Roots x Gravel is done! Thank you for subscribing and following along.

This was my very first week-long walk project, and while it was deeply fulfilling, it was also physically and mentally demanding. I learned a lot about the limits of my body (i.e., how much walking can be done in seven days) and the limits of my writing and photography (i.e., how much writing and photo editing can be done when the mind and body are still recuperating).

Despite all its challenges, I consider this week one of the most important weeks of my life as a writer, photographer, and walker. It showed me what I can still do, and I'm excited to do more of these walks soon. Watch out for more walks in 2024.

Of course, none of these would have been possible without your support. Sometimes, I can't believe that a wonderful group of individuals care to read any of my writing. This is something I am both amazed and grateful for. Because someone is reading my words and resonating with them, I am encouraged to have faith in my writing and to trust that my voice is something that needs to be heard.

Through your support, I was able to do the following in the past week:

• Walked for six days

• Took more than 1,000 photos

• Wrote over 16,000 words via this newsletter

• Cover 87 streets in 13 out of the 14 barangays of Los Baños

More importantly, you helped me deepen my love of this little town I call home.

I hope you never get tired of being here. Your presence means a lot to me.

To show my appreciation, I edited one favorite photo from each of the six walks we did to fit on your mobile phone screen. Feel free to download these high-resolution photos from this Google Drive folder. Use them as a wallpaper or screen saver. I hope that each of these photos can remind you that beauty is all around you and that you can find the spiritual in almost anything.

If at any point you want to return and re-read the missives, the archives will remain on this link: https://vinceimbat.substack.com/s/roots-x-gravel.

This closing email will be the last you receive on this email list. I shall retire it after today.

If you haven’t yet, please consider subscribing to my regular weekly newsletter, The Long Walk. Although I don’t often use social media, you can also follow me on Instagram.

Thank you once more.

Until next time,

Vince

Two useful words can help one understand the meaning of place in this archipelago: ilaya and ilawod. Ilaya originally meant "where the river comes from." But since most pre-colonial communities began alongside rivers, ilaya eventually meant "an elevated part of a town or settlement." On the other hand, ilawod means "toward the sea" or "toward where the water flows."

Los Baños is a perfect example of a place with both strong ilaya and ilawod characteristics: Mt. Makiling is a colossal rock not to be climbed by the weak of heart. Likewise, Laguna de Bay is the largest lake in the Philippines, sustaining many generations of fisherfolk across several provinces. It is so large that locals call it dagat (sea), not lake.

I remembered ilaya and ilawod while entering the smaller branch of Jamboree Road, which would lead me to the camping site of the Boy Scouts of the Philippines. After immersing in the sound of waves crashing the hull of fishing boats yesterday, I welcome the soft, gentle singing of an unfamiliar bird, broken only by this helicopter that just passed by.

I stopped for a while to study the light here under these trees. Not much light enters the canopy about 20 to 30 feet above me, so I’m amazed at the lush vegetation growing on the floor. Not even my camera could eat enough light here. I was forced to tweak my camera settings to capture photos. And yet, this short road segment just before the bridge is full of vigor and life. Making do with what light I found, I crossed the bridge and continued walking.

I heard a child calling from across the hill as I approached the first settlement. Suddenly, his calls were swallowed by the deafening explosion of a firecracker. A woman tending to her garden nearby didn't seem bothered by the blast.

Here at ilaya, I noticed that moments of deep silence occur more often. Even in between the explosion of a firecracker, one could find this silence. I think that this silence is enduring because of the forest. The bushes, the vines, and the towering trees embrace me as I walk, and I feel like I've entered a capsule of wood and leaves that insulate me from the outside world.

Whenever I'm overwhelmed by the sound of the streets, even by the monotony inside my room, I walk toward Mt. Makiling and cling to her limbs, where I might hear that voice fading within me once more.

Walking on ilaya today, I hear my voice even when I hear the cutting of grasses. I hear it even as I ask these boys what they're reaching on a high branch of a young tree. Spiders, one of them said. Then why are you hunting them while in your best clothes? I asked. Aren't you going to church? No, they said. We're not going to church.

It has probably been over a year since I last walked Jamboree Road. I'm pretty sure I never set foot on this path the previous year. The last time I walked here alone, it was night. I started walking on the same track but began late in the afternoon. When I finished my first tour of the Boy Scouts of the Philippines camping site and entered the larger Jamboree Road, it was really dark. Fortunately, it was a full moon, and the sky was clear. The moon shining beautifully was enough to make that walk magical. But the small lights on the floor of the road made that walk even spellbinding. No vehicle passed by for more than 30 minutes, and the road was left for me alone. I walked to the side, but my eyes were fixated on the lights. It was like walking on top of a dark sky guided by stars.

Someone built a cafe on Jamboree Road. It is the only large establishment here. Being among shanties and fruit stalls, it definitely seems out of place. A sign on their door says the cafe should be open now. Instead, I saw the quietest and emptiest chunk of concrete ever.

I started this series of walks with a question: What sustains me in Los Baños?

Here, while sitting on Jamboree Road overlooking Laguna de Bay and the fishing communities I visited in the previous days, I asked myself whether I'd found any good answer to that question. Perhaps even more importantly, could any of the answers be articulated in words?

The images I saw and the tiny encounters I had throughout these six walks around Los Baños gave me the feeling that my friendship with this place was rekindled, if not deepened. Also, I feel like I've been instructed about something, even if I'm still unsure what it is. What I'm sure of is that these walks helped me see why I chose to stay in Los Baños long enough to call it my home.

Los Baños is the only place I've stayed longer than three years, which isn't named Baguio or San Jacinto. It is difficult for me to take root and find a home away from the familiar north, so to have this connection with Los Baños is not something I take lightly.

These walks helped me realize that Los Baños has given me a place where I could safely and freely embody my current state of liminality. Through its streets, roads, and dirt paths under the thick foliage of trees, between rice paddies, beside calm waters, and under century-old buildings, it has given me a safe space to doubt and question my previous beliefs about the world and myself. It has given me a place to retreat, rest, and rejuvenate as I walk in my spiritual wilderness. Through its ilaya, it reminds me that I'm a unique individual aspiring for freedom, and through its ilawod, it reminds me that I could be free only when my neighbor is also free.

Los Baños is no longer just the random place I transported myself in 2021, almost in haste during a pandemic. It has become a true ili, a home, the center from which I could launch whatever walks I aspire to in the coming days. And like any ili, it is a place I could always return to after a long walk.

I greeted him and held his left arm when he seemed too shaky to stand. I asked him to move closer to me as the vehicles behind him were too fast. He was all smiles when I asked him, louder than usual so he could hear me in the middle of all this traffic noise.

"Grandpa, where are you going?" I asked.

He uttered a place I didn't catch.

Letting go of his arm, I asked him another question.

"Why are you walking by yourself at this age?"

He looked at me for a second, then pointed at his watch.

"It's still early."

I laughed and told him to take care as we went our separate ways.

Jamboree Road → Manila South Road (Timugan, Anos)

15,101 steps

7.44 km

When the Wardaman people of Australia walk for days on end to move in groups, they sing. Their songs speak of stories attached to places in the landscape. These songs, they say, mirror songs about specific spots in the sky. The songs are maps through which the Wardaman people remember exact locations and the events and myths attached to them. Bruce Chatwin was the first to call these songs "songlines" in his book of the same name. A character in the first chapter of that book said that the Aborigines may have songlines for the entire Australia, making all of Australia sacred.

In his book Cosmic Sage, George Williams said that many Japanese unitarians in the early twentieth century believed everything was religion. Politics, commerce, and education were all religious. They didn't see a distinction between the religious and the secular. Because of this, Japanese pastors, who were ministers of other Christian denominations but who had unitarian sympathies, ran for public office. Successful business people gave their money to churches, while those who found themselves inside the classroom committed themselves to the whole religious development of children. Shinto, Japan's ancient way of life, may have influenced this inclination to view everything as sacred.

I was thinking about the songlines and the Japanese unitarians while inside the jeep that would take me to where I ended my walk yesterday. As I exited the vehicle, I told myself that this walk would be about encountering the religious and spiritual in places where we were taught they would never exist. I wonder whether there is anything sacred along the fishing communities of Los Baños: Bambang, Baybayin, Malinta, Mayondon, and Bayog.

A man seemed so surprised to see his neighbor. His neighbor said he was already living in Pangasinan. The man asked him what he'd do with his house. "Will you rent it out?" he said.

On my left is a concrete wall not too high to prevent one from seeing what's inside. On top of the wall are curled chicken wires.

Bambang is home to a large military camp, Camp General Macario Sakay. Behind it, toward the beach, are resorts. The railroad, home to many low-income families, separates the soldiers from the vacationers.

