An actual event that occured after the Workshop, which continually amazes me.I saw the Marilog forest and I was awed. It seemed as if the minutes, for a moment, stood still. I gazed, mesmerized by the scene enveloping me as droplets from the morning fog drew misty imprints on the vehicle window.
Marilog, gaining ground as the city's summer get-away, may be reached after an hour and a half ride from downtown Davao. Along the way are the vacation cottages of the city dwellers and the rustic village scenery of the local folks.
But it is the surviving forest that gives the place its character. Its serene, innate beauty and the soothing silence seemed to weave a charmed, enchanting portrait of Marilog. The trees have that strange, whitish gray hue on its trunks amid deep ochre green foliage, with some areas blanketed by mist. Silence mingled with the cool fresh air that I breathed. Moss held on to surviving endemic trees with branches that grew unusually contorted, like an old man's hand. The trees were mute witnesses of this overwhelmed being. They were a tall, ancient soul.
I decided to come back.
It was an unexpected return on that gray cast morning of Nov. 1, 1996 as the 28th University of the Philippines (UP) National Writers Workshop culminated in Davao. My friend, Hansel, a Poetry Fellow decided to encounter Marilog with me.
During the workshop, an intriguing story written by a lady Fellow, Josie, elicited much discussion. She wove a unique character named Indang, known thereabouts as a
manghihilot (local version of a massage therapist), and an albino. It was set in Marahan, in barangay Marilog. We dissected the story and it revealed; Indang was inspired by the forests of Marilog.
Hans and I packed our backpacks as we headed North while the other Fellows headed East towards the airport. Our initial plan was to visit the Philippine Eagle Nature Park but we finally decided, we must see mysterious Marilog. By afternoon we boarded a bus towards the small town of Marahan.
It was a gray morning the next day as we readied for the adventure towards the surviving forest. In a Marahan lodge we saw the mountains slowly covered by mist, as Hans sketched the view. Knowing I had an artist as company, I blurted that the mists were like a woman's veil. It seemed that the clouds added the doleful mode too, ready to pour rain as we prodded on. The locals did not seem to follow suit though. Their unadulterated smiles cheered us up as we waited for the bus ride.
We wondered where the vehicles were, the road seemed unusually empty. Then we remembered it was an All Saints Day, probably the reason for the dearth of buses. We decided to do hitchhike. A 4x4 approached and we thumbed up. It whisked over. Then, a jeepney appeared and we did the usual thumb sign. It also sped over, as expected.
Or so we thought. Suddenly it slowed down. We raced towards the godsent beings and, what a coincidence, they were once my childhood neighbors. The driver recognized me and decided to pull over.
Gratefully we thanked them as we droppped by a small village. We spotted a hut with a crude sign, selling strawberry jams and rabbits to boot. The ladies in the hut warmed us with their smiles as they offered crude chairs to rest.
I remembered the sweet taste of strawberry jams, as tiny raindrops landed spritely on my face, giving its tingling sensation. Then the folks sent a child to accompany us to a nearby resthouse. We were attracted by this quaint, western-style cottage with its tree covered loan and a limestone brook by the side, giving its music of rushing waters.
Indeed it did not take long for the place to mesmerize us as we walked on, as fogs slowly descended on the mountains like thick palettes from an artist's canvas. The character from Josie's story and the forest began to link in our view. In this otherwise denuded area, the enduring native trees with contorted branches must have been there for decades. Indang had that soother's hand, a
manghihilot would contort his or her hand to reach for nerves and muscles.
The trunks hued whitish-gray by lichen, the tall Falcata trees, and the limestone rocks profusely littering the vicinity must have inspired to portray Indang as an albino. She was also a loner, a character who kept matters to herself. Silence lingered here with surreal melancholy, sometimes covering us with mist. We would later comment, the silence seemed to weigh of unexpected things to happen.
For it did.
