The month of May came with its sharp colors and unwavering heat, rolling into April like a raging truck. With its loud shades and blaring hues, it made everything so well defined.
May was my birth month. And to me, it had come to mean many things. Its trademark clarity and sharpness may be permanent, but what it held always varied every year. Two years before, it came with dread and grief. It brought hope the year after that. This year I did not know what gift—or sorrow—it would bear.
The night before my birthday, I found myself on the back of a rickety bus on the way to Ifugao. My fiancé, in his thoughtfulness, convinced me to celebrate in the mountains. Green had always been my color. Emerald was my birthstone, in fact, and I’ve always felt drawn to the mountains and the trees. What better way to turn a new leaf than to do it among actual foliage?
And so my birthday began with a tricycle ride. With my eyes, I followed the peaks that loomed in the distance. The sun was up and the mist was slowly dissolving. When the road ended, we proceeded on foot, going through a path where leaves dappled the sunset.
It took us about an hour before we reached the village of Batad. We proceeded to a homestay—a shack of dark polished wood that creaked with every step. From here, a slab of mountain, carved into tiers, peeked from the cluster of houses. We had lunch here, idling for quite a while to just take in the view.
In the afternoon, our tour guide fetched us and herded us through the maze that was Batad’s famed rice terraces. It was true what they say about this place—it truly was nature’s amphitheater. It was a good time to be in Batad, for harvest is not until a few months. A draft blew. The rice stalks swayed, a wave across a sea of green.
We asked to go down the village, but our tour guide had other plans. He led us along the upper fringes of the terraces, up to the mouth of a craggy path. On steps carved from stone and leaning on railings in need of repair, it took us almost an hour to reach our destination: Tappiyah Falls.
For such a fabled falls, only a handful of people joined us that day. The three of us were the only Filipinos there. The rest of the visitors were Westerners. This got me curious, but I pushed it to the back of my mind. The scene before me demanded my full attention.
Flowing dead center of a sheet of rock, Tappiyah Falls was an elegant cascade, a fierce jet, almost creamy from the sheer force. It fed a large pool, brown where the water landed. The brown then blossomed into a deep, crystal green—an uncanny, but beautiful gradient. A bed of boulders and gravel interrupted the runnel before continuing off to a rushing stream.
It was a few more hours before dusk, but the light here was already dream-like. Mist formed from the spray of the falls, settling in the air like a veil. We decided to go for a swim, for the green looked so inviting. I waded just until the water was up to my waist and the water shocked me to the core. It wasn’t freezing, just enough to jar the spirits.
By the time we got out, we were the only ones left. Light was even softer now. The edges growing dark like a photograph with a vignette.
We walked back up the stone path, then round the terraces to the village. The sky had turned a bluish gray, but still somehow everything looked so crisp. While we used thoughtful footholds to go up or down the paddies, I wondered what May this year had meant for me. The answer came with the breeze.
This year—the silver year—carried with it a sense of pride; a pride borne by persisting. That’s what I did for the past year—I persisted. Like the age-old terraces of Batad, I stood my ground and did what I was supposed to do. Most days, the yield had been disappointing, but the good days made it all worth it.
Come evening, we had dinner at the homestay. It was a beautiful night. Cool. Almost all traces of summer forgotten in the chill. The moon hung low, bright against a dark, clear sky. The silhouettes of mountains were darker. It wasn’t long before the dining hall came to life. Other guests went pouring in, looking spent from a day of touring. Again, I was surprised by how all of them there were foreigners.
The next day, we made our way out of the village, and happened upon a couple—a Korean woman and a Dutch man. They were waiting for a tricycle just as we were and we had taken to make small talk to pass the time.
“You have a beautiful country,” she told me.
Remembering what May had brought me this year, I let the gift of pride buoy me, let it lift me up without shame.
“Thank you,” I replied, not just to her but to the entire Universe.
Image credits: Dennis Murillo