I saw an Ilocano restaurant along Bambang Road. Aptly called "Mangan," it features many recipes I often eat back in Pangasinan. Mangan is the word for "eat" in at least three Philippine languages: Ilocano, Pangasinan, and Kapampangan. Ilocano recipes are almost the same as the food I grew up eating, so I often wonder whether there is even an authentic Pangasinense cuisine. The restaurant is still closed, but I could see all the bottles of Smirnoff lined up on its bar. Those should have been bottles of basi or bugnay.

I've seen many yellow things in the past few days. You would be surprised how popular this color is. In particular, I've seen a lot of yellow houses. They can't be missed from afar, and I can't help but stare at them whenever I pass them.

"This house is too yellow," I tell myself sometimes.

My girlfriend and her family had a game, which I think started when they still lived in Bahrain. The rule is simple: anyone who sees a yellow car first wins. Her father has been dead for almost five years. Only her brother is left in Bahrain. She no longer lives with her family, but whenever she sees a yellow car when we walk together, she rushes to call it out.

As I turned down Bambang Road, past Dampalit Creek, I noticed an eerie silence. It was unusually long that I thought I was losing my hearing.

Somewhere past the railroad, there is a wake. She was 72 years old. Her remains are inside a small apartment unit without a gate. The door is open, and some adults and children are awake. Across the street was a blue open tent inside of which were a set of Monobloc table and chairs. There were cigarette butts and empty beer bottles around. Someone was picking up empty bags of chips.

On the dried Dampalit Creek, an orange cat lies motionless in the middle of rocks and garbage. Is it dead? Is it just sleeping?

What does it mean to love a place? Do I need to sing songs when I walk? Do I need to repeat them until I know them by heart? Do I need to pray or perhaps hold rituals under the trees, even worshiping them?

Are these men and women walking the street this early morning with sweeping brooms in hand, giggling, laughing, not also in love with their spaces? Is this not enough?

I'm delighted with my progress in saying good morning to people I meet along the way. Just now, I was able to greet two ladies. One was picking a few malunggay stalks from her garden, while another was walking in the opposite direction. Both returned my greeting. This is a practice I still find challenging to do now, so these little wins mean so much to me.

I walked straight into Burgos Street. I remember this street being more crowded than it is now. It has been almost two years since I last went here. The tiny house with a new car and a lot of cages for pigeons and fighting cocks is still here. The old abandoned wooden house seems gone. The black Labrador Retriever is still guarding the garage of a fenced compound.

At the end of Burgos Street, an older man, covered with white facial hair, stood at the last house's door. I greeted him, smiled, and asked permission to take photos at the dock beside his home.

On the dock were several boats pulled to shore. The tide is high, so the large rocks I remembered sitting on in the past were submerged. A teenager wearing a sweater hid behind long grasses. He was fishing and didn't want to be bothered.

This here is Los Baños’ old port. There is no platform, only the large, solid posts that once held the platform. I have yet to read anything written about this port, but just by looking at its size, one could immediately see that it served an essential role for the town in the past.

The lilies are too dense. They move together when the water moves. From afar, it looks like watching a large furry animal breathe.

After leaving Burgos Street, I walked Villegas Street, which leads to the center of town. Walking closer to the center, one can not help but notice the several Spanish occupation ancestral houses lined up perfectly. Centuries after the plaza complex was instituted to make it easier for Spanish colonizers to subdue the natives, it is still felt even by lone walkers like me.

The Christmas season is here. It brings a particular joy that I know is genuinely true for some people. Growing up in a family that never celebrated Christmas, I am still learning a lot about this most famous of all holidays. I’m still learning how best to spend it, practice gift-giving, and perhaps most importantly, how I could personally make sense of a celebration with heavy religious origins in the kind of spirituality I’m cultivating for myself.

On the map, Mayondon is another hill. It is the hill I see when I walk at Juan V. Pancho Street inside UPLB, an elevated point where one can see the rest of the town and the lake.

Before climbing the hill, though, I revisited another fishing community, one with a large basketball court.

On my way to the court, I saw a large tarpaulin outside a house. It congratulated someone who passed the Nutritionist-Dietician licensure exam. I wondered why they had to use two photos for what looked like the same person. Upon closer inspection, these were indeed different people. They’re identical twins. Both studied at UPLB, took the same course, took the licensure exam, and passed it simultaneously. It's something you don't see every day.

Every time I visit this court, it’s always full of children. Today, a Saturday morning, about twenty children are playing in the middle of the court. Two boys play one-on-one basketball on one half of the court while around ten children, girls and boys of different ages, sit on the rough concrete floor on the other side. Two of them are bickering back at each other. Two girls stood up and started playing ball.

Seeing how popular basketball is among the youth, local government units in the Philippines build basketball courts, hoping the ball will sway children away from drugs. This basketball court they made here at Mayondon alongside Laguna Lake, with Mt. Makiling at the backdrop, is one of the best courts I've seen built for a community composed mainly of low-income families surviving through money earned from fishing or selling fish.

This rectangular piece of concrete in space brings children together to believe life can be joyful amid danger and poverty. This basketball court is sacred for this reason alone, and these paragraphs are my songlines for it.

At the foot of Mayondon Hill, a group of men and women in formal attire is walking uphill. I knew immediately that these were JWs doing their Saturday rounds. That kid walking in the middle with the sling bag was me 20 years ago. Who would've thought that on this morning walk, I would share this street with them?

In another life, I would've known these people. I would've been among them. I would've been that person at the front taking that photo.

"Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men."

A church stands tall at the peak of Mayondon Hill. A few steps after the church, a large house covered by even more giant trees caught my attention. On the top of its facade was a circle, inside of which was an ichthys symbol and a rice stalk with grains.

The ichthys is, of course, an ancient symbol for Christianity, while the grains remind one of Jesus' walk in the middle of a ripe field of grain, picking some heads of wheat and eating them along with his disciples in defiance of the Sabbath.

Los Baños is both grain and fish.

Kanluran Street is perhaps the largest fishing community in Los Baños. Located in Barangay Bayog, most locals here are either fishermen or fish vendors. The fishermen live on huts right above the water. Their boats are now parked on mud, but when the tide grows, they float right outside the doors of these humble abodes. The children here talk about who owns this and that boat.

Some families grow animals, primarily ducks, which eat whatever they can find in the mud and can also float on salt water to hunt for a few errant fishes.

Interestingly, this is one of the quietest communities I've ever walked here in Los Baños. I could walk for hours on this stretch and won't hear a word from locals.

Aside from fishermen's houses, the stalls of fish vendors line up on the side of the road. Poorly preserved, some fish would be covered by flies before being sold. That said, fish here should be way fresher and perhaps cheaper than those sold in the market.

My walk ended on a long stretch of Santo Domingo Street, a narrow road filled with vehicles. One stopped, called me, and asked for instructions on finding an alternate route to Calamba City. "Just go straight. Do not enter any eskinitas. Stay on the large road, then turn on the first left," I said.

As I end this walk, I can't help but notice a stark difference between walking among fisher folks and walking inside UPLB, UPOU, and IRRI. Walking inside the institutions, I often saw objects I knew nothing about. There, esoteric machines remind me of my ignorance, powerlessness, and subordination to theory. Here, near the sea, among fishes and those who live by catching and selling them, a more direct interaction with reality, objects, and other human beings happens almost every moment. People live and make a living through their hands. They touch matter as matter touches them.

If everything is spiritual, then spirituality is in both the intellect of Makiling and the depth of experience of Laguna de Bay. To learn how to master and integrate both states of being is necessary to survive in a world like Los Baños.

Bambang Road → Lopez Street → Villegas Street → Burgos Street → A. Apolinario Street → Hilario T. Apolinario Street → Mescobin Street → M. Simon Street → Kanluran Street → Silangan Road → Santo Domingo

15,666 steps

9.57 km

December 17, 2021, a Friday afternoon. The jeepney arrived at Bagong Kalsada with rain pouring hard. I got off, opened my umbrella, and ran to the nearest shade: a bakeshop at the mouth of the road that would take me to my destination.

As soon as I took shade, the rain weakened. I bought a piece of pan de coco and a piece of Spanish bread before beginning my walk. Despite the bad weather, people were busy buying fish at the nearby wet market. Perhaps we were all fooled by the slight brightening of the sky a while ago.

Lopez Avenue was virtually traffic-less. My jeep immediately reached the avenue's junction with the Manila South Road. Inside are several young people, some with large bags, perhaps en route to Manila. One reached out to the passenger nearest him and asked for help with his fare. He told the driver to drop him at Olivarez Plaza.

