In the few times I had traveled in some part of Central Luzon, to be more specific, in some sections of different towns in the provinces of Bulacan, Pampanga, Tarlac and Pangasinan, this was the first time I decided to chronicle my travel while riding in a private form of transportation - a van. My eyes and my mind were the only source of information, a notebook and a mechanical pencil the only instruments to record it. Destination: Bani, Pangasinan - my wife's hometown.
 
Compared to North American standards of travel, the trip was slow, probably spending more than twice as much time traveling a certain distance. It was also laborious to the driver because of the many stops and go he had to make. But it was this pace of travel that I needed in order to observe and record; to give my opinion; to think and write; and to recollect, in order to connect those observations: by comparison; through similarities; through contrast, to some of my personal experiences, in my youth and in my other travels.
 
The trip officially started at our old family home in Malolos City. From there, we entered the North Expressway. Thanks to the privatization of this expressway, this once bumpy superhighway is bumpy no more. Commuters can now enjoy about 80 kilometers of travel in a highway; we, living in North America are accustomed to – flat, wide and divided with broken and solid lines in colours of yellow and white for safety.
 
Along the way was a vast plain of rice fields, gold and green in colour. Watching those fields as far as the eyes could see triggered something in my mind – that of my innocent youth - for in farming rice (staple food to the majority of people in the world) in irrigated farm lands, we survived. My mood suddenly changed when I realized that most of the irrigated farms in our barrio were no longer there - although there are laws to protect them and therefore should be there. They are forever gone, developed into residential subdivision by developers and business people well connected to the politicians. Many of these two kinds of people didn’t seem to care about the future, for as long they can make their millions, they are happy.
 
Visible from a distance was Mt. Arayat, one time home for Luis Taruc and his HUKBALAHAP. Ah, Luis Taruc, that great man from Pampanga who is a true nationalist. He is the epitome of a leader seldom seen in modern times especially in our country - simple, down to earth, intellectual, nationalist and somebody who was willing to die for his cause. He, together with Jesus Lava (another nationalist) championed the cause of the farmers - that of landlessness. In fighting for their cause, both were imprisoned for many, many years and were only pardoned during the regime of Cory Aquino.
 
On some distant horizon, hidden on those swaying bamboo trees and sprawling mango trees are some sleepy towns - home for the many Filipinos lucky enough to have their own dwelling. As we passed by the bridge above the famous Candaba swamp, somebody told me that underneath that long bridge, squatters lives. I guess that's how bad our population problem has become.
 
Traveling from a rented Toyota Hi Ace van, this air conditioned van gave us the comfort of travel and shelter from heat and humidity. In that short span, I cannot really say that the Philippines is a third world country.
 
But alas! All good things must come to an end. And this came too soon.
 
As we exited at Mabalacat, remnants of entertainment of the old Clark Field personnel still exist - lonely, sad, begging. In that short stretch and moving at snail’s pace, the reality started to surface and the battle had just begun.
 
As we traveled along MacArthur highway; we battled, zigged and zagged our way against tricycles coming from all directions; their drivers inhaling smokes from diesel fumes; exhaling smoke from local, highly addictive cigarettes - as if designed to hook every person who would lay their mouth on them. (Does the manufacturers of cigarettes know the harm cigarettes do to the people. But then again, life is full of hypocrisy – one will preach one thing and do another). Riding on the tricycles too were some passengers (sometimes two, sometimes three and sometimes four of them) exposed to a very unsafe condition - a condition they probably were aware of but necessity dictated them to do so.
 
We battled, zigged and zagged our way against against jeepneys overloaded with passengers; some standing at the steps at the rear, their heads sticking out above the roof, their hands firmly and tightly gripping railings and posts.
 
We battled, zigged and zagged our way against against buses, big and strong, that would intimidate anybody; their horns shouting, and their engines screaming. In their sudden acceleration, in their sudden burst of power; their monstrous engine would spit a cloud like smoke, innocently contributing to the destruction of the environment.
 
Watching all these scenes triggered something in my mind, but I kept my opinion to myself rather than discuss it with others in the van; knowing fully well that it was easy to criticize, even easier to overlook the reality behind it. Was this survival or total lack of discipline?
 
If this was lack of discipline, then this is something that can be corrected through education, through self control, through common sense.
 
If this was survival, then it is because this is a poor country with a population and social problems. And survival will find its way in many forms and in many ways. I shook my head for a moment and reminded myself: I have no right to complain with my present life.
 
