring me to Banaue. I am
seldom early but when I am, I am inconveniently so. Now I had to
brush aside my annoyance at the Dubai cook from Isabela who was trying to
hit on me, perhaps to beat the boredom of waiting for those trippy pink buses
to finally depart. I stifled a snicker at the lonely scenario.
Eight hours ago, I was surfing the net and making quick phone calls to
arrange my five-day trip to the mountains. I have had it with two days of
moping around from my foiled Batanes trip. Four months in the making,
Batanes was supposed to be the ultimate vacation nearly one year after I quit
my day job. It was supposed to be the last hurrah, my Ecuador in the
Benjamin Kunkel[1]
sense of the word, the turning point in my self-made bilndungsroman, the final
escapade before I lay down my anchor at the last port of call. Sadly, a very
suspicious declaration of “bad weather” put my friends’ and my plans to naught,
and, because we couldn’t find a later common schedule for Batanes, all of
us opted for a refund. But that morning, my bags still unpacked, I was raring
to go somewhere, anywhere. I had already set aside time and money for a
trip. I might as well go somewhere I haven’t been before. “Consider this
practice at risk-taking,” I texted my mom, “if I won’t do this now, when will I
ever do what I want in life?”
Destination: Batad
Psychology, literature and art history show various symbolic meanings
for mountains. Mostly, these heightened places connote a spiritual quest.
The process of repeated ascents and descents produce realizations and being at
mountain peaks gives one a good hold of the bigger picture. No matter how
fitting this alternate trip might be to my own spiritual impasse, when we
started moving at 10:50 p.m. I was simply happy to be going.
I awoke at 6:30 a.m. as our vehicle snaked its way through the Banaue landscape. Sunrise over mountaintops, thick clouds and quaint dilapidated houses greeted me that damp morning. When I arrived at the Florida bus terminal in Banaue, I asked someone about transportation arrangements to Batad Junction. I learned that he also was a guide and can take me all the way to the village. After much haggling, we finally agreed on a price.
Minutes after my longganisa and mountain rice breakfast at Hidden Valley Café and picking up some supplies from the local grocery, Gideon (the guide) and I were riding through the countryside on a hired tricycle stopping a few times for photos and some rest. The bumpy ride lasted for an hour. Then I decided to take the two-hour hike from the junction to the village. Tourists have the option to ride a jeepney to the saddle point, a clearing in the mountain with some huts that sell souvenirs and refreshments. The ride costs P 200 per person and will cut the travel time in half. However, I don’t do things half-assed so I started walking.
As I
suspected, time can mean different things to different people.
Gideon’s two hours meant three and a half hours for me. No matter, I
reminded myself that I was not in a race, I was in Batad to take it slow.
For novices like me, the trekking pole is a godsend. I rented one with the bulol (rice god) carving on top at saddle point for P20. At that time I only thought it was cute for photo ops, but I realized after a day that it is actually useful especially while heaving myself through steep terrains or crossing slippery slabs of stones. Somehow, I also felt more comfortable as I imagined the bulol to have certain protective powers. The walk was generally silent, only disturbed by berry picking, occasional questions from me and some trivia from Gideon. Suddenly, despite the physical exertion, I felt myself relaxing.
By noon, I was finally at the village and was settling at
Hillside Inn. One hundred fifty pesos a night is not bad for a basic room
with an amazing view of the famous rice terraces, now officially declared as a
UNESCO world heritage site. The only thing you have to live without is
cell phone signal. In Batad, there are very few points where you can detect a
faint connection to the outside world and one of these points is Hillside’s
paying counter where guests can leave their (Smart powered) mobiles
to receive messages. Lunch for me was chicken curry and a huge heap
of rice and sautéed watercress. Fresh food certainly rehabilitates a spent
body.
In the afternoon, after acclimatizing myself, I walked around the
village spoke to an old lady in a native hut. Immah, as she is called,
does not know how old she is but says she was already alive during WWII. In my
estimate, Immah is a little older than seventy. Living alone, going blind and
no one to take care of her, the old lady is gaunt, her hands gnarled, and she
smelled faintly of piss. I wondered how she gets by. Gideon explained that her
neighbors help out, pounding rice for her and cooking some of her meals.
