Back in Bantayan

By Maria Eleanor E. Valeros, #newmedia specialist

BANTAYAN ISLAND, CEBU, PHILIPPINES — This is the very first time I’m able to check the island’s nooks and crannies 15 months after Yolanda (typhoon Haiyan) battered the Visayas Region. I was here last year for the ceremonial turnover of schoolbuildings initiated by the Ramon Aboitiz Foundation, Inc. but we checked in and out of same day. So it was like kissing, while saying goodbye, to the island quickly.

Bloggers and print media converged here for the 3-day/2-night #iBLOGforBANTAYAN event meant to update the public on whuzz up with Bantayan Island (Madridejos, Santa Fe, and Bantayan towns) post-Yolanda mode (and mood, of course!).

Hotel/cottage hopping took place yesterday. We went as far as Maia’s and Bantayan Island Nature Park which are awesome picks for those with nature on top list. For those who crave the party strip, there are six of the eight facilities sprawled all over Santa Fe, the island’s gateway.

What really excited me last night was this “baile” which sold out “sonata” (music/song) for P5 each. It’s like the “piso-piso” concept used by automated water machines, internet access, here in the country. We danced the night away to the songs/disco music/waltz music we bought. ###

Negotiating the Rio

by Maria Eleanor E. Valeros, #newmedia specialist

caption: This blogger (center) with fellow writers.

CAGAYAN DE ORO, MISAMIS ORIENTAL, PHILIPPINES — White-water rafting is all about negotiating river rapids and obstacles in an inflatable rubber boat called a “raft” with a team of up to eight people and a river guide.

Rivers are graded from easy to near impossible according to size, the intensity of their rapids, and the difficulties that may affect rescue attempts.

Though the experience was a first, I banked on the assurance given me by the pros that it is not necessary to have precious knowledge on rowing. But among its few preconditions is to make it sure that the participant loves rivers, and or nature.

The Rio de Cagayan sent us on a gentle float with a water level of 3 which goes up to 5 or 6 on rainy days. We glided onboard a yellow raft on the water surface smoothly and negotiated its swells, following the run of the Rio, befriending the nature of the 14 rapids – 9 and 13 being the most challenging for white water action.

Bonding with my paddle with the easy and double forwards, and back paddle gave me my white-knuckle ride of a lifetime. With a heap of mentoring from our river guide who chose to be referred to only as “Babars,” I learned to move in synchrony with the rest of my boatmates so to move our raft.

Babars, I could sense assumed all the responsibility in maneuvering the raft right after we first-timers flawed in our paddling moves. His expertise allowed us to conquer smoothly all first four rapids. Highly qualified, experienced, and enjoys working with people, with a load of patience too (I guess guides do really have this sense of community with people they go with even for the first time) and his capacity of leading us neophytes in a competent and professional manner, he then won my respect. A seasoned river runner, indeed!

After the fourth rapid, we reached this footbridge (connecting amazingly one side of Cagayan de Oro in Misamis Oriental to a barangay of Bukidnon province) where we tried simulating some death leaps at 25 feet. Confident at my lifesaving gadgets, I leapt twice. I plunged into a deep portion of the Rio and moved on to deal with the fifth rapid where we were made to jump out of the raft, taken swiftly by the current like floating logs on a portion I personally called the “Boulder Creek” – monuments that speak eloquently how the force of water can serve as chief of sculptors.

On the 9^th rapid, our guide told us it was the most challenging to deal with because most rafts capsize in there. That was what I labeled Disastrous Fall. Babars instructed us to make fast paddles and make sure we won’t hit rocks protruding like tips of icebergs. I began praying for too much water so to make less the exposure of rocks. But then it saved us from much larger waves and boat-eating holesin places that must be avoided. Since Babars has his way with the river already, he was adept at maneuvering the raft for us. My heart just thumped at the sight of the swell of the water and all I remembered was that we were swept away gracefully to the murmur of the rapids.

We had a dip at a portion where tributaries emptied out into the Rio, before negotiating the 13^th rapid where Babars instructed us to paddle while on standing position. The 13^th was a force to reckon with and made us virtual medalists of the achievement.