Houses of all kinds and sizes stands on both sides along the way: shacks for the poor, well built bungalow or two storey for the well to do, the well connected, and with member of families abroad - in Japan, in the Middle East, in Canada, in USA, in Europe (this scene will be repeated in many towns and cities in our travel). I again shook my head and asked myself this question: What if you are not well connected? What if no member(s) of your family is lucky enough to be working abroad? Is there hope for you?
 
As we crossed the bridge that separates Mabalacat from Bamban, the river beneath it is a monument to the fury of nature, the ravages of time, the anger of Mount Pinatubo. This once beautiful river, where clear and clean water flows majestically; where fish swims peacefully, is dead - covered and buried with million of tons of lahar - that fine sand spewed by an angry volcano that brought havoc and destruction not only to the land its tentacles of destruction could get hold of, but to atmosphere as well (this scene will be repeated on that wide river in Tarlac city before entering Sta Ignacia).
 
I was quite sentimental when we reached Capas, because in this town, six months in the early part of 1967, I spent my life, worried, scared, and nervous. During that time, in this town, NPA and remnants of the old HUK movement was very active. And who could forget the dreaded Monkees, the most feared of the paramilitary units. After all, when our timekeeper went missing, he was found buried in a bush, his hands sticking up, with only a cross made of bamboo stick to mourn him. In this camp in Capas, known to the world as Camp O’Donnell, the survivors of that horror we call death march were imprisoned. Hundred(s), probably thousand(s) more would die from hunger, from tortures, from diseases. And those who would survive would come home limping, forever physically, emotionally, psychologically traumatized by the horrors and destructions of war. Six months in this camp, converted after the war as a US Navy radio station, I worked as a labourer to an outside contractor.
 
Luisita was quite a change of scenery. With a big mall, which is home to a modern shopping centre and fast food chains: Jollibee, Max’s, Starbuck’s Coffee, it offered us the opportunity to eat the junk food we longed for and the time to relieve and discharge. Not too far from the mall is a small park, remembrance to the martyred Ninoy Aquino, whose monument, with him descending down the stairs, where the fatal shot was fired, stands - an event that symbolizes a martyrdom and the beginning of the downfall of a dictator through a bloodless revolution. Some people called it revolution by television.
 
Tarlac City, or part of it, was very active and lively. Businesses were everywhere: schools, stores, restaurants, repair shops, beauty shops, junkyards (buying and selling metals for recycling), dealerships (for new and used vehicles). You name it; they are all in Tarlac city.
 
Sta Ignacia is more rural. Carved on the hills and valleys are small rice terraces; some green with colour from blossoming rice plants and some brown from heat and lack of rain. They stood there, thirsty and as if begging for rain. In one area, there is a mango plantation and I asked myself, “Is this owned by Filipinos or foreigners - for in this country, everything seems to be owned by foreigners or by foreigners who became naturalized Filipinos because in this beautiful yet poor country, they saw plenty of opportunities not seen by the local population but explored by businesses. This is reminiscent of the Spanish time where friars were king.
 
In some dry landscape, carabaos and cows - skinny and jagged and let loose in the almost dry vegetation - roamed and were busy feeding themselves from whatever grass they could salvage.
 
I closed my eyes and remembered my youth: I was riding on one of those carabao, wondering about what the future would hold, dreaming of a better life in the future not only for myself but also for my family, imagining myself of having a better education – because for me, life without education is not acceptable. Education would lead me to finding a better alternative, and a kindlier and easier existence.
 
Along the highway, branches of big acacia tree, planted on both sides of the highway, survivors of the sharp teeth of the chain saw of the furniture companies formed an arc, as if welcoming a royalty.
 
Reaching Camiling reminded me of Leonor Rivera – the love of our national hero, Dr. Jose Rizal - the man many men and women, not only in the Philippines but also from many part of the world especially Europeans, idolize. In this town, her museum is located. This is a museum I would like to see but because I was with others, I cannot see. Ah! some other time, maybe.
 
San Clemente was the next town. On the west side, that mighty and giant Zambales Mountain, magnificent from a distance, started to be more visible. And so her neglect and destruction. Giant trees that was once her landscape were gone, felled by the loggers; illegal or not, some says owned by powerful politicians and businesses who, some says have connections to the politicians, for export to some industrialized countries who preserved their own forest but doesn’t care about other countries’ forests, as if they are living in a different world, in a different planet, failing to realize that whatever ecological damage it may result affects them too. Ah! greed and ignorance.
 
