Whatever After

         Emma Jane has tied the knot. After years of dilly-dallying, she finally decided to settle down. To the chagrin of her high school classmates who still couldn’t make up their - our - minds whether to take that leap into the great unknown, she forced us to grapple with the dread question: secure yet in fetters, or free but alone?

         Unlike her we know better, and, being made of sterner stuff, our resolve is firmer. Or so we think.

The question whether to marry or not is at best irritating, at worst something that gives you nightmares about limbs breaking. It is annoying when parents and friends pester you with queries about your “long-term” plans, unnerving when you have to decide in front of the gravid girl’s burly cousins. As you grow older, the physical threat loses its menace, but the tormentors become more persistent, their questions blunter and more inane. Eventually, the ones you thought would stick it out with you to the very end succumb to the pressure one by one, until you find yourself all by yourself – without a partner, bereft of allies.

For Emma Jane, the choice was clear. We were not getting any younger, so might as well buckle down for the future before snaring someone becomes an exercise in improbability. We respect her decision, and though saddened by the loss of an erstwhile kindred soul, we are glad she made it, since we can never really bear the thought of her going at it on her own years from now. We can’t be there for her all the time, so it’s just right that at last she has somebody who will always be, at least in theory, by her side when the going gets cold and lonely. She deserves it.

Time flies. Not too long ago we were just kids messing around, trying our best to elude the Religious of Virgin Mary nuns who were hell-bent on seeing to it that we pass high school chaste and untainted by the wicked ways of the world. Back then the boys didn’t give Emma Jane much heed, for despite her charms she stood just a tad taller than a troll and looked as if all she ate were Chippy and yoghurt. One of my buddies did spot her and made a move. We gleefully cheered him on (I even volunteered to write his letters), and they hit it off for a while. Their puerile relationship didn’t last long, but we suspect that it left some deep marks on the poor chap because he skipped her wedding even if we had threatened to talk about nothing but him at the banquet if he didn’t show up.

First love never dies? Ah, but love - be it first, middle or last - is always a good excuse for anything, too good in fact that smooth-talking vamps tuck it up their sleeves for when they need to mutter mush in gullible ears. It’s overused and abused, overrated and outdated. And it doesn’t conquer all at all, otherwise Sawi, the eternally lovelorn poet of the English department of Silliman University, would have snagged his muse by now.

There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our personal essays, and this thing called love is one of them. It is so elusive and unwieldy, so obscure and abstract and complicated that some of us can’t help but duck for cover or run to the hills at the slightest hint of its coming. Since only a very thin line runs between bravery and folly, between astuteness and madness, only time will tell whether Emma Jane had made a wise decision.

She looked so happy that day that we couldn’t help but root for her. She was beaming like sunshine after a sudden summer rain, nervous like mist awaiting the break of dawn, tense like a bow before the release of the arrow. If she ends up as another sorry character in the endless trail of tragicomic marital tales, at least she has that moment to look back to. For her, my minions and I cross our fingers.

We hope she finds comfort in numbers now that she’s on the side of the majority. We bid her well and wish her all the good stuff marriage is supposed to foster. May she never encounter the things that give us the willies – the blights that have kept us from taking the road well trodden. May she never confirm our worst fears and instead prove us wrong. May she never come running back to our fold.

Those of us who remain adamant in the face of the madding (well, marrying) crowd plow on like derailed freight trains, heedless of what other people think or expect of us, ignoring their insensitivity and ill will. Rushing headlong in our singular quests, we chase rainbows and tilt at windmills, ride into the sunset and go where angels fear to flutter, all the while shrugging off speculations that perhaps something is wrong with us, or that maybe we come from Mars. We don’t mind petty minds that label us freaks of a kind, wild blossoms that bloom in unbeaten paths or shapeshifters from another dimension, the ones who don’t have what it takes to be just like everyone.

