Anniversary Weekend at Abe's Farm

My husband and I recently reached the 15th year mark as Mr. and Mrs. Yeay, us! So we celebrated by having an out-of-town weekend in the middle of the week. I love it when we do that, because that means we get to have two weekends in one week! Always fun.

We headed for Abe's Farm in Pampanga, a restaurant cum bed and breakfast place we've heard so much about.

As is the norm, the Mrs. slept through most of trip as the Mr. channeled Kimi Raikkonen and tried to beat some imaginary world record. Our Trooper zipped through NLEX, creating a psychedelic, impressionistic, moving painting of the rice fields, swamps, and trees surrounding the highway. I knew this even as I slept with my mouth wide open. I know it's true love because my husband still loves me even after watching me, the world's ugliest sleeper, sleep. Ooops. A.D.D. alert. I won't apologize anymore for digressing because I always digress anyway. What I'm trying to say is, don't ask me how to get there. When I travel, it's like entering a time machine. I just close my eyes and then I'm there.

Just check out their homepage http://abesfarm.com.ph/ for directions.

I woke up as we neared Magalang, Pampanga. I always love the approach to a town. It's a predictable, comforting pattern. You first go through the suburbs, where progress is constantly changing the landscape, old homes and rice fields giving way to the sprouting of gated subdivisions. Then you pass through the busy bayan (town center) with it Jollibees, and post-war market buildings, and all sorts of enterprise and merchandise. Then as you go deeper into the more parochial parts of town, things quiet down and the roads get a little rougher, the sights greener, the structures fewer and farther in between. And you can even roll down your car windows to breathe in that unusual smell -- they call it fresh air.

I never fail to appreciate it when we pass a tunnel of trees that almost completely shade the road, branches interlocking overhead as if embracing me in a warm welcome.

We followed the signs. Then, finally we saw the farm's gate, where a man ushered us into a large, shaded parking lot loosely paved with river stones.

Abe's Farm is owned and operated by the LJC Group. Whenever I think LJC, I think: squid tactics. binukadkad na pla-pla. Claude's Dream. Abe's chocolate eh. These menu items have been in the Metro's culinary scene for ages that they've become comfort food for me, and I dare guess for others too. These are also the dishes that told me that going to Abe's Farm in Magalang, Pampanga would be worth the trip. Because if all else suck, at least, the food won't disappoint.

But we discovered that's at Abe's Farm, it's more than just the food, there are many other reasons to visit.

The calm. Within the walls, you feel you're far, far away from civilization. You're surrounded by dense foliage, muffling the sounds of the outside world, covering you, making you feel like you're one with nature, even though, I admit, I'm not the one with nature kind of girl. There's no rush. Paths meander; it's never about getting from point A to point B in no time. People seem to walk around and talk in whispers, as if reverential of the country quiet.

The charm. The brochure described the place with the phrase tropical art deco. It's that. Plus architecture and decor that fuse our rich Filipino heritage and Asian aesthetics. The architecture of the main house and the varied cottages do not disrupt nature one bit as they are low rise, unassuming, and finished in indigenous materials. Divans, solihiya lounge chairs, and four poster day beds decked in cotton canvas slip covers and batik pillows are scattered in various places inviting you to sit and read, or slumber, or just sigh and soak in the sounds and scents of provincial life. The air is of unpretentious luxury.

The romance. We arrived just before sunset, settled into our rustic cottage, and by the time we left it to go the spa, the dim of dusk and the sprinkling of outdoor lights have turned the place into a romantic garden of brick lanes and cozy tryst spots.

In the rooms, there are no hi-fi, no wi-fi, no TV. Just a bed. And a tub for two. This absence of high tech pleasantly forces you to go high touch instead. To converse. Or to read in bed together, something I find strangely romantic. And to just share silent space, as old married couples find comfort in doing.

The luxury. Okay, I admit it. Even though I love my creature comforts and backpacking does not make me a happy camper, I'm quite easy to please. Just put a muslin netting over my bed, and I'm easily impressed. I know it's just for effect, because the air-conditioning and glass walls and doors keep the mosquitoes away. But it just adds a touch of opulence, comfort, sexiness to an otherwise rustic ambiance.

The spa is housed in a cottage similar to ours. My full body massage was glorious. And painful. Just the way I like it. When the therapist asked if the pressure was fine, I requested for her to make it harder. She obliged. She kneaded my holiday-weary body so hard, I almost wanted to shout, Uncle. The next day I was black and blue. And if I weren't already married, I might have proposed marriage to my therapist, so I can have a lifetime of spa bliss.

Then dinner. Ah, back to food.

Rice with dilis and tausi. Squid tactics. Inihaw na tadyang. Pako (fern) salad. Chicharon bulaklak. I thought we ordered too much. Yet, at the end of the meal, all that was left was the rice, which we asked them to serve with our breakfast the next day. The tadyang was a bit too crispy for me. I want it crispy on the outside, but tender, juicy, beefy inside. This one was crispy all throughout. Other than that, everything was perfect.

We washed all that with merlot, and we brought an order of leche flan to our room.

Because this is in the province, where the townsfolk turn the lights off early, service ends at 8PM.

So off to our cottage.

Insert 60s style hazy fade outs and sound effects to indicate a long time lapse because the censors cut the good parts in the bedroom.

We woke up excited to cap our weekend. LJC style breakfast awaited. We pre-ordered the night before.

We first built up an appetite walking around the grounds; checking out the Ifugao huts and the swimming pool; and admiring the orchid collection.

Moving around the main house, I wished we could stay longer to laze, to just lie on daybed and read.

We broke our fast with tapsilog for me and tocilog for him. Darn! I forgot to order chocolate eh. But the coffee was a delicious picker upper anyway. We wolfed down our breakfast because we were excited to visit the museum.

The museum is a relocated, reconstructed house, and is a great example of adaptive reuse as a means of preserving traditional architecture and decor. It also makes Abe's Farm more than just a bed and breakfast place as it gives it a story, history, charm, and romance.

