Anawangin's Downfall

On the boat ride from Pundaquit to Anawangin Cove, Sky told her cousin, Ashley, about the pine trees that grew on sand, and that they were Mt. Pinatubo’s sons and daughters.   At seven years old, Ashley’s brows furrowed on the similes.  

The agoho "sons and daughters of Pinatubo." Anawangin, 2010

“Di ba, mommy?”  Sky needed story reinforcement so I pitched the local tale about how the cove used to seem like any other cove, with beige sand matting the length of the long shoreline and turning slightly gray on the left cleft where fresh water met saline.  

 In 1991, when ashfall from Mt. Pinatubo carpeted San Antonio, Zambales, there also came a seeding of sorts.  “Anak ng Pinatubo,” was how the old caretaker explained the mysterious birthing of the agoho trees, so uncharacteristic of Philippine beaches with most having coconuts and talisay as resident terrestrials. 

It is partly this realignment of Anawangin’s geomancy – fire conceived the agoho, earth midwifed newborn islets and dunes, water gurgled in the center and flowed freely to the sea, mountain protected her back -- that validated it: secluded Anawangin is soul terrain. 

Anawangin river, meandering and meditative.  2010

Twice here already, Sky regaled family with philosophical mastery that niners throw out so casually, “the beach and river, they’re kind of never the same.” 

But the never-the-same, this time around, had no philosophy, and created bad feng shui. 

I hurried the family’s lunch so we could wade and follow the enchanting, shallow, meandering river and then come out at the end of the cove into the beach.   I thought Ashley and Nicole, like Sky, would want more time on their own to discover the delights that we have long gushed to them about. 

The cove from Mt. Pundaquit. 2010.

A few meters of walking on the dry river bed, Sky turned back and pointed at the torn wrappers of chips and candy trapped in stones and roots.   Oh man, not Anawangin, I remembered intoning, but trusted that this system will detox when the rains come and fewer humans, most likely mountaineers, will brave the waves or Mt. Pundaquit.   

Sky turned back again and Ashley with her.  I motioned that she continue on but violet river flowers distracted her from what she was about to tell me.  And then I saw what stopped her.  There, spanning across the river where it widened and deepened were bamboo poles holding up black, nylon nets that stretched from one bank to another. 

Spanning across the river where it is widest and deepest is a fence-net.
Anawangin, 2014.  

Remembering how small fishers came there to forage, I asked two small boys chasing each other, “Ano nahuhuli dyan?”  

“Bawal na po.”

“Ha?”

 

“Bawal na po tumawid dyan.”

Holding on to a bamboo pole, I felt the rape.

“Meron na pong nagtatayo ng resort dyan,” one of the boys pointed to an islet being cleaned of trees, linked by a footbridge to the main beach.

“Bakit? Puwede bang bakuran ang ilog?”

“Matagal na po yan,” and went back to their splash and chase game, oblivious to the violation.

By now, my dad and mom, sister and her lawyer-husband caught up with us and my anger.  “Puwede bang bakuran ang ilog?”  I asked him but he asked me back, “Puwede bang bakuran ang ilog?” incredulous.  

 

"How in the world can you fence a river?  Anawangin, 2014

I stalked the length of those bamboo poles and net, and felt myself being watched on the other side.  These rapists didn’t get it, I seethed, gripping a pole, and readied myself for the trespass.  They didn’t get that the enchantment that was Anawangin was that she dressed herself in agoho up front, nourished the nuang (wild carabao) in her mountain bosom, let her hair down in rivulets of curling streams, and tickled her toes on the cold surf that entered her cove.  

 

Magick was here. Anawangin, 2011. 

They didn’t get it that she was beautiful because of the wild spirit that animated the agoho, the nuang and the river.  They didn’t get it that Anawangin’s core connection with free folk was that satori moment of discovery that this was not just a place; Anawangin was a book of poetry, a zen garden, a child’s playground.  It was hallowed ground. It was a temple.   

They only got that because many reported of her beauty, they were entitled to her.

The river, still free.  Anawangin, 2011 

Sky’s “Aw, ma,” right beside another pole, diffused my wrath.  To Ashley, on her side, she predicted, “My mom is going to climb this fence.” 

The other side looked the other way again when I stepped back from the bamboo and the boundary.  The battle will take place somewhere else.

I looked for the two boys who were watching apprehensively, ready to bolt, “E paano kami ngayon lalabas dito?”

They pointed to a path on the bank, clear of daffodils.  “Ahm, pero po…”

“Ano?!”  I snapped.   Family silently followed me up to another bamboo structure; this time, a gate.

“May bayad po.  Fifty pesos,” and ran away.

“The hell I’m going to pay fifty effing pesos,” I muttered and stared down anyone who’d charge me from another side of the fence.  Nobody did.

Owned and claimed.  Anawangin 2014

Then I saw what I didn’t see before in my excitement to show family why Anawangin captivated me, and why, either by trekking or riding the waves, we were always called back.  The entire shoreline was fenced, the whole length of the cove partitioned by one claimant after another, each charging for picnic fees, tent fees, entrance fees, access fees.   

They didn't get it. Anawangin 2014.

I raged back to find the old keeper only to be told that he was gone.   I accosted Rene, our suki boatman, instead, “Ano nangyari dito?!  Bakit may bakod ang ilog?  Pati beach may mga bakod?”

“Di lang yan,” he pointed at locals clambering up a particularly challenging boulder to range freely, “yung dating trail natin, may bakod na rin.  Bayad ka kung gusto mo maglakad.”  

“Di nila gets no?!  Di nila gets na hindi lang ito lugar.  Hindi lang ito basta lugar.” 

The new caretakers, the boatmen, several locals one by one joined our little circle, ready to supply answers.  That it’s been going on for three years.  That local government connived to tear Anawangin apart.  That foreign interests will close the cove to begin “development.”  That this is going to happen to nearby Nagsasa cove soon.      

Fences, all the way to the river opening.  Anawangin, 2014 

I leave them talking to each other, and sat by Sky and Ashley on the beach.  “See there?” Sky pointed at the end of the cove where the opening to the river used to be, “that’s where this man went in so he could rest on his little boat cause the waves were so strong.”

Locals could still forage and seek refuge.  Anawangin 2011. 

“And there,” pointing up on the range, “that’s where my mom said she and dad saw wild carabaos .”  

“Sorry I couldn’t bring you here earlier, Plok,” I told Ashley.  “These places are disappearing.”

Where the nuang roamed.  Anawangin 2010.

“It’s okay ma, it’s okay,” as usual, Sky always had the right words for her distraught mother.

Ashley wanted more stories, “what else?  What else?”

When Anawangin was still beautiful.  When Anawangin was still free. 2011.

And Sky told her how easy it was to get lost traipsing in the river and how guides put up local versions of inukchuk to aid trekkers coming down to the cove.   I tell her the old keeper’s story that when typhoon Ondoy struck Manila, a big surge also covered the entire cove, answering my question why there were debris piled high up on the tree line.  Sky told her that maybe Pinatubo will erupt again to destroy the fences that hurt the river.

What we are left with are stories.  Anawangin 2010.

We all stretched our feet closer to the water, letting the waves tickle our toes. They stay quiet as I mourn.