Star trek

My holidays are always family-oriented like everyone else’s. So, when Mai couldn’t go to Taal with Andrea to take photographs of the volcano at close range, 13-year-old Pico, whose energy is bountiful, volunteered. “Come on, Wawa. Go with us.” I went.

We departed from Makati at 8 a.m. as planned. Good start! But what was that horrible smell on the safety belt? “No belt for me,” I thought that was what Andrea said. We were traveling on the expressway and a belt was essential. We cleaned the belt by pouring alcohol on it and lemon-scented perfume. Its foul smell was gone for a while. 

Feeling hungry after a distance, I asked for the Tupperware I had loaded in our vehicle with three kinds of cheeses. Yaya had placed it beside Pico and behind Andrea. It was the cheese we had eaten four days ago. Opening the Tupperware made us cringe from the foul smell. Nevertheless, I ate the cheese. The smell wasn’t from the seatbelt, after all.

In a little more than an hour we excitedly arrived at my Auntie Ging Severino de los Reyes residence in Tagaytay. My cousin Timmy gave us some advice: “If the boat operator you see charges you P4,000 back and forth to Taal Volcano bargain it to P1,500. Water will be expensive too.”What did he mean?

The aggressive Pico hailed the first man on the sidewalk we saw, whose sign read, “Boat for Hire.” How much? P2,500. No. How about P1,500? He immediately consented. So we whispered to each other, “Should we have suggested P800?” Our guide Cris got into the car with us. “Pass here, it’s nearer to Talisay,” he directed our driver. We traveled over a cemented and deserted zigzag road. Now we’ll be kidnapped, I thought. I never had gone to Talisay, whose reputation was quite notorious once upon a time.

The ride was 45 minutes of staring at far and wide hills. The driver said, “First time ko po dito. Matarik ang daan na alam ko.” Oh, Lord, bring me to Sulu instead. We passed by ideal ambush sights, but a barbershop jolted us to laughter. It was jotting out from a precipice. Who’d come all the way here for a haircut?

We finally arrived at a very spic-and-span residential resort. “There’s your boat,” Cris told us respectfully. “You can ride now.” 

Another 45 minutes on a bangka across the lake to Talisay. The water was dark-brown, not the light clean blue of the South. I suddenly missed my two other grandchildren, Robbie and Raf, who would have been so very happy on a bangka for eight people with water splashing on their faces. Wet, we relied on a box of Kleenex to stay dry. Yaya had forgotten our towels in the car. Mikee told me the Jaworskis and her family had attempted to go to Tagaytay, too, but the traffic forced them to proceed to Batangas. They thought they could find a restaurant but each one was full. They ended up at Jollibee in Batangas. There’s a Jollibee just a block from Mikee’s house in Valle Verde, Pasig!

A black beach with algae, chickens and fishnets welcomed us and a few bamboo benches no one sat on. Then the sand was gone and there was just dust. Like my Lola Goring, I hate dust. She who wore a bandana in her Cadillac on every outing. It reminded me of Tarlac in the ‘60s when Peping, Ninoy and I were compelled to “crown” queens in the barangays and municipalities and their barongs turned dark beige and my hair clumped together. You guessed it, with brown dust, leaving specks on my crown of hair.

Horses were P1,250 per person. How expensive, I said to an insistent grandson. We’ll all walk. “How? You’re wearing ballet shoes,” Andrea said. “I can,” I said. I dared to…I had to…I’ve never owned a pair of rubber shoes and I didn’t bring extra leather soles.

After trekking half a kilometer, I asked why seven ponies were following us. “Just in case,” was Cris’s reply. Pico negotiated for a horse for him at P700. Not bad, this boy’s street smart. “Take us all for P600.” An offer arose from the horse handlers. “No, just for Pico.” Now all six horses followed us, the number of tourists in our party.