In size, it's not much, which means it's not overwhelming and you can tour the place in minutes.

But because I am fond of minutiae, the museum was a wonderland of details that clue you in on Abe, his family, his art, his lifestyle. This museum is certainly another good reason to make the trip to Magalang.

We eventually tore ourselves away from Abe's farm to meet a friend who manages a business at the Clark Economic Zone.

Aside: I was amazed to discover that U.S.-based companies that restore old cars actually find it cheaper to ship the vehicle and parts to the Philippines, where local workers have been trained to do restoration work, and then ship back the finished goods to the U.S. Whew! Long sentence.

Lunch. I've been hearing about Zapata's (now Iguana's), the Mexican restaurant known for its margaritas. And I was glad to learn that the buzz was not all hype. That was mighty good Mexican food and an awesome margarita.

We managed to coerce our friend, one bottle of beer at a time, to extend her one-hour lunch break, but we eventually had to bring her back to work with her promising to grill some steaks for us pretty soon.

Because our car was coded that day, we had to stall -- first by passing for some Paning's butong pakwan (watermelon seeds), and then having an early dinner at Marquee Mall, an Ayala Mall in Angeles.

Aling Lucing's sisig, Susie's pansit luglug, Susie's tibok tibok (similar to maja blanca, but uses carabao's milk) -- our mini Pampanga food tour, all consumed at the food court beside the supermarket.

I almost don't know how to end this post, in the same way, that it was hard to end that weekend in the middle of the weekend. So, because the 15th year is merely a milestone in a what I hope to be a long, long marriage, I will not just say The End. Instead, I end with To be continued...

Abe's Farm, Pampanga Office

Phone: +(6345) 865-1930

Mobile: +(63915) 595-5501

Wear Joaquin

You like fashion? You also like literature? Here's something that brings those two elements together.

Freeway honors Philippine National Artists by designing clothing collections that showcase the artists' works. The first set features Nick Joaquin. It's a scrumptious, artistic collection of t-shirts, blouses, jackets, and dresses.

I love the way the text takes as much space as the imagery. And if you're ever stuck in an elevator/waiting room/queue without a book, you can read your shirt.

Freeway does not seem to have a website, but google led me to this site that shows off the collection: http://fashion-flick.blogspot.com/2009/08/freeway-loves-art-nick-joaquin.html

Gorgeous, huh? I know you want a piece of that.

It's a bummer though that I wasn't able to buy anything. I'm way off the size chart of Philippine apparel, so I was ready to go for a bag. But there's no bag; just a tiny kikay pouch. And really, my closet will vomit the kikay pouch if I attempt to add another to the 2 million I already have. I need something I can use, sling on my shoulder, and show off so people will say, "Wow, that's Nick Joaquin." And I will beam and carry a silly grin while thinking of myself as some kind of cool, nationalistic, literate dudette with socially-relevant fashion tastes.

Oh well, maybe I will come back to their stores one of these days to try on a men's shirt.

But for you, my lithe friends, I encourage you to check this out and get yourself a limited edition. Wear Joaquin. If you have 2 navels, now is the time to show them off. Let's support Freeway as they support our artists.

Up next for the holidays is a collection paying homage to Ang Kiukok. I can't even begin to articulate how excited I am about that collection as well, and it will break my materialistic, pa-cultured heart to leave empty handed, because here finally is my chance of having a bit of Ang Kiukok without having to pawn my husband.

Freeway people, make sure you include a tote or messenger bag for the Ang Kiukok set, okay?

Kiangan Flashback

This is a cut and paste from a May 8, 2002 blog. The photos were added recently. Made some minor edits before posting.


---start of flashback entry ---

Sappy Travelogue
May 8, 2002

I just had a memorable weekend, and for some reason I cannot find the words to write about it. 

We went up North and maybe my muse loved it there so much that she decided to stay behind. It’s extremely frustrating because I am wishing I can write about it as well as I have experienced it. Muse, muse, come back wherever you are. Nope, nothing. Still at a loss for words. So I’ll just plunge on and try to describe my weekend.

I was able to get some free vacation leaves for Friday and Monday due to 2 instances I had to work Sundays. That meant I had a 4-day weekend to enjoy. And enjoy it I did. Tuks, his sister Yella, his cousin Angie, and I set off for the Northern province of Ifugao in Tuks’ reliable Honda Civic. 

We left our house past 10 in the evening and went to pick up Yella and Angie. And we were at the North Expressway by midnight and out of it in more or less an hour. We exited and got into long winding roads of countryside. The three femmes slept most of the way while Tuks drove, something he seems to truly enjoy. 

We woke up to a breathtaking sunrise, with mountains, hills, and rice fields replacing our daily vista of concrete and steel. The road, lined with trees, stretched towards a horizon. The sky was cast with a pinkish bluish glow. It was refreshing to wake up and know we are out of the city and away from the rat race arena. Our mobile phones inutile as no cell sites were in sight.

There was one Kodak moment when we caught the sun peeking out at that point where two mountains overlap. Kind of a photo cliché opp, but it was too beautiful to pass up. I asked Tuks to stop the car. I said the word stop about five times but he kept on driving. When he slowed down it was too late. The view was gone and if we drove back the sun would not be in the same place anymore. His excuse for not stopping was that he did not think I was serious about asking him to stop. Sounded like something from a rape trial. I said stop and I meant it. But Tuks, the Vacation Nazi himself, has this race he plays in his mind as if Michael Schumacher and the devil are after him, and the jury of the Guinness Book of Records are waiting at the destination point to clock in his record breaking time. There could be a Mother Mary apparition by the side of the road, or a real, live Elvis Presley sighting by the highway shoulder, or Jennifer Lopez herself in a thong with a sign that says “will f*** for food” and he still won’t stop just to take pictures. It messes up his flight plan or something. I tried to sleep to forget about missing the photo op, and as I woke up Yella realized we were lost and we had to do a U turn. Ironically, the turn we missed was about a kilometer from the photo opp spot. I think Tuks, in his rush to ignore the sun peeping over the mountains scene, stepped on the gas and that’s how we missed a turn. If we had stopped to take that photo we would have been coasting leisurely and we probably would have noticed the little directional sign. And we wouldn’t have lost so much time.

