Passing Through: Balamban

By: Iñigo Jaldon

Back-riding on a hired habal-habal past noon, we were headed northwest towards the hills of Busay. Passing through the area , I am reminded of the postcard photos of Brazil with its’ houses built along verdant slopes. We just recently watched this Brazilian art flick, City of God, we both agreed that maybe this is the closest we could get to experiencing a Brazilian favela.

Only a few minutes uphill, one can notice the change in the climate. A far cry from the heat of downtown Cebu. I started breathing in the cool, island air. I found the inhabitants of the area fortunate to be living in such a serene location not too far from the city.

The characteristic yellow and pink blooms of Angel’s Trumpets are strewn along the road. A sign that we have already reached a certain altitude, high enough to allow the growth of these notorious(to those informed) flora.

A few kilometers further, slopes fashioned like miniature versions of the Rice Terraces emerge. Whole hillsides with similar appearances are encountered further uphill. Cockfighting aficionados take advantage of the area's healthy conditions to breed their prized fighters - evident with the organized lines of triangles that house the avian gladiators. It came to me that the locals really do their best to maximize the use of this land.

We finally reached Balamban. We were practically riding on a dragon’s spine, I thought. We were zig-zagging along the road and encountering small valleys at almost every turn. Looking towards my left, which I figured was the East. The sun was still at its expected location at that time of the day, and if you took a panoramic picture of that scene and framed it... it would come out arranged like rasta colors. Now it all makes sense...

At one point, we caught a glimpse of a distant lake with its blue-gray waters shimmering in the afternoon light surrounded by a line of hills. At the background, the ocean took over most of the horizon in contrast with the sky’s orange and golden hue. The view was a rare treat for my weary eyes. The whir of the motorcycle’s wheels provided an almost hypnotic sound to accompany the view. The flower stalls along the path was a sign that we were nearing our destination.

At that moment, I could almost imagine why the Spaniards chose to make this island their home. It was probably the closest to Paradiso they could get.