Weekend Resort Hideaways

The blue waters of Batangas—being only a two-hour-and-a-half drive from Manila—have “baptized” many, me included, into the diving community. That Independence Day weekend six years ago proved fitting as I surfaced from my open water check-out dive with a larger appreciation of two-thirds of our planet. Fortunately for me, along with that initiation into a submerged world came a built-in network all set to walk, er, fin every novice diver through it.

My own set of teachers consists of: Jay Ortiz (mobile 0917-8992000), who took me from house reef to liveaboard diving; Jimbo Jimenez (mobile 0920-9509631), first to introduce me to night diving; and Ian Paredes (0917-8395515) who gave me my advanced certification. All three are fathers, businessmen, and—long before they were either—avid divers, who, in their over-a-decade underwater exploration and instruction, can easily point to where I want or need to go next. And that includes (even before gearing up and getting into a dive banca) planning where to stay in Batangas.

With diving in its waters being possible all year round (though between November and June—sitting out the typhoon season—is best), its coastline is adorned with resorts that spoil divers for choice. Jay, Ian, and Jimbo help narrow it down by naming the ones they most frequent.

Ardent divers who naturally want to get more dives for their money go to Aquaventure Reef Club (tel. 5326681, mobile 09189291648) in Anilao. Overnight packages that include four buffet meals range from P2,700 per person for twin sharing to P3,200 for single occupancy. Day trip charge is at least P500. Jay and Ian both cite the friendly staff and excellent service. “Still the best buffet food,” Jimbo says. “Their restaurant also prepares ala carte meals,” Ian adds. Jay describes its party atmosphere as welcoming especially to new divers. An open-air bar invites sunset cocktails by the deck that lead into fun evening get-togethers.

Solana (mobile 0917-3001086) in San Teodoro, Mabini also gets the thumbs-up for its facilities, service, food, and laidback ambiance. “When you want a weekend getaway that’s similar to Palawan resorts, this is the place,” Jay says. Ian counts as bonus “the seasonal beach that forms in front of the house reef.” Their beachfront and hillside rooms (air conditioned with hot shower and intercom) have their own spacious veranda for taking in the panoramic sight of sea and sky. Rates range from $90 to $150 per head per night.

If you want to bring a non-diver date, Jay says, you can’t go wrong with Planet Dive (tel. 9063898, mobile 0927-2308008) in San Teodoro, Mabini. “Right in front of the resort is a nice reef for diving or snorkeling.” Jimbo also notes that the resort is close to the dive sites, and its ocean-view rooms are perfectly relaxing. Day trip rates range from P700 for a non-diver (includes buffet lunch, use of snorkeling gear and kayak) to P1,500 for a diver (includes buffet lunch, two boat dives, and unlimited shore dives). Overnight packages bundling four buffet meals range from P1,800 per non-diver for quad sharing to P4,300 per diver for single occupancy.

Dive & Trek (tel. 8518746, mobile 0920-9064123) in San Pablo, Bauan gets Ian’s best-value-for-money award. As he puts it, “Where else in Anilao can you find a school of jacks, pawikan, and sharks less than 100 meters from the shore?” Jimbo confirms the appeal of “unlimited diving in what can be argued as the best house reef in Batangas.” Jay adds that non-divers, with mask and snorkel, can also experience the marine sanctuary’s teeming reef life. The resort has a seaside swimming pool, volleyball court, and conference rooms. Rates range from P1,350 (day trip snorkeling package with lunch and boat transfers) to P4,350 (overnight package includes an air-conditioned room, four meals, and unlimited dives).

Eagle Point (tel. 8133553, mobile 09178544944) in Bagalangit, Mabini is ideal for families or groups with non-divers, Ian says, because of its swimming pools (saltwater and freshwater, the latter with waterfalls and waterslide), children’s playground, game room, cable TV and other creature comforts. Jimbo says the saltwater pool houses baby sharks rescued from fishermen’s nets for rehabilitation before eventual release—raising marine conservation awareness among guests who are invited to look, even swim with them, but not touch. Overnight rates per person range from P2,800 for triple sharing in a fan room to P5,950 for single occupancy in an air-conditioned room. A day tour package per person costs P1,600.

The fusion cuisine of Pier Uno (tel. 7437576, mobile 0917-8081877) in Anilao has reeled in Jay. “They put their own touch on a variety of Filipino, Chinese, and American dishes.” Jimbo is equally captivated with the resort’s set up of Casita rooms (from P2,200 per person for quad sharing to P4,100 single occupancy) and Kubo rooms (P2,500 per person for twin sharing and P3,200 per person for single occupancy).These overnight rates in air-conditioned rooms with hot showers (plus Cable TV for Casita) include four buffet meals. “The service is amazing,” Jimbo adds, and with the parking area located right beside the rooms, “no long walks or steep steps.”

Portulano (mobile 0917-5404257) in Bauan, according to Jay, has great food and service (“feels personalized”) while Jimbo specifically mentions how the doors to the room can be fully opened for the breeze and breathtaking view. Sunrise to night sky can be enjoyed from your own private veranda. Overnight packages per person which include four meals range from P2,150 for quad sharing in a fan room to P5,300 for single occupancy in an air-conditioned room.

Built on a rocky slope in San Teodoro Mabini, the cottages of Balai (tel. 240-2927) offer tree-framed views of the sea. “Balai’s environment is perfect for guests who enjoy just hanging-out,” Ian says. “Nice open-air lounge,” agrees Jay, “and superb food.” Overnight non-diver packages (four buffet meals and hot shower included) range from P1,850 for triple sharing to P2,800 for single occupancy. Overnight diver packages (two dives a day for two days, dive boat fees, dive master services included) range from P3,300 triple sharing to P4,250 single occupancy. For those who can’t sleep without air conditioning, Balai charges an additional P600 per night.

