I’m a sucker for love stories, and I was enthralled when Raymund Javellana, great grandson of Mariano Lacson personally toured me around his family’s ancestral home in Talisay City, Negros Occidental. Acclaimed as one of the 12 most fascinating ruins of the world, The Ruins is a monument to the undying love of Mariano Lacson and Maria Braga.
Don Mariano Ledesma Lacson
It was my second night in Bacolod City, and Mrs. Josefina Puentevella (Tita Paching) was taking me around. She brought me to Talisay to see The Ruins. She said it was a house that was bombed during the Japanese occupation so that the invaders would not use it as headquarters. I told her about my own ancestral home in San Sebastian that was actually used by the Japanese commander as his headquarters. I was thus quite interested to see the house she was referring to which had belonged to Don Mariano Ledesma Lacson, a sugar baron in the early 1900s.
Maria Braga
The youngest of ten children of Lucio Lacson and Clara Ledesma, the dashing Mariano fell in love during one of his frequent visits to Hong Kong with the beautiful Maria Braga, a Portuguese lady from Macau, daughter of a ship captain. He proposed to her and brought his young bride home to Negros. There, they lived happily together and had ten children.
When Maria was pregnant with her 11th child, she suffered a bad fall and began to bleed heavily. Alarmed, Mariano quickly drove his horse-drawn carriage to the next city to summon a physician. It took four days of travel traversing different sugar plantations, asking permission to pass from the landowner each time. I can just imagine how distraught he was throughout the trip. By the time he got back with the doctor, Maria and her unborn child was dead.
Grief-stricken, the heartbroken Mariano decided to build a mansion to commemorate his love for his beloved wife. With the help of his father-in-law who sent over workers from Hong Kong, Mariano built an elegant two-story mansion in the midst of his sugar plantation. Here, he lived with his children with the rule that once any of them got married, they would have to leave the mansion.
Two Ms facing each other, standing for the initials of Mariano and Maria, are forever etched into the posts.
No expense was spared in building the structure made of oversized steel bars encased in solid concrete. The walls were finished in cement mixed with egg whites, lending a marble-like finish to the mansion. Each post of the house was emblazoned with two letter Ms facing each other, initials of Mariano and Maria.
There were four rooms downstairs for his boys, and four rooms directly on top of them for his girls. A wide staircase led directly from the side entrance to the second floor. This way, Raymund explained, Mariano could go up to the master’s bedroom without disturbing any of the guests in the living room. The family could enjoy sunsets through the bay window of the belvedere facing west.
The main entrance to the mansion
A wide porch wrapped itself around both floors of the house, reminiscent of the mansion in the movie “Gone with the Wind.” Twin columns lined the porch with graceful arches in between. Colorful Machuca tiles from Spain lined the veranda, while thick meter-wide, 20-meter long wooden planks served as flooring for the various rooms. Starkly silhouetted against the dark sky was the scalloped roof.
On the eve of World War II, this beautiful mansion was razed to the ground by guerillas during the Japanese war upon the orders of the United States Armed Forces in the Far East or USAFFE, to ensure it would not fall into the hands of the Japanese forces and made into headquarters. They say it took three days for the house to burn, engulfing all the beautiful wooden floors and ceiling, leaving behind the shell of the once beautiful mansion.
When Mariano died, the plantation was subdivided amongst his ten children, and later further subdivided amongst the grandchildren. No one wanted the portion of land on which the burnt out shell stood. After all, it was thought to be useless since sugarcane could not be planted in it. For six and a half decades, The Ruins remained just that, a sad reminder of the opulent lifestyle of the sugar barons, slowly succumbing to the ravages of time.
That is, until Raymund Javellana, a scion of the prominent Lacson-Javellana and Lopez-Heredia families, inherited the land with the burnt mansion and pondered what to do with it. Just like his ancestor Mariano, Raymund was widely traveled and had been to many interesting historical places in Europe. He toyed with the idea of developing The Ruins into a tourist attraction.
One day, Raymund saw children climbing up and playing at the four-tiered fountain fronting the house. Looking closely, he noticed how strong and beautiful it was and decided to rehabilitate it, along with the expansive garden surrounding the house. In its heyday, the mansion’s garden laden with imported lilies was maintained by a Japanese gardener under the supervision of Angelina, Mariano’s daughter. This same gardener turned out to be an informant of the Japanese Military.
Raymund installed lights in the house, running the electric wires through the original pipes embedded in the ceiling. I asked him if the globes were made of capiz, but he said they were made from sturdy resin to withstand the strong wind from storms. He showed me where the living room, dining room, kitchen and kitchen preparation areas had been, and pointed to the thick cement flooring underneath where the wood-fired ovens were located.
It’s a pity there are hardly any photos of the house as it was in its prime. Raymund remarked that the old photos were kept by one of the children but they were lost in another fire. “There’s something about our family and fires,” he said.
Tita Paching and me
Walking with us around the beautifully landscaped gardens surrounding the house, Raymund invited us to have a picture taken in front of an outside glass table. He said that most everyone who comes has their photo taken there with the house silhouetted behind, as the glass of the table reflects the house and it appears magical. Naturally, we just had to do this too.
And as I looked around I saw in the distance what seemed like a tree sprouting from a column. I learned that this was the simborio, or smokestack of the sugar farm’s mill where they heated the juice of the sugarcane before allowing it to cool and crystalize into what we know as muscovado, unrefined brown sugar imbued with the strong flavor of molasses.
Tita Paching and me with our personal guide, Raymund Javellana.
