The road to Balanan

The road to Balanan is somewhat uneven, but that’s alright, that’s alright. A steady incline going up to the mountains of Siaton, more than 40 kilometers south of Dumaguete, Negros Oriental. From Siaton town proper, the drive uphill takes around 30 minutes, as Balanan itself, a hideaway resort with a mountain lake and some freeflowing pools carved out of the mountainside, is 10 kilometers away. After alternate stretches of cement and dirt road, with an ambient view of southern Negros and the Mindanao Sea, we do some math in our heads: if Balanan is 10 kilometers away from Siaton and it takes us 30 minutes to get there, how fast does our vehicle travel?

The place is as yet underdeveloped, or shall we say, is in the process of being developed. We’ve heard that Congressman Dodo Macias is bent on promoting Balanan as a certified tourist spot, and by golly it is. I guess we were just lucky that we got there and enjoyed the hike and swim before the tourists. Would that it remain a bit underdeveloped, if only to keep the slick businessmen away. The atmosphere is still unspoiled, and people running the place rely merely on heartfelt donations, no forced revolutionary levies or taxes. No gigantic makeshift giraffes spouting water from their cute mouths.

On the way to Balanan there are trees by the roadside, duhat and siniguelas, branches heavy with their late summertime fruit. Village folk going about their daily chores are momentarily stirred from their tasks, what with the hubbub of an engine negotiating the upland curves. Hardly anyone else going to the same destination, except for a motorcycle bearing three local adventurers, possibly college students or young professionals.

Once there we espy what seems to be some construction or maybe "improvements" underway, with a big truck by a mountain stream having to move a bit to the side so that our vehicle could make a final pass to an imaginary parking area, actually just a shady side of the mudpacked road. The hike itself is a pleasant one through a mountain trail weaving between large balete trees with roots sticking out and vines hanging down from their canopy that would inspire latent Tarzans.

If one is to relieve oneself behind some bush or shrub the recitation of the tabi-tabi is mandatory lest a nuno is disturbed from an age-old sleep. Then the swim in the mountain lake is bereft of any adjective. The lake though suddenly becomes deep and we cannot touch bottom, and after some cool minutes leisurely trying to evade the diwata in our minds, it was on to the natural pools for us, hidden away deeper into the mountain. But the lake itself and the swim in it defy the element of time, and fear is a twin of beauty as long as the feet cannot touch the ground underwater.

Not to forget either the exercise and fitness inspired ferry-by-pulley between stations that reminded us a bit of Bohol’s Loboc, but sans the tarsiers. The pull on the rope takes less than five minutes to get across, and gives a good a workout to the arm muscles to the amusement of around 11 passengers of varying shapes and sizes.

The pools by the mountainside have free-flowing springs, and are not deeper than six feet. They are located underneath tall shade-giving trees and near impromptu benches that make the area an ideal place for a picnic, a luxury in the rat race world.

Nearby sari-sari stores run by the locals offer basic provisions, such as snacks and beer, as well as viands for the hungry ranging from munggo to pansit. On one table there were left empty bottles of Tanduay and Beer Grande, midmorning evidence that some people had an early start to their serious drinking. And neither did we see any bathhouses or changing rooms, we just used nature’s available camouflage or the good old-fashioned drape of towel. Indeed the absence of any other holidaymaker made the visit to Balanan special, and for which we thank the mountain lake gods for reminding us that vistas like this still exist.

Coming from the lake we were followed by a mutt a ways down the trail, which only stopped when it sensed we were crossing over by the hand-pulled ferry. It was like the owner of the secret resort – or the resort owner’s dog – who escorted us on our way out telling us to come back sometime in the future, balik-balik.

The drive back downhill took just as long, the distance the same, and we stopped for some souvenir pictures with the backdrop of the sea and the sloping view of the town down below, all blue and green and chirp of wild bird.

Around us there was the scent of siniguelas and duhat and the hottest summer within living memory breaking into its first rains, as we cruised at 20 kilometers per hour downhill away from the best kept secret of Siaton town. But maybe not for long, not for long.