When Jimbo wants peace and quiet, his choice is Club Ocellaris (tel. 6721451, mobile 09178901073) in Anilao. Sharing a resort meal (described as world-class) and conversation with owner-operator and instructor Boy Venus leave you in awe of the unusual and rare critters found in Batangas waters. Many photographers keen on documenting that beauty underwater consider Ocellaris as “headquarters.” And yes, the resort is named after the bright orange-and-white Ocellaris Clownfish whose symbiotic relationship with its host anemone Boy likens to us and our fragile environment. In keeping with the private feel of Ocellaris (like you’ve been invited to be a special guest in a friend’s vacation house), email boyv@clubocellaris.com to request for rates.

Jimbo has Villa Ligaya (tel. 896-6016) in Anilao on his list for their speedboats. Departing in the morning for, say, Puerto Galera or Verde Island which takes 45 minutes one-way, you can do two dives out, be back in Anilao around lunch time, and still decide if you want a third dive. An overnight package which covers buffet meals (three on weekdays, four on weekends) ranges from P1,450 for fan dorms to P3,500 for air-conditoned single-occupancy rooms. A day trip which includes a buffet lunch costs P600. Kids aged two to seven get 50% off; and if they’re younger, they’re free-of-charge.

Rockport Beach Resort (tel. 043-4080671, mobile 09175319158) is situated in a protected cove in Balite, San Luis. The motto here is “Life is good!”—which, over the years, Jay has adopted as a personal philosophy too. (Talk about positive influence.) Day trip rate per person which includes a room and buffet lunch is P600; P500 if you don’t need a room. Overnight accommodation with three buffet meals cost P1,550 with any extra meal at P350. Jay especially enjoys Rockport’s chicken pandan and lumpiang bangus. Also a plus for him is the convenience of being able to park his vehicle near the cottages.

For non-divers, any of these resorts can arrange for island hopping, cruising, private beach picnics, kayaking, trekking, recreational games, snorkeling, intro-diving—whatever you need to feel that, indeed, life is good. Certainly, every time my boat heads back to the resort after the day’s last dive, I find myself looking forward to the waiting meal and companionship, warming the heart like the comforts of home.

(Cuttlefish photo by Junjie Koh, jacks photo by Jay Ortiz)

Lu-Ann Fuentes

Magic on Monad Shoal

I’ve been staring into the blue so hard I thought I imagined its outline. But there it was, magically materialized and swimming head-on towards me. Just before reaching the edge of the submerged plateau where I hovered low, it made a big, slow turn—a large eye fixed on me for some seconds. I was transfixed by the silvery sheen on its side, and then by the scythe-like tail that gives thresher sharks their name.

Because Monad shoal (a soft-coral habitat) is a cleaning station where wrasses polish off parasites from sharks and rays’ gills, mouth, and skin, nowhere else are threshers encountered as regularly. Divers from all over have this protected area on their must-go-and-see list. In our outrigger dive boat alone, Italian, Norwegian, Danish, German, Belgian, and Russian divers shared my excited anticipation.

To be in the same waters as this rarely-found creature, we operated on thresher time. Our boat left the shore just before 6 a.m. and, by 6:30 a.m., I back-rolled into the water.

I turned and kicked to head down, pulling myself lower and lower on the anchor line to steady myself against the strong current. Finally, 24 meters below the water’s surface, I found my buoyancy as I came upon the sunken sandbank’s flattish top.

Its 1.5 kilometer expanse looked relatively stark, a seemingly bare stage waiting for its star to light it up. And wait is what we did, mimicking a nearby lion fish’s suspended stillness.

Staking my spot alongside other divers, I stayed low, breathed deeply and slowly. I looked around and at our dive master, hoping for the hand-on-the-head sign for shark.

Visibility was around 20 meters horizontally. I focused my sights beyond “shark’s point,” where the sides of the shoal dropped to about 300 meters. I sensed the collective prayer (and various bargaining with God) for a thresher shark to surface from the depths—where it normally herded and stunned prey of squid and schooling fish with its whip-like tail.

Which brings me back to the beginning of my story: a thresher shark did swim in from the blue. It seemed to consider us—this wide-eyed, bubbles-creating group—and then it swerved, giving us an appreciation of its sleek powerful tail which took up almost half of its six-meter muscular body. We waited anew (again, waiting is how this works) and, soon enough, it circled into view again.

That already made my day but Monad Shoal wasn’t through with me. By 2:30 p.m., I was back in the water and on the same ledge—prostrate as befitting an admirer of otherworldly beauty. This time, we were blessed with seven sightings of two manta rays with five to six meter wingspans.

Unlike that morning’s thresher shark which turned away as it neared us, one manta ray glided beyond where the shelf dropped. Its cephalic lobes unfurled to sweep plankton into its mouth as its broad rectangular mouth filtered and feeded through the water.

Flapping its large pectoral fins like a magnificent bird of the sea, it passed an arm’s length above me and, at one point, I found myself staring up at its white belly. I was electrified alive to my very bones. More so since I happen to be one of those local divers who travel the Philippines—from Ticao to Tubattaha—especially for this specimen of fluid grace. And Monad’s manta was the biggest (and the most up-close I’ve gotten) yet.

The dive’s last manta, gliding and looping, stayed with the group until, risking deco, we reluctantly headed back to the anchor line one by one. Even as I finned away, I twisted sideways to keep my manta in sight for as long as I could—burning its image in my memory, breathing out my thanks.

Getting There
Sea Explorers Cebu head office (tel. 032-2340248, email cebu@sea-explorers.com) arranged for my group’s three-day dives, van and boat transfers from Cebu international airport, and cottage stay. Our divemaster Martin Pascobello (mobile 0927-7172692) says June is the best time to schedule a dive trip.
For non-divers, Sea Explorers Malapascua (mobile 0927-6394587, tel. 032-4370411) recommends getting directly in touch with any of these resorts: Sunsplash (mobile 0927-2741756), Hippocampus (mobile 0927-8008940), or Cocobana (tel. 032-4371040).
From Manila, we took an early morning flight to Cebu. Upon arrival at the airport, we were picked up by a van for a three-hour land trip to Maya wharf. Finally, a half-hour boat trip brought us to Cebu’s northern tip, Malapascua Island.

