Two beaches in one month and, it’s not summer.
I loathe salty waters. It destroys my love affair with the beach, the brushing of the waves and everything that connects me to the ocean. The serenity of the aquamarine water as the breeze cradles it to form slapping waves, is one of the most calming sights that really take my breath away.
I loathe salty waters. It destroys my love affair with the beach, the brushing of the waves and everything that connects me to the ocean. The serenity of the aquamarine water as the breeze cradles it to form slapping waves, is one of the most calming sights that really take my breath away.
But when I submit my body to the beauty of the ocean, swim in its sparkling waters, immediately, all my reverence will vanish after getting out of it with hurting eyes due to its saltiness. It’s like being mesmerized by a beautiful woman but, ending up disappointed upon finding out that she’s already married.
Going to the beach will be the last thought that I would be entertaining in the middle of a semester jammed with reports, articles and exams. But who says you cannot take a break even if it isn’t the semester’s break yet? I owed it to the spur-of-the-moment ignitions fuelled by the long weekend in August. Typhoon Mina had just subsided and it would be regretful to waste a sunny day spent watching television or being online in Facebook all day. My dad thought of going to Puting Buhangin, a literally white sand beach in Pagbilao, Quezon that for the longest time had been part of our bucket list but we never had the chance to go due to our busy schedules.
A lot of people have told me that Puting Buhangin is one the best beaches they’ve ever seen, the kind that can be compared to Boracay. More than the white sand, what lured me more to go was because of Kwebang Lampas, a cave beside the beach which overruns a part of the sea to the middle of the ocean.
From Lucena City, the place where we live in, it took us 45 minutes to reach Barangay Bantigue, a small fishing village where we parked our car.
From there, we rented a boat that brought us to the other side of the lake where the mouth of the ocean is. The road trip going there was exhausting; the heat topped with the traffic caused by the parade because it was the town’s fiesta that day. Although it was quite a sight, the marching band in their gaudy uniforms and the women clad in Filipiniana costumes, my impatience reached its almost end. Although the boat ride from the lake to the mouth of the ocean was only less than five minutes, it consoled my impatience for I felt that the heat and the traffic will all be worth it.
After the boat ride, we climbed a sort of cliff, after which, a long stretch of an endless blanket of blueness, unfolded before my eyes. I thought we have arrived. My mouth was almost opening in full awe until our guide told us that it’s not yet Puting Buhangin.
It was just a patikim, an appetizer of what we have yet to see. After hearing the sound of the ocean and being soothed by the brushing of huge waves, I grew more impatient. We continued to walk on a grassland then we trekked down to a steep forest which brought me back to the memories of my trek in going down to see the hanging coffins in Sagada.
The way going down was very slippery, probably because of the typhoon that had just left the country’s area of responsibility. Upon reaching the end of our downward trek, I was so annoyed for we had to pass by a muddy brook which cuddled floating slippers and trashes. Since there was no other way but to soak our feet into this vision of filth, I treaded the mud as fast as I could without looking at what I was stepping on.
The heat, the traffic and the filth, the beach better do all the consolation or else I could have just chosen to wind up all day squeezing my presence in the cyber world, at least I won’t be “filthy”. As what they said, the rough journey leads to the right destination. Like a child who can’t wait for her turn, upon hearing the sound of the ocean, I run instantly to the shore.
The view was breathtaking, well for the perspective of a person who hasn’t been in the ocean for the past years. Since the typhoon had just passed, the waves of the sea were raging like galloping horses.
The boats anchored on the seashore were being rowed rapidly by the strong waves.
Looking at the sea in contrast with the sky is like an abstract blending of the various shades of blue. More than looking on a majestic scenery, it was seeing the unison of purity and beauty manifested in God’s priceless creations.
I didn’t want to go home as dark as a charcoal so instead of swimming, I just walked barefoot on the shore. As I walked, the fine soft sand tickled my feet as the brushing of the waves massaged my ankles. I needed to savor this subtle moment for I know that it would be long before I would be laying my eyes again on such a beauty. After my walk on the shore, my dad I went to see the Kwebang Lampas, finally. It was on the left side of the beach.
To enter the cave, we climbed on boulders of limestone rocks that were submerged in seawater. I struggled in entering the cave because of the waves that continue to slap inside. Inside the cave were coral and rock formations that look like yellow stalagmites. On the other side of the cave is the middle of the ocean where the galloping waves came from.
My dad and I sat on the surface of smooth rocks as we contemplated the cavernous yet serene ambiance. Even if already seated, we couldn’t balance our positions because we were being swept by the strong thrush of the waves. Having been completely wet by the uncooperative waves, we decided to leave the cave and have a dip in the sea. Being a total loather of salty water, I literally just dipped my body in the water without doing any swimming stroke.
