Immaculate Conception Church at Night

I had the opportunity to shoot at night at the Immaculate Conception Cathedral which was walking distance from Betty Go-Belmonte station, Quezon City. When you think of cathedrals, you normally associate it with a grand structure bounded by large open spaces, quaint landscapes and gardens. Immaculate Conception however, was bounded by apartment blocks and small establishments. There was hardly a garden and the steps of the church were separated from the pavement by a mere 8 or so meters of pebbles and tiles.

It is true that in the Philippines, towns spring about and grow around churches. As with Immaculate Conception, the city had grown like a noose around the church. Its architecture had long been lost to the confusion of repetitive block-like structures of modern buildings. Whatever façade it may have had, there is not enough space for you to back up enough to get a sweeping view of the structure.

The interiors as well as the crypts are works in progress. It was great shooting there at night when you have the cathedral all to yourself. The crypts located at the basement of the cathedral were a subject matter that is too hard to resist.

The Cathedral is a work in progress of an artist friend whom we call Master Kenneth. He specializes in fiberglass fabrication and interior textures. The detailing in and around the altar as well as those in the vaults are his works. Even if you take a closer look you would probably miss that the chandeliers are not wrought iron. They are fiberglass - also his creations.



Most of the intricate detailing you will find inside this church are his works.



Walking there at night through the soupy warm light, I can't help but feel the awe in the breadth of what he has done. Did I mention he also climb mountains?



I had to bracket for this shot. I wanted to capture the dark ambience of the place. Leaving it to the meter would burn out the illuminated ceiling near the altar.



This was a concept that I was consciously searching for in and around the compound. I tried the shots with stored figures under stairs and cabinets, and those set aside in hallways. I was fortunate to find these in the Cathedral's workshop. I was thinking of it and there it was - almost like a miracle. These statues were not at the workshop for repairs. From the looks of it, they are awaiting disposal. But considering how Catholics venerate these statues, I think whoever is in charge of their disposition is having a moral dilemma - like, how can you even think of throwing out a parent? I believe these statues are in a state of limbo at the back of the church. How ironic.



Though the crypts was dusty and had that choking odor about, I really had a fine time exploring in these dark passages and experimenting with time exposures.



I was taken aback by this scene. Perhaps it is the impassioned look on the sculptured face of Christ, the spent candles, the dried Sampaguita strands. I was disheartened though that my built-in Fujinon lens was displaying some mad barrel distortion here. I guess this is the trade-off for a lens that can zoom from 38mm up to 300mm.

All of these shots were taken without a flash. The Fuji Finepix S5600 was mounted on a tripod and exposed up to a maximum of 15 seconds - which is the longest time value for this camera. There is no bulb setting though I wish there was.

For almost all of these shots, I made use of the camera's timer. This prevented shakes when pressing the shutter button.

Full-Frame

Mt. Ugo
Nueva Vizcaya - Benguet
November 26-28, 2005




This climb was mostly visual for me - though of a different kind. The three days spent in the wilderness were appraised within the bounds of a 36 by 24mm film frame.

I haven't quite decided whether I saw more or saw less of the wilderness and the people we pass in our journey. I haven't quite decided if having a camera in my hand, and looking at the world through a glass eye was any better than looking at the world with my very own lenses - the one that was built in.



With a glass eye, you are looking for beauty - trying to find aesthetic meaning from clutter, abstracting it and then showing it just the way you have framed it. Photographers bring back visions. They crouch, wait, and fiddle with their dials until the moment of exposure. They don't create images, especially now with the modern day camera where taking good pictures is automated and incorporated into that black box that is so pervasive in our society.

With the lenses you were born with, you look and see beauty without having to recompose or needing to frame or be aware of the direction of the light. It was a simple matter of seeing something beautiful and then remembering.

I wonder whether hunting for images made me look too close or too long at things making me miss seeing the whole picture. On the other hand, I also wonder whether looking at the bigger picture without the camera made me fail to see the beauty within crevices and in the span of the horizon that can only be seen through the framed world of the viewfinder.

Clearly, having a camera in my hand and a desire to bring back nice pictures changed the way I appreciate these trips. The experience essentially became technical and confined to the temporal - the world of the “what is�. I now wonder if I have overcome that initial reaction of seeing the grandeur of nature to that state where cliffs and vistas are seen as commonplace. There is this need welling up in me; I sense it.