Lu-Ann Fuentes

Whaleshark Season

Photos by Junjie Koh

Where do people go for answers? My friend wasn’t exactly into saintly intercession or parental advice. That left us with the nature quest—a common enough refuge for gaining so-called clarity. We were at our respective crossroads, procrastinating on a decision that could easily define our next five years. To get out of our own heads, we somehow convinced ourselves, we had to get out of urban Manila for a few days. And it seemed to us—as we leafed through ecotourism brochures—that an encounter with the “largest fish in the world” offered just that type of grand-scale experience that would likely, in a manner of speaking, put us in our place.

The prospect of leaping into a giant’s watery domain demanded the reassurance that learning about them beforehand afforded. Whale sharks (Rhincodon typus), butanding to the locals, grow up to 60 feet and weigh up to 40 tons. Happily for us, they feed on plankton. This migratory species finds sanctuary in the protected waters around Donsol, Sorsogon from January to May (March to April being the best times to go).

And so we went. A 45-minute daily flight from Manila to Legazpi City—some don’t mind the 10-hour bus travel from Cubao’s central terminal—followed by a one-hour ride by passenger van (taxi or buses will do too) delivered us to the Donsol tourism office and visitor center (mobile phone +63 927-2330364; butanding_donsol@yahoo.com or ecotourismdonsol@yahoo.com). We paid the registration fees (P100 for Filipinos, P300 for foreigners) and split the P3,500 group fee that covered boat rental and fees for the Butanding Interaction Officer (BIO) and spotter-guide. We brought cash because credit card facilities were not available, at least not yet. For accommodations, we were given plenty of choices: beach resort cottages like Woodland (mobile phone +63 921-9699544) and Amor Farm (+63 917-6941687) and several homestays.

With the practicalities dealt with, we made a gift of our bubbling excitement to our assigned BIO. He turned teacher. An illustration he traced with a finger showed how we were expected to maintain a distance of three meters from the whale shark’s head and body, and four meters from its tail. We were not to get in its natural path. And, by the way the BIO kept reminding us not to touch the whale shark, we could guess many must have lost their heads in the moment and tried just that. “No flash photography, no scuba diving, no unnecessary thrashing in the water…” These giants are clearly shy.

Snorkeling gear could be rented on site but we packed our own. An ill-fitting mask, we imagined, could flood upon us plunging in, and the initial shock of that could lose us the seconds it takes to zero in on a whale shark. It would be equally disastrous to be finning after a better sight of a butanding only to find we’ve slowed because a strap broke and one fin has dropped to irretrievable depths. (My friend is a master at worst-case scenarios.)

We’re also told that no more than six swimmers per whale shark are allowed and only one outrigger boat per whale shark. We joked about suddenly feeling competitive against the other groups scheduled to head out that same morning. Every BIO’s pleasure, our guide confirmed, is for his boatload of visitors to experience the amazement of staring down into the deep blue, only to realize with a jolt that he’s seeing silvery-white spots, and then finally making out the moving outline of a butanding beneath him. No one forgets that first instance of recognition. Especially because nature doesn’t always put on a show. Just the day before, Japanese tourists logged in an entire day without a single sighting.

We hoped for better luck as our boat motored through open water. We even wore our optimism: vests on, fins fastened, masks around our neck. The BIO wanted us ready to jump overboard upon his signal. A half hour later, butanding unseen, we were beginning to feel a little silly about being so dressed for the water yet remaining dry on the boat.

Just when my friend was starting to reconsider the merits of seeking saintly intercession, we got our signal from the BIO. “Talon!” And so we jumped after him, hitting the water in a graceless splash. There was hard swimming in between coughing of saltwater (a far match from the magically serene communion-with-nature we pictured) as we tried to keep up with the BIO who positioned himself ahead like a buoy to keep us oriented. We were soon confused anyway because the BIO seemed to be heading back. “Tigil! Tingin sa baba! (Stop! Look down!)” he yelled over the choppy waves.

The BIO, bless his heart, expertly deduced that the whale shark’s “grazing” direction would cut below our boat. We planted our faces in the water, not seeing very far in the “nutrient soup” that cultivated the algae that fed the krill that attracted the whale shark. Then I felt a tug from behind. Our BIO was Superman. He pulled on my vest with one hand and my friend’s vest with the other and, with a few strong kicks, he got us in place just in time to see a wide, flat head and a small eye from our angle. A capacious mouth sucked water that was strained through its gills, filtering its food. A massive blue-grey body—with its telltale pale yellow dots, vertical ridges, pairs of pectoral and dorsal fins, and muscular tail—glided ponderously underneath us. We could see it was going to dive back into the blue. Taking quick mental snapshots, cropping images here and there, was how I responded to the ephemeral quality and scale of it. Huge, I thought. The entire moment, despite taking less than a minute, was huge—the kind that makes us go: I can do the next thing now.

Later, as the day turned to dusk, our boat cruised the Donsol river lined with mangroves that winked with fireflies. We were still aglow ourselves, momentarily bonded by a powerful shared-experience. Our BIO was happy about notching that for us. He’s had days when he’s counted over 10 whale sharks in a single hour, making one-for-the-day sightings all the more precious. As a younger man, he shared, he wanted to be a seafarer to see the world. Now—with a local ecotourism industry in place that helps preserve the vulnerable whale shark and its habitat—the rest of the world comes to his fishing village and him for their take-away encounter. The whale sharks make him special. Communing with the giants does change everyone.

Lu-Ann Fuentes

Racy in Boracay

They slouched on long wooden benches and throttled their Pale Pilsen as if these might scurry off. The crate of downed amber bottles by their feet suggested pleased celebration. They looked like any group of working men just done with hard labor. Except that the sand beneath their feet was gleaming white, stretching on to a tropical beach that some believe to be among the finest in the world.

The beer guzzlers are fishermen from Malay, Aklan. They also happen to be fantastic paraw (native double outrigger sailboat) racers. This particular group sailed Tequila Sunrise, finishing third in its category mere hours ago in a paraw regatta in Boracay Island. Still flushed with race rush, these men felt electric and er, we were counting on that.