At the junction, we halted and waited for the streetlights to do their thing. The traffic system at this junction is more functional than most I’ve seen. I've seen many municipalities, even cities in the Philippines, with less functional junctions than this one. In Pangasinan, whenever my father stops the car at the signal of a traffic enforcer, he utters the exact words: "It gets longer when there's a traffic enforcer." I believe him. Often, in Pangasinan, drivers figure out the traffic by themselves. Without rules, they do the job faster by intuition or pure respect for other drivers. I wonder whether it's a generational thing, though. Perhaps younger drivers need enforcers.

An old traffic enforcer, who seems past the retirement age, sits inside the shed and talks via a microphone. He calls out errant drivers or gives directions for each lane. Whenever I see him at this junction, I often hear him utter, "Sige lang. Go lang ng go."

He isn't here this morning. Perhaps he'll come later, or has he finally retired?

The jeep stopped at the Olivarez Plaza, the drainage system of which is being repaired. People waiting for buses are forced to wait beside a bank.

On our way to Bagong Kalsada, two motorcycles blasted to overtake our jeep on the right. Briefly, I feared for the lives of two cyclists slowly making their way up the slope of the highway.

I ambled as the road was still wet. The rain weakened to a drizzle, and I saw motorcyclists driving without coats.

On a resort nearby, construction continues, a sign that business is doing okay, even recovering, despite the intermittent lockdowns.

I stopped to read the welcome sign. So it is: I am in Masili, a barangay of Calamba in its Real district. This is no longer Los Baños.

It began raining hard again, so I opened my umbrella. It wasn't long before I started feeling large drops of rain from the inside. I looked under my umbrella to inspect it and saw that there was indeed a hole.

Still, with my umbrella opened, I walked to a nearby iron shed ironically shaped like an umbrella.

This walk was starting to feel off.

"Bagong Kalsada" (New Road) is an interesting name. I wonder how it got its name. If it has the word bago (new), what did this place look like when it was luma (old)?

Both sides are filled with either gates to subdivisions or resorts. Some resorts are almost invisible, with a signboard hanging outside but an entrance out of sight. Perhaps they are located inside these heavily guarded subdivisions.

It must be said here that Los Baños—the Baths—has always been famous for the hot water that runs under it. When I bathe here around December, I don't need to warm my water. Mt. Makiling warms it for me. A dormant volcano, it is the source of this geothermal water that has given many locals from Pansol to Masili good business since the Spanish occupation. If Masili isn't Los Baños anymore, it is piggybacking on the success of the older and more popular resorts on the highway.

When I arrived at the corner of Bagong Kalsada and Tadlac Street, I was surprised to see a railroad. I thought I would walk on the rails toward the lake or perhaps ride trolleys. I was relieved to see that a cemented road for cars was just beside the rails. Turning right, I walked on this road to the lake.

Walking on Tadlac Street felt like walking in Rizal, Quezon, on the streets beside the rails, except there are no trolleys.

Along the street, the side of the road started to ascend, houses began to descend, and the mountain—great Mt. Makiling was revealed.

I just passed by a signboard about the lake. Its name is Tadlac. Google Maps calls it Alligator Lake for a reason I am still to find out. On the sign board, Tadlac is mentioned as a barangay of Los Baños, which means that Masili and Tadlac are the boarder barangays of Calamba City and Los Baños. Bagong Kalsada, the street I just walked on, is their border.

Crossing the railroad and continuing my walk of Bagong Kalsada, I couldn't help but notice a tight-knit community of locals. I've walked some communities deep inside Calamba City and I've never seen something like this. Neighbors gathered outside their houses early this morning. Some sell their products to their neighbors themselves. Everyone talks to everyone. Everyone knows everyone.

But do they have any choice? Their houses are beside each other; some even share a single wall. With your neighbors living this near you, you have no option but to be good to them. Unlike other places in the world, proximity seems to be saving this community. I always feel safe whenever I walk here.

As I got deeper into Tadlac Street, I noticed signs of the pandemic—writings on the walls on the side of the road reminding people of curfew hours, community gardens perhaps built to address hunger at those times, and the biggest surprise of all, an isolation facility at the heart of the barangay.

The rain started pouring hard as I was about to make a left turn toward the lake. I started talking to myself, calling the walk a lousy idea. To make matters worse, there was no shade to run to.

I saw a closed store with a small portion of its roof protruding in front. I dragged my feet under the water to reach it and stood there as straight as possible under the roof. While waiting for the rain to stop, I felt my socks squishing around my feet. I remember buying these shoes three years ago because they were waterproof. Now, they seemed to have lost all their waterproofing.

Realizing that the roof I stood under wasn't saving me from all the water, I decided to continue walking and taking in all this rain. It was impossible to check my phone to know where I was, so I followed the trail.

After a few minutes of walking an elevated part of the road, water rushing through my feet, the other lake, the bigger one, Laguna Lake, emerged from my right. The sky was all gray, but the lake was there.

After walking between houses on a footpath that could only fit one person and climbing the stairs that came after, I finally saw Laguna Lake. On this overcast morning, the waters gave off their deep blue color, and a mist barely concealed the mountains over the horizon.

An older man was already there. He sat on the protective wall of this viewing deck with his knees on his chest. I moved carefully not to destroy his peace.

After I stood a reasonable distance from him for a while, he stood up, perhaps satisfied with his morning dose of lake beauty, and went down the stairs I came from.

Five children emerged from the stairs that led down to the houses below on the beach. I looked down and saw two other children fixing a boat. The older one was pulling what looked like a rope, and the small one watched while sitting on another boat.

Two of the five children who emerged from the stairs asked me to photograph them. I did so joyfully. They thanked me after. The boy asked me what I was doing. I said I'm just enjoying how beautiful their place is. He said, "Yes, indeed."

I knew I was near, so I continued walking despite the rain not showing any sign of letting up. A man was sitting in a shed having his coffee. He wore an old blue cap and a green jacket. Behind him, I saw it: Tadlac Lake.

The path to the lake was a long set of stairs, which, right now, was overrun by brown water flowing from the road to the dock and then the lake. I began descending toward the lake, walking carefully over running water to avoid slipping.

It's weird, but the rain made the lake look perfect. It brought with it a mist that concealed Mt. Makiling at the horizon. There was no other human here, only some herons perched on a few trees at the north end of the lake, some small wild ducks swimming at the edges of the water, and the occasional tiny blue kingfishers diving and then hiding under leaves.

I stood under the shade of a large and tall tree with my broken umbrella open. I reached inside my bag for the bread I bought at the bakeshop and started eating.

While I was enjoying the still-warm bread, it stopped raining. My goodness, it finally stopped. I realized this walk wasn't that bad after all. A heavy rain meant no one else would be here.

I remembered the artificial lake I frequented back home at Pangasinan, a dam that traps rainwater for the crops below it. Seeing Tadlac Lake was the first time I've been close to a body of water since the lockdowns started.

I stayed for at least an hour: I took photos, watched the birds through my binoculars, took some videos, and left.

A couple was already on the lake when I arrived. Two young people sitting beside each other at the end of the dock, giggling, exchanging inaudible murmurs. I walked toward the inverted boats at the other end of the pier and started taking photographs of the lake and Mt. Makiling over it.

Here is the best view of Mt. Makiling over a body of water. From where I was standing, I could see the details of lumps of trees on Mt. Makiling’s side. One could never see this much detail when the mountain is over Laguna Lake.

There were no fishermen today, no boats tied near the dock. It is no-fishing season on the lake from April to December says a sign. Everyone seen fishing on the lake will be apprehended. I didn’t see this sign on my first walk here in 2021, which was December, too. Perhaps the lake's fish population is declining and must be protected. If this no-fishing season continues to be implemented, local fishermen will have to look for alternative jobs for more than half of the year. Obviously, the larger Laguna Lake is on the other side of this hill. But how easy is it really to find work as a fisherman?

Walking back to Bagong Kalsada through Tadlac Street, I passed by a railroad community. I couldn't help but notice that this is a community that communicates. It communicates through words written all around them. Signboards abound.

A puppy approached me, encircling my feet, so I tried to distance myself. Its master, a middle-aged man fixing his laundry outside, noticed and said something briefly about his dog. I welcomed his words and responded with a smile.

Turning from Tadlac Street to Bagong Kalsada, I noticed two older women talking while standing across a table. The younger woman was buying kakanin (rice cakes) from the older woman. I approached them and waited for their transaction to finish.

"I've eaten a lot of kakanin in my life, but I’ve never seen it done," I told the older woman when the younger woman left. "Come, come here," she said. "Have a taste of our latik (toasted coconut milk curd) and see how crisp it is!"

I pinched a small amount. "Go on. Pinch a bigger one!" she said.

Behind her was a large covered wok under lit firewood. Its smoke released no smell. I wondered what was in it.