Other than that sour moment with the Vacation Nazi, every other moment went well. We arrived at the house of our host in time for breakfast, checked in at the Yamashita Shrine, where we were billeted, and headed for the Banaue Rice Terraces.The Banaue Rice Terraces. We grew up being taught in school that this place was the eighth wonder of the world. As adults we realized that almost every country has its own “eighth wonder”. Call me biased, however, I think this spot is quite deserving of that claim. I will try to post my photos as soon as I can, but you can drop by this site I found through google http://members.tripod.com/billedo/banaue.html to get a preview of how amazing this place is. Think Mt. Rushmore in grandeur, but prettier. It is a wonderful example of God and man’s coalition to create monumental art. Think 2,000 years back and how the tribal mountainfolk who created this wonder had to survive against or with the environment. Too far from the sea to subsist on seafood, their mountain slopes too steep for traditional rice fields, the Ifugao folk carved rice terraces following the contours of the mountain, meticulously piled and matched the rocks for reinforcement, used mud to bind the structure, built an ingenious irrigation system, and combined function with art leaving a work of beauty and a source of sustenance for future generations. 

Having said all that, I also have to honestly say that it was a bit of a letdown. Modernization has brought about damage to what would otherwise be an awesome piece of nature art. Shanties of corrugated iron and wood scraps speckled the otherwise green and amazing scenery. Time has diminished its beauty, and the artists who created the original are no longer here to care to save it. It is on the list of endangered World Heritage sites and that at least is helpful.

And then we saw Charlie’s Angels. These are the 3 Ifugao women clad in full regalia, faded feathers on their hair, clad in hand woven costumes, standing by the road to have their photos taken with the tourists for a little forced "tip."

Afterwards, we went to the market place to look for local craft and interesting produce. We (meaning Tuks) just spent a small fortune the day before on my car A/C repair so a shopping spree was out of the question. I used all my will power not to buy anything. Okay, so it wasn’t will power. I just did not bring any cash with me. At the end of the market trip, all I bought were two hand woven sashes that I used as a bow to bind the photo album. The photo album turned out so pretty, with pictures (took 5 rolls of film) and illustrations.

We lunched at this hole in the wall place called Las Vegas Inn. Nothing Vegas about it thought. Rustic meets tacky. With a great view of the terraces. We had curry rice; igado, a local meat stew dish; something with lettuce and cucumber they call Israel Salad, which tasted really good; and fried milkfish.

We went back to Kiangan back to the Shrine where we were checked in. Showered. Walked towards the house of the bride, Lenore.

Lenore was a social worker working for the Child Protection Unit where Yella also works. She is a 40ish single mom, and was about to marry Paul, a 50ish American divorcee. They met 20 years ago, as maid of honor and bestman to Lenore’s cousin, and Paul’s brother’s wedding. No sparks, but they met again after 20 years, fell in love, and was about to marry. Their wedding was actually our pretext to having ourselves a grand vacation. An Ifugao wedding is more than just interesting. It is such a memorable, astounding experience. It is steeped in tradition, and very rich with symbolistic rituals. There are pre-wedding and post-wedding rituals that involve the slaughter of pigs, cows, carabaos and chickens. I do not think I will get into detail with this because it requires much cultural tolerance to appreciate. Some parts are gruesome but we had to respect the cultural differences.

During the eve of the wedding, we were at Lenore’s house. There were some rituals done. We did not understand the dialect used so mainly we just watched. There were gongs playing, dancing, chanting, and lots of ground stomping. Ancestors were called, gods were invoked. Afterward, the priests and the couple, who were forbidden to touch each other, walked to a neighbor’s house to drink rice wine brewed specifically for the occasion. The wine tasted good. We continued to just watch and take photos because the people were conversing in their dialect and we could only guess what they were talking about. Poor groom, of course, was hopelessly lost.

We went back to the house for the highlight of the evening – the “poor piggy should have stayed at home” scene. The main ritual involved the sacrifice of a native pig and the extraction of its liver as an unusual alternative for tea leaves. The chief priest looked at the state of the liver and the bile sack to determine if the union was to be blessed by the gods. The liver seemed to have passed merit, and the shaman foretold that the coupling would be successful and fruitful. Offspring will be many despite them being 40ish and 50ish old already. The ceremony went on till dawn. Chanting and dancing mostly. But we left right after dinner. Which was merely choked down out of respect. Nothing like witnessing a pig execution to ruin the appetite.

The next morning was the Catholic wedding, which we decided to skip. We instead went to the market where we did not find anything of interest. They were selling city stuff – plastics, fake jeans, etc.
We then drove to Bae, a valley of rice fields and amazing beauty. Nothing, not the photos, not my wordy descriptions can ever do justice for the spectacular sight of rolling fields, and mountains, and wild flowers, and vines, and more rice terraces and the locals doing their farming. It’s just so awesome, so incredibly beautiful it can make an atheist thank God. The road was a single lane concrete path winding over the fields and so you get this feeling that you are rolling in clouds of green. It is just beautiful. Spectacular. Priceless. Again, God and man conspired to draw out ooohs and aaaahs and OMG’s from us gaping, drooling spectators.

We parked the car and walked 283 million steps down a hill. My legs were trembling at the exertion; muscles left dormant struggled to keep up. At the bottom of the steps was a rusty bridge spanning a river. It was summer, and the water was barely ankle high. We followed the river downstream where they said there was a waterfall up ahead. Up ahead might be a short distance to the locals, but for us used to cars, escalators and walkalators, it was quite a walk. There was no clear path so we had to walk on mossy rocks and pebbles, hold on to vines, dip our teva’ed feet on cool water. I slipped twice, once breaking 3 nails on my right foot. We did not even see the waterfall because getting there seemed too dangerous for our old cranky bones to survive. So we just sat and marveled at the view.