We in this case confess to have been in a do-it-all-in-Boracay mode, as evidenced by the jellyfish sting from snorkeling around Croc Island, the ridiculously lubed skin from the coco oil shiatsu, the tattooed wrist, the motorbike tambutso burn on an ankle, the strained waistband after succulent seafood and sinful crepes, and the shuffle of tie-dye, sarong, and beads that we’ve become after a visit to the talipapa.

Not content with the damage thus far, we gawked at the tableful of San Mig devotees. Blood-shot eyes pinned us for what had better be a good reason for the intrusion.

In the vernacular, we explained as fast as we could: We sat on a boat during the paraw race, and we were amazed over how fast the wind propelled the contenders, and we could tell from the boats that got tangled that maneuvering was no easy skill, and we were wondering if they could, maybe, if they didn’t feel we were being such touristy pests, teach us how to sail a racing paraw and so on and so forth.

They looked like they were thinking about it.

My friend Marla hastened to promise: We’ll treat you to a case of Pale Pilsen after.

Replied a heavyset, maroon-faced man: His paraw is no ordinary fishing boat. (He dismissed the bancas lining the shore with a wave.) He’ll show us. Tomorrow at 10 o’ clock, Tequila Sunrise would dock at Balabag. Be there. His name’s Charlie Gumboc, by the way, and he’s won in fiesta races, out-of-town invitationals, and had been a paraw grand slam champ.

That’s right, piped in a mustached crewmember. Chulie’s a legend around here. That man’s been playing with paraws long before girls started to catch his eye. Sure, kids from these parts know their rudder and sail; their Panay heritage demanded that. But Chulie, he’s a natural. They call him kuto ng dagat. He lives for the sea. What’s more, he’s a skilled paraw builder.

Well, well, the man has a fan club. Good, we wrangled a tutorial from a master.

So off to the high seas we sailed the next day. Since Chulie was busy with the running commentary, he hand-picked to be captain the curiously named Antonio Tumaob (tumaob being Tagalog for toppling over.) Sharing the task of balancers were Chulie, fisherman Ronnie Cahilig, me and Marla (the-one-who-promised-beer and therefore precious cargo to Chulie and company).

This is how it was: pony-tailed Kapitan Antonio sat, with legs extended, on the banca. With the rope grasped between his hands, he shifted the triangular sail and foresail and in seconds, he snared wind. As we cut through the water with amazing speed, Antonio’s feet danced; clamped between his toes was rope that pulled the timon (rudder). As you can imagine, Antonio is a very limber and coordinated man.

Meanwhile, our place was on the katig (outrigger), pliable but strong bamboo that served as counterweights on both sides of the boat. Two parallel poles with netting (think hammock) bridged the outrigger and boat. Marla and I sat on the netting, feeling like the day’s catch, while Chulie pointed at how the wind beat the sails and how the boat’s hull and right outrigger balanced the boat. As the wind ripped harder, the boat leaned heavily to the right (and we went down like a see-saw while the left outrigger hung in the air.)

Sure-footed Ronnie moved up the booms of the hanging outrigger. The boat settled. When the wind reshifted, Ronnie moved back to the other outrigger.

And that, said Chulie, is why you are called balancers.

Uh, no problem. We didn’t exactly leap around with grace the way Chulie and Ronnie did. In fact, we often had to move on all fours to make sure we didn’t fall overboard but hey, we were thrilled to put our weight to good use.
As Tequila Sunrise edged near another paraw, Chulie shouted: Lumbaanay na! He challenged his friends on the other boat (named C-Line) to a race over Tabon Strait to Cubay Norte, Malay. Chulie, who looked portly and fiftyish on land, shed off a decade on blue water. He was lighter, quicker, clearly in his element. Bracing against the wind, tasting the salt, staring out to sea, what more could a person want? He said a beer in hand right that second sure would be nice.

Photos by Alexies Santiago

Lu-Ann Fuentes

Dry Tales from Pinatubo

The Aeta boy held up a baby python as big as his arm. He was one of seven kids, with hair like wiry birds’ nests, who rushed towards us as we stepped off the jeep. We were at Patal Pinto, the starting line on the route to the crater lake campsite of Mt. Pinatubo.

A girl wanted to show us the parrot that she gently cupped in her hands. Another boy had a mongoose-like rodent that darted from his wrist to his neck, occasionally straining forward to sniff the breeze surrounding the backpacked newcomers. Wildlife central it sure was.

Their parents, seeing our interest in the animals, tried to start a bidding. “Two hundred pesos,” one said. A guy in our group visibly brightened. He knew the python’s market price was by the thousands, and he had an empty aquarium at home where he used to keep a garter snake before it somehow got misplaced around the house.

The women tried dissuading Snake Boy. We were not about to support wildlife trade in any scale. Also, we didn’t relish sharing the ride home with anything that could slither away. “What are you going to feed him?” was the challenge. “White mice and chicks, of course” was the response. More shrieks.

Aeta families poured out of the makeshift shed on the rock platform. Some were waiting for the random jeep bringing fresh produce so they could hitch a ride to the market. Some just wanted a peek at the newest batch of pallid city folk who would actually pay for the privilege of walking for five to eight hours through sandy, scorching terrain.

Aeta guide Popoy rounded us up and then set out on jaunty steps. For someone relaxed and smiling, he covered ground fast. We hurried after him. Our sandals sank an inch into the sand, evoking shoreline images. The sun had the day-at-the-beach quality, and well, we could have used some goggles to keep the sand grains from irritating our eyes. But thinking of bodies of water where it couldn’t possibly be was needless taunting. Or so we said until we came across our first rivulet. It ran across the sand like splayed fingers. The sight of it was an initial surprise. To find the trail punctuated with spring water (ground spurts, trickles from a rock wall, tiny falls) was soothing to the eye, and a hint of the large crater lake waiting for us at the campsite. Several times, we had to wade through. Water-logged hiking boots would only weigh us down so we strapped on rubber sandals. The water was gurgling warm to our toes. When we stepped out, our feet were espasol with the sand coat. I could only imagine what trekking hereabouts must be like in torrential rain. The lahar would suck on the boot like a nursing baby.