       Am I being cynical? Am I being a wiseass? Or perhaps I’m just having a nasty fit of sour grapes, jealous that our classmate found the courage to jump over the edge while I cling to the ledge, too afraid to let go and lose control. Or maybe I’m just trying to better understand life as it unfolds for me and my friends, to figure out the complex essence of existence, to find my niche in the overall scheme of things. Perhaps I’m just living up to my curse as a sentient being: forever trying to glimpse the inner workings of an indifferent universe.

            Whatever.

Some Kind of Wow in the Now

            Somewhere most Bohol tourists have never traveled, far from the madding, site-hopping crowd, lies a place where fun can be had in relative quiet. Nestled deep within the calamay heartland, where mornings break on a blanket of mist and tranquility is as pronounced as the inflection of the locals’ speech, Danao beckons to those who seek to break free from the tedium of going through the motions of everyday living.

            Here you leave behind the bustle of the big city. Here you banish for a while all the cares in the real world. Here time flows at a leisurely pace, giving you a respite from the rigors of the rat race. And here, too, you get to experience a plethora of adventures that only Danao can offer.

The Way to a Getaway

            There are a number of ways to get to Danao. The most convenient, albeit a bit expensive, is to hire a van or a car from Tagbilaran. The trip takes less than two hours. If you don’t mind going fast, you can ask the driver to speed up so you will have more time to try as many of the awaiting treats. If you are on a day trip, you should get in touch with the management beforehand so you can sort out and book your preferred adventures, especially the ones that require sufficient time.

Another way is to take any of the buses that ply the Tagbilaran-Danao route. This is a lot cheaper, especially if there are but a few of you. The downside is, the trip takes three hours, so you go early. The upside is, you get to savor the scenery and get an authentic experience of what it’s like to travel in the countryside. And since the final stop is at the poblacion, you get a bonus experience: a connecting ride to the site astride a habal-habal.

Danao makes things easy for guests by providing detailed information on almost everything on their website, including bus schedules and even habal-habal fares.

               

A View to a Thrill

            The first time my friends and I came to Danao, we rushed to the where the Plunge and the Suislide were. But when we saw how steep and deep was the drop to the canyon, our feet sprouted icicle roots, and it took us a few moments to gather our wits and decide what to do next. Unable to shake off their jitters, Angie and Kleng opted to just take photos and videos if I dared to be brave. Thinking I have gone far too far to wimp out, I stood on the edge of the viewing ledge, steeling my nerves, until my senses came to grips with my acrophobic streak. Still the Plunge seemed too intimidating, so I took the Suislide first.

Suising (swishing) slide, suicide slide, call it what you want, the Suislide is the closest you get to how Lois Lane must have felt when Superman took her for a ride across the sky for the very first time. Suspended horizontally, the wind in your face, the sensation of flying too palpable to resist, you fancy for a moment that you are a creature of flight and not a ground-dwelling biped. And in case you are an anterograde amnesiac extraordinaire, wont to forget something as soon as you have done it, you can re-experience that giddy feeling on your way back and hope this time around the memory sticks.

The Sky Ride may just be a lazy slide across two points, yet you take it for the spectacular view. It may not stir your adrenaline, nor sate your craving for calculated peril, but the vertical perspective it lends tricks your mind into thinking that this must be the way the ancient rulers of the sky used to watch over their domains. Cozy on a perch that resembles a park bench, you traverse the chasm as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to glide unperturbed through the air. All the while the Suisliders zip by and the screams of those who take the plunge switch in tone from sheer terror to nervous relief to utter glee.

The Plunge is a universe of scare unto itself. From the moment you are suspended in midair, waiting to be released, up to the instant you are dropped, questions race inside your head: Will the line hold? Will your feet get tangled in the rope? Or will you scrape the tree tops or get dashed on the rocks below? As you fall these thoughts collide in a dizzying swirl, blotting out everything else, even the need to breathe. Only when you reach the end of the descent, arching across the void with limbs still intact, that you remember to scream.

Where the Wild Things Used to Wander

weekend trekkers going caving

       What sets Danao apart from most adventure parks is its deft fusion of engineered delights and natural attractions. Now that ziplines are all the rage and thrill rides can be had almost anywhere, Danao’s nature adventures provide those who are weary of the usual fare a chance to connect with their primal roots. In Danao, hi-tech and primordial get equal billing.