Just as we were leaving, we passed by the café that Raymund had built and bought piping hot piaya or unleavened flatbread filled with muscovado and glucose syrup. What a treat it was to bite into the delicious piaya! Closing my eyes, I was once again transported to the very first time I had tasted piaya, savoring its goodness, and for a fleeting moment, imagined how beautiful life must have been for Mariano and Maria. And thanks to Raymund, the story of their love will continue to inspire generations to come.
July 17, 2015. Taywanak, Alfonso. “Take time to do what makes your soul happy.” This post on Pinterest caught my eye yesterday morning, and I reposted it immediately, determined to carve out me time from the busyness of work and commitments. And then, I got to thinking. What makes my soul happy?
The first thing that entered my mind was I’ve always been happiest loving someone. Love makes my heart sing. With Mike and my children, life was perfect. When Mike died, I died too, going through the motions of life with a big dark hole where my heart used to be. That is, until Rollie came barging into my life and for a blissful and exciting six months, I felt alive again. But then, God took him away too. Once again, I burrowed into work. The busier the better, so I would not have time to dwell on my unhappiness. Time and again, though, grief would make its presence felt. Yes, my beloved children are there, but they are now grown up and have their own lives to lead.
One thing Rollie taught me was that I was responsible for my own happiness. When he lost his wife to cancer four years ago at the same time he turned 60 and retired from work, he coped with his grief by keeping busy, writing a book, traveling, biking, meeting people, helping develop young leaders at AIESEC, and more.
And so, I’m back to thinking what makes my soul happy since the two people I’ve loved are both gone?
Painting. One of my earliest memories is sitting on the floor drawing and coloring, and my mom commenting that I was just like her sister Conchi, a talented artist. I treasured my coloring books, read and reread my art books, and hoarded my art supplies. I was chagrined when my art teacher in elementary declared I had no talent at all. This didn’t stop me from spending recess time in first year high school drawing on the chalkboards at the empty music room. The manang was probably wondering who the culprit was who left the drawings and used up all the colored chalks.
I desperately wanted to take up Fine Arts in college, but we didn’t have the funds for this. Nevertheless, I took the entrance exam, which required us to draw still life. Dean Faustino passed by, looked over my shoulder at what I was drawing, and told me I must take up FA as I had the gift of drawing. Unfortunately, we simply could not afford it so I ended up instead taking up AB Psychology. I was overjoyed when my Aunt Jill enrolled me one summer in Art Classes at CHS. Learning how to use charcoal, watercolors and oils, and do pen and ink drawings, I was in seventh heaven!
This helped me earn funds to buy my college textbooks. Summers, I taught young children drawing lessons. My aunts’ co-teachers at CHS would commission me to sketch their family members. When I had an oil painting framed at an art shop, the proprietor told me that a customer wanted to buy it. I refused to sell it, as I wanted to keep that painting. It is still hanging in my mom’s house.
One day, acting on my Aunt Jill’s request, I drew a young child with big round black eyes. She loved that drawing so much that she had it framed and hung in her office, and later, when she retired, in her home. I had forgotten about that drawing until I visited her almost two decades later with little Bea in tow. I was amazed that Bea looked almost exactly like that child in the drawing.
At 25, I went to Spain and lived with Tia Conchi and Tio Mariano. While they were at work, I would paint. Tia Conchi mentored me in watercolors and oils, her forte. Weekends were spent in the Museo del Prado. I learned that the best art was in churches, and so while my aunt and uncle prayed, I soaked in the art of the masters, and marveled at the beauty around me. When I visited my aunt a year ago, I was pleasantly surprised to see all the paintings and sketches I had done during my apprenticeship framed and displayed in her house.
Painting requires a lot of time, and this I had in short supply when I started work and more so, when I was raising a family. It seems that the only free time I had to take up my pencils and brushes was when I was pregnant and had to stay at home, or much later, when we had our family vacations in Club Paradise. No wonder then that most of my paintings are of beaches and the people I love.
Rollie got me painting again, or should I say we encouraged each other. We had painting sessions together. Once, I sketched him and emailed him the sketch. He was so proud of it that he had it enlarged, framed and hung in his living room. For Christmas, he gave me a box of oils. I have yet to open it. Someday, when I can bear to open it without crying, I will. For now, though, I will stick to another thing that makes my soul happy.
Writing. I never thought I could write until second year college when my English teacher asked me to take the exams to join the editorial team of Veritas and Action, the school papers. We were instructed to write an essay on whatever topic we wanted within half an hour. My mind was a blank. Where to start? Listless, I moved my chair, and promptly got bitten by a little ant. And then, I saw the procession of ants crossing in front of me, resolutely carrying tiny bits of food that had crumbled on the ground, some seemingly bigger than they were. And suddenly, it dawned on me. I was just like that little ant. Feverishly, I started writing about ants, their resoluteness, their tenacity, their work ethic, their sense of community and teamwork, and their strength in numbers. Apparently, I nailed it, as I was appointed as Associate Editor.
Taking up my masters at the Asian Institute of Management, we were required to do voluminous reports and analyze case studies. I once got back a report with my professor’s comment that it was a joy reading my work. When I started corporate work though, creative writing took a back seat. Business English was the order of the day. Besides, I was married to a brilliant writer who wrote effortlessly on far ranging topics from business to management, economics, current events, social issues, human nature, information technology, and the like.
