:::: shelter from the storms

Shelter from the storms

THE NIGHTMARE OF EVERY TRAVELER stares us in the face. CLOSED, says the sign at the check-in counter in Manila. Our 6:15 A.M. fight had been bumped up half an hour. We never knew. The woman at check-in makes a call and, after some tense discussion, she waves at us to hurry to the gate.

This, a jolt of the unexpected, is just the sort of thing to expect on a trip to Batanes.

The next surprise comes at the other end of the flight as we're about to land.

Batanes is the northernmost province of the Philippines, just 190 kilometers from Taiwan, a place where gale-force winds and more than its fair share of typhoons, batter these 10 islands about eight months a year we'll make one attempt the pilot says sternly over the speakers. Our 32-seat Dornier 328 skims over the edge of a Cliff and struggles defiantly against the brute wind. Thankfully that lone attempt is enough to get us on the ground safely

At the northern extreme of the Philippines, the secluded Batancs Islands are often battered by typhoons during the summer months. That, writes JOAN C. BUL|AUITAN, should not deter you from visiting these friendly shores. Photographed by GEORGE tapan

Basco, the capital located on the island of Batan, is damp and chilly this Saturday The hush at Pension Ivatan's restaurant where we have lunch is broken by our squeals of delight when the cook brings out a live coconut crab and lets it crawl across the floor. Faint light from the grey afternoon reveals its leathery skin and cobalt-blue underbelly where most of the fat and eggs are stored.

After lunch, we board a jeepney with our mild-mannered guide Francisco, our driver Alvin and l l others for a tour of northern Batan Island, making stops at landmarks dubbed Radar Tukon, Valugan Beach and Naidi Hills, as well as Santo Domingo Church and some japanese war rernnants Batan's terrain is predominantly mountainous, with Mount Iraya in the north, Mount Mahatao in the southeast and undulating slopes of varying degrees of steepness everywhere around. Hillside patches of land, bordered' with I'm reeds, are planted with garlic and subsistence crops like sweet potato and yam while grassy knolls are left for the cows to graze. At 69 square kilometers, the island is small enough that, at almost every turn, there is a view of the ruggedly dramatic coastline and a lighthouse.

As we weave along roads through folds of the billowing landscape, I can't stop pressing my nose against the wind to breathe in the salubrious air. At every stop, I dart to the top of a hill to reap the certain reward of a glorious, sweeping Back IN Basco, I idle ill a white, straight-backed chair at Cafe Napoli, waiting for our garlic and cheese pizza dinner Out the window I see a garden bursting with the crimson blooms of poinsettia. The heady scent of Dama de Noche drifts in and accompanies us through our evening stroll back to the pension house, interrupted only by the more assertive smell of barbecue from a 'streetside grill. This is the frenetic side of Sabtangt It's market day and people from across the island have come to the main square to sell vegetables and other produce from the villages. A few dozen people are milling around, catching up on one another's affairs while keeping an eye on their merchandise, most of which disappears by mid-morning. Sunday mass takes place at a pretty off-white church, which explains the deserted homes we find on arriving in Savidug.

Savidug is just one of Sabtang's villages where Ivatans, the indigenous people of Bantanes, still keep to the ways of their ancestors. Squat, cogon grass-roofed houses with wails of stone mixed with limestone and sand line the narrow lanes. I notice a couple of doors painted turquoise, a charming vista. In Batanes, I realize; nature's lashings are also a gift' .

They have stripped clean all that is excessive, to reveal a raw; starkly stunning face.

Contrast to the grayness of everything else. A few abandoned homes with their roofs swept away by storms reveal a full wall separating the sleeping area and the kitchen. This was done to keep the residents safe in case of fire Francisco explains. Bigger homes even have a dining area in between.

Mina Jaro, a Savidug native who now divides her time between Sabtang and Batan, lets us into her home. My eyes adjust to the darkness of her kitchen, where every item is blackened from soot. Chopped wood and dried branches are stacked on a shelf strategically positioned near a stone-and- mortar stove called a rapuyan The rapuyan is set low on the floor with an ash-covered tin disk that is pierced to let the fire through. I notice a kettle, a water container called angang and uya a rounded receptacle for salt. A cord with wooden hooks drops down from the ceiling for drying meat and fish.

It is a spare, functional kitchen,just what one would expect from someone who lives only on the essentials.

By the time we arrive in Chavayan, the next village, I am parched. It's a blistering day and my sunscreen-free skin is feeling the abuse. I join two kids cooling themselves under a shade, while my companions shop for vacul and talugung (both forms of quirky local headgear). I find the perfect noonday fix from a nearby vendor selling coconuts. He lops off one end of the shell. I dispense with all ladylike behavior and

Nakabuang Beach is a

delig hatful bend of white sand and Iimestone outcrops an gulp every mouthful of juice that can be had. Then the vendor splits the nut in half so that I can scoop out its sweet, tender flesh. Before long, I drift off to a sunlit bliss.

IT's 1 P.M. and wE'RE BACK at the Sabtang pier. Cool under the awning of Pananayan restaurant, I feel far removed from that morning's boat ride from Batan, where the opposing Pacific and South China Sea reduced our tiny fallowa into a heaving mess. We lunch on coconut crab in sweet sauce, vegetables stewed with coconut milk, sweet-sour fish and yellow rice, which gets its color from a local turmeric-like ginger. With Cloud 9 chocolate bars for dessert, there is not much missing but a hammock. The next best thing, Nakabuang Beach, will do with its delightful bend of white sand and lengthy shadows under the limestone outcrops. As soon as my back touches the sand, I'm asleep.

Dinner is a wild departure from lunch, and from most meals in Batanes. It's mushroom soup with bird's nest, mixed salad with tarragon vinaigrette and Parmesan-crusted roast chicken accompanied by a side serving of oyster sauce with limmoncello. We are at Fundacion Pacita in Batan Island, an arts group formed to honor Pacita Abad, the world- renowned artist who was born in Batanes. The structure, with its red tile roof and stone facade, sits pensively on a bluff looking across the coast. Inside, Pacita's trapunto-style paintings hang on the wails, giving testament to her love of color. I buy a couple of her books and flip through their pages while enjoying what's left of a divine cheesecake. That night, her magentas, yellows and reds race through my head as I sleep.

The next day sees more surprises. There are those who cheat, there are more who give and help declares Elena Gabilo, owner of Honesty Coffeeshop, an outlet that operates unmanned in tie town of Ivana. When we arrived, we opened the refrigerator and took several bottles of Coke and a couple of San Miguels, listed down our purchases on a

notebook where the prices are indicated, and deposited our payment in a wooden drop-box. Elena comes in minutes later to join us for a chat. locked doors are not part of our tradition she says. Such an unguarded attitude is typical of Batanes residents, I reckon, as l've frequently observed vegetables and crops for sale left unattended on makeshift tables and windowsills.

As we stroll around picturesque Ivana, we pass people doing their daily chores by hand. An unfinished tub-shaped boat called tataya sits alone under a shed, with carved trunks of Palomaria beside it. Boat-making is a common trade in many villages, with expert craftsmen passing on their skills to their children. At the fishing village of Diura, we meet another craftsman dismantling a boat to replace its worn parts. He says he doesn't measure anything. We do everything by instinct he explains.

The grassy rolling hills of Marlboro country locally called Racuh A Payaman, a communal pastureland, beckon us to lunch. Here the sky the land and the sea are so wide that I wish I could embrace them all. It is this longing for breadth that has me climb to the top of the jeepney on the drive back to town. The sky is the limit, Pacita Abad proclaims in her book. She was right. Here in Batanes, it goes on forever.