On the way back, we stopped by the bridge. A part of the river was deep enough for swimming and a lot of pre-teen boys were happily playing, diving from the cliff onto the water. We wished we brought a change of clothes so we too could take a dip in the cool water.

Walking back up the 283 steps was more difficult than going down. We had to take a lot of “nature appreciation” stops just to catch our breath. Gasping, panting or not, I would have stopped too. It is an awesome feeling sitting down alone just allowing nature to beguile me with its spellbinding magic. Basking. Praying thanksgiving for being so privileged to be where I was. Composing snippets of poetry in my head. Inhaling the strange, rare scent of fresh air. I would sit and observe insects sucking pollen from wildflowers, watch a butterfly color coordinate itself with the flower petals it lands on, look at trees and notice how their branches serve as picture frames for nature, highlighting portions of the vast scenery. A few seconds of rest and I had the time to notice the lone tropical palm tree seeming out of place and yet looking strikingly beautiful, standing defiant in a forest of hardwood trees. Leafless Jemilina trees with their white trunks serving as accents to the dark verdant background.

A leaf fell and I was there to hear it drop. And then another leaf fell, and another leaf, and another, and another. And soon it was raining leaves. I likened them to little children running home screaming, the rain is here, the rain is here for the leaves falling occurrence was followed by a drizzle. I was praying for it to pour just to complete the nature experience. Who said words were necessary for poetry? What I was so privileged to see was poetry for the eyes.

And as if God knew the climbing, wading, trekking exercise was going to knock the breath out of us, there was a halo-halo stand waiting for us near where we parked. Halo-halo is a dessert concoction of sweetened fruits mixed together with crushed ice and milk. It was heavenly, especially because we forgot to bring any water with us and we were really thirsty from the trek. In the halo-halo stand, the lady who minded the store had an infant covered in homemade comforters. He had a name that sounded like medicine, benadryl or something like that. He had the cutest smile. And he was unaware of how lucky he was to grow up in a place of such beauty.

From where we were we could hear the gongs of the wedding reminding us to drive back for the tribal wedding ceremonies. It was the most difficult task to pull ourselves out of that huge slice of heaven. After a quick trip to buy more film, we went to Lenore’s house. Lunch was being served. Now, this you’ve got to imagine. There is no such thing as a small private wedding for the Ifugaos. At least 17 pigs were killed to feed all the townsfolk. No RSVP customs here. Everyone can just drop by, queue for the meal, which they ate on de-layered banana trunks. After lunch, they had the Ifugao wedding ceremony. Even more ceremonious than the previous activities.
The bride, the groom, the priests and the entourage were in full regalia. There were so many rituals. More of the gongs, the chanting, and the ground stomping. Bride and groom were given beads for their hair, fertility necklaces, intricate headpieces. More ground stomping and chanting. The other shaman’s feet must have withstood a million stomping. They were the widest feet I’ve ever seen, spread out like a fan, contorted, and twisted, and sturdy. Wine was poured on the couple’s feet.

Then the entourage was led out into the streets. Like a line following the pied piper, they walked and danced with the groom and the men striking the gongs in an unusual beat. We did not follow them, but from what we heard, they went to another place and a dozen chickens were choked to death; one of the unfortunate fowl was tied to the groom’s waist. The standing joke was that there was a new definition of love. Real love is dancing out in the streets in a g-string with a dead chicken on your hip just to marry the woman you love.

We left the bride’s home and went to check out of the inn. We were supposed to stay and maybe view the post-wedding ceremonies the next day, but we were all overwhelmed with ceremony and decided to cut short our stay and drive back to the next province to make our trip back to the city the next day a little shorter.

We ended up at Solano, a bustling town in Nueva Ecija, which boasted of no major tourist attraction. The board, lodging and food costs were double of that in Kiangan. On the way to Governor’s Hotel, we stopped at the Dutch Pancake Restaurant. I went out of the car to ask the Dutch owner what time they opened in the morning. We were planning to have breakfast there. After checking into the hotel, we decided to have dinner at the Dutch restaurant also.

The T-bone was highly recommended, but I found it a bit tough. The scalloped potatoes were very good though. The pancake desert was also good. And it was fine service for the owner to run and get us wine even if it wasn’t offered in the menu. On our way out, he mentioned a little girl who went up to him earlier in the evening asking about what time they opened in the morning. It turned out that I was that girl, but he said I looked much younger a couple of hours ago. He said I looked no more than 14 then. I didn’t know if I would be thrilled to be mistaken for a teenager or aghast that I aged so quickly. Nonetheless, he was a nice host and we had breakfast there the next day. He mentioned wanting to expand his restaurant as a franchise and was willing to give the first franchise for free just to break into the market. Mental note to remember this when we are looking for business ventures.

On the drive back to the city, we stopped for lunch at this charming restaurant called Vicentico’s Grill. Food was excellent and the local antique décor was lovely. A couple of stopovers to buy goodies for the folks back home. Tuks dropped me off at my Dad’s place so that I can say goodbye to him before his trip to Europe. I stayed the night there. The next day, Monday, I had my practice round of being a woman of leisure. Woke up late. Breakfasted leisurely. Spent the good part of the morning creating a roller coaster park in the computer. Dragged my nephew and my niece to have my nephew’s tuition fee assessed. Went to see Spider Man. Hohum. Try as I might, I just can not find Kirstn Dunst pretty. Had popcorn, soda and fries for the movie. Mc Donald’s ice cream cones, chicken poppers, mashed potatoes and fries for after the movie. Back home, more computer games, dinner and Tuks finally picked me up to go back to real life. My greatest learning out of the whole experience is that I really should not worry about my Islandhopper business venture. Seeing the places I saw, falling in love with my own country, experiencing so much pride to call this land home, I know now that whether I succeed or fail in this venture, I would have had the time of my life traveling and seeing all these wonderful places and getting to know my country. Aaaah. God is good!