Mike authored several books, some together with Professor Philip Kotler, the marketing guru, and wrote a regular column for the Manila Bulletin. Mike could string words together so beautifully while making perfect sense, like pearls forming a perfect necklace, and I felt wanting in his presence. He did, however, ask me to edit his writing and comment before submitting it to his editor. Another pair of eyes to spot mistakes that crop up when writing.
Mike encouraged to me to write but I didn’t take it up until I was on a plane enroute to Spain nine months after he died. And then, it seemed like the floodgates opened, and I started to write. And write. All the pent-up emotions just came rushing out in my writing, and I started a blog. I wrote for myself, but it was heartwarming when people would come up and say then enjoyed reading what I wrote, or that I had helped them cope with their own situation by reading about mine.
For my mom’s 80th birthday last year, Rollie suggested I write a book about her. He had written one on his wife Isabella three months after she died, and he said it was great catharsis. He gave copies to all her friends, and said they loved him for it. I was intrigued and excited with his suggestion but didn’t know where to start. He offered to collaborate on the book project, and promised to scan all the pictures I could find. And so we did work on it together. My mom loved the book, and I gave copies to each of my siblings for Christmas, so that their children will have a memento of their grandmother.
Rollie then encouraged me to write a book on Mike, before the memories disappear. He said it would be a beautiful and lasting gift for our children, plus it would help me move on, and we could then begin our own story together. That was what I was working on the long weekend when Pope Francis visited the Philippines.
It was hard going as I wept most of the time I was writing it. Rollie called from Hong Kong to check how I was doing. When I told him I had spent the better part of the weekend crying and that I was only half way done, he praised me, saying “Keep going, my courageous girl. I love you,” Just a few days later, he was gone. Forever.
As for poetry, I never knew I had it in me until I met Rollie. For some reason, he unleashed the poet in me. I would wake up in the wee hours of the night and start penning. He was overwhelmed with what I wrote and eager to receive the next one. When he died, this gift seemed to have died as well.
But I continue to write, feeling this connects me to people even when I feel so alone. And then I come to my next passion.
Cooking. My love of the kitchen was nurtured in my paternal grandaunt’s warm kitchen, watching her prepare meals for the family and for feasts. I would eagerly wait for Lola Teta to come back from the market in a calesa, and take out the wonderful goodies from her market basket. I guess that’s why I get excited seeing plump and colorful vegetables and fruits and nice smelling herbs growing in farms.
Inevitably, my lola would bring home two or three live chickens, which she would later kill and dress. She would let me play with the stomach lining, which I would blow up like a balloon. And the myriad little yellow eggs that had not yet come out were prepared as adobo as a special treat for me. All these happened before my 7th year when a beheaded duck started my phobia with all things feathered.
Summers growing up were spent in that kitchen. My aunt Jill would teach my brothers and me how to bake, decorate cakes, and then let us experiment in the kitchen. I loved watching her cook, and I was her designated assistant, though not allowed to wield a knife. My brothers and I would fight as to who would clean up the leftover fudge in the bowl.
I remember crying when my cake didn’t rise because I had forgotten to put baking powder in the mix. Or the time my chocolate cake caved in because I had taken it out of the oven prematurely. My brothers mercilessly teased me about this, and called it my chocolate volcano. And now, chefs brag about their chocolate lava cake. I should have had it patented then. Or that time I tried to make lemon squares and forgot an ingredient so they came out really hard. Lemon cardboards, they were called. I guess all that teasing made me stop kitchen experiments, and I concentrated instead on studying.
Later, when my boyfriend asked for my hand in marriage, my mother asked him if he was sure about me as I was hopeless in the kitchen and all I knew was to study. I was flabbergasted, made my mind up that I would learn, and bought several cookbooks.
There were some hiccups along the way. In the early days of marriage, I decided to make coffee and wondered why the coffee machine wouldn’t work, only to find out I had not plugged it in. Another time, I was at Farmer’s Market and was convinced to buy stingray. The market vendor told me it was delicious as adobo, and taught me how to prepare it. Well, it was so bad that even our dog refused to eat it. I confided my travails in the kitchen to a friend at work, and she agreed to help me. She put together a menu for my house blessing with detailed instructions on how to prepare it: chicken a la king presented in puff pastry and vichyssoise. It was a hugh success!
One of the first things I learned was to make spaghetti bolognese and I would do this a lot until I perfected it. I did not realize that my poor sister developed a strong dislike to spaghetti because she had to eat it a lot while I was practicing. This was a huge disincentive to her moving to Rome, but luckily she has learned to make peace with pasta, though she still shys away from bolognese to this day, and makes sure she rubs this in each time we eat pasta.
My work in publishing entailed a lot of travel, and I was exposed to different cuisines. All these left their mark on my cooking. I was comfortable with different spices. Soon, I stopped referring to cookbooks and ventured into experimenting in the kitchen. I enjoyed going to the market, checking out the fresh produce, and interviewing the vendors how best to prepare them. If I liked the food I ate at restaurants, I would start guessing what went into it, already planning how to do it at home. Mealtimes, I would look at what was available in the pantry and ref, and start imagining the dish I would concoct. Invariably, my family would love it. Their happy smiles and comments were well worth the hours I would put in the kitchen.
Over the years I developed some family favorites, like adobo which my children swear by, different pastas, stuffed peppers, Christmas ham, chicken relleno (though someone else had to do the stuffing and the sewing), and paella. My love affair with paella started when Mike bought me a paellera for our anniversary. I had learned how to make it from my Tia Conchi, who gifted me with a hundred-recipe paella book. I would have so many requests for paella during family gatherings and especially during the Christmas season. For years, my paella was a staple at the Cyberpress yearend party. From one small pan, I have now graduated to various sizes of paella pans, even some big enough for a barangay.
