As first-timers in Japan, my husband and I were more than thrilled to hear that announcement on the plane. We were so looking forward to experience what other travelers have been raving about: Japan is beautiful, and so much more.

Imagine our excitement when we finally arrived after months of anticipation, especially given the Japanese Embassy’s advisories on limiting visa applicants and longer processing times caused by the recent surge in tourist visa applications. Never mind that our original tour plan had been changed, leaving us only five days to explore and savor Japanese culture. We were determined to experience everything we could.

Clean, green, and hi-tech 

Refreshing urban greenery

In a nutshell, Japan is clean and green.

Trees abound everywhere, even in highly urbanized Tokyo. It’s so refreshing to see so much greenery amidst towering buildings. Lush trees in various shades of green and flowering plants dot the city’s landscape, contributing to cleaner air and a cool outdoor breeze, clearly showing Japan’s commitment to preserving its natural environment and promoting urban greening.

Outside the capital, more trees and mountains greet our eyes, making the long commute an enjoyable and relaxing experience.

Streets and roads are litter-free, with not so much as a candy wrapper to be seen on the pavement! Public trash cans are rare, reflecting an emphasis on personal responsibility for cleanliness, particularly waste management. People are expected to carry their trash until they can dispose of it properly, usually when they get home, as Japan’s organized waste disposal system involves sorting various types of waste for efficient collection and recycling. We can only sigh wistfully: Sana all. 

Japan is also known for high-tech home fixtures, such as toilets. You’ve likely heard of or seen them on TV—toilets with heated seats and a variety of buttons for all your needs. 

Hotel bathrooms are generally easy to navigate because of instructions in English, but public restrooms are a bit challenging. There are many buttons, making the toilet confusing to use; sometimes the flush button seems to be missing.

At one restaurant, for instance, I was next in line to use the restroom and the person inside was taking an unusually long time. It turned out she was struggling to find the flush button and was pressing every button available. The bidet thus continued to gush water, wetting the floor and parts of her clothes. She was embarrassed at keeping me waiting, but I managed to help turn off the bidet. When it was my turn, I discovered that the controls were quite complicated. I had to put on my reading glasses to ensure I was pressing the correct button!

But public restrooms are clean and always stocked with flushable toilet paper. It took me several restroom visits to realize that the sign actually encourages flushing the toilet paper, contrary to such signs in the Philippine setting. Japanese technology has developed toilet paper that easily dissolves in water to prevent clogging. However, other paper products like wipes must be disposed of in the trash bin. Again, our sigh: Sana all.

Kei cars

Kei cars are regulated vehicles commonly used in Japan. These cute, mini automobiles are popular in both urban and rural areas. Short for kei-jidōsha, which means “light vehicle,” a kei car is known for fuel efficiency and affordability. Owners also enjoy lower tax and insurance rates, plus it’s very practical, especially in navigating narrow streets and tight parking spaces.

But who needs private vehicles when there is efficient mass transportation? We didn’t get the chance to experience commuting, but we saw how extensive is the public transit system. Notable are the driverless (because computer-operated) trains, and the hydrogen fuel cell buses that reduce carbon emissions by emitting only water vapor! Another laudable eco-friendly innovation.

Seatbelt use is mandatory for all passengers, including on buses. Our guide, Amanda, would shout “shītoberuto” (seatbelt) before the tour bus departed. A fellow Pinoy tourist exclaimed, “There is [a seatbelt]?!” 

“Of course!” Amanda replied in disbelief, puzzled why the simple request seemed like a tall order.  

Kindness, tidiness

The Japanese people are generally kind. I asked a few locals for directions, and they were very helpful. Some even checked their phones to make sure they were providing the exact location. Sometimes, they will even show you the way, and not just point you in the correct direction.

And because there is a strong sense of social order in Japan, it is regarded as a safe place. I accidentally left my digital camera in a toilet cubicle in the Asakusa Temple compound, and found it still there minutes later. Despite the bustling crowds of locals and tourists, it seems that everyone is influenced by Japan’s culture of honesty.

And the Japanese tidiness is made obvious in their habitual cleaning up after a meal. Food courts typically have a designated area for returning trays with used plates and utensils. The hotels we stayed in also adhered to this practice, especially during the breakfast buffet. 

According to Amanda, the Japanese place great value on cleanliness and order because of their deep respect for the environment. They believe that every element of nature—such as trees, mountains, and rivers—is sacred and therefore should be protected and cared for.

But it’s not as though all we did was marvel at how everything in Japan seems perfect, and sigh wistfully at the differences in its culture and ours. 

Of course, we did not pass up the chance to experience some tourist must-dos: We crossed Shibuya’s busiest intersection, not once, but three times. Took photos with Hachiko, Godzilla in Shinjuku, and Gundam in Odaiba. Shopped for pasalubong at Don Quijote. Splurged a little at Uniqlo and Gotemba Premium Outlets. Personalized our cup noodles at the Cup Noodles Museum in Yokohama. Ate ramen and takoyaki, and sipped matcha.

Majesty

But the best part and the most memorable for me was seeing Mount Fuji.

We traveled for hours, hoping to see Mount Fuji near Lake Kawaguchi, but cloudy skies frustrated us. We woke the next day to the same overcast skies, and we prayed for a chance to glimpse its beauty. Just as we were leaving, disheartened, it appeared, but so briefly, in all its majestic glory! A magical moment. And then, just like that, it vanished behind the clouds. Fuji-san, arigatou gozaimasu!

As we settled into our seats for the flight home, I could feel my legs and feet aching from all the walking we did. I dozed off, with happy memories to cherish and a hope to return someday.

Within hours we heard the announcement: “In a few minutes, we will be starting our descent. …The weather in Manila is clear with a temperature of 35°C.”

The post Wonder and wistfulness in Japan, including a glimpse of Mount Fuji appeared first on CoverStory.

After about an hour’s ferry ride, we reached Bacolod, Negros Occidental’s capital city. We rested a bit and then proceeded to explore the “City of Smiles” by tricycle and on foot until the scorching summer heat became unbearable.

For lunch we wanted to savor Bacolod’s chicken inasal at the popular Manokan Country, which turned out to be under renovation. We were directed to its temporary site and found stall after stall offering the famed dish. We had no clue how each stall’s inasal differed, if at all, but the enticing aroma of grilled chicken wafted over to where we stood and we decided that choosing a stall was no problem. 

For P120, the inasal was served with rice. The piece of chicken was juicy and big enough to quell our hunger, and for P170, the meal included unlimited rice.

Negros Museum

We visited Negros Museum in the former Provincial Agricultural Building near the kapitolyo. It houses art galleries, the works of local artists, and exhibits promoting the Negrenses’ rich culture and history. We caught Patis Tesoro’s retrospective exhibition titled “A Life of Fashion and Fashion for Life,” which showcased the artistry of the renowned designer and highlighted her contribution to Philippine fashion.

A few meters from the museum, we took a break at the sprawling Capitol Park and Lagoon fronting the Negros Occidental Provincial Capitol building. It’s a favorite hangout of locals and tourists alike.

We were hungry again hours later, so we searched for the best place to eat cansi, a popular Ilonggo/Negrense beef soup dish, often described as a cross between bulalo and sinigang sans the veggies, and soured by the native fruit, batwan.

It took us a while to find Sharyn’s Cansi House. We kept pacing a long avenue where we believed it was located—only to discover that it was on the opposite side of the street! As soon as we entered the modest eatery and even before we could check the menu, the server asked: Cansi? We nodded. She proceeded immediately to the kitchen, soon returning with a big bowl of steaming cansi, two cups of rice, and extra servings of the broth on the side. 

Our tummies were full as the serving was huge, the soup was flavorful and piping hot, and the meat, oh, the meat, was super tender! Namit!

We picked up some items for pasalubong in Bacolod. There were lots to choose from, and we filled our cart with piaya (now with many flavors, including calamansi), barquillos, biscocho (our fave is the garlic variety), bañadas, and some ref magnets to add to our collection.