We met another group of foreign tourists on their way back. They were in shorts and tank tops. In contrast, my group wore bandannas, shades, arm protectors, tights, and a smearing of sun block. The tourists carried light rucksacks. We were armed to the teeth. Why? Two words. Cooking showdown. Dinner in the mountains always is with this group. (Anyone else can make do with canned goods if the thought of lugging stoves and pots do not exactly bring a spring to your step.) We felt less sheepish when we found out the tourists employed porters who had, among their load, an inflatable raft with oars.

We stopped for lunch and then proceeded along even stranger terrain. Someone described it as an alien planet. The artist’s palette is pared down to the black, white, and gray. A series of peaks, like wave crests, needled the air. Loose sand dribbled down the side of mountains collecting like half an hourglass below. Basketball-sized rocks were melded together in a way that, my friend imagines, would stir a garden landscaper’s imagination. Some formations looked like the ruins of an amphitheater or a labyrinth. Boulders were strewn across the ground like a checker game played by giants. The canyons sat solid.

No one made small talk, and that’s saying a lot for our group. This felt like sacred space and we were engaged in a kind of body prayer. We marched into our own private musings. About how, for example, movement even as basic as putting one foot after another opened the body to childlike joy. Hiking for long hours taught me to take pleasure in the moment-by-moment experience. I also couldn’t help mulling over the enormous amount of energy that the earth released to change this part of her face. And she hasn’t settled on a look yet. One companion had been here thrice and each time the route looked different. Wind and rain still shifted sand and stone. The ancients believed that “the earth bursts forth because it is trying to grow. It is trying to return to paradise.”

Guide Popoy said some of his Aeta relatives were buried where we trudged. There used to be thriving barrios here. Now there was only wide expanse. Our guy with the third eye (there’s always one in every hiking group) said souls still wandered across the landscape.

Just when we thought we were never going to stop hiking, we finally stood at the big drop overlooking the crater lake. Descending required tricky footwork. Rocks kept coming loose in our hands or dropping from under our feet. Nevertheless, we picked up our pace because the light was fading fast.

We reached the campsite barely minutes before it got dark. We pitched our tents, had a fiesta of a meal, admired the stars, and, for the first time in our group history, actually cut short our socials for sleep. We still can’t get over that one.

I woke up the next day to the sound of someone swimming in the sulphuric lake. After a quick breakfast and not-so-quick photo shoot, we trekked back. We made it in five hours, with visions of ice-cold halo-halo dancing in our heads. Casualty check yielded a torn shoe, a pair of sandals with both soles ripped off, another pair of sandals sanded thin, and one pair of involuntary buckling knees. We also turned two shades darker, some getting their tan in stripes (blame straps and bandannas). One last lesson for us: Our jeep didn’t show up. Luckily, another jeep docked in to deliver sacks of rice. We sent our prettiest to do the haggling. Done deal.

Just before we boarded, an Aeta handed a slow-wriggling sack to our companion. This was a boy’s pet, my friend whispered. Feeling our eyes on him, the Aeta made a ceremony of calling his son and awarding him the two P100 bills. Even with the departing jeep’s dust trail, bewilderment was evident on the boy’s face as he stared at the paper in his hands for what seemed a long time.

Photos by Amado Bajarias

Lu-Ann Fuentes

Jungle Jaunt 2

In the larger timeline, people have been hunter-gatherers longer than we’ve been zapping pizza in the microwave but we seem to have lost the knack overnight. The age of 24-hour food delivery has made pansies of all of us.

At one point during the Subic jungle trek, I was convinced that the vegetation conspired to look like each other. Half the time – okay, more than half the time – I gave wrong answers to Mang Pete’s pop quizzes. Once, I tugged a plant this way and that for closer examination when the ever-patient guide finally intervened, “You shouldn’t be caressing that toxic plant.” I jumped as far as I could. I was a goner for sure if I ever found myself hiding out or trapped in some jungle – it could happen.

Away from patches that itch, Mang Pete pointed out mamugtong which is said to cure stomach pains, diarrhea, and malaria – and which tastes like ampalaya, naturally. The resin of dipa, applied like iodine on insect bites, is anti-malaria as well. Chewing the roots of dayangdang helps with snakebite and stomach pain.

Chicken feathers are moistened in water where labtang roots are boiled, and rubbed on the torso for gas pains or wounds. Pulped covergrass sooths minor burns.

I interrupted Mang Pete’s litany with an inquiry about aphrodisiacs but, apparently, this did not fall under survival medication.

“The resin of the kalibutbut cleans wounds and stops the bleeding, “Mang Pete continued, “while scraped inner bark of the imamali is pressed on the wound like band-aid.”

I declared professional curiosity and asked about hallucinogens.

“Bark from a tree called tsaang gubat is boiled and drank for kidney trouble and nausea,” Mang Pete responded, pointedly ignoring my query. “Labtang is supposed to regulate the menstrual cycle and so shouldn’t be given to pregnant women.”

No one can say I didn’t try.

No respectable kitchen is without its flavors and spices. Layu fruit tastes like kamias. Bawkok’s crushed leaves and fruit, and santol fruit substitute for vinegar for delectable sinigang. In place of sugar, dip for fresh honey from the beehive.

Living in the jungle is no excuse to smell bad. Gugo’s cleansing formula is not exactly a secret. Still, it was magic to see how the bark lathered luxuriantly and fragrantly in the stream. Bayabas stalk, like we’ve been taught in scouting, is a tooth picker and scrubber.

Next, the dreaded lesson on orienteering. Mang Pete consulted the second turn of a vine. That’s always east, he pronounced. To know where you’ve been, bend a stalk every few steps. At every crossroad, leave a broken branch blocking the route you didn’t take.

Always look up, down, and around. It’s never wise to step on or under any thing that stings, bites, or claws. A sturdy stick you can lean on while walking helps announce your presence to snakes taking a siesta among the tall cogon. It also balances like a third leg when stepping on mossy rocks set in streams. For jungles with wide and rapid rivers to cross, a lauan trunk dug in the center makes a sturdy canoe. Around 30 bamboo poles needled with smaller bamboos at the short end result in a highly buoyant raft.