Mike loved to eat, especially if it was spicy, and preferred beef and seafood over pork. He bought a huge barbecue grill for our home, and would grill steaks often. This was men’s work, and so I was relegated to preparing the sauces and sidings.
When we had our farm in Alfonso, I was excited to finally have my very own herb garden. Weekends with Mike in Alfonso were spent in the kitchen. We would cook together, and it was such a joy! We would walk around the farm early in the morning, and pick vegetables and fruits that would go into the meal. His last project was building an outside grill. I thought he meant a small barbecue grill but I should have known better, as it turned out to be a stone-walled double oven and grill, wood-fired and gas-fired. Sadly, it has not been used as often as we would have wanted.
So there you are, the top three things that make my soul happy. Tell me, what makes you happy?
Taywanak, Alfonso. July 12, 2015. On a whim, I decided to escape Southbay and come to Alfonso yesterday afternoon with Jeovanie and Bleng, our caretaker couple from the farm who have been helping me clean up the house. My girls allowed me to drive since I had company in the car. Besides, they all had Saturday night plans, which didn’t include mom. Funny that I always had to ask Mike for permission whenever I wanted to go out, and when he died, I have to ask my children.
No longer used to driving long distances, it took awhile to get to Alfonso in the rain. It was dark when we arrived. I had agreed to have dinner with a friend in Tagaytay, so I left right away. Jeovanie was worried as it was dark and raining and I was alone, but I told him I would be all right. I promised to text when I headed back so he could open the gate.
Arriving at Bag of Beans, I was surprised to find it full of guests. The main dining area was welcoming, brightly lit and warm, but quite noisy. Looking for a quiet corner where I could write while waiting for my friend, the waiter led me to a lone table outside, and I took that. I was not sure if she would show up, and I was pretty hungry by this time, so I ordered soup and started to write.
Challenge taken. Solo at Bag of Beans.
And just for posterity, I asked the waiter to take my photo so I could post it on Instagram, as a response to a challenge made to eat alone in a restaurant. I actually enjoyed the solo experience. No one bothered me, and I was able to concentrate on writing. To top it all, the broccoli soup with warm bread was delicious and filling on a cold, wet night. Soon my friend showed up, and as usual, our lively conversation ran the gamut of family, friendships, pets, work, and current events.
As BoB was about to close, we paid the bill and left. On the way out, she teased me about bringing my laptop as a clutch to the restaurant, saying I was not really alone. Baby steps, I told her. My friend insisted on driving tag to make sure I got back safely to my farm. I was thankful for this kind gesture as the fog was thick enough to slice in Tagaytay, and I could hardly see, and in Alfonso, the provincial road was very dark and wet. Knowing she was driving behind me made me feel safer, like having a guardian angel behind the wheel.
Back in Alfonso, I looked up at the sky and there was nary a star in the dark sky. Normally, I would look up and enjoy the stars twinkling like diamonds as I walked the long red brick road to our house. This time they were hidden behind the heavy dark clouds.
Snuggling into my bed, I prayed with my wooden holding cross in hand, a Christmas gift from a dear friend. The cross fit snugly in the palm of my hand, calming me down. I asked the Lord to watch over my children, my family and friends and keep them safe. I am usually not scared of being alone in the farm, but another talk this week about malicious spirits and exorcism which I had with another friend, played havoc on my mind. I woke up early this morning, still holding on to it.
The fierce rustling of the leaves outside my window warned me the weather was still cross. Nevertheless, I put on my bright yellow parka to tour the farm. Hugging the tree beside the house, which had the first station of the cross, I whispered an “I love you” to Mike, remembering all the lovely memories of time spent in the farm with him. There was a big butterfly with pink-tipped wings that stayed in the veranda the whole morning I was in Alfonso, as if loath to leave. ‘Twas Mike, I believe, keeping me company.
Walking around the farm, I once again marveled at the awesome beauty of God’s creation. Everywhere I looked, it was lush and green. I was worried that the wind had toppled over some trees, but luckily they had held their ground, though some were bent over slightly. The stepping-stones were covered in moss, reminding me I had not visited in awhile.
I saw fallen mangoes on the ground forming a carpet under the trees, and spied some green santol that had suffered the same fate. Ah, santol season has come! I asked our caretaker to pack some for me to bring home to Southbay. Near the gate, the champaca tree was in full bloom, its fragrance wafting through the air. Herb seedlings nestled in the rudimentary nursery.
Walking by the caretaker’s cottage, I didn’t notice the chickens nesting in the trees. Suddenly, a flurry of cackles and feathers greeted me. I don’t know who was more surprised, the chickens or me, but I was ready to run away.
After a hearty breakfast and some writing on the veranda, I drove to town to hear 9am mass with Bleng and her children. I was pleased when the parish priest introduced the parish youth leaders. There were so many of them! The church was packed full with the faithful, with latecomers forced to stand at the back.
Back at the farm, we packed ready for the long drive back to Manila. I would have stayed longer except my girls and I agreed to have lunch together. And the spotty Internet connection was unnerving. It was a very short visit made on a whim, but well worth the trip. I’m looking forward to the next one. I wonder who I can cajole to come with me next time?
Siblings, five years apart, on an unplanned Coron adventure.
May 16, 2015, 5:30am. Coron. The city is waking up, and so am I, wondering why my entire body seems to ache. For a second, I am unsure as to where I am, and then I remember yesterday’s adventure.