The Nine Things I Learned about Life by Spelunking in Sagada

14 fun, fearless, clueless souls, most of them book geeks from my book club took advantage of the Labor Day weekend and grabbed the chance to tick off a bucket list item: Spelunking at Sagada. I was one of them. And that cliche about learning lessons the hard way -- this experience exemplifies it.

Here are the lessons I learned the hard, slippery, slimy, smelly, scary way:










LESSON ONE: The dumb gets farther; the dumber gets dead. - For a bunch of book geeks, we did not do our research thoroughly enough. When asked to choose between the normal cave tour (PhP 100 per person) and the Connection Challenge (PhP 400 per person), which traverses 2 caves, Sumaging and Lumiang, we chose what sounded more exciting, more difficult, more unforgettable. Maybe we’ve been reading too much fantasy. Maybe it's the hashish in the Sagada air. We wanted to release the inner extreme athletes inside us. And we got what we asked for. And failed to anticipate just how difficult it would be, for geeks as well as non geeks, for the fit and for those whose most strenuous exercise is carrying bag loads of books from Booksale. We all had no idea what challenges lay ahead. The guides did not give us a clue.

On hindsight, that naiveté, that ignorance, that stupidity was good. If we had known how formidable the challenge was, most of us in the group would probably have not taken it. We would have backed out when we still could. At the mouth of the first cave.

Instead, we went in, excited, awestruck, dumbfounded, dumb as rats led by the pied piper. And got the surprise of our lives. Many surprises, in fact. Gimongous walls to scale, steep crags to climb down, cliffs to descend, slippery rocks to walk on, knee-deep muck to dip our bare feet into, blind corners to hug, streamlets to swim in, the narrowest of edges keeping us from plunging into deep dark pits. It was unbelievable what we had to go over, go under, go through, jump into, squeeze in, hurdle, straddle.

Truly, if somebody had shown me first a video of what we had to do, I would have chosen not to do it, knowing full well knowing that given my fitness level, I couldn't. Not knowing made me do it. It was sheer stupidity that got us there, literally in between a rock and a hard place. The uncertainty almost killed me, but it was also what got me through. The dumb, the clueless, when unaware of the dangers ahead, can actually accomplish more as he walks in ignorant bliss. And I’m glad I was stupid enough to do it. Because that was by far, the most exciting, most amazing thing I had to do in my whole life.

Of course, we were blessed to have survived relatively unscathed despite our ignorance. Tales of those who were stupid enough to go in without guides, never to come out again, serve as a counterpoint to this lesson. It’s okay to be clueless sometimes, but rash stupidity could cost you your life.

LESSON TWO: We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Aww, shut up! - I do not fear heights, nor water. I have scuba dived in open water. I have rafted through grade 4 white water with a stupid smile on my face. I have parasailed alone and was able to look down without feeling squeamish. I get a kick from roller coaster rides, the higher, the faster, the scarier, the better. My bucket list includes bungee jumping and skydiving.

The first time I had to take a high ropes challenge, I couldn’t contain my excitement and wanted to zip down the wire a dozen times. I was fearless. I was 25 years old, a size 6. I could do anything.

As a trainer facilitating high ropes challenges, I had seen participants break down in tears as they confronted their fear of heights. I could only watch without really understanding what that fear was all about.

Until now. 42 years old. 70 pounds overweight. My sense of balance faulty. With nothing to rely on but the grace and strength I got from ballet classes with Ms. Valeriana in second grade, and from a few lousy attempts at a badminton regimen.

In the cave, we had to rappel down a cliff, the bottom of which we couldn’t see from where we were. No harness, no safety nets. The ropes did not even have knots for gripping. And what confounded us was that the rope was tied to a lithe, little man, barefoot, sitting by the edge of the cliff. Our lives depended on him being strong enough not to be pulled by our weight to go hurtling down with us to our sure deaths.

I was afraid of falling to my death, the guides picking up my brains and innards splattered on the cavern floor. I was afraid I would die without having completed my scrapbooks. I was afraid of falling and not dying, but being permanently disabled and not being able to drive myself to the bookstore. I was afraid I'd look stupid.

I was afraid. Petrified. As afraid as I’ve never ever been in my whole life. So afraid I cried for a few seconds. What made me cry was this inner struggle of accepting that I had to do it. There was no chickening out, no charming or bribing my way through, no delegating the tough parts to others, no negotiations, no way to circumvent the challenge. I had to get down that cliff or else stay in that cave forever subsisting on a diet of bat sashimi. I was so afraid, so stupefied my brain could not even manage to make my life flash before my eyes.

But then again, after all the drama, when I got out of the cave, got home, and had a shower, I realized I had no scratches. No bruises. I did not even break a nail or scratch my pedicure. Even though I slipped a dozen times. Even though I missed a step rappelling up a crag and I held on the rope, swinging dangerously, ramming my already sore body against a rocky wall. I suppose fear kept me safe. It made me walk slower, and made me look like a stupid granny wimp, but it was also the instinct that made me take only sure steps and kept me from harm.

Fear is not always a bad thing.

LESSON THREE: We are stronger, faster, harder than we can ever imagine. Like I said, I’m not in the best shape. I find myself panting just mounting the bed. And I would never believe that I could do what I did in those caves. I still could not believe it now.

Nearing the exit, we stared at a 3-storey high, 15 degree steep wall that separated us from the freedom outside. In normal circumstances I would have thought it impossible to climb it and survive. But all the earlier challenges showed me that I could do what I never thought I was capable of doing. So even if the adrenalin was already starting to dwindle, and I was tired from 7 hours of gruelling spelunking, I just took a look at the challenge in front of me and did it. I heaved, I grunted, I whined, and I climbed, and climbed,and climbed until I finally got out of that cave. I realized I am stronger than I ever thought. I can do far more than I ever thought possible.