Banaba leaves are also worn as ponchos and hats to protect from tree snakes. Keep hat secure with trapper rope. For instant camouflage, tutog-ulo’s leaves which have tiny hooks stick to clothing like Velcro.

When climbing uphill, advised Mang Pete, keep your torso low and don’t rely on vines or roots to pull you up. Finally, to keep malaria-carrying mosquitos off, smear all exposed flesh with mud.

One discovery I was happy to make myself: a rain coat-clad body is an excellent specimen catcher. Before the first hour was up, I swiped off a walking stick, worms, several furry caterpillars, unusually large grasshoppers, and the rest I’d need an entomologist to identify. But how is that a survival technique? Ah, Mang Pete did say roasted grasshoppers taste like shrimps.

Lu-Ann Fuentes

Jungle Jaunt

There were signs of wild boar all through Subic Forest.

Pepito T. — who’s taught jungle survival to grim-faced US troops for 30 years and camera-toting civilians like me for the last 10 — pointed these out to eyes more conditioned to spotting 20-foot golden arches than minute disturbances in the soil. There were fresh tracks (“See those little prints, she has piglets…”), shallow diggings (“She’s scrounging for food, looks real hungry…”), and a tree bark violently ripped by animal teeth (“Must have sniffed human scent, they want us to know this is their territory…”).

“How big is she?” I wondered, maybe a little too loudly. Mang Pete quickly assured that wild boars normally stay out of people’s way. “Although,” he just had to add, “if a baboy ramo ever stares at you with hackles raised, snorting in a funny way, climb up a tree quick.” Mang Pete knows what this is like. “They’ll want to charge between your legs to throw you off balance.” Mang Pete’s quite a matador during these encounters. He waits until the last minute, then steps aside and hacks away with his bolo. “Killed three this way,” he grinned with pride.

Mang Pete, trapper and hunter extraordinaire, credits his survival skills to generations of native Filipinos before him. As a boy during World War II, he hid in this very forest and learned to survive on roots and to chase away bats and boars for the best rock overhangs to curl up and sleep under. Food was just as scarce during peacetime. His Aeta elders taught him how to zero in on drinking water, identify leaves you can flavor soup or dress a wound with, and to watch out for lethal viper snakes with the nasty habit of falling off branches.

Decades later, Mang Pete still treks through the woods – this time escorting gaggles of tourists. Uniformed with a hard hat and yellow poncho over an olive-colored T-shirt tucked in camouflage pants, boots, and his trusty jungle bolo in a holster, he looks ready for anything. This is the same man who taught escape-and-evasion techniques to US pilots bound for the Vietnam war. His calling today: to transform city softies into regular Lords of the Jungle.

Money is toilet paper in the jungle, he wanted us to understand. There are no convenience stores here. Everything you need is free and available. You just have to gather, hunt, and trap. (I muffled an “Oh, is that all?”) On cue, a labuyo or wild chicken and her brood came running across the trail 10 steps away. “How do you know,” I asked, “that’s not somebody’s dearest pet?” Mang Pete give me a look that clearly said I was being silly and had to be drilled on the basics on life beyond burger-and-fries country.

For four hours, Mang Pete led us through the Subic Forest to point out how everything you need to keep breathing outside of cable TV is for the picking. Consider:

Banaba, which lined the forest grounds with purple flowers, has leaves as large as elephant ears. Aetas layer these into branches forming a squat A-shaped frame. Not only do banaba leaves serve well as walls and roof, they also cushion your back against hard ground.

When waterfalls, streams, or springs dry up, just chop off a bamboo. Aetas refer to it as their fridge. The moisture that collects on the stem filters into the hollow. Pristine white insides mean clean water. You can even use a young bamboo shoot for a straw. Dit-an from the rattan family stores water similarly.

Mang Pete also demonstrates how a slice on the trunk of the tubay tree quickly fills with water and drips into the bottle he hung below. If you leave a container overnight, you’ll have five gallons by morning. After that, all you need is a bark from the kapang tree and you’re all set to boil a potful of coffee.

As for traps, twist fiber from a balete tree. Let dry for a day and you have rope strong enough to trap a small bayawak or labuyo. During the hot months, set your traps near the water. Don’t put too much bait or the animal will likely have its fill and leave before it steps into the loop.

There is also hooked vine Mang Pete calls wait-a-minute (because it catches your shirt and stops you on your tracks for a – yeah – minute) which he flings around in a cave until it catches a bat’s wing. He also uses the vine for fishing.

But of course, if you’re a novice, you could just as easily hook your own skin. Sometimes, Mang Pete pours water that had been boiled with labtang fruit in fish-rich streams. This gets fish drunk, Mang Pete swears, that he just scoops them out of the water.

Mang Pete cooks bats in their own oil (“Tastes like liver…”). Bayawak and labuyo are favorite barbecue fare. The streams are home to shrimps and snails. I asked what snails taste like. “Frogs,” was the answer.

There’s no avoiding vegetables: leafy paco, young shoots of tutug-ulo and the fleshy ubod which we would never have imagined was beneath the spiky exterior.

Mang Pete cautioned against carelessly picking up any root and stem to taste-test. Mushrooms with ringed stalks are poisonous. Edible varieties like the one called u-ong is usually dark brown and ridge-free. A root bulb called kalut grows bigger than a human head and tastes like kamote—but only after being half-cooked and submerged in flowing water for six hours then cooked again for maximum detoxification.

Banaba leaves are handy as plates, but nothing beats the bamboo for versatility. Mang Pete picked a year-old bamboo (as indicated by the still brown rings) which he said lent aroma to the cooking. In less time than it takes to boil an egg, he chopped and carved – and ended up with glass, fork (which suspiciously looked like a back scratcher), spoon, and a deep cup to cook rice and meat in which could double as plate later.

Stay away from decaying bamboo, he barked. Hornets live there.