A younger woman saw us talking and approached us. After introducing myself, she started telling the story of their family. "I'm Lorena, and this is my mom. People call her Aling Maring," she answered when I asked for their names.

"This is what we've been doing all our lives. I learned to cook kakanin from my grandparents. My lolo lived until 102 but only stopped making kakanin four years before he died," Lorena continued.

Aling Maring explained how their kakanin is different from the others. "As you can see, we don't cook them in machines. We don't mass produce. And that's why we've always been poor. Kakanin cooked by machine is too hot. Ours is colder and thus has a different texture than most you can buy in the market."

"My kakanin has reached other countries. I may be poor, but the rich respect me. You say you are from town? One of the candidates for vice mayor. Oh, he lost. He buys only from us. Christmas is coming. We get a lot of orders this season."

I bought one order of each of the kakanin available on the table: an order of puto, biko, and tikoy. They gave me their phone number so I could contact them for future orders.

Back home, after lunch, I took a bite of Aling Maring’s tikoy. It is smaller than most tikoy, more dense, and stickier. But it is tastier. Every particle seems to burst with flavor. And the latik, oh the latik. It definitely is crispier.

I remember IRRI. I remember rice. Kakanin is rice and shall be the point of departure through which I could understand this rice grain better.

Never shall I walk this stretch of the Manila South Road again. Although some areas have sidewalks, sharp curves do not. It was a dangerous walk on these curves, and I am grateful to have made it past them in one piece.

But walking on this suicidal stretch of the Manila South Road reveals a part of Los Baños often unnoticed. Hotels, subdivisions, resorts, and resorts within subdivisions abound. One can't help but notice the largeness of the Makiling Onsen Hotel. Reading those words Makilng (a heavily Filipino word) and Onsen (a heavily Japanese word) feels interesting. Meanwhile, some establishments are left abandoned, perhaps more ruins from the pandemic.

After walking past stretches of "the baths," I reached Lalakay, my final destination for this walk. As an enormous truck approached, I crossed the pedestrian lane, running for my life. I heard its brakes screech.

I walked past the school. I was looking for a signboard pointing to Dampalit Falls but couldn't find it. I saw an eskinita that seems familiar. This might be it. To be sure, I looked for a local to ask. There was an early Christmas Party at the school. Or was it part of the barangay festivities? It was Lalakay's barangay fiesta. Vertical flags of various colors adorn its streets. A lady was watching the event inside her sari-sari store, so I peeked and asked her, "Is this the way to Dampalit?" She said yes, and I thanked her.

This walk to Dampalit was surprisingly faster than the first walk I did here early this year. Before a steep hike, one would pass by bungalows through a small eskenita, just large enough to fit a tricycle. But the road is too steep; only motorcycles and bicycles can access it. Locals earn a small amount for parking fees. But since one can only bring bicycles and motorcycles, I don't think they get enough money from parking fees. One house has a signboard with rates. Ten pesos for bicycles. Twenty pesos for motorcycles. I was surprised to see thirty pesos for cars. A car won't fit this eskinita!

As I approached the entrance to the falls, a group of children came to me and asked, "Are you going to the falls?" I said yes. "Do you know how to get there?" I said yes, and they left me alone.

The water is cold here. Really cold. All silence is broken. But here is a sound so alluring I don't think I can live without it again. The strength of the falls depends on the season. There was not much rain the past three days but there was lots of it last week. The strength of the water falling is not as strong as I remember it. I like it better this way—a steady, soothing rhythm.

We are all pilgrims. A pilgrim approaches something she holds dear and shows deep care or perhaps even just a brief effusion of awe toward it. But what if the germ from which awe and deep care come is even way simpler than both? What if this desire to break the monotony of one's days, to experience something different for the first time, even if it is as simple as posing in front of a camera, is where all our religiosity comes from?

I have a pretty good feeling it is.

Bagong Kalsada Street → Tadlac Street → Manila South Road → Dampalit Falls Path

17,429 steps

8.88 km

The only walking I did from 8:00 to 12:00 was the back and forth from my room to the dirty kitchen to do my laundry. The three long walks that commenced broke my daily routine, and I, mind you, am a human of habits. Today is way past my usual laundry day, so this most domestic of all domestic tasks must be done now.

Not much writing happened today too; only a couple of journal pages reflecting on an early experience that made a scar on my writing self. I’m finding my way slowly through Pat Schneider’s book Writing Alone and Writing Together, and this is her second exercise.

After this, more laundry, then lunch, then doing the dishes. Ah, I couldn’t remember when these chores last felt this good. Somehow, in between long walks, these chores become healing. Somehow, in between long walks, I find myself in love with being home.

I’m keeping this missive short. I still have a couple of hours before hitting the bed, and I would very much want to enjoy this day off while it lasts.

Tomorrow, we walk away from Mt. Makiling to visit two bodies of water. I suspect tomorrow’s walks will be shorter than usual. Nonetheless, I still need my pair of well-rested legs for two more days ahead after tomorrow.

Once again, thank you for reading. I appreciate everyone responding kindly to these emails and sharing the walk on Instagram. Knowing that, somehow, these walks remind you of how beautiful your own walks are brings me so much joy. Somehow, these walks are accomplishing what I intended them to do.

More soon,

Vince

I underestimated the endurance needed for these walks. Since yesterday, I started feeling a strain on my left foot, which has a history of strains like this one. It's also the first time I woke up at 6:00 in the morning for three straight days in a long time. On top of this, the time required to prepare these email missives is surprisingly huge.

When I reach home around 11:30 in the morning, I immediately upload the photos from my camera to my Macbook, which takes a lot of time. I'm currently doing it via wifi, and I'm not sure whether I should be using a wire instead (and what wire?). It's taking years for the photos to upload. But this forces me to write the missives first, which I tend to finish at least before dinner.

After dinner, it's all photo-related work: culling, editing, and collating images with text. I usually finish around 12 midnight, which gives me just six hours of sleep in the past two nights. I think I'll take a day off from these walks tomorrow and resume on Friday. This means I must cut the number of walking routes for this week-long project. It's okay. We'll have more walks in the future.

This morning, I walked on the side of the Manila South Road, the road that connects Los Baños to the rest of Luzon. The road is connected to a network of other roads and highways that would bring you as far as Infanta, Quezon, to the northeast and Matnog, Sorsogon, to the South. It connects with roads that surround Laguna de Bay and those that lead to Batangas.

I walked this path a few times. Perhaps this is the fifth walk. I walked here twice during the pandemic, a third time when I walked to San Pablo City, and a fourth when I searched for Maahas Road—a search that led me to the Nasa Labas ang Ili (NLAI) route where I guided two groups on contemplative walks last summer.

This is the first time I have walked here this early. Amid all these noises, I feel an unexplainable calm. Perhaps it is the coolness of this December breeze, a breeze that isn't typical for Los Baños but reminds me of my December in Pangasinan and Baguio. During my first Christmas season here, I often complained that the Los Baños December was too wet. It rains too much. Up north, I'm used to having long, cold, dry days in December, which often extends until February. The weather is a reminder that I have uprooted myself from my past—that I live far, far away from the old home.

It took me a while to hold my camera. It dangles down my neck, hitting my heart as I walk, but I feel no need to point it at something or someone. I miss this breeze. This is all that matters to me right now.

What called my hands to touch my camera are these colorful houses along Manila South Road, which I am only noticing right now. I’m amazed at how near they are to the road. This road is as busy as highways could ever get, and yet these people chose to live with all this noise. Being the ultra-sensitive person that I am, I'm easily bothered by noisy neighbors, construction, and the infrequent karaoke singing. One thing I love about Mt. Data Streets is it's one of the quietest places here in Lost Baños. This quiet is something I lost in my old home in Pangasinan but which I now have. Silence sustains me.

So, I’m compelled to ask: How does one live in the middle of all this noise? I look at the locals, some really old, sitting outside their houses this morning full of contentment, and I'm reminded of how resilient and adaptable all of us can be. We can all learn to find peace in the middle of noise and perhaps even find contentment in it.

I remember that absolute silence is impossible, and there is always sound around us. I remember most of my ancestors lived beside rivers that constantly filled the air with sound.

I trail behind a man who talks to people he passes by. He briefly stopped by the small bridge that crosses a stream of the Molawin River to exchange pleasantries with someone living in a three-story building beside the river. He continues walking only to stop again to talk with another man. I would very much want to be like this person.

My plan was to walk past the entrance to Maahas Road and get inside the University of the Philippines Open University (UPOU) and the International Rice Research Institute (IRRI) to walk around for a bit before returning to walk Maahas Road. However, upon entering the gate to UPOU, I realized how easy it is to access IPB Road from IRRI, so I decided to skip Maahas Road altogether. I have walked that road in the past anyway and have actually written about it, too. UPOU and IRRI, on the other hand, I am yet to walk around.

