Davao Immersion: Lunar Eclipse and Gilded Mornings

It was the night when we patiently watched the lethargic, shapeless bakunawa (dragon) gorging on the hapless April moon, says a myth behind eclipses, that rose calmly over unmuffled waters around the island garden city of Samal. It was also the night when our big family gathered at the lone, doorless, beachfront cottage made of bamboo walls and seats, and aluminum roof. It housed the 'life of the party' -- the ever-present karaoke machine. We had required of its mic to be passed on to every single person seated in front of the cottage, leaving no dead air to fill in the night.

Beside the shelter, there we grilled pork and saba bananas -- all skewered in bamboo sticks. The gastronomical nature of the growing smoke that occupied the air, was only rivaled by the rising bonfire that fed on twigs and dead leaves. We conjured the boy and girl scouts in us. The night turned wonderfully warm and lit, even though the moon was waning gradually by the aging minute and the cool sea breeze was blowing off its mighty freezing faculties. We, too, had pancit (noodles) and grilled tulingan (tuna) -- our leftovers during lunch -- for dinner, and puto balanghoy (steamed cassava cake) and budbud balanghoy (cassava cake wrapped in banana leaves) freshly made from yesterday's harvest in the garden.

Full and reeking of San Miguel beer, a few of us rolled out the banig (mat) over short blades of bermuda grasses, lay spread-eagle on it, and gazed at the myriad emerging stars aided by the revived luna and clear skies. The others rested on two hammocks tied to the branches of an ancient sambag (tamarind) tree, taking turns.

It was already past midnight. Oh, night, I felt so home and free, and was just grateful for everything. I may be so far away from home, yet I was easily home. My own family had just grown bigger and happier.

The deepening night continued on with the family's minstrels singing nonstop, the ones having too high an alcohol tolerance still playing around a single glass, long catch-up sessions packed with amusing, though hummed chatter, and the ‘sleeping logs’ set at their dreamy comforts, probably thinking of an early dip basked in the gilded morn, again.

Afterword:

Before I flew to Davao City last summer, I had never been to Mindanao. If spending a number of days with relatives never had I met all my life, let alone on Facebook, should matter more, and not accounting the handful two days and one night I had stayed in the city to attend my dear cousin's wedding the year before, then I had never been to the country's second largest island. Without that trip, Mindanao would have been really a stark mystery to me. The journey was both a pleasing affirmation of Mindanao's hidden beauty and a discovery in itself, raring to be shared to the rest of the country and of the world.

Thanks to my auntie for inviting me to her hometown of Samal, an island in Davao del Norte. Prior to spending most of the days in Samal, I stayed in Davao City, her present abode, and she then brought me to Pearl Farm, a secluded beach resort (loved their buffet there), and the distant town of Asuncion whose banana plantations run opposite rice fields, just across the gravel road. I savored the countless hellos exchanged all throughout the experience and the lots of chitchats over beer that followed.

Images:

Catagman, Samal Island, Davao del Norte

Hagimit Falls, Samal Island, Davao del Norte

Kaputian, Samal Island, Davao del Norte

Waterfront Insular Hotel, Lanang, Davao City

Pearl Farm Beach Resort, Samal Island, Davao del Norte

Asuncion, Davao del Norte

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?