Ka-Blog!

The archipelagic province of Romblon has not figured much in my consciousness. Sure, I was taught when I was younger that it is the country’s marble capital and that it is wedged somewhere in the center of this confusing spattering of islands in the Western Pacific called the Philippines. But I never gave the island much thought.

 Only when I turned 20 did I begin meeting people who were from Romblon. There was Jazminda Fopalan Lumang-Buncan, friend and comrade, whose mother Luzviminda hailed from Odiongan. Famous writer Jose Y. Dalisay, fiction writing mentor, was born in Romblon. National Artist for Literature NVM Gonzales, the first one to say to me I should write in Ibanag, was from Romblon as well. 

 Later I was told by Emma C. Rahman, now my sister-in-law, that Romblon is nothing but good beaches. She said that food and accommodations there were cheap. I resolved then that I’ve got to go to Romblon.

 It took me another twelve years before I sailed for the province. Last month, I was asked to be part of the ill-fated Sanrokan (Sharing) 2006 convention aimed at helping the province rid itself of the sorry "fifth poorest province" tag. But, as with any endeavor participated-in by politicians, it was doomed.  Local politicos practically prevented the stakeholders and beneficiaries from attending!

 
But my four-day trip to Romblon in early April proved good to me in some respects. I got to spend some time with my Fopalan-Lumang-Buncan friends to whom I owe so much.  Jaz invited me when she and her husband Xavier the Punk visited her relatives and celebrate her birthday.  I was let in on family discussions like I belonged.  During the convention, I made new acquaintances like award-winning actor and environmentalist Chin-chin Gutierrez, Rey Mores of Sikat and many others. 

      Inspite of the convention’s failure, I left the province convinced that it was indeed beautiful.

 I got to experience the province’s beauty more intimately just last week. Fresh from my classes at the KAS-ACFJ at the Arrneow, my wife and I plus six intrepid backpackers I call my volunteers (two French-Canadians, two Canadians, one Australian and one British national) took the boat to Romblon. No airline services Romblon—further proof of its poverty. Because there is no direct route going to our destinations, we had to take all sorts of land and water transport that became smaller and smaller each time. Finally, we have to take an outrigger canoe no bigger than a household bathtub.

 I saw in the faces of my foreigner friends as the trip progressed that their misplaced confidence in me was being eroded. Except for the French-Canadians who have been in the country for four months already, the other four have never been to a poor country before and they were being barraged with new Third World experiences.  And what new experiences?  Well, experiences like being packed inside over laden jeepneys that had to negotiate eroded mountain trails and small boats and tricycles carrying much too many passengers—the passengers being them.

    
But Romblon has its way of calming frayed travelers’ nerves. When we reached the first of our destinations, we were welcomed by towering hills dark with trees. Where the mountains meet the sea are white sand beaches that serve as playground for frolicking children. The waters are so clean, clear and cool to the skin. Underneath, schools of fish flit through and around corals and seaweeds in their vain effort to elude bigger and even more colorful fishes. 

 In our second night of travel, we parked our tired bodies in a resort called Diwata (enchanted maiden). Our cottages were built atop the water and the gentle lapping of the waves lulled us to sleep. All throughout the night, we were serenaded by cicadas and crickets as long-tailed macaques stood guard. A half-moon revealed itself in between the leaves of mangrove trees. When we turned in for the night, it suddenly rained hard. Fat water drops played percussion on our nipa roof and cool air blew in through our bamboo walls. My wife was curled on the soft bed beside me reading the book I brought along. I closed my eyes and went to sleep deep in that mangrove forest by the beach in the shadow of dark hills.

 
In the morning, we were taken to a floating house. Out on the azure bay, a floating nipa house serves as an outpost against illegal fishing in the marine sanctuary.  Our volunteers and the fisher folks dove into the water to tie more fat bamboos underneath the house to make it stronger and more bouyant.  Me?  I sat on the floor and dangled my feet into the water while taking in the beauty.  Then suddenly, right in front of us, a large school of flying fishes jumped out of the water.  And just as suddenly, they disappeared as ripples in the calm sea. The dolphins must be coming, a fisherman told me.

 I had to leave Romblon for Manila that afternoon. I left my wife and the six volunteers to swim among giant clams and ghost-like squids underwater in a separate beach.  All the while, I was suffering soggy burgers aboard the ferry ship taking me back to the polluted city.  The wife later told me stories about how they ate lots of grilled fish freshly caught in front of Rey Mores’ house by the beach.

      
I hope we will be able to call Romblon home for our volunteer programs from hereon. I wish we could plant more mangroves, teach more kids, paint more classrooms, build more wells, treat and give medicine to the sick. 

 Because by now Romblon to me is no longer just a word. It is a real place. And it is a place I wish to be part of.