By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

A group of eight bikers arrived as we were leaving the area before three o’clock in the afternoon. My companions took their turns taking a bath in a makeshift shack made of bamboos. JC and Chloe took a shower in a faucet under the bamboo trees. I decided to take a bath as soon as we reach home as I forgot the clean clothes to change with in the van. As we walked back to the meeting area for the toratora, one of the bikers jokingly asked another biker:

“What have we done to you for you to make us go through that ordeal coming here? Shout out, never again!”

JC left them the remaining bottle of liquor, not wanting to waste it in the tremors of the toratora that spilled on its floor the spirit of the wine brought by its previous riders.

We sat with others who were waiting for the toratora, one having lost its brakes, the other with a broken something. There were only five of them servicing the camp, and the three were delayed for some maintenance job. As we waited, the bikers with whom JC left the liquor arrived carrying their bikes. One of them remarked to a fellow biker:

“You know, these bikes are expensive, but it’s okay, if we leave without them, we can buy another one, since we are all employed. What is important is we come out of here alive before dark.”

Emma amused herself with the mayanas in the waiting area. The lady who owns them graciously allowed her to cut from them, placing them carefully in a bottle with a little distilled water. Our toratora arrived. I wanted to sit myself in the front like before, but JC requested that Susan and Chloe to sit in the front instead. I immediately obliged and tried to get into the front seat of the other vehicle. Since it was too high and required so much strength to jump up, I decided to join my original companions at the back of the toratora, also to get a closer glimpse of a tree we passed by earlier with grape-like fruits, and to be able to snatch some stems I could propagate.

We expected the same ordeal as we experienced in the morning, and for the first ten minutes it was. As the skies began to darken, the driver took us to an alternate route, which buried the tires deep in mud, unable to move. After so many tries, we survived the first hurdle. Then he tried again, we got stuck again.  He decided to take the old road. It was, like before, much like an octopus ride, with all of us flinging in all directions, and the dog Parker, clinging tightly in the denims of Leo, experiencing a déjà vu.

I enjoyed the drizzle falling on my face, but some expressed concern that the rain might suddenly pour. The driver was trying very hard to get us back before the downpour as we were totally exposed at the back of the vehicle. In a few seconds, the rained poured like I never experienced it before. It landed heavily on my skin, like a hard massage from a masseur just beginning to practice, pressures that penetrate the veins under it and leave you bruised.

As he sped off, we chanced upon the toratora where I was supposed to ride earlier, stuck among a cluster of mature bamboo trees, suspended above a ravine, twenty feet below. Since its nose protruded on the way, we could not speed up to reach the top, and had to stop to find out what happened to the other toratora and assist to resolve the problem. As he walked up in the slippery mud, Susan and Chloe rushed down, slipping in some steps.

“We are walking in that other direction. It is better than falling into the ravine in that toratora.”

(I have photos of the makeshift huts being overtaken slowly by the sudden rush of the Banahaw River, where everyone ate on the tables with their feet submerged in water. I have videos of the shifting temper of the sky, the wind and the water. I have recorded the song of the springs before they were muted by the high tide.  I have frozen those exquisite moments and captured the emotions live as we were. They will forever remind me of the adventurism of my life).  (To be continued)

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