Camiguin Diaries: Lazing at Enigmata

Enigmata is an enigma for me. So I booked a room despite knowing that it was too big for a lone traveller and the price too steep for backpacking. They named my room (or suite) the Eagle’s Nest because it sat atop a tree. I was enticed by the height, the view from my duyan: I only see the tips of trees and houses and the silhouette of the mountains, oftentimes shrouded in dried wide leaves where my tree house was perched. My nest looked as if it was an offshoot of the tree itself, an ancient Banyan, and wondered why I am enjoying this vacation despite just lying here, swinging and doing nothing.

My room has a loft and a large open window where one can do meditation in the early mornings. The actual bedroom was surrounded by open windows covered by mosquito nets. The mayas pinch through the net in my room and woke me up, early enough to see the cold colours of dusk. In this place, lying down seemed to be the best position. So I did just that most of the time, waiting for the world to unfold and wondering where the geckos are so I don’t accidentally step on them.

My living room is wide and airy. Last night, I pulled a futon to the living room and lied on my face while a local masseuse moved through my back. I fell asleep with the sound of crickets and the rattles of the gecko. I figured that if one were to ask what I did in Camiguin, I’ll say I just lied on my back and waited for the guava fruit to land bull’s eye into my mouth.
___

I pushed the nipa windows and have the bamboo stilts raise them up. I was too excited I opened all my windows and took turns leaning on the railings, watching the different scenes around my nest. There was no one around except the German traveler on the second floor, who told me yesterday that she will spend the day riding a habal-habal to explore the island.

A booming crackle erupted at the branches near the kitchen. A gecko. I ran to the living room on the other side. I feigned courage and opened Sephie instead, typing away. After an hour or so, the gecko at the kitchen croaked again. Another one answered, this time, on the branch across my living room. My hair stood on ends as a third sound emanated from the vines below my feet.

I jumped to the middle of the living room and regretted opening the windows.
____

The rattles sounded like fingers clutching and jumping through wire screens. Sometimes, it conjured images of small balls of rolling beads swinging as if on drugs. And in very rare times, like duck feet flapping madly over wood. Then the croak comes. Long, trembling, guttural, clear.

My eyes shot open all the time and I wait, clutching the linen, looking around my mosquito net and making sure it was tucked securely under the mattress. Sweat beaded every part of my body and I quake as if I was that sound, rolling over reptilian throat nerves, quivering before flying out, spreading thick amidst the sounds of the night.

___

I feel like a child again in Enigmata. The playhouse has a big chess set that reminded me of the life-sized pieces in Marikina, which they have hidden now. They say the grandmasters used to go during the weekends, playing with the pieces while enthusiasts watch. Eugene Torre would have enjoyed it here too and use his staple tower combination.

I played alone because there was no one around for a challenge. I enjoyed fighting with myself; though I must have looked stupid moving the pieces on my own.
___

The kulintang makes me forget the reptiles. I never held one before and just played them based on how pleasant they rang to my ears. I played the way I felt it should be played: the notes catching each other, running around, playing tag.

“Its good, please continue,” my fellow traveller told me when she caught me goofing around. We exchanged a few pleasantries and itineraries. She said she’ll go diving. I said I’m staying here to enjoy the sounds.

I hit them as loud as I please. There’s nobody to get annoyed and the attendants were too pleasant to stop me. I was told the owner was away, satiating her wanderlust. It was still a lean month for guests anyway.

___

I love the playhouse. Here, everything is an artwork, a labor of continuous patience. My favourite was the string of dreamcatchers hanging over a mother dreamcatcher. I wanted to lie on the chessboard to watch the small feathers float with the wind.

Every piece was like a project in art class. Materials were recycled to complement the fixtures and the chairs and the windows. I took photos of everything so I can re-create them in my own place--if I could. Having the place all to myself was one of the highlights of my trip.

___

On my fourth and last night, I exchanged political views with a Colombian traveller, who was too surprisingly well-versed with national politics. I concluded he was a spy; he debunked my theory and explained it was the locals who told him about the political climate. Yet he knew those details as if they were open secrets—and they were not. Still, I was impressed.

“Did you notice,” he starts while at the middle of a drinking game, “that the roads are one of the best here in Camiguin?” I did not, I said. “And there are police people at the airport! I’ve never seen that in other places I’ve visited in the Philippines!”

Foreign travellers do notice the most peculiar details and ones that make me think. We ended up chatting up some more until the gecko rang again to mark my midnight bell. It was time. I said my goodbyes and plopped to bed. The geckos came again but the sound turned to a lullaby. I was either too tired to worry about it or too used to the rattles it ceased being scary. Either way, I took comfort in my eagle’s nest, not at the very least wistful of home. - 3/18/14