I realized how much our mindsets limit us from doing what we want to do, how much we underestimate our strengths, how much power is within us. It took the caves of Sagada and 5 sadistic guides to make me discover my inner strength.

LESSON FOUR: Crap is inevitable. – In the last upward stretch out of the cave, we had to climb stone steps, made extremely slippery by bat excrement. The stench was unbearable, but the worst thing was that we had to hold on to some of the rocks to balance or lift ourselves up. Our fingers would land on inch-thick sludge – thick, icky layers of moist, mushy guano. And every germophobic fiber in my body would cringe and cry. But I just had to hold on for dear life fueled with the desire to just get out of that wretched cave that had held us captive for far too many hours.

In a Mythbusters episode, Adam and Jamie once concluded that “Poo is everywhere.” Literally. Sadly, it is true metaphorically too. Life can get crappy sometimes. Oftentimes, one can walk around and avoid stepping on poo, but there are times when there is just no way around it, and one has to bear with all the crap. You just have to grin and bear it. The thing is, a little crap ain’t going to kill us.

LESSON FIVE: That big, fat ass (or nose, or ears) of yours will someday be put to good use. - What got me through the toughest physical challenges and the most perilous conditions? My stamina? Strategy? My upper body strength and leg power? Nah! It's my big, fat ass.

As we slid on rocks and soil, our guides asked us to rely on a skill creatively called the butt technique. Many, many times, we had to get ourselves closer to the pull of gravity and sit down, and let our butts do the walking, the wading, the sliding. And for the first time in my life, I thanked God for my ample assets.

I have always had what are euphemistically called child-bearing hips and the most generous rump to go with them. I hate how they get in the way of fashion and vanity. But that time at the cave, I was so grateful for all that generous padding.

It was a clear case of making lemonades out of life’s lemons. Life is fair when the things we consider as faults are actually blessings in disguise. In Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell talks about 1930s born Jewish lawyers who were barred from WASP law firms forcing them to develop skills that would actually spell their success 20 years later.

So, don’t whine too much about your big ears or your big butts or whatever it is you consider a liability. They just might come handy someday.

LESSON SIX: Trust the experts, especially when you’re not one. –For all the bravado and the pride we felt after that incredible experience, we all know we couldn’t have done it without our guides, James, Andrew, Mark, Matthew, and Jory. (Those apostolic names did not escape my attention.) So many times in that whole experience, we really did not know what to do and were too afraid to do whatever it was we had to do. We had to literally let our guides lead our feet through every step. I mean every little scaredy step. And they would even let us step on their knees, shoulders, hands, and bear our weights as we shifted our balance to move forward.

For control freaks like me, it was very difficult letting go, trusting someone else, and bearing the shame of total reliance on others. But what choice did I have? So, I had to let go and let the guides get me through. When the guide said, “Trust me,” I had no choice but to obey. I trusted him with my life.

It’s the same thing in life. Don’t be macho. There are times when we have to let the experts show us how. We have to humble ourselves and allow others to help us for the sakes of safety, survival, and success.

LESSON SEVEN: Rest when you get the chance and enjoy it. – Spelunking with a large group, we had to sometimes wait for each other as we shared 5 guides and the light of a few kerosene lamps. Those were moments for rest. I loved those moments as we caught our breath and had the time to look around and admire the beauty within the cave – the fantastic rock formations, the shadows and the lights creating moving art against the smooth and the rough rocks, the heights, the layers, the sexy curves of walls, the secret crevices, the trickling and falling of the water, awesome sights no camera can capture. They’re meant to be etched in memory.

Those rest breaks slowed us down and stretched what was meant to be a 4-hour trek to 7 hours of torture. But those breaks actually fueled me, not just by replenishing energy, but also by inspiring me with beauty, and reminding me how blessed, how privileged I was to experience something so awesome.

LESSON EIGHT: The less you have, the less you fear. – Travel light. Travel light. Travel light. It’s a lesson that in my years of jet setting and island hopping, I still cannot comprehend. But when you’re in a slippery niche, 20 feet off stable ground, trying to balance yourself is made more difficult by anything hanging from your neck, shoulders, arms. Having too many things -- some of them precious like high-tech cameras, your return tickets -- complicates matters as you try to protect your goods when really you should be protecting your head and limbs. The less you have with you, the less you worry about losing or breaking them.

At one point, I had to accept that my camera had already been destroyed by the water and the blows. Strangely, I felt liberated from having to take more pictures and finding time to download them when I get back home.

Travel light. It’s still a maxim I find hard to accept wholeheartedly. But it is a lesson well learned in those dark, dank, dangerous caves where material possessions play second fiddle to life and health.

LESSON NINE: Shoes are important. – You have to use the right shoes for the right time and place. I thought my trusted Teva’s were good enough. But they are trekking shoes, not spelunking shoes. And at some point, it was better to go barefoot to let our feet grasp the rocks more securely. Having the right shoes for the right time and place is important. Okay, I don’t really know what this teaches me about life. I just want to justify my shoe closet issues.

Today, I say CAVE is a 4 letter word. My joints are still sore. My voice a bit hoarse. My body recuperating from all the slips and falls. But I can say about spelunking at Sagada, I’ve been there and done that. And I’m glad I did.

Sagada pics here:

http://islandhopper.multiply.com/photos/album/37

http://sumthinblue.multiply.com/photos/album/271/The_Long_Road_to_Sagada_?replies_read=10

http://sumthinblue.multiply.com/photos/album/272

Pilipinas Kong Mahal

I wrote this entry about ten years ago back in those days when I was trying to create my own website from scratch. Back then, there was no blogger or multiply. I tweaked things just a teeny weeny bit to reflect current realities.















**G.S. was conceived, born, breast-fed, baptized, confirmed, nurtured, disciplined, educated, married, employed, unemployed, wowed in Philippine soil. Once in a while she steps out of this Pearl of the Orient to get a whiff of foreign culture and px goods, but she always comes back, longing for all things Filipino, paunchy traffic enforcers and dirty stray cats excluded.