Heritage houses

Not too far from Bacolod is the city of Silay, known for the preserved heritage houses once owned by its hacienderos. We saw vast sugarcane plantations on both sides of the road on our way to the city.

There are 31 ancestral houses recognized by the then National Historical Institute (NHI, now known as the National Historical Commission of the Philippines), and three transformed into museums and open to the public.

Other ancestral houses remain inhabited by the owning families; a few have been occupied by commercial establishments and are identifiable only by the NHI markers on their exteriors.

Unfortunately, one of the three museums, Balay Negrense, was closed for repair. We only managed to take a few photos and admire its grandeur from the outside. 

Built around 1900, Balay Negrense was the residence of the sugar baron Victor Fernandez Gaston. It is located on Cinco de Noviembre Street, which holds significant importance in Negrense history. 

Cinco de Noviembre marks the date of the successful Negros Revolution against Spanish rule in 1898. A marker and a replica of the drugstore Farmacia Locsin were built on its original site to commemorate the historic event, as this was the place where the Negrenses secretly planned their revolution.

Another notable residence is the Cesar Lacson Locsin Ancestral House, site of the renowned El Ideal bakery that started operations in 1920. We bought El Ideal’s barquillos and angel cookies to snack on as we continued our heritage tour. 

Affluence

The Bernardino Jalandoni Ancestral House is another museum that has preserved much of its original furniture and interior design. The two-story residence attests to the affluence of its owner—large windows, four-poster beds, metal ceilings from Germany, and intricately designed wooden transoms.

The house has proven durable over the years. According to the museum guide, except for the roof, which has required maintenance due to wear and tear, no pest control has ever been conducted there.

Another noteworthy detail is that, despite the house’s large size, the toilet is located outside the main living area—a common feature in mansions of old. Our guide pointed out that having a toilet during that era was a status symbol as plumbing systems were typically only sourced from abroad.

The Hofileña Ancestral House and Museum was built in 1934 by Manuel Severino Hofileña for his wife, Gilda Ledesma Hojilla, a former Miss Silay, and their nine children, who were all into the arts. Each of their photos is prominently displayed on top of the German-made piano in the living room. (One of the Hofileña children is the mother of actor Rey “PJ” Abellana, father of actress Carla Abellana.)

The museum’s extensive collection includes antique furniture, porcelain, books, travel souvenirs, and artworks by Juan Luna, Félix Resurrección Hidalgo, Fernando Amorsolo, Vicente Manansala, and Bencab, to name a few.

These priceless works are why cameras are not allowed on the museum’s second floor, starting when an Amorsolo painting was stolen a year ago. Fortunately, the painting has been recovered, and at the time of our visit, a ceremony to reinstall it in the museum was to take place later in the day.

Two artifacts from the collection particularly amused us: the world’s smallest dolls, the details of which one can only see through a magnifying glass; and the Mariposa chair, named after its butterfly-shaped backrest. The chair may look ordinary, but what adds to its charm is the museum guide’s anecdote of how it was used in the past: The woman being wooed sat on one end, her suitor on the other end, and her parents between them.

Churches

We also visited Catholic churches in the cities. 

Completed in 1882, the San Sebastian Cathedral in Bacolod is the seat of the Diocese of Bacolod. It is conveniently located right across from the Bacolod Public Plaza and was visited by the late Pope John Paul II in 1981. It is one of the designated jubilee pilgrim churches in celebration of this year’s Jubilee Year. We were impressed by the newly refurbished altar, adorned with bright lights and ornate decorations highlighting its patron saint, San Sebastian.

The San Diego Pro-Cathedral in Silay, built in 1925, is another jubilee pilgrim church. Its unique feature is its dome inspired by St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. It is the only church with such a design in Negros Occidental.

Distinct from these two cathedrals that were built long ago, the St. James the Greater Church in Talisay City is new. It sits in the middle of a sugarcane plantation, and its first Mass was held in 2022.

The church is a replica of the St. James Church in Medjugorje in Bosnia-Herzegovina, which became famous for the Marian apparition in 1981. It is the first replica in Asia and the third in the world, the two others being in Honduras and Malawi.

The Ruins

The most famous landmark of Negros Occidental is likely The Ruins in Talisay. We know little about its history, but thankfully, the video presentation gave us insights into its beginnings.

The Ruins was a mansion built by Mariano Ledesma Lacson in memory of his Portuguese wife, Maria Braga Lacson, who died in 1911 after a fall in the bathroom while she was pregnant with their 11th child. Don Mariano was so devastated that he sought to immortalize Maria in his memory by building a mansion dedicated to her.

But during World War II, Filipino guerrillas set fire to the mansion to prevent the Japanese forces from using it as headquarters. What remained of it is now The Ruins, touted as the Taj Mahal of Negros, a testament to a man’s deep love for his wife. Engraved on the mansion’s pillars are two Ms, the initials of Mariano and Maria. 

But there’s still more to Negros Occidental. We also booked a day trip to Lakawon Island Resort, accessible via a 20-minute boat ride from its jump-off point in Cadiz City. The resort provides an ideal respite from urban living, with its pristine beach and clear waters—exactly what we needed to end our trip. 

We wanted to see more of Negros Occidental but we were sadly short on time. We look forward to exploring more in our next adventure.

The post Even on a short visit, there’s much to appreciate in Negros Occidental appeared first on CoverStory.

When I first started climbing mountains in 2011, I saw myself as invincible: a fresh creative writing grad of the University of the Philippines Diliman enjoying an unemployed year and at the same time starting on my master’s in the same field. What a privilege. 

In the first of three training climbs I joined as an applicant of the UP Mountaineers, I barely had sleep before boarding the bus to Tarlac. I tried more than half a dozen ways to pack my bag the night before because I imagined 40 different scenarios when I would need to take out six liters of water, or my windbreaker, or my packed lunch, or trail mix, or a stove. It was my first time to assemble a meal and arrange equipment for a climb, and most of the things I tried to fit in the borrowed bag I had also borrowed from friends in Quezon City. 

I was a mess. I had taken a bath before leaving the house but after carrying my pack from our front door to the car, I was already sweating. And just as I was falling asleep in the early-morning bus ride, it was time to transfer to the jeep that would take us to the foot of the mountain. We were sandwiched by our bags and we swayed from side to side as the vehicle negotiated each turn. I envied the efficiency of the malong in putting everyone else in the jeep to sleep. Paul, our team leader, tied his to the jeep’s safety handles on its ceiling and put his head inside.

It took a walk of a few kilometers over a gravel road and puddles of water to get to the jump-off point. Most of us had bought new shoes for the occasion and were careful not to get them dirty. My companions tiptoed around mud cakes and walked over concrete drainage at the side. My shoes were new, too, but they were waterproof and therefore (I thought) better, and at that moment I had the opinion that I was with weaker climbers. Sure, my bag was heavy but I couldn’t have packed it any better. I had thought this through all night, unlike (I thought) the ones behind me, a proud fresh grad of UP Diliman taking his master’s.

Tangisan

Mount Tangisan seemed unintimidating from its foot and looked just like an oversized hill. Beside it is Mount Bungkol Baka, and the two made for the typical portrait of rural life we drew as kids: two bumps over flat rice fields, their summits seen from the floor. It couldn’t be longer than an hour’s trek up, I thought; two, max. But it couldn’t have been an hour since we started trekking up the trail that I went from the front to the rear of the group. Inside my new shoes my feet were swimming in puddle water—owing to their being waterproof, water didn’t drain out—and my whole body begged for a break. 

When we finally made a rest stop, I pulled my trail mix out and my bag was immediately subjected to scrutiny. The group’s sweeper, Patacs, repacked my bag for me in less than 10 minutes, spitting expletives while taking my stuff out piece by piece and punching them back in. He wanted to know why my six liters of water were at the bottom and told me the load would surely pull me down: “Bakit nasa may pwetan ‘yung six liters mo? Hihilain ka talaga niyan pababa!”

