For much of us, we were made to believe that the communities that lined the aging Philippine National Railways tracks were nothing more than squatter settlements; clusters of improvised homes said to be occupied by people who stole steel from the rails themselves. There was a widely repeated story of a segment of track sawed clean off, halting the Manila-Bicol line years ago, and it became an easy picture for the way many of us viewed those who lived beside the railway: as troublemakers, the batang riles, or drifters, or people who existed beyond the rules that governed everyone else.

Growing up, the game of pabitin was a familiar presence during town fiestas and children's parties. A bamboo rack, laced with small toys, snacks, and other prizes, would be hoisted above a crowd of eager children. As the rack was lowered and raised again, the children would jump, reaching for whatever they could grab.

In this town in Quezon Province, residents transform their homes into dazzling tributes to faith, harvest, and heritage.

Growing up, the word bayanihan reminded me of a painting of neighbors carrying a wooden house on their shoulders. It was a scene representative of a time when homes were built light enough to carry and communities close enough to do so together. But beyond the literal meaning of bayanihan, the term has since signified something greater, a collective effort, of people coming together to help one another in times of need.

For many Filipino travelers and weekend warriors, the usual stops in Quezon province tend to circle around the well-worn routes of Lucena, Tayabas, Lucban, and Gumaca, places already familiar to motorists en route to Batangas or Bicol.

The town of General Nakar is a place that most people may be familiar with but likely have limited knowledge about. This rings true in my case. As I packed my stuff for the trip, I took a peek at its location on Google Maps and observed that it faces the Pacific Ocean and runs parallel to Polillo Island. Studying its position and knowing the geography around, it struck me that this town likely boasts a wealth of outdoor attractions, nestled as it is in the foothills of the Sierra Madre mountain range.

As Philippine festivals go, the bigger and brighter, the better. That rings true for popular ones like the Sinulog in Cebu, Dinagyang in Iloilo, Ati-Atihan in Kalibo, Pahiyas in Lucban, and Panagbenga in Baguio, just to name a few. Unbeknownst to most, several locations across the archipelago are staging their own little-known festivals that are equally well worth the effort to witness.

During this pandemic, I was fortunate to sandwich far in between my self-imposed lockdown at home, a few working trips that strictly followed safety protocols, to the Cordillera highlands, the organic farms in Quezon, and the picturesque Lake Lumot in Cavinti, Laguna. The only thing missing was a socially-distanced jaunt to the beach. Just when I was starting to wonder if I had to wait for this damn pandemic to end before I could dip my toes again in the ocean, a travel writing assignment arrived in my inbox.

A couple of months removed from a travel writing assignment covering the vegetable farms of Cordillera, another opportunity to visit more agricultural destinations came to my inbox from the Department of Agriculture's Agricultural Training Institute (ATI). It was to join their first regional bloggers/vloggers event that aimed to promote Organic Agriculture in the CaLaBarZon region (Cavite, Laguna, Batangas, Rizal, and Quezon).

“There’s only one country I haven’t been to. Nepal. I don’t know why—I just haven’t had the chance,” Don Ado told us after he overheard me asking my friend Karla, “Can you guess how many countries he has traveled to?” It wasn’t a question concocted out of the blue. I sincerely wondered about it after surveying the massive art, historic, religious, and souvenir collection housed safely inside Don Ado’s private ancestral mansion.

It didn't take much effort getting there. Us having to endure a six-hour bus ride is nothing compared to the bare living conditions on the island. As seen from my outsider's point of view, the scarcity of everything I couldn't live without flashed right in front of my eyes. It was an initial impression that proved to be inaccurate—a mere hour into our stay there. We were greeted by a middle-aged woman whom everyone simply calls "Kapitana," while some, who have strict odes about current politics, prefer to call her "Ex-kapitana." It doesn't matter whether she won or lost in the last barangay elections; what stuck out to us then was her hospitality and eagerness to cut the rope of unfamiliarity between her and the two visitors who came to Alibijaban Island.