The usual Philippine intro starts with our archipelago being made up of 7,107 islands, but what I do I know about these thousands of islands when I've only been to about 8 of them? In my eyes, the Philippines is made up mountains and volcanoes; rice paddies and little hills; tiny barrios and middle-sized villages; a number of subdivisions which require you to have a sticker to enter; vast parking spaces pretending to be major highways; chinese-owned malls urbanizing every bustling town; business districts with its Starbucks cafes and yuppy hang-outs; cities with old churches and remnants of our Spanish culture; squatter shanties with TV antennae and exposed laundry; countless restaurants and bars; and a whole lot of places where you can have fun -- if you know how to have fun.

We are bursting at the seams with a population of 90 or so million people. It would be impossible to come up with a description of the Filipino that would embrace each and every citizen. Though we share a common history and though we can joke about quirks that make us so unmistakably Pinoy, I have to ignore those generalizations and just say that we are diverse. Diverse even in the way we look -- tall, short, brown, fair, chinky-eyed, wide-eyed, lithe, buxom, we are all these things, as we are the products of ancestors intermarrying among the native filipino, malay, chinese, american, spanish, arabic, japanese, european, and whatever possible ethnic combinations. We are diverse in culture, religion, political beliefs, lifestyles, tastes, sexual preferences, and education.

Fact books will tell you we have a total land area of 297,000 square kilometers. If you're like me with limited spatial sense and you cannot really relate to that fact, just imagine this -- as your 747 approaches the southmost tip of the country and gets ready to land at Ninoy Aquino International Airport, it will span the country for 15 to 20 minutes before it gets over the tarmac which is in the big Northern island of Luzon. I guess that means it is not very big in actual land area. But think about it -- over 7,000 islands mean a whole lot of shorelines. So when they say here that life is a beach, you can take it literally. We have islands and islets, beach coves and beach resorts, dive spots and surf spots, lakes, seas and rivers. Forget your Amex; do not leave home without a snorkel, your cute shades, your favorite tanning lotion and at least one smashing swimming get-up.

I was talking about Luzon a while back. That is one of the three major island groups which are: Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao. Southmost is Mindanao. I will not pretend to know a whole lot about it because I have not spent a lot of time in there. And it's quite different from the Philippines that I know. There is a rich diversity of cultures present -- Christian, Muslim and tribal. I have been to Cagayan de Oro, which is called the "City of Golden Friendship". That title is very much deserved - nowhere else in the world will you see a group of people with such an abundant supply of smiles given so freely away. Davao is a city with the feel of a metropolis but with the charm of a quaint province. And, of course, Palawan, an exotic island with world class beachfront resorts, an underground river, a crocodile farm, and nature's showcase of breathtaking wonders.

What can you find in the Visayas ? Do you have the whole day -- to just read about it? Beautiful, enchanting, seductive islands: Bohol, with its Chocolate Hills and historic churches; Ilo-ilo, with its mansions and old-world charm; Cebu, which is like a more laid back Manila; and Boracay, with its reggae-thumping little bars, quaint inns and plush hotels, and little sandy nooks and crannies where horny lovers can have a quicky or two.

But Luzon is the island I know and love best. There are mountains, caves, lakes, waterfalls, lagoons, flatlands, rice terraces, little towns claiming their place in the map through an "original" delicacy, fishing villages, golf courses, country clubs, jet-ski resorts, universities, red-light districts, steel-and-glass business districts, a chinatown, weekly town fiestas, local politics and bizarre tragedies which usually provoke CNN newscasters to utter the phrase "only in the philippines", slums with style, exclusive villages with mansions and beamers, malls and mini-malls.

In the center of all of these is the place where I was conceived, born, breast-fed, etc., etc. (see above), a place outsiders call MANILA, but is actually a metropolis of cities and municipalities so close together, with borders indistinguishable, set apart only by the traffic jams for which this country is notorious. If one looks at the city with dispassionate eyes like Claire Danes did, it may look like a filthy jumble of smoke-belching vehicles, dilapidated buildings, pothole-infested roads, street children begging for change, a city cursed with poor planning and even poorer maintenance. But in my eyes, it is HOME, a very small world where you see somebody you know in every corner.

It is a fascinating city with a lot of humor, where people-watching can keep you entertained for one whole lazy afternoon. That's what the traffic jams are for -- for people to slow down and notice the dancing traffic cop, appreciate how even those begging street children can find ways to entertain themselves and laugh and play. It is a city with a beat, though sometimes off or slow, it is a beat, nonetheless, that once it gets into your soul, is hard to shake.

Chasing Lighthouses

(An article that won me second best travel writer slot in Philippine Star's travel writing contest in 2004.)

The middle-aged man with no teeth did not know where the lighthouse was. The mid-morning mahjongg players did not know where the lighthouse was. In a town where the ubiquitous welcome arch was replaced by a pair of lighthouse replicas, the townspeople lived, toiled and played mahjongg not knowing that their town housed not one, but two of those romantic antique sentinels. The few who knew did not know how, nor how long it took, to get there. Their guesstimates, two hours to half a day, were not helpful. Directions were vague and conflicting. The descriptions of extremely rough dirt roads were not very encouraging. For the less than determined, it was almost enough to give up.

We were on our second day of our lighthouse hunt. The long-term goal was to visit the more than 50 Spanish-time lighthouses in the country. For this two-day jaunt, we were going to visit two – Faro de Isla de Gran Capon at Capones Island of Zambales and Faro de Punta Patar, which overlooks Cape Bolinao in Pangasinan. If we were to be technical about it, the one in Bolinao shouldn’t count because it was actually built during the American time. But we did not know that before we set off for our trip, did we?

Our party of three got to San Antonio, Zambales midmorning. We parked our van by the seashore and arranged for a boat to bring us to the island. The boatman took us on a futile search for the lighthouse keeper who could have been at three possible places – his house, the Coast Guard station or the lighthouse itself. We did not find him in the first two places so we took the boat straight towards Capones Island.

