Days 8-9 Stay One More Day

Which is what I did when we got back to Basco. As with any other tourist destination, transportation runs short during Holy Week. The plane back to Laoag only had three more vacant seats so I offered to stay behind and let my three companions fly back.

I went back to my favorite spot up at the hill where I have seen, by far, the most beautiful sunset. I took with me the cleaning lady at Ivatan Lodge where I went back to stay, who claimed that she’s never been up the hill near the lighthouse despite being in Batanes almost all her life. She took her young daughter with her. I gave her my purple malong as a souvenir as we watched the sun go down. I wonder in awe how the allure and captivating beauty of such an island could be so maddeningly perilous, insanely inaccessible yet be so generous and accommodating all at once. I guess it’s that rugged beauty from afar that entices you with its “Come hither,” appeal – that comes not without a warning “ -- those of you who dare.”

Days 6-7- Never on A Good Friday

Unmanned: Honesty Cafe is just what it is. Pick your choice of merchandise and drop your payment in the box. And no, there are no surveillance cameras, either.

Today I sat on board a tug boat smaller than yesterday’s. And this time, there was a closet on board. Yes, a two-door, wooden clothes closet. And about a dozen local tourists who were as eager as we were to get to Sabtang island.

"I don’t have a very good feeling about this,” I uttered the words travelers regard as an omen. It just killed the romance. But off we went cavorting with yet another round of rain and waves stronger than the previous days’. In the middle of the sea, I amused myself by reading other people’s faces. Some were outright scared, others were trying to be brave by putting on fearsome smiles, some felt nauseous, yet another was too nonchalant letting the splashing of the waves engulf her as if she was being filmed on MTV. Mine, I guess, crossed between looking constipated and excited to get on dry land. The mere sight of the approaching island was comfort enough, never mind that it looked like a dot from where we were, but hell, should we all get thrown overboard, at least there was somewhere we could swim to. Somewhere other than marine life existed.

By the time we got the port, the sun was already shining and we were all wet. In Sabtang island, there were no more than three vehicles plying the few cemented roads. We haggled our way to renting a truck from an ordinary looking fellow scratching his tummy (turned out to be the town mayor) and hired a driver who would take us around the island (happened to be a guy running for public office as a councilor.)

Sabtang could be aptly described not by its scenic terrain but by its atmosphere. This is the kind of an oblivious town tucked far away from the modern cities where wanted criminals could easily hide and never be found out (think a young and dashing Al Pacino as Michael Corleone hiding in Palermo from killer Mafiosos in The Godfather). This is also a sleepy town where you could kill time by taking long walks on dirt roads, stroll along hills, and sit the afternoon away overlooking the maddening waves of the seas. Which was what we pretty much did after our boat almost capsized, rendering us stranded yet again.

It was a Good Friday and we were planning to go back to Basco at day’s end. At 3 p.m. right about the mass was starting, we boarded the same boat we took going there. Low tide was settling in, the bottom of the boat hit a rock as twin waves came crashing in all at the same time. I was a mere iota inside a pendulum, swaying left to right hanging on for dear life as water filled half of the boat. Amidst panic, one passenger after another jumped off. Good thing though, that we were still at the port when this happened, where the water was only waist-deep. My adrenaline was pumping so hard it turned my legs into jelly.

We were told later that superstition has it that no boats are ever allowed to cross the seas on a Good Friday, in reflection of Christ’s death. Quite appropriately at the Hour of Mercy, we were spared of anything grave other than my dying camera and wet rolls of film.

marooned, gazumped, stumped, and all wet, stranded yet again in Sabtang island (photo by ferds)

We were taken in by a very generous couple who gave us everything we needed and took nothing in return. It was quite amusing how they would always tell us not to expect too much for they could only serve a humble dinner, but actually turned out serving up a feast, that on our second night at their dinner table, my friends and I were jesting that we were hapless victims being fattened up by our host before getting butchered and boiled in a witch’s brew. Here we tasted various preparations of dibang or flying fish, an abundant catch this side of the South China Sea. And a very generous (and wildly amusing) helping of stories from our hosts’ olden days of courtship. The days and nights of Sabtang are indeed long.

The people of Sabtang pride themselves of the occurrence of zero crime, save for an isolated case of crime of passion. On one of those days while we were waiting to hear news of a boat that could ferry us back to Basco, we stepped out of our host’s house and left all our belongings inside, including wet bills and notes to dry out. The doors and windows were never locked. We came back with only the soft winds touching our belongings.

Days 4-5-To Hell and Back

So this is what it feels like to die and come back as a pig.

Against our will, we were shepherded into a rickety tug boat along with countless luggages, boxes of canned goods, furniture, cushions, and hell, yeah -- buckets of ice cream. We were going to Itbayat, one of the few islands north of Batanes. Eyeball weight estimate -- I can’t even begin to estimate. All I know was that we were overloaded and water kept seeping through the bottom. Waves were as big and as strong as hell. I did manage to hold my breakfast intact in my tummy but the girl beside me couldn’t. Bummer, she kept puking her guts out through the three-hour ride.

