“One of the great things about travel is that you find out how many good, kind people there are,” Edith Wharton once wrote. The first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, for The Age of Innocence, Wharton’s words remain true today. Travel not only reveals kindness in strangers; it also uncovers the outstanding stories people carry, tales of struggle, of creativity, and of quiet contributions to their communities that deserve to be told.
Like many
travelers, I began by focusing on the sights, the landmarks, the landscapes,
the postcard views. But over time, as I met more people along the road, my
attention shifted. I found myself drawn to the ordinary men and women whose
lives, struggles, and small achievements revealed far more about a place’s
Instagrammable spots ever could.
With that in mind,
this new series will be devoted to the stories of people I meet along the road.
Ordinary individuals whose lives offer fascinating insights. The aim is to
share not only how people in far-away places survive, but also how, in always
overlooked ways, they contribute to their communities and even preserve their
heritage.
Bernardo: a
Magkakabud in Camarines Norte
On a random stretch
of beach in Paracale, Camarines Norte, we met Mang Bernardo, one of the town’s
remaining Magkakabud, solo gold panners who practice a centuries-old
form of small-scale sand mining. On a good day, he told us, he might collect a
single gram of gold enough to sell for about a thousand pesos.
The method he uses,
known as gold panning, dates back to ancient times. With little more than
sluices (an apparatus where flowing water traps gold), and shallow pans,
practitioners sift black sand for particles of gold no larger than a grain of
dust.
Spending most of
his days on the shallow parts of the beach. mang Bernardo has grown accustomed
to being told away. Some resort owners, he said, drive the few remaining magkakabud
like him away. “We don’t even do this on their property,” he told us in
Tagalog. “We do it on the beach, during low tide.”
To outsiders, his
trade may appear extractive, even harmful to the shoreline. Yet Bernardo remains
protective of his environment. Pointing to a stretch of sea, he spoke of fish
and corals he hopes to rally his neighbors to protect. “That part over there,”
he said, “should be declared a marine sanctuary.”
He mines to
survive, but he also watches over the waters that sustain him. “I inherited
this job from my father, and he from his father,” he said. I was left
unsettled, aware of my privilege of advocating for the environment without
bearing survival’s daily weight as Bernardo does.
Gloria: Keeping
alive the legacy of Ilocos Norte’s empanada
In Batac, no visit
feels complete without a stop at the row of empanada stalls lining the street
in front of the church. Among them, the oldest still in operation is Glory’s
Empanada, founded by Gloria Aduana Cocson, now 82, who began making empanadas
at just 15 years old.
Over decades,
Cocson refined her recipe until it became the town’s most popular offering, a
benchmark of Ilocano street food. Her story, however, is not only about
culinary craft. Left to raise seven children on her own, she relied on her
empanada business to support her family, eventually transforming her small
stall into a local institution.
Today, “Lola
Gloria,” as she is known, is recognized as one of Ilocos Norte’s most respected
culinary figures, her work honored with awards including the Kalipi Award and
the Gameng Lifetime Achievement Award. Her empanadas remain more than a snack;
they are already a part of the province’s tradition, and the power of food to bring
together both family and community.
Buenvenido: From
dynamite fisherman to river guide in Capiz
In the wheels of
the tourism industry, it is often the overlooked figures who keep moving the circular
economy it produces. Among them is Buenvenido Dela Cruz Jr., a 71-year-old
river guide in Roxas City, Capiz.
For more than 17
years, Dela Cruz has been a Department of Tourism–accredited guide along the
Cadimahan River, in Roxas City, Capiz, where visitors drift through
mangrove-lined waters on lunch cruises. His current life stands in complete
contrast to his past. A fisherman since the age of 16, he once roamed as far as
Palawan and Masbate, chasing bigger catches and, by his own admission,
resorting at times to illegal methods such as dynamite fishing.
“Fishing was all I
ever knew,” he has said. But by his mid-50s, his body could no longer endure
the punishing work. When the local government began developing Cadimahan River
as an eco-tourism site in 2008, he grabbed the chance to begin a new chapter as
a tour guide.
The earnings are
modest. His income depends on the flow of tourist bookings, and he supplements
it by working as a caretaker at one of the river’s fish cages, earning 2,000
pesos a month. “The income has decreased significantly since the pandemic,” he
said.
Yet beyond guiding,
Dela Cruz has become a storyteller eager to share the history of the river, the
life it sustains, and the role it continues to play in his daily life and in
the community he belong.