We got to the campsite before sunset, but it didn’t have much of a view. We were in the thick of the rainy season, the first weekend of August, and the campsite’s grass floor was wet. I finally understood what dampened spirits meant. 

My companions cooked a pork stew—sinigang na baboy—and even prepared a llanera of strawberry-flavored Jello for dessert. They shared these with me, the group’s weakest link. I was too beat to even slice okra and kangkong. I remembered that in the qualifying 6.6-kilometer run for the climb, I literally crossed the line one second before the cutoff. Coach Danny, our physical fitness officer at that time, celebrated with me as I was close to passing out. He gave me high fives, smiling with all his teeth out, and encouraging me to do better next time: “Galingan mo sa sunod, pards!”

My story of climbing mountains would be like that for many, many times: told from the back of the pack. I would start with so much gusto, so much confidence, only to cuss myself after the first quarter of the trek up the trail for even thinking of joining the venture. Still, I am afraid to say that mountains are there to humble us.

Pulag

In our induction climb in December 2011 (predictably, I failed the October exams), we were met with strong wind and rain on top of Mount Pulag. There were 13 of us in the group and what was described in reports as the deadliest storm in the world that year, Typhoon “Sendong,” was raging in Mindanao. But as typhoons of those magnitudes go, it affected the wind systems as far away as Benguet. There was only one other group, a trio, dumb enough to climb Pulag that weekend, we were later told at the base camp.

Stepping out of the mossy forest and into the plains at Pulag’s ridgeline, at the “playground of the gods,” we were met by a view we didn’t expect. The wind blew and carried large drops of rain from the floor, from the sides of the mountain, to the sky. Outside the forest, the world had turned upside down; above us was the sea, and we were caught in its waves, crashing. 

One of us was nursing a fever before the climb; he grew sicker on our way up Akiki Trail and was close to passing out at that point. We reckoned that it was going to be to our disadvantage if we were to stick together longer, the cold biting us hard, so we broke off in pairs. 

Clouds and fog flew by and we couldn’t see beyond the hills we were on. Truly tired and panicking when I couldn’t see a campsite anywhere near, I was swept off my feet, mid-step, by a gust of wind. I sat on a rock, exhausted. My girlfriend at that time said my face had turned pale and my lips looked dead. In tears and caught by emotion, I gave her my goodbyes. My tears, I noticed, were crawling upward with the wind, not down. In the middle of that mess, I told her, shaking, “Happy monthsary!” It was true, and she pulled me up in response. 

My pack cover, which I had borrowed from Red and was stretched taut across my bag, was peeled off and carried away by the wind. A full hill behind me, Red watched as it disappeared into the clouds.

We reached the ranger’s station, a four-post wooden house at the margins of the clearing, and found our guide and the other group of climbers inside. Our guide was a local, probably in his late 50s, with a thin layer of flesh over his bones, and he was cold and barely able to speak. We asked him questions—what was his name, how he was feeling, if he had food or anything else on him—and he couldn’t respond. We figured that he was experiencing hypothermia. We lit a stove for him to warm himself, to try to cook noodles on, and wrapped him in a mylar emergency blanket. 

We were able to pitch only one five-man tent in which the 13 of us spent the night, without dinner, huddled in the strangest positions. 

The next morning, under the sun, we were inducted as club members.

It was no longer raining as we made our way down Pulag, but the wind was still strong. Our team leader, Eka, called off the climb to the summit, saying it was still too dangerous. On the Ambangeg trail, I turned around every so often to look at the summit we were leaving behind. It hid behind the clouds but I could see it—there—the mightiest summit in my head.

Did the mountain humble me? I still hesitate to say yes. Can I say that the mountains—Pulag, in particular, standing 2,928 meters above sea level—serve us humans a purpose, and that is simply to humble us? I don’t know. All I know is that when I was there, it was there, too, with the wind and the cold and the rain. It has always been there and it will be there far longer than any of us. The mountain just is.

The post A view of mountains from the back of the pack appeared first on CoverStory.

That period last year overlapped with a weekend—ideal for a road trip, my daughter Giselle thought, especially because I was in town. Our destination: Mollymook in the South Coast of New South Wales, three and a half hours from Sydney.     

What’s in Mollymook? We’ll soon find out, she had said in a playful tone. 

The beach is a popular surfing spot, volunteered a friend. It did not sound promising to this landlubber. Still, I would be happy just to walk on the sand, swathed in the matching vivid blue of the Australian sea and sky.   

I did get my feet wet, though, in the first of three unusual tourist activities that took us farther, not in distance but in time.   

Four minutes from our lodging was the adjacent town of Ulladulla. At the harbor, we walked down a pavement leading to the rock platforms, or horizontal surfaces formed by repeated wave erosion over time. There we searched for fossils.  

Supercontinent

The area around Ulladulla Harbor is rich in fossils of marine life dating back 270 million years. It lies along the coast of the ancient supercontinent Gondwana, which broke up into several landmasses about 180 million years ago. 

(Ulladulla is Aboriginal for “safe harbor.” Mollymook is believed to have gotten its name from the mollymawk, a type of albatross.)

A nonprofit conducts a two-hour guided tour called Gondwana Coast Fossil Walk. We missed it. It was fine with Giselle, a geologist, although she said having a guide was better as people would not know what to look out for—as was the case with me. I was also careful not to slip. The platform surface was generally flat and relatively smooth, but it was wet and rugged, with crevices and rock pools. 

Only when I consulted Giselle did I realize that I had passed—no, stepped on—some fossils. I was under the notion that fossil hunting required digging or scraping surfaces in sites that one would need a map to locate. I did not imagine fossils to be out in the open. 

So, the variedly shaped impressions on the rock were indeed fossils. Most looked like pressed plants and flowers; others were miniature abanicos, which were really shells of clam-like marine invertebrates. There were also fish skeletons.   

I later read that the Ulladulla Harbor rock platforms are primarily sedimentary rock, where fossils are commonly found. Organisms buried under sediments like sand and silt over long periods are compacted and protected from decomposition. Thus, sedimentary rocks are fossiliferous, meaning they hold fossils.

The guided walk covers a 500-meter area and is scheduled at low tide. It is suitable for all ages, mostly groups of students from grade school through graduate school. It begins with a briefing on the geological history of Australia and the groups of fossils found at the site. 

A guidebook lists the four groups of fossils: crinoids, commonly called “sea lilies,” a kind of starfish and sea urchin that latch onto the sea floor; gastropods, or sea snails with hard shells that have protected them from extinction; bivalve mollusks, soft-bodied invertebrates with spade-shaped feet for digging in the mud; and brachiopods, which lived in the mud or were attached to the sea floor, feeding on particles carried by the current.

A collection of fossils sourced from all over Australia and overseas is on display in the Fossil House, a modest cottage that used to be the town’s oldest house (circa 1850). We dropped in on a Sunday, and found it closed. However, displayed by the front door like a sentry was a chunk of rock from the Gondwana Coast. 

12 geological periods

Our next time travel took us twice farther back by 510 million years. Ironically this walk was less than half as long and much easier. It is self-guided along a 255-meter pavement with 21^st-century signage. It is in a park in a residential area with lush gardens.

The Geological Time Walk in Brodie Park outlines the formation of the Shoalhaven region, the area in the South Coast where Mollymook and Ulladulla are located. It takes visitors through 12 geological periods, represented by boulders of local rocks laid out in chronological order.  

A brochure explains that the boulders depict the major geological events such as earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that affected the region. Studying the composition of the boulders shows how these natural occurrences transformed the Earth’s surface.   

This geological time walk is one of only seven in the world.  

On the welcome marker, the inscription reads in part: “Your journey begins with the oldest rocks found in this region…Every meter along this path takes you two million years toward the present.” 