Anxiety results from that cognizance that we are not in control of our lives. The more independent the world may seem from us, the greater our anxiety. But what happens when we bubble-wrap ourselves and from within the safety of this cocoon begin to feel absolutely in control? What switch in this complex mind of ours is tripped when the mind realizes how far it is from danger? Millennia had created a mind weary for its survival. For countless generations it feared, and kept generations out of harms way. But what place does fear have in an office cubicle? Without much to fear what place does all the hardwired responses to a dangerous environment have in this sanitized world?

I've wondered where and how far this welling need will take me. The thought is more than delicious. It begs to be fulfilled like an itch that can't be reached. I have to climb higher, and I have to keep on climbing.

I set out on this climb wanting to take pictures of people. A passing thought told me how timeless landscapes are - that a person who stood a thousand years ago on these vistas essentially saw the same landscape as that which I am ardently photographing as if it will all be gone tomorrow. You can't say the same about communities and people. It takes only a few months of television to change cultures, and even less to change individuals. If I were to look for anything unique, then a photograph of a person has got to be the most unique of them all. A second photo of a person after a few seconds will not be the same, as the subject has aged a little, felt slightly different about you and the world he or she lives in, and would certainly feel and look slightly more conscious than when you first took the photo.



So I trained my glass lenses on those we passed and on my companions. I started when we boarded a chartered van.
Most of the mountaineering trips I've been to starts of at around 12am in any of the bus terminals in Cubao. From there, the trips would last most of the night and we'd find ourselves on the side of a highway somewhere just before sunrise. From there we would negotiate or haggle for a ride to our jump-off. It would help if the ride and price were pre-arranged but that is not often the case. The uncertainty in the negotiations signals the start of our adventure.

I always feel a certain amount of satisfaction in telling of a fraternity brother's reaction when we first took him on one of these trips. He woke up abruptly and was told by us to get ready to get off the bus. It was 4am. He hopped out, took possession of his bag from the cargo compartment and stood with us as the bus took off into the darkness. There he was, confused from just being woken up as he looked around and saw nothing. It was dark, and there were no street lights. Looking around us, there was an absence of even a single point of light. He asked where we were. We said we don't know, but this is where we should catch a ride to our jump-off. He observed there were no signs of any passing vehicle. We agreed. He asked what are we to do next. We said we were to wait. We hauled up our bags and positioned ourselves on what looked like a concrete waiting shed. Sitting there, he shook his head in disbelief. Where are we, he asked again. In the middle of nowhere, was the answer he got. Suddenly he went, Oh my God! What have I gotten myself into! I want to go home! We went, there is no way. Look around you.

An adventure truly becomes an adventure when it becomes a one way street - when there is no turning back.

We arrived at Kayapa at around 7am and walked into a very colorful town-wide bazaar of sorts.



We took our breakfast, did some last minute shopping and prepared for our hike.

Generally, most people in my beautiful archipelago share the same feature set. There are places though like in Benguet and here in Nueva Vizcaya that are elevated where you will encounter features in people that generally do not occur among those who dwell in the valleys and islands. They seem to have more rounded features which remind me of photographs of people living at high elevations in the Andes. They have ruddy cheeks and narrower yet shorter noses. Their eyes are narrow in a peculiar kind of way - I say peculiar because as a local, I can sense such difference but can't quite put a finger on it. But such features are not displayed consistently all throughout the community. And looking at some of my photographs, these features I talk of seem to disappear or lose their prominence.

It makes me wonder whether what I have observed is a manifestation of a process causing changes in the make up of people to better suit their surroundings outside of evolution.

The trek up to the peak of Mt. Ugo was leisurely. In fact, our guide Manong Anong who lived near the start of the ascent towards the peak took the same path from his village to meet us at Kayapa in only three hours. The only way from one village to another is by foot. According to Manong Anong, to cut down on time when going to town to buy supplies, they'd alternately walk briskly and run along the mountain ridges and through the pine forest.

Hauling our packs behind us, it is difficult to imagine how they could face the mountain trails every week. There'd be sections in the trail that could really leave you breathless.

Arriving at Indupit was like walking into a scene from the Twilight Zone. The village seemed abandoned and all doors and windows were securely shut. I knew because my inquisitive disposition has obliged me to nudge a number of doors and windows.