This was a sudden, unplanned trip. My Seattle-based brother Jean Pierre (Johnny) breezed into Manila for a dental visit and to stay a few weeks. This time, he was alone. During breakfast last Sunday, we talked about places we’ve always wanted to explore: Vigan, Batanes, Banawe, Coron, and more. I told him I would love to visit them. Well, he took it seriously, bought the tickets, booked a hotel he found on the Net, and called me to say the deed was done.
Just three days ago, I was running all over town busy with meetings. It was a hectic and interesting day, starting at 6:00 am when my driver’s wife called to say he wasn’t coming to work. With an 8am meeting in Ortigas and staff to pick up at the Alabang office at 7am, I quickly changed to flats and drove my car, with Wayz guiding me to meetings in Ortigas then Alabang, then to Makati, back to Alabang and finally to Paranaque in time for the 8pm mass to celebrate the feast of Our Lady of Fatima. I imagine there were quite a few white-knuckled moments and fervent prayers said. Sometime in between these meetings, Johnny called to announce we were confirmed for the 8am flight to Coron the next day.
I readily agreed to go. The last time, Johnny and I traveled together was 30 years ago. We went to Iligan for his ‘pamanhikan’ and wedding to Tita. I figured a sibling trip was long overdue.
With bags packed, we were off on our adventure! Arriving at the Busuanga airport, I was surprised to see the Cabuslays, friends from our village who were also visiting Coron. Sharing a van, we dropped them off at their resort and proceeded to Coron town where One Averee Bay Hotel was. The hotel was in the midst of town facing the plaza.
Courtesy visit to Fems Garcia, fellow CHSian and mayor of Coron
My friend Wilma Leagogo who owns Julie’s bakeshop came by to greet us. First off, we paid a courtesy call to Hon. Clara “Fems” Reyes, fellow CHSian and mayor of Coron. We then had lunch at Lolo Nonoy’s, then hurried back to the hotel for my 1pm concall with a client. After that, Johnny and I walked around town, looking for tours to take. The umbrella Wilma lent us came in handy as the fierce sun was beating down on us.
Wth my friend, neighbor, fellow servant parish leader, CHSian and all around nice person, Wilma Leagogo. Wilma owns the Julie’s Bakeshop in Coron and took very good care of us.
Coron Town is a sleepy laid-back municipality. We visited small stores, mostly run by Muslim traders. An ancient looking sungka in the shape of a crocodile caught my eye but the proprietor refused to sell it. We ended up at Julie’s Bakeshop, and Wilma treated us to the most delicious freshly-baked pan de coco. It was so good I ate two of them. The poster said it was nakaka-loco and I wholeheartedly agree! Goodbye, figure. Oh well, I may end up shaped like a dugong later, but the food is hard to resist when it is this good.
The lobster was so fresh and delicious I almost cried while eating.
After freshening up and taking a stroll by Lualhati Park, we had dinner at Lobster King, as guests of Mayor Fems. The lobsters in kalamansi butter sauce were divine! Many thanks, Fems!
After dinner, Johnny and I decided on DCC’s tour package and went there to sign up. According to Mr. Kim, the Korean proprietor, we would share the boat with another couple who was going diving.
Back at the hotel, I stationed myself at Breakfast at Sydney’s, the hotel’s restaurant, to work. It was the only place with wifi and I had to complete some forms online for GCG. The website was not very friendly and I was getting frustrated whenever it would suddenly refresh and everything I had written was erased. Finally, by11pm, I was shooed off as they were closing.
That night, Johnny put on a movie entitled “Into the Woods.” The musical was quite interesting and had great actors but sleep took over quickly.
We woke up with much anticipation for the boat trip we had signed up for. But first we had a hearty breakfast of lamayo, Coron’s version of danggit, tapa and eggs. The brewed coffee was surprisingly robust. Wilma came by with a bag of Julie’s Spanish bread and bottles of water for our trip. What a thoughtful and kind gesture!
After last minute shopping for clear plastic ziplocks for my phones and slathering ourselves with sunblock, Johnny and I were ready to go. We met up with a young couple from Washington who were going diving: Matt who works for Starbucks in the US and handles their airport outlets and his friend Mihee who is a nurse. Matt and Mihee turned out to be from Seattle, so they had a lot of things to talk about with Johnny.
Our first stop was CYC Island which was chockfull with tourists. Donning my snorkeling gear, I went swimming but noticed there were so many black sea urchins around with scary looking spikes, so I turned back not wanting to be impaled. I didn’t realize I had gone so far and had a difficult time swimming back to our boat.
Skeleton Wreck
Next stop was Skeleton Wreck, named after the remnants of a Japanese supply ship. I’ve never seen a wreck before and was a bit nervous as it was in deep water, but with a life vest on, felt pretty safe.
Hearty meal by the shack with our guide.
We had lunch in a tiny hut on Skeleton Wreck. It was a simple meal of steamed rice, cucumber salad, grilled liempo and mackerel. While eating, I noticed a young couple paddle to the shore then climb onto a tall bamboo hut.
Members of the Taganua tribe, guarding Skeleton Wreck.
We walked over to say hello and they turned out to be from the Tagbanua tribe. They were assigned by their grandfather to collect fees from the boats that docked there. They told us there were 13 lakes on the island, and they had only seen two of them.
We transferred to Twin Lagoon, which required us to swim underneath some rocks to get to the hidden lagoon. The guide warned us it was brackish water, where fresh water from the lake mixed with salt water from the sea. Johnny and I snorkled, circling the lake’s perimeter. We were amazed at how the water would turn alternately hot and cold. It was exhilarating!
