8/9/08

My Morning Habit (Photo borrowed from Ayla Liberato)

I woke up from the surreal imagery of revolving worlds and camera flashes in different colors. I guess alcohol-caused nausea can jolt you into consciousness. With a botched sense of balance, I carefully made my way out of my tent. I nearly stumbled face-front but I managed to get out unscathed.

Outside, a half-filled container of distilled water loomed into view, strategically positioned to cue me into replenishing the liquids I lost due to an evening’s worth of dehydration. It was around six in the morning and though I was still sleep-deprived, I had to wake up to shake off the effects of cheap gin, brandy and tequila. Hangovers can cause unbearable feelings.

It was sort of a gloomy morning but still the turquoise waters in the distance looked every bit refreshing. A steady, cool breeze was blowing, a complete opposite to the warm, humid air that hung around stubbornly inside the tent. Some campers had already woken up and had begun strolling. They were the ones who turned in early the night before. Those who partied till the wee hours were still soundly asleep in their sandy tents. Some had not managed to crawl back to their tents and were left lying in damp groundsheets next to emptied bottles, crumpled plastic cups and all sorts of litter. It was like a scene from an American Pie sequel, where a great night had just passed and a slow-rising sun revealed the aftermath’s casualties.

It was a perfect moment to light a cigarette, but I had already run out. I glanced around for the usual suspects, but they were all in deep slumber. Besides, I knew they had run out as well. And even if I wanted to roam around to search for someone who still had some, my mind and body couldn’t coordinate properly.

I clutched my water container and clumsily dragged myself to a spot under the tree, with an opening that provided an awesome vista of the unchanged sea. There, I sat and stared blankly at the ocean with my hand holding my head for support, rehydrating at every opportunity. Friends have told me that this is my island morning habit. I tell them that water is my one, true friend.

After a good 40 minutes, I had successfully eliminated my hangover and my secondary dilemma of sleep-deprivation presented itself. I didn’t want to go back to my tent. That would’ve been regressive. I rummaged through my backpack to find my malong. I walked away from the campsite and over to the shore where I knew I wouldn’t be disturbed by the sounds caused by other people waking up. On the way, one of my classmates who was already eating her breakfast asked “Anong gagawin mo?” “Matutulog,” I casually replied.

And with that, I wrapped myself inside the malong, lay down on the cool sand and went back to sleep.

Good morning Calaguas Island.

08/08/08

Finally the bus came to a halt and everyone slowly unraveled from their seats. Almost everybody had wrapped themselves like cocoons, using whatever excess clothing they had to fight off the relentless cold air spewing from the air-conditioning.

Outside, everything seemed to be bathing in gray – the kind of sunrise you get when clouds are in the way. Some of my companions had already brought out their cameras, I, smoking a cigarette in disbelief. As if on cue, a taho vendor appeared and offered us a warm soy-based respite. I smoked another cigarette to shake the chills away.

Greyhound

We have arrived in Daet, the capital of Camarines Norte and the port in the nearby town Vinzons is just a couple of minutes away. It’s a cozy municipality, boasting of small town establishments and at roughly six in the morning, it was already buzzing with a hint of economic activity. They even have their own Jollibee, which these days is an indicator that you’re not too faraway from city comforts. Yet, Daet still remains a 1st class municipality, just a referendum away from cityhood.

e returned to our fortunately defrosted bus and headed on to the port where our final ride awaited us. By the time we arrive, the sun had decided to shine a notch higher and this set an undeniable excitement in the group. Two large fishing boats were already parked in the muddy river bank and its crew loaded our backpacks somewhat systematically. While waiting, most brought out their cameras and started snapping away at local, sun-kissed Bicolano children intrigued by the arrival of a busload of Manileños. Although this part of Camarines has been surfacing recently in travel related media, it certainly is not your usual popular Boracay or Puerto Galera. To the uninformed (and there are a lot of them) the word “Calaguas” will just trigger responses of “Saan yun?”

Riverine

But my camera lingered in its bag. It wasn’t that I wasn’t thrilled. It’s just that I had been shooting a lot the past few months for school and I just wanted to vacation. So there.

Finally our sea voyage commenced and we slowly floated along a mangrove-lined river, carefully avoiding the shallow portions lest we get stuck in the muddy bottom. Our aged but handsome boat sliced through the placid river and everybody was warned to relish the pervading serenity.