There's much to be said about one's first walk in an unfamiliar place. The potential to discover something new regardless of the pleasantness of the sites by itself is fulfilling. I think a big portion of this fulfillment comes from confronting what is unknown, what has been a dark part of one's world for so long until now—the wilderness.

Aside from visiting the Veterinary Teaching Hospital at UPOU and the famous IRRI canteen, most of this place is a wilderness for me. Security measures here were really strict during the pandemic, so I never dared to enter either, even if they were relatively near Pili Drive, where I often walk. In fact, I just learned that Pili Drive extends to the IRRI-UPOU complex.

Today, I sought to know whether the complex is already open to the public and if it has returned to pre-pandemic situations when motorists and pedestrians come and go liberally. I warmed up by taking photos of the parking space just outside the UPOU gate. Then, I walked alongside two ladies who seemed to be students entering the guarded gate. I was let in. No questions were asked.

When I walk around a large place for the first time, I use a map. But the map only tells possible pathways. It won't tell you whether those pathways lead you to places you could access or are allowed to access. I had many experiences when I followed the map and was led to a path that was no longer used. For fear that this would happen here, I followed the path people were taking, the right sidewalk, which eventually led to IRRI and its portion of Pili Drive.

There is a constant flux of vehicles in and out of IRRI. It must have been open now for motorists. I last got in here in 2020 before the lockdown. Now is my first time walking around it by myself.

IRRI is an international research body located in 17 countries, mostly in Asia, but which chose the Philippines to be its headquarters, built here in Los Baños, Laguna. IRRI was founded in 1960, but I am yet to know at what year exactly this headquarters in Los Baños was built.

I walked on the sidewalk dangerously near Pili Drive, where vehicles come and go, and across are what seemed to be these large greenhouses filled with specimens. Talk about wilderness, I am confronted with my ignorance of what is happening inside this place.

A co-fellow at the Ateneo National Writers Workshop, whose MA thesis was about the agricultural sector of the Philippines, presented a paper that offered a critique of agricultural modernization in the Philippines. He mentioned that IRRI has become famous for inventing many rice varieties, such as the IR-8, which grew in popularity under the name "miracle rice" in the 1990s.

While it promises to feed more people and achieve rice sufficiency, what rice varieties, such as miracle rice, do to once-rural areas like Los Baños is significantly reconstruct them by replacing century-old rice varieties and the traditions that come with them. The new rice varieties that replace them increase food production, a goal tied with nation-building but which is sometimes dislocated with the goals and traditions of local farmers.

Sitting now to rest at this shed in IRRI, I see several employees working in the fields. Their bodies are fully covered against the sun. They hold dirt and carry sacks of hay. I am forced to think about food, and especially rice, the most trivial of all food in the Philippines, a food that has defined Asians in general and a food that has sustained my ancestors for millennia.

Rice is what enabled anthropologists to identify where my race came from. Through rice stuck in ceramics, they were able to correct early mistaken claims that the first men to people the Philippines came through land bridges. No, they didn't. They came through boats: a sea-faring people. And they took with them this white food from heaven. Through rice, anthropologists were able to describe the Austronesian (or Nusantao), the ancestors of Filipinos, Australian aborigines, Pacific islanders, and even the Malagasy of Madagascar.

Food is worth thinking about. Rice, among all food, is worth thinking about. Rice and all food are matter that sustains me and replaces the cells that my body sheds. I couldn't exist without food. I couldn't think or speak without food. I couldn't write these words now without food. And yet, I seldom think about it. I seldom think about the amount of violence that happens just for a spoonful of rice to reach my mouth.

Food makes Los Baños an interesting place. While large, powerful bodies like UPLB and IRRI are here, constantly dictating the discourse and policies surrounding food, a small, disorganized grassroots movement made of organic food sellers, organic farming advocates, and healthy food alternative sellers exist. Unfortunately, this movement (if we can even call it one) has been struggling recently.

One business, which used to be my go-to source of organic vegetables, has been forced to reimagine itself into a Japanese restaurant, perhaps to save itself from dying. Another business is closing its shops to transition to supplying. Thinking about these advocates and sitting here inside IRRI makes me feel powerless. I stood up, took a few more photos, and walked the rest of Pili Drive, which brought me out of IRRI.

A few months ago, I decided to walk Maahas Road for the first time (Maahas means "full of snakes"). I started at the mouth of the road from the Manila South Road, which led me to IPB Road, the road parallel to the train tracks of Los Baños. At IPB Road, I saw a footpath on the side of one of the fields owned by UPLB along Pili Drive. I followed the path and discovered a beautiful trail reminiscent of those I took beside rice fields back in Pangasinan. When given the privilege to guide a group of lovely humans for a late afternoon walk in April, I brought them here. I am walking it again, saying hello once more.

As I walk this dirt road and remember the past walks, a group of myna's perched on the power lines above me. They stayed there for just a second when one of them released a loud call, which made all of them fly.

It is grass-cutting season inside the campus. Yesterday, cutters were clearing a part of Forestry. Today, a group of men gathered outside the irrigation machine beside a deep rice paddy field on this trail. The men wore long sleeves, and grass cutters lay on the path. I smell the smell of newly cut grass. One of them was inside the small chamber of the machine as smoke was coming out. He seemed to be cooking. It is eleven, and these men are hungry.

I walked past them, and in front of me, another man on his motorcycle approached me. I moved to make room for him. Behind him, two dogs ran to follow him.

The grass is indeed tall. The spot where the first batch of walkers I guided here last summer sat and lay down to rest at the second leg of our walk is now less friendly to those needing rest. I continued walking. The sun above me is too hot, and the light is less generous for photographs.

After reaching the end of the dirt path, I turned left to Pili Drive once more. An event is ongoing, blocking the entire half of the road reserved for walkers, joggers, and bikers. I crossed the roads to walk to the other side. The moment I stepped on the elevated footpath, a person ran toward me putting his arm around my shoulders—a friend, someone who joined one of those walks I guided last April. We walked and chatted a bit before he left me for work. Pili Drive is home to several engineering departments. Here, alongside rice fields, students study how to structure society better.

I continued walking toward IPB Road, looking for decent shots of the mountains of San Pablo. Sunlight is too strong now, and I'm starting to doubt whether I should still take photos.

All these walking led me to the final segment of the walk: the San Luis Road that cuts through Barangay Putho Tuntungin, the jump-off point to Hill Road, home to some of the fanciest houses in Los Baños.

These walks are like religious activities. One of the root words of "religion" is "religare," which means "to bind fast." To bind fast could mean to put yourself under an obligation or a bond with another, whether a human or deity. This is where the idea of religion being something that constricts us comes from.

But binding oneself to something could lead to more freedom. Absolute freedom can never exist, and too much of it can be crippling. I find that I need a healthy dose of binding to feel structured enough that I can start feeling free. For example, I need to bind myself to work that earns me a living so that I can be free to write and do walks like these on occasion. Binding oneself to a vocation, a belief, or a person could bring a sense of security that would allow one to be free. Of course, binding always involves a measure of sacrifice and patience.

These walks are binding as I am required to follow certain rules to perform them well, and they can feel strenuous sometimes. But they bring a kind of freedom that is so difficult to find in a world where I am almost always bound.

Speaking of structure, I notice that a significant portion of my walk today has been spent thinking about the structure of this missive. This makes me wonder whether treating some portion of our lives like a project could give us a similar sense of structure.

Turning our lives into a project doesn't mean making our lives presentable to others but presentable to us. Can we weave a story that we can tell ourselves later when we badly need direction and structure?

Here's my main point: the structure doesn't come by sitting down and thinking about it. It often comes when you are doing something else, something between consciousness and unconsciousness. Something like walking. I walk, and then later, I forget that I'm walking. My feet do the walking for me. This frees my mind and opens it up for the structures, the stories that I need to make sense of my often chaotic self.

As I end this walk, I utter a few words of thanks to the crows that seem to follow me from IRRI to Tuntungin Putho. I give thanks to the Molawin River, which has been utterly patient to all of us.

Manila South Road → University of the Philippines Open University (UPOU) → International Rice Research Institute (IRRI) → Maahas Road → Molawin Creek Dirt Road → Pili Drive → IPB Road → San Luis Road (Tuntungin Putho) → Hill Road → Valentino G. Argañosa → Andres P. Aglibut Avenue → Vicente M. Dawis → Victoria M. Ela Avenue

21,074 steps

14.2 km

Yesterday, when I started walking around 6:30 in the morning, I remember feeling the slow arrival of the day. It was only around 7:00 when I started to feel the streets changing and with them, my mood. Today, the morning gushed to me both from and toward Raymundo Gate. I march alongside students entering the campus, choosing our own spots as vehicles make their way out of the gate. The traffic enforcer and the pedestrian lane have no use in these instances. We all follow each other's movements, an unspoken agreement, bringing us to where we need to be.