Barracuda Lake was up next. Our boat navigated between forbidding grey cliffs, with hardly any vegetation. It was eerie. Johnny commented that it seemed that anytime King Kong would make an appearance. The boat docked and we entered a break in the cliffs, walking on a slim bamboo walkway flanked by tall jagged rock formations on either side. Holding on to the flint-like rocks for support, I found them brittle and sharp.
After a short walk, we were greeted by an amazing sight. I gasped at the beauty of the lake. It was serene and still, hidden from view by the jagged cliffs. We jumped from the bamboo platform into the cool blue waters below. I looked down and hardly saw any fish swimming. However, there were black dots everywhere, as if someone had sprinkled too much black pepper on white spaghetti sticks. Curious, I picked up one of the black dots and it turned out to be a black spiral shell, much like what my grandmother used to cook as ginataang kuhol.
I relaxed and floated on my back, looking up at the cliffs and the blue sky above, thinking of my loved ones and thanking God for them. My companions and other tourists jumped from the cliffs, laughing and enjoying themselves, but I tuned them out. It was so peaceful! Soon, our guide told us it was time to go Kayangan Lake.
Kayangan Lake
Kayangan Lake was the best of all, he promised, with caves to explore, a fantastic view, a beautiful lake, and a mountain to climb. Three hundred steps, he said: 150 up and a 150 down. Just 300 steps, I thought. I should be able to climb that. Johnny warned me not to count the steps saying I would just get disheartened, but that’s exactly what I did. I started counting, and by the 50th step was wondering as I tried to catch my breath if I would make it to the top. And when we reached the top, we realized that the guide was right, there were another 150 steps down to the lake. We hurried down, excited to get into the water.
A bamboo platform ringed half of Kayangan Lake and it seemed that there were people everywhere. We walked to the very end and stationed our things there. We checked out the cave which was but a short one. I started getting claustrophobic as more people entered the narrow cave, and escaped fast. Our guide boasted there was another subterranean way out. He dove into the water and came out a few seconds near the entrance. I heard Johnny saying he was going to do the same thing. I waited outside and when Johnny didn’t come out after several minutes, I started to worry, imagining him stuck in the rocks under water. How will I ever explain to his wife and children that I had not taken care of my brother? I was about to go back in to check on him when he appeared. Thank goodness!
Because of this incident and the fact that there were too many people around, I did not enjoy swimming in Kayangan as much as I did Barracuda or Twin Lagoon. But the guide was right. It is a beautiful place and one I would like to visit again during the lean period.
The view from the bat cave
Once again, we had to climb the 300 steps to get back to the boat but not before a quick picture at the very top where the bat cave was. Our last stop was Twin Peaks where our companions were going to dive.
Donning our snorkeling gear, Johnny and I jumped into the water, discovering a most amazing world down under, with verdant coral, teeming with a myriad of fish in all shapes and sizes, colors and hues, nibbling at the coral. I wanted to take out my paints right then and there and capture the beauty of the seaworld, with its vibrant colors that would put any palette to shame. Various schools of fish passed us by, like ribbons of pulsating color, from matte to brilliant neons. I could have stayed there forever. Oh well! Back to reality. We returned to Coron Town, where we met up with Wilma for dinner and to make reservations for the next day’s tour.
Walking to Julie’s, we wondered why the streets were dark. Apparently, there was a brownout which had been going on for four hours. Luckily, electricity came back on as we made our way to Bistro Coron. Dinner was pizza, pasta and Hungarian sausages. I must say that their crusty French bread was very good. Tired, we went back to the hotel and promptly fell asleep.
The next day we were up early once more. This time around we were joiners at the JY tour. The trike picked us up and brought us to the Pantalan where we boarded our boat and met our companions for the tour.
New found friends who warmly welcome us into their group.
Ryan and Michelle are psychiatric nurses at a Riyadh Hospital on vacation. With them was Kaycee, Michelle’s sister who is a home-based software programmer and their cousin Knarf who was visiting from Canada. Then there was Randy and Abby who were celebrating their 12th wedding anniversary, and a young couple April and Ryan who were honeymooning. This was the second tour of our companions together so they were pretty friendly with each other already and warmly welcomed us to the group.
Henderson, our amiable tour guide, briefed us on what to expect. He was much more knowledgeable than our guide on the first day. He pointed out the sleeping giant, asking us to hazard a guess as to whether the giant was male or female. We all agreed it was a “she.”
Johnny and I perched on the side of the boat, trading stories of our childhood.
The boat ride to Malcapuya was and hour and a half away. Johnny and I sat by the side of the boat with our toes touching the me water, reminiscing childhood memories.
Malcapuya has a long stretch of white sand beach, perfect for lazing around. The beach was dotted with nipa huts. Our group settled on the farthest nipa hut, set down our things, and went straight into the water. Johnny showed me a bed of giant clams, their membranes opening and closing, each one different from the other. Some were tiger striped, others had green or blue or red mouths.
Try and get me out of this hammock.
We had a veritable feast for lunch, with sinigang na lapu-lapu, grilled mackerel, grilled squid, chopsuey, adobong pusit, steamed rice, and an amazingly delicious salad of apple, mango, banana and Chinese petchay prepared by our guide. Henderson refused to share his recipe no matter how much we begged. Fresh coconut in their shells and sweet mango rounded up the meal. We were ready to hit the hammocks after lunch, but was given only a few minutes, so we tredged back to the boat. We must have all eaten so much as the boat refused to budge when we were all on it. The poor men had to disembark to push the boat out into deeper waters.