Maria Todi:
cultural bearer and founder of a School of Living Traditions in Lake Sebu
Maria “Oyog” Todi,
a T’boli cultural ambassador and indigenous artist, founded the Lake Sebu
School of Living Traditions in the 1990s with a singular purpose: to preserve
her people’s heritage. “When our culture dies, our existence dies,” she has
said.
Perched on a hill
overlooking Lake Sebu, the school was built in the style of a traditional
T’boli longhouse. Known locally as the SLT, it functions both as an informal
cultural center and as a homestay. For a small fee, visitors can stay
overnight, share breakfast with the family, and learn directly from Todi about
T’nalak weaving, T’boli music, and traditional dances.
Todi, a musician,
chanter, and dancer, has spent her life teaching and performing. An awardee of
the NCCA’s Gawad Gabay, among many other honors, she remains one of the most
prominent figures working to keep T’boli traditions alive.
In 2001, the SLT
was formalized into the School for Indigenous Knowledge and Training, or SIKAT,
expanding its reach to elementary school students and offering lessons in
weaving, brass casting, theater, literature, and other facets of T’boli
culture.
“Preservation of
culture starts with the family,” Todi said.
Alfie: Embodying
the promise of community-based tourism
On the still waters
of the Sabang Mangrove Forest, guide Alfie Tejada greets visitors with easy
confidence. Only in his 30s, he has spent 13 years leading tours through this
47-hectare preserve just beyond Palawan’s world-famous Underground River.
“This river isn’t
connected to the Underground River,” he explains early, before launching into a
successive stream of insights. Over the course of 30 minutes, Tejada describes
the role of mangroves in protecting coastlines, sheltering marine life, and
sustaining biodiversity. Palawan, he notes, accounts for nearly one-fifth of
the country’s mangrove cover, some 60,000 hectares out of the Philippines’
estimated 300,000.
He points out various
flora and fauna as the boat glides along, from fruit-bearing mangroves to the
birds flying overhead. According to him, a flash of blue signals a kingfisher; hopping
softly in the shallows suggests a heron. Birdwatchers, he adds, arrive before
sunrise to see more. He recalls, with a grin, how he once tasted the mangrove fruit
preferred by long-tailed macaques. “It was awful,” he laughs. “Best to leave it
to the monkeys.”
Proudly, Tejada
frames his work within a larger effort. “This is a community-based tourism
project,” he says. “Each of us has a role in safeguarding this place.”
Jose: a dollmaker
with a story to tell in Roxas City
In Roxas City in Capiz, Jose Arcenas is rewriting tradition one doll at a time. Through his brand, Lamumu, he threads a simple mantra into every stitch: “support lokal, build lokal, market lokal.” What began as a catchphrase has become the guiding force of a social enterprise.
The dolls,
hand-crocheted by single mothers, students, and even inmates of the Bureau of
Jail Management and Penology, are far from ordinary toys. Each one is mythology
in miniature figures drawn from Hinilawod, the epic of the Panay-Bukidnon, and
from the darker corners of Filipino folklore, including the Capiznon tales of
the aswang.
Arcenas reimagines
these stories with care. His mermaid, for example, bears little resemblance to
Disney’s Ariel. Instead, she emerges from the precolonial tale of the Kapid
twins, in which one sister is cursed to live as a mermaid. It is folklore
retold in yarn.
The collection is
displayed at Casita Juan, a beachfront retreat conceived by Arcenas, an
architect by training. Against the backdrop of sand and sea, the dolls stand as
both art and archive, inviting travelers and collectors to engage with Panay’s
cultural fabric.
Jessie: from stroke
survivor to skilled artisan
Along the abandoned
rails of Lopez, Quezon, where makeshift wooden trolleys known as “skates”
rattle over rusting tracks, backyard workshops exist oozing with craftsmanship.
One belongs to Jesus Abatayo, Mang Jessie to his neighbors.
During the long lockdown
of the pandemic, when his small coconut store slowed, Abatayo began
experimenting with the husks and shells he once discarded. “He just started
shaping them into little things,” his wife, Avanceña, recalled. “Before we knew
it, there were flowers, animals, even tiny houses.”
What began as lockdown
experimentation grew into an unlikely livelihood. From smiling faces to
intricate miniature designs, his pieces sold for a few hundred pesos, have
become fixtures in the community.
A stroke survivor
for more than a decade, Abatayo has done more than carve out an income. In
turning scraps into items of beauty, he has shown his neighbors that re-invention,
like art, often takes root in the most ordinary materials.
This article first appeared on Rappler
