Vacations are a time to rejuvenate but sometimes the holidays are just filled with too much adventure.
When our holiday plans to Japan fell through, my aunt and I purchased flight tickets to the Philippines. After all, this is a land where ancient rice terraces lie concealed in thick mountains and thousands of far-flung islands await the intrepid traveller.
Armed with the Lonely Planet guidebook, we boarded the plane expecting another great adventure.
A hell of a ride: It’s very common to see adults, children, cargo and even livestock up on the roof of a jeepney.In our previous travels, we had — among other things — been hospitalised, chased by hunks, offered gigolo services, and found ourselves stranded in our country of destination.
We fully expected to have another unforgettable trip this time around. Following the Filipino maxim bahala na or “go with the flow”, we made do without an itinerary.
Upon landing in Manila, we scouted around and chose our hotel in the touristy area of Malate. The room had a basic set-up and was clean. However, I had an issue with the toilet. When you close the toilet door, it hits the toilet seat. Pray tell, how does one sit and not grind one’s knees on the door?
With my long legs, I had to straddle uncomfortably on the seat. After a day, we decided to check out.
Manila is as cosmopolitan as any Asean city but two extremes of lifestyles are obvious — the filthy rich and the malnourished homeless. Aunt commented how amazing it was that the poor lived in cardboard boxes on the streets and yet were able to produce so many children who turn to begging for a living. The American influence is obvious in every corner and the locals are a gregarious bunch.
Climb to the top: (Above) The writer abseiling in Sumaging Cave, a cave created by water erosion and is possibly one of the most popular caves in Sagada, Philippines.A week did not give us enough time to see much. An officer at the Philippines Tourism Authority advised us to take a trip to the mountains i.e. to Banaue (starting-point for the surrounding rice terraces), then to Bontoc and Sagada. Apparently, buses only leave at night for Banaue so we bought tickets for that very night.
After an hour into our journey, our driver decided it wasn’t worth making the trip with only five passengers. He breezily let us off by the roadside and another bus picked us up.
Now, the Filipino express buses are not like Malaysian ones. You can flag it down, anywhere, anytime. The journey to Banaue takes 10 hours and the bus was already overloaded. But, the driver continued packing in passengers. I had people sit on my armrest and on the floor. The locals carried livestock and boxes of groceries.
In Bontoc, we negotiated for a jeepney, the main mode of transport in cities and between regional centres. These vehicles are modified army jeeps left behind by the Americans after the war. They have been given a Filipino touch with coloured headlights, paintings of the Virgin Mary and neon-coloured scenes from the comic books.
Along with two other male passengers, we got in. The old driver had problems starting the jeepney and he shouted something in Tagalog. Ten people ran from all directions and gave his vehicle a push. It chugged along. What a bumpy four-hour ride it was on dirt roads. I had to hunch because my head hit the roof while my aunt held on tightly to the seat, afraid of being thrown off.
Now, if you knew your vehicle had problems starting, would you turn off the engine? At the “comfort stop”, our driver did just that. When the jeepney failed to start again, the poor male passengers had to get down and push. I offered to help but was turned down. One Filipino told me later that the local men don’t like women to do manly duties.
We had to change jeepneys in Bontoc, and here, the driver waited patiently for passengers to fill up before he departed. It was another hour’s wait for a two-hour ride. We finally reached Sagada, battered, bruised and filthy. Thankfully, the resthouse had clean sheets, spanking clean toilets and hot water. The cool highland weather and fresh air were a welcome respite from Manila’s pollution. We collapsed in bed, unable to move.
Sagada is a laid-back village where there are more chickens and cicadas than cars. It’s home to the Igorot mountainfolk and is set amidst jagged rock formations that slice through fir forests. Since Sagada is a haven for outdoor lovers, we explored our options.
Cave exploring
Sumaging Cave, created by water erosion, is possibly one of the most popular caves in Sagada. It takes three hours to explore. Thousands of visitors trek down to see the magnificent display of stalactites and stalagmites. Historically, the cave also served as a hiding place for Filipino soldiers and guerillas during World War II. Prior to the war, it was a burial ground for the indigenous people in the area.
With Robert, our guide, we began our journey at 5pm — the last group to enter the caves. The initial part was filled with sharp rocks, and the guano proved extremely slippery. Wearing designer flip flops is not a good idea, as we painfully found out. Not only did our feet sustain cuts, they were covered in guano!
Unlike other caving guides, the ones in Sagada carry a huge kerosene lamp and discourage tourists from bringing torches.
“You’ll need your hands all the time,” said Robert. Hence, for safety reasons, the authorities limit four tourists to one guide. Halfway in, fear got the better of Aunt and she decided to quit exploring.
“For goodness sake, I don’t want to break my bones in a cave. I’m almost a grandmother. You guys go ahead and I’ll stay here,” she urged.
“Are you sure?” Robert asked, concerned.
“Yes, yes. I’ll sit right here and wait.” She plonked herself on the guano. Mind you, the cave is pitch black, as light only poke in at the entrance. Robert handed her a lighter and joked, “Don’t worry, the ghosts here are all friendly. Just don’t follow them.”
The two of us continued, and soon, we had to take our footwear off. The rocks were flat and rough but submerged in water. Ooh, it was cold as I tread waist-deep in water. We squeezed through small openings, abseiled and, at the end, found a small waterfall and deep pool. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a swimsuit on.
Robert grinned, “Most Caucasian tourists are very liberated. They take off their clothes and jump in. You’re welcome to do that. I won’t mind.”
Right. I chose not to get pneumonia.
So we began our journey back and, thankfully, we found my aunt silently sitting in the same spot where we had left her.
Safe at home ... or not
A few days later, we hit the road home and arrived at the LCCT. We hopped on a budget taxi and, as luck would have it, our taxi driver decided to drive at a deathly slow speed.
“We had a good trip. Neither of us fell sick and no one fleeced us. Soon we’ll be home for some nice tea,” I hummed cheerily while looking out the window.
In a split second, the taxi driver decided to speed up a ramp. Perhaps he was also longing for a cup of teh tarik. When he reached the top, holy cow, there was a massive traffic jam ahead. Unable to brake in time, he slammed into the car in front, which in turn knocked into another car ahead. Shards of glass flew outside but thankfully, our driver emerged unscathed. My aunt suffered bruises on her cheek while I had bumps on my shins.
“It’s my first accident since I started driving in 1973,” the taxi driver said defensively, as he called his daughter to pick us up. My aunt and I stood smiling at passers-by hoping someone would offer us a ride home. A tow truck swung by and our driver’s face lit up momentarily. Alas, it was pulling a police car with two cops having a snooze in the back.
Two hours later, we were reciting our tales to all at home. The next day, I discovered I had whiplash. It took a week to recover.
What a way to end our holiday, but it was another exciting adventure nevertheless.
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