by Dolly Joy O. Ogatis
PureTravel Writing Competition 2023
Watching my dog marvel at the stretch of rice fields and the rolling mountain ranges from afar is probably not one of the most productive things that one can do on a drizzling Friday afternoon. However, as I watched that moment of pause and fascination in my dog’s eyes, I was pulled back into a certain memory. The memory of when I wore the same glimmer of fascination as I stared out at the sweeping lakes and entrancing greeneries of Lake Sebu, South Cotabato, Philippines.
Just minus the lolling tongue, of course.
Lake Sebu bears the wonders of the native lands and the dreams of its weavers. When I set foot in that proverbial place, a strange language was spoken, and the fabric of dreams weaved into a single promise.
I could still recall how the rear tires of our old pick-up truck screeched and wobbled as we embarked on the winding roads that wrapped the mountain side of Lake Sebu. I could still recall the harsh swish of wind as we drove past signages and landmarks, lake resorts, ancestral homes, the Tilapia ponds, the endless belts of road breaks, and the breathtaking views from the cliffs. My mind would sometimes replay the native sounds of T’boli from our cruise around the lake of Punta Isla. I could breathe in the air and be reminded of the mists from Hikong Alo as the water falls elegantly and resolves into a violent rage once it kisses the ground beneath. As the misty memories kissed my cheek, I kissed back. Such requiem folded into the most unforgettable trip I have ever had.
Our trip began early in the morning from the humble abode of our in-laws in Tupi, South Cotabato. We stopped by several houses to pick up other in-laws who would tag along on our journey to Lake Sebu, and shortly after the people in our manifest were completely ticked out. Before I knew it, I was squeezing myself between more than fifteen people in the tail of our old model Nissan pick-up truck. Currently, in the Philippines, there is a regulation that tails of pick-up truck shall not carry any living passengers, but luckily for us, back in the year 2018, the regulation has not yet been implemented. That is why we were able to mobilize more than twenty people, a passenger size befitting a van, from Tupi, South Cotabato to Lake Sebu with only our pick-up truck―all squeezed in like sardines in a tin can. We passed by several check points on our way and fortunately not one uniformed personnel have called us out.
The journey was quite long and draining, especially when you had to hold on for dear life while saving yourself a space on the truck’s bed floor. I remembered switching places with someone from inside the truck during one of our several stops. I sat on the rear back of the pick-up truck with a direct perspective of my father behind the wheels. As we drove up the winding roads of Lake Sebu, I could still remember other passengers screaming out of anxiety whilst gripping the grab handle from the ceiling as the engine almost chokes to propel the truck upwards the inclined winding roads. I believe it must have also been in God’s favor to not make the rain pour that day. The skies were blue. The thick clouds were scarce, but as our day progressed the heavens became a swirling mass of thick clouds heralding a storm.
Our first stop was at the 7 falls zip line. By traditional means, we bought a few souvenirs from souvenir shops outside of the 7 falls zip line. While others’ souvenirs were bags, keychains, etc., I chose a linen shirt where the words “Lake Sebu” were printed intricately in white ink on the bust area. We went down through roughly paved stairs and reached the ground that leads toward Hikong Alo: the first of the seven falls. The passage for all travelers.
I walked with other tourists, and I began to notice everything. I noticed how velvety the river streaming from the rumbling waterfalls was. The desperate trees and the bushes that crawl up at the riverbank and the mountain sides. Human noises chipped into nature’s harmonious voice. The natives in the middle of the river harvesting snails. A gripping picture painted itself in my head and slowly, slowly, slowly, the picture morphed into an interesting story clawing its way from my mind to the real world. However, I shoved it down for I know deep inside I will make use of it, eventually.
We took several pictures to capture our bliss. I remembered taking a picture with a tree, a picture of me in a Titanic stance facing Hikong Alo with my back to the camera, and a picture where a sat on the entrance of a footbridge―the pavement rough against my bottom. I could stay on the bridge for a long time doing nothing but admire the splendid display surrounding me, but every traveler has to move forward. So did we.
The zip line was only a few steps away from Hikong Alo falls. I was told that the zip line was the highest one in Southeast Asia, and not many people have the heart to conquer it. When my brother told me that he will pay for the zip line ride fee, I became interested in going for a ride. I have seen many photos of people riding a zip line, and when the opportunity to ride one―for free―waves in front of me, I shall seize that opportunity! For what good is a chance if not taken, right? Right!