The starting point is the Cambrian geological period (541 to 485 million years ago) when the Shoalhaven region was the floor of a vast ocean more than 4 kilometers deep. The region remained submerged during the Ordovician Period (485 to 444 million years ago), emerging only during the early Permian period (298 to 252 million years ago). 

It became part of the supercontinent Gondwana during the Carboniferous period (358 to 298 million years ago) when tectonic activity ceased.

The time walk ends with the Quaternary period (2.6 million years ago to the present).

I breezed through the walk, science going over my head. Giselle found it well thought out, with information provided along the way. To her, it was an instant refresher course that set her off on her own side trip down Memory Lane.  

At the Jurassic station (201 to 145 million years ago) she recalled, amused, her class’s “review” of the Steven Spielberg blockbuster, noting certain scientific inaccuracies but conceding artistic license. For example, the Tyrannosaurus rex was from the next period, Cretaceous (145 to 66 million years ago).

Continuing our walk, we reached an intersecting trail, marked One Track for All. As the name suggests, it is an easy walk in the bush, with stunning, sweeping views of the coast and harbor from lookout decks.    

Aboriginals’ arrival 

Like the two previous walks, this one also tells a story about the place, its culture and people. It is told from an Aboriginal perspective in nuggets of information illustrated by wood sculptures and relief carvings by local artist Noel Butler, an indigenous elder and sustainability advocate. 

The first Aboriginals arrived in this region about 40,000 years ago, at least 20,000 years after those in the Northern Territory. 

Most relief carvings are installed along the track, like an outdoor exhibit. Among those we passed was a set of carvings on a bench showing the Aboriginals’ watercraft, like canoes and rafts, alongside the white settlers’ boats and ships. Elsewhere another set of carvings shows tools and weaponry: spears, boomerangs, nets, traps; and rifles and muskets. 

The Aboriginals relied on the region’s rich marine resources for food and livelihood. This is showcased in another set displayed on a lookout deck. The barrier serves as background for carvings of fish and shellfish caught in the area, like salmon, snapper, dusky flathead, bream and calamari. 

For three days, this fish lover feasted on fish and chips—from paper-wrapped takeaway to the elegantly plated dish served with tartar sauce and mushy peas at the hotel restaurant of British chef-author-tv show presenter Rick Stein. 

One standing carving had a handwritten (etched) greeting and message beside it: Wada! Keep your maburah (eyes) open. Watch where you put your dhana (foot). Lots of things live here! 

Another read: Let’s work together to respect the values of our natural heritage. And always enjoy Ngulla Dulla, our home. Wada!

Unfortunately, time and the elements have taken their toll on the installations. Many were cracked and washed out, badly needing repair and restoration.  

Winding up our walk at around 6 p.m. (still light in December), we headed to a food shop for dinner, which we ate picnic-style on Mollymook beach. 

An ancient land

The day’s experiences took me back to my first trip to Australia almost 30 years ago with a group of colleagues, among them Ester Dipasupil and CoverStory editor Chato Garcellano. 

We went to the Blue Mountains, famous for the blue haze attributed to the eucalyptus trees, two hours from Sydney. After showing us around the usual tourist sites, our guide, a former high school geology teacher, drove us to a bushland area fenced off from the public. 

There, like the artist Noel Butler, he showed us plants that grew in the area, one of which was the grass tree “from which, he said, all pine trees are descended,” as Chato noted in her report. 

On a subsequent trip, I learned that only two years earlier, in 1994, a conifer believed to have become extinct before the time of homo sapiens was discovered accidentally by an off-duty parks and wildlife ranger in a secluded section of the Blue Mountains Park.  

The Wollemi Pine is one of the world’s rarest and oldest living trees. It is from the same geological period as the T. rex; thus, it is also called “Dinosaur Tree” even though it outlived the dinosaurs. Now a critically endangered species, Wollemi Pine has not evolved significantly over time, and is thus also called a “living fossil.”

It was only while writing this story that I read through the Geological Time Walk brochure, and came across the most astonishing facts. 

The Earth’s crust formed about 4,600 million years ago. Our geological time walk took us “only” as far back as 510 million years because that is when New South Wales and the entire eastern side of Australia formed.  

The western half formed way much earlier, with the oldest parts, in Western Australia, known to be about 4,000 million years old! 

From 30 years back, the words of our Blue Mountains guide echoed in my mind: “Australia is an ancient land.”

The post Land before time: Road trip turns into time travel appeared first on CoverStory.

There is something I like about not having to talk to anyone or not engaging with anyone even as I am in a crowded airport terminal or sitting in tight proximity to the next person in economy class. One doesn’t make eye contact or feel the need to say a word in greeting or acknowledgment of the other’s presence. Just a quiet acceptance that the journey is shared for the moment, with nothing beyond that.

While I always have a book in my travel bag, I now prefer sleeping or staring into the blue beyond or cottony clouds or being online while not in flight. Many of the other travelers do the same. Especially being online. Like screen-transfixed zombies. We travel the virtual world even as we travel the physical world, unaware of each other. Unless somebody takes or makes a call and holds a private conversation right next to your ear. Part of a kind of “community” behavior peculiar to Filipinos. Well, to Hong Kong taxi drivers, too, who chat endlessly on their phones on speaker even when they have passengers. Something you do not experience in Japan, where many people die silent, lonely deaths, unknown to anyone else.

It’s said that the motor vehicle has led to greater social isolation even as it has allowed us to travel to more places and farther destinations. We encase ourselves in steel or some composite material and tint our windows, making us invisible to occupants of other vehicles speeding right next to us. The same happens even when we are in a tightly-packed airplane. We become blind to others and sink into ourselves, very conscious not to encroach on the already constricted personal space of the other person. Which works fine for me. I could be sitting next to God or Death and I would not know. Or care. 

We often travel to experience the new. But it is the travel to what is familiar that seems to have more meaning and more lasting impressions. The echoes are more audible, the memories more meaningful. Or not. Because so much time has passed. Because so much has happened. Or not happened. In which case the disconnection is more felt. And you wonder why you bothered.

Or you come away with mixed feelings. Disconnection and reconnection fighting for a place in your heart. Like visiting a now-subdivided ancestral farm acquired by my grandparents almost a century ago that one wants to keep for sentimental reasons but one knows will require more effort and time and money to become truly productive. Thus, while one can capture bucolic scenes on camera, they are deceptive and will never show unresolved issues of conflicting land claims and use, or even downright neglect. That observation about us being mere stewards of the earth is painfully true. We will never truly own this earth. We can only take care of it, or destroy it. We need not look to outer space for aliens. We are the aliens to this earth. And that is the ultimate disconnection.

The farm is in Talakag town in Bukidnon, of late a hotbed for the insurgency, and close to where an FA-50 fighter jet of the Air Force went down just a few days ago. That a fighter jet is used in support of ground troops in the middle of the night in mountainous terrain is a questionable tactic. Unless it was psyops and they were buzzing the insurgent enemy. Flying low and robbing the guerillas of sleep. Well, one should never do that in Bukidnon, the province of cloud-covered mountains. Even a civilian airliner is ill-advised to go low in the area, as unfortunately happened to the Cebu Pacific Flight 387 that went down in Mount Sumagaya in Claveria, a highland town of Misamis Oriental adjoining Bukidnon, as it attempted an unusual approach to the old Lumbia airport, now an Edca site. The best approach to Lumbia is over the sea, not over the mountains. By mid-afternoon it is rainy and clouds wreathe the mountains. Risky enough for civil aviation, how much more for a military fighter jet, going at high speed, at night; anything can happen to a low-flying aircraft.

Still, there is the bounty of good food, nice places, and good company to enjoy wherever we travel. One still needs attachments, after all, no matter how fleeting.

Read more: Finding the quiet

The post Setting forth alone to the familiar, or travel as disconnection appeared first on CoverStory.

But just days before the show, it was in danger of being cancelled in the wake of a dispute between the New South Wales (NSW) state government and the rail and transport unions, with the latter poised to strike. 