As I was having my quiet dipping moment, unexpectedly, I wasn’t able to see that a huge wave was coming to sweep me off my feet. Powerlessly, I was dragged by the huge wave under the water as my bare skin was scrubbed painfully on the coarse sand bed. Instantly, I became an acrobat doing an underwater somersault except it wasn’t rehearsed. As I emerged from my contortionist act with swollen shoulders and painful body, I caught the sight of my dad laughing as if I had just done a hilarious act. Probably if my “exhibition” were recorded, it would pass for the shows on TV which features hilarious videos. How then would I adore salty waters? Thus, my loathing continues.
Then just weeks after my Kwebang Lampas escapade, as part of the itinerary for my Art Studies class fieldtrip, we went to Cordillera Beach Court, a resort with a long shoreline in Ilocos Sur.
The resort offered a complimentary breakfast before we hit the waters. We ate the Ilocanos’ signature longganisa partnered with their local vinegar mixed with sili and other spices. I’m not really a fan of longganisa although for me, longganisang Lucban tastes better, regional bias aside. These two longganisas differ in color and of course in taste, the one from Lucban is a bit pinkish and sourer while the one from Ilocos is brownish and is saltier.
There was more life in Cordillera beach, in terms of human beings, but in terms of its natural existence, I feel that it is gasping; gasping to be saved from the maltreatment of its inhabitants. In a bird’s eye view, it still looked picturesque with the blue skies and the ocean but slowly if you zoom in and take a closer look of what lies on the shore, you will be lamented by the sight of irresponsible dumping of garbage everywhere, slippers, styrofoam scraps, cigarette butts, medicine bottles, plastics and all the possible remnants of human faults.
The beach resort isn’t developed but because of the people who live along the shore, its virginity was lost. The sand has tinges of gray but the water although it isn’t as crystal blue as the one in Puting Buhangin, is still “swimmable”. But what struck me in that beach was, how vibrant the impact of the water is in the lives of Ilocanos in diverse ways.
I thought bayanihan could only be done on land but in Ilocos, they do it ashore. I was able to witness a unique way of fishing wherein a huge net was thrown in the middle of the ocean while its two ends were stretched ashore. These two ends were positioned opposite each other while being pulled by two groups of people composed of men and women. These people exchanged positions as they took turns in pulling the end of the net.
The group were drawn closer together as they pulled the net nearer to the shore. My classmates and I were all intrigued as we waited for the net to be brought ashore. After almost two hours of pulling under the extreme heat of the sun due to the proximate vicinity of Ilocos to the equator, the net revealed its treasures, a school of fish in different sizes swimming in the air. I’m not really particular with the names of fishes but I was able to identify a swordfish.
The catch wasn’t as abundant as I expected but, the scene was very vibrant, fish vendors getting their share, each carrying silver batyas, a man facilitating the weighing of the fish, children pushing their ways inside the crowd and looking for small fishes that they can play with and just the whole sight of living, of witnessing firsthand the flight of these fishes before they land on our dinner tables. It was priceless.
Channelling the words of Alexander Dumas in his most sought after character, The Count of Monte Cristo, “there is neither happiness nor unhappiness in this world, there is only a comparison of one state with another.” Having gone to these two beaches, one from the south and one from the north, each distinct due to their geographic locations, I can’t help but compare them to an island where I have roots, my only constant epitome of sanctuary. More than the essence of its “virginity”, it had been the playground of my innocence. A little islander, I used to be, before I transferred from one city to another.
Although I was born in Lucena City, until I was 7 years old, we lived in Burdeos Quezon, an island trapezoidal in shape bounded in the north by the Pacific Ocean and Lamon Bay in its southeast. Burdeos got its unique name from a Franciscan priest named Fr. Anacleto Baquero. He named the island after Bordeaux, a city in France which according to him resembled its geographic features. Both are located along bodies of water and share the same oceanic climate. Probably the locals weren’t able to enunciate Bordeaux in its French pronunciation thus, they arrived with the word Burdeos, stressing on the supposed silent “eaux”.
If you’re coming from Manila, it would take you probably ten hours to reach my island. But if you’re coming from Lucena City, it would take you seven hours. It is a long trip but the length is nothing compared to what will await you and the sceneries that you will encounter along the way.
Although I was born in Lucena City, until I was 7 years old, we lived in Burdeos Quezon, an island trapezoidal in shape bounded in the north by the Pacific Ocean and Lamon Bay in its southeast. Burdeos got its unique name from a Franciscan priest named Fr. Anacleto Baquero. He named the island after Bordeaux, a city in France which according to him resembled its geographic features. Both are located along bodies of water and share the same oceanic climate. Probably the locals weren’t able to enunciate Bordeaux in its French pronunciation thus, they arrived with the word Burdeos, stressing on the supposed silent “eaux”.
If you’re coming from Manila, it would take you probably ten hours to reach my island. But if you’re coming from Lucena City, it would take you seven hours. It is a long trip but the length is nothing compared to what will await you and the sceneries that you will encounter along the way.
En route Burdeos, from Lucena City, you’ll pass by Tayabas, Quezon a town where you can find Kamayan sa Palaisdaan, a unique restaurant wherein you’ll be eating with bare hands on floating bamboo rest houses.