The only ones that made any noise were the dogs as they barked and scampered underneath houses. The chickens on the other hand were friendlier as they congregated around us and made such a ruckus. We found a nice cozy spot on a construction site and had our lunch. As we explored the village, we found it not entirely devoid of locals. As I strut around with my camera in hand, I walked into two children hauling wood. Later, I noticed small heads looking out of corners catching a quick glimpse of us. Manong Anong explained later that most if not all of the adults had made their way to town because it was Saturday which was market day. The children were left to look after the whole village. It was uncanny to see children doing their chores unsupervised. They went along hauling fire wood, and tended the yards.

The village was full of photographic opportunities. I needed only to step off the foot path to find a wonderful vista on someone's garden with a view of the splendid ridges and gulley of the mountain ranges surrounding this village. Sitting on a doorstep and looking out on such a splendid view offers tranquility finely tempered with that undeniable sensation of security.

The trek after Indupit was long and winding to say the least. We passed several villages and smaller settlements along the way. Often the trail would only pass near a settlement so we never actually saw how communities of only three to four households get along. I did however get the opportunity to run after what looked like wild pigs. At first we thought they were wild but Manong Anong explained that these pigs had owners. The owners would feed them in the morning and in the evening while letting them roam the rest of the day to forage in the forest for the food that they like to eat. I was skeptical with regards this fact. I've always thought pigs would run off and never come back if not tethered onto something.

I tried photographing these pigs but they've proven to be elusive. The frustration of moving slowly towards these animals only to have them run off once you have your camera on your face, and having to go through that again and again as if these animals were teasing you, had finally convinced me to get a longer focal length lens. Yes, a 300mm would certainly be nice.

We arrived at Domolpos saddle a good two hours before sunset. We were to set up camp here and not at the peak. Though there is really no ordinance or written policy with regards camping on the summit, it is strongly advised to refrain from doing such to prevent further damage and lessen the impact on the flora and fauna. Besides, the view is much nicer at the saddle than at the forested peak. Even if the view was nicer at the peak, as mountaineers, it is in our own interest that we should employ self discipline and a heightened consideration towards the environment when in the wilderness. The saddle will do.

I don't know if it can be considered a problem or a good thing, but film encourages restraint in taking photographs. I've brought four 36 exposure films of different ISO ratings for this trip. At Domolpos saddle, I had burnt through one roll and have passed the halfway mark on my second. This was troubling since this was meant to be a three day hike. Every time I tripped the shutter this thought would come to mind. There were many shots that I had framed and composed but did not expose. Many were dynamic shots but my hesitation just made me wait too long. I just couldn't make myself trip the shutter if I'm not sure of the shot.



The third roll I dedicated to time exposure photography but every time I tripped the shutter and released the timer, howling winds would make the camera and tripod flutter. It was exasperating to be witness to an explosion of colors across the horizon and not be sure if you got the shot or not. Film is very revealing of a photographer's capability - it is very difficult to get really good photos if you don't know what you are doing, particularly with shots requiring time exposure. In digital, you get instantaneous feedback, and you are given the chance to erase the manifestations of your incompetence with the camera's controls. In film, it is the photographer's experience that will approximate feedback.



In the evening, I had planned to sleep out on the open with my sleeping bag and Thermarest. It was one of those romantic aspirations of outdoors person sleeping with the mountain as bed and the universe as their blanket. It became apparent later when the winds started picking up that my sleeping bag was a tropical sleeping bag and that my jacket lacked the insulation needed to stave off the cold. It couldn't be helped; I had to retreat into a tent. It was obvious you can't visualize the cold.

I woke up at 2am having slept sometime at 7pm. From then on, my sleep was forced and restless. This was often the case in the wilderness: you walk uphill and exhaust yourself most of the day and by the time you finish preparing dinner, it would be dark. You eat, then sit around with the other climbers and have a few shots of whatever hard drink someone had managed to make room for in their packs. By the time it's 7pm, you'd think that inside your tent is the most wonderful place on earth. You excuse yourself, zip up and the rest is history. Normally, an adult requires between 7 to 8 hours of sleep. So in sleeping at 7pm - which normally I'd still be making my way home from work, I would inevitably wake up at around two in the morning.

Up at two with a few more hours until sunrise, you'd start noticing all the bad things about sleeping in a tent. You'll curse the hard ground, the moist tent walls, the cold draft somewhere. You then start hating the pool of water that had collected in a corner, how cramped the tent was, the way the tent would flap and undulate with the gusts of wind outside. You'd curse the fact that you have a dry pack for a pillow and that it too was wet to the touch. Up until sunrise, you doze off, wake up and then curse everything around you before dozing off again. You repeat this over and over until sunrise.