Trains play a crucial role in the celebration, being the recommended mode of transport in and out of the city and across the Sydney harbor. Cars are best left at home, with roads leading to fireworks viewing areas closed.  

Concerned that the strike would put the public at risk, the state’s police chief warned that cancelling the New Year’s Eve fireworks could not be ruled out. 

Then on Christmas Eve, Sydneysiders got the gift they wished for. The state government and the rail unions reached an agreement ensuring that no industrial action would affect the event, even as the bargaining continued. 

Not only that. Extra public transport services would be running along the Sydney Trains, light rail, bus, Metro and ferry lines. Every year, 3,000 services carry passengers across the harbor every four to five minutes, according to the NSW Transport.

Biggest ever, plus ‘firsts’

So, the $6.3-million (P226.8-million) fireworks show was on. 

Billed as the biggest version ever, the show involved nine tons (9,000 kikograms or 20,000 pounds) of fireworks set off from 264 firing points, 80 more than in previous years, and including, for the first time, on the western side of the bridge and aerial platforms. 

Another first was animal-shaped fireworks.

Every year, dozens of vantage points are identified across the city, in free public spaces (such as Darling Harbor, Circular Quay, Sydney Opera House grounds) and in ticketed venues (like Taronga Zoo, Luna Park, and restaurants with a view of the bridge). 

The list of venues is posted on the City of Sydney website (https://www.sydneynewyearseve.com/), which also livestreams the 12-minute midnight show. 

Free viewing spaces are usually full by midday of Dec. 31, with people camping out starting in the morning. (I once saw a Korean flag planted in the middle of a cluster of spectators who obviously hoped to be spotted quickly by their companions.) 

This year, 2,500 additional police officers were fielded to patrol the viewing areas and ensure orderly queueing to train stations after the fireworks show. 

A million spectators on site

More than a million people watch Sydney’s New Year’s Eve fireworks around the harbor, plus another one billion people on television and online around the globe. The show has two parts—the Family Fireworks at 9 p.m. (for children who would be in bed earlier) and the main event at midnight.

The fireworks show dates back to 1976, the launch of the Sydney Festival, a three-week arts festival in January. 

Through the early 1990s, it was put up by Howard & Sons, the family-run pyrotechnics company behind the celebration of the opening of the bridge itself in 1932, among other national and international events. 

The New Year’s Eve shows were later designed and created by Foti International Fireworks, also a family-run business.

“We’re always looking at how we can evolve our show and we believe this will be one of the most innovative New Year’s Eve displays in the world,” creative director Fortunato Foti teased in a TV interview atop the bridge hours earlier. “We just want people to enjoy themselves… No matter where you are around the harbor, you’re in for a great show.” 

12 months to plan

Helping him create the fireworks display are 15 family members, including brothers, cousins, nieces, nephews and his three children, and dozens of staff. It takes all of 12 months to plan, and over the years they have learned “what works best for a show of this size and scale,” he said. 

One unique innovation is the waterfalls effect, with streams of light flowing down the side of the bridge. 

Music plays an important part. A playlist is chosen every year, and the displays are designed to make the fireworks look like they’re dancing to the music.  

This is Fortunato Foti’s 28^th year running the show, but his pyrotechnics skills go back eight generations, in the 1790s in the city of Messina in northern Sicily.

During World War II, an ancestor, Celestino Foti, was shipped to Australia as a prisoner of war. He went back to Italy after the war but his son Sam chose to build a new life in this city and started the fireworks business in 1953.

Pyrotechnic companies are almost always family operations because the know-how is handed down from generation to generation, Fortunato Foti said. Fireworks are part of Italian culture, particularly New Year’s Eve celebrations. According to pyrotechnics history, Italians were the first Europeans to manufacture fireworks during the Renaissance period.

“Fireworks is our life,” project manager Georgia Foti said in another news report. The team also includes Vince, Tino, Giovanni, Anthony and Elena Foti. Their website says the clan produces some 800 shows a year in Australia. The company has offices in Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane, as well as in Hong Kong, and manufacturing facilities. 

Alliteration aside, there can’t be a more apt name for the enterprise. Foti is of Greek origin, from the personal name Photes or Photios, which comes from the Greek word phos, meaning light. Who’d have thought?

The post On with the show on New Year’s Eve appeared first on CoverStory.

Trainspotters mingled with regular commuters at the new concourse to get on the 5 a.m. inaugural service of the second line of the futuristic Sydney Metro, billed as Australia’s most technologically advanced transport system.

Among the early birds was a young local who was quoted as saying that the excitement was like being at Taylor Swift’s concert. Another was a disabled man who was only too pleased with the wheelchair accessibility, with no step or gap between the platform and the train car.   

Fully automated high-speed driverless trains will soon be zooming up and down the 15-5-kilometer track between Sydenham and Chatswood in northern Sydney, crossing the CBD—underground and under the Sydney Harbor. 

The Metro is the latest addition to Greater Sydney’s public transport system that includes trains, buses, light rail/trams, and ferries. It vastly improves passenger capacity and the general ease of commuting with more trips and connections.

Shorter, safer commute 

Trains running at 100 km per hour arrive every four or five minutes during weekday peak hours, and can carry up to 40,000 passengers per hour, according to the Metro website.   

Surveys show that among residents of capital cities, Sydneysiders log the longest commute times to work, averaging up to 71 minutes. Those in Darwin have the shortest: 36 minutes. The statistics may have become just a fact of life, but the pandemic work-from-home arrangement drove home the reality of the tiring, time-consuming daily commute.    

No wonder that the Metro was reported to be a resounding success in its first week. Travel from Sydenham to Sydney CBD, for example, takes nine minutes, or four minutes faster than by train.

The Metro opened in 2019, with the first 36-km line running between the northwest and northern suburbs. It introduced the look and feel of space-age commuting with the design of train stations and platform safety facilities, among other features. 

For example, glass safety screens are installed along the station platforms to prevent wheelchairs, walkers, baby strollers, even passengers from accidentally falling onto the tracks. The screens have sliding doors located at the exact spots where train carriages come to a full stop. Screen and carriage doors automatically open and close simultaneously.      

Underground stations

The recently opened second Metro line presents other marvels, some of which my daughter Giselle and I explored recently when we went trainspotting, literally down under. 

Because the new Metro line winds around the city center under the Sydney Harbor, it has underground stations. One is at Crows Nest in the northern Sydney suburban area where Giselle lives.   

According to Metro info, the station is 25 meters below ground. It has five elevators and nine escalators, one of which we use to descend to the platform. 

While waiting for the next train, we note that the platform screen doors are numbered. This makes passengers easier to find if someone is meeting them at the station, Giselle says. 

On board, passengers can track their journey in real time on a digital chart above the doors. That’s in addition to the automated announcements of the next stop (also on regular trains) and which side the doors will open. Each Metro carriage has three doors on each side.   

Four kilometers on, we are in the CBD in just five minutes. We get off at Barangaroo, the newest harborside business, leisure, and residential hub.

Exiting the underground stations is like coming up for air. Barangaroo adds another refreshing touch: From the top of the escalator, your first sight is not an urban jungle but a cove. The locality was developed on reclaimed land.

Beach in the city 

Merging with the curving paved walkway are large slabs of sandstone arranged like stairs descending to the water. Kids and their pet dog are splashing about as two women, one in a hat, watched from the steps. Farther out, someone is swimming. 

The Marrinawi Cove is dubbed Sydney’s beach in the city. It shares the natural environment with restaurants, boutique shops, venues for sports and art events, as well as Sydney’s tallest skyscraper, the Crown Towers hotel and casino, and two ferry wharves.

Barangaroo station is also 25 meters deep, with two levels of escalators. Getting back down is like a deep dive (just like the stations in Europe, says a well-travelled friend). I have never been there, so I am a bit faint-hearted. I hold on to the handrail and try to look straight ahead to calm the nerves.   