It was a draining finish as we raised our paddles to form a teepee, a sign for victory. The 12-kilometer white-water rafting course was completed in five hours. That’s also when I formed a hard opinion never to embrace paddling. I really can’t love it!

White-water rafting is kewl, nevertheless. It doesn’t just talk about kicks, it brings us straight to touch and face-to-face with the whites of Rio de Cagayan. Lovely! ###

Skimmer wherever, whenever

by Maria Eleanor E. Valeros, #newmedia specialist

AGUSAN DEL NORTE, NORTHERN MINDANAO, PHILIPPINES — Lanky Mark is obviously obsessed with his skimboard (skiffle to Americans, skidboard to Aussies and Kiwis). He is in love with the offshore wind that playfully tousled his unkempt hair before he headed out to sea. His eyes were admiring the frothy seashore, lapped endlessly by the waves he had fallen head over heels with. And then he ran to pick up the right wave – the very secret of skimming.

To have good wave judgment, say, employing some spectral profile to decipher the contents of the sea’s brains, would lead to a successful flip or a headstand. Using such technique, Mark amazed me with an “Ollie” bringing his body to a turnaround with skimboard magically glued to his soles like iron filings attached to a magnet. I was left there, some distance from him, shaking my head and clapping like another Chapman wild over Lennon, my eyes deep ocean green with envy.

I happened to bump into lanky, bubbly Mark and his crowd of skimmers at the remaining minutes of my stay in Agusan. I was walking from Trianggulo in Nasipit to the port to catch the boat back to Cebu after a successful climb on Mount Magdiwata (San Francisco town), a caving activity, and a side trip to the Agusan Marshland in line with the Naliyagan festivity of Prosperidad, Agusan del Sur, when a guy named Rich called my attention.

“Miss, climber ka?” he asked. He was there sitting on this bench in a carenderia (eatery). I was slowing down my pace some minutes before he had thrown at me the question. I was hoping to feast on adobong dabong (bamboo shoots in soy sauce) for lunch at the eatery.

Rich ushered me to his motorbike and we sped away to their office in Talisay, close to the Nasipit wharf. I met the rest of the gang – fellow nature freaks I would say – skimmers Bryan, Ronky, and Mark: members of a Nasipit climbing society.

It was so easy to connect with them as we shared the same passion and love for the great outdoors. We easily jibed except that though I love the surf, sand, sun and froth at the breaking of seawaters, I’m a total stranger to skimboarding.

Mark was the most talkative. Oh well, they all talked loads of “nature stuff” but Mark had the most stories. I spent the rest of the afternoon with him, while waiting for the Cebu-bound ship. He did an “aerial” to begin with, catching the air off a wave.

After that, we exchanged tokens. The cordial rite of tying around my right ankle a piece of his life and culture — his Manobo tribal necklace — had embossed dignity of an indigenous people’s community. I am always one with IPs having traced paternal roots in Cordillera.

And yep – real skimming may alienate me but I think I’m really into skimming long before I could ever demo my first ollie. I have been beautifully skimming through my journey’s waters all these years. There’s always a new trick where there’s about an inch of water. ###

Major, major climb to Mount Talinis

by Maria Eleanor E. Valeros, #newmedia specialist

caption: The 1926 explosion of Talinis left behind “sculptures” of trees in Kaipuhan, where a number of bubbling sulfur vents confirms ongoing volcanic activity.

VALENCIA, ORIENTAL NEGROS, PHILIPPINES — Sheer will catapulted me on Mount Talinis (5,905 feet above sea level) on an open climb organized by the Cuernos de Negros Mountaineers Club, Inc. based in Silliman University, Dumaguete City.

Like other “connoisseurs of geologic forms,” I was among 54 participants from Tacloban, Bacolod, Cebu, Masbate and Dumaguete for the trek cum cleanup drive.

In a previous blog (“Casaroro Roars!”) I shared about my intense desire to finally climb Talinis after four years of waiting. So glad to have waited for the right time to be with the right people. At first, I had apprehensions I might not be fit anymore for some strenuous activity after going through the knife via Caesarian Section. Because of the level of difficulty, all climbers are warned of the nature of the climb and are required to be in “good physical condition.”