Lu-Ann Fuentes

Playing on the Edge 4

Not everyone has a white water river in their “backyard” so Fiya S. takes her kayak to the open sea instead. Turned on to kayaking by her parents who run a water sports business, she counts herself among those who enjoy facing the sea alone. For her, the riskiest thing about kayaking is being unable to predict the weather and water conditions. You could get stranded. You could topple out and find it difficult to haul yourself back in.

“Amateur kayakers who want to go distance paddling should go with a group of experienced kayakers so they improve their pace and don’t lose track of time,” she advises. A week before any kayaking event, she goes to the beach and paddles three to four hours at at time. “I tend to be defensive when friends think I’m just showing off. I tell them that this is something I do for myself. I don’t want to be so cautious that I’ll end up wondering ‘what could’ve happened if I pushed a little bit more?’ I’d like to test my limits.”

Being on the water clarifies her world. Workable solutions and reflections on life-so-far come to mind. “I feel detached but safe. The salty breeze makes me happy, the occasional dolphin sighting even more so.” As long as there is a stretch of water before her and she feels up to the challenge, she feels she can keep going. “A kayak is an explorer’s tool after all. In Batangas, I was able to dive off a cliff because my kayak got me there.”

Jerome G. thought it was going to be another kayaking-with-the-tourists day. But the foreign tourists had other other ideas. They demanded to be brought to the river they saw from their Davao-Cagayan de Oro plane.

“I knew it was the Bubunauan river, one of the tributaries of Cagayan de Oro river. I haven’t surveyed it myself. I might as well have been a tourist too.” As the kayak ride progressed, Jerome grew tense as he worried about waterfalls and drains. As he identified the river as a high-risk class 5, he knew accident and even death was a possibility. Luckily, the worst that came out of that unplanned ride were minor injuries and two badly damaged kayaks.

“The higher the class of rapids, the greater the gamble,” is the obvious explanation. Jerome shares how you get a fighting chance: Know all the river’s curves. Have the right kayak. Wear a life vest, helmet, knees and elbow pads. Prepare physically and mentally. To handle fear in kayaking, says Jerome, practice paddling in calm water. Try class 1 and 2 first, and then, 3 and 4 several times to get a feel of it. When you think you’re ready, dive to class 4 and 5. Stay calm, enjoy the trip, and trust your guide.

Jerome enjoys caving and mountaineering (he headed the civilian team that was first to arrive on the Cebu Pacific Air crash site) but kayaking, he feels, is perfect for him. “Other outdoor sports allow you to rest anytime,” he says, “but as long as the kayak is on the water, it will continue to move downstream. You’ll have to keep paddling.”
He also loves being in control. In kayaking, a decision made is a risk taken. “You must be ready for the consequences of picking a path. You may go down the rapids sideways or on your back. If your kayak collapses, the stormy rapids will grind you against rocks and boulders. You have to be quick about what to do next.”

Jerome’s affair with the water started with the rather placid activity of fishing. But ask him how he jumped from one fishing location to the next — “by maneuvering inner tubes down the rapids.” Soon enough, he met foreigner after foreigner who came to his river loaded with equipment. In 1996, he and his friends made their first raft made of rattan, inner tubes, and canvas. They promptly joined a competition and — what do you know — finished 4th.

Jerome continues to kayak along the Cagayan de Oro river. “A good ride for me is when I remain parallel to the river, otherwise I get swayed and soaked.” He says his danger alert flashes everytime he rides the rapids. “My heart pounds a lot. So I consciously breath in as much of the fresh air as I can. The insistent sssssh sound of the river has always struck me as a kind of careful reminder: to make sure I get through this alive so I can keep going back.”

Lu-Ann Fuentes

Playing on the Edge 3

Just call himThe Weekend Warrior, Mr. Skydiver says. He doesn’t relish parrying charges of reckless behaviour and attempted suicide. To illustrate, he was 17 (his excuse) then, versed in the martial arts, and an occasional movie stuntman. While hanging out, an insider announced that an outfit needed a skydiving double. “Done that,” The Weekend Warrior bragged to no one in particular. He might as well have volunteered for the task because a few days later, a stunt coordinator approached him about the job. The Weekend Warrior froze in his seat; our hero has never skydived in his life. He wasn’t certified, he demurred. “We’ll make you sign a clause absolving us of liability,” he was told, not very assuringly. So The Weekend Warrior demanded what he thought was an outrageously high amount. “It took them two seconds to take the price I was willing to kill myself for,” he recalls.

Terrified but not ready to come clean, he prepared himself for the task by talking to a friend of a friend of a friend…over the phone. For the next two nights, he faced the mirror and did pulling-the-chute motions.
On the big day, he was briefed that the character he was doubling for was suppose to be doing this for the first time. And so, can he please exhibit total fear and panic. “Not a problem,” The Weekend Warrior said through clenched teeth.

He jumped off the plane, screamed at the top of his lungs, spun uncontrollably in all directions, and landed on a rice paddy a mile away from the landing site. The wind dragged the chute – and him – a few more meters as carabaos ran for their lives.

Years ago, Nelson G. and a friend saw a taxi cab with “Skydive” scrawled on the side. They chased after the bemused driver just to ask him how his cab got named. Bingo: the cab’s owner was a skydiving instructor and you can pretty much guess what happened next.

“You know how it is when you and your friends sometimes sit together and wonder what you should do next?” Skydiving was still uncharted territory for him. “It’s been described as orgasmic, even better than sex.” Nelson wanted to get into it, of course.

He describes free falling as “God-like. You’ve flown. You’ve cheated genetics.” Besides, parachutes are equipped with a computerized mechanism on the reserve chute. If you faint, panic, or fail to do anything at all, your chute will automatically open at 1,200 feet. That alone eliminates the ketchup-stain-on-the-ground scenario.

And then there’s the man on an easy chair whose sole task is to watch you come down. He’ll try not to intrude but if he sees you gliding off target, he’ll introduce himself to you – via the radio strapped on your chest – as your ground control. He’ll help you maneuver towards your landing spot.