The next station, Gadigal, has a different draw—huge murals made of bright-colored tiles. They perk up what would otherwise be ordinary functional spaces, according to the Metro project team. 

As one journalist puts it, it is hoped that “the gleaming new stations, dotted with large architectural-scale artworks, will have commuters looking twice—and taking a moment to pause and reflect.” 

And, if I may add, momentarily snap out of the robotic drudgery of daily commute. 

Food trail

Emerging from Gadigal station, however, what catch our attention are two protest rallies near the Town Hall. One group is holding up placards denouncing Vladimir Putin in two languages; the other is chanting the pro-Palestine slogan. Sydney is said to be Australia’s most culturally diverse city.   

After a couple of hours around the CBD for lunch and coffee, we walk to Martin Place station for the Metro back to northern Sydney. We stop at Chatswood, where the Metro shares the station with the regular trains and buses. The trip takes 11 minutes, or 6 minutes faster than by train, and 12 by bus.   

The entire 15.5-km new Metro line from Sydenham to Chatswood takes 22 minutes. 

By the end of 2025, the Metro will be running a 30-km service from Sydenham to Bankstown in the southwest.   

In the meantime, something else about the Metro is on the to-do list of my friend Dipsy, a longtime Sydneysider who lived on the waterfront before relocating to the famed Blue Mountains region two hours away.  

“I want to follow the food trail,” Dipsy exclaims, citing a review of the Metro featuring the cafes, bars, and restaurants located near the stations.

One of the shops mentioned is Crescent Croissanterie, a fairly new pastry store in Crows Nest that’s drawing crowds. It is designed mainly for takeaway customers, with a few sidewalk seats by the entrance. 

The shop is a five-minute walk from the station—not a bad way to spend the minutes you save taking the Metro.   

‘Happy surprise’

It wasn’t all smooth going for the Metro. Problems such as mechanical failure dogged the early days of the first line, causing delays. A strike by the train and bus drivers’ union delayed the opening of the second line. 

Except for occasional news reports such as the digging of the tunnels last year, not much was known to the public about how things were moving along over the seven years that the second line was under construction.  

At the official opening last August, the New South Wales premier, Chris Minns, remarked that the new Metro turned out to be “a happy surprise.” He said Sydneysiders were not able to monitor its progress, “it was all happening underground.”

Read more: Life as a journey on an iconic two-wheeler

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Biri is an island municipality nestled in the northernmost tip of northern Samar, facing the Pacific Ocean to the east and the perilous San Bernardino Strait to the west, with eight barangays and a population of over 11,000 (2020 census).

The island served as a gateway landmark for the Acapulco-Manila galleon trade vessels upon entering the Philippines. Thus, the name “Biri” is said to have originated from the Spanish word “barrer” (which sounded “berey” to the locals), meaning “to sweep”. The story goes that upon approaching the island, the captain of the Spanish Galleon would command his men to “sweep the ship’s deck” before proceeding to Capul (another island in N. Samar, derived from Mexico’s Acapulco) lighthouse, which served as guidepost for trade vessels. 

Biri is famous for its iconic—and yes, incredibly enchanting—rock formations, that have been illustriously sculpted by waves over time which, according to experts, date to some 18 to 24 million years back. Its seven mountainous rock formations—Bel-at, Caranas, Macadlaw, Magasang, Magsapad, Pinanahawan, and Puhunan (me and wifey visited only three)—are incredibly enchanting, magical, or even mystical.

Sea goddess

The natural beauty or grandeur of these rock structures is made even more bewitching by the mythical story of Lady Berbinota, believed to be the enchanted guardian of Biri. Legend has it that a male engkanto (mythical spirit) was attracted to a beautiful lady on the island named Berbinota. The lady mysteriously disappeared, which the natives believed to have been taken by the engkanto. Later, she came back as a sea goddess who’s guarding the rocky temples and who sometimes allows herself to be captured by tourists’ cameras.

One local story has it that several years ago, with starvation having plagued the island due to natural calamities, a cargo ship loaded with rice and other agricultural products accidentally, if mysteriously, ran aground the island shores causing wreckage to the ship. Thereupon, the food cargoes were then distributed to the natives—and the inhabitants attributed this serendipitous streak to Berbinota.

But apart from the natural beauty of its rock formations, are there other “enchanting” assets of Biri?

More than a decade or so ago, a popular TV documentary news magazine program featured an episode on Biri, suggesting that more than the enchanting natural resources, “foreigners are also attracted to Biri Island for its residents—the girls”. The episode insinuated even further that the girls, instead of being sent to school, are primed or prepared for marriage to foreigners. 

In the course of my brief sojourn in Biri, I tried to validate this perception (or “misperception”) with my host, the parish priest of Biri’s St. Vincent Ferrer parish, Fr. Zandro Gorgonia. 

“Naku, hindi po totoo na ang aming mga dalaga ay inihahanda upang makapag-asawa ng foreigners. Yes, there is a paltry number of our women who have been married to foreigners, but a majority of our young women are studying in schools in nearby Catarman, Sorsogon, or even in Manila. But, to generalize that our girls are prepared for foreigners is a blatant stomp on the moral dignity of Biri-anon women,” Father Zandro aptly clarified. 

On hindsight, gleaned from my brief stay on the island, Biri unmistakably thrives—not just with its majestic rock formations, and neither for its “girls”—in the simplicity or authenticity, unadulterated hospitality, and pure faith of its people. According to Fr. Zandro, Biri’s population is 95% Catholic.

Biri people

But, in qualitative terms, how can Biri’s Catholicity be categorized?

Father Zandro, who’s already in his 6^th year as parish priest of Biri, explains: “When I first arrived here, I already observed the innate traits of the people—simple, respectful, and with deep regard for the Church. Most of them are mass goers. But I noticed that their kind of faith was just something of a ‘religiosity’ rather than ‘spirituality’. So I made a way to reach out to them to develop not only their religiosity but their spirituality as well.”

And how did Fr. Zandro strategize it? “By implementing the thrust of putting up Basic Ecclesial Communities or BEC. In other BEC models, sometimes the parishioners’ livelihood is over-emphasized to the extent that spirituality becomes sidelined or overlooked. But here in Biri, I have thought it wise to begin first and foremost with their faith. Their livelihood is more of the work of the government or of the NGOs.” 

“What I did was to implement a 3-steps strategy. Firstly, was to organize religious cofradias (in honor of Saints and pious devotions) or confraternities in each barangay focusing on devotional practices coupled with proper evangelization. Secondly, we are now on this stage, to adopt apostolate works or activities for each cofradia or confraternity. Thirdly, is already to divide the faithful into smaller groups or basic ecclesial groups by themselves,” Father Zandro said.

On a final note, I asked Father Zandro what’s his guiding principle behind Biri’s successful BEC program: “You see, there is the tendency of a pastor, priest, or of any community leader to control (if not, be controlled) others or those within his fold. But there are two dangerous extremes to this—one is you impose on others or you want others to become you; two, you are swayed or pulled by others, or you become them. But, in my case, it’s neither I want my parishioners to become me, nor I want myself to become them. Rather, in our work of DEVOMISSION (Devotion + Mission), it’s only Christ who should be at the center as our model.”

Hurray, Father Zandro! Indeed, Biri is not all about rock formations and pretty girls—but an icon of true faith and spirituality as well.

The post Biri Island: enchanting, magical, mystical appeared first on CoverStory.

We were approaching the Red Center of the Northern Territory, a vast region of outback desert plains, rare species of flora and native wildlife, and ancient Aboriginal culture. It is referred to as the heart of Australia, where the earth is indeed red, owing to oxidized iron, or rust.   

Three hours away from Sydney, we had also traveled back in time.  The region dates back 550 million years, or 250 million years older than the dinosaurs. Geoscience attributes its topography to all those years of erosion and redistribution of soil, rocks, mud, and other sediments from high areas and sunken surfaces.

