“It’s a no-go.” Words I had hoped not to hear from our tour coordinator as I waited for an update on our planned trip to the Balabac group of islands. “The coast guard still won’t allow boats to leave port,” Ash informed us, moments after speaking with contacts on the ground at Port Buliluyan in Bataraza, the southernmost town of Palawan and the gateway to Balabac.

“A shear line”, according to weather reports, hovered over Palawan’s skies, triggering gale warnings and causing severe flooding in the island’s southern reaches just days before our arrival. And so, our journey to the remote islands—hailed as among the world’s most spectacular—was over before it even began.

Normally, I would have been gutted. The weight of disappointment had barely settled when an unexpected optimism took hold. We’re in Palawan, I reminded myself. There was always more to see, more to uncover.

As if reading my mind, Ash, our tour coordinator, offered reassurance. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll still explore some islands and waterfalls in Brooke’s Point and Quezon.” Her words confirmed what I already hoped for; our AsianTraveler Palawan coverage would yield more than enough stories for our readers.

Just like that, our thwarted journey to Balabac transformed from a setback into an invitation to return and visit the islands some other time. My attention shifted to what lay ahead: new landscapes, and local culture waiting to reveal itself.

With the roads leading to Balabac Islands in our rearview mirror, we headed towards the quiet southern town of Brooke's Point, the next-town neighbor of Bataraza and away from the famed beaches of Palawan. Here, a community of Jama Mapun, or the "People of Mapun," have found settlement. Originally from the islands of Tawi-Tawi, they brought with them traditions and a craft perfected over generations: the intricate art of mat weaving.

At the heart of their mat weaving creations is a technique known as tupi, or "fold," a method that allows weavers to manipulate each pandan leaf, which is already dyed with different colors, with precision, changing its direction to form complex geometric patterns.

The leaves themselves are gathered from a nearby riverside plantation, a short 15-minute walk from the community. “Malapit lang,” says Nanay Arita Kulihim, the president of the local weaving collective, Takin Bawat Tipo. The association takes its name from the Jama Mapun Sama-Bajau language—Takin referring to their barangay, Bawat meaning “work”, and Tipo translating to “banig” (mat).

Inside the modest weaving centre, only one weaver was at work during our visit. “The others weave from home,” Nanay Arita explains in Tagalog, tracing her fingers over a half-finished mat. The eldest of the group, 85-year-old Lola Talmala, still practices the craft with remarkable vigor. A large mat takes her a month to complete, while a medium-sized one requires a couple of weeks. Yet despite the painstaking process and exceptional artistry, their work remains undervalued—their mats selling for as little as 3,500 to 6,000 PHP, a price that scarcely reflects the hours of labor and skill woven into each piece.

More than functional objects, the mats displayed inside the weaving center instantly astounded me with their colorful designs and patterns that will make you ask, “How’d they come up with these designs?”

Beyond the wow factor of each mat, it carries stories of the Jama Mapun’s journey, told in color and texture, woven with care and passed from one generation to the next. It is a living tradition, not just of inherited skill, but also of lasting identity.

Following a hearty lunch of Chaolong—the Filipino version of Vietnam's Pho, introduced to the local culinary scene by Vietnamese refugees after the fall of Saigon in 1975—we visited a couple of emerging farms, which local tourism authorities are considering as potential sites for farm tourism and agricultural training for visitors interested in growing their own produce.

At Alba Farm in Brooke’s Point, Palawan, Gabriel Alba leans against a wooden post, surveying the land that changed his life. At 38, the former security guard turned full-time farmer and a father of three talks about the moment of realization that set him on this path.

“There I was, clocking in and out as a guard in the city, while this land I inherited from my parents, just sat here,” he recalls, shaking his head. He then told us how a moment of realization came about. A conversation with his fellow guards, who shared dreams of retiring and owning a farm someday. That was all it took. Instead of waiting for “someday,” Alba packed up, went home, and got his hands dirty.

Bit by bit, he transformed his 14-hectare property into something more than just farmland. Rice fields, vegetable patches, a coconut plantation, fishponds, and the likes. But Alba’s vision goes beyond crops. His farm now welcomes agricultural students for on-the-job training, turning it into a place where knowledge is cultivated as much as the soil. “This land is a blessing,” he says, his voice sounding with pride. “This is our family’s only wealth.”

