Migs Bassig

Day One

4:07 a.m.: It’s early Sunday morning, and the sun hasn’t yet risen. I’m in the back seat of Bob Martin’s blue Nissan Adventure – perhaps the most appropriate vehicle for this particular trip. I’ve extended my stay in beautiful Davao City and excitedly accepted an invitation to go on a three-day road tour of Mindanao with Bob and fellow LiP columnist John Grant, who has taken the passenger seat in front. It should be an eye-opener for a Manila city rat like me, this Kerouacian journey, but right now not even the nasty motorcycle accident that we stumble upon on Diversion Road can keep me awake. Neither can the soundtrack of songs by Cat Stevens, Chicago, and Boston. I need coffee, even if it’s durian coffee.

7:31 a.m.: So this is Cotabato. My first impressions of this province have been caricatured by news reports and editorials on local papers: bombing stories, violent episodes of rebellion, pictures of armed Muslims in intimidating skullcaps and colour-coded scarves, all of them at the height of their belligerent powers. But today I discover that Cotabato is not as dangerous and unfriendly as its general reputation. On the contrary! The only fears I experience whilst passing through are: Bob potentially running over the cute chickens crossing the mountainous road, unhinging my jaw at the majestic length of Rio Grande de Mindanao, and my committing faux pas in encounters with surprisingly friendly Muslims. The scenery is luscious and green, like a golf course, with no holes, stretching to infinity.

10:18 a.m.: After rolling past Pikit, Pagcawayan, Sultan Kudarat, and a long line of some of the tallest coconut trees I’ve ever seen in my life, we arrive at Parang, Maguindanao. Bob says something about this being the site of Camp Abubakar but John and I are too busy looking at the crowded wet market. A man in fatigues is directing the flow of the traffic. On the muddy street (there’s a slight drizzle), hoards of vendors are drying fish and plying their trade in Bisaya. We find more of these vendors as we stop at a cemented bay walk that fronts the Moro Sea, across which we’re offered a glimpse of the hills of Lanao del Sur. This does not look at all like urban Manila. Am I still in the same country?

1:40 p.m.: Bob missed the Jollibee in Pagadian, Zamboanga del Sur’s capital city. The next one is in Ipil, Zamboanga Sibugay province, over a hundred kilometres away. Amazing, though, how the restaurant chain has reached these far-flung areas, and how opportune their roadside advertisements are for travellers looking for something to eat. “At least with Jollibee we know what we’re going to get,” Bob says. John concurs. Not that any of us are hungry. Feyma Martin, Bob’s wife, had sent us off with Tupperware boxes containing delightful home-made treats: carrot muffins and banana biscuits spotted with raisins. John and I help ourselves but Bob insists on consuming brown, sloppy Dodol; he bought it an hour and a half ago, this odd-looking, odder-smelling sort of Muslim delicacy which, had Bob not eaten it so willingly before our eyes, I think the producers of Fear Factor would otherwise love to feed their contestants.

6:16 p.m.: Earlier, as we drove in to get our Jollibee fix for dinner, I noticed that there were motorbikes everywhere. Pedicabs. Festively-coloured buntings that hung from telegraph wires. And, along the sidewalk, barbecue grills with pork intestines and chicken feet on sticks. I come from Manila where these sights aren’t rare, but everything here felt strange and seemed beautiful, as in a pleasant dream. No place to sit down for a cup of coffee, though; even Julie’s Bakeshop ran out of sachets of 3-in-1. The young men and women outside had looked at my companions curiously: what are these two white men doing here with a scrawny boy in a fuchsia shirt (pink being politically incorrect)? “Joe! Joe!” called out some of them, warmly welcoming our group to their municipality. Several passersby, presuming I was Bob and John’s “cicerone”, tried to talk to me in Bisaya but I could not understand a word. Funny, that among the three of us, it was me who had the least bit of idea of where we really were. I did take note of the place in which we’ll be staying for the night: Metro Ipil Mandarin Hotel. (Inexpensive, such as hotels in Manila never are.) It’s where I am typing this. The sun has set, and it’s raining heavily outside. We’re all safe, but tired, and I’m sleepy again. Still, tomorrow shall renew Mindanao’s promise of opening my eyes.

Related Posts:

Notes from Mindanao, Day Two
Octopush
From a Davao Diary