Read: Mt. Talinis is a Level 3 mountain, signifying a major climb with a certain level of difficulty in terms of steepness of slopes, dense vegetation cover, and requirement of more than a day’s climb. And that though Bidyao (also spelled Bediao) Trail or Route 2 is considered a “tourist trail” which means relatively easier, average tourists may have difficulty climbing this trail. This may have been considered easier by the local guides because it takes less time to climb over Apolong and Lunga Trails.

I was grouped to take Route 1 or via Apolong Trail. This is of medium difficulty. Lunga is reserved for the more experienced climbers.

I noticed trails passing by gullies and waterways which should be avoided being risky in events of flashfloods and erosions. I also passed by four quicksand areas before reaching the campsite. Whew!

With Everest summiteers Romy Garduce and Peter Hillary (son of Sir Edmund Hillary) for inspiration, I “moved at my own pace.” And when in a situation, I had to “stick to my gun.” Their words of wisdom, sort of, assisted me in navigating the contoured trails for a total of eight hours, or two hours delayed from the estimated time of arrival at Lake Nailig – designated base camp. Nevertheless, my arrival there despite the dragging half steps is classic example of triumph of the human spirit!

It’s a good thing I followed the advice of carrying lightweight pack to minimize difficulty in climbing and descending the mountain. I got contented with trail food – biscuits, marshmallows, and a load of dark chocolate with mint to boost serotonin (feel-good brain chemical).

I’m also grateful to the god of forests for conspiring with me at some points. Two trekkers from Bacolod City, Roy Domingo Raymundo and Brian Joanes, experienced thigh cramps the way I did, so we moved in the same pace.

Sometimes I would walk in solitude for around 40 minutes, contemplating if it’s indeed mortal sin to set aside the buddy system. But as a freelancer, I have to literally walk the distance by myself and to rely on instinct should common sense fail.

It’s just amazing to note that everything about the forest assures me I am pursuing “a life.” Yes, climbing is a life. In fact, climbing provides that deafening silence which gives that voice within a chance to speak. It also gives me the blessed chance to recognize the Awesome I know of, not the one shaped by religions, dogmas, doctrines, cults and occults, nor the one molded by pretentious philosophies and easy syllogisms.###

Memories of ‘my Shire’

by Maria Eleanor E. Valeros, #newmedia specialist

SURIGAO DEL NORTE, NORTH MINDANAO, PHILIPPINES — While munching on my share of “tinanok nga kamote” (boiled sweet potato), I stared out at the dimness of the early evening.

In the enveloping blanket of night I sought some kind of comfort. My stay in Gigaquit town (pronounced hee-ga-kit from the term “gakit”), nineteen years ago, was the most beautiful chapter of my life as a child. (*Gakit means raft)

Our ancestral house was surrounded by a vast green field, very much like a carpet covering the chocolate brown earth with verdant rice stalks sprouting from a mud-logged bosom.

A milky, buttery, soft scent, that only nature’s perfumery can mix perfectly, emanates from the ripe amber rice grains (palay) hanging from their drooping stalks. As soon as I smelled that familiar scent again, I knew that harvest time is just around the corner.

“Have some supas (poor man’s cookies),” my stepgrandma’s voice snatched me away from reverie. Cold orange juice was served after each one of us had our share of the cookies.

I turned away from the sight of that pitch darkness and listened to elder men and women play the juego de anillo which I learned back in the graders. It is a game of wits played during a bilar (wake) which resembled the poetic exchanges of a Balagtasan.

Some men were chatting about the sudden death of my tatay (to mean my grandfather), some were playing the bakarat (a card game), while others were preoccupied with the passing around of the glass filled with pinonsihan (a mix of lambanog or wine from nipa sap, and Pepsi) which most folks here preferably call tinam-isan.

“Bayong na man kaw, ‘po! (You’re already drunk, grandpa!)” a hoarse voice of a little boy addressing his popo (grandfather) chimed.

“Mukadto na kita kuman, ‘po! (Let’s now go [home]!)” the boy urged.