They said when you get to the port of Itbayat, you had to ride the waves upon disembarking. There is no shoreline and the port is built along the rocky hills. Once the waves bring the edge of the boat to hit the stone step of the port, you make the jump from the boat to the port. Pardon me, but after struggling to keep my guts intact from a hellish sea ride, my mind and body coordination was at its slowest. Almost missed a step and hung on for dear life as I clutched the port boy’s hand firmly and finally found my footing. This of course, amidst a sea of laughter from other port boys, passengers, and heck just about everyone else.

At Itbayat, we stayed at the town’s one and only guesthouse, which had three rooms, a functional kitchen with fridge, gas stove, and utensils, a modestly furnished sitting area, and a small porch. I could almost feel Ian Wright here. But instead met a very low-key fellow named Nick Abad, who happened to be a congressional candidate.

top photo by Ferds

ganda ng lola mo, donned in traditional vacul (head gear)


Paganaman Port

wacha say?

Day 3-Tony Bobony and the Crystal Cave

Went to the port at the town of Ivana with hopes of taking the boat to Sabtang Island. Alas, the port was desolate and empty, only the strong waves were there to greet us.

Changed plans. Went to Mahatao instead and did some trekking on our way to Crystal Cave. While waiting for a ride, we chanced upon a guy named Tony (who got stranded with us at the Laoag airport). Tony is a native of Basco. He showed us the directions to Crystal Cave. About 15 minutes into the trek, two boys on a bike, Joseph and Harold caught up with us and said that Tony sent them to accompany us. We later learned that the two kids were Tony’s nephews. As if to prove the six degrees of separation theory, Tony’s sister who had a sister in law, happened to be the same woman who runs and owns Dulce’s canteen, a place of gastronomic refuge my companions and I frequented while in Basco.

After dinner, Ferds went to the computer/internet shop to download photos from his camera. We learned that the shop owner bought his PCs in Manila (PC Express). He studied a two-year course in computer in Manila, went back to Batanes, and set up the internet shop. I’m not quite sure but a year ago, there were very few, if not only one internet shop in Batanes.

Day 2- Somewhere Between Middle Earth and Where the Hills Are Alive

Basco at last. Checked in at Ivatan Lodge, through reservations made by Ate Phem of Chemtrad. She also found us a tour guide, Juliet, who founded the Batanes Eco-Tourism group which holds guided tours around Batanes.

Bargaining chip: we were budget-conscious travelers. Though we agreed on nearly half the original tour price, by midday, Juliet didn’t scrimp on any of the succeeding activities scheduled for the rest of the day and toured us around Southern Batanes.

a view from Radar Tokon with Mt. Irayat hovering in the background



Stairways to Heaven




Marlboro Hills



Sung Sung Ruins

the beauty and madness of batanes

Day 1- Where’s the Plane?

Stranded in Laoag. Spent the night at the Pacific Air office-slash-store-slash-canteen, on folding beds generously provided for by the owner.

Flashback to a few hours earlier, Dick “Flash” Gordon himself came parading by with his campaign entourage. How sweet it was of him to push his weight around and make that arresting phone call to god-only-knows-where, if only to get more planes out here because about three dozen people were currently stranded on their way to Batanes.

In between his impressive, commanding tone and false hopes, I managed to squeeze myself somewhere a few paces near Dick and had my friend sneak a candid photo of him behind me with a wicked smile:

Photo by Ferds

Dick saw this and was quick to say, “Iha, sayang naman ang film mo, halika picture tayo.” And before I could blink, on-lookers and Dick’s alipores automatically gathered around him like voice-automated robots. I absolutely abhorred making congenial poses with politicians but still stupidly gravitate towards the frame. The last time was when I posed with Imee Marcos. And I was smiling, too. Somebody hit me with a palo-palo.

Later that night: (naturally, no additional planes came despite Dick’s call. I wonder if he tried the Hall of Justice.) Despite being stranded, all was not lost. Mang Caloy, the husband of Aling Myrna, the reservation officer, probably sensing our disappointment and desperation waiting for hours for a no-show ride, took us to an unsolicited tour of the Laoag Air Transportation Office, right up to the top where the main viewing office was. He’d been the Air Traffic Controller here for 30 years. Just one phone call and he could command his team to switch on the runway lights. Up here with a 360- degree view, he was God.

Mang Caloy also took us to a tour of Fort Ilocandia, the famed five-star hotel-casino of the north, which is now owned and operated by a Taiwanese. Small wonder that there are more Taiwanese than Filipinos per square meter of the place.

We were not appropriately dressed that night (my friends and I were hoping that by this time we would be in Batanes wearing what we were wearing that night – beach clothes), so we didn’t get to go inside the casino. Not that we intended to play anyway since we were on a shoestring budget.