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The Jewel of Caramoan
In the province of Camarines Sur, Philippines, there is a peninsula called Caramoan. Off its coasts are rock islands of various shapes, sizes, and height—each blessed with either patches or stretches of fine, bright sands. Some of these beaches are white, speckled with little shells and equally white, smooth bits of corals. Some of these beaches disappear from view during high tide. Word has it that some of the islands have not even been discovered yet. Or perhaps they have been, only, the Caramoan folk know just how much should be revealed to mesmerized guests, like me. As early as my first day at Hunongan Cove, one of the few beach enclaves in the peninsula, I was already certain that I would only feel affinity for Caramoan. At Hunongan, I did not resent the absence of a television, or a phone, or high-tech comforts. Hunongan is almost a resort but not quite, and the only such place in the entire peninsula. It has several cottages, all built to superb standards, but is without the distractions of the usual 'resort'. It has one radio turned on only during mealtime in a makeshift buffet area at the beach. I guess the cove was meant to be cozy yet rustic, and purely serene, which delighted me. All I could really care about watching were the islands in front of us, each of them hazy and with portions partly submerged during that cloudy first day.
Looking about, I wondered what were those few creatures that flew around a foot or two above the surface of our beach. "Alimbuyog," boatmen said, which are harmless little insects that feed on little flowers and smaller insects, and that fly only above beaches that have fresh, unspoiled sands. Then I looked towards the islands across our beach, not too far away, and pointed at each of them, asking the boatmen for their names. The only one they could identify at the moment was Catanduanes, which was too distant and not even part of Caramoan anymore. Then they said that right next to that island is already the Pacific Ocean, the very waters of which reach the Caramoan islands I was pointing at. The same waters that surround our beach, our guides said. That is why the Caramoan waters are fresh. And no wonder my nails had been washed white in just a few minutes of wading. I was already being cleansed by the pristine Pacific and I did not even know it. I felt all warm, as if I wanted to spill some salt water off my eyes as well. The Pacific! And I carry the surname of a man who supposedly discovered the Pacific! And my name, in Celtic, means white wave! And despite the irony that I cannot swim, I believed I was really meant to be there. To the boatmen, all I could say, was "Ang ganda ng tahanan n'yo!" ("Your home is beautiful!"), over and over. Then, quickly yet cheerfully, they corrected me—"Hindi kami nakatira dito" ("We do not live here"). Nobody lives in Hunongan cove, or in any of the other hidden coves of the peninsula. And nobody lives on the islands of Caramoan. Not even them, who are natives of the province. Guests like myself can only stay on a very limited number of days. Fishermen can only make stopovers on the coves or the islands. And even the handful of housekeepers and guards of Hunongan and the two other Caramoan beaches of Gota 1 and Gota 2 work within strict shifts that do not allow anyone of them to be permanently attached to the places. So that was it. Everyone of us were visitors. No wonder Caramoan has not lost a grain of its mystique—strangers could only pass through it. It will not allow men to leave imprints. And I, despite any affinity I may claim, am only granted a glimpse. The clouds must be just passing by Caramoan, too. By night time of that first day, the sky cleared enough for the half moon to be visible. Two motor bancas took us guests to Gota 2. Farther into the said beach is a forest. We walked on in the dark, until we reached a footbridge made up of bamboo and mangroves. We were taken there to watch fireflies near the Suhotan River where the footbridge led. The footbridge actually ends right in the middle of the river. And because it was low tide that night, a great part of the river bank was dry. We got off the footbridge and walked on the dry, pebbled river bank. Just beside the path we took is a long stretch of mangroves. From there the fireflies shot up into the air like dots of light. Not many of them are out tonight, said one of our guides. For this visiting stranger, though, the few that I saw were brilliant enough. By the time we got back to Hunongan, some clouds had returned and gathered above some of the islands. Lightning streaked the dark sky. Don, one of my companions, readily set up his gear on the beach and took photographs of the sudden flashes of light. Even lightning is quick to go, themselves visitors. The second day of our stay was scheduled for island-hopping. I woke up early but not early enough to do the cartwheels on the beach that I promised myself I would do. I felt quite shy doing them before the boatmen who were by then readying the two motor bancas for our island trips, or before Don who rose early enough to do some lonesome snorkeling and kayaking. At the beach, Don pointed out to me a patch of sand at the island right in front of us—he said he got all the way there kayaking. I did not even see that patch of beach yesterday. It must have been submerged due to high tide, like what the boatmen said. Fortunately, the sun that day shone bright and warm enough, exposing that distant, surprising beach in all its glory.