Often, the highlight of climbs would be the sunrise. I managed to drag myself out off the tent before sunrise and prepare. I wanted so much to do some time exposure with the campsite silhouetted by the delicate hues of pre-dawn. Unfortunately, though the sky was clear, the winds were blasting through the campsite making everything other than rock vibrate and flap around. This included the camera, tripod and me. As I attempted my exposures at 15 seconds, I could see the tripod and camera moving with the howling of the winds. It was futile. Even when the camera is low on the ground, its flat front would catch the wind and make it vibrate enough to ruin the shot. I couldn't rely on myself to steady the camera, as I was shivering from the cold and I've lost all feelings on my fingers. I had no choice but to wait for the sun.

It wasn't my turn to cook breakfast so I made ample use of my time by exploring and mostly waiting for that right moment to take a picture. I'd visualize a shot and think how excellent it would look if only the sun would be shinning this way and if I can get another vantage point there. So I'd inch a little closer to a fine drop on the profile of the mountain and wait for the right moment when the sun would peek and flood the valley with golden light. Then there's that problem with haze - the sun would be doing everything I'd want it to do, but everything would be behind a fuzzy curtain. There is always that elusive moment that a photographer is on the lookout for - sometimes it arrives and sometimes it doesn't.

The peak was forested though there are vistas facing north and south. The peak is the highest point on a horizontal ridge on the topmost spine of Mt. Ugo. On one end you can retrace your steps and on the other vista, you get to see Baguio, the Northern Luzon Plains and Mt. Pinatubo.

There are stories that have persisted even with urbanization, of forest entities taking the shape of a traveling companion or more popularly a child, who would lead you to your demise.
I told the team that I would head out to the Northern end of the peak to takesome photos - it is prudent to tell someone where you are going and what youplan to do when in the wilderness, especially when you plan to go by yourself.The reasons are obvious. I made my way throughthe thick undergrowth tracing the ridge of the mountain. The undergrowth was laden with cold dew and the sensation of it brushing againstmy bare legs gave me the jitters. There is something about being alone on the summit that triggers anxiety, especially those that are forested. Looking out to the side, only the blue haze of the sky like pieces from a puzzle is visible through the foliage though you are enormously aware of the drop. It is like knowing an end but not knowing when.

Further adding to the anxiety is stepping through foliage and not knowing where you are resting each step as well as the deadly cold grasps of imagined hands underneath. The impulse to bolt is strong. I needed to focus on something, like a clump of cherry red berries to keep me going.



But then a time comes when an abrupt rustle there and a terrifying cluck from behind bushes somewhere causes you to breach that threshold and start feeling the onset of panic. I turned around to forego my exploration and was aghast. There, standing behind me was Manong Anong with a blank look on his face. He motioned me to continue on forward. I tried to conceal that look of suspicion and made light conversation as he prodded on in front of me, and all that time with the stories of shape shifters racing through my mind.

When the foliage opened up at the North end, sunlight flushed my anxieties away. I ran towards a vantage point and picked out wisps of clouds below with my viewfinder. It is always disconcerting to look at clouds below eye level. To my right, Manong Anong pointed at a huge gash across a distant mountain where a mining company had dismembered a ridge. Beyond that was Pangasinan. To my left, Manong Anong pointed towards dams I could barely make out at the distant gullies below. When he took out his binoculars, I was placated - there was no way a shape shifting entity would carry around binoculars.

Manong Anong was an interesting fellow. He is probably in his mid-fifties and very fit. He was a joy to have around as he always has some odd factoid about the mountain for every turn that the trail would take. He told of the time that most of Mt. Ugo was logged bare and exposed and that the forests that now covers it are new growth. He told how the forest on its own recovered and still is recovering from the onslaught of chainsaws more than two decades ago. He spoke of the time when villagers would harvest oleoresin from the pine trees and even mimed how it used to be done. He spoke how the government stepped in and prohibited the harvesting of oleoresin as the process employed harmed the trees. He clarified that the peak of Mt. Ugo was not touched by the loggers and so are some patches of really old pine trees. He even mused at the fact that pine trees are not allowed to grow too old as they are cut down by lightning when they begin to rise far above the canopy. We were amazed at the vastness of his knowledge of the history and practices of the places we passed by. He moonlights as a guide but his bread and butter is the recovery of metal left behind by the logging operations years ago.

