Lauren and I arrived back in Cotabato City from Sultan Kudarat a little past four in the afternoon. Having missed the last van trip to Pagadian, the dispatcher at the terminal insisted that we reserve a slot for the very first trip the following day. I saw no logical reason for doing that since numerous trips were scheduled daily. Thus, we proceeded to Plan B—which was to rendezvous with our fellow traveler Dennis, who was staying at a nearby budget hotel.
Throwing Coins at Rio Grande and Into the Island of Bongo
The Terminal Commotion
As we prepared to leave the terminal, dozens of people suddenly surrounded us, each pointing aggressively toward one of the two competing van terminals, all trying to make us book tickets for a trip that wasn't even happening that day. I told them we weren't going anywhere since there were no more departures. "Pay now for tomorrow's trip!" one of them shouted. I repeatedly and politely rejected their offers. All of them were purely after the commission for securing passengers, as the two rival terminals were locked in a fierce business competition—being operated by two different local tribes.
That was the only part of the trip that I considered a minor downer. For a fleeting moment, I half-expected someone to rob us in broad daylight. Surrounded by all the preconceived notions regarding Cotabato City, I was guilty of anticipating the worst. Fortunately, nothing of the sort happened. The most eager bystander, realizing the utter futility of the situation, simply cooled down, flashed a brazen smile, and remarked, "Sayang commission" (What a waste of commission). I completely understood why they went semi-berserk—they merely sensed an opportunity to cash in at the sight of two travelers who looked lost and frustrated over missing the last van.
Happy FM and the Legend of Bongo Island
We met Dennis in the lobby of the Diamond Hotel. We decided to share a room together, and he mentioned his friend's invitation to have dinner later that night. In the evening, we met up with Dennis's friend Jaffar, along with a couple of radio hosts and reporters at Happy FM, the number one radio station in Cotabato City. One of the DJs, the very engaging Nicky "The Music Monster," told us about an intriguing island where an independent movie titled "Qiyamah" was shot. The movie's title is an Islamic term signifying the Day of Judgment or the Apocalypse. The plot involves a community in rural Maguindanao waking up to the sun rising from the West—which, according to Islamic belief, signals the end of days.
That island is called Bongo. It has served as ancestral land for Muslims since the early 16th century, when Sharif Kabungsuwan—the first Sultan of Maguindanao and the man credited with introducing Islam to the people of Mindanao—briefly established a base there.
Following Nicky's fascinating suggestion came a series of stern warnings regarding safety protocols for the trip. Sam Sali, an esteemed local reporter with deep connections across Maguindanao, suggested we make official arrangements with the Vice Mayor of Parang, who owns a guesthouse on the island. While they sorted out the logistics, we enjoyed dinner at Alibaba, a popular halal restaurant in the city. Coincidentally, a woman seated at the next table turned out to be a relative of Jaffar. Upon learning where we were staying, she issued a grim warning: according to her, three people had been gunned down just recently right in front of the exact hotel where we had booked our room for the night.
Crossing Rio Grande de Mindanao
The next day, true to the promise of a free boat ride provided by the Vice Mayor of Parang, we found ourselves huddled together, gliding across the sweeping waters of the Rio Grande de Mindanao. We waited until our boat reached the far bend of the river as it empties into Ilana Bay within the vast blue waters of the Moro Gulf and the Celebes Sea.
As we cleared the mouth of the river, we tossed a few coins into the water as a traditional gesture of respect for the sea. From a distance, we could still see the Golden Mosque; even from afar, it maintained an imposing, majestic presence right beside Timako Hill.
Stepping Foot on Bongo Island
We were told that many people are too afraid to even contemplate visiting Bongo Island due to its isolation and security concerns. The fact that we were traveling under the protection of the Vice Mayor's right-hand man and several armed locals signified a deep level of caution. For a few seconds, I entertained the dark thought of being blindfolded, gagged, and forced to kneel before a video camera, mumbling words for a national news broadcast. As I updated my Facebook status to announce we were heading to the island, a concerned friend even commented, "It's a headline waiting to happen—be careful!"
However, looking at the warm, welcoming smiles of our Muslim companions from Cotabato City—all of whom were also visiting the island for the very first time—dispersed any lingering fear. The closer we got, the more I realized it was simply an ordinary island populated by local settlers. All we needed to do was respect their territory and not barge in like arrogant outsiders. Traveling with the blessing of the Vice Mayor and local community leaders represented mutual respect, and I believe that is all they ever ask for.
Upon docking, I quickly realized the island lacks even the most basic modern infrastructure for its residents. On the side of the island where we landed, homes had no working sewage systems—just a stark, bare landscape with small houses perched a few feet from the high-tide line. One of the local guides even politely warned us to watch our step to avoid straying into unsanitary areas.
Poverty is the prevailing reality here, and tourism sits comfortably at the very bottom of their income-generation priorities. Operating as a self-sustaining community, the locals survive primarily through artisanal fishing and copra harvesting. Now I fully understand why outsiders are apprehensive about visiting—they fear being perceived as a threat. I felt the exact same way until we crossed paths with a middle-aged local who greeted us with a cheery "As-salamu alaykum" and eagerly ushered us toward a nearby limestone cave.
He proudly showed us that the cave featured several deeper, completely unexplored chambers. A short while later, we spotted an elderly woman by the beach quietly sorting through her morning fish catch. She, too, was remarkably friendly and welcoming. I told myself that many of the prevailing fears surrounding the island are entirely unfounded—this is fundamentally no different from any other remote island community I've visited.
We transferred to the opposite side of the island to have a simple lunch consisting of Pastil at the Vice Mayor's rest house. The caretaker assured us that visitors are always welcome to drop by and stay at the guesthouse. The curious stares we encountered upon arrival quickly melted into warm smiles as young children waved enthusiastically at us while we walked back toward our docked boat.
Looking around, I realized Bongo Island will never become a commercial tourist hotspot, precisely because it functions as the sacred ancestral settlement of our Muslim brothers and sisters. They have chosen simplicity over modern distractions. This is their sovereign territory. Yet, on the rare occasions when travelers manage to leave their unfounded fears behind and venture into this remote pocket of the Moro Gulf, they will be greeted not with hostility, but with a thoughtful stare and a shy, disarming smile—leaving you with nothing to fear but fear itself.
This is part of a series about my week-long Mindanao backpacking trip in 2012:
