PHOTO CAPTION: The Gooney Bird engine salvaged from the crash site.
by Maria Eleanor E. Valeros for #microadventurism
BALAMBAN, CEBU, PHIL. — Until this moment it still is a question why I had to return to Mount Manunggal.
Five years ago, I swore I will never take a pace back having seen how booze, bands and a cockfight arena stole the significance of the occasion. But I had to fight the urge in four years, finally giving in to the itch this year. I terribly miss her – where my trekking spirit took its baptism of fire. And yes, I lied, when I said I will never ever return. For how can I delete from memory that day in 2000 when I was accepted into a tent by a total stranger after he noticed I was ill-equipped for my journey. Cesar from Marbel, South Cotabato taught me to set aside prejudice to provide a perfect stranger some serving of comfort.
My first official night-out with a college boyfriend happened on Manunggal after that, and my supposed romantic mood was cut off short by a silly, show-off pyroworks that brought in more damage to our vulnerable tents rather than the amusement value that was the initial intention. It taught me to adjust to situations. We were there for the commemoration, but the organizers treated it as a feast of spectacles. So I learned to co-exist with s.o.bs.
My first Luna Trek (full moon trek) sans buddy happened on Mount Manunggal. I knew of nobody. It was the darnest decision to make – to be freelancer. But that’s the best way to be able to try the serpentine path on a night walk. I learned to accept that Visayan climbing scene is closely related to Luzon, and far from the spirit of Mindanao. Cebu climbing groups know each other but would rather stick with their pods. We raise the bar of factionism.
The last time was a matter of the heart. I had this textmate ten years my junior whose willing to hook up with me. I was just beating my biological clock. And the situation taught me how wisely time is put when the universe agrees to conspire.
In the next four years, I was out of orbit – changing from the free-as-tumbleweed quadrisexual to doting mom. In all those four years, I long so much for that old self on Manunggal. It was there that my pride would rather collapse to win a ticket for two to the stars. Attached to the father of my child, watching the fog gobble up dome-type tents, spelled forever. It taught me that love leaps out of romantic movies and songs to make itself dominant. So I can share the same, spread the same, long before I knew I could.
“I would want to come with you,” my ex-partner texted. “Wait for me, I’ll be there after my class.”
This is the problem with being born an XY chromosome, you would want to be swept off your feet once in a while. But like any trail, feelings too vary from easy to moderate to difficult. Like elevations, it can go gradual or a 90-degree drop. Emotions have contours, slopes, jagged terrains. The change is constant, to say the least that nothing is forever.
So while I was walking catching my breath in that 70-degree bend where he once squeezed my hand to make his already strong presence felt, he turned back “kaya pa (got some more energy)?” and passed on to me the water canteen. And the water that trickled from my hungry lips to my dry throat tasted fulfillment. I know from the looks of it, we have beautifully preserved friendship because things are meant that way, after all of what’s stupidly said and idiotly done. Manunggal taught me to never ever be apologetic for being real.
I ran my fingers once more on the Pinatubo engine washed in white paint. He examined it. He knows airplanes a lot. He’s an aero engineering graduate. I ache to know from him how it is to fly high, in wild abandon, but he was meant for the ground. Later, I chose the area where to camp, he pitched the tent. That space near the stage was never ours in the last decade. But last March 16, the real climbers have paled. Stories had it that they would rather be at the seashore, having nothing to do directly anymore with the activities. The LGU of Balamban has taken full charge of.
Anyway, it was not my concern. I didn’t spend an hour walking up there to praise the noise. I had to be entertained by the whistle of the wind hitting the banderitas (colorful flaglets) close to our tent. It was more eargasmic!
I had to flirt with drowsiness, but it came in a wink. So I had to brush the cold wind away to be with company. I hugged some conversations with Mindanao-based climbers who were there for a visit too. And had to wait for the breaking of day before wrapping up with this final rendezvous with Manunggal.
One has to go down. One has to reach a destination. One has to stop. One has to take a turn.
One climbs. One sees — that our differences are based on our realities shaped by our experiences. (First published in The FREEMAN, April 2012)
TRAVELEANORISM 