After Raymundo Gate, I walked the slope of Jose R. Velasco Avenue.

Welcome to UPLB, a campus of interesting histories, some unwritten, including the story behind these street names.

If one becomes a regular walker of the campus, one would notice that some streets would have concrete signs, on the side, way below. Most of these names are one word: usually, the name of a tree. The first sign I saw was one under a large tree at the extension of Jose D. Drilon Jr. Street. It is "Caimito" (star apple). The second I saw was in front of the Pulp and Paper Research and Training Center at the College of Forestry along Domingo M. Lantican Avenue. This one said, "Narra." Interestingly, nearby is the Narra Guest House, perhaps the biggest house along the avenue, often empty.

I think I came to the conclusion slowly by myself that these were the old names of the streets. Jose D. Drilon Jr. Street was once Caimito. Domingo M. Lantican Avenue was once Narra. Writing this now, I discovered that someone wrote about this change in a blog post dated October 24, 2012. According to the writer, the change of streets started around 2008 with the new names after esteemed alumni and professors of the school.

All this makes me think about how we name the structure of dirt, rocks, soil, grass, and cement that we call roads, streets, and avenues. As a walker, I don't have any say as to how to name these paths my feet kiss daily. Those with the power to name and rename them do so with a specific agenda I won't always be able to connect. These new names are like the Linnean taxonomy. They uproot me from my experience of the object being named. I wonder whether I should rename these streets with my own fictionalized names. Fiction sometimes is closer to truth.

Cars, people jogging, students brisk walking, laborers having breakfast while in their boots, and work clothes—such is the quality of the morning rush inside UPLB.

At Makiling's foot, man cannot keep up with nature. Nature cannot keep up with man. Each point in the geography, in the landscape, and even one's immediate space is a manifestation of this tension. Sometimes, they even out (as in Freedom Park). Sometimes nature consumes all (as in abandoned houses near Forestry). Sometimes, man is obviously winning (as in the new library being built at Jose B. Juliano Avenue).

I slept too late last night. Too much blue light entered my eyes while editing photos and preparing the first missive of this series. I could've finished the thing faster had not my vet come for routine vaccinations. She recently came home from Japan, so I made her talk. She said that the current Philippine dairy sector has a lot of similarities with Japan. Both countries don't have an indigenous milk-producing cow breed and have imported their cows for dairy purposes. Also, both are experimenting with strengthening their beef production capabilities through genetics. In terms of Japan, they have started crossbreeding their indigenous cows with an imported variety creating Wagyu beef. My vet said we don't need crossbreeding as our indigenous carabao's meat can compete. The carabao, she said, could be a draft animal, a dairy animal, and a meat animal. She went on to praise her decision to specialize in large animals. She said working on large animals is less complicated because people are not emotionally invested in them. They are there for draft, dairy, and meat. Meanwhile, small animals are there mainly for their love.

I am reminded of this conversation while walking inside UPLB this morning. The question of how we relate with animals is the question of how we relate with others and places. Everything boils down to which people and places we are most emotionally invested in and not. Contemplating this, surprisingly, could explain all sorts of prejudice.

As I turned toward Jasmin, two tiny girls sat on the top of a huge hill of sand. The road is currently under repair. I stopped, turned to them like I was James Bond, and jokingly aimed the camera at them. They seemed to like this very much. I went back to walking, but they called me again. I looked back, and they giggled.

Sometimes, I want to leave LB. But often, I realize what the alternative is. And that makes me feel more grateful for the status quo.

A yellow and black butterfly appears.

Some of the best houses on the campus are located on this long road called Doña Aurora. It is a path parallel to the larger Jamboree Road and the smaller Jose D. Drilon Jr. Street. I enjoy walking in this neighborhood for its silence. Without clouds, one would also see Mt. Makiling's peak.

At the end of Doña Aurora, you could turn right to a small tree-filled street called Heliconia. Heliconia will bring you to SEARCA's Executive Houses. I imagine these buildings are for the most esteemed guests of the university. They're often empty, with only a single guard to watch them.

I often walk here in slippers. Walkers and joggers seem to avoid this road.

In front of an executive house, a new building is being built. This morning, the workers lined up for a picture-taking. I ran quickly behind them to avoid the camera. As I continued walking, a van full of laborers (some already hanging outside the vehicle) passed by. They seemed to be going to where the picture-taking was happening.

Many buildings are being built in the university. Man and gravel is currently winning.

These walks are a dance between walking, writing, and photography. I never force the writing. I focus on looking, and that is photography. As long as you take care of images, words will follow. You take care of images by walking right.

Yesterday, I took around 160 photographs in five hours of walking. That's like one photo every two minutes. I don't take photos with that rhythm, though. I notice I take more photos when I'm walking slowly and not thinking, often in the earliest hours of these walks. By 10, I start to lose steam, and the photo capturing becomes less frequent.

Not all photos are worth keeping, and not all worth keeping are worth sharing. Among 160 photographs, I only shared about 20 photos yesterday.

A shitzu's head outside the window of the front passenger's seat just passed by me. That would've been a nice photo. But the best photos are often the photos we never take.

As I leave Doña Aurora, I spot a few herons walking on the short grasses under the sun. A few yards from them, someone is cutting the grass.

At the back of our house in San Jacinto, Pangasinan, herons follow the motorized plow or tractor whenever it begins to till the soil at the beginning of the planting season. They look for mollusks, insects, and other little things they can eat. I once called this a symbiosis between heron and machine.

I wonder whether they are drawn toward the sound of the motorized cutter.

I smell someone cooking daing, which brings me right back to that dining table in Pangasinan.

Walking down Melanio A. Gapud, I remember that when I set the route for today's walk, I did it mostly by intuition. I knew I needed to begin in Velasco before hiking up to Forestry and going down to the streets around Freedom Park to sort of embrace the campus. I've walked these streets too many times I feel like there are no more words and images to be found in them. I have written their names on my computer many times, I can recite them by heart. That is how much I have walked these paths. I am not sure whether this is love, though, or whether it is obsession.

A family passed by.

I sometimes find myself debating whether to have children or not. Things are getting worse, it seems evil to bring people into this mess. I think I'll be overly attached to them and to their children. And I am afraid I might pass on something bad. I now know that love is impossible without these fears. LB is a good place to have a family. It lessens the bad inherent in the world.

Walking up this steep, mossy sidewalk toward the College of Forestry, I see that talinum has overgrown once more. Talinum was part of the stew that Japanese soldiers fed the over 2,000 prisoners inside the infamous Los Baños internment camp during World War II. The camp encompassed half of the present-day Freedom Park and most of the College of Veterinary Medicine and the dorms around it.

The Japanese would feed the prisoners, mostly Westerners, at 7 in the morning. Their breakfast was usually just rice and coffee. Their next meal would be dinner at 5 pm, which was usually rice and stew full of talinum leaves that must have grown abundantly inside the campus and tiny pieces of meat hidden under the talinum. The Westerners called talinum "New England spinach" and described it as "slimy and metallic." As the Japanese were losing the war, the internees missed their talinum as they were only fed rice.

Many internees, including children, died of hunger inside the camp. Those who were fortunate to survive the hunger were rescued in the famous Raid of Los Baños on the morning of February 23, 1945.

I have finally arrived at Forestry. Passing by Arbor Square, I see a few lone students sitting under the sheds. A group of grown men, perhaps professors or admin workers, gather under a tree, sharing stories and laughter.

Someone told me recently that today's kids wear clothes different from what we wore ten years ago. I beg to differ: jeans are still the go-to pants, shirts abound, and sneakers are still the national footwear. Or is this true among UP students alone?

Why are power lines positioned dangerously low here?

Those of us who live on Makiling's foot are so close to nature that we've been so unaware of it. UPLB residential areas here are like solar punk communities gone wrong. Houses yield to the shape of surrounding trees that one would often see roots by gravel. Wild plants from fallen seeds grow on roofs liberally. And yet there seems to be something missing despite all of these: a feeling that all of what surrounds Makiling's foot isn't sustainable.

The entire thing is still a keg in a huge industrial-capitalist complex.

In the forest, there is no chatter. It’s like an ongoing sesshin, broken only by natural sounds. If this is the wilderness of the spirit, I would very much like to stay here. Forever.

I feel the tension on my feet and the tiredness in my limbs. But I keep on.

At the end of Forestry is the entrance to the Mt. Makiling Trail (MMT). Beside the trail are two branches that both lead to a dead end. The first dead end is wherever the Makiling Botanical Garden ends. The second dead end, I assume, is this: Banuyo. The last of the streets in Forestry I'm walking today.