Gone too were the wild life that was once the inhabitants of this magnificent creation of God: deer, wild boar, birds of all kinds and colours, snakes of different variety.
 
The survivor of this disaster I personally call “the chainsaw massacre” were being razed to the ground by the kainginero/mag-uuling for that product we call charcoal, which would be brought to some local market to be sold or traded for food. Local areas of this type of disaster was very visible as smoke coming from small fires in many areas of this magnificent mountain continued to rise to the sky, and to contribute greatly to another global problem we call global warming.
 
We entered Pangasinan through Mangantarem. The sign says “WELCOME TO PANGASINAN.” And I thought we were near to our destination, but I was wrong.
 
Traveling through Mangantarem, Bugallon, Labrador and Sual, nature seemed to be kindlier and more forgiving. There are more plains too, where rice fields; some irrigated, some not, are plentiful. Along the side of that stretch of that beautiful highway, courtesy of some of the country’s most powerful men, past and present; and all from Pangasinan Clave, Ramos, Orbos, de Venencia; mango trees rule.
 
We were greeted by a giant Spanish church in Bugallon. This church, monument to Spanish colonization and exploitation of the Filipinos, is in magnificent shape outside. How I wished we stopped and spent some time inside and marvel at the statues and treasures inside.
 
In that scenic Sual, mountain on one side and sea on the other, is paradise regained for the willing - who are the rich and the mighty. China Sea, heaven for the lovers of the sea is waiting to be explored. She is there waiting innocently, her water calm, her wave serene, her peace undisturbed. Shops and stores, built from the abundance of local material; bamboo, pawid, kogon, and perhaps illegally constructed on both sides of the highway, sell all that sea can produce; fish - dried and fresh, shells, oysters. Local boats too, with that long and thin bamboo secured on both sides to stabilize her in her travel were parked along the shore - waiting to be rented for a tour, perhaps, to that wonder of nature, the HUNDRED ISLANDS.
 
In this town too, I was face to face, side by side with that mighty Zambales Mountain. The closer I was to her, the angrier I became. She stands there like a sick, giant monster, perhaps wanting to choke this cruel creation of God, we call men, for the damaged she did to her, but she cannot move because she is paralyzed, sleeping and close to death.
 
One day, I told myself, she would get well, and she would have her revenge. Just like Mt. Pinatubo was sick and sleeping for some say six hundred years. Just like that mountain in that town in Leyte was peaceful and sleeping for all those generations. Just like Mayon Volcano had awakened and gave us some warning that they may be sick and sleeping, but they are alive. And when they had their revenge, mankind will be sorry.
 
Looking at her, I asked myself these questions?
 
“Why did this happen? Does the government and the people knew the consequence of these irresponsible actions – the deforestations?
 
“If they do, what were the actions they are taking to correct it? Are the damaged done irreversible?”
 
I also asked myself that perhaps; we, living in foreign lands should do something about it by raising awareness to them. We, millions of us, is a force to reckon with. We, who send our hard earned money to our family should perhaps start a petition through the internet and start to collect, maybe a few hundred thousands signatures and present it to the government. We probably should documents the damages we see and post it in a website for the world to see. Maybe then and only then they would listen and do something. We should probably tell our government there that we are worried about the continuing destruction of our forest, of our rivers, of our mountains, of our farmland. And that a small portion of our remittances should be used for their preservations.
 
And sometimes in the future when all the mountains and forests have been reforested and they are rain forests once again; and when the rivers and lakes and air are once again clean and free of pollution; then once again tourists will come to camp and hunt and fish and swim and create some much needed jobs and generate that much needed foreign income. Ah! What a dream!
 
“WELCOME TO THE CITY OF ALAMINOS” the sign on the highway says. Alaminos is a city indeed; busy, crowded in the city proper which is located right there along the national highway. Needless to say, traffic was choked in both directions. Another big church, another monument to the power of the friars, those evil of a men, that caused our forefathers so much grief and so much pain - grief and pain which led to some kind of ignorance, which is still being felt and practiced by some among us today.
 
“TO HUNDRED ISLANDS” the sign on the right hand side of the road says, as if inviting us to see and explore those magnificent islands. Not this time, I told myself.
 
Finally we were able to get out of the traffic jam. Another fifteen minutes drive in a typical provincial scenery. We made a left turn just after the municipal hall and instructed the driver to park right in front of another church.
 
And here we were, right in front of my in-laws place. I glanced at my wife, who was home at last after many years.
 
Her eyes were wet with tears.