The ride was situated atop a roofed small balcony. My knees wobbled like noodles and something in my gut swirled as I reached the top of the balcony. Before me was the deadly drop of a cliff and the gears for the ride. As we geared up, I fought the urge not to grind my teeth together out of yips. I acted coolly in front of the workers of the zip line as they readied our ride for us. I even asked one of the workers, “Is this safe?”. To which he smoothly answered with, “We will find out, ma’am.” I almost raised the white flag. I even swallowed my own exasperated gasp in response to the remark of the worker in fear that he might jeopardize my ride. They told us to lie down on our stomach with the harness on. Nausea took over me once I was suspended. The clatter of the carabiners and pulleys and cables behind me had my stomach do a perfect cartwheel and miring with my intestines and liver. “I can’t. I can’t. I just can’t,” was the only thing that’s been running on my mind as I grip the harness anticipating the chute right down the death slide. The sounds of the wiring walkie-talkie radio, the countdown, and the cheers of people below faded out as I felt the sudden push right into the threshold of death. The clanging of carabiners with the thick cable and the harshness of the earthen air against me reminded me that I am still alive. I swore I heard myself screamed through the turbulent air that has rendered me unable to look straight ahead. So, I lowered my gaze and stared at what was below, instead. I saw rainbows circling around the mists of waterfalls and creeks and the enveloping forests beneath. Slowly, the image took its own space in my mind, piecing together the lush greens, the prisms, and the white nothings of the water like a puzzle. All those inhibition and anxiety of being suspended with nothing but death awaiting at a drop flew out of the window, and the marvelous landscape below was all that mattered. Indeed, it is the greatest risk that brings the greatest reward.
The zip line ride came to a stop on the other end of the mountain. So, we had to walk our way back to the parking lot outside the 7 falls zip line. It was nearing lunch when we left and headed to Punta Isla Lake Resort. It was a few kilometers away from the 7 falls zip line, located at the tip of Sitio Tokuful, Brgy. Poblacion, Lake Sebu. Now, one thing that I love about traveling is driving through the highways. I was advertently watching vehicles approach one another from each side of the road and advancing past one another. It was like a game in my head. As if cars had their own minds and they are more than just the person behind the wheels. I’d like to think that cars also make their own historical trips, whilst bringing people to their destination. If our old Nissan pick-up truck only had a list of all the places it has been, Punta Isla Lake Resort would be the freshly written destination on that list.
Once we were in Punta Isla Lake Resort, we had our fine dining lunch on a lovely floating restaurant embarking on a lake cruise. While we ate, a performance was played by the native workers on board. The lovely tour guide has also elaborated numerous pieces of information about the lake and the surrounding islets. Despite the world class accommodations of the lake resort, it has been embedded in its reputation the accidental death of a particular beauty queen who visited the resort not long ago. The lake claimed the body as its own, and the corpse was never found. Nevertheless, the devastating case has become a lesson for Punta Isla Lake Resort, urging them to prioritize the safety and well-being of the tourists.
We continued to cruise around the lake after lunch. While the tour guide was busy tending to the tourists on board, I chose not to listen and to be of my own accord. As I stared at the musky green lake water swirling beneath the float, my mind drifted to the stories I have harbored from this trip so far. Fragments of theatrical scenes played back in my head. The birthing of stories went nonstop, even as we went home from Lake Sebu later that day.
I have always felt the other half of my soul was left there, in the land of dream weavers, running through damp blades of grass, boating around the lakes, and watching tropical water lilies grow. I imagined her speaking with the natives in the same tongue and learning the tribe’s way of living. I imagined her weaving unique patterns on a T’nalak fabric using a backstrap loom. The natives taught her how to weave her own dreams into intricate patterns of black, white, and red.
And I could not help but smile every time I thought about her.
Lake Sebu is such a poetic place and poignant for those with creative minds. This particular trip reflected different aspects of my personality. As a daughter, I was glad to have this thrilling trip with my family and my in-laws. It was, indeed, a summer well spent. As a writer, this trip made me love nature’s language hidden beneath the soil, suspended in the air, and overflowing with the waterfalls. Since then, it has become my interest to paint life, not with colors on canvass, but with words rolled on paper. Lastly, as a teenager, it was not only a simple trip to see the proverbial land of the dream weavers. More than anything, it was a journey of self-discovery and the awakening of hibernating creativity.
It was truly an unforgettable soul-touching trip. To the other half of me who was left in Lake Sebu, if we ever meet again, I hope that each of our dreams were finally weaved into intricate promising details of both pain and triumph. I promise, I shall return.
Photo by Mubarak Tahir on Unsplash