Uluru is a remnant of eroded sediments that were buried and compacted. So is Kata Tjuta (pronounced ka-tah chuta), the nearby cluster of 36 domes. The former is a sandstone rock, the latter a conglomerate of mostly granite and basalt rocks. 

The local Anangu Aboriginal people believe that the landscape was formed by the movements of ancestral beings across the land in the beginning of time. As their descendants, they are responsible for its protection. 

Sacred land

The place is sacred to the Anangu. It has been their home for 60,000 years. As archaeological evidence attests, theirs is the world’s oldest continuous living culture. To them, Uluru and the surrounding land are alive with the marks of creation and the knowledge passed on through generations.    

As we drove to the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park the next day, Uluru, looming in the distance, struck me as deceptively still. In a split-second, I imagined the rock heave, as though to breathe. The desert stretching as far as the eye could see—nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—tempered my excitement.  

Giselle’s presence kept the anxiety at bay. Having visited the Red Center twice before, she drew on previous guided tours in working out a short but informative excursion for me. 

First things first. No, we didn’t camp out in the desert (although it is an option for adventurous visitors). From the modest airport, we were shuttled to our accommodation 10 minutes away at Ayers Rock Resort in Yulara, an isolated and relatively new town (pop.: about 1,000).  

The resort is an Aboriginal-owned complex with five hotels, cafes, restaurants, a supermarket, an amphitheater, art galleries, shops, clinic, a tourist information station, and gardens, all a stroll from one another around a town square. 

It carries Uluru’s non-Aboriginal name (given by a European explorer in the 1800s), but it is clearly Aboriginal country. Aboriginal artistry is on full display not only in the art galleries but also in facilities and amenities. Iconic dots, concentric circles, and swirl patterns in strong earth tones are featured in signage, murals, carpets, upholstery, and beddings. 

“Palya,” the traditional Anangu greeting, is spelled out in larger-than-life wooden blocks atop a flight of steps facing the highway. Inscribed on the “P” is the multiple meaning of the word: hello, goodbye, thank you, welcome.   

In our room, the Anangu welcome video from the Indigenous TV station provided interesting information. Outside, the town square pulsated with the rhythm of piped-in music played on the didgeridoo, the Aboriginal wind instrument.   

On the side of a shop, I passed an Aboriginal woman peddling artworks on the pavement. Sensing that I might take a snapshot, she motioned to say no, then pointed to one of the smaller pieces, saying “forty dollars” (about P1,500).  

Two other women had more pieces spread out on the lawn. Nearby, tourists seated on stone benches were listening to a talk about the Anangu way of life. Other activities in the gardens were guided walks and dot painting workshops.  

The Lost Camel

A stone’s throw from the gardens is the Kulata Academy Café where, Giselle mentioned, food and hospitality students at the National Indigenous Training Academy made up the staff. Nearly half of resort employees are Indigenous; the rest are from all over the world. They live within the resort. (A woman behind the counter in a shop caught our attention. She was chatting animatedly on the phone, in Tagalog.)  

The hotels have names that denote location–Sails in the Desert, Outback, Emu Walk, Desert Gardens. Ours was The Lost Camel. Although drawn from an Indian folktale, it is a reference to the resort’s camel farm, which offers camel rides.    

(Camels were brought in by British explorers in the mid-1800s for transportation in the desert. There are now more feral camels in Australia than in Egypt, I am told.)

The Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park is outside Yulara, a 20-minute drive from the resort. It is a dual World Heritage park managed by the government in collaboration with the Anangu, who own the land.  

Besides appropriate shoes, visitors are advised to bring a hat or beanie, light jacket or scarf, depending on the time of year, and, most important, a fly net. The flies in the Red Center are smaller, paler, and flimsier than the houseflies back home, but they can be annoying. They swarm your back and your face, and if you’re exposed, you could swallow or inhale them! 

‘Many heads’

Our first stop was Kata Tjuta, which means “many heads.” Covering 20 kilometers, the 36 domes are also called The Olgas, after Mount Olga, the highest at 546 meters. 

Viewing the domes from the car, I remembered Bohol’s Chocolate Hills and the unnerving, surreal feeling they set off. The Olgas were more awesome than alarming up close, as we navigated the first of two walks, Valley of the Winds. 

The welcome sign at the starting point comes with polite reminders to “walk quietly, tread lightly” as a sign of respect for the sacred place. The park’s website gives practical advice: “Be reasonably fit…be careful,” the path being “steep, rocky, and difficult in places.”

Minding my step while gazing at the panorama was initially manageable, with my feet secure on level ground or cobblestone paths. A walk in the park, I thought, as I exchanged greetings with other hikers, including seniors like me and families with children.   

Half an hour into it, however, the path did indeed become steep and rocky. As though upping the difficulty level, swooshing and whistling winds constantly threatened to blow me away, literally. I stopped looking up at the domes and focused on my feet instead. 

Upon reaching the first lookout, Giselle and I agreed we would not proceed to the second one. The directional sign alone was intimidating: “steep track on rough terrain with loose rocks.” 

Between two domes

We drove instead to the other end of the dome cluster four minutes away to do the Walpa Gorge Walk. This is a moderate-grade walk along generally level path, with a gentle swell midway then a downward slope at the penultimate section approaching the gorge. The reward at the end of the hourlong hike is finding yourself right between the two highest domes. 

We met only a handful of hikers, none by the time we were halfway. 

Neither of us completed the walk, although Giselle made headway toward the final stretch. Around three-fourths of the way after the downward slope, I turned back. I was not tired, I felt claustrophobic. As the path narrowed, the two domes appeared larger, higher, closer, as though about to wall me in.  

Back at the top of the swell, I settled on the solitary bench where we had earlier rested. From there I watched Giselle disappear far below to my right. 

It was high noon. There was not a soul in sight. The majestic vista was otherworldly. In that rarified moment, the stillness soon stirred a sense of one’s smallness and vulnerability. 

The thought of Giselle, herself alone and out of reach somewhere I would not even venture, sent me feeling for the rosary in my pocket. It must have been 15 minutes before a speck of her image became visible in the distance.  

In the afternoon we finally made our way to Uluru, starting at the Cultural Center, which looked like an irregularly shaped thatched hut. Displays familiarize visitors with Anangu culture and the traditional spiritual law, Tjukurpa (pronounced choo-koor-pa). Uluru’s history, geography, how people should behave and look after country are all laid down in the law and handed down to the next generation through stories, songs, art, and rituals.  

One display tells the story of two creation beings, a python woman and a venomous snake man. They killed each other in battle, leaving their mark on Uluru—the python as the black curving line on the eastern wall of the rock and the snake’s head as a large boulder. 

Uluru, the name Aboriginals gave the rock, has no English meaning.

Walking around its base, visitors pass the caves, or rock shelters, where ancestors camped or performed traditional ceremonies. Markers explain their significance. 

‘Sensitive’ sites

The full walk around the rock’s 11-km circumference takes three to four hours. Giselle and I covered the sections along moderate tracks that pass some caves and fascinating spots.  

Certain sites marked “sensitive” are sacred spaces for rituals specific to one gender. One is where designated senior women orally pass on important stories to young girls as a cultural inheritance. The writings on the cave wall are considered sacred scripture. Taking pictures is prohibited in sensitive sites.   

The kitchen cave is where women and young girls prepared food they gathered from the bush. To this day women continue to teach girls the preparation process.   

Boys became men in the teaching cave. Separated from their families, sometimes for years, they were taught discipline and self-reliance by grandfathers. The elders painted pictures on the cave to teach them how to hunt. 

In the family cave we mingled with a tour group and caught snippets of the guide’s spiel. He likened the large open area to the living room where the father is watching TV after a day of hunting and the children are romping around while the mother is in the back cooking.

Knock on rock 

Generations of Anangu families camped there, shared food and stories, and made pictures, paintings, symbols on the rock to teach children. Rock artworks feature outlines of animals, figures representing animal tracks, and concentric circles. 