Nelson skydives during the weekends but it influences the rest of his days and the way he handles his business and relationships. “When you freefall from 20 to 70 seconds, it may not seem like much to the outsider, but when you’re up there and executing group formations, there’s a lot to do in 20 seconds. Imagine what you can do in 24 hours.”

Nelson grants that doing something that 99 percent of the population won’t get to do is a huge ego boost. “But at the same time, when you’re ‘flying’ at 200 mph, with just the air between you and the ground, you realize how small a speck you are.” An easily squashed gnat.

You’re on your own when you jump. Says The Weekend Warrior, “Other guys look around and enjoy their free fall. Me, I’m looking at my altimeter and praying to God that my chute will open. Your hurtle down at an amazing speed. You’re freezing. You’re whole face contorts. And, hey, your lips flap in the air.”

(Photo by Gina Umali)

Lu-Ann Fuentes

Playing on the Edge 2

Deep in the Cagayan Valley cave of Quibal, Jong N. and his group were ragged of breath. They thought nothing of this; they’ve been hiking and scrambling over rocks for hours. At a rest stop, one of them flicked his lighter.

Jong, shifting into instructor mode, was going to ask his companion to pocket his smokes. (If the cave happened to have high levels of methane – released by guano or bat droppings – the lighter flame would have blazed, cathing who-knows-what on fire.)

He saw, however, that the flame danced a feet above the lighter. “It turned out the oxygen was dangerously low. We quickly backtracked before any of us started fainting.”

Jong knows low oxygen means whacked-out mental functions. Simple arithmetic suddenly requires the concentration of a rocket scientist. Not good when you’re suppose to have already computed exploration time – you’d want to be out of that cave long before the back-up of your back-up lighting conks.

“You don’t go in alone,” says Jong. He usually delegates a team whose task is to wait outside. “Exploring passages can take the whole day. You forget how long you’ve been inside.” If his group is overdue, even if they’re not necessarily lost, a rescue automatically takes place.

Jong can’t say this enough: “It’s easy to lose your way inside.” Know what you’re doing. Prepare to handle any situation. But don’t get overconfident. He admits to making this mistake. “I thought I knew the chamber like the back of my hand. I went in alone. On the way out, I circled the area twice and still couldn’t find the exit. I sat down, told myself to calm down, and ate my last JellYace.” He found the exit, rejoined his group, and got a scrubbing.

Jong recommends that you learn the different knots and the single rope technique, how to rappel down, ascend on a rope, map a cave with a survey tape, compass and inclination-measuring clinometer.

Jong says he has spent days just mapping chambers. “Caves are beautiful. You have, in effect, discovered buried treasure.” He describes the crystal white stalactites and flooring in a Cagayan cave chamber named Heaven, clear pools and rocks textured like drapes in Cagayan Valley’s Quibal cave, and a frozen calcite waterfall in the Mona Lisa chamber of Cebu’s Cantabaco cave.

Caves are natural time capsules. Among the charcoal graffiti are anti-Spain setiments left by Panay Island’s katipuneros on the walls of Iloilo’s Dingle Cave. The wife of The Great Plebeian Andres Bonifacio, they say, wrote on the walls of Pamitinan Cave in Montalban.

You don’t get to see these by buying a ticket. “In Cagayan Valley’s Lhoret Cave, you have to rappel down 180 feet down and you’re nowhere even near the entrance. Odloman Cave in Negros requires you to rappel down a height equivalent to 10 storeys.”

Jong says he is more scared of caving than his other pursuits: rock climbing and mountaineering. “Admitting to fear is good. You’re not likely to take things for granted. Besides, it’s natural to be scared of the dark and the unknown.” From inside the cave, you can’t tell if the weather has changed. You can be trapped in a flash flood. He’s seen tree trunks lodged in ceiling caves – proof of rising water.

Spelunker Jay A., who has similarly explored many local caves including those little known by other cavers, says, “Other than the perpetual darkness, enclosed spaces can wear you down – physically and psychologically. But it is in such surreal places that we learn more about ourselves and what we’re capable of.”

Spelunking isn’t just strolling. Jay enumerates the different movements. “Caveman” mimics the posture of the man-ape when passing through low passages. If your legs are strong, you can do the “Duckwalk” to pass even lower passages. “Crawl” means, well, getting on your hands and knees. “Slither” is dragging your entire body caterpillar fashion to move in horizontal passages with a vertical clearance as low as 10 inches. “Scaling” is climbing vertical shafts, ledges, and crossing over boulders. Talk about total body workout.

Every ground is new ground in caving. Jong explains, “In mountaineering, you can see a good distance of course. You can choose your best route. In caving, you only see the patch of ground where your light falls. In scuba diving, when you want to surface, all you need to do is go up. In caving, you have to go back the way you came in.”And it’s not always solid ground.

Jong spoke of a cave in Antipolo where you have to hold your breath for a few seconds to blindly swim through a passage barely two meters in diameter before you can continue trekking. “And that’s not even remotely close to cave diving. There are few cave divers in the world and the ratio of cave diving-related deaths is alarmingly high,” he shares.

Jong promotes caves preservation any chance he gets. Since the ivory trade was banned, some locals harvest stalactite for tourists. “It would be impossible for us to bodily guard all the caves.” Some go to the extent of barring cave entrances. But Jong thinks that smacks of ownership. It’s better to take the time to educate the locals. For example, consider cave capacity when showing off the chambers to minimize the impact. Also, respect the local folklore and custom. In Sagada, for example, local elders forbade Jong and his team to explore one cave. They deposited their dead in it and considered it sacred ground. Jong didn’t need to be told twice.

Jay, who often orients first-time cavers on conservation rules, says, “Don’t disturb the subterranean wildlife. Remember that you are the visitor. Bats and spiders have been living in those caves long before you stuck your neck in. Snakes will not strike if you do not startle them. Just get out of their way.”

Jay stresses an often ignored rule: Never vandalize or deface the caves. “Although cave walls are cold and hard, the cave environment is fragile, no less delicate than the rain forest. Stalactites and stalagmites grow at an average of one inch every 100 years. Forget ’souvenirs.’ Don’t break off in a second what took more than one human lifetime to create.”

Lu-Ann Fuentes