Beyond Lanzones Festival  

Luscious, abundant and cheap, it’s true. the sweetest lanzones is undeniably here.  The harvest of the succulent fruit peaks sometime September to October, during which the annual ‘Lanzones Festival’ is held.  Locals and visitors draw together for an unbridled fun of street-dancing, performances with street parties, a showcase of local products in agro trade fair and a beauty pageant -- for quest of the ‘sweetest’ lady, I guess.

Scorching midday heat, dusty grounds and past elbowing crowd notwithstanding, we only needed to know what festivals are made of: crowd, crowd and more crowd throwing their merry selves into the celebration.  The smiles of the locals, the beat of the drums and the grand showdown of participating groups take care of the whole enjoyable experience.

As soon as the gaiety of the festival wears off, my host family and their folks have a charming way of convincing me to stay for a couple of days more: sincerest hospitality.  And so, for days that followed I became one among them -- only treated extra well.  The mornings start with mandatory breakfast which I detest back home.  But here, four times a day, full ‘lutong bahay’ meals are typical.  There is no complaining.  Eating in comfy house clothes in not quiet a home setting feels surreal; delightfully weird.            

Delightful as well is when the next of kin and new friends are always on call as tour guides.  Every time the sun goes down and when in the mood for strolling, we love to take the off-beaten track on rented motorbike (called “habal” among locals).  Our favorite first stop is this deep green, limpid Taguiness Lagoon in Benoni, Mahinog town fringed with mangroves and natural tropical vegetation.  The soft wind, the panorama of the open sea -- which seems to appraise the mood of the day -- and the sight of the people idling about for a sip of cool daybreak breeze feeds my jaded soul with delight.    

Going farther, the world turns quieter with only the sounds of birds and rustling leaves hushing in the background.  From the ascending, winding road leading to the Queube Park clearing, the sight of occasional distant small bancas and the solitary, white sand-girdled Mantigue Island floating in the vast sea offers a view beyond poetic for imagination.       

By the time I have spent a week or two in my host town, lazy afternoons were spent mingling with the locals.  The elders, especially, mince words on folklores unique to them: the island being the “kingdom of encantos and diwatas”; a teacher gone “balbal” (witch), a mermaid got tangled in the fishnet and, horrors(!), consumed…and so on.  These are ready stories begging to be told.  I’m a good listener; I heard them good.  But for goodness sake; sometimes I would appear engrossed, but only because the narrator gives the impression of being a fairy himself – quite sure that the zealous guy did not spoof the butchered mermaid.  There were times that I discreetly hiss every time folks pass by and throw themselves in the chat only to disrupt, if not reduce, the fantastic verbose yarns to mere babbles.  But how, the seeming non-sense I now miss because this just came upon me: my now new friends have a way of inserting fresh, irreverent punch-in-the-gut humor in their storytelling.   

These are the same folks who have all ears to my cravings.  I never dared mention “buco juice” again because the last time I felt dehydrated and mumbled things, I ended up bloated.  Even, what bowled me over -- regrettably yours, -- is the sight of a grandma doing all the buco hacking for me.  My disturbed conscience likes to believe that it is their way of discouraging wishes to prosper.                        

When boredom pangs hit me -- which again my host family can sharply discern -- they would summon the gang and hustle me to the capital town of Mambajao like I needed a quick fix or a rush shot.  Thanks anyway for the chance to sniff more fresh air.  Past hushed fishing villages and serene shorelines on the horizon line, the ride along the coastal highway brings scenic rewards.  I never would grow tire craning my neck for a scan of the breathtaking vista; the harmony of the sea and the picturesque mountain in my lap.     

In Mambajao, I cannot help but pry at the seeming chaotic goings-on especially at the market area.  Today:  there are rickety tricycles; there are dispatch-ready rows of habals some with drivers barely out of their teens; there are tight multicabs with bored passengers waiting for the last commuter to hop in.  The noticeable nonchalance in the manner people park their cars and cross the street; there is the usual frenzy at Vjandep Bakery for everybody’s obligatory purchase of the other sweet thing about Camiguin, the Pastel buns.   Alas, my host family in Mahinog had no idea what I rashly spent in Mambajao: bad judgment.  I guess I have developed distaste for some things urban, or at least the rush hour. 

The island, the countryside, the nature, Mahinog town, especially the Dy family and their kith and kin...my good judgments for Camiguin are overflowing.