Banana Island was our next destination, but on the way there, our boat’s engine sputtered then died. Henderson asked us to help him call for help using our mobile phones, but there was no signal where we were. I texted the situation to my chidren and Wilma, hoping they would ge the message. Somehow, we were able to reach Banana Island’s bamboo raft, and we all disembarked to ride the bamboo raft to shore, while the boat captain and his assistant tried to fix the engine while waiting for help to come.
On the hill at Bulag Dos
Luckily, the other boat was at a nearby island and they came over to check on us. Soon, we were on our way to our last stop, Bulag Dos. Our guide warned us that we had lost too much time and that we could only stay half an hour. This was enough time to have pictures taken and check out the beach. We climbed the little hill for a better view of the surroundings.
As we were about to board the boat, we learned from our companions that there were a lot of clown fish popularized by the movie “Nemo” in the area. We just had to take a look at them. While we were all hunched looking at the clown fish swimming in and out of their stone house, I noticed a much larger fish circling the stone, seemingly agitated. It suddenly attacked me, nipping me in the leg. Apparently, it is a territorial fish intent on defending its stone house which it shared with the family of Nemos.
Sunset on the way back to Coron
We headed back to Coron. Wilma was patiently waiting for us at the dock with a trike that would bring us to Maquinit Falls. We were glad we went, despite being terribly tired. Wilma had packed a picnic dinner of grilled liempo, roast chicken and pinakbet from Lolo Nonoy’s. It was dark by the time we reached the resort, but there were still a lot of people there. We ate at one of the rustic picnic tables and made friends with the people at the next table who reveled us with stories of hidden treasures discovered in Palawan.
Basking in the warm waters of Maquinit Falls, I felt all the pains and aches slip away.
Maquinit Falls has three pools, catching the hot spring water from Mt. Dalara, a dormant volcano. They say the 40-degree Celsius water has healing powers, and that an egg left there will actually get cooked. I enjoyed dipping into the pool and letting the hot salt water ease away my aches and pains. I
Johnny walked around and came back saying it was beautiful at the other end of the resort. Curious, I went around to the other side of the pool, and walked on the bridge by the mangroves. It was dark and I was alone. True enough, when I looked up, I saw the vast expanse of the sky, twinkling with an array of stars, arranged by constellations. A shooting star crossed the skies. Moved by all this beauty, I praised the Lord, and thanked Him for all the many blessings I’ve received, praying for all the people He had sent my way, for those I have loved and have gone ahead, and most of all, for my family. And at that very moment, I felt one with all the generations of people everywhere who have looked up to the sky and felt an upwelling of emotions. We have an awesome Creator!
That night, Johnny and I put on the movie, Into the Woods, again, intent on finishing it. As you can imagine, we both fell asleep from being so tired. Someday, I will finish this movie, but for now, I’m glad I took this sibling trip to Coron with Johnny. There is still so much to discover about Coron and more adventures to experience, but those I will keep for another day.
April 4, 2015. Moalboal Fam Trip. It’s 6:00 am, and I am all alone in the lanai, waiting for my children. We’ve reserved a banca for a 7am trip to Pescador, an atoll where they claim the marine life swim in abundance. I’m excited yet apprehensive, not being a strong swimmer. The lifeguards told us that the drop off is quite steep so I was undecided about joining the children.
I get nervous when I can no longer see the bottom while swimming. When Mike and I would snorkel in Club Paradise, he would always hold my hand and lead the way. I felt safe with him always. Now, he is no longer here. Still, I’ve decided to go with the children, especially since Mama Becky told me I should go and that she would take care of Dada while we were exploring.
When Mike died, I vowed to do the things I’ve always wanted to do but never had the chance or the courage to do so, like wearing a bikini, jumping off a cliff, riding a bike, going paddle boarding, traveling by myself. And that’s what I’ve been doing these past two years.
Hale Manna where we are staying is true to its name. Hale in Hawaiian means good energy, and Mana means home. So it means home of good energy, of which there is much in abundance. Mama Becky Pestano-Smith, its owner, wanted to praise and thank God for His many blessings by spelling Manna with a double n. My children were right in deciding to spend Holy Week in this place. I feel at peace and happy.
Months ago, Bea and Cara were backpacking in Cebu and chanced upon Hale Manna as they were exploring the beach. They said a nice lady called out to them from the cliff, inviting them over. They accepted the kind invitation of the lady who turned out to be Becky Pestano-Smith, the owner. The girls said they immediately felt at home as the kindly Mama Becky enveloped them in her warm embrace and treated them to merienda. They vowed they would return, and so we are here now.
Arriving at Hale Manna Thursday afternoon, we were welcomed warmly by Mama Becky. She had prepared hot cassava chips drizzled with honey and the most delightful lemongrass tea to soothe our thirst from the long drive. Ravenous, we feasted on the lechon and puso, which we had bought at the Carcar market on the way here. Our spacious room has eight comfortable beds covered with colorful quilts, which beckoned us to sleep. And that we did since all we had was a couple of hours sleep the night before.
Just as we were going for dinner, there was a sudden brownout. We were worried about the trip because super typhoon Chedeng was expected to hit the Philippines the next day. Also, Bea had just finished regaling us with stories of how she and her barkada ended up one summer vacation in an island in Cebu when there was a massive brownout, and they had to survive for days without electricity and mobile phones and with just one vat of water for all of them to bathe in.