We were first dropped off by a short stretch of a pebbly white sand beach where an imposing craggy wall of rock made a perfect photo-op background. We subdued our urge to loll and wade. We had a lighthouse keeper to find. We walked along the beach, my gym-wary, cramp-prone legs straining from walking on uneven sand and complaining with every step. Yes, still no lighthouse keeper sighting.

The boatman called us to board the boat again so we could go around the island and be dropped off where it was easier to reach the lighthouse.

Easy is a word I should use cautiously to describe the experience of getting from the boat onto the island. Because of huge rocks guarding the island, the boat could not come close to shore. What was I thinking that morning? Lighthouse equals seawater, sand, and feet getting wet. Why was I then wearing leather sandals instead of my trusted Teva’s? With no time to dwell on the inappropriateness of my footwear, I jumped into the water. It seemed a manageable knee-high level. It was knee-high all right, yet I still managed to get wet from head to foot. With the waves crashing against the rocks and my sorry non-athletic form, it was extremely challenging keeping my balance. Even after taking off my silly shoes to rely on my feet’s natural gripping abilities, I still slipped a number of times. How terrified I was of breaking my nails...er, bones. It was a shameless sight as I practically crawled on all fours to reach the beach.

The fearsome crawl was forgotten as we got onto dry land and saw an amazing sight. We struck pay dirt and found tsinelas heaven. If you happen to be missing a rubber slipper, it is almost certain it has found its way to Capones Island where flip-flops, which have outlived their utility, come home to retire.

To get to the top of the island, we climbed some concrete steps. Yes, the climb was exhausting. Yes, it was steep. But the real challenge was how to avoid those cute little landmines on the way up. Welcome to the Capones goat dung festival, where goats outnumber the people and where every step is an adventure.

Some part of the steps had eroded so we had to walk through rocks. Being the health buff that I am (insert sarcastic sneer here) I breezed, or rather wheezed, through the steep climb and was out of breath when we reached the top. Then I had to catch my breath again to gasp at the view. The panoramic view of the ocean was awesome. The word magnificent was invented for moments and places like this.

We climbed a little further to get to the lighthouse. This lighthouse was inaugurated in 1890 and it obviously did not age gracefully. The lighthouse itself seemed well-preserved and boasted a fresh coat of white paint. Two bright red stripes around its girth lent it a smart, dignified look. From what we’ve heard it was maintained by the Coast Guard to keep it functioning as a sea vessel guide. The maintenance, however, was not extended to the other structures surrounding the lighthouse. Everything was in a sad state of disrepair. Ravaged by the elements, the house looked like the next typhoon could level it onto the ground. We had to use our imagination to visualize how it looked back during its glory days. Our imagination also made us start daydreaming of the many ways we can restore this lighthouse.

It would be nice to convert it into a museum. Or a café. Or a bed and breakfast. Or my own private hideaway. We conjured up visions of restoration, of sprucing it up with antique furniture, living there with books and goats as company, friends coming to visit, and serving them herbal tea which we cultivated right at the foot of the lighthouse. We dreamed, and we sighed, and we took all the snapshots our film and memory sticks could store.

We could not stay longer than half an hour. We had to go back to the boat before the tide got higher. The boat brought us back to the van. We had lunch at a nearby resort, continuing to dream out loud of lighthouse cafés and hideaways. Then, we were off to Pangasinan for lighthouse number two.

The drive to Pangasinan took the rest of the day. It was nightfall by the time we checked in at a resort in Alaminos. After breakfast the next day, we set off for Barangay Pitar in the town of Bolinao where we met the clueless, toothless man and the navigation-challenged mahjongg players.

We eventually found a man who was more knowledgeable about the lighthouses. It happened that one of the lighthouses was within finger-pointing distance. It looked old and charming from where we stood, but it was too inland to be the one we were looking for. The other lighthouse, which overlooked Cape Bolinao, was a drive away. As we had been warned, there were patches of rough bumpy roads. Undeterred, we drove on and we eventually found the place in less than an hour. The road leading to the lighthouse was lined with beach resorts. We made mental notes of good lodging options for the next time we go on another lighthouse adventure. Just as we were wondering if we were on the right path, we finally caught site of the Faro de Punta Patar. A wall, a gate and a thick patch of trees surrounded it. We knocked on the gate and screamed "Tao po" but no one came to let us in. We pushed open the unlocked gate and were welcomed by the sight of the stately lighthouse, said to be the second tallest in the country, the tallest being Cape Bojeador in Burgos, Ilocos Norte.

We walked around the property, struck by the eerie loneliness of the abandoned structures, awed by the breathtaking view of the ocean, compelled to capture everything in photos. Best we document them for who knew if these structures would stay around forever.

Like the one in Capones Island, this lighthouse was well preserved. The surrounding buildings, however, were even more decrepit than those in Capones mainly because of the materials used. The older lighthouse in Zambales was partially made of rock while the Bolinao lighthouse was almost entirely made of wood so even if the latter was a more recent structure, it had been more badly damaged by time and the elements.

Trees were growing not just outside the house but inside as well since parts of the flooring have decayed to a point where one can no longer walk on them allowing vegetation to creep into the structure. Graffiti adorned the walls. Capiz windowpanes no longer served the purpose of covering the windows. Again, we had to use our imagination to visualize how beautiful these structures must have looked back in 1905 when they were just completed.

It is difficult to imagine how much work, and how much funding it would take to rehabilitate these relics of the past to their original glory. The realists in us realize that in the grand scheme of economics and national development, there are other more pressing priorities than quixotic plans of lighthouse restorations. But when we think of the possibilities, of the tourism potentials, of the sad alternative of someday losing these structures of amazing beauty, we cannot help but dream of lighthouse museums, of gift shops and seaside cafés, of romantic hideaways and lighthouse-hopping cruises. And of our next lighthouse adventure.