The hike to Lusod was at best leisurely. During lunch, I dozed off underneath delicate branches of a young pine tree with my feet pointing at a tranquil view of the pine forest below. Everyone had their spot. Some of my companions unfurled their ground sheets and lay in the middle of the trail, sunning themselves. One lay on a fallen log while others mused noontime away. I didn't care to take pictures - I can't waste such a precious moment. I had to spend it on myself.

There was a portion on the trail where we were awed at the sight of a faint line running just below the ridge line of the mountain facing us. You would miss it if you weren't looking for it. It was the trail we took and we were amazed at the distance that we have covered. The largest structures in some of the communities where that trail passed looked like fine dots from where we stood.

Looking at nice photographs, you will never detect the effort put in by the photographer simply because you will be fixated to the image and nothing else. All you will see are beautiful landscapes and clear mountain profiles, and never will you consider your avid photographer inching his or her way towards a clear drop to clear a line of bushes to get your beautiful picture. You can never imagine your photographer bracing him or herself from gale force winds waiting for the sky to clear. You will never know how your photographer would run up and down mountain ridges to catch up to the group after spending 10 minutes waiting for the sun to shine at a forest scene. Of course, never will it occur to you that just after a nice shot, your photographer was charged by an irritated bull. I sometimes wonder what will be happening behind future images that I will eventually take. I wonder how far I will take it.

When we arrived at Lusod, I was out of film. I just missed a wonderful scene of a raised hut on a hill in the middle of a terraced rice farm. The water was not drained from the terraces and they glistened like huge layered mirrors. I was inconsolable as I packed my camera in my bag. I was moping underneath a tree contemplating an improvised bass guitar made of a single string and an old one gallon gasoline container when Grace, upon hearing of my sad sorry state of affairs offered me the use of her 24 exposure film she got free from Fuji. I coyly refused saying she might still need it. When she said she still had half of her 36 exposure film, I brazenly snatched the 24s from her upturned hands and gleefully loaded my camera. What brute! What barbarism! Oh what joy to have film again!

Lusod was a quaint and really tranquil farming village. Though I could see light bulbs and wiring installations, we later found out in the evening that there was no electricity. It was odd but we surmised that electricity is brought to the village only during planting and harvest seasons which I believe are the most critical days of the year for farmers. They had running water though. It came from springs way up in the mountains. They used an irrigation system comprised of large flexible pipes to bring spring water across gullies and into their village and farms. Depending on the lifecycle of the rice plant, they will flood or drain these terraces using a system of dikes and channels. It is intricate work, but it definitely works. These villages supply organic rice to supermarkets in cities both local and foreign.

When you think of kids, in particular pre-teens from the city or suburbs, you think of wise-cracking, medium-sized bundles of torment - that is if you were a parent I suppose. That preconception was soon changed when I had the chance to interact with the children of Lusod. They were very respectful and mindful of what you as an adult would say. They were very energetic and playful yet when you open your mouth they would actually stop what they are doing and listen. It was uncanny, disconcerting and disorienting to see kids stop their play to pay attention to an adult without any fuss. Maybe that is one of the benefits of organic rice.

Again, the day wasn't over yet when I ran out of film. It was pitiful! I had no image of Fredd and our small village guide Clarence balancing on the rice terrace dikes, or of Fredd and Clarence wading in the shin-deep mud of the paddies, or the view from one of the shed when the sun started to be reflected upwards by the flat undisturbed surface of water from the fields making you feel like you are standing on your head. I was mesmerized. This village that sat between two ridges had two suns!

The day quietly and serenely folded onto itself. We had water so though it was chilly, we took that golden opportunity to bathe and feel squeaky clean for the night. The village officials were very generous in granting us the use of their primary school to sleep in. We were lucky in that a public holiday was to fall on the next day meaning that school would still be out.

The third day started off early with everyone cleaning and setting back the school the way we found it - less the dust of course. We had a bit of trouble with our garbage bags being torn to pieces by dogs that we have concluded could actually fly. There was no way for an earth bound mammal such as a dog to reach those bags considering how high off the ground we had secured them. Of course, it could have been the chickens but they would have to be very smart and steroid pumped at the least. To add to the mystery, I can't recall seeing any cats in the village.

