A voyage

By Tuesday, arrangements for lectures, boats, cars, meals, and accommodations for 21 were perfected. Heavy luggage for five days and presents in three cartons, a huge tent and a folding chair for an eight-hour voyage by boat resulted in an overweight boat.

July is safe for sea voyages with just a bit of rain and maybe rough seas, but our preferred dates fell on habagat months, June to November. Anyway, a swaying boat over the sea is far more soothing than a stiff rocking chair.

July 15 at 4:30 a.m., we were on board the launch Pagmahal. Harsh orders, loud voices and instructions on how to board the vessel broke the early dawn’s calmness. There were no birds to indicate flight and rough seas. Nor ants carrying their eggs to shelter, forecasting rains.

Off we went where the weather was cooperating and the wind felt good while I viewed the sea’s blue’s changing colors, right from the captain’s deck. I was surprised to see by the captain’s right side a GPS! Twenty years ago I witnessed the stars and the moon guiding us over the Celebes Sea to lead us to Bongao, Tawi-Tawi from Sibutu. Now I saw the GPS indicate 10 nautical miles per hour, 194 degrees 8.6 nautical miles per hour to Lugus. To Siasi 168 degrees southeast 5.70 nautical miles per hour. Ship guides and survival aspects I don’t understand and would rather leave to the Philippine Navy and the owner of our rented launch, Omar Mohammad.

I imagined french fries and popcorn and chocolates when Hadja Jikiri offered chocolate “kisses.” My Moro companions, noticing hunger, produced circular rattan low tables that were actually native trays suspended over a rattan circular base that held our breakfast of hard boiled eggs, Sulu coffee and the customary suman to eat with the eggs. Peanuts appeared, that national appetizer, and of course unlimited tuna sandwiches from Michael Abubakar who built the largest mosque in Jolo and the whole Region 9.

What a good life. The breeze, pictures taken with lots of laughter, skirts floating like waves, Moro and Christians sharing information about fish and recipes. In less than an hour I renewed acquaintances with the captain of the launch, Ibrahim Barra, who piloted for the late Governor Gerry Matba on the launch Temper in 1987. I recalled the ordeal of floating on the deep sea marooned under heavy rains while retracing the trade routes of the Samal Balangingis and their piratical expeditions.

Umla Mohammad, a barangay captain, reminded me we had met in Laha, Lugus Island, Sulu in the mid-‘80s with now Congressman Tupay Loong and Nori Amya. Four hours and our launch slowed down. On the shoreline kulintangs reverberated and Taosug and Samal women displayed elegant gold and silver thread attires threatening the sun. But we couldn’t get near the portside. It was low tide. Onward to the open seas again as two small bankas guided us in the deep sea lanes of light and dark blue where the launch stopped again. Out came the ropes. It was obvious it was going to be a harrowing experience. I was to climb backwards on a steel ladder onto the boat below held by men through thick ropes.

What a feat it always is getting off a launch. This one was a three-foot-high jump timed according to the crests. That just couldn’t be! Another taller boat was called, making it easier for the women especially Hadja Radae Gonzalez who weighted approximately 170 pounds and myself a skinny 125. Weight not withstanding, on Pagmahal accidents were not to be ruled out even for sturdy males and my effeminate companions. I inadvertently met them and got to love them, like Sai Limgas of Lanao Sur. Sai is a precise planner — a moderator and a cum laude from MSU — and emcees all our forums but now this chubby young man was squeezing between the openings of the viewing deck. There was no problem with Cathy Trinidad’s lithe figure in pants. Not tight enough to be objectionable by Islamic standards nor too loose like the Moro women in their Sawals. It’s the best attire to wear when you have to leap overboard. For myself, having ducked, jumped and balanced, aided by my PNPA graduate Captain Anthony Landig and Col. Serafin Petalio (his leg aching from a fall himself), I felt such a relief to be standing on the pier.

But where were my ballet shoes? Unknowingly, as the smaller boat swayed to and fro, my shoes fell into the sea and a Badjao boy jumped into the water to pick them up. Very wet were my Italian handcrafted shoes. Wet shoes or dry, troopers we had to be and continued on through the catwalk.

We found tables laid out with lobsters, crabs, fish, all of Luzon’s desires for the numerous guests of Barangay Captain Al Gonzalez of Moro and Christian parentage. He was the reason for our trip. Having helped in Noynoy’s victory, now was my chance to give thanks to the youth who upon our encouragement fought well for Noy to win without traditional leaders. Enough of that reminiscing.

Time is of the essence. So is daylight in these parts of our country, like it can be up north and southern Tagalog. No difference, but we hurried to the town of Siasi by launch to make it back to Jolo early evening as instructed by Gen. Romy Tanalgo and Col. Romy Valdez, PMAs of the Marines, and PNPAers Col. Roderick Morales and Col. Redentor Retusto… Everyone was extra cautious about Mindanao but when I was there for the week, my friend Col. Rodney Ramirez was killed in Lemery, Batangas by a drug lord’s followers and shot thrice in the head and three times more at the back — and everyone’s scared of going to Sulu.

Passing by an island I asked, “Why Bun-Bon for an island’s name?” The name Bun-Bon was given because during the Spanish time the dead were never buried. Instead bodies were piled up. In Taosug Bun-Bon means tabon or tabunan in Tagalog.

So much for untapped historical and mythical information that I requested Darren Datiles of Notre Dame to work with Sai and Marhama and Dunkin Pangutan to draw out the old Jolo districts inside the “Walled City” of Mayor Amin. Five posts signified that boundaries were built during the Spanish Era to serve as protection against the juramentados. Two faced the waterfront, one faced the inlay Tulay on the west side of Jolo and named after the fish named tulay. One in BusBos on the east side, so named because its occupants were fond of borrowing. And the third facing San Raymundo on the southern section.

Jolo is a treasure trove of knowledge, waiting to be rediscovered by historians. Two thousand students in MSU, Jolo, whose campus needs a cleanup but whose human sources are laudable professors and students, Christians and Moros without bridges dividing them under Chancellor Kiram and Vice Chancellor Baiting.

Being there, I admired the fortitude of members of the religious orders who leave their native land to live among strangers and preach the Catholic faith. Once they performed missionary work. Today they manage schools such as the Notre Dame College with the SVD’s, Sacrum Verbum of the Divindum… society of the Divine Word of Jolo. Fr. Randy Purcia, Fr. Romeo Villanueva, Fr. Ramil Joaquin, Fr. Roger Coalim teach at Notre Dame, Jolo where they have a staff house. There I safely slept.

So many friends to be thankful for, whom I rely on to bring Moro and Christian unity.