The youngster brought back memories of my popo giving me a tongue lashing every time I talk back to him, the mischiefs of a child.

“Maldita ‘kaw na bata ‘kaw. Dapadjon ‘kaw nan ina mo (You wicked girl. Sure your mother will give you a spanking),” he once spat.

Which I had answered back calmly: “Sige, sumbong sad tika nanay (the way we call grandma) ba. Gikawat nimo itlog sa pugaran (Okay, I’ll tell nanay then you stole eggs off the nest).”

But it’s all over now. What remains is an overwhelming silence of the heart. Everything seems to stand still. As still as a photograph; details frozen forever within the frame’s borders.

I was back in Gigaquit only to be shrouded by some blanket of melancholy.

Mother is completely an orphan now. She has not had the privilege to bond well with her father who refused to send her to secondary school – despite her very good grades. In fact, mother graduated on top of her elementary class. High schools then were studied in the urban areas, the big city only. So her father made the distance a ginormous excuse. Mother resented that decision badly that she sought work in Manila without getting parental permission. Of course mother felt so much remorse, she would retell, having given her mother great pain. But she too has a strong statement to point out!

Time, of course, can heal most familial differences, but mother – the spiteful that she is, albeit compassionate and considerate in her own little way – contained in her heart an ill feeling against her father. Until a viral infection claimed my grandfather’s life.

“This used to be my playground//This used to be my childhood dream//This used to be the place I ran to…why did it have to go…?” a Madonna song popped up in my mind. Yeah, this used to be family ground. Roots ground. And then there’s a phenomenon called ‘death.’

Mother and grandfather have not really talked in ages.#

Seek Siquijor!

by Maria Eleanor E. Valeros, #newmedia specialist

SIQUIJOR, CENTRAL PHILIPPINES — Siquijor was first named “Katugasan,” which obviously was derived from the local name of the molave trees that cover its hills.

However, the Spaniards who were said to be mesmerized by the swarms of fireflies they found in their expeditions, led to the earlier naming of Siquijor as “Isla de Fuego” (island of fire).

Later on, Siquijor developed its new name after a native term “kiphod” spelled quiphod by the Spanish settlers, to refer to the ebbing of tides. I heard first from drunken neighbors the song: sa lungsod Siquijor/kanding may beautiful; and from them who are not afraid to spread stories about black magic, potions and incantations, healers and voodoo dolls. Initially, it thus gave the shiver! But I’d finally come to Siquijor on the occasion of the International Year of Mountains in 2002 as a jump-off to a climbing pursuit beyond what the rugged mountains of Cebu can offer.

Siquijor, as a destination, is like a pill you have to gulp down to end that feverish spell of longing and seeking. Many would whisper I would be missing out on so many things if I skip Siquijor in my trek-next list. So on June 15 of 2002, I entered into the Mount Bandilaan Nature Park. Bandilaan is the highest peak of the Malabahog mountain range rising at 557 feet above sea level. I was almost reliving scenes of the “Blairwitch Project” film while pitching my tent at a designated campsite. There were sets of eyes that shone in the dark watching intently at our every move, as silhouettes of crooked branches and spine-like twigs created an eerie outline over the site. When my companions and I turned on our flashlights at the pairs of eyes, they were lovely “marals” (civet cats) attracted by the smell of our to-go food packs.

Hours back, I had a dip at a pool created by gushing waters of Cambugahay Falls. I’m really wondering why it’s not cambuhagay. After all, buhagay is the Cebuano term for “pouring out” in a strong, rushing manner.

Siquijor is known worldwide for its ancient churches dating back 1886. I checked the one with the largest convent in the Philippines in Lazi.

Lately, I was back in Siquijor. I could not fight off the urge to do a repeat. Whiff of the mystic winds is still there dominating the air. Siquijor continues to enthrall visitors with its bewitching beauty and spellbinding charm; my feet tickled again by the spews and sloshes of turquoise waters; admiring one gorgeous sunset and the murmuring wind caught entangled in a web of mangroves; stars on their lethargic hiccups, the wind directing perfectly the roll and pull of the mast of that journey.#