The trek to Tinongdan was uneventful but very scenic. Without film, I was rendered inutile in an artistic sense. I felt myself being reduced into a zombie state of not feeling and denying the existence of breathtaking sceneries that we passed. Without film, it was disheartening to see a field of flowers, or a group of villagers in the dried out paddies letting the wind separate the rice hull from the grains. It was dreadful beyond compare to see children running around their parents as they carry bundles of rice stalks in the mid-morning sun and have no means to bring such imagery back other than through words. It was absolutely repulsive to see men in the actual construction of a terrace for farming. It was with great repugnance to see the bright patchwork of crop fields of Tinongdan. All these and more, with not a single picture to show for would definitely leave a bad taste in the mouth for so many years to come.



Mt. Ugu Itinerary (November 26-28, 2005)

Day 0 (Nov. 25, 2005, Friday)
10:00 PM Assembly at Victory Liner bus terminal in Kamias near GMA MRT station, EDSA.
11:00 PM ETD for Bambang, Nueva Viscaya.

Notes & Reminders: The bus terminal is along the northbound lane of EDSA Kamias.

Day 1 (Nov. 26, 2005, Saturday)
04:00 AM ETA at Bambang. Get off at Shell Station
05:00 AM ETD for Kayapa, Nueva Viscaya
07:00 AM ETA at Kayapa. Take breakfast
08:00 AM Start Trek 11:00 AM ETA at Indupit Village. Take lunch
01:00 PM Start trek to Domolpos Saddle
05:00 PM ETA Campsite Saddle (it is not recommended to camp at the summit so as to protect the thinning flora and allow its recovery)

Day 2 (Nov. 27, 2005, Sunday)
06:00 AM Wake up call, Take breakfast
08:00 AM Break camp. Start trek to summit
09:00 AM Summit 10:00 AM Start trek to Lusod 12:00 PM Take Lunch at trail
01:00 PM Continue on trekking
03:00 PM ETA at Old Sawmill
04:00 PM ETA at Lusod Village. Prepare dinner

Day 3 (Nov. 28, 2005, Monday)
06:00 AM Wake up call, Take breakfast
08:00 AM Break camp. Start trek to Tinongdan
12:00 PM ETA Barangay Tinongdan, Itogon, Benguet
01:00 PM Meet at Kapitan Norberto Pacio House or Barangay Hall
02:00 PM ETD for Baguio
03:00 PM ETA at Baguio

IT by Eric Ferrer

Measure of Things

Mt. Pulag
Benguet
October 28 - 31, 2005

It is easy to become fixated towards the empirical measure of things. We rely on it even if it is physically impossible for us to determine the difference anyway between say, fifteen and sixteen kilometers, or five hours and five hours and fifteen minutes. Without the labels or the watch that is strapped in our wrist, these lengths, spans and durations are imperceptible; in a word, meaningless.

But why this tendency of thought to gravitate towards this method where we split everything into mental-bite-sized chunks? I theorize that when we are faced with the prospect of having to speak about or describe our experiences, we force our minds to perceive in the logical sphere so as to form linguistic representation of what was experienced. In a sense, we become a difference engine.

Liken it to:

"Man, I've been to the roof of Luzon! That's 2,922 plus meters above sea level. That's the second highest point in the whole of the Philippines. The trip took us a total of three days. The assault from Camp 2 took about 45 minutes..."

As opposed to:

"Ooooh... That is huge."

It is basically living our lives in accordance to our nature. Call it following our biology, our cellular make up. All in all, everything that we do or tend to do rely on what our biology allows us to do. Without those synapses in the right place, and firing the right way, you can't be Arnold, Arnold.



Affinity towards accuracy or perhaps the semblance of it, and the ability to communicate these thoughts without degrading the meaning as it is passed on from one pair of ears to another – I can see how this trait may have given our ancestors a clear advantage over their subjective cousins. I can imagine how nature would have favored a biological configuration that promotes this trait – how people who understood numbers pretty well were better equipped in calculating the odds of decimating neighboring and competing communities.

Why now must I take note that there were around 60 of us who climbed Mt. Pulag on October 28? Why now must I tap on my mobile phone obscure details such as the number of jeeps that took the whole team up the Department of Environment and Natural Resources' field office, or how long it took from DENR to the Ranger Station? Why must I note how much lunch cost on the roadside diners we stopped at? How will that benefit my specie?

I feel like an ant scouting for food and upon finding it, go back to the colony to blog the details.

I feel as if I've degraded my experience in the wilderness when the thought of having to report back comes to mind. It comes to mind as if it were a civic duty of sorts. It breaks down my mountain to meters and logistical units. It slices the team into non-intersecting groups, each self contained and with a designated group leader. It ranks and relegates my mountain to the second highest point in the Philippines when in fact, looking at it and standing upon it, its majestic stance is beyond comprehension. Its girth is beyond any estimate that the human mind can conjure. As a mere passive spectator to the drama that nature presents every day for millions of years, why have the audacity to relegate Mt. Pulag to second place?

