“Isabela, a home…”
Rely on the Department of Tourism’s advertisements to make a tourist destination seem like no destination at all.
Imagine this: Zamboanga as a golf destination or Surigao being Siargao and nothing else. Or Silay City being defined only as old houses. Granting the TV plugs only have about three minutes for each province, one wishes though that they would produce adverts that are a bit unique and original. But if the DOT is only good at aping Susan Calo-Medina’s ‘Travel Time’ to death, should we expect them to produce anything good?
Or is it just me?
My mother sometimes says that all I am good at sometimes is criticizing the government, to which I say ‘Yes, that I am definitely good at.’
Can’t help it though. Be governed as badly and you’ll become of only two things: (a) be fatalistic and be very religious, and (b) be very critical and turn activist (at least). Sadly for this country, most Filipinos are choosing the first option, which only means that those who have chosen the latter have a lot more work to do. Haayy!
Back to tourism. The earliest time I remember that the DOT caused me to murder some of my neurons was when I logged on to Isabela Province’s sub-page on the WOW Philippines website. In the second biggest province of this gorgeous country of ours, imagine the geniuses at the DOT counting the concrete hulk of Magat Dam as one of the top tourist destinations. Asses!
My home province is beautiful for those who know how to appreciate beauty. Aside from its old churches, majestic mountains and nature parks, I expect the DOT to include its other natural wonders that are worthy to behold. But since it is quite obvious that the government’s tourism thrust is focused on sex tours and golf, this is nothing but a pipe dream.
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As a counterpoint to the DOT, I wish to describe here the Isabela I grew up in, specifically its northern district—San Pablo, Cabagan, Sta. Maria, even Tumauini, Sto. Tomas, Delfin Albano and Ilagan.
Far into the distant east of Ybanag Isabela, the majestic peaks of Sierra Madre pierce the sky. At sunrise, their broad shoulders shield the rising sun from expectant eyes before finally breaking out. And just as the sun begins to peek over the blue mountains fog would slowly lift from the rolling foothills revealing sights that even nature would be proud to claim its own.
The foothills themselves delight the senses. My favorite is a specially shaped hill that looks like an overturned bowl. Its Ybanag name is Pinatakag, precisely describing its shape. The tall cogon grasses carpeting the hills are delightfully pungent when they are wet with fog. Spider webs sport sparkling dew drops strung between grass blades and shrubs before they evaporate from the warming sun. Clumps of wild guavas feed both the birds and the foraging children out to pasture their cattle.
Along the Maharlika highway, majestic acacias border fields planted with pregnant corn. Beside the grand Cagayan River are golden rice fields swaying with the wind. Gentle turns would reveal even more delightful sights at the end of every bend. Reasonably smooth roads and paved shoulders make driving in these parts comparatively safer than on most Metro Manila streets.
The Cagayan River is our lifeblood and delight. Shallow and swift in some parts, it is deep and green in some. Along its banks are groups of men and women chirpily fielding gossips at each other as they wash the day’s laundry. Nearby, squealing kids splash on the cooling waters, some showing off their acrobatic diving skills from the carabaos’ stable backs. Before heading home, they will gather freshwater mussels picked from under pebbles on the water’s edge. By then, the men folk would have stopped plowing and would have waded into the water to haul in the fish nets laid across the river’s flow early in the morning. Several kinds of fishes are usually caught, to be had for lunch and dinner fried or swimming in broth.
At noontime, neighbors would congregate to play a friendly game of bingo or tong-its. In between their banter, afternoon radio soaps would waft through the open bamboo windows towards where the kids would be forced to take their afternoon naps under the trees.
In the afternoons, the gentle carabaos are fetched from the fields or from pasture. Somewhat reluctantly, they would turn home and patiently stamp hoof designs on the soft, brown earth. Boys, browned by the tropical sun, nonchalantly ride them on their wide backs as they march home. As they cross the many streams, immaculate egrets pick little fishes and mussels with their long beaks from their clear beds littered with smoothed pebbles.
As the setting sun kisses the Cordilleras, the sky would turn yellow, to orange, to red. On some days, even the clouds would turn purple. As the sun dips lower, bright rays would shoot from behind the mountains, signaling the end of the day. As night falls, a light breeze would flow and corn tops would sway, waving the sun goodbye.
By then, cooking fires are lit, the roosters are perched on their roosts while the chicks snuggle under the hens’ wings, the bells are rung, and the children are home.
This is Isabela for those who have their senses peeled.