The next town after Tayabas is Lucban. It’s not only famous for its longganisa but also for its native hats and bags made from buntal. Also in Lucban is Kamay ni Hesus, a famous pilgrimage site during Holy Week where a healing mass is officiated by the miraculous priest, Fr. Joey Faller.
After Lucban comes the swirls of the zigzag road of Louisiana and then the town of Cavinti, Laguna. The town of Pagsanjan follows where the Pagsanjan falls can be found and then Lumban Laguna where embroidery on textiles and pina jusis are known for.
The next town is Paete, along the way you’ll see wood sculptures and furniture that are sold for export or individual purchases. Pakil and Famy Laguna precede Paete. Upon leaving Famy, you will be welcomed by mountains which drip little waterfalls along the highway. These mountains mark the town of Real, Quezon. As you pass by the bridges, you can still see crosses that commemorated the lives of many people who died because of Typhoon Winnie in 2004.
After crossing the mountain ranges, coasts will appear slowly on the side of the highway. A port in Real awaits, where ships are docked that will bring you to Anawan Island.
Sailing is like riding a roller coaster, the ups and downs, twirls and swirls of the waves as they steer the body of the ship. Others find it very dizzying but my spirits are uplifted as if I’m being tickled by the waves on its arms. The peacefulness of the boat ride from Real to Anawan depends on the mood of the weather.
Before, after disembarking from the boat, you will be carried by men whose jobs were really to carry people and their baggage so they could reach the dock without getting wet on the shore. But now, a bridge was already built so that these men don’t have to carry the people anymore but, you have to pay P10 for you to be able to pass because the bridge is privately owned.
Jeeps are waiting for you near the seashore. These jeeps will bring you to the town of Burdeos. The jeep ride is like a escapade in an African jungle. You’ll hear crickets and see cockatoos flying above the trees. Then long stretches of rice plantations will welcome you as you approach the town that had been the playground of my childhood.
When I was younger, together with my childhood friends, we would climb on a mango tree and just stay there until we’re called by our parents. We would play hide-and-seek in our backyard where the jackfruit, macopa, balimbing, kamias and rimas trees abound.
At the back of our house is a rice field where my grandfather built a kamalig which had been our bahay-bahayan until it had been blown by strong winds brought about by a typhoon. But aside from playing in the kamalig, we would jump on haystacks and whoever jumps the highest would be the winner.
I remembered when I was five or six years old, I accidentally pushed a friend in the “bathing arena” of a carabao while we were jumping on haystacks. She was drenched in mud and we could smell the stench all over her body but I couldn’t laugh about it because it was my fault.
Memories don’t have expiration dates. Only the important ones stay. Maybe that’s why even after 14 years have already passed I could still picture that summer with my grandpa when he was still alive. My grandparents used to live in Mabini, a nearby island two hours away from Burdeos.
I remembered that day when he fetched me with his flatboat painted with maroon and white on its exteriors. Together with my uncle Victor, we sailed on a quiet afternoon as the sun casted its soft light on the clear blue waters of the ocean.
It was my habit as a child to identify the formations of the islands that we were able to pass-by. As I recalled each formation, I could still clearly see how they appeared when I first saw them, one is shaped like a man, the other is shaped like a snake and others look like popcorns. There was also a long marble rock which looked like a giant round table stretching on the middle of the ocean.
The best sight in sailing on the afternoon is the peeping of a red canon ball as it blends with the pale pink skies. When dusk was almost approaching, we entered my favorite part of our boat ride. My grandpa called it the talusan, a narrow body of water which connected the sea to a river.
Mangroves thrived at the embankment of the talusan. I remembered being so amazed at how these mangroves would instantly grow as the flatboat passed by on it. All along I thought it’s because of magic but now I know that there’s a piece of Science behind it I just don’t know which theory yet.
We arrived as the moon lighted the night and the dinner prepared by my grandma which consisted of fresh fish from the sea awaited us.
Every morning during that summer, the shore in front of my grandparent’s house became my playground. I would toy on puffer fish and sand castles before I take my morning plunge in the sea.
When my grandma had still the physical strength to swim, we would dive in the boundary of the dark blue and the blue green part of the ocean.
We also called it the Puting Buhangin because that was the only part of the sea where the sand was purely white. Having grown in an island, I feel that I have developed a deep connection with the ocean, an attachment which they call topophilia.
The Webster’s dictionary describes it as a “strong sense of place or identity.” It’s been almost a decade since I’ve been to my roots but the scent and sight of home is revived every time I hear the crashing of waves and see the crystal blueness of the ocean.
When I set my sights to visiting new places, most of the time I make sure that it is one of the best destinations I could ever go to, the highest mountain, the longest bridge, the widest skyline, the bluest seas, the most untouched beaches, all in superlative. But I realized that all along, what I was looking for is really just where I left it. Sometimes it’s not the place but, the attachment. RLM
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