Before you reach the cluster of homes at the end of Banuyo, you will pass by a short bridge. At the mouth of the bridge are two interesting objects: a broken concrete staircase covered with vines that lead directly to the river below and a broken van at the side of the road left to be consumed by the forest. Over the fun, flowers blossom.

It is just my second time to visit this scene. I was so enthralled by the van the first time that I didn't notice the staircase. I surrounded the van like a police enforcer looking at a crime scene.

Today, I noticed both the stairs and the van, and I can't help but ask whatever turn of events led to where all of these objects are today. I remember Aristotle's notion of the "unmoved mover" that he presented in Book XI of his Metaphysics.

In plain terms, Aristotle argued that everything that changes is in motion. This staircase and the van move even when not in motion because they decay. Now, everything that moves was moved by something else. The vines corrupt the staircase. The forest eats the van. In turn, primordial forces make the vines and the forest grow. And so on and so forth.

Now, here's where Aristotle's explanation begins to climax. According to him, we cannot trace the source of movement from infinity. We can't have an infinite cause. What we can have is—a first cause. This first cause, this ultimate cause, could not be made of physical matter (because if it is, it could have been moved by something else). Its nature is so mysterious religious people all around the world latched into the notion and called this unmoved mover God.

I haven't made peace with the idea of an unmoved mover. For me, its simplicity is beautiful. This is the only reason why I entertain the possibility of the existence of what people would call a God. But to say that this unmoved mover talks and thinks like me is too far a leap to my taste.

In the past, I would pray to Jehovah before I sleep in the evening and before I wake up in the morning. The evening prayers are unusually long. It got to the point where I was talking to him more frequently and deeply than I talked with my real father.

The prayers would mostly be about gratitude and asking for forgiveness. In retrospect, all those prayers made my ego too small I was willing to sacrifice everything for an invisible Big Father in heaven. I never asked for anything that would improve my lot materially. I felt like it was wrong to ask for favors.

I can no longer remember when I last talked to him. All I know is that conversation was full of anger, and things didn't go well.

From 2012 until today, I have never felt the need to talk to someone invisible. I could function well and live my life without serving an omnipotent power. I am no longer afraid of displeasing anyone, especially someone I couldn't see. And I seldom ask for forgiveness, only to those I love that I did hurt (and usually to myself).

I honestly think one can do away with life without a God. I don't need one to be kind and good and loving. I can be kind and good and loving by myself, by my own choice. I could nurture these habits for myself. I could help others nurture it for themselves. We could all be good without fearing punishment. A purely natural, ethical way of life is possible without a God.

The only reason why I call myself an agnostic instead of an atheist is because I intentionally want to make known that I no longer care that much about this issue. The Buddha had some metaphysical ideas but he avoided explaining his metaphysics too much to his disciples that they forget what matters most: compassion.

The idea that a god (or gods) exists is perfectly logical, and it is a common belief even among ancient people. A belief in an omnipotent persona solves several metaphysical and epistemological issues. But it doesn't solve everything, and it isn't necessary to be good toward others.

I respect everyone who believes in an omnipotent persona. But I find that it is also my duty to remind people that I can still love them deeply despite our differences. There would be nothing more that would make me happy if they could learn to love me back.

I am so deep in my thoughts, so deep I fly like this hawk hovering over the green-blanketed sentinels of Makiling's Foot.

I ended today's walk by walking down Juan V. Pancho Street and turning left to Getulio B. Viado Street to join students walking toward their dorms. It's past 11:00, and everyone is hungry. I stopped briefly to take a photo of another building overcome by nature before turning toward Copeland Gymnasium.

Here, at Joseph C. Madamba, sunrise shines the best, or so I heard. I walked past an empty lot filled with short trees and bushes that used to be a barn for cattle before turning left to the College of Veterinary Medicine. There, I saw the Carillon Tower emerge out of the trees of Freedom Park.

The park is under renovation. For more than a year, half of it has been covered by tin walls and plastic sacks, reminiscent of the walls the Japanese placed to surround the captives of war. Once you have heard of the stories inside that internment camp, you can never forget about them, especially when you are walking here.

I went to buy a liter of mango-flavored yogurt before heading home, remembering last night's conversation with my vet and all the carabao's from whom I owe this milk that shall later be part of me.

Jose R. Velasco Avenue → Kanluran Road → Jasmin → Doña Aurora → Heliconia Street → Melanio A. Gapud → Jose D. Drilon Jr. → Domingo M. Lantican Avenue → Makiling → Felix O. Chinte → Valentin Sajor → Rosario Cortes → Banuyo → Tindalo Street → Juan V. Pancho → Getulio B. Viado → Joseph C. Madamba → Archibald R. Ward → Manuel L. Roxas → Mariano M. Mondonedo Avenue → Harold Cuzner Royal Palm Avenue → Andres P. Aglibut Avenue → Jose M. Capinpin

23,212 steps

16.8 km

What sustains me in Los Baños?

Surprisingly, it seems to all begin with anonymity.

A friend once told me about this book that talked about the art of hiding. I remember her saying that according to the book, animals animals in nature know best how to hide survive longer than most others. After hearing this, I sometimes wondered whether I was hiding too much.

I live in the farthest unit of a four-unit apartment compound. The family at the first unit, the one nearest the gate, has been here the longest. When I first came here, they were my first friends. The father was keen on introducing himself to me when I first entered the gate. His wife warmed up with me later and gave me a bowl of kimchi she made herself. The couple had two children, both boys, one currently based in Canada, while the other lives with them. I don't see and talk that often with their son who lives with them, even if he seems to be the same age as me. But I often hear his name called by delivery men.

Early on, I was surprised to learn that this family was Jehovah's Witnesses. I heard them singing familiar songs while passing by their unit one time in 2021 when most religious gatherings were done online. In my first year here, the father approached me and invited me to the memorial of Christ's death, the only religious event JWs celebrate. I took the invitation but never attended. He never sent me another the following year; until now, this family doesn't know that I used to be one of them.

Anonymity can sustain you. Anonymity can be your saving grace. Even a forced one, I imagine, might bring something good.

A few months ago, I met Jhoanna Lynn Cruz, who threw herself into her own spiritual wilderness in Davao after a broken marriage. She brought with her her two children. She didn't know a single soul in that large city. Malaria got her son twice and made her want to give up. But she stayed. She persevered and now calls herself a Mindanaoan.

Sometimes, it's better to start over.

Surprisingly, I am also sustained by this morning rush. This blood flows from my arteries to my veins when I open my eyes and get out of bed. Full of innocence, these children playing on the streets of Los Baños this early morning are the blood that flows into this town's arteries.

And what of the sari-sari stores that are our bridge to the factories that make our food, soap, shampoo, and other things that become the cells of our body, that become, at one point, us? Do they not sustain us, too?

Last year, on the day my best friend was buried, a storm came so strong that the entire Los Baños electric power system came down for around three days. Most areas in the town also didn't have running water. Mt. Data Street, where I live, surprisingly, had flowing water. But that was it. We used to rely on an electric stove. Without electricity, we cannot eat. Rain was nonstop, and many of the streets I now walk lay underwater.

We got by through processed, packaged food bought in the store. This is the Philippines. This is nothing new. But it is still worth writing about.

These stores, perhaps inherited from the Chinese (but we call them the Spanish word garita in Pangasinan, which warrants some research), are so prevalent we've refused to even think about them. We try our best to avoid them if we can. All those sachets hanging inside the sari-sari store, along with all those sugar wrapped around with colorful plastic, are more expensive by a few pesos compared to those we buy in the grocery. And yet when I'm in the middle of a long essay that has to be written, and I'm sleepy of hunger and no food is in the fridge, I walk toward the humble sari-sari store near my house.

Here at Mt. Data Street, the white, fat dog who once stood out from all the others is now overrun by scabies. He frequently sits and turns his upper body behind his back to scratch the scabies with his mouth. He sits on clear, pristine roads, cleaned by house owners. Here in LB, the street segment in front of your house is yours. You park your car in front of it if you don't have a garage. If you own no car, this is still an unspoken rule: you clean the segment of that road. Walkers like me will forever thank you for it.

Tiny dogs often bark at me when I walk here. They constantly remind me that I can't have a dog unless I want my life to get more complicated. The night I left Pangasinan to relocate to Los Baños, I left two dogs at our family's house in Pangasinan. I will never see one of them again.

The first place I rented while looking for a more permanent place to stay was a large room on the second floor of an apartment complex. The floor was wooden, and I smelled the cigarette smoke from the single mother renting below me.