On the right side of the road were vistas of Arakan Valley stretching to panoramic horizons. We would clamber towards the nearest mound and admire the view. Sometimes we would imitate another character in Josie's story, and shout to the top of our lungs high above the valleys.
At the main road I chanced upon a small footpath a few meters to my right. It traversed a mound, hiding a sure view of the valley below. Strange, but I saw the footpath on a mound a few days ago, in a dream. I pulled my companion towards the footpath.
There was something of a rotten smell in the air as we came nearer. Suddenly, among the blades of grasses, we saw a pile of bones. Silently I hoped it was of a dog's or some large animal's. What we saw startled us; before us was the unmistakable figure of a human skull.
I stared at the whole skeleton. I saw wires wound around the pile. The person was gagged, the skull blindfolded by a handkerchief. I could even see the dentures in his mouth. It was disturbingly polished, washed perhaps by the previous rainfall. The victim's faded jeans was neatly folded nearby, with his black bag. The jeans identified the victim as male. His remains were only about twenty feet from the highway.
I gazed at the skull, he was staring at the sky. It seemed that the victim, in his last moments, was looking at the heavens, mouth agape. I did not touch the bones but knew it was cold, as cold as the air. Tiny droplets dampened his moist bed, cleansing his inert bones. The silence that was once soothinlgy mysterious had been transformed into another dimension.
Then I remembered the stench. We went back, feeling nauseated. I choked, wanting to dispel the fetid stench like a lump in my brain. I wanted to puke, but nothing came out. I gasped for fresh air.
Were we the only witnesses? There were no huts nearby, but only the trees of the Marilog forest.
Hans decided to divert the subject, the event had burdened him. We wanted to focus on our surroundings instead. I began to feel the contempt, perhaps by the grievous sight, or by the supressed, denuded forest. We had not seen its lush edge enveloping the road.
Yet, despite the confined, old trees amid otherwise barren mounds carpeted by cogon weeds, the place was never dull. We saw a house built above a tall hill, amazed by the builders' sheer determination. The seemingly surreal mountainscape, with mist calmly floating with the cool air like gentle brush of an artist's painting, soothed me from this event.
I glanded at my left side. My senses jumped when we saw, framed between two hills, a dense portion of the forest. Something in its lushness was different, and unusually brilliant. I later found out, among the monotonous hues of deep ochre greens, those were the radiant colors of sprouting leaves. Light, strangely coming from within the forest, perforated through its foliage, making the sprouts seemingly glow. I had it in my memory like a treasured gem.
There was hope, before our trip ended, we were reminded. The forest was growing.
We rested in a cluster of roadside huts farther down the highway. We asked the locals whether they had seen the skeletal remains. They denied but knew of the stench that they thought was from a dead animal's.
A boy bobbed out from the hut's window. he said he saw it that morning when some Marahan folks asked him, after bathing from a nearby waterfalls, to investigate the stench from that part of the highway. He said it was already reported to the police outpost, on that same day.
Waterfalls?
The bus finally arrived. We signalled and clambered through the door. I saw a man with a gun holster on his trunk, but he gently motioned us to proceed further inside the bus. Sheltered inside, it was then that the Marilog clouds rained with resounding strength. I looked at the rain-drenched window and watched the surviving forests and valleys of Marilog, the splashes drowning the silence.
A human life was stifled here. The forest was the only witness of his agony. The forest beckoned and we saw his last remains. It seemed to mourn for him. He had his own story, but his death cannot be forgotten.
The Forest Mourns
She saw his last sleep
She bowed her head
With her frail, rough hands
covering herself
With white veil
In a stifled time
She closed her eyes
Cleansing innate depth
Of his lifeless body
Silently she mourned
More than four months later I went back to Marilog with other companions. We searched for, and found, the waterfalls where the Marahan folks most probably bathed. It was beautiful.
Always in the recesses of my memory, I will remember the soothing serenity of the place. Despite the odds, she will always be the beautiful, mysterious, Marilog.
(NONFICTION)
