Nong Cabo, my T’boli kumpare, is slowly but deftly paddling his pirogue over the moss gray lake while I tensely keep myself steady at the front, though occasionally unable to resist slicing the water with my fingers and marveling at how warm it feels in a cold, mist-shrouded dawn. The sun is barely up and the lotus blooms have yet to explode into an exuberant carpet of emerald and pink as if waiting for the early morning fog to lift its sleepy brow.
We set out early to source some tilapia from a cousin for breakfast. Nang Inyang, Cabo’s wife, wanted plump ones to broil and insisted on having them freshly drawn from the fish cages that dotted the banks of this 300-plus-square-kilometer lake on top of this chilly mountain town. There are two other smaller lakes nearby, Seloton and Lahit, and together they provide most of the tilapia that are fancied by the lowlanders for their succulence, flavor and lack of strong offensive smell which is often associated with freshwater fish. The lake may just be a source of income to most of the town’s residents for decades, but for somebody who has been in Manila for years, this is paradise for the toxic soul.
Such is the lure of Lake Sebu, a sleepy mountain town in the upper Allah Valley in southern Mindanao where 80 percent of its population are T’bolis, gentle people known the world over for their intricate t’nalak weave, as well as for the graceful women in the most intricate fineries of vibrant colors, of soothing sounds and of captivating smiles. Considered as South Cotabato’s main tourist attraction and about an hour’s drive from the capital city of Koronadal, it is solace for the harassed and comfort for the confused. Its long and winding rivers are clear and inviting, the fields at this time are like a sea of gold that quivers in supple cadence with the restless wind, and the mountains lush and cool. Nights are serenaded by crickets, scented by wild flowers and caressed by a delicate mist that is made hauntingly unforgettable by moonglow, while mornings are usually veiled by a flimsy silvery fog and punctuated by the staccato of the brass gongs.
There are the well-preserved T’boli abodes that are a model of economy and utility, beautiful in their simplicity; numerous hiking trails lined with graceful bamboo arches, majestic gemelina trees and fragrant mountain blooms; and the popular Seven Falls that were once proposed to rival the Ma. Cristina in Lanao as both a scenic spot and a source of hydroelectric power. Fortunately, a strong opposition from the locals mothballed the plan, and thus the waterfalls remain a must-see in the area. But while it has all the accouterments of a small tourist town in the Philippines, Lake Sebu has remained relatively undiluted by crass commercialism, by blatant abuse of the natives for curiosity’s sake, by the loud and gaudy excesses of entrepreneurs shameless enough to sacrifice the ecological balance in favor of profit, and by the reckless disregard for the morals and safety of its people. Criminality is almost non-existent for T’bolis are basically a peaceful people. The fact that a large part of the area is considered "ancestral land," which lowlanders, despite their dough and connection, cannot purchase and exploit for their own good, highlights the local government’s effort to strike a healthy balance between promoting tourism and preserving the tribe’s way of life.
Still, the visitor can enjoy touristy stuff such as the requisite boat ride around the lake, which can happily be taken for a pittance compared to, say, the one enjoyed in Baguio’s Burnham; the curio and ethnic shops cum hawkers’ paradise that sell everything from "I Was There" T-shirts to trinkets of all shapes and sizes to macaque skulls to commonplace luck beads, and, thankfully enough, from authentic t’nalak drapes to charming bronze figurines depicting characters both from everyday life and from native folklore.
Tourists in Lake Sebu are generally more of the resting-and-meditating type rather than the ones in perpetual search for excitement, thrill or danger. It is more popular among Caucasian backpackers than among the Japanese and other Asian visitors. Most people come here for the rest and the calm it affords. Throw in a pocketful of introspection perhaps, and you get a heady brew that uplifts the spirit and calms the heart. This is where writers can easily summon the muses, where families can snugly draw together in front of the fire and tell legends about warriors and kings, where executives can leisurely draw their game plan for that breakthrough moment, and where even defeated politicians can secretly lick the wounds of lost pride, of bruised ego and, where it hurts the most, of emptied bank accounts, maybe easily enough to concoct the winning formula for 2004.
Ah, this is Lake Sebu where serenity, sweet and pure, floods like a benediction, and life, as ambrosial as a freshly caught tilapia sizzling over an early morning ember.