The
FWD showed up on time to fetch us the following morning at six-fifteen AM. Breakfast at Lutong Bahay, a local diner along
the main road, was a hasty one and so was the hop to the local market for veggies
and spices to supplement our provisions.
We were on our way in a jiffy and, except for the kids who took the
front seat, my wife and I accommodated ourselves on the open-air truck bed to enjoy
an unobstructed view of the countryside.
The
road to Paniman had a strong provincial, bumpkin character, most portions unpaved
and unkept, with ruggedness only a four-wheel drive or beast of burden could manage to navigate. The despicable only
meant that asphalt and concrete were no match to constant flooding and rain-drenching
from the ferocity of nature. Dry portions with dust trailing the truck threatened
as nuissance for my camera and lens that I had to cover with towel when not
used. Wet and muddy portions were
another challenge. Hardly do I subscribe to being short-changed but on one of
those muddy road episodes, we spotted passengers of an oversized trike, that serve
as public conveyance between barangays, disembark the vehicle to help push it
out of the foot-deep muck, as Jay explained such was the norm here. Of course, the
men who volunteered were inconvenienced by the remedy and had gotten their feet
buried in the morass, too. But it
seemed, they enjoyed every bit of their altruistic roles, slipping now and
then, but cheerful of their deed and
bursting into a guffaw with the rest of the commuters. It’s one of those pleasant highlights the
kids enjoyed watching in this slow-paced rural life. I particularly enjoyed the stillness of the rural
scene seen from the roadside and made Jay stop several times to capture the verdant,
bucolic landscape.
As the road started to descend on a very sharp bend after a long uphill approach, we came upon a short, rickety bridge that had all indications of nearing collapse. It was a hair-raising experience having crossed that kind of rusty bridge despite non-stop assurances from our tour-guide cum driver. Two-inch thick wooden panels precariously bound together by thin rebars, laid over rusty beams, seemed the only defining component between our one-ton truck and the stream, a 10-meter drop, below us. We nervously inched our way over the span, making sure all wheels skip those missing planks. Squeaks from every stretched wood and worn metal members orchestrate with heartbeats pounding my ears as I peered through cavities on the underlying bridge floor, the stream and boulders beneath. The longest 40-second stretch of a 15-meter travel I have had. We pulled over the roadside after the crossing to grapple with the reality that, indeed, we had made it through.
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My other blogs:
Jou San! Sham Shui Po
Traditional Hong Kong Herbal Tea House
Where Is Josephine Bracken?
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