I went back to chat with the boatmen who never ran out of patience and asked them to name that island with the previously invisible beach. "Cagbalinod," they said. One of the boatmen named some more—the small, neck-shaped island left of Cagbalinod is Cagliog, and right behind Cagbalinod is Matucad, known for its white sand beach. They also spoke of an island which is quite far off, farther into the Pacific—Sabitang Laya, with one of the longest stretches of beach in Caramoan. Then they pointed out and identified the three other distant beaches left of Hunongan and which can be reached only by boat during low tide—Sulalong, Cabutonan, and Napla. I was not meant to visit them, though—they were not part of the trip prepared for us, except for Matucad. And the names of the islands we visited were divulged to us only either as our boats have reached the shores, or as we have set foot on the sands. On the way to the islands, wondering about their names would be the least of one's concerns, anyway. At one point during the boat rides, I simply did not know whether to look left or right, or back or ahead. At another point, my gaze got fixed on an unnamed island we passed by, which had a rocky inlet where little waves crashed against each other, as if in play. Before I knew it, we were already approaching the white sand beach of Matucad, decked with smooth and small pieces of corals along the shore. I alternated from dipping into the crystal clear waters and walking barefoot on the fine, white sand. "I want to live here," I told Don. He said I would have nothing to eat. So I pointed at the few coconut and pandan trees near the beach, and said I could probably just make buco-pandan, a native Philippine dessert, and live on that for good. Soon, one of our guides pointed at a rocky cliff on one side of the island. According to our boatman, an enchanted lagoon is up there, and whoever swims in the lagoon is supposedly cast upon with a spell by the encanto or spirit that guarded the place. Don and some of our companions climbed to see it. I contented myself with waving at them, then went back to basking in the sun—singing 1,000 Oceans while my non-swimming body was submerged in Pacific waters. he banca even before we landed. It fluttered ahead as I took my first steps on the island. My companions swam for quite a long time in the said beach surrounded by waters as transparent as in Matucad, and I dipped and waded for as long as I could, reaching for starfishes at my feet, holding them up to the sun, then returning them back to the waters for fear that they might die. Laughter was all around me. I laughed along while hearing the kids at play in the waters. The next island was Lahos, from the Filipino word tagos which means 'through'. The small island was called such because it is made up of two rocky hills with a beach right between the two hills. During high tide, water crosses right above the beach—thus, the sea literally passes over the island, from one end to another. Again, the waters surrounding Lahos are Pacific waters, and at Lahos that moment, the Pacific assumed a forcefulness, beating itself hard against the opposite ends of the beach. It was as if it wanted to show us how it does the passage, as if to strike an affinity with us guests who just passed by Lahos ourselves. I did not go in the water anymore. I just watched my companions swim near the shore. I watched Don pan with his lens both ends of the beach as the sunlight slowly faded on him. Then I saw boatmen, who just arrived bearing our food, go back to the boats. No, the forces of Caramoan would not let us feast in Lahos. We had to rush to the boats which would bring us back to Hunongan before it started to rain hard on us. Caramoan prevailed upon us, letting us behold just enough beauty for the day, directing us back to our comfortable yet temporary shelters at Hunongan. This traveler, a stranger, had no trouble at all being at peace with that. I was in awe, feeling how providence looks after the islands. |
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