Growing up, I loved reading and I loved numbers. Today, I am all grown up (or so I’d like to think) and am working in a field that allows me to pursue both loves. I got lucky. I had and still have great mentors, simple as that. I know that a big part of me will always be linked to the place where I spent 12 years of my life: my alma mater, ICA (Immaculate Conception Academy in Greenhills, for those unfamiliar with the place).
High school brings back warm feelings instead of the cold chills some might associate with this typically troubled period of teenage angst. I attribute this mostly to the hands-on guidance I received from our school’s leaders — the “MIC Sisters: (Sr. Dina Ang and Sr. Teresita Canivel) of course and, in particular, ICA’s High School principal, Mrs. Debra Liamzon. Before moving up to the administration post, Mrs. Liamzon was a history teacher famed for her passion and in-depth knowledge of the subject. By the time I reached high school, she had retired from teaching a day-to-day class, but I was still able to interact with her through various school activities. It has been seven years since I graduated, but I still get bi-yearly updates from my mentor and the occasional sermon about my life and loves.
I had just moved back to Singapore from New York a couple of months ago for work, and received an e-mail from Mrs. Liamzon stating, “The task of conserving the experience of the human race is so pertinent that we have to share with others the memories we make.” This struck me, and as always, I am grateful for the power of the pen. For through this column, I am able to share experiences which hopefully help others look at life from a different angle — if only for a few moments. For Mrs. Liamzon — or Debbie, as she is known — a visit to Daraitan with her mountaineer husband Benjo and daughter Denice was a mystifying experience. And this is how she experienced Daraitan: inspiring, truly entertaining, and a glaring reminder of our country’s beauty.
Here are Debra Liamzon’s thoughts on Daraitan:
Six shy, calculating children stand amused at how we are figuring out how best we will end up in the photo shoot right under the landmark of Daraitan — and it is taking us long. A short elderly man with an unsure smile stands by watching — perhaps waiting to see for what these strangers will do next.
“This is our initiation — with wide eyes filled with restrained excitement, I wonder how five men in their 40s and two ladies will brave the mystery there is in this hinterland of Rizal and Quezon province.
“Benjo (my mountaineer husband, AMCI ‘90), the leader of the pack, can make the trek not merely a challenge to our strength and stamina, not simply one of those Saturday leisurely activities — but more of a promise, a yearning to be where the beyond begins.
“Coming from Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage Cathedral in Antipolo, we park Caloy’s pickup at the jump-off point where Aling Lina and Mang Jun tends to their sari-sari store. We get a panoramic view of the imposing yet gentle Sierra Madre mountains and weave our way through the tall, green cogon grass. Our first stop, after a short uphill climb, is the local cemetery overlooking the river. I feel something eerie passing through this patch of narrow land where the villagers bury their dead. It is somehow embarrassing to be intruders on this sacred ground. This eternal resting point is the border between the village and the beginning of our exploration. After 15 minutes of walking, the land is ours.
“Every once in a while, we hear Benjo blowing his whistle to keep the pace. We have to hit the campsite by noon. As we move into the heart of the river’s forest, all that we see is indescribable — no words do justice to what our eyes behold. For those of us from Paranaque and Antipolo, who mostly move around Manila, Makati and Pasay on a daily basis, this trip is a reprieve from the urban prison. What a chance of a lifetime this day is!
“The idyllic scenario is calming — the people are genuinely friendly and warm and everything projects a peaceful journey. The river is undeniably soothing and refreshing not only to the eyes, also deep within our hearts and souls; the air carries with it a distinct scent of bamboo and a wide array of forest trees linger in our olfactory senses and yes, the sweet scent of precious fresh water!
“The trek seems endless. Caloy, armed with all the gadgets architects usually bring to work, is convinced that only a tummy-tuck maneuver will get him across the huge wall of rocks. After our first river crossing, where the bed and rock wall meet, we give our ourselves a victorious pat on the back. By the second crossing, Denice and I take a deep breath and hesitate. Caloy’s rope keeps our balance in the strong river current. A few meters past the course, the rocks look treacherous and the water is fierce, with whirlpools here and there. Benjo loses his tumbler. That is his only supply of water! On one of our descents, we could not believe our eyes: his tumbler was caught in the whirlpool. Like Indiana Jones, Caloy holds the harness while Benjo jumps into the deep to rescue it — only to lose it again in the gush of water. Later, towards the campsite, we spot it a second time in another whirlpool!
“Benjo says we are the best greenhorns — our ascent on the white, creamy, magnificent boulders tells much about our endurance and more about the wonderful sight — sharp, slippery boulders amazingly sculpted by nature’s brush with water and wind. The river continues to flow in between majestic mountains.
“We are so unmindful of the trek and the time — we simply have to capture the moment, carpe diem — so snapshots are taken. Freddie is our best photo director. Four–winged exquisitely colored, giant dragonflies hover so freely and light at one bend; then butterflies cheerfully flit across our path. Denice feasts on this unexpected burst of color.
“More than an hour past noon, all hungry and tired, we bask under the sun and in the clear waters until we reach the campsite. What a refuge! Just imagine going up and down the boulders, literally crawling since there is no trail at all. We make sure we don’t fall from the rocks which are 10 meters high. Denice, the youngest, dozes off on an army poncho after a heavy lunch of sinaing na tulingan and pork adobo. One wonders how she can afford not to be awake while we, in our 40s and up, have to devour everything in sight. Well, Denice at 20 surely has much more time to discover and explore the gifts of nature. I start to think about whether our grandchildren will be able to play, breathe real, genuine fresh air and enjoy the coolness of the streams and rivers… Will they ever have the chance to feed ducks swimming in nature’s pond, or chase butterflies amidst green, yellow and red flora, or scoop fresh mineral water from the spring? Will they enjoy riding robust, strong horses down the stream instead of the emaciated horses we meet transporting heavy logs? Will there still be any forest left? It’s unbelievable there is such a haven that only takes a three-hour drive from Manila to Tanay, Rizal. Protecting Daraitan will be a legacy.
“The team contemplates spelunking. The caves are just a few hundred meters away — but, just like in the jungle of the city, time is a problem. We have to pack up and start heading back. As we prepare, God gives us another surprise: a soft, cool drizzle. A mystifying experience.
“Back at the jump-off point past seven in the evening, bodies are weary, but spirits up and alive. Smiles of conquest are powerfully inspiring. On our trail back to urban madness, we realize Daraitan is indeed an experience. At the landmark where we began is a taunting invitation of ‘babalik ka rin.’ Daraitan seems so sure! I would call it the paradox of a heartwarming curse.
“Beyond Daraitan, other treks beckon.”
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Thanks for writing! For more comments or suggestions, e-mail me at stephaniecoyiuto@yahoo.com.