Somewhere in the vicinity, I got up close and personal with Uluru. Giselle called me to a spot that the guide from her previous tour pointed out was hollow underneath the surface. She invited me to knock on it, like beating on a bongo drum, as the guide had suggested. I did, producing a thumping sound. 

Uluru is 348 meters high (taller than the Eiffel Tower), but its bulk is underground, 2.5 km deep.

In a cordoned-off stretch we passed a sign, ‘’Permanent Closure October 26, 2019.” That was the day climbing Uluru was banned. The act is disrespectful to the Anangu, who had been campaigning for the ban for decades, even after the government handed back the title deeds to the land in 1985, acknowledging them as the traditional owners.

Our last stop was tucked in a clearing behind lush greenery. It was the Mutitjulu Waterhole, one of the few permanent water sources in the arid landscape. And what a refreshing surprise it was, in every sense of the word! 

Shower of blessings

The sound, like gentle night rain in harmony with a soft breeze, provided the perfect atmosphere for heightened senses to calm down after a day of adventure. Giselle and I basked in the peace and tranquility, as we were fortunate to have the place all to ourselves for a few minutes. You could say we had saved the best for last!

It was the highlight of the tour for me, I later told my Melburnian friend, who has traveled through the Northern Territory. Water is life, and it is widely depicted in Aboriginal art, she said. A recurring theme is the search for water, and the iconic concentric circles are a representation of waterholes and campsites. 

Rainfall is erratic in the arid region. We happened to be around when it got a good drenching—overnight, hours after we toured Uluru-Kata Tjuta Park. We agreed with another hotel guest that it was a blessing. 

On our last full day, intermittent showers rain confined us to the resort, allowing only two windows to view Uluru from a distance, at sunrise and sunset. On that cloudy morning the rock wore a misty veil. 

In the late afternoon, we trod an uphill dirt path across the highway from the resort to an elevated viewing deck. As the setting sun swathed the earth in vibrant orange, a steady stream of people filled the path to the deck. 

Perhaps because it was Holy Tuesday, they conjured up an image of a village procession to a hilltop chapel preceding Vespers. This was, after all, a sacred place, and Uluru has been likened to a church. 

The trip to the Red Center was a gift from Giselle for my 70th birthday. We arrived on the day itself and I got my first glimpse of Uluru at sundown over cocktails and canapes on a viewing deck. We went around the park the next day, winding up at the waterhole. 

It was a rejuvenating start to the eighth decade of my life.      

Angelina G. Goloy is a former journalist and PR consultant in the Philippines. She regularly visits her daughter Giselle, a geologist-environmental scientist, in Sydney.

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My batchmates at St. Paul College (now a university) of Quezon City, high school class of 1973, decided to meet at the home of Baby, our classmate until the fifth grade, then travel to the Central Luzon province in a convoy. 

The car I rode in had no Waze connection; we just had Baby’s SMS instructions on how to get to her place saved in our mobile phones. (Here’s a lesson painfully learned: Never travel without Waze during uncertain times.) We stopped at various gas stations to ask for directions, to no avail—until we happened upon a Grab delivery guy on a motorcycle gassing up.

We rolled down our windows, called out to him, and offered a deal: “Mamang Grab, tulong po! Hire namin kayo. Ihatid niyo kami sa subdivision na ito.”

It turned out we were his buena mano customers. He rode, we followed him. He got us to the exact address of assembly, and our Paulinian chauffeur handed him the fare for his guiding service, with a tip. We thanked him profusely. He was all smiles, perhaps thinking, “Oh, colegiala senior citizens!” The worst combination, maybe!

Danny Dalena

My two friends and I got off the vehicle as though we had covered hundreds of kilometers already. But my initial exhaustion over our loss of direction dissipated when I saw a portrait of the lady of the house. Even from a distance I recognized the style, and upon close examination the portrait turned out to be by Danny Dalena. I could’ve lingered longer in front of it, but then it was time to leave with the other girls, now assembled and tittering in excitement.

We queued outside the powder room to pee and freshen up before the journey to—yes, I know—a nearby province that is almost part of Mega Manila.

We divided ourselves into two vans: one for the classmates who’re still agile and have no knee, ankle. or hip problems and the other for those with some form of disability. Since I had my knees done not too long ago, I was in the second van, riding shotgun with Baby’s driver who let me set the radio to dzFE-FM, the classical music station, so I could breathe more comfortably and not be anxious about the trip.

There was one pitstop at a Shell gas station on NLEX for what I call the lahing makawiwi (those who have to pee every now and then) before we entered Bulacan. From my window, the view was one industrialized town after another with hardly little interruptions of Amorsolo-like rice fields and bahay kubo.

Before we approached Barangay Lico, we found, along the highway, pockets of bucolic vistas between commercial buildings housing roast chicken counters, vaping stations, lotto outlets, sprawling supermarkets, etc. My initial impression was that I might as well be in Manila.

Until we turned to the right, past an evangelical church and past the black gate leading to Vicki’s abode. There was a whiff of fresh provincial air as we got off the van to screeches of “Hello!” Straight we went to her dining room, ravenous as we all were from the journey and the lost-and-found adventure. We vowed that the next time we would venture out on a field trip like this one, we would leave Quezon City at 6 a.m., not 9.

‘Puto bumbong’

And on the long kitchen island worktop was a buffet, including a chopped-up lechon and platters of rellenong bangus, fit to feed a class of at least, uhm, 42. That was my estimate. Forty-two was the number of members of a typical SPQC class during our time. I couldn’t help wishing that more classmates had joined this excursion.

Our post-Christmas appetites sated, we still gravitated to the buffet spread for dessert like the buttery ube halaya or puto bumbong in a bilao, all ordered from town sources by the hostess. She wanted to be relieved of the stress of hosting and preparation so everything, except the rice, was ordered or delivered. 

About the plentiful puto bumbong, Maan observed that there would be no need for our customary scuffle for the tidbit when we do lunch at Via Mare.  

The hostess was a longtime resident of San Juan City in Metro Manila until a few years ago when the family house and business were sold, and she decided to settle in Bulacan with one of her sons and a daughter. She doesn’t miss the big city from the looks of it; she happily showed us around the house, especially the roof deck where, on a clear day, we could see forever. 

I explored the compound, but I was warned not to go past a fallen tree which, it’s believed, still harbors invisible inhabitants who may cause one to accidentally trip or get unexplainably sick.

In my mind I said, “Tabi tabi po (Please, let me pass),” as I took pictures of the plants and flowers which seemed to be thriving despite too much sunshine. 

Earlier we played a round of the card game LCR (for Left Center Right) wherein you pick a card, and if you pick a C, you put a money bill in the pot, until everybody’s out of bills and the pot is won by the last girl sitting with still some bills on her. The girl was me. The pot? Around P6,000, which we all agreed should go to our private fund-raiser for a classmate seriously ill.

We also played the white elephant game (one girl’s “trash” is another’s “treasure”). So generous were my classmates that they were willing to part with branded handbags and purses, among others. I went home with a Lanelle Abueva bowl, a donation from Marissa. I was on a lucky streak.

Bibit taught us the rudiments of a new kind of dominoes. Things were simpler in my childhood; this newfangled game was complicated, and I tuned out after repeated explanations of how it was played.

Leave-taking

Last on our short itinerary was a trip to the farm of Vicki’s son in neighboring Barangay Coral na Bato. We were in a rush to have our group pictures taken wearing our hats and sunnies because the five o’clock light was fading fast. We had to head out to QC before it grew dark.

Bitin? Yes, we were left a little hanging. We couldn’t find any more time to visit the centuries-old San Juan de Dios Church in San Rafael, or call on the nuns, especially the mother superior, at St. Paul University in the nearby town of San Miguel.

We reached our QC destination without incident. As our school hymn says, “Hark!”

Read more: On the way to Bayambang we drove north to Vigan 

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