Stand there. Feel the blast of the cold wind on your face. Trace the contours of the mountain and make sense of it in your mind. Try to read the hand of the wind as it shuffles clouds and mist in front of your eyes. You will be awed. You will feel as if you were drowning. It should end there. But that doesn't rest comfortably with you. You are not comfortable if you feel incapable of taking all of it in. In place of understanding which you are used to, you become mystified, overwhelmed, you will attribute it to a higher power. You will then be satisfied upon giving it a name – a name that takes many forms: a mystery, a wonder, a gift. Then that's when the butchering begins. That's when you will churn numbers and rank it, cut it down, make an abstraction until the mountain is no more than an altitude profile in a piece of paper which you hope to post in your blog soon.

Then this whole discourse led me to think: Is this the limit of our perception? Is this how far our senses and constructs can take us? Is this all that a person can extract from an eighty year existence?

Unfinished Painting

It has been ages since I last touched a paintbrush - perhaps about a decade since I last completed a painting. It troubles me to see an unfinished painting. It calls out to me. It teases, provokes and belittles the person in me that daubs the paint.

I don't trust my eyes and hands to produce a painting of any worth. I trust my mind in conceiving, and bringing to imagined existence these images and scenes, but beyond the musing lies nothing but empty ambitions.

It is just a waste of time and resources. Leave the paintbrush to real artists. They have the hands to create beauty even out of sorrow.

I am after all, just a quasi-artist.

Skyscape

I am an artist, I can't resist the sight of the sun
beginning its ceremonious descent into blanket earth
while trees at a distance - like tendrils of the most delicate
of ferns, reach out to caress heaven,
and the painful brightness
silver draped in blue and grey
skyscape where heroes rise and fall
where battles are fought,
where peace struggles to reign,
where love gropes for triumph,
where imagination runs wild
breaking through twigs and shrubs,
breaking through grey blue forests.
It is painfully beautiful to behold -
skyscape, as the sun begins its descent into blanket earth.

May 11, 2003

Kairukan Falls, Bataan

Kairukan Falls
Brgy. Sitio Canauan, Morong, Bataan
September 24 - 25, 2005




Perception, it is never as untainted as what we would wish. We can't help to see our world through prejudiced eyes. Our minds are wired to be prejudiced so as to react faster by reacting to expectations rather than what is really there. And that is where the danger lies. Not all red fruits are sweet, and not all that is green is good.



Camp Vanessa has tainted my eyes and so has Kairukan Falls. Each climb and expedition inevitably has shaped the lens by which I view this world. One climb had even compelled me to take out a life insurance and thus affected my finances up until retirement.

When we left Camp Vanessa, a landslide occurred a few meters from our campsite. It was simple. There was a muffled rumble, followed by the sound of branches tearing and snapping and then a thump. From a distance, you can make out a slight cloud of dust swirling in the afternoon air. Half an hour ago, I was basking on a huge boulder down there with my arms and legs spread wide apart while I look up at the narrow band of sky above and between the towering walls of trees and rocks. If we had stayed longer, would we have known that a wall of rocks was to give up a part of itself to the river? Had our legs been strong enough and fast enough to outrun the sliding wall of debris? Would we have had the presence of mind to run for our lives rather than stare up at our fate - waiting for something that seemed inevitable?

We were lucky to stare down and see only the dust rising. It was casual: look back, shrug your shoulders, look forward and see that the rest of the group had gone anyway and probably have not heard a thing, then keep on walking. All it took to acknowledge that event was a shrug - a casual shrug.



These thoughts played in my mind as I lay inside my tent, alone, and enveloped by a constant thunderous noise of water crashing down from four stories up - a frozen crescendo marred by the pelting of raindrops from the canopy.



Feeling for what is in me, like a connoisseur swirling wine in his mouth, I tried to understand what this trek meant to me and how different it was from all the rest.

Earlier, while I explored the area, waiting for a break in the weather to be able to take at least some respectable photos I had a brush with a snake. I was leaning on a rock trying to steady the camera while taking a macro photo of the patterns on a dead log lying beside the stream. I noticed movement on my fogged up viewfinder while I concentrated but dismissed it. The next time I noticed it, I was made annoyed enough to take my eye off the camera. There it was, coiled about a meter away from my forearm was a snake - bright green with red markings, licking at the air towards my direction with its bluish forked tongue. The sight sent me into the air and almost sent photographer and camera into the water.