Estuary

Soon enough, the river widened rather abruptly revealing an awesome blue mass of a sea and from the estuary, the breaking whitewater could already be seen. The photographers hastily put away their cameras and braced themselves for the inevitable force of the open sea. Our boatman relates that tourists rarely visit Calaguas this time of the season because of spotty weather which easily turns an easy 2-hour trip into a brutal 4-hour nightmare. But we are not your average tourists and we certainly aren’t the faint of heart type.

During boat rides, I often find myself seated near the boats bow where the sea spray is most felt and where the breeze is strongest. As long as conditions can allow my iPod to remain dry, my ears are usually stuffed with headphones blaring with my current travel anthem.

This summer I discovered Angels and Airwaves, a modern rock band led by Tom Delonge of the defunct Blink182. Their song “The Adventure” is grand, inspiring and builds up to a “now moment .“ It climaxes with these lyrics repeating over and over:

Hey oh here I am / And here we go / Life’s waiting to begin

It’s a complete sensory barrage which I feel nowhere else: the tireless wind rustling my hair, the salty water hitting my face, the taste of the sea in my mouth, the mild nausea and the music all reminds me why I travel. It reminds me of being alive.

Mahabang Buhangin

By the time Mahabang Buhangin was in full view, the sun was now in it’s fiercest and the clouds had stepped aside. As we approached the shore, the water began to lighten from a deep blue, to an emerald green and finally to a clear, light blue which can only be equated by the most chlorinated of swimming pools. The feeling amongst us was just electric, acknowledging to each other that the beach simply and overwhelmingly rocks. All I could muster was a loud “Beach!” in my most victorious voice.

At last the soft, white sands of Calaguas have touched my feet once more, my every step leaving a huge footprint. Save for a few locals, living on the island, there was only us, rendering an exclusive feeling to a place so precious at times you’d wish others wouldn’t discover it. But that’s just selfish.

Little One

The sun was beaming so gloriously that I had an unstoppable compulsion to unload my camera and began shooting. Beaches’ colors appear best when photographed in high and direct sunlight and after clicking about 20 frames on my digital camera, I was done and happy with what I got. I then brought out my film camera loaded with Ilford Delta 400 and shot my brand of travel photography. After finishing that roll, I stored all my gear and rushed to soak in the beautiful, beautiful waters. So much for photography.

It was a perfect, lazy island afternoon spent playing cards, drinking Tequila shots and attempting to play frisbee which because of the steadfast winds fastly turned into patintero and agawan base. That night was spent like any of our island nights – partying island style which consists of getting soused with cheap alcohol, laughing uncontrollably and rocking to the Eraserheads.

And I wasn’t in the company of strangers. At first, these people were just travel buddies – acquaintances who see each other during trips brought together by the forces of logistics and happenstance. But because of the blessing that is the internet, we soon found ourselves meeting up in Manila for dinners, birthdays, badminton matches and all-out drinking sessions. Despite the differences we have, we all have a common interest that is a great force in our lives: travel. No, I wasn’t in the company of strangers. I was in the company of good friends.

At around 3AM, after all the bottles had been emptied, and everyone had retreated into their tents and I was sure everyone was okay, I crawled into my own sleeping space. I knew that a huge hangover was awaiting me in the morning but I had always been an optimist. And with that thought.

Wasted. Happy. Alive.

7/23/08

It gives a different mood. Suddenly, it’s not summer anymore.

Husky

There’s A Trail

7/21/08

The first time I went to Calaguas Island in Camarines Norte I told myself that I would go back. And indeed in less than 2 months, I found myself seated near the boat’s bow getting splashed by the relentless waves. The sun was beaming gloriously and it promised to give us an awesome weekend.

Calaguas makes me happy. We have found a happy beach.

Mahabang Buhangin

Remnants

Perfect

I will be back!

Calaguas or Bust!

Long weekend incoming. Have to escape the Manila heat.

Must escape Manila or will self-destruct. Good thing I’m headed for Caramoan, Camarines Sur tonight! I can already imagine the seemingly unending stretch of white sand. That photographic opportunity afforded by the emerging tidal pools during sunrise. The salty breeze. Enough, I’m feeling sandy already.

And then there’s the wakeboarding action at CWC in Pili.

Gonna be offline. Be back Tuesday.

Woot!

CAMSUR or BUST!

“Kuya Ced, nilalamig ka ba?” asked curiously by Joy one of our youthful guides.

It was close to dusk and I was sitting near the banca’s bow absorbing each and every splash as wave after wave pounded our wooden vessel. Without the benefit of a rain sheet, I was also being drenched by a freakish late afternoon downpour.

