TRAVELING UPHILL: BUTUAN CITY IN THE HEART OF MOUNT MAKILING
      The trip started with a rushed run from the old Humanities building to the shed a stone throw away from the UP gate. We had been dismissed on time, but the time was much too short to actually walk with a leisurely hop in one’s step. As the call time was 2:30 PM, we were accompanied by the intense pounding of the sun’s heat—I personally found it beyond annoying, how the sweat insistently clung onto my skin and clothes, rolling down my temples in salty little rivulets as if my skin sobbed from the afternoon’s painful torture.
      My friends and I arrived at exactly 2:30 PM, disappointed at how the students that arrived earlier refused to board the bus first. We, however, rushed inside—we didn’t want the good seats to be taken (the good seats being the ones by the windows—‘para sa view’, I remember someone saying). The climb took some time, taking us higher and higher into the mountain, trees never disappearing from our points of view. My ears soon popped—a clear indicator that we were definitely climbing.
      Upon arrival, the first thing that I noticed was the abundance of buildings. Old buildings. It seemed as if the whole campus was untouched by the modernization happening by the foot of the elevation; there were no businesses, no fancy Starbucks, no KFC, McDonald’s, or Jollibee to provide fast food for anyone in need—just the wide wilderness, along with the occasional hut-looking housings.
      Pagsulang—it was the name of Lora Noreen Domingo’s book launch and exhibit, both of which seemed quite successful. It was on the hybrid lives of the Manobo-Lapaknon peoples in her hometown, Butuan City, and aimed to show its viewers and observers that the Manobo-Lapaknon are not as savage and unknowing as media and stereotypes would like to portray. They live in the city, too, able to use modern technology while keeping their own.
      Pictured above is the creator of the exhibit, Ms. Domingo (who was surprisingly around the same age as us), as she introduced her work. She began by icebreakers, asking us about what we knew about indigenous peoples, stereotypes, and asked us to state examples—most of us were too shy to actually answer, however, and it did not fail to make me feel a tad more awkward.
     Next came her vibrant introductions; she told us who the leaders of the group she observed were, their names, positions, and duties. There was even a segment where she told us of how the naming system worked—which I found cute.
      The paintings on the walls were amazing. Acrylic paint screamed stories at us, speaking of traditions and stories that the Manobo-Lapaknon believed. They spoke of amazing births, tragic sacrifices, and stories of bravery.
      My favorite story of all was that of the ikugan and Datu Calixtro, a Lapaknon warrior, as photographed (with myself) above. The ikugan were cannibalistic men with slithering tails who terrorized the Lapaknon community with their evil methods. They dared the datu to kill a pregnant woman for the freedom of his people, believing that he would never be able to do it—but he proved them wrong by tearing her insides out, effectively scaring the ikugan away.
      The room was small and cold, making me clutch onto my bag just a little bit tighter. The last part of the tour soon came rolling, after the stories, the accounts, and even a little session on mollusk-collection, we finally got to the part where we would send our messages to the Manobo-Lapaknon.
All sorts of letters were hung on twine with wooden clips with acetate tucked neatly in front. The transparent material had English translations for their respective letters printed on them, giving me a sense of curiosity, as I failed when I tried to print on acetate once.
      I took an unused blue pen from the assortment before the curator gave us the go signal, immediately reaching for a paper which had a neat handwriting. I didn’t read the translation, as I could understand the writing on the sheet, anyway. I immediately got to writing—I tried writing in Cebuano, until I realized that some words might be different, and I might not be understood as easily—so I wrote in English instead, so Ms. Domingo would be able to easily translate my words for me.
      The letter I picked spoke of her life; how she grew up, how she got married, how she was a bit well-off, unlike what we commonly think. She got married and had three children, all of whom she loved very much. However, she said that life was getting harder around their area, as they were being haggled by those who want their land—she claimed that their homes were being ruined, taken over by companies and even the government itself, who say that they have no right to be in those lands in the first place.
      In my reply, I tried my best to be empathic; I told her about my childhood in Laguna, how I studied, how my parents were from Negros Occidental. I tried my best to add a few statements in our shared language; words that would make it feel more like home.
      As I wrote, I plopped onto the banig, legs stretched out in front of me as I set my paper on my planner, writing with careful yet still somehow messy letters—a jumble of chicken scrawls, but I was certain that Noreen would understand it, anyway. I returned to the hanging lines, clipping my letter back onto the rope, before retrieving a postcard and going on my way to talk to the curator with a few other people; we spoke of her life in PHSA, her life back in Butuan City, and even about the hardships of being so high up the mountains. (I learned that McDonald’s, KFC, and Jollibee do deliver food up there.)
      After our chika, the entire class went outside, excitedly taking pictures of the scenery and even ourselves. The roads were beautiful and empty, as if stretched out for me to admire, as egotistical as that may have sounded. The bus came after a few minutes, and I, admittedly, was disappointed when it came; it was smaller than the last, and it was a very tight fit. My right hip was squished against the seat handle, which left a small bruise—but I had fun. My seatmates were noisy and hilarious, making jokes as we made our way back down.
      The Philippine High School for the Arts is truly a world of its own, and Noreen created an even smaller globe within.
