Tawi-Tawi, Philippines: A trek up a mountain

 

I was thirsty and hungry by the time my companions and I reached the peak of Bud Bongao in the Philippine province of Tawi-Tawi. The trek up this sacred mountain is supposed to be an easy, one-hour climb perfect for mountaineering newbies, but ours easily dragged to two long hours, largely because of my own klutziness.

Our guide, Lance, was visibly bewildered each time I appeared exhausted or uttered my willingness to just quit and head back where we came from. But each time, he would let go a silly grin before mouthing off words of encouragement. “See those folks right there,” he would begin, pointing at gray-haired men maneuvering the slippery trail with babies slung across their chests. “They make you look bad.”

I’ve climbed two mountains before — Mount Makiling in Laguna and Mount Samat in Bataan, both in the Philippines — but if anything, these experiences have proven nothing more than the fact that I’m not physically capable of enduring strenuous outdoor activities involving testosterone and incredible leg power. I’m simply not cut out for it.

My lowest point may have happened a year ago when, on a trip to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, a flight of 200 steps going up the holy Batu Caves drew out the fearful in me: pulling up my legs towards the 21st step, I suddenly grew cold and realized I didn’t have the strength to push any further. It didn’t help that I was nursing a mild case of vertigo, too.

As I turned back to descend, I was greeted by a couple of tourists aghast at the sight of someone surrendering so easily, their faces a reminder that disappointment and perhaps some semblance of embarrassment have a universality identifiable anywhere you go.

In Tawi-Tawi, I managed to reach Bud Bongao’s peak, but not without straining my companions’ patience and testing the limits of what I can endure. In certain respects, the climb has transcended its physical aspect and has evolved into an emotional and mental exercise where many times I’ve been found wanting. But in a holy mountain that serves as the burial site to a Muslim saint, truth can be ascertained while perched at the top, the wind and the elements conjuring up an entirely new world so near yet so distant.

From this vantage point, the worries of the world below are muted out by the strange silence enveloping the rocky peak, interrupted every now and then by the gentle rustle of golden grass and the squawks of hawks gliding overhead. This must have been the spiritual experience professional mountaineers so fondly talk about when asked what keeps them going; it’s a marvelous, albeit temporal, feeling of accomplishment that renders
negligible all muscle pain better than ibuprofen.

It dawned on me that climbing a mountain is as much a metaphorical exercise as it is physical. The slippery, at times perilous, trail leading up to the
peak provides the tension necessary to justify the otherwise magnificent feeling once at the top. It’s essentially a self-rewarding endeavor for people who are more than willing to tough it out in exchange for a moment of glory that is at once lasting and ephemeral.

Perched at the top, my companions and I took our own spots to savor it all in. Thirsty and hungry, I drank what remained of the water we had brought
and grabbed some bananas reserved for the mountain’s resident macaques. As I sat marveling at the panoramic view of the sea and the islands, I
couldn’t help but wonder whether the mystical tales attached to this holy mountain meant I was bound to see and experience a miracle myself.

Lance, who had earlier driven us around the city of Bongao in his colorful tricycle, relayed that this mountain used to be protected by a giant and
powerful white monkey that has since disappeared. A mountainside spring with miraculous water that can cure all sorts of illnesses was also said to draw legions of faithful. When we found it, though, there was no one else around it. In its place was a dry well
inhabited by thick moss and layers of decomposing foliage.

It would have been good had I become privy to any of the holy mountain’s miracles, but I didn’t. The most that I could hold on to was a wish I muttered as I tied a torn piece of scarlet ribbon onto the branch of a tree rising along a dangerous slope, mixing in well with countless other ribbons tied by climbers who, like me, got to this part of the mountain.

It was easily a case of weariness giving way to hopefulness, of aching muscles not mattering at all. This was, perhaps, the miracle I was looking for.

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