At the nearby Mel Farm Hydroponics and Garden, Aldrin and Normelyn Sali never planned on becoming farmers. But fate plus a global pandemic had other ideas.

In 2020, Aldrin, 52, was working as a civil engineer in the Middle East, a career he’d built for over a decade. Then the world shut down. Expatriated and then becoming stranded in the Philippines and unable to return to his job, he found himself with nothing but time, and a backyard. What started as casual gardening quickly became an obsession. He experimented with vertical farming, growing basil, mint, celery, lettuce, and more.

Soon, their small-scale setup wasn’t just putting food on their table, it was feeding Puerto Princesa’s hotels and restaurants. Before they knew it, Mel Farm had become Brooke’s Point’s first hydro farm, and the money followed. In the years after the pandemic, the couple was raking in over ₱100,000 a month. From civil engineering to hydroponics, Aldrin swapped blueprints for green thumbs. And as it turns out? Best career change ever.

We wrapped up our time in Brooke’s Point with a visit to one of the 34 historical markers commissioned by the National Historical Commission of the Philippines to honor the 500th anniversary of the Magellan-Elcano expedition’s first circumnavigation of the globe. Nestled in Sitio Tagusao, this marker, like the rest, stands at a site where the legendary voyage is believed to have touched or passed through Philippine shores.

These quincentennial markers are more than just plaques; they’re artistic statements. Designed by sculptors Jonas Roces and Francis Apiles, each piece features a dust-marble relief inspired by muralist Derrick Macutay’s sketches, which reimagine the historic landings from the perspective of the locals rather than the explorers.

Despite years spent crisscrossing the Philippine archipelago, a few places have continued to elude me. Chief among them: the mountain village of Buscalan in Kalinga, home to Apo Whang-Od, centenarian, cultural icon, and said to be the oldest traditional mambabatok (Kalinga traditional artist) of her generation. Using a thorn, soot, and indigenous ink, she etches ancestral symbols into skin, each mark a living archive of identity and cultural symbol.

When she appeared on the cover of Vogue Philippines, every copy flew quickly from the shelves, her magnetic presence eclipsing celebrity with something far older and deeper. To wear even her signature three inked dots is to be imprinted not only by art, but by the history of her community.

Buscalan, for all its storied allure, remains just beyond my reach, for now. But as detours often do, mine led elsewhere but still within the folds of Kalinga, far from the well-visited tattoo trail. In the quiet spaces beyond the ink of Buscalan, I found a province alive with ancestral traditions and a culinary tradition as rich and earthy as its highland soil. What began as a pursuit of getting up close with Apo Whang-od became an invitation to see Kalinga in full.

“Is that the church?” I asked the man beside me, who turned out to be Daryl Abayon, a local historian with a deep knowledge of Lubuagan’s past. “Yes,” he said. “The original was bombed during World War II.”

In May 1942, Japanese forces took control of Lubuagan during their early advance across Luzon. Three years later, as American troops worked to retake the Philippines, planes bombed the area to drive out Japanese troops destroying much of the town, including St. Peter’s Church and its convent.

But Lubuagan’s role in Philippine history began even earlier. From March 6 to May 18, 1900, it briefly served as the capital of the First Philippine Republic. Emilio Aguinaldo, then on the run from American forces, arrived in the town wounded and weary. “A tribal leader fetched him from that hill,” Attorney James Tagaotao, a cultural advocate tells us, pointing to a ridge in the distance.

Aguinaldo was carried into the village and set up office in what is now the Municipal Hall of Lubuagan. Tagaotao added that from 1905 through 1935, Lubuagan was Kalinga’s center for education, commerce, and culture. “It was where everything happened,” he said.

Lubuagan also lays claim to a proud weaving tradition. Known locally as Laga, the craft is carried out by women using backstrap looms to make traditional garments like the tapis (wraparound skirt), be-e (men’s loincloth), and woven home goods. Abayon notes that Lubuagan is considered the birthplace of this cultural art in the region.

“Next to Baguio City, Lubuagan is perhaps the most historically significant place in the Cordillera,” Abayon adds. Even today, backstrap and upright looms can be seen on porches and inside the homes of weavers. The tradition continues through the skilled hands of the Mabilong Weaver Community, where bold reds, blacks, and earthy tones are woven into cloth.