The next one to get on an anemic horse or donkey was me. My feet almost dragged on the ground. These native horses didn’t have the energy to kick man, foe, or friend or fellow beast, no matter how close they were to each other, butt or nostril. Like Korean and German tourists who rode over paths of stone and lahar on their horses, so did I. Poor animals, valued at P7,000 with their coat shedding. My horse’s mouth grabbed at every wild dry grass beside him. He was starving, maybe. How sharp the grass was for his parched throat, but the pig’s feed they eat would be yummy. No water to drink in sight for these sturdy animals who labor diligently for their owners without any letup, up and down the four-kilometer stony and hilly paths. Ropes around their mouths for bites were reins that their grooms pulled to tame and lead them to their correct direction. I had turned out to be an insecure rider whose horse kept veering to the left side and who felt the pain on the horse’s mouth.

Holding on to the saddle, doing everything that a rider shouldn’t, I just followed my groom’s advice. “Lean forward, not backward; don’t remain in an upward position with your shoulders back.” I defied every rule of elegant riding. I listened to the guide. Maybe it was to alleviate the horse’s back from too much weight. Finally, Andrea spoke up “This is far,” after exhibiting a resiliency trekking with a tripod and backpack. He was walking up to the crater with Harold and Bañez, their white polo shirts turning beige.

Finally, we caught sight of our destination. As we alighted from the horse to step on sandbags to facilitate our jumping off the horse, we were asked, “Water for the guides and horse handlers P50 each.” “Ano? How expensive!” Timmy was correct and the reason was “Ma’am, they come from the other side,” said the courteous horse handlers. “Even these surgical masks you’re wearing are mahal. They come from the other side.” That was the usual answer as though it were on a tape recorder. We bargained for half the price because we needed three of them, a horse and a mask and water. Finally, we got them anyway at a compromise price.

Up a little hill again we walked and there we were above the once smoldering volcano.

 “Andrea, how do we get back down and to Manila? We’re so far!” “Mom, so tired? No time to see the volcano ha.” At this point I was texting all my children about how funny this experience was turning out to be. I looked down at the crater and the deepwater it held. So this is what I came here for. No, I went all the way to Taal Volcano to bond with Pico, the product of love and continuity, and Andrea, the man my daughter left her country and family for. That thought seemed better than calling both hyper tourists.

 “Sama kayo, Mam?” Harold asked me. “Where? Ay naku, at the top of another hill? No way. Dito na lang ako,” I told Bañez. The sky was darkening. God heard me…and He pretended He was going to send rain… What a lucky afternoon for me. “Let’s go, it’s going to rain…” I told the boys and off we ran down the hill. No other way to do it. Inertia forced us to. We weren’t going to walk downhill. Andrea looked like Don Quixote and Pico like Sancho Panza on their horses a.k.a. donkeys. “Mom, you all right?” Andrea asked. I didn’t dare look back. I shouted, “Yeah, yeah… Yes, yes.” As I bumped horses on their way down or up with never a reaction of anger from my horse or those other numerous subservient animals.

On the beach we found out our boats steering wheel had come apart. Never get irritated on an excursion. Take the misfortunes with the good times. Enjoy the moments, even getting wet again and not daring to wash my hands with lake water, off we sped in due time: 10 minutes.

Landing by the edge of a tall wall by the lakeside we disembarked and headed for the home of the Four C’s, our host’s residence, the Arcillas. We made a dash to wash our hands. Brown, dirty and finally wonderfully clean. I escaped from both Pico and Andrea and went to the Arcilla’s personal bedroom as arranged for, for a good cleaning-up, a shampoo for tangled, stiff hair and to wash away the grime twice over! 

“Mom, we’re hungry. Hurry up!” Both knocked on the bedroom door. With dripping hair and jeans clinging on my wet skin we were off. Four cars before us kept us from getting to any restaurant faster. Impatient hungry passengers they were. “Gerry’s Grill. Ah, like Subic, let’s try that,” Pico said. Andrea seconded the motion for lunch at 4 p.m. The cold air had come in by then as we sat over halo-halo and liempo (all that horrible fat Pico enjoyed) and then the day almost over. We headed for Manila. At the doorstep of “Acacia,” we shed off our shoes, socks, sweaters, caps. No dust in the house…out…out…please…“All that was very nice, wasn’t it?” Andrea said. How could I ever forget!

We’ll always remember our trek and the kind Arcillas of Talisay and their clean Four C’s resort, and our solicitous guide Cris Magsimbol (his tel. no. is 0920-7511301).