Time Warp

I rode our horse, Skippy, down the mountain towards barangay San Juan and followed a (new to me) path that led up the other side back in the direction of Inner Earth. I was hoping to find an alternate route down the mountain for our vehicles. Or at least a new loop trail to add variety to our horseback rides. 

From our gate, we turned downhill onto our access road, past the small structures built by some of our neighbors on their farm lots. This little nipa hut has been mostly used for storage since it was built. Now, the family seems to have moved in for the upcoming planting season.

Farther along, our access road turns steeply down toward the river crossing. The weather has been hot and dry. The river has dried up except for a few springs here and there. One of those springs is at the base of the dam where the road crosses the riverbed. It was a Saturday, the children were out of school, a perfect day for a swim. I could hear their shouts and laughter over 100 meters away. Of course, they had to throng around the “kano” and his horse. A few of them had to be warned not to run and jump around beside and underneath the horse.

The outskirts of Barangay of San Juan begin on the other side of the river. Here, a few people tend to small gardens and rice fields. Just enough to supply their own needs. This fellow was harvesting his rice in the old way as I rode by.

We turned down a seldom used dirt road that leads past more small rice fields and a mature mango grove, and eventually to the river a bit upstream from where we always cross. It was here during an earlier ride, that I had seen what looked like a small roadway leading back up the mountain in the direction of our home.

The roadway almost immediately turned into a footpath. That ruled out any vehicle access for us.

Instead, the path led to a wattle fence, and a board and bamboo house. The door was closed, and no one seemed to be home, so I backtracked. 

There were a couple of smaller branches to the path. Each one led to another small traditional house. This one was just a basic structure, probably only used as shelter while people are working the adjacent field. Just as on the main path, there was no outlet continuing up the mountain. 

The whole area seemed to be part of an old mango grove.

At the third house, I met a fellow and greeted him. In English, I complimented him on his neatly kept place. He smiled and nodded politely, but it was obvious that he understood only that I was making polite small talk. 

“Is there a way to Bintawan?” I asked, gesturing around the mountain in the direction of that barangay. 

He chuckled and said “No”.  

“A way to Cabuluan?” Gesturing up the mountain towards the barangay at the top. 

He laughed and said no again. 

I pointed the opposite direction and asked “San Juan?”

He smiled and said yes. 

I thanked him and turned back. 

As I rode back, it seemed as if I had entered a time warp. The barangay at the foot of our little mountain is filled with all the hustle and bustle of the modern provincial Philippines. The little footpath led away from that, over a kilometer into the forest. The people there have only their backs to get their produce out. Maybe a motorcycle, but I saw no signs of any. I saw no carabao or tracks of a carabao sled. 

Each homestead was clean and neat. There was no hint of poverty. Only of divorce from the modern world which still lurked a kilometer or so from the edge of the forest