While Apo Whang-od remains under consideration for the prestigious Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan (GAMABA), Kalinga already holds one such honor through Alonzo Saclag, a master of traditional dance and performing arts, who received the award in 2000. In 2016, Saclag and his wife Rebecca established the Awichon Cultural Village in Lubuagan.

Nestled among thick foliage and open fields, the village provided a fitting setting for grounding rituals and mindful connection. During one earthing session, Ophelia, a local cultural bearer, led the group in a chant to Kabunian, the supreme deity in Kalinga belief. “We were told that sitting on their local weaves connects Kalinga people to their ancestors,” Stephanie Zubiri shared.

Another participant Kelly Misa added, “From fire ceremonies to cacao rituals at sunrise, ancient dances to intricate weaves, our experience in Kalinga reconnected us to land, spirit, and self.” In Awichon, the past is not merely remembered, it is lived.

In Lubuagan’s neighboring town of Pasil, a meal isn’t just a meal. Here, local produce, heirloom recipes, and healthy dishes are more than tradition; they’re a way of life. This quiet mountain town became the Philippines’ first Indigenous Slow Food community, now proudly linked to the global Slow Food International network.

Even the cookware tells a story: earthen pots handcrafted by local women using age-old methods. Here, we were introduced to Lola Kum-as, the oldest living potter in the village. She shared the intricate processes behind the art of pottery, from shaping raw earth to the design phase called gili.

Once the design is set, the potter smooths the surface using a stone called ichi-id. Afterward, the pottery is left to dry before being carefully fired. Guests are treated to cultural immersions, including the mesmerizing 'banga' dance, a balance of tradition, rhythm, and grace.

Coupled with earlier visits to Naneng and the unforgettable Bodong Festival, I’ve come to understand Kalinga as far more than just the home of Buscalan’s renowned tattoo art. While Whang-od remains the icon, she is not alone in carrying its legacy.

One evening at Mount Lilayan, as cultural bearer Ophelia began to recite a traditional Kalinga epic chant, we learned of the historical significance of the land. It was here that peace pacts were once sealed through solemn gift-giving between rival clans.

At sunrise on Mount Lilayan, the earthy scent of pine and damp soil filled the air. Surrounded by lush forest, I felt the gentle pull of Kalinga—its land, its people, and its stories—calling me to return again and again.

Organized by the Tourism Promotions Board of the Philippines, the workshop focused on destination resiliency, signaling renewed support for sustainable tourism in one of the country’s most secluded islands. Let’s get one thing straight: Batanes isn’t your average beach-and-bar-hopping Philippine getaway. It’s remote, like seriously remote.

Located far in the Philippine Sea, over 160 kilometers north of Luzon, it’s a destination that shrugs off convenience. Ships don’t carry passengers, only cargo. Flights are few, and when the weather decides to be unpredictable, which happens often, cancellations are a given.

But that’s all part of the province’s added attraction among countless other reasons to come. For those who make it, Batanes offers something rare: a place that still feels untouched. Most travelers, however, stick to the main island of Batan, home to Basco, the provincial capital, and its main airport. Some hop over to Sabtang for its time-capsule old stone houses and cinematic coastlines.

Then there’s Itbayat.

The third and most far-flung of the province’s inhabited islands, Itbayat marks the end of Batanes’ paved roads. Often skipped, forgotten, or simply left off most visitors’ itineraries, it might just be the most intriguing destination of all.

When it comes to tourism, Batanes remains one of the Philippines’ least-visited provinces. In 2024, just over 13,000 travelers arrived or an average of 35 per day. Only about 10% of them ventured farther to Itbayat, the country’s northernmost inhabited island. Beyond it lie the uninhabited islets: Siayan, Mavulis, and Y’ami.

Getting to Itbayat is part of the adventure: a three-hour boat ride across choppy seas or a seven-minute flight from Basco aboard a six-seater plane, costing around ₱3,000. Perhaps because of the nausea-inducing boat ride or the plane ride that appear scary to many, most tourists skip it, making Itbayat feel like the Philippines’ best-kept secret.

Spanish colonial influence reached Itbayat with the founding of a canonical mission in 1855. Under American rule, Itbayat became a municipal district in 1909 and was declared a full municipality by 1935. But like the rest of Batanes, Itbayat sits in a zone of frequent natural threats. Typhoons and earthquakes are common. A magnitude 6.0 quake in 2019 severely damaged many of its traditional stone houses and the historic Santa Maria de Mayan Church — a stark reminder of the island’s vulnerability and unshaken resilience.