Among the nature adventures, the easiest is river kayaking and the most popular is caving. The athletic gravitate toward wall climbing and rappelling, while the outdoorsy go for root climbing and river trekking. When the rains come and the water of the river rises just enough, those who relish childish mirth can do river (rubber) tubing.

colorful kayaks at the landing

In kayaking, you paddle, alone or in tandem, 150 meters upstream, 500 meters downstream, then upstream again on the way back to the landing. The guide rows along, giving prompts and directions, pointing out shallows and strong currents, describing bits and pieces of the river’s peculiarities. The upside is, you learn to steer a boat and get plenty of exercise from all the rowing and the hike to and from the river. The downside is, you are bound to get splashed and burnt, the murky water and the unrelenting sun conspiring to negate the effects of your whitening regimen.

 In caving, you choose between moderate (Ka Mira cave) and extreme (Baleho cave). As for me, when a bunch of day trippers from Cebu decided to explore Ka Mira, I simply tagged along. 

water dripping from nascent stalactites

Named after one of the revolutionaries of Danao, Ka Mira is ideal for beginners. Even young children and grandparents can make it all the way to the end, one of the guides declared just before we climbed the rock wall and navigated the drop that led the narrow entrance. Inside are stalactites and stalagmites in varying shapes, sizes and sheen, occasional fruit and insect bats clinging to the rocky ceiling, and a stream with clear, cold water flowing through most of the cave’s length. Here and there are patches of dark clay which, another guide told us, could be used as a facial. When we came across a stalactite that dripped pure mineral water like sudden summer shower, I knelt underneath and caught a mouthful. We got out two hours later.

scaling the tangled roots

Of all the exciting things that Danao has to offer, my favorite is root climbing. Aside from being such a novelty, it is something you can experience nowhere else. In addition, it is a combination of two experiences: to go up the massive boulder you scale the tangled roots of a balete tree, to go down you rappel. Most people find the climb easy enough, but quite a number find the 15-meter drop unnerving. When the guide told me to start my descent, it took me a few tentative attempts before I gained enough confidence to start swinging downward.

To Be or Not to Be

To lure more visitors and fend off competition, Danao is unfolding a slew of new attractions. These days they are conducting test flights for their newly-arrived paramotors, paratrike and ultralight, and the buzz in town is that their 1.5-km zipline is nearing completion and will be in operation pretty soon. There’s also talk of opening a paramotor flight school, a first in the country, to make Danao the paramotor and ultralight Mecca of local flight enthusiasts.

friendly staff at E.A.T. Danao

But more than the dazzle of its spectacles, more than the spell of its thrills, Danao’s ultimate allure is its people. Throughout my two-day stay, the Danaoans I met and talked to were ever kind and accommodating, amicable and unpretentious, courteous to a fault,  radiating a lightheartedness that is innate to sensibilities that are unsullied by the ways of the world. As I was packing my bag I hoped, as Joey Ayala did, that they continue to hold dear the things that are of real value, the very things that make their town worth visiting.

merry chatterboxes

I left Danao on a bus full of kids on their way back to school in neighboring towns. Their merry chatter suffused the air, carefree and unaffected, blithe as the breeze that blew through the open window, reminding me of my offhand banters with the adventure park's staff and guides. After a while their voices merged with the hum of the engine and the whine of the wheels. I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

Riding with Legends

What to do when face to face with deities?

Light votive candles? Prostrate at their feet? Do a Kris and pull their legs, telling them they’re the best? Or bite your tongue, all the while hoping they acknowledge you exist and talk to you first? Put simply, how do you comport yourself in the presence of an ethnic fusion god and old school rakenrol goddess? In short, what do you do when you realize you are riding in a van with Lolita Carbon and Joey Ayala?

This is star-struck 101. This is the slip of idol worship. This is what happens when you are overwhelmed with amazement. But this is just in medias res.

