Are the hundred islands of Alaminos counted in the 7,100 or 7,641 islands of the Philippine archipelago? Or, are these counted as one set? If I am to believe the many data about the Hundred Islands available online, there are 124 at low tide and 123 at high tide. If this is the case, that beauty contestant of yore was not being smart-alecky but was factual?
The fact is one day I was on my way to the Hundred Islands, the number haunting me as we traversed the northern highway.
I have not traveled much to the north as much as I have been to the south. The places therefore we passed by were not memorized nor were they capable of summoning memories for me. The first thing I noticed and this would be sensed by citizens of the southern part of this country was how smooth and paved and wide the roads and highways were. The tourists could marvel at this development; being part of the martial law generations, I realized how politics and politicians had structured inequality in this island republic. This northern path received more boon than bane from our leaders.
The skies that day proved that the supertyphoon has not left yet the Philippine area of responsibility. The typhoons visit us like unloved relatives so frequently we know what PAR means although if you ask any meteorologist and disaster expert they will have no charming explanation why a typhoon should be our responsibility. Isn’t a storm, or a hurricane an indicator of how Nature can be quite irresponsible? Here is where the weather activists are right: typhoons are the result of our irresponsibility.
The travel to the north meant wide spaces on either side of the highway. Rice field and grassland stretched far and wide. Bulacan, the signs were telling us.
The day was overcast when we made the first stop. We were at Marilao for lunch. Marilao had lost its Tagalog mysticism. It was near after all. Bulacan should be far. Movies told us that. Bukirin. Parang. Palay. The indices of stereotypical rural villages and towns were gone. I could see students from a nearby medical school. Lovely coffee shops were all around us. We went to a popular restaurant. Fast food was the choice. Speed, cleanliness and tested taste were assurances that we learned from traveling. When we stepped out, it started to drizzle.
A long bridge appeared. Soon we were on it. Below were thin strips of stream disappearing behind bushes.
A few minutes after we got on to the car, we sensed the absence of vehicles to our left. Then our lane began to slow down. We stopped.
Technology took over. Butch checked his Waze. Accident on the road. Our driver checked the online videos for that day. Accident for the day. One needed to specify one’s search because four and five years ago, violent crashes occurred in that area, too. I heard an announcer. It was from the phone of the driver. On the phone screen, there were cars and trucks parked. A truck was on its side. Then another video showed a car, more than half of its body wrecked, its front part contorted as if a great force pushed it to curl into itself. A bus teetering on the side of the highway completed the grand scene of danger and death.
We were trudging on. No idea yet how the scene looked actually. After an hour, we approached the scene or so we thought. The truck looked funny on its side. Policemen were standing by it. A few meters farther up, the goriest sight of the black car all twisted made the image on the phone unreal. This was the real event. As we became part of the slow procession of onlookers, we saw the bus.
How did this happen? There was no time to think. Time to breathe and move on. We decided to stop for coffee. The strongest brew for this journey.
Then it was back on the road. Solitary trees were lonely sentry on the right side of the highway, my side. Streams appeared in the distance. Grasses and clumps of short trees surround ponds.
We left the highway. Tarlac. An arch announced San Clemente of Tarlac. It started to drizzle. Mangatarem. We were entering Pangasinan. What is the meaning of this name? We googled it. Mango plantation. The name also came from the Ilocano phrase “mangga ken tirem” referring to mango and oyster. The land has changed so we cannot locate the source of the oyster. But there is no need to take this name seriously as it comes again from the misunderstanding between a “native” and a presumptuous Spaniard.
It was night when we reached Alaminos. Its plaza was well lit like it was Christmas again. The 18th century Saint Joseph the Patriarch Cathedral glowed in the evening. We were looking for Raquel Rarang Rivera, the festival director of the Hundred Islands Film Festival. She was at the park. We proceeded to the hotel where we would be billeted. We next went to the tourism office where young filmmakers were deep into their post-production. Rivera and the festival are noted for sending young filmmakers to compete abroad. In that busy hub were familiar faces: Jerome, Sef, Carlo C., Carlo O., Victor, and Tim later. It was good to see them survive the pandemic. Never mind the weight gained and the age. Put together, the skills of these men plus Raquel could produce a festival of sterling quality. The one hundred plus islands (plus or minus depending on the tide) should be just the right site for their arts and beautiful madness.
E-mail: titovaliente@yahoo.com
Image credits: Alaminos, Pangasinan Facebook page/Jay Santos