With resilience now embedded in daily life in Batanes and its exceptional landscapes drawing growing interest from travelers, it has become essential for government agencies to prioritize the province in development plans. The focus: strengthening defenses against recurring natural disasters while integrating climate-resilient practices into its tourism strategy.

For the first time since the pandemic, a national government agency brought a capacity-building program to the island of Itbayat. The Tourism Promotions Board (TPB) of the Philippines led a two-day workshop aimed at empowering communities through community-based tourism.

“This initiative reflects our commitment to inclusive, community-led tourism—especially in geographically isolated areas,” said TPB Chief Operating Officer Marga Nograles. Itbayat Mayor Sabas C. de Sagon thanked the TPB not just for visiting, but for organizing a workshop that could help locals promote the island more effectively.

Participants included staff from the Itbayat Tourism Office, emergency responders, municipal employees, local tour operators, homestay owners, and DOT-accredited guides from across Batanes. “It’s high time Philippine destinations viewed tourism through the lens of resilience,” said workshop speaker Boboi Costas.

By all means, Itbayat remains a secret to most: one of the Philippines’ oldest settlements and yet, in terms of tourism, still an infant. Despite its history dating back to the arrival of the Austronesians, the island has long remained isolated. That remoteness has protected its natural and cultural integrity, but it has also kept Itbayat off the tourist radar.

Recognizing both the opportunity and the risk, the Tourism Promotions Board is proceeding with caution. Rather than replicate high-volume models, the agency is turning to its playbook of community-driven tourism; a slower, more intentional approach rooted in community involvement and culture preservation.

“Itbayat is not simply another destination,” said TPB COO Nograles. “We see it as an invitation—an encounter with one of the Philippines’ most authentic frontiers.” The goal is to cultivate guardianship among residents, ensuring growth aligns with their vision.

What emerges from Itbayat is a test case for ethical tourism in the Philippines. For now, Itbayat Island remains pristine and unspoiled. Whether we’re past, present, returning or future visitors, it’s on us to help keep it that way.

Having climbed my fair share of mountains during my college days, I knew well enough that when a guide says, “Just 10 more minutes,” what they really mean is that a good hour or more separates you from the summit. By the time I reached the boulder face of Mount Apo, I was already battling a sea of massive stones. These boulders, remnants of an undocumented ancient eruption, lay scattered like imposing obstacles one has to hurdle with both hands and feet, and an impressive balancing act, before reaching the peak.

If there’s any comfort, it comes from the horizon, where the first streaks of gold stretch across the sky as the sun begins to rise. The view is stunning, and for a moment, it helps ease the aches in my knees and the fatigue in my body. Just minutes ago, I was asking myself why I chose to climb Mount Apo as opposed to just relaxing at the mountain resort of Camp Sabros, also in Davao del Sur. By then, while staring at the sky, I begin to understand as the magical sight took hold of me. I gather more deep breathes because despite our guide’s “10 more minutes,” promise, I find myself relying more on instinct that we have indeed, a long way to go.

We began our climb just after 9 a.m. Our route: the Kapatagan back trail, one of Mt. Apo’s shortest, but by no means the easiest at it presents an advanced and challenging trail. The first leg took us through sloping farmland, a steady 20 to 25-degree uphill slope that lasted for hours.

Eventually, the trail led us into the forest, where the soil gave way to patches of mud, and the incline grew steeper. There were stretches that made me question my lack of proper training, preparation, and even my desire (while imagining myself at home watching Netflix instead).

But we pushed forward, pausing for rest when needed, and taking an hour-long lunch that gave our bodies brief but welcome respite. We reached Camp Gudi-Gudi around 3 p.m., six hours after setting out.

Because it was Holy Week, the campsite was more crowded than the ordinary long weekend scene. Still, we managed to find a quiet clearing about a hundred meters from the campsite signage. We pitched our six tents there, while our guides and porters set up near the shared camp kitchen. The rest of the day unfolded in soft rhythms; naps, warm meals, the comfort of hot snacks, and an early lights-out at 8 p.m., with the night air growing colder by the hour.

We rose before 2 a.m. the next day, so we can properly pack our day-hike gear, have coffee, and layer up against the chill for our summit push. At 3:00 am, we began our second day trek.