After the initial shock of being so close to something that is hardwired into all human being to stay away from, I managed to gingerly approach it once again and take some pictures blindly. I needed to lay the camera on the rock beside the snake and pray that the meager depth of field and terribly slow shutter speed would be right on target.

A few shots and I was off. I felt I was agitating the snake and felt it wise to return its graciousness and leave it be.

In retrospect, I wonder whether that snake was poisonous or would a bite simply have given me a nasty bout of fever and chills. I know of only two Philippine snakes whose bite can be fatal to a full grown human being. One is a cobra and the other is a sea snake. But considering that even today, new species of mice and bats are being discovered in not so remote places, then what assurance do I have that ol' greenie is harmless?

What bothered me however and still could not explain was how close I came to the snake without provoking it to either strike or flee. My forearm was hot, soft and sweaty, and so dangerously close. Why did the snake ignore me?



These questions are like tears in the tent of an agoraphobic. They reveal a truth more pressing than the literal answer that is being sought. Why was I not bitten? Why was I not crushed and buried by falling debris? The more of these questions that I collect, the more poignant the sense of being not in control becomes. The more vulnerable I feel, the more fearful I become of the things that I have come to love.



When does fear manifest: In ignorance or upon understanding? Or is it that understanding raises a person to another level where more questions are revealed and thus breaks you to fear even more?

I remember how fast I walked back to camp as I felt alarmed at everything that was green - and everything around me was green. Then I saw it, a larger and browner version of the green snake! The weight of my pace was irresistible and I instinctively leapt into the air over the long and moving body that was blocking my path. I was about to bolt but my curiosity got the better of me and I looked back. The long slender body flowed so gently that it was apparent something was not what it seems. I inched closer. If it was a snake, it would have to be a ridiculously long snake. As I stood over a thick vine with a river of giant black ants moving in one direction, I let out a nervous chuckle, then sped back to camp.



Before night settled in I went to the falls to retrieve a bottle of wine I had left in the water to chill. As I sat on a rock retrieving the cordelette I had secured on the neck of the wine bottle, I was taken aback by the sight of the falls that seemed larger and more powerful as the light died all around us. Black and glistening, vertical walls of rock shot up from the gray foam of the falls, and right where it met the fading sky the silhouette of trees encircled us with a crown of shadows. In the midst of violent swirls of mist and darkness, my eyes stared out trying to make out this nocturnal soup until the day died and I found myself alone and again the hapless subject of that which neither I know or understand.



The roar and drumming of water confuses and perplexes the mind, numbs the senses and brings a person's consciousness into a fetal ball. There is no escaping the splash, there is no escaping the roar, there is no respite from sleep, there is no sleep, only splashes and roars, no sleep and none of the stories told stuck to the mind while the wine flowed and caressed the inner walls of who you thought you were, the same walls you had many a times retreated and chanted to yourself your name.



Why why why does the ground feel soft when you know you are lying on rocks? Why do you feel as if the ground bulges to your side to embrace you, to keep you where you lay, to roll your head from side to side while knowing your sleep will never come? Why why why does the roots and vines rises from the ground to inch towards you but you could never see their faces. Why do you see their moss laden hands sprawl out to clutch the ground as if to bring a whisper towards your ear? Why do you feel you know them and give them your forehead to stroke? Why do you not speak even as you lick your dry lips? Why do you see yourself running towards the silver streak of the falls?


Itinerary
Day 1
05:00am Meet at Mt. Samat Ferry Terminal at the CCP, Manila
06:30am ETD Manila (Fare Php 300.00 per person).
07:15am ETA Orani Ferry terminal, Bataan (trip takes 45 minutes)
07:15am Hire a Van to Brgy. Sitio Canauan, Morong (Secure a trip back to the ferry terminal. Approx. cost of a two way trip is Php3,000.00.)
10:15am ETA Brgy. Sitio Canauan
10:30am Start Trek
01:30pm ETA Campsite at Kairukan Falls

Day 2
09:00am Break camp
11:00am ETA Brgy. Sitio Canauan
11:00am Bathe at the river and prepare to leave
12:00pm ETD Brgy. Sitio Canauan
02:00pm ETA Orani Bataan Ferry Terminal
03:00pm ETD
03:45pm ETA Manila