It starts three weeks earlier. I come to Bohol to visit familiar faces, check out hyped places. My friends and I drive around, look around, weave stories, trade gossips, reconstruct memories. I get to know who’s doing what and who’s with who. Then I learn one friend is the editor of a local lifestyle magazine. She invites me to write a feature, I promise to return.

So I come back like MacArthur. As I get off the Ocean Jet, eyes still bleary from lack of sleep, I get my instructions. My friends are either sick or busy, they cannot come, I go alone. Someone will pick me up at a place called SLAO. I am bound for Danao.

The van arrives and I jump in, fingering my pockets as the door closes. Cellphone, check. Digicam, check. Wallet, check. I stretch my legs, close my eyes, pray that sleep is quick. I hear voices, snippets of conversations, muffled laughter. I try to ignore, I toss and turn, I turn around. Then I see them. They, too, are headed for Danao. They are the guests of honor, main acts of the free concert for the launch of Danao’s latest attractions. I am just a lucky hitchhiker.

Joey Ayala

Joey Ayala is talking about cultural relativity and the hegemony of Western values. He wonders why we adopt traditions and ways of thinking that are foreign and contradictory to our own. He argues that what may be evil to some is good to others, so that while Westerners find the giving of “tong” a form of corruption, Filipinos traditionally regard it as a practical manifestation of one’s appreciation for a received favor. Aside from being an icon of musical innovation, Joey Ayala is also a champion of thinking outside the pre-formed socio-cultural restrictions. My fascination grows by the minute.

During the concert later that night, Joey takes off his shoes. Filipinos should not wear shoes, he quips, because it’s so humid in our country wearing shoes only makes our feet sweaty, causing them to stink. He says he’s not normal, that something is askew with his brain. But it’s okay that he’s a bit loose in the head, he jests, because it’s partly the secret of his talent. In between songs he tells stories about the common folks he’s met, and at one point expresses his wish that the people of Danao will not be corrupted by the vices that plague places where tourism has gone out of hand. He even asks, ever so subtly so as not to ruffle sensibilities, whether tourism is indeed a good thing. He ends his set by playing the song “Agila” as a cautionary tale.

rakenrol goddess

Inside the van, while Joey is talking, my mind keeps drifting to Lolita Carbon. She doesn’t say much, but every time she speaks her husky voice commands attention. Hers is the voice that rocks the world of the masa. Hers is the voice that says rakista. Hers is the voice I have fallen in love with, the very voice that immortalized my favorite OPM.

The moment Lolita and her band take the stage, they remind everyone what rock and roll is all about. Forget about the newfangled woozy bands that dominate the airwaves nowadays, forget about the poseurs that pass themselves off as rockers. Lolita Carbon is the real thing, her band is the real thing, and seeing them play live is the ultimate experience. Lolita growls like no other, her guitarist (Jazz Almonacid) does licks that are reminiscent of the antics of guitar heroes of yore, and her drummer (Ammi Maranan) bashes the skins like Armageddon is just around the corner, hitting with abandon everything within reach, including the amps, the floor of the stage, the posts of the makeshift tent, even the trunk of the nearby coconut tree.

drummer extraordinaire

As Lolita begins to sing “Himig ng Pag-ibig,” the world around me runs to a standstill. I sit mesmerized, hanging on to every word, every note. This is the love song of all love songs, a love song for everyone. The lyrics speak of a longing as timeless as it is poignant, of sentiments that can only spring from a heart whose love is pure. It is so melodic mothers can sing it to their babies, yet it is this very simplicity, Lolita earlier tells me, that belies the intricacy of its composition. When at the end of the song she mentions my name, saying she hopes I like it, I feel like kissing her feet.

In the overall scheme of things, we are but specks in the vastness of an indifferent universe, a presence so close to absence we come and go with nary a trace, save perhaps for a name on a tombstone and a faint recollection in someone’s reminiscence. But some of us loom larger than everyone else, filling up the empty spaces, showing us there’s more to life than the prospect of nothingness, telling us it’s possible to break out of our paltry selves and aspire for greatness.

In the end, great artists like Lolita Carbon and Joey Ayala are there to remind us that deep inside we really are gods and goddesses.