Using our cellphones as flashlights, we walked over to the lanai where the other guests were already having dinner. It was quite romantic, with just candles lighting up the place. Halfway through dinner, the lights came back on. Bea commented that she had enjoyed the candlelit dinner more. Still, I welcomed the return of electricity.
The beach at Hale Manna is rocky, not sandy, but there are kayaks to bring you to a floating raft where you can swim. I did this the first afternoon we were here, but preferred yesterday morning to just write at the Inspiration Point, the highest part overlooking the water while the children swam in the waters.
Hale Manna has several secluded areas facing the sea with bright red lounging chairs where you could laze all day. There are also cabanas, with mattresses and large soft pillows, set far from each other so that you could enjoy the serenity of the place. Despite several vehicles at the parking area, we hardly bumped into anyone, except for meal times when we would all congregate at the lanai.
Yesterday morning the children were bitten by jellyfish, so they came back early and we decided to go for an early lunch at Club Serena, two resorts away. CSR boasts of a sandy beach and more modern amenities, but there were a lot more people around. I prefer the quietness of Hale Manna as the houses are far apart from each other. We took a tricycle going there, and it was bumpy and dusty, an adventure in itself.
Arriving at Club Serena, we were warned that they were full and we would have a long wait. We decided to stay as the girls who had been there before were adamant we should try the suman with tsokolate and mango. It was well worth the wait, though it was way past 2pm before we had our first nibble. While waiting, the children played Places, Animals, Names and Things (PANT) while I sketched Niccolo and his girlfriend Sam from a photo I had snapped a week ago. Earlier that morning I did quick sketches of Bea and Cara at the house.
It was almost 3pm, and we wanted to pray. I tried accessing my mobile bible, but unfortunately, CSR did not have wifi and Globe Internet was spotty. I walked over to the bar and asked our amiable waiter Rolan if they had a bible we could borrow. He had one, he said with a smile, except it was in Bisaya, which only Cara would have understood. I went back to the table sad, but when I checked my phone, there was my mobile bible online!
Niccolo wanted to go back to Hale Manna to pray because CSR was a bit noisy, but we insisted to stay as the hour was near. Reverently, Niccolo read the book of Mark from the Last Supper to Christ’s death. As I listened intently, all the ambient noise drowned out, and I was there at Gethsemane witnessing Christ’s agony as the apostles slept, beside the anguished Peter as he realized he had denied the Lord three times, amongst the angry crowd as calls for crucifixion rang loud, beside Simon of Cyrene who was tasked to carry His cross, at the foot of the cross as Christ gave up His spirit, and beside His mother as she embraced His dead body. We were all quiet as Niccolo finished reading, each engrossed in her own thoughts.
We were aghast when we learned there were no more tricycles available for the return trip to Hale Manna. They had all gone home to observe Good Friday. We were worried about how Dada would be able to walk back to Halle Manna. Kind Rolan offered his vehicle, which could not carry all of us, so Niccolo and I walked back along the seashore. It was good to be with him alone, and we talked about plans for summer.
We slept siesta, then went back to the beach intent on going swimming by the raft, but the lifeguards refused to let us go, warning us that the current was very strong. Instead, we plopped down in one of the comfortable cabanas and shared stories, as we are wont to do when together. Soon, we were joined by Niccolo and Cara’s boyfriend Ramon who had arrived from Iligan. We stayed at the cabana until sundown. As we watched the sun go down, Bea asked, “with such beauty around you, how can anyone not believe in God?” We all agreed.
We turned in early because of the planned boat trip. And now, I have to stop writing and pack up as the boat has arrived.
12:00 nn. We’re back, and we just finished a delicious brunch of Arroz a la Cubana, Paksiw na Isda, and Ampalaya. The children and Dada have gone back to the house to sleep, and I once more have the lanai to myself.
I am so glad I joined the boat trip. There we were in the middle of the vast sea, basking in the early morning when the boatmen pointed to dolphins far away. We went nearer, and the playful dolphins decided to put up a show.
As the boatmen tethered the boat at Pescador and we were getting ready to jump in, I realized that in our excitement, we had forgotten to bring along life jackets. Cara, Niccolo and Ramon are all strong and confident swimmers and don’t need the life support. On the other hand, I am a floater, meaning I have a very difficult time diving, and I get nervous swimming in the open sea without a life jacket. Luckily, the boatmen were able to borrow two life jackets from another boat, one for Bea and another for me.
Once in the water snorkeling, I was lost in the beauty of the marine life teeming around me, sporting a myriad of colors unseen on dry land. Truly, there is a God, I thought! After Pescador, we traveled to another place where they said the turtles could be found. I was told to put on my life jacket as we would have to swim to where the turtles were.
As we were quite far from the shore, I worried about the drop off. As the bottom kept dropping and the water became darker and colder, I began to feel afraid, but then the kind boatman took my hand and led me swimming along the drop off, spotting turtles and pointing them out to me. Once in a while, he would let go of my hand, and Niccolo would take over. Soon, the excitement of seeing the huge turtles overcame my fear of the deep, and I happily relaxed, even getting over the sharp stinging I would feel once in a while as jelly fish brushed against me.
Our final destination was where the sardines were. Oh, and it was amazing! The school of silver sardines, why, there must have been millions of them, was like a gigantic ribbon undulating and pulsating in the sea as far as I could see. The water would alternate between very cold to warm as the sardines swarmed around us. It was truly an exhilarating and awesome experience! Mama Becky was right. It would be a pity to come to Moalboal and not see the marine life. Next time, I intend to swim with the whale sharks.
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