After nearly eight hours of navigating loose rock, steep ridges, and lunar-like terrain, we reached Digos Peak, one of Apo’s three summits, just after 11 a.m. There, above the clouds, we lingered for an hour, staring into a panorama that made the pain worth it. From there, we made our way to the other two peaks, retracing our steps to the white sand flats for lunch, and finally descending back to camp by 3 p.m.

I asked myself this question several times, especially when my knee started acting up on the trail. The British climber George Mallory famously answered it in three words: “Because it’s there”, when asked why he sought to attempt summitting Everest. For many, that response has endured. But for those who walk the ridgelines and forests of mountains like Mt. Apo, the reasons are often far more personal.

For me, climbing Mt. Apo is a fitting exclamation point to the journey that began with my wanderlust in college. As a freshman in the UST Mountaineering Club, and following in my brother's footsteps, I was first introduced to travel through mountain climbing. We trekked to peaks in Batangas, Bataan, Mindoro, and Bicol. Those early climbs opened a world far beyond the campus and city streets I had known about.

Mt. Apo, the highest peak in the Philippines, became a long-held dream of mine. Not as a bucket list item, but as a way to mark a chapter. To remember a formative period in my life that shaped the way I see the world and myself.

For Joyce Cee Olebang, one of our Mt. Apo guides, the mountain carried a different meaning, one formed by grief. “When my father died, I promised to climb Mt. Apo,” she told me. “So at least I could feel closer to him from here on Earth.”

That promise led to a single climb. Then another. And another. Before long, Joyce found herself returning to Mt. Apo over and over not just as a daughter honoring a vow, but as a mountaineer in her own right. The mountains of Mindanao became her second home.

When the opportunity presented itself to become a certified guide, Joyce grabbed the opportunity. While continuing her career as a teacher in college, she pursued on her free time, to lead others up the very trails where she had once grieved and, in time, healed. “It was a different kind of high,” she said to me with a smile. “I didn’t expect it, but I found a new purpose here.”

My knees, sore from the previous day’s effort, were less than cooperative. Every step felt heavier, slower, more uncertain. I began marking time not in hours, but in the gentle lies of our guide Kuya Bador, who reassured us with a cheerful tone of “15 more minutes” to the boulder phase, to the white sand flat, to the crater lake, to the peak. We all knew those 15 minutes stretched closer to an hour. Still, the infamous mountaineering “15 more minutes” illusion helped.

At that time, my answer to the eternal “why do you climb?” wasn’t exactly Mallory-level profound. There was no poetic longing or search for self. Honestly? I just needed content. Some good photos, a few solid notes enough to write a halfway decent travel story and move on to the next assignment. But then it happened.

We reached the summit and found ourselves staring at what our guides described as a rare occurrence, a perfect combination of a clear sky and a sea of clouds. “Most days, it’s either the peak is covered in fog, or there’s a clearing but no sea of clouds,” said our lead guide, Kuya Bador. “Today, you got both a clearing and a sea of clouds,” he added with a smile.

And just like that, the climb stopped being a bucket list checkbox. It wasn’t just about paying homage to my college-era hiking roots. It wasn’t even just posting a photograph on my socials captioned with a cliché “Finally, I conquered Mt. Apo” flex.

It was about being there. Not performing it for a story. Not thinking about captions. Just breathing albeit painfully, looking around me with wide appreciation, and living fully in the moment. And yes, Sir Mallory was right. There’s really no better answer to it than, “It’s there.” So I did climb, bum knees, poor training, and all. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In total, we had spent close to 12 hours on the trail that second day. Somewhere between fatigue and exhilaration, doubt and awe, I found clarity not in the peak itself, but in the journey it required. I had questioned my stamina, even my purpose. But as I sat by my tent that afternoon, tired but unbowed, I felt nothing but gratitude. Mt. Apo, the rooftop of the Philippines, had welcomed me at last.

To sit here now in a coffee shop, replaying the experience of summiting Mt. Apo, is to understand what makes a memory great: not just the act itself, but the story it becomes. It wasn’t merely material for a travel piece, it’s something I’ll carry with me, something to look back on with fondness and let fuel my future journeys.

And next time? I’ll gladly do it again, bum knees and all, but better trained, and with more energy-boosting trail food.