Camiguin: The Island Born of Fire

A magnetic, lonesome, smoking beauty sitting 10 kilometers off the coast of northern Mindanao; a peaceful quiet taking over the sleepy town drugged by crying crickets, chilling breeze, running streams, and lapping of the waves, only disturbed by infrequent motorellas and private cars passing by; and a surprise in itself, for hosting an unbelievable number of natural wonders spread across such a small, volcanic  land. That's how I could recall of lanzones-laden Camiguin, the island born of fire.

Camiguin is truly a destination with an abundance of tourist draws: the intimidating seven volcanoes, where some are visible from Balingoan port; waterfalls spearheaded by thundering, steep descent Katigbawasan; hot and cold springs flocked by families on picnic; the horseshoe-shaped sandbar called White Island, which demands its magnificence to be seen atop slippery Mount Hibok-hibok, an active volcano; the blazing sunset that sets as backdrop of the gigantic cross of sunken cemetery, which is pretty accessible for some daunting snorkeling; the ruins of old Catarman church; and the stations of the cross on towering Mount Vulcan.

Children in the Fishing Village of Mui Ne

A young girl giving a baby boy a piggyback ride led my afternoon curiosity to their home. It was shortly after I resigned from guiltily taking photos of fisherfolk in their sun-soaked busyness, who not once flinched nor cared about the strangeness of a stranger with an intimidating barrel pointed to their preyed-on midst. They were too engrossed in their own world, a part of humanity that kept on looking down, literally, the whole time it seemed, while untangling and weaving long white fishing nets quietly, unlike the Mui Ne sea that was proud and never quiet. Some were barefoot, baked, and wet, standing beside huge basin-shaped boats I never thought would ever work at sea. Some were comfortably squatting down into cross-legged position inside a boat, under a makeshift shelter.

As I drew near the kids horsing around, I heard their amplified puerile giggles. They played their games, round and round inside their humble abode made out of wood, bamboos, coconut leaves, light materials, while holding hands. Of course. And the young girl caught my camera. She moved closer, stepped on their doorway, and there the piggybacking tandem posed for me, freely. The young girl grinned, while the young boy sported a confused face. Snap, snap, snap.

Suddenly, she gestured for me to get inside the bowels of their house. No utterance. No words. At the back, I met her sister. Her twin, maybe. The other girl held the baby boy this time and posed for my camera. Smiles. A peace sign. A sweet embrace. And then all three together, with their precious seashells gathered inside a basket.

I tapped their heads and then held the little boy. I thanked them. I heard no reply. Nothing. Still no words, but just their smiles.

I left their home. I waved goodbye. I was happy, elated about the kindness shown by those kids. But somehow, sadly, something had me disturbed. What if it wasn't me?  What if it wasn't me who crashed into that small house, not a safe haven to be at during bad weather, in an old fishing village in southern Vietnam? What if somebody, twice the charm, waved sweets in front of their faces or put dimes in their hands? Imagine, what if?

Goodbye, Pain

I had never thought of it for many years. Childhood and adolescence were the two that had graced me with an assumed perpetual laughter. I thought that by just being optimistic, nothing bad would somehow ever happen to me. I agreed with myself that I was yet experiencing the best. But I was completely mistaken. After all, that was all I thought.

November 13, at break of dawn, a terrible accident shocked my system that was very severe. Never in my perception did it lurk, hoping someday it would be found and cause me disaster. My world turned to a trash in a split second, and was useless anymore. I was very down and low, forcing my feet to rise and perambulate, but I was crippled. I came believing that the world had betrayed me. And did I lose faith in everybody, traitors! Not a soul came to lift me and be human at once. I could feel their disgust or anxiety, for they cringed, turned their backs on me, and fled to the greener pastures, leaving me behind this nasty world. 

Hate, disgust, fear -- these were the ferocious predators devouring my being gradually. I considered suicide a treatment to the wounds where its fangs bore. The erstwhile place I called home was, I didn't realize, one of the many that were sucking my strengths of life. The family where I was, revealed the truth that was more painful -- an adopted member of the family I was. The story of my identity unfolded the answers to the confusion encircling my mind. This had made me more of a wanderer, alone, neglected, and weak. 

The world grows smaller and smaller as days consume my earthy hours. I am almost dead. Grave awaits me. Two days is all I am waiting for to leave this place you call earth. Forty-eight hours? Not so soon. I guess this is yet the best time to say goodbye. Goodbye to the good times and, most of all, to the pain, and see what awaits me.

Note: This article first appeared in The Junior Technologian, our high school publication.

Image: Esplanade -- Theaters on the Bay, Singapore

Bookstore Dialogue

Inside a bookstore on a Friday holiday. 

'What kind of book are you looking for?' asks the young girl trailing behind a bald man dressed in dark-blue long sleeves and black slacks, rushing inside the maze. 

'A funny one,' answers the man -- tall, round, blond, and white, attributes fairly acquired by the teen. His daughter, I guess. 

'I mean, the genre?' 

'Animals.' 

'I don't like animals.' 

Then, the teenage girl makes faces, while the father searches, left and right, for the funny book supposedly under the animals section. 

I stop and think for a while. I am lost. 

Which genre, again? 

End of story.

Images: Kinokuniya Bookstore, Ngee Ann City Takashimaya Shopping Centre, Singapore