“Minsan. Halimbawa, ngayon.” I delicately replied.

At last, after a really long day, we finally parked our boat in Daraga, a small fishing village in Lahuy Island. This was where Leia, Mhef, Dondon and I were going to spend the night. We originally planned of setting up camp at one of the beaches we spotted but our guides insisted that we take up on their offer.

Several hours earlier we arrived at the town of Caramoan armed only with Mhef’s knowledge of the place having visited twice already and being a Bicolano herself. But Gota Beach, her usual go-to place was closed to the public because Survivor Asia was filming there. We found it kind of frustrating because the presence of a bunch of foreigners was denying access to travlers. It would’ve been okay if they picked an “isolated” island (true to the Survivor premise) but Gota Beach is what White Beach is to Puerto Galera. Puntahin kung baga. Even locals are barred from entering the premises. Even the fishermen who live there were rudely displaced. Something is seriously wrong here.

It’s a good thing there are so many places in Caramoan. All undiscovered.

We were instructed to come knocking on the mayor’s door. Unannounced, but having no choice, we dropped in anyway and came upon who probably is the kindest mayor ever. Considering we were total strangers, he opened up his home, fed us, gave us all the info we needed and even sent out his sister and 2 other municipal employees to serve as our guides. This was on a Saturday! Asking about the Gota Beach and the Survivor Asia issue, the mayor lamented that it was out of his hands as the orders are stern and direct from the governor himself, without coordination with the municipal government of Caramoan.

We were surprised to see the mayor and his siblings in Daraga. It turns out they had some sort of get-together at their ancestral home, a simple wooden house by the beach, also our shelter for the night. Famished from a whole day’s worth of island-hopping, we were thankful that we were eating hot rice, and ginataan at adobong posit under a roof instead of feeding on bread and canned goods in a cold, damp tent.

It was only when I looked at the mirror that I realized how burnt my skin was. And then I remembered how the sun worked its way starting from the 2-hour ferry from Sabang Port to Guijalo Port in Caramoan and continuing on to Lahuy Island and its surrounding islets, scanning for possible camp sites and places of interest for the Travel Factor group Leia plans to bring by the end of March.

We first stopped at the backside of Lahuy, where a gold panning community exists. Ate Weng, who seemed to know everybody led the way into the barrio and showed us how gold was sifted from the sands, cleaned and then heated to solidify into a golden ball. I never expected to witness this from this trip but there it was!

We visited numerous other places, all of which had fine white sand and gin-clear waters. It was ironic that the Caramoan’s pristine beauty was beginning to be repetitive and redundant. But when we saw Sitio Manlawi, even from afar, we knew that it was going to be our camp site. Sitio Manlawi is a cove on Lahuy Island which at low tide, becomes a barren desert of white sand sprinkled randomly with driftwood, dotted with rocks and its surface sculpted with wavy lines created by the receding water. At this time, one has to walk ridiculously far from the shore just to have water at waist level. If only the weather had cooperated. Hay. Babalik naman ako eh.

I can just imagine Manlawi during sunrise. The sun will rise on the horizon and the coast will be exposed with puddles of water creating a rich, colorful reflection instead of a dull, underexposed foreground. One more time. Hay. Babalik naman ako eh.

Most of the villagers, the mayor included, have converged in a small shack nearby. Made with the simplest materials of nipa and used wooden boards, the humble establishment boasts of an ubiquitous Filipino contraption: a videoke machine. There is actually no electricity on the island. The machine is proudly powered by a diesel generator. They can live without refrigerators, television sets or radios. But they can’t live without their videoke.

It’s no surprise that this Caramoanon community can carry a tune. Everybody seems to have their own masterpieces! Mayor Cordial’s seems to be Larawang Kupas as he didn’t even need to look at the lyrics, belting away like a pro. As the countless five-peso coins clinked to every well-performed song, so did the bottles of Gran Matador and Ginebra which almost surely, plunged the whole place into a drunken cloud. Us, most definitely included as there only about 3-4 of us downing two Ginebra 4×4s. Take this: no ice, no chaser.

And then they began to play “Touch By Touch”, a quirky, somewhat irritating, ancient dance song. This drove the lolas to the “dance floor” grinding with reckless abandon. Pretty soon, they were pulling us in as they desperately needed dance partners. The village men cheered on, amused by the sight of pit-drunk Manileños who gamely drank with them. And then they played “Touch by Touch” again. And again. And yet again.

More photos at my Multiply account.