A cat befriended me, a tilapia colored female, while there, so I felt obliged to buy food for her. Later, a second cat, a black and white female, appeared. I shooed her at first but felt bad about myself for doing so. I decided to treat them equally.

When I left that room after two months of renting and finding the unit I am now renting, I couldn't wrap myself around the thought of leaving the two cats. So, I took them with me. I remember hiring a tricycle driver and sitting inside while holding between my legs a large cage with the two cats loudly meowing around Lopez Ave., Santos Street, and finally Data Street. It is one of the most expensive decisions I have made with my life here. But I don't think I could've survived that first year in Los Baños without the friendship of these two cats.

It is 7 a.m. now. I've been walking for 30 minutes. I hear the sound of the train from afar. Perhaps this is the first train to arrive today. A train arrives at 7 in the morning and 7 in the evening, with others arriving intermittently in between. Of course, the train from Manila and traverses Laguna, bound to as far as Bicol, has been passing by Los Baños for over a century. When I arrived here in 2021, there was no train, however. It only resumed operation this year, if I'm not mistaken.

When I first heard the train one morning, I was too ignorant I thought it was the water pipe in our bathroom, which sounded similar when broken. Another time, I mistook it for the sound of our blender. Only after seeing the train one evening while walking at IPB Road and hearing the same sound did I finally figure out what is too obvious to many.

It rained yesterday—torrents of it. So, I wasn't expecting all this sun. Often, LB gives a lot of sun briefly for 30 minutes in the early morning before it rains for the entire day. The brief sun we are given in the morning is a gift. We have to wake up early just to have our clothes dried. When I see clouds beginning to move fast, I rush to the clothesline.

Hopefully, this sun lasts.

When you see tarps of the recently graduated, especially those with the words cum laude on them, you remember it is a university town, after all. Dorms usually have these tarps. When dorms hang these, I interpret this as them saying that, somehow, what made these good souls succeed in their studies is the warmth of their beds, the security of their rooms, the friendliness of their landlords, perhaps. Once in a while, you'll see one of these tarps hanging from a house or a business establishment: Son of the owner. Daughter of the owner. And you can't help but think, she's from here. She studied here, when will she ever leave?

Sometimes, I wonder which is more important for Los Baños, which brings more business to folks: the school or the baths? Living too far from the baths to feel their presence consistently, I tend to think the school is more important. But both the school and the baths have the power to draw traffic.

The reason why it was so easy to adopt cats in LB is because there are too many of them on the streets it's almost a thing here to adopt at least one. No other place in the world has such a love of cats.

A few months ago, one of the cats inside the University of the Philippines campus got hit by a car. It died right away. Students built an altar of flowers for the cat near the spot where it got killed, which stayed there for about a week. People came by to pay their respects or to take photos. I heard they are still on a manhunt for the suspect. That is how much people love cats here.

This makes me sad when I hear that live kittens are sometimes left inside drums or under bushes, crying for days before they die. Perhaps such is the paradox of place.

Los Baños streets are uncharitable for walkers. They're too small and yet hold too many cars. Except inside UP, most streets have no sidewalks. Even narrow streets can be surprisingly busy sometimes.

I love empty roads with no cars or those not too busy. They make me feel like they were designed especially for walkers: an oasis in a town intoxicated with cars.

I reach Ruby and it is now past 8:00. I'm no longer alone. Students walk with me, tiptoeing over wet stones and going to the road's edge to avoid cars and tricycles. I wish I could walk for my parents and family again like these students do now.

We pass by apartments for rent and laundry houses near them. In Banawe Street, the front yard of a house was turned into an eatery. A few blocks away at Sapphire, a family opened a restaurant in their garage. This is a town built for students. There is a budget price for almost anything. Incidentally, those who choose to live cheaply while they do their art find solace in a town made for students.

I walk slowly to savor the smell of butter on rice.

But it isn't students alone who walk here in the morning. I share the road with some of those who just came from work. And these are blue-collar workers, men in slippers, eyes sleepy, hugged by tight sweatshirts.

I pass this compound at Banawe Street with a large bungalow house and cat cage outside. The cage has several floors, and pet bowls and beds are on each floor. There are no cats now. I wonder whether this is a shelter for cats or a property of the Cats of UPLB.

I heard neighbors joking around and laughing as I felt a sudden increase in the volume of people walking. It's about 9:00 am. I feel a slight change of mood within me. From gratefulness, I now welcome a feeling of survival. Along with all of these, the sun has grown hotter.

It seems that it will be a sunny day after all.

There is a weird-looking apartment complex on Mt. Pulog Street. I like to call it the castle. Spiral stairs that connect floors are like towers of a fort. That is too much brick on a building. No one would dare build something like this now; it must have been here long ago.

Speaking of Mt. Pulog Street, this name is a typo. There is no such thing as a mountain in the Philippines named Pulog. This is Mt. Pulag, one of the many peaks up north in the Cordillera. But who cares? The name has worked for many for a long time already, nobody bothers anymore. I, too, call the street Pulog.

Aside from its name, there are other funny things to behold on this street: cut plastic bottles made bulbs for lights on fences. And as if that wasn’t enough, someone was riding his bike with a loudspeaker playing.

Los Baños is an old place with old people. Old people like fallen twigs, like these quiet houses.

Something has to be said about water meters. Often left outside compounds alone and only checked once a month, they are one of the loneliest objects ever invented.

In 2021, my first year here, a garbage collector stepped on my water meter to get over our fence. I bet he was eyeing to get a piece of metal or wood lying around our front yard. He never made it over the fence. Instead, he broke my water meter and my water pipe. For the next three days, I fetched water from my neighbor’s faucet while waiting for the water company to come to repair what was broken.

What was really broken was my faith in the scrap men who ride their tricycles around. It took me a while to regain my respect for them. But when I did, I started a conversation with one. It was in the middle of a tight lockdown. I asked him how often he moves around buying metal and scraps. He said he harbors ill feelings for the present mayor for only giving them the weekends to earn their living. I empathized with him.

Above Mt. Makiling Street is an open vacant lot with trees and bamboo. It is elevated. I see below it the roofs of houses. I rested here as a strong cold breeze blew, comforting my perspiring body. From afar, dogs bark.

I am grateful for students saving the businesses here.

I am grateful to the river for its patience.

I am grateful for mothers waiting for their children outside the school gate.

I am grateful for a local government that seems to be functioning.

I am grateful for this sidewalk.

I am grateful for drivers who stop for pedestrians crossing.

9:30 am on Lopez Ave. I hear the train once more.

Just now, I used the viewfinder to take a photo of this leaf. There is something about using the viewfinder that is magical, almost mystical. The little box is a meditation on objects and our interdependence with them.

These long walks are like seiza. You let yourself be sucked by images and thoughts worthy of being written later. But then you remind yourself that you are walking. You remember the main task at hand. It centers you. This is particularly useful when you start to feel impatient with the heat, tiredness, or boredom.

I pass by balitbitan trees, and the memories of my first weeks here return.

Theory: The houses on the right of Lopez Ave. going to UP are those of locals who have lived here for so long, while the estates on the left are subdivisions and apartment complexes made for those staying in Los Baños temporarily.

A friend said that half of Halcon Street is privately owned. The land owner was intent on making this as clear as possible that he placed tens of large concrete barrels on half of the road. This effectively deterred motorists from avoiding the road. It is a perfect reminder of how far one can go in protecting his property.

There is a single mosque in Los Baños (as far as I’m aware of): the IMSA Jammi Al-khair at Bulusan Street. One of the best moments of my stay here was my first Christmas Eve morning when I heard the Imam sing.

I stopped to take a photo of the mosque, which reminded me that it took me a while before I felt comfortable pointing my camera at it. It was an afternoon last year. The imam was also singing, and the dogs were howling with him. I took my phone out of my pocket and grabbed a photo of its beautiful blue dome. I felt ashamed of fearing what was different. This is why I’m so grateful for walking. It shows me my blind spots.

What sustains me in Los Baños?

Jericho’s pandesal and the occasional Micha’s.

Mt. Data Street → Sierra Madre Street Extension → Sierra Madre Street → Banawe Street → Cordillera Street → Onyx Street → Mt. Pulog Street → Mt. Makiling Street → Amethyst Street → Mt. Kitanglad Street → Ruby Street → Mt. Isarog Street → Jade Street → Taal Street → Diamond Street → El Danda Street → Lopez Avenue → Halcon Street → Bangkal Street → Daang Kalabaw → Jose Street → Dinorado → Elon-Elon → Intan → Oregano → Lemongrass → Basil → Rosemary → Mint → F. O. Santos Street → Pearl Street → Banahaw Street → Bulusan Street → Opal Street → Ruby Street → Mt. Arayat Street → Sapphire Street

15.7 km

22,332 steps