Despite her dire state, Immah has a no-nonsense aura that is heightened by the
way she chews her muma or betel nut while she tells her stories.
Immah wanted the old roof of her native house be converted
to galvanized iron. Replacing it with new cogon grass is four times
more expensive. I was saddened by the reality. How many of the villagers resort
to the same solution?
By sunset, I was in an engaging conversation with Ramon Binalit, a local resident and guide who, for two years now, has been welcoming guests to experience a bit of Igorot culture by sleeping in his family’s native huts.
Toggling between English, Ilocano and Tagalog, Manong Ramon shared that the idea was suggested to him by two visitors who pointed out that travelers might prefer to learn more about the Igorot way of life than just see the sights in the area. Since then, with the help of some concerned tourists who became their friends, Manong Ramon and some other guides, have been trying to preserve the native huts despite the practicality of having to use galvanized iron for roofing. To preserve authenticity, there is no electricity inside the huts. Traditional baskets still bedeck the walls, old wooden utensils are used, fire is made inside and an amazing number of animal skulls decorate the roof’s underside for protection against evil spirits. Talking to Manong Ramon in front of a fire inside the hut did give a mysterious feeling, as if I’m part of a midnight society of sorts. I could’ve wanted to stay longer, but the dark and the rain prompted Gideon and I to head back to the inn. Dinner is served only up to 7:00 p.m.
Sunrise is Batad is magical. As I am a nocturnal creature,
waking up at 4:00 a.m. is uncharacteristic. However, witnessing night lend
itself to day above the rugged peaks fronting the inn’s rickety veranda is
indeed time well-spent. Wasn’t it Pablo Neruda who said that if he had the
choice, he would sleep less because he would not want to miss anything? How
true. The whole place is silent save for the occasional rustling of leaves from
the trees behind the inn and the puttering of pans from a house at the distant
village below. I shivered, stretched out and breathed in the cool mountain air.
Sometimes, blank is beautiful.
Omelette and toast prepared me for the rigorous day. Trekking to the top
of the terraces to see a good view of the ampitheater and traversing another
mountain to get to Tappiya falls for half a day took a toll on my city legs and
feet. But I was having a good time despite, no, because of the challenge. I
felt extremely lucky not to have fallen over steep cliffs or be crushed by
falling boulders. A few months ago three tourists have been hit with some
rocks and one of them had been rendered blind. Yikes! I panic slightly at the
thought. I cannot not see. My eyes are the source of my bread and
butter. When you are on your own in unfamiliar and sometimes dangerous
places, you realize it’s not your abilities that keep you alive. You are
completely at the mercy of the gods.
On the way, Gideon and I met two French men who came from Pulo and
Cambulo, villages where one can see other stretches of rice
terraces. I considered going there too but computing for my own version of
4 hours, I opted not to. These jolly fellows have been travelling the country
for more than a month and Sagada was to be their last stop. At the falls,
we said our au revoirs and hope to see each other in Sagada in a few days. I
lingered, enjoying the cool waterspray and the deafening fall of metric tons of
water.
Gideon and I made it back to the village a few minutes after noon. I tried the food at Simon’s Inn. Tuna and vegetable pizza and ice-cold Coke for me. From a distance, I peered at where we came from and had to congratulate myself at the feat. When I’m back in the city and feel like catching a jeep, trike or cab to somewhere relatively near, I’d have to look back to this day and remind myself how chicken-shit that distance is compared to this.
Back at Hillside, it was very still with me as the only guest. Somehow, I like the post-peak season quiet. Who knew a P20 humongous pomelo fruit and an ice-cold pale were a match?
I am amazed that it is still unusual for Filipina women to rough it out solo. Gideon said that I was the first non-foreigner he guided who travelled alone. He could not quite get it. After a while, as I was shuffling through the song hits and doing a lame version of “Wonderful Tonight” on the old guitar (G D C Em being the chords among the only few I could play), he couldn’t help asking me if I just broke up with somebody, to which I let out a burst of laughter. Contrary to appearances, I am, I stressed, not heartbroken. Solitude is just a periodic necessity.
For Travelling in Solitarium Part 2 of 2: click here
[1] Wrote a book entitled Indecision